Chapter Text
- Book I -
Prologue
“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, there is nothing left we can do.” The Healer put a comforting hand on Hermione Granger’s shoulder as he added, “For what it’s worth, even here we have heard of your role in that warmonger’s defeat and believe me when I say we are all grateful for your efforts. I only wish we could do more for your parents. But as is, removing the memory charm will cause too much damage.”
Hermione swallowed hard, trying to hold back the inevitable tears as she stared at the chart. She hadn’t had the chance to read much into memory charms since she had researched how to create the Wilkins, but she knew what those markings on the diagram were. Obliviation scars, plenty of them, running up and down the page like angry welts. She had done that. To her own parents. The rational part of her brain tried to remind her it was only for their own safety, she was hunted every day of the last year, it wouldn’t have been safe to have two people—two Muggles—running around with her last name. Nevertheless, the realisation that they would never look at her with recognition again, they would never call her ‘pumpkin,’ watch her graduate, get her first job, get married… She tried to peer around the Healer past the door that led to the examination room where she knew the stunned Wilkins were lying since her failed attempts to remove the false memories had ended disastrously earlier that day. She started forward—
A small cough from the Healer pulled her back to the present. “Miss, I’m afraid there’s one more thing we must discuss.” Hermione halted, trying not to shake, she knew what he was going to say. The obliviation scars meant it would be unsafe help her paren— actually the Wilkins by attempting to remove the memory charm again. It may fracture their brains to the point of madness, and they also couldn’t be treated in Melbourne Magic Centre for the Memory and Personality Impaired as they were muggles. “They will have to go back to their muggle lives,” the Healer was saying, “And I’m afraid I’m legally bound to remind you Miss Granger that, as the perpetrator of the scars, you are not allowed to contact them ever again. This is part of the International Muggle Protection Act. You will now be escorted from the ward,” he seemed reluctant but swept his arm out, “If you please.”
Numbly, Hermione followed him from the ward and to the lobby. He offered his hand, “Despite the circumstances, it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger.” Hermione shook it, not really seeing him or the brightly lit atrium. She moved out into the bright Australian sunshine and sat down on a bench, staring straight ahead as his last words rang in her ears. As the perpetrator of the scars, you are not allowed to contact them ever again. Perpetrator..scars…ever again… The words kept repeating and repeating. She tried to force herself to rationalise that she had done the right thing—the only thing—at the time. But a niggling voice in the back of her head reminded her, ‘it wasn’t their choice, you never gave them a choice. And now they’re stuck.’
She had scarred them, her own parents, who had loved her and trusted her so unconditionally. They had never known how dangerous Hogwarts was, she had always been careful to hide the Prophet, hide the news of Basilisks, deadly tournaments, evil DADA teachers. And when a war began, she didn’t try and tell them to be safe, she just did magic on them without their knowledge or permission. The same actions she claimed to abhor when the Death Eaters did it. She had said it was for the greater good, but it was just for her good, so she didn’t have to be hurt. She scarred them and was being punished; banished from their lives.
But she deserved it. ‘Congratulations,’ she admonished herself, ‘You did this. You will never see them again in the future and it was only… hang on…’ Her thoughts were coming faster now, crashing over her in wave upon wave of revelation, in the future it hissed as it broke on the shore of her conscious thought… in the future. The whole stock of time-turners the Ministry owned had been destroyed. But she wasn’t in England anymore…
*~*~*~*~*~*
The details weren’t important. The paperwork wasn’t important. Not even the lie was important Hermione reminded herself as she scrawled her name at the bottom of the contract. Her application for a time-turner for academic research had been accepted by the Australian Ministry. She had glowing records of successful usage before from the Ministry of Magic, and her celebrity status hadn’t hurt. All she had to do was promise not to go back longer than a day and not use it to change future events. Well the latter was true. She only intended to go back to see her parents one last time. She wouldn’t talk to them, she wouldn’t warn anyone about Voldermort, horcruxes or anything they wouldn’t learn about until much later. She would just see them, smiling at her younger self, and seeing them know they have a daughter.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Hermione knew she was being selfish and breaking one hundred rules in the process. But just one last time, she had to see them one last time. She clasped the invisibility cloak around her throat, it paused for a moment then she felt the disillusionment charm wash over her. The delay was one among many reminders that Harry’s invisibility cloak was much better than this one she found in Paris, but she wasn’t about to ask Harry to risk a Deathly Hallows artefact on her selfish (and had she mentioned illegal?) plan.
Crookshanks eyed the time-turner, his tail flicking back and forth, as Hermione double-checked that the invisibility was passable in the mirror. They had settled back into the empty London home of the Grangers as Hermione had made sure to buy the property from the Wilkins when they made their sudden move to Australia. The time-turner wasn’t meant to move anyone in space, just in time. But in the case of months of travel, some spatial disruption was possible.
“Now don’t look at me like that Crookshanks,” Hermione sighed, trying not to project her feelings of guilt onto the ginger fluffball, “I know I shouldn’t be going back this far. But as long as I don’t try and overtake the first time I used a time-turner, there should be no ill effects.” The cat’s eyes seemed to widen, “What? I’m not going back that far. I just need to pick a day and time that I know they’ll be home.” She consulted her book one last time, there hadn’t been much on reversing years and she had been forced to extrapolate from the information she was able to find on time theory.
“Now if I want to go back years at a time I should twist—” Hermione’s thoughts were interrupted as a high-pitched screech, followed by an angry yowl, shot through the air. Pigwidgeon had slammed into the window of the furniture-less spare bedroom that Hermione and Crookshanks had been standing in, causing the former to scream and the latter to angrily hiss at the over-excited owl. Mrs. Weasley had warned her that the two pets had never gotten on very well as the owl’s antics usually caused a great deal of ruckus.
Hermione ran to the window and opened it, allowing the owl in. She knew what the letter was before she had even opened it: an invitation to George and Angelina Johnson’s wedding. George had probably thought it would be funny to send Pig with the invitation, knowing full well the two didn’t see eye-to-eye. After seeing to the RSVP and sending Pig on his way with half an owl treat still clamped in his beak, Hermione picked the time-turner back off the carpet.
With a jolt she realised she wasn’t sure if she had spun it before Pig had arrived. She could wait for it to reset but that would be the length of time it was already spun, which not only did she not know but likely would be more than a year, and even then how would she know it was enough? Or… she eyed the small golden time-turner, it wouldn’t hurt to go back a little farther. She began to turn the hourglass, using the method found in her book Turning in Time: A Theory. Then, with one last glance at her invisibility cloak, she put the chain around her neck.
Chapter 1
Eight Years Earlier
“Now, each turn using this knob is half an hour,” the old wizard was explaining, “And Miss, as I understand it your Hogwarts classes are still the same length they were when I was at school?” Hermione nodded eagerly, watching the little golden hourglass in the Ministry official’s hand. “Now this is just a replica; I’d like you to try turning it for me. An hour’s worth.” Hermione took the practice time-turner in her hands and put the thin chain around her neck, turning it as the man had shown her.
“Perfect,” he clasped his hands together, clearly excited at showing someone how his self-proclaimed favourite magical devices functioned, “I just know you’ll be a natural. Minerva was very praiseworthy of your talents, and I must say this is an ingenious use, taking extra classes can never hurt. Now this,” he lifted one that looked brighter out of a velvet-lined box, “This is a working training one,” He held out his hand again to take the tarnished replica, “You’ll have your real time-turner sent to your head of house at Hogwarts—they will give it to you at the start of term. In the meantime, this is the real test.” He handed her the real time-turner, “The first time you use it can be very tricky, so go on the other side of this folding screen and just do one turn; it should take you to the beginning of our meeting. There is a book back there on time-turner rules that you will read quietly while you wait for the 30 minutes to catch up.” He smiled, “It’s a bit strange to hear yourself but this is an important part of the learning process.”
Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together as she considered, “So… I should be back there right now? Listening?”
As she started to move around the barrier the offical cried out, “Miss Granger! Remember the golden rule—you must not be seen!”
Hermione looked confused, “But it’s me; surely I know I’m in a time-turner meeting.”
The man shook his head, “It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. And fortunately a lot of it is explained in that book you’re about to read. So, let’s crack on, shall we?”
Hermione moved back towards him, her face determined, “I’m ready.”
“Good,” he looked at the clock then nodded, “Go around the barrier now. And… one turn.”
On the other side of the barrier, Hermione took a deep breath and started to turn the hourglass. The world dissolved and she had a brief feeling of being pulled backwards, like a car when it first enters the motorway and has to get up to speed.
Suddenly, there was a massive flash of light and an echoing BANG! Hermione had a strange feeling it was snowing as she tried to open her eyes. It seemed someone was talking to her; she wanted to tell them she was okay, but a moment later the blackness enveloped her.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Her head felt like it was full of cottonwool and a strange, drawn out ringing. She could hear muffled voices but they sounded far off… distant. She tried to focus on them but they were all talking over each other—like a radio between stations. She tried to imagine she was tuning a dial, focusing on one voice. But they all overlapped, as if multiple people were speaking at once.
‘…straight through the wall…what could tear a hole so…’ ‘…what happened? Let me through…’ ‘…get back…we have to take them to hospital immediately…’
Everything faded in and out; Hermione only caught disjointed snatches as she was lifted—floating somewhere… she didn’t know where. All she felt was pain.
‘I won’t have it! He should be in a private room at least!’ ‘Sir, if you are unwilling to cooperate with procedure you will be asked—’ ‘We will cooperate… just tell us what we need to do…’
She felt pain… things running over her body… fabric? The whoosh of spells; a bottle at her lips; a wet cloth on her arm; more pain, darkness again.
‘They don’t seem to understand the severity…’ ‘What can we do? If there‘s something affecting both of them…’ ‘Without the permission of the girl‘s parents there‘s little we can…’ ‘We’ll talk to them—we’ll do whatever it takes…’
The pain was receding but her head was ringing, full of sounds and voices:
‘There‘s no denying the results are strange… there‘s more to it than what we first thought.’ ‘We‘ve explained all we can to them but they are still hesitating.’ ‘Can we transfer?’ ‘The risk is very high—there‘s no telling what happened…’ ‘She won’t die, will she? It’s not my fault…’
That voice… Hermione tried to sift through the sounds. There was one she felt like she knew, the most familiar voice in the room, that was the one to focus on. She concentrated on the voice as it pleaded, ‘You have to wake up. Don’t you dare die….’ The ringing got louder as she focused until suddenly it broke through, ‘Wake up!’
Hermione sat up in bed, her eyes shooting open. The room swam into view and she teetered, as several figures rushed over. “Miss Granger,” the motherly woman in lime green robes said as she rushed forward with a clipboard in her hand, “Try not to sit up so quickly. You’re safe—everything will be all right.” Hermione blinked; three other adults stood around her bed and she didn’t recognise anyone. Whose voice had she heard?
“Miss Granger?” The woman said again, “Can you hear me?”
Hermione started then nodded, “Yes, I can. Sorry, who are you?”
The woman looked up from her notes, “I’m Healer Miriam Strout, Assistant Head of Pediatric Spell Damage at St. Mungo’s Hospital. You just woke up and you’re safe here with us. Your parents are just down the corridor—we will fetch them in a moment. But first can you answer a few questions for me?”
“Yes,” Hermione nodded, still feeling disoriented, “But could I get a drink first?” Strout nodded and one of the trainees ran up with a glass of water. Hermione took the cup gratefully, swallowing it in several large gulps. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Great,” Strout pulled out a quill, “Now, how do you feel?”
Hermione took stock of herself; other than thirsty, she felt sore, like she had been stuck in one position for a long time without being able to move. Her head felt woozy and the room seemed too bright. She relayed these feelings to the Healers then added, “Also there’s this feeling,” she gestured in a swirling motion vaguely to the middle of her chest, “I can’t describe it… it’s like… tempestuous.” The Healer smiled reassuringly, but several people behind her began whispering to each other, Hermione looked down nervously.
‘Nice vocabulary, bookworm.’ Hermione looked up quickly, trying to see which Healer had said that but they were all in a quiet huddle. Her stomach squirmed, maybe she shouldn’t have used that term. It sounded like they thought she was being a know-it-all.
Strout turned back, “Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you sorted out, my supervisor—Healer Sludson—will be with you soon. Next question, have you ever been in a magical accident before?”
Hermione thought about the devil’s snare or the troll in their first year, not to mention the basilisk just that spring. But the only one that counted as a real magical accident… “Yes,” she admitted sheepishly, “I—” she flushed; embarrassed.
“Don’t be scared dear,” Strout said comfortingly, “We won’t tell your parents. We just need to know for your medical record. If it’s easier, we could just have you confirm what we have from the school. How’s that?” Hermione nodded, relieved, “All right then, let’s see. We have your petrification; that’s been handled and you’ve healed fine with the mandrakes. Cuts and bruises from flying, that’s no issue, I don’t like flying myself for the same reasons.” Hermione smiled weakly—she’d never get on a broom again if she could help it. “The only other incident we here is a polyjuice potion mishap last year,” the Healer looked up, “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Hermione supplied, then added, “I made the potion correctly,” she wanted to clarify that she hadn’t brewed the potion wrong at least. She didn’t want to look silly in front of the Healers, “But I added a cat hair by mistake.” A thump sounded somewhere beyond the crowd of people around her bed and one of the trainees ran off and began speaking quietly to someone behind the crowd taking notes all around her. Strout nodded, “Again you have healed completely from that as well. These things happen. Now, last question, what do you remember last?”
“I was in the Ministry. Learning how to use a time-turner for my classes.”
‘Seriously? Who authorised that?’ Someone asked.
“The Ministry,” she replied.
Strout nodded, “Yes, I got that already. Well, that’s all we need here. Both of your parents will be in here shortly; I’m afraid my job is done but I will leave you in Healer Sludson’s capable hands. Will you be all right?” Hermione assured the woman she would be fine and the gaggle of Healer trainees left with her.
Hermione now had the first opportunity to look around. It seemed like a small ward, there were photographs of popular quidditch teams and a cheerful painting of children at a beach directly across from her bed. Three children in light summer robes were running in and out of the sea as the waves came in and out. On the far left a small springer spaniel was barking at a tide pool. The bright colours made the whole room look nice and cheerful, so much so she almost missed the pale figure with the pointed face in the bed directly to her right, “Malfoy?”
The young blonde boy stared at the the bushy brunette in the bed next to him, a half smirk on his face. “So, you’re finally awake.” He drawled, “Thought you were never going to wake up; a pity it didn’t happen.”
“Ha ha,” Hermione replied dryly, “What are you doing here, Malfoy? I thought rich kids like you went to private hospitals.”
He spread his arms out dramatically, “Same as you, healing.”
“From what?”
“They tell me there was some kind of explosion,” he rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe they were so stupid as to not know the specifics, “They’re not sure what it was. Something seemed to explode right out of the wall of the Ministry. I was on one side and you were on the other. We got hit with the brunt of the magic—everyone else seems to just have been scraped with flying rock. The dust was everywhere.”
A vague image of the snow came back to Hermione’s mind; the stone had turned to powder. It must have been quite the blast.
“Yeah,” Malfoy drawled, smoothing out his sheets, “It was a nasty one.” He picked an imaginary speck off the sheets and flicked it away, “Anyway they think the magic might have affected us. So we’re stuck here.”
“How come you woke up first?” Hermione asked, irritated he knew all this already.
Malfoy shrugged, “I’m a pureblood. Everything comes easily to me.” She scoffed but was saved answering as two very elegant looking people that could only be Malfoy’s parents swept into the room. The man had the same pale, pointed face as Malfoy and he carried a walking stick but it hung limply in his hands as he hurried towards his son in the bed. Before the man could cross half the room, however, the woman was at Malfoy’s bedside crying, “you’re awake!”
Hermione could see around Malfoy’s mother’s arms just how red his mother’s eyes were, as she kissed Malfoy’s head tentatively; seemingly afraid he may shatter if she wasn’t careful. It seemed for all Malfoy’s bravado he had only woken up moments before Hermione had.
“Pumpkin!” Hermione’s gaze moved away from the pale family next to her and fell on her own parents. Her dad had her in his arms in a moment and she found herself grimacing as he squeezed—a dull soreness seeming to reach through her whole body.
“Not so tight, Richard,” Her mother said coming around to her other side, “She’s still in pain.”
“Sorry, pumpkin,” her father said loosening his grip; giving Hermione one last painful squeeze as he moved away. “How are you feeling?”
“All right, a bit sore—did they tell you what happened?” She asked her parents. She was irritated to find that they related the same story Malfoy had told; it seemed no one knew where the blast came from or what it was.
Just as they were finished explaining everything, a new set of Healers came in. “We will need all non-patients to leave the room at this time,” said one of them briskly. “There are waiting rooms down the hall—”
The man that could only be Malfoy’s father stepped hurriedly up to the Healer that looked like they were in charge , “Is there any chance—”
“As we said before, that is quite impossible,” the man said briskly, sidestepping Mr. Malfoy and taking the clipboard off the end of Hermione’s bed.
“But—”
“In cases with unknown magical explosions it is protocol to keep all victims under observation together for a variety of reasons,” the Healer said cooly, “not only are we monitoring reactions to the explosion but ensuring that side-effects are taken into account; as well as determining the cause of the accident. Each of these aspects requires all victims to be present. Now,” he indicated the door, “if you please…”
Reluctantly, Mr. Malfoy stepped away. Hermione’s parents gave her a small, sad wave.
“We’ll be right outside, pumpkin…” her father said reassuringly as they stepped out of the room.
Mrs. Malfoy didn’t seem willing to go, “is there anything you need, Draco?” She cooed, brushing his messy hair back and fiddling with his blankets.
“I’m fine,” he said grumpily.
“We’ll sort this out,” she said under her breath, “whatever it takes.”
“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, “go—or they won’t be able to release me.”
Mr. Malfoy stepped over and guided Mrs. Malfoy out of the room. After they had left, a whole flurry of activity started. Healers rushed this way and that way; poking and prodding, asking where it hurt, checking bandages, waving their wands. After a few minutes of absolute chaos—just as abruptly as it started—it all stopped.
“We will have a talk with your parents now,” said one of them. “You can use this time to relax.”
Despite the fact that she had only just woken up, the realisation of everything that happened seemed to crash over Hermione all at once and she found she was exhausted. So, settling back into her pillows, she quickly fell back asleep.
Some time later (there was no way to tell how much time was passing in the brightly lit ward) her parents returned, looking rather grim. They informed her that the Healers had been unable to account for several strange test results, and the Aurors had also failed to find the source of the explosion.
“They said they’re launching an investigation, but I still don’t like it,” her father grumbled, “It’s magic, shouldn’t they know what happened? Not nearly how the police would handle it. And what’s more, they said you’ve been in magical accidents before—”
“Yes and the practice has been closed for two days—” her mother cut in, but her father continued, “And the doctors here haven’t got a clue!” He shook his head, “No, I don’t like it. I’ve said it before, Hogwarts is supposed to be the safest place for you but now we’re told you’ve been in accidents? Just how serious is this? What about the trip to France?”
“I’m sure I’ll be out of here by then, Dad,” Hermione tried to protest. She had carefully not told her parents about any of the dangers she had encountered in the previous school years. It wasn’t worth the risk that her parents would think she should go back to muggle school.
“It should never have happened. That’s what I told them. And yet here you are, pumpkin,” he went in for another hug but stopped himself in time. “Sorry. Still healing, I know. I just want you to be safe.”
“The staff have been very brief,” her mother added glancing around, “They really don’t seem to know what happened but they said they may need to keep you for a few days. We tried to get you moved to a real hospital but they said a real doctor wouldn’t be able to treat you? There’s things they say can only be healed with magic…?” She twisted her hands, gazing into the middle distance, “I may be able to repair a rotated bicuspid with one eye closed but this,” she gestured vaguely at the Puddlemere United Chasers throwing a quaffle back and forth in the poster next to her, “It’s so much easier to deal with normal, non-magic things.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. She hated seeing her parents torn between her and their muggle lives, but she just hoped they wouldn’t consider magic too dangerous. She couldn’t imagine going to a muggle school again. When she was little, her outlandish statements had made her an outcast in her class, and the little displays of accidental magic certainly hadn’t won her any friends. Her parents knew she had always felt out of place. She didn’t need to say she didn’t have any cousins or friends her own age back at home; she wasn’t missing out on anything. Besides, she couldn’t leave the magic behind.
“Yes mum—but please, let’s drop it.” She sought for a change of topic, “How’d you two get here?”
‘That’s the problem with mudbloods,’ Hermione heard Malfoy say over her mother’s explanation, ‘They’re raised by muggles. Muggles will always try to force their ways on you. Like this REAL hospital isn’t a million times better than any muggle one.’ She turned to give Malfoy a dirty stare and was surprised to see a look of confusion wash over his face. She turned back, trying to pay attention to what her mother was saying and ignore Malfoy’s bigoted comments. ‘Granger.’ Malfoy said again.
She tried to ignore him, but even though his voice seemed quieter than her mother’s—who was now explaining how the Ministry officials had escorted her parents to St. Mungo’s through the visitor’s entrance—she couldn’t focus on her parents past Malfoy’s increasingly noticeable voice. It was getting so hard to listen she felt like she’d almost heard her mother say a dummy in a window had talked to them when Malfoy’s voice once again repeated, ‘Granger?’
“What?” She finally snapped, turning to face him.
“They heated my tea with magic yesterday,” her mother said, “I thought you would know about that spell, pumpkin. I didn’t mean to make you angry. Is that not how you’re supposed to say that?” Hermione turned back confused, trying to figure out what just happened.
“Sorry, mum, what did you say?” Hermione shook her head, trying to clear it.
Her mother was looking at her with deep concern, “I was saying we had a lovely cup of tea with Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy while we waited for you two to wake up.”
“Mr. and Mrs…” Hermione said slowly, trying to process what her mother had said. “Mr. and Mrs… Malfoy?” Her mother nodded, pointing to Malfoy’s parents, who were standing near the door of the ward, speaking with a Healer, “And,” Hermione added cautiously, “How were they?”
“Oh they are lovely people. They’ve been a big help explaining how everything works—it seems like this place is almost as good as a regular hospital.”
Hermione winced, “It is as good,” she reminded her mother firmly. Her mother occasionally was patronising without meaning to; but in the presence of other witches and wizards it somehow grated more than when they were alone.
“Yes dear, of course,” her mother said continuing. “We didn’t mean to offend you.”
“We just want you to be safe,” her father added. “So, as your mother was saying, they will keep you here for a few days. We thought you could go to Dig-on Alley with the Malfoy’s and their nice little son after you’re out of here—seeing as how you are in the same year in school. That way we won’t have to cancel another day of surgeries; you know those are scheduled months in advance.”
Hermione flushed, trying to unpack all of the revelations of the last couple minutes. Her parents had met the Malfoys. The Malfoys… the family that had known affiliations with the, now fortunetly dead, You-Know-Who; the evil murdering wizard that had declared war on all muggles and had tried to take over wizarding society before Hermione was even born.
If people like the Malfoys had won the war thirteen years ago, Hermione never would have been allowed to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; she may have never even found out she was a witch. And all because families like the Malfoys thought muggleborns were lower than dirt. And yet her parents had not only met the Malfoys, they had tea together. And her parents thought the Malfoys had been nice and now they thought it would be nice for her to go back-to-school shopping with them and, to top it off, she was stuck in the hospital and she likely wouldn’t be given the time-turner for classes now. Could this be any worse? She glanced over at the boy next to her— ‘Don’t look at me, I don’t like it either,’ Malfoy said from the other bed as she turned back to her parents.
Her parents ignored him, “We’ve already got it all settled. When we get back from France we can drop you outside Grin-goats that Saturday at 1 p.m. and they’ll show you where all your little supplies are.” If only they’d stop mispronouncing every name… “Isn’t that right, Narseea?” ‘At least he got that right,’ Hermione thought ruefully. But then Malfoy sniggered; perhaps it hadn’t been right after all.
Mrs. Malfoy had appeared at her mother’s side, “Of course. We’d be delighted to have Miss Granger accompany us.” She smiled at Hermione and if the young witch hadn’t known any better, she’d think it was genuine.
“Thank you for the offer,” Hermione said, trying to remain polite as she desperately sought a way out of this situation, “However my parents had suggested I get a pet this year,” she turned to her mother, “I’m sure that I can find it myself—or the Weasleys may be willing to take me.” Silently, she begged Malfoy to back her up.
“Mother, I had made an arrangement to study Runes that Time Forgot. Obscurus Books said I could view it the last week in August.” Malfoy whined from his bed, “We shouldn’t break our appointment.”
“What?” Hermione nearly shouted, “You found a copy of that book? The Anthology of Runes,” she started excitedly, (forgetting she was supposed to be finding a way out of traveling with Malfoy) “said there were only three copies left in Britain! How did you find it? Can you check it out?”
Mrs. Malfoy raised her eyebrow, “It’s not a library. They have books for sale but rare ones such as that can only be viewed onsite.” She turned to her son, “It seems that Miss Granger would be more than willing to join us for your appointment, so it would be only polite for us to join her for hers.”
‘Magical Menagerie doesn’t need an appointment,’ Malfoy pouted. Hermione felt a nervous energy coil in her stomach, already regretting her excitement at the book. But it would be rude to say anything.
“Excellent,” Hermione’s mother said, shaking Mrs. Malfoys, “Thank you, that will save us a full day of work.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Malfoy coolly.
“You have been very helpful explaining everything,” added Hermione‘s father. “We don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“Anything we can do to help them get better,” said Mr. Malfoy smoothly, smiling benignly at Hermione.
Hermione tried her best to grin back, but her stomach was in knots. She just prayed Mrs. Malfoy was just as polite when her parents weren’t around. She didn’t want to be hexed to next Tuesday. After all, being kicked into the future might react poorly with what happened last time she held a time-turner. She smiled ruefully at her own joke and the weird feeling came back to her chest.
“That’s settled then.” Her mother said, “Now pumpkin, I’m sorry but we really need to get back to the practice—we can’t keep cancelling on these people that made appointments. Not if we’re going to France in a few days.” Of course, they had already spent a day at the hospital and had likely missed another day of patients. Hermione wondered what time it was, and hoped it wouldn’t feel like forever before she was released. Her mother continued, “Will you be okay here? They said you should be out tomorrow or the next day.”
Hermione glanced over at Malfoy and his parents, then at the Healers. It should be fine, right? She put on her bravest face, “Of course. I’ll be fine.” The Granger family exchanged goodbyes and soon she was left alone. She found her bag next to her bed with her wand tucked safely inside; the only book she had brought was History of Magic, Grade 3 for the trip on the tube to the Ministry. She insisted on having her textbooks shipped to her before the trip so she could study during the holidays. She didn’t want to be behind when term started.
She was only a few pages in when she saw the Malfoys approach her bed again. Trying not to look panicked, she marked her place and set the book down.
“Draco said the Healers haven’t told you what happened,” Mr. Malfoy said as he approached, then he coughed. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, I am Lucius Malfoy and this is my wife, Narcissa.” They both stood straight as boards; their fashionable and well-cut robes sticking out sharply against the stark white interior of the hospital room. Like their son, they both had almost white blonde hair which hung, iron straight, down the sides of Mr. Malfoy’s face, and was folded in large swoops like dove’s wings around Mrs. Malfoy’s head. Their faces were calm but they both had dark circles under their eyes—Somehow Hermione knew they’d been crying.
Hermione inclined her head politely, “Hermione Granger, it’s nice to meet you.” ‘Please,’ she thought desperately, ‘please don’t hex me. Please don’t be as bad as Harry said you were.’ Her stomach churned in fear, was she really going to have to spend a full day with them?
“Father,” Malfoy piped up. His voice sounded somehow both whiny and urgent, like if he spoke fast enough they may be able to stop and pretend it never happened. “Why are you talking to that mudblood?”
Hermione felt that familiar sickening twist in her chest as Malfoy once again called her by that awful, foul name used to refer to people of Muggle parents.
“Son,” Mr. Malfoy’s voice was firm and measured, “that’s not a very polite word now, is it?”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear you using that language again; especially while we’re in the hospital. Understand?” said Mr. Malfoy firmly.
“I don’t understand!” cried Malfoy. “Besides, Grandfather said it all the time and you did everything he said!” It was definitely just whining now.
“Yes,” Mr. Malfoy sighed, “Well, we will discuss this later. Now, you’ve told me about Miss Granger plenty of times, haven’t you?” Malfoy nodded reluctantly, refusing to look at his father. “Son?”
Malfoy looked up, “Yes, father.” His voice was low, and Hermione suddenly felt like she was intruding on a private family affair; even though she was curious to hear what Malfoy had told his father about her, this didn’t seem like the time. ‘It probably wasn’t very flattering anyway’ she thought.
“As you said yourself—Miss Granger is the top of all her classes and insulting her will not change that.” Mrs. Malfoy bent down and brushed a few pale strands of hair off Malfoy’s forehead, “We know you’re scared and frustrated right now while we wait for the full diagnosis, but it is important to keep calm and polite in public.”
“It is so good to see you awake,” Mr. Malfoy added, letting out a shuddering breath like he was trying to maintain his own calm, “Your mother and I have been scared too,” he shook his head, “Nothing could be worse than having your son in danger. I will do all I can to protect you—always. Never forget that.”
Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes were shinning with unshed tears and she stepped next to her husband and squeezed his shoulder, “We will protect you, my dragon. Whatever it takes and before anything else; after all, you are our life.” She smoothed down his hair again, looking at her son with such devotion that Hermione couldn’t help being in awe. Her parents were always good to her, but they didn’t seem to revere her the way the Malfoys focused on their son. No wonder he was so spoiled, it must be hard not to feel like the centre of the world when your parents treat you like you are. “And right now that means working together. So no matter how scared you are, we do not resort to name-calling. Now, I believe you owe that young witch an apology.”
Malfoy turned to look at Hermione, seeming to remember she was there for the first time since his father had addressed him. She yearned to feel the same relief that seemed to ooze off Malfoy as his parents comforted him—wishing her parents had not left. She hated the feeling that even where she felt like she actually belonged, other people didn’t want her there and had no problem telling her so. It had been unbelievably painful every time Malfoy had called her a mudblood, and she doubted he would change his tune from one—very light—admonishment by his parents. Still, she hoped Malfoy would keep up the pretence of apology, at least in front of his parents. Yet she expected to see resentment in his eyes; humiliation at being talked down to in front of someone he hated at school. However, she didn’t see any animosity as he said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have hurt your feelings like that.” Her stomach twisted again and she shifted in her bed, wincing from the bruises she knew covered her body.
Hermione nodded back, “Thank you, I accept your apology.” Hopefully the day in Diagon Alley wouldn’t be so bad after all.