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Sarah Walker skimmed through what little she knew about her three o’clock appointment one last time. As the Australian Minister for Magical Foreign Affairs, briefing an eighteen-year-old British girl would usually be considered below her pay grade. Hermione Granger was an unusual case, however. Tugging absently at the ends of her short blonde hair, Sarah considered the best way to proceed.
Australia had been far enough from the UK that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hadn’t been much more than a distant bugaboo to the resident Wizarding population. Sarah, along with the Australian Minister of Magical Defence, had briefed their Muggle Prime Minister on the recent situation as it had unfolded, but besides a bit of subtle discouragement in regards to tourism anywhere near the war zone, no steps had needed to be taken. If the stories that had filtered through from across the seas were to be believed, the girl Sarah was about to meet was one of the people to thank for that. By all accounts, Britain’s Second Wizarding War had been terrible and bloody, and yet the majority of the reports credited a gaggle of Hogwarts students with the fall of the Dark Lord. Such tales smacked of propaganda to Sarah, but it wasn’t her job to question the information handed to her. The only thing she was responsible for was making sure Ms. Granger didn’t cause any disruptions during her visit.
With a small pop, Sarah was no longer alone in her office. Standing precisely on the white X that delineated the Portkey drop point was a young woman with wild brown hair and a determined set to her jaw. If Ms. Granger felt the ill effects of being dragged halfway around the world in the space of a moment, she didn’t show them. Her clothing was casual and Muggle, but Sarah spotted a holstered wand on her hip, half-hidden by the olive pea coat folded over her arm. Her other hand clutched an oddly proportioned blue vase that Sarah assumed to be the Portkey. The small beaded bag tied to her belt was her only visible luggage, so either she wasn’t planning on staying long, or the handbag had an Undetectable Extension Charm on it. Sarah rather doubted the former.
“Ms. Granger,” Sarah greeted, standing to offer the young woman her hand. “Welcome to Canberra.”
“Minister Walker.” The girl’s British accent was crisp as she stepped forward to return the handshake. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” She handed over the vase and Sarah set it aside on a less cluttered corner of her desk, making a mental note to send it downstairs to the Department of Magical Transportation before she went home for the day.
“Please don’t mention it. As I hear it, the true thanks should go to you.” Sarah eyed her, wondering if it would be inappropriate to ask how many of the rumours were true. Ms. Granger’s professional smile thinned.
“Yes, I was involved in the war, but trust me, it was a victory of many. No one, not even Harry Potter, claims sole responsibility for Voldemort's defeat.”
Sarah flinched at Ms. Granger’s casual usage of the name and took the hint, settling back into the cushions of her chair and glancing down at her notes to recentre herself. Even here, people seemed to have an unspoken agreement not to say that name.
“So from what I understand, you Obliviated your parents?” she began, attempting to prevent any censure from leaking into her voice. Judging from the way Ms. Granger’s chin lifted, she hadn’t completely succeeded.
“No, not Obliviated. I’ve seen first-hand the result of Obliviation gone wrong and my desire was to save my parents, not destroy their minds. Eighteen years worth of memory is far too substantial to be removed completely, especially by a teenager with limited experience. I used a False Memory Charm and bewitched them into thinking they were someone else. Wendell and Monika Granger became Wendell and Monika Wilkens, a couple who never had a daughter.”
“And you forged them all the necessary documentation for their pseudonyms to take an Australian vacation?”
“Yes. And yes, I know that was illegal. We were at war. The war is over now and they are still alive, so if you’re looking for remorse, I’m afraid you’ll find none here. If you plan to arrest me for my crimes, then please, get on with it.”
Sarah sighed, unappreciative of the sudden dramatics. “I’m not going to arrest you. We have already discussed your case and agreed to dismiss it due to extenuating circumstances. For what it’s worth, you did a very good job. Not only did Wendell and Monika have no issues with customs, but they also successfully applied for a work visa. They have been operating a small dentist office in a plaza not far from their rental house. Apparently, they like Australia. They told immigration that if their business does well, they may consider applying for citizenship.”
Ms. Granger’s expression gave nothing away to Sarah’s watchful eyes. There was something grim in her face that belied the girl’s real age by nearly a decade. She attempted to put herself in Ms. Granger’s shoes and found she simply couldn’t. Sarah hadn’t even had the occasion to battle outside a duelling arena, let alone be on the front lines of a war.
“Can you undo the spell?” Sarah finally asked quietly into the heavy silence. “I did some research prior to your arrival and I couldn’t find anything comparable on record, at least in terms of scope.”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I haven’t find anything, either.” Ms. Granger’s voice never wavered, but her fingers curled into a fists. “It was more important for them to survive. You have to understand that at the time, we had nothing. Our government had fallen, the few we trusted were out of reach, and Voldemort was hunting down every possible lead to either find us or force us out of hiding. I did what I could with the limited resources I had available.”
Sarah swallowed back the peculiar cocktail of defensive chagrin that accompanied being justly chastened by someone many years her junior and shuffled her papers. “Now, as you know, we rejected your initial request to collect your parents,” she started again, in an attempt to move the conversation onward.
“I didn’t really expect you to grant it. I understand the fact that they don’t remember me makes things complicated, as far as consent goes. It just seemed to be the logical first step in opening lines of communication regarding the issue.”
“Similarly, your parents are Muggles who no longer remember the existence of the Wizarding world and they live in Muggle area. We do not make light of the Statute of Secrecy here. I have spoken with our Misuse of Magic Department and they have agreed to allow you to attempt Finite Incantatem on each of your parents, but apart from that, you are not allowed to use magic outside the walls of your flat unless you visit a Wizarding sector. You can guarantee that they will have someone watching you very closely while you’re here.”
Ms. Granger inclined her head. “I understand.”
Her straightforward acceptance of the restrictions was a relief. As an alleged war hero, Sarah had been concerned that Ms. Granger would attempt to use her new clout with her home Ministry to force the issue. She handed the girl a stack of papers.
"Speaking of your flat, here are the address and coordinates. You may Apparate in, as long as you do so from a Wizarding sector or an Apparition point. There is also a colour-coded map of the city with all of that clearly marked. Your parents settled in the Woolloomooloo suburb of Sydney and the flat we found for you is just a few blocks from their office. As I said in our previous correspondence, we are providing you with it as a show of good faith from our government to yours and we have reserved it for one month. You will also be granted use of both the Sydney and Canberra Wizarding Libraries for research, should you need it.”
Sarah leaned down to seize the handle of the small bronze cage at her feet and hefted it onto her desk. Inside was a brown and white owl not much more than ten centimetres long. “You’ll also have this guy on loan. His name is Bogan and he’s a Southern boobook. If you need to contact me after hours, feel free to send him my way. My home address and anything you might need to know about caring for him are included in your paperwork. At the end of the month, we won’t deport you, as long as you’ve followed our rules, but you will no longer have access to any of our resources. The only exception is an official Portkey back to London, since stranding you here would benefit no one. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would you allow me one?” Sarah's fellow ministers would never let her live it down if she didn't attempt to verify at least something about the war while she had one of the so-called heroes in her office.
“Of course.” Despite her quick agreement, the girl’s posture was uneasy as she waited.
“You mentioned Harry Potter earlier. He’s real, then?”
The question seemed to startle her and she blinked. “Of course he’s real.”
“So the whole ‘Boy Who Lived’ thing is true?”
Ms. Granger closed her eyes, seeming to struggle between amusement and anger. “Painfully so.”
The silence was turning awkward again, so Sarah stood, collecting the cage as she did so. “I’ll Side-Along with you to your flat,” she offered. She placed one hand on the girl’s elbow and they Disapparated with a crack that echoed in the empty office once they were gone.
After what seemed to be an unnecessarily thorough tour of a really quite tiny flat, Hermione watched the Australian Minister for Magical Foreign Affairs Disapparate with some relief. It had been a long… morning? Afternoon? She cast a quick Tempus. It was just past four in the afternoon here, which made it about seven in the morning back home with the nine hour time difference. Her body was well and truly confused.
Fumbling with the bag on her belt, she freed it and tugged the drawstrings loose. Her increasingly frustrated hands pulled out two textbooks, a notebook, and a pair of purple trainers. Another textbook and a sweater later, her fingers finally closed on the cool, engraved surface she was searching for. The compact mirror sprang open at the press of the latch and Hermione was faced with her own tired eyes, shadowed by three days of doing little besides researching and worrying and then attempting to make herself presentable by six this morning for her Portkey.
Technically, she’d only been awake for a few hours, but she was already casting longing gazes at the twin bed that filled most of the small bedroom. She knew napping now would only aggravate her… what did Wizards call jet lag anyway? She filed the question away for later as she set the mirror down on the battered dresser and began unpacking.
She hadn’t gotten far along before the compact vibrated harshly against the pockmarked wood. Dropping the pile of socks in her arms, she scooped up the mirror and peered into it to see sleepy green eyes blinking back. Harry had clearly not been awake long, but the smile that spread across his face upon spotting her was genuine. Hermione had been hesitant to suggest enchanting a new set of two-way mirrors for communication while she was out of the country, given that Harry’s history with them had been rocky at best, but his enthusiastic agreement had put an end to her concerns.
“Hermione! How’s everything going? Are you getting settled in?” he asked, running his fingers through the chaotic black mass of his hair.
“Trying to. Everything’s gone fairly well so far. Are you ready for your first day of training?” In the limited view of the mirror, she could just barely see the pale red of his Auror trainee robes hanging open over his black shirt. He shrugged a little in response to her question and his right sleeve slid off his shoulder and out of view.
“As ready as I can be, I guess. How about you?” Those green eyes sharpened behind his round glasses, transforming him from Harry Potter to The Chosen One in the space of a breath. That anyone could believe for a moment that Harry wasn’t real, that his terrible experiences were some kind of fable, filled her with irrational anger once more.
“Did you know you’re a myth here?” she asked.
He snorted. “I’ve heard some of the wilder tales people have been spreading. At this point, I’m practically a myth to myself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you evading my question, by the way.”
There was nothing for it but to be honest with him. “That’s because I’m not ready. I’m terrified.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he soothed. “You’re the brightest witch in this country or that one. As the person who laid the charm originally, you have the best chance of finding a way to reverse it.” His gaze shifted above the mirror and fondness softened his expression back to plain old Harry. “It looks like Ron finally managed to escape his bedsheets. Let me pass you over to him.”
The view blurred as Harry handed over the mirror. He and Ron were rooming together while they went through Auror training. Hermione technically lived there, too, but she’d barely gotten her belongings moved from the storage unit in which they’d resided since her last visit to her parents before she’d left on this trip. With her returning to Hogwarts in the fall to finish her interrupted seventh year, the boys weren’t likely to see much of her.
Ron’s face snapped into focus and he gave her a lopsided grin. “How’s the land down under? Have you seen any kangaroos or koalas?”
“I’m staying in an urban area. I’m much more likely to see a gigantic spider than I am to see something fun,” she told him, just for the enjoyment of seeing him shudder. “Besides, I haven’t actually stepped foot outside yet.”
Ron’s trainee robe clashed terribly with the bright orange Chudley Cannon’s shirt he wore underneath. He jabbered to her about his schedule until Harry declared from out of view that it was time for them to Floo to the Ministry. She wished them luck and then they were gone, her own reflection filling the space once more. She stared at herself for a long moment, feeling more alone than she had in years, before snapping the mirror closed and sliding it into the pocket of her jeans. It was getting late here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get something done tonight. After unfastening her wand holster and letting it drop onto the pale blue bedspread, she gathered up her parents’ addresses and her map and went in search of their office.
The grey turmoil of the clouds above her matched her mood well as she wandered down a block of monotonous flats. The smell of salt water was blowing in from the wharf and geese honked overhead as they migrated back towards warmer climes in their standard v-shaped formation. She found the dentist office in a grubby little strip, sandwiched between a Chinese take-out and a beauty parlour.
Her breath caught as she approached the front door. Through the glass she could see her mother seated at a front desk, her dark brown hair caught up in a bun. She was leafing through a magazine and Hermione had to duck behind a pillar so she wouldn’t be caught staring when her mother looked up.
Pressed against the flaking white paint and splintered wood, she tried to slow the ragged gasps of her breath as doubt speared her. She was handling this even worse than she’d expected. She didn’t know if she had it in her to approach her parents and pretend she didn’t know them. While she was mostly flying blind on this mission of hers, the one thing she had decided was that she couldn’t tell her parents the truth. The chances of it working were minuscule and if it failed, her parents would think her mad and wouldn’t let her near them again. She absolutely had to be able to get close to them if she were to have a chance, but that hinged on her ability to act like nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Are you all right, dear?” a familiar soft voice asked from the other side of the pillar. Hermione flinched and then sucked in a steadying breath before turning to face her mother.
“Yes, I’m fine, sorry. I… jogged here and I’m a little out of breath.” Acutely aware that she was not dressed in clothes suitable for jogging, she fixed her eyes on the door of the office over her mother’s shoulder in a bid for self control.
“Oh, listen to you!” Her mother sounded delighted. “I haven’t heard a proper British accent in months! What are you doing so far from home at this time of year, dear? I hope you didn’t come expecting to get a tan.”
Hermione smiled wanly as she glanced up at the grey sky. A plan was slowly forming and it strengthened her enough to allow her to meet her mother’s gaze for the first time. “No, I was aware it was the wrong time of year for that here. I’m just travelling a bit, doing some soul searching while I try to figure out my future.”
“Ah, the gap year. Always good for some growth, if you’re brave enough. What had you rushing here of all places, though? I don’t believe we have any more patients on the books today, so I hope you weren’t looking for us.”
“Actually, I heard you were hiring some help. I could use some extra money and I think I’m qualified to be your receptionist. I was hoping to get an application before you closed.”
“Oh!” Hermione’s mother glanced back at the plain black and white sign taped to the office door. “Have you any experience?”
Hermione shook her head. “No, but both of my parents were dentists, so I’m familiar with most of the terminology, at least. I was also top of my class and I’m very organized.”
“Wonderful. Hold on a moment.” Her mother disappeared back into the office and returned with a paper in her hand. As she handed over the application, she hesitated. “I couldn’t help but notice you used the past tense in regards to your parents. I hope you were alluding to their early retirement?”
Hermione shook her head, hiding behind the thick fall of her hair.
“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. Was it recent?”
A nod this time as Hermione began walking the thin line of trying to lie to her parents as infrequently as possible while also not spilling any uncomfortable truths. Thankfully, her mother assumed it was just too painful for her to talk about and let it drop.
“You poor dear. Come back with your completed application tomorrow at...” she trailed off and pulled a fat, battered, leather bound planner out of the pocket of her white coat. She flipped it open toward the middle and shuffled through the tattered pages. Its familiarity squeezed at Hermione’s heart. For as long as she could remember, her mum had carried a planner, jotting down absolutely everything. Then she froze with a stab of realization. She had forgotten the planner when she’d erased her existence. There were likely notes about her in there somewhere. She wasn’t sure what to do with that information, but she made note to remember it anyway.
Her mother interrupted her musing with a “Ha!” as she found the entry she was looking for. “Right, can you come for an interview at two tomorrow? You do have a work visa, yes?”
“I can be here then and yes, I have a visa.” There went outright lie number one.
“Wonderful. Oh, where are my manners. I’m Dr. Monika Wilkens. You can call Me Dr. Wilkens One, because I’m better than my husband.” She threw Hermione a wink as Hermione tried to remember how to breathe normally. Her mother had made the same joke as Dr. Granger and Hermione was finding the oddest things painful.
“My name is Hermione Granger,” Hermione introduced herself in return, extending her hand. Her mother froze in the act of reaching to meet her and Hermione held her breath. Was there a chance it could be that easy? Then the moment passed and her mother completed the handshake.
“It’s the oddest thing,” she confessed as he released Hermione. “There was an entry in my planner a few weeks ago that said ‘Collect Hermione from King’s Cross.’ As far as I could tell it was in my handwriting, but I don’t know anyone with a name as beautiful as Hermione. What are the chances?”
Hermione laughed weakly in agreement and then excused herself for her walk back to her flat. By the time she got there, her emotions were in enough of an upheaval that she could barely remember her flat number. When she finally got the door unlocked and closed behind her, she expelled a shaky sigh.
Before it got any later, she jotted a quick note to Minister Walker. Need work visa ASAP please. After watching Bogan disappear into the darkening sky, she allowed herself to collapse into her simple bed. If she cried herself into an uneasy sleep that night, no one would know but her.
To her relief, Minister Walker came through and Hermione had a brand new visa in plenty of time for her interview. She holstered her wand on the underside of her arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of her sweater. The easy wrist release allowed it to slide into her hand for a whispered Finite before shoving it back out of view. The interview allowed her the opportunity to try it on both of her parents, but the lack of results didn’t surprise her. She wasn't sure whether her parents felt a subconscious connection to her, pity for the grieving British “orphan,” or if they really thought her qualified, but they hired her on the spot.
Her new job as a receptionist started the following day. The office didn’t have all that many patients yet, so it was fairly quiet. When she wasn’t answering the phone, scheduling appointments, or checking people in, she was attempting to be as aggressively herself as possible. She brought in her favourite books to read at the desk and packed her favourite childhood foods for lunch. When either of her parents asked her questions about herself, she referenced parks they had walked through and museums they had visited during summer holidays. So far, all she had gotten was amazement that they’d been to so many of the same places. Weeks went by like this and Hermione began to lose hope.
“What if they never remember me?” she finally wailed to Ron through the mirror one night. It was the first time she’d voiced the possibility out loud.
“Honestly?” Ron asked. His face was drawn with exhaustion and he had a livid bruise darkening one cheekbone. Auror training was clearly gruelling, but to his credit, he held his peace while Hermione had her small breakdown. His blue eyes were more serious than usual as he waited for her to nod her assent. “If they don’t remember you, then you’ll come back home and we’ll be your family as best we can. I know it won’t be the same, but you know me and Harry will always be there for you.”
That started a fresh wave of tears, but they were sweeter ones, and Ron blushed and fidgeted helplessly until she was done. When she finally regained control of herself, she changed the subject to Harry, who was out with Ginny, and Ron’s love/hate relationship with the idea of his best friend dating his little sister.
One quiet afternoon, Hermione was watching the rain spatter against the glass with her chin resting in her palm. There were no patients on the books for the day and the phone had yet to ring. The minute hand ticking along on the impersonal black and white wall clock seemed impossibly loud. Her father looked up from his ledgers and narrowed his eyes at her.
“When’s the last time you had a check-up, young lady?” he asked her, his sudden voice startling.
“Um...” Hermione flushed as she tried to remember. “Maybe a year ago?”
“That won’t do.” Her father stood. “What do you say I give you a quick one? On the house, of course. It wouldn’t do for a dentist’s office to have a receptionist with bad teeth.”
Her mother herded Hermione out of her rolling chair and slid into her place, magazine in hand. “I’ll listen for the phones,” she assured them.
Defeated, Hermione followed her father into the back room and sank into the padded mint green chair. He worked purple nitrile gloves onto his thick fingers and picked up the mouth mirror and the hooked dental explorer. Without needing prompted, Hermione opened her mouth wide. The tools made their way inside, the hook scraping occasionally as her father examined her teeth. After a few minutes, he paused for an inordinate amount of time. Concerned, Hermione squinted past the bright lamp overhead to see his forehead furrowed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked as soon as the tools were out of the way.
“No,” her father said slowly, not inspiring a lot of confidence. “It’s the strangest thing. I have a really strong feeling that your front teeth should be just a little bigger. There’s no reason for that. They are well proportioned.” The mirror approached her lips again and she reopened, hoping the tremble in her lips wasn’t too visible. He paused again at the silver filling in the back right and the mirror withdrew once more. His face was pinched as he stumbled back a few steps to lower himself in one of the small chairs lining the side wall. “I’m sorry, my head feels oddly full. I just need a moment.”
Sitting up, Hermione gaped at him as he pressed his fingers to his temples. “Really, Dad?” she demanded, torn between the urge to laugh or cry and devolving into doing a little of both. “My teeth?”
Her father looked up sharply. “What did you call me?” He stopped again. “Hermione. Hermione Jean. Pumpkin. My God, I forgot. How did I forget about my own daughter?” He looked appalled.
Casting aside the little blue napkin clipped to the front of her sweater, Hermione threw herself into her father’s arms. “It’s not your fault,” Hermione told him through her tears. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
“My goodness, is everything all right in here?” Hermione’s mother was in the doorway, staring in shock at the spectacle the two of them were making.
“Monika,” Hermione’s dad looked over Hermione’s head. “This is our baby girl. We forgot about our baby.”
It was Hermione’s mom’s turn to look confused and a little scared. “What are you talking about, Wendell? We’ve never had children. I think I would know.”
“Mum,” Hermione started and her mother looked sharply at her. “Take out your planner. Remember the entry about picking me up at King’s Cross? I was supposed to get back from Hogwarts, my boarding school, that day.” Her mother was still shaking her head. “Turn back to September nineteenth.”
With shaking fingers, Hermione’s mother did as she asked. “Hermione’s eighteenth birthday,” she read in a whisper. Her eyes unfocused a little as she continued. “Born 1979. Three days late. I was in the middle of a root canal when my water broke.” Her eyes snapped back to Hermione. “Oh, baby, what happened to us?” Sagging into the next chair over, she joined the soggy puppy pile and the three of them cried themselves out, ignoring the shrill ringing of the phone in the other room.
Sarah Walker looked up as the little family that entered her office. The older two were clearly trying hard not to gawk at their luggage floating docilely at their heels.
“Mr. and Mrs. Granger?” she asked, just to be sure.
The father’s grin showed brilliant white teeth. “That’s us.”
Sarah stood to shake everyone’s hands. “Welcome. So glad to have you. Are you anxious to get back home?”
“Yes. No offence meant, your country is lovely, but once we remembered everything we’d left behind, it didn’t seem quite as appealing,” Mrs. Granger answered, brushing at the loose strands of hair escaping her bun.
In exchange for Bogan and his cage, Sarah handed over the Portkey, this time a chipped wooden plate painted a garish green. As the young Ms. Granger took it from her, Sarah murmured, “Congratulations. I’m so glad it worked out for you. What did you do?”
The girl’s grin was wry as she held out the plate for her parents’ hesitant hands. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Then, with a crack, the Grangers were gone and Sarah had one more tale to add to the break room gossip regarding the Second Wizarding War and the young people who won it. And maybe this time she was a little more convinced that all of the rumors were true.