Chapter Fifty

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The air was so cold on the astronomy tower, like the bitterest spring night. Hermione's teeth ached, and the breeze rippling along her bare arms stung her skin. Her heart was a solid lump in her chest, weighing her down. Hermione blinked, but no tears came. Swallowing, her throat closing, she almost choked.

Below, the grounds were deserted. Dark and dense, the forbidden forest was a wall of shadow, solid as granite. The hollow air reverberated, the whole world standing empty before Hermione. Emptiness.

The nothingness she had crossed decades to escape had followed her here. Pressing her fingers into the cold stone, Hermione tried desperately to feel something. Anything. But she was a hollowed-out shell, as empty and fragile as a glass doll. If she fell from here, into how many pieces would she shatter?

The ground at the bottom was far, far away, and yet Hermione felt as though she saw every tiny detail. Fresh grass, recently cut by Hagrid, blades blunted and scraggly, the spring growth not yet thickened into summer richness. Scattered stones, fallen long ago from tower walls, worn down by the years. Rich earth below, alive with the organisms embedded in the soil. Worms, burrowing sightlessly, onwards and onwards. Ants scurrying through their tunnels into vast networks and beetles, hurrying across the surface to avoid becoming prey.

Hermione's head ached, stuffy and hot. Eyes stinging, temples throbbing. Sirius had been right when she'd cast the dark mark up here all those weeks ago. It would take a long time to fall to the bottom—a lot of time to contemplate the landing. But Hermione wasn't sure she would mind.

They had failed to find the horcruxes. Whatever dark, forsaken place they lay in was hidden from their eyes, and Lord Voldemort was unkillable without them. Hermione closed her eyes, rested her head against the stone, and let the truth work through her. She had been given a second chance, and she had squandered it. A wild, blinding stroke of fate had brought her to this world, given her an unprecedented opportunity to fix things, and she had failed.

Everyone she loved was going to die. Again.

Hermione stared at the ground. Would it make her a coward if she jumped now? If she decided she could not bear to watch her world burn again? It would be so easy to jump. Fate so rarely bestowed gifts, yet it had offered her two chances at a life full of hope and love, and both had fallen into ruin. There would be no third chance - no final do-over. For Hermione, this was the end, and she shuddered at the life that awaited her if she stayed. The Order and all its supporters - executed. Severus and her friends bowing to the Dark Lord - or worse, their treason discovered, and they themselves tortured and murdered. Her baby gone - taken to be raised by Narcissa, steeped in poisonous dark magic.

If she jumped, wasn't she sparing her child that fate? Better that they went now. Together. Leaving this world behind, sorry that they had ever found it, yet knowing there were so many things worse than death. Wouldn't that be the kindest thing she could do for her child - to save it from what lay ahead?

"I'm sorry, baby," Hermione whispered.

Pressing her hands to her stomach, she released the concealment charm and pressed her fingers into the stretched, straining skin of her belly. Tracing the ridges where the skin had split, leaving lines like cracks in the desert. Bare and barren - a ravaged emptiness.

A nudge brushed her fingertips, and she gasped. The baby shuffled within. Hermione pressed her lips tightly together, hands beginning to tremble. She'd felt this before, but she'd ignored it. Shoved it away, pushed all thoughts down, pretended it wasn't happening. But now -

"I'm sorry." Hermione's voice cracked on the second word. "I'm so sorry."

She slipped her hands beneath her bump and held it. Turned her mind towards it. After so long ignoring the baby, barely acknowledging the space it took up in her body, Hermione let herself accept that it was there. Become aware that she was not one but two. If they were going to leave this life together, she could at least acknowledge its existence.

A burning, sharp pain was rising in her throat. Hermione blinked, then blinked again. Tears were coming, unbidden, to her eyes. Clutching at her stomach, her whole body began to shake as a new sensation flooded her. It was so strange and unexpected that it took her a long moment to place what it was.

It was love. She loved her child.

Realisation broke over Hermione, and a sob came from her throat. She wrapped her arms around herself, leaning against the cold stone, gasping and choking so hard she could hardly breathe. Tears dropped from her eyes, falling into the darkness, and she wept until she thought she would run dry. She cried because she loved her baby, and she cried with fear of what was coming next.

Jumping would be so easy. Leaving this world, leaving this life, knowing her child would never be tortured and murdered or poisoned by Voldemort's rhetoric until they became a murderer themselves, would be so easy.

And yet.

Something in Hermione, a small, core part of her essence, refused to do it. She could not jump. She refused to die, and she refused to let her baby die because of the machinations of a mad dictator and his violent followers.

Hermione steadied herself against the stone. Every breath felt like defiance, every beat of her heart that refused to stop. She must carry on.

Hermione looked up at the stars above her head. It was impossible to think that this night would ever come to an end and that dawn would break across the horizon and bring a new day. She couldn't think beyond the next moment, the next breath. Having resolved not to die, she had no other answers beyond her sudden certainty that she would not jump.

Staring up at the heavens, their vast emptiness, Hermione prayed with desperate fierceness that somewhere out there were those she had known and loved. She had never been religious, yet she yearned to believe that they awaited her. Her beloved Harry and Ron. She longed to see their faces one more time and to hear their voices, Harry's wry humour and Ron's carefree laugh.

And as she cradled her stomach, Hermione ached fiercely for her mother, too. Missed her with a desperate immediacy that shocked her. Feeling, against her trembling hands, the movements of her own baby, she needed her mother badly. Who could understand this but the one who had loved her first? Her mother, who had raised her, nurtured her and given her unconditional love for twenty years. Part of Hermione that had been frozen was unbending, melting and unfolding. It flooded through her, hot and startling. Love. Grief. Life.

Hermione knew what happened on this night, in the year nineteen seventy-eight. She had known it before but had refused to think of it. But now, her longing was so strong it was all-consuming, overpowering her natural caution. If she was not going to die, she would do this instead.

Hermione stood, joints popping. She took the Death Eater mask from her face and pushed it deep down into her robes so that the sightless eyes stared up at her no longer. As she left the tower, she pressed her hand to the stones. Cold, rough, rippled, solid. She traced her hand over the walls and went down the stairs, all one hundred and forty-one of them. Solid, and safe.

It was the seventh of May, nineteen seventy-eight.

Hermione's feet carried her downstairs, out the front doors, and towards the gates without her control. The world took on a dream-like aspect, and Hermione moved without conscious thought, an unwary state in which nothing could touch her, and no one could stop her. One thing mattered now - to see their faces one more time. Driven by a need so deep Hermione could not articulate it, the aching loneliness of a lost child, she followed the invisible string of memory out of the front gate.

Only once did Hermione hesitate and turn back to the castle. Scattered lights revealed students and staff, still awake at the late hour. But she turned away from them, unlatched the gate, and left Hogwarts behind.

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It wasn't hard to find the place. The story had been told to her a thousand times in her childhood, and it was emblazoned in her mind, polished smooth by the years.

A guitar was playing a sweety melody when Hermione walked into the warm, friendly bar. It took her aback, and she stopped, staring at the stage. A young man, dressed in a red flannel shirt, bent over an acoustic, his fingers moving over the strings. Hermione couldn't move for a second, transported by the sound of the plucked melody. It had been years since she had heard music played live.

It was like stepping into another world inside this muggle bar. Young people were everywhere, alone, in pairs, gathered in groups. They wore bright clothes, and they talked, laughing, congregating in groups. Their faces were unlined, and their eyes were not constantly flickering towards the exit. Nobody kept a hand on their wand. The laughter bubbled like a brook across the room. They were mostly students, she thought. None of them knew that another world ran alongside their own - or that the shadows of that world were preparing to spill into theirs.

She had been standing still for too long in the doorway, holding the door in one hand. Hermione's mother had told her about this night many times, describing the music that had played and the food they had eaten. They had stayed until long after midnight, unable to stop talking about everything and everywhere. It had always been a long-ago memory, fondly recounted. But now it was real, and it was here before her.

Everything was dream-like, like falling into a trance—the warmth of the room, the noise. Hermione walked further inside, paused. Turned, scanned the room. The first time her eyes fell upon them, she didn't recognise who she was looking at. She didn't see them, looked again. Paused. It was them.

Her mouth fell open as she stopped. It was really them, there in front of her. They were so young. He had a moustache, and his hair was thick and dark. She wore her hair long and parted in the middle and had layered several beaded necklaces over a blousy white shirt. They looked like hippies as they leaned in towards each other. They didn't speak all the time, but when their eyes met, they lit up, crinkled, then looked shyly away. She had a pink flush on her cheeks, and he didn't seem able to stop smiling.

Hermione moved forward slowly, barely aware of the strange looks that her robes were attracting. Silently, she sat down at a table a few seats behind them and watched. The woman tucked a curl of hair behind her ear, revealing chunky silver earrings. Hermione smoothed back her own curls, mirroring the gesture. He leaned forwards across the table, and then he took her hand in his. Her face was brilliant now, and she could barely meet his eyes, but she smiled. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

On her mother's finger, the ring glinted. Her father had proposed earlier in the evening, Hermione knew, and they had come here to celebrate. Hand rising to her mouth, tears trickled from Hermione's eyes.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she looked up, startling a waitress who stepped backwards quickly.

"I just came to take your drinks order. Can I - can I get you anything?" The waitress said, looking at Hermione's face and strange robes with bewilderment.

Hermione looked back over at her parents. Her father was reaching for his coat now, standing from the table. Her mother was picking up her handbag. He was holding her coat for her to slip her arms into.

"No," she said abruptly to the waitress, who shrugged at her and left. Hermione could watch her parents no longer.

Standing, she hurried to the door, head down, pushing past the merry, thoughtless, carefree young people. They were innocents, and she could no longer bear to be among them.

Hermione burst onto the street gasping, almost convulsing with grief. Her face was wet, and she staggered three steps before leaning against the streetlight. Her parents had been so beautiful, young, and full of joy and hope. The pain of missing them cut through her like a stab wound.

The door opened, and music poured out into the night. Hermione shut her eyes, her hands clenching.

"Excuse me? Miss? You left this at your table."

Hermione opened her eyes. The voice was so familiar it sent a shiver down her spine. Slowly, she turned.

They stood there, holding hands. Her father was holding out her small beaded bag. Hermione stared, unable to respond. Their smiles faded to frowns of concern.

"Are you alright?" Hermione's mother asked. Her voice was lilting, gentle, young but familiar. Forever. Hermione had known this voice forever. A thousand memories flooded her. Bedtime stories, snatched songs, bad jokes and murmurs of love. She couldn't speak. Stared.

"Do you need us to call someone?" her father asked.

"I….I…"

Her throat had closed. Words would not come.

The woman stepped forward. "Do you need help? Is it…?" her eyes flicked discreetly towards Hermione's obvious pregnancy.

They were good people. Kind to run after a stranger who had forgotten her bag. Good, to check that she was alright. Their faces were open and honest, and they seemed unaware that they were still holding hands. They would be good for each other, supportive and kind and full of love. They would build a fulfilling life for themselves, the kind of life where each felt seen, heard, understood and cared for. They would raise their daughter in a family that was safe and secure, and they would treat each other with tenderness and love even after the shining flush of excitement in their eyes had long worn away.

They did not deserve to lose that life in the mists of memory. They did not deserve to lose their memory of the daughter they cherished, and they did not deserve to live out the rest of their days without her. They did not deserve never to know what had become of her. They did not deserve never to know that they had a grandchild.

"I have to go," Hermione said, taking her bag. "Thank you. I...I'm sorry."

"Wait!" the man said. "You don't look well. Are you sure we can't call someone?"

"I'm fine," Hermione said, her voice breaking. Then she turned back.

"Hermione," she said desperately. "My name is Hermione."

"Hermione," the man said. "Please, where are you going? At least let us call a cab for you."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, I don't need anything. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The woman took a step backwards. Gripped the man's hand harder.

"Alright," she said soothingly. "Why don't you sit down, and we can talk."

Hermione shook her head wildly. Her thoughts were overwhelming, and she forced them down with violence.

I love you. I don't want you to die. I want you to fall in love get married, and I never want to lose you again. I want you to have your baby girl and your good lives.

"I - I can't -" The words that she couldn't speak bubbled on her lips, and she was afraid to open her mouth for fear that they would spill forth.

I didn't know that I was coming back here, but if I could choose it all over, I would do it again. It is worth losing twenty years to see your faces alive and well. I would do it all again. I want you to know who I am.

Hermione tried to take a step away, but she stumbled and clutched the lamppost.

The man turned back towards the bar. "Can we get some help out here?" he shouted. He exchanged looks with the woman. She stepped forward again.

"Hermione," she said gently. "Come and sit down. You don't look well."

"No," Hermione whispered. "I have to go."

It was too dangerous to be standing here in front of them. They might remember her face, or somebody might track her here. Voldemort had eyes everywhere, and her parents were young defenceless muggles. It was another year before they would give birth to a magical child, and it would be another seventeen after that before Hermione would take away their memories.

Hermione closed her eyes as her mother's hand came to rest on her shoulder, the press of it as familiar now as if she had last felt it yesterday.

Three years. It had taken three years to realise she would never remove the memory charm - that her parents would live in Australia, without her, for the rest of their lives. Her final realisation had come in the ministry dungeons when she finally accepted her execution. Until then, she clung to the fragile hope that she would somehow escape and return to them. But when the last person had been taken, and she was all that remained, she knew.

Her parents were gone.

It had brought her comfort. Knowing that, while she faced death, they would live happy lives, never realising anything was missing. Even if someone tracked them down, it would be impossible to discover any flaw in their memories. Hermione was confident that the most accomplished occulems in the world would be able to find nothing astray in their minds. She had found obscure books on occlumency, studied them for months, and created a meticulous plan for her parent's minds. Memory was challenging to change, but she had used every trick she knew.

"We've called for help," Hermione's mother said, rubbing gentle circles on Hermione's back. "Is there anyone we can call for you?"

Hermione shook her head mutely. It was time to run before the muggle authorities arrived. And yet she couldn't bring herself to walk away. Not when she was living through a moment, she had never expected to have again.

She would need to obliviate them again after this.

It struck her with the force of a blow. No. She couldn't do it again. There was no need - surely. Nobody could connect them to her. There was no need for that nightmarish, complicated process of stripping and removing, laying tricks and traps for anyone who came searching in their minds.

In her current state, Hermione was not even sure she could do it. Making a mind impossible to navigate from the outside was an exceptionally difficult task. Only the most talented occulems could manage it, and though Hermione was far from the best in the world, she had researched every part of it until she knew as much.

It wasn't useless information, either. It had served her well when she'd broken into Voldemort's mind earlier that year. It had allowed her to see the horcrux locations.

Except -

She hadn't.

Failure crashed over Hermione again. Her information, so hard-fought from his mind, was wrong. How could that have happened? She had studied so many books on technique - had learned so many methods. His mind had been laid open to hers, ready to explore. There was no reason it should have failed. Unless…

Hermione gasped.

It came to her. Not as a dawning realisation but as a blinding flash of memory. A book, half-forgotten, open on the table at Grimmauld Place, detailing the methods by which one might protect a mind from even the most talented attackers.

Hermione had dismissed the technique. It was something only the highest occulems could achieve, and she was not the highest level.

But Lord Voldemort was.

As Hermione blinked, reeling with shock, her mother said something. But she didn't hear it; she was already straightening, looking between them with dawning wonder. At once, she knew why the horcrux locations had been wrong.

"I never had them," she said to herself slowly. "Holy shit."

"What?" Her father reached towards her, but Hermione stepped back, this time her feet finding purchase on the concrete. Her heart was pounding, adrenaline flooding her veins, and urgency filled her, so strong it was half-pulling her.

Hermione took one last, longing look at her parents. Took in their youth, their gentleness, their kind faces. Although they were barely older than her, she could see the faces they would grow into and where maturity and wisdom would leave lines to soften them. They were so beautiful. She loved them so fiercely. Would never stop fighting for them, never stop putting one foot in front of the other to prevent the war from reaching their doorstep.

"I have to go. I'm sorry for bothering you." Hermione said, and impulsively she took her mother's hand and kissed it, surprising her. Then she was unable to wait another moment. She knew, at last, what had gone wrong, and she had to share the vital information with the right people before the night was out.

Hermione turned and fled, taking a few turns down different streets and finally a side turn down a dark alleyway where she paused to make sure she was unseen and disapparated.

Only hours remained until the tournament began.

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Ahh all your nice words are giving me such joy! I'm a month away from graduating from my masters and SO STRESSED, and I hoped finishing this would be a good way to take my mind off things. It's working! My stress is nothing compared to Hermione's - yay perspective!

Thanks for reading,

Cas