Chapter Text
A month passed without another raven from Azkaban. As the summer heat transitioned to moderate periods of rainy days, the humidity slowly tested the limits of Hermione’s curls, expanding them to new heights even she hadn’t anticipated. She’d given up hair clips altogether and had decided braids were the best way to wrangle her mane, but also distract her each morning by keeping her hands busy.
She had spiraled over the idea that Draco Malfoy had chosen not to answer her, that somehow he hadn’t expected her reply and had decided to end their communication. Or perhaps, a voice would whisper on days she felt low, he hadn’t meant any of it at all, and now that she had replied, he felt no need to reach out again.
Feeling the tendrils of anxiety creep in each night had her sleeping poorly, which made her a surly companion for days spent in the woods. She tried to remember what she could and could not control, but more than ever, she missed Harry and his warm presence. A lifetime of friendship between them, she knew he would have known what to say to take her mind off things. But since he was busy with Potter Home, she worked on busying herself in Nowhere.
It was nearly the beginning of August when a group of Wiccans had booked rooms to partake in some regional celebration of the harvest, her Druid companion commenting on the feast’s original name in some language Hermione had never heard, and offering to do something called “Lughnadadh rites”.
Marcie had asked Hermione if she would accompany her to the small local village of Hags Hearth to pick up the cake and specialty breads she had ordered at the local bakery. Apparently, bread was crucial to their guests’ stay.
“Up for a jaunt to the shops?” She had asked after breakfast that morning. Hermione knew that Marcie wasn’t interested in shopping. Previously, if Hermione was asked this question, she knew it was more of a request for her to act as a chauffeur, as Marcie had in her possession a pickup truck but not a driver's permit.
That morning, Hermione dressed purposefully in her room. She chose a white and blue patterned skirt that brushed past her calves with a plain white shirt tucked in and a denim men’s button-down over top. She hoped to be as comfortable as possible during the drive while still keeping cool in the summer heat.
The men’s shirt was chosen specifically to cover her scar, which refused to be glamoured. Although time had changed the way the scar impacted her daily life, no longer throbbing from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to bed, it still caused her trouble from time to time.
When she had finally been able to see a Healer at St.Mungos after the Battle, she was diagnosed with a Stage 3 Malady. The curse on the blade Bellatrix had used to carve the letters into her forearm had interacted with her nervous system in such a way that there would always be pain around the scar site. Unfortunately, the injury was exacerbated by her prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. The torture spell had damaged neural pathways in her brain and along her spine.
The two injuries paired together led to symptoms of
numbness and brain fog that occurred intermittently, as well as migraines that could have her confined to her bed for days at a time. At the time, staying in bed for days was commonplace for Hermione, but she knew that that wasn’t how she wanted to live the rest of her life.
Because stress and magical exhaustion tended to bring on these types of attacks, her Healer had encouraged her to look for lifestyle changes that could reduce the number of possible triggers. No more working through lunches and squeezing in extra assignments before deadlines. Not that she had been reading much or even working back then.
The ease of life in Nowhere had greatly improved her well-being, both physically and mentally. But despite how good she felt most days, she was still haunted by the ugly scar that lived along their inner arm.
Hence the long sleeves.
Marcie had seen her scar the week she first arrived. Hermione had offered to wash up after dinner, a quiet meal shared with the only residents of the house (and barn) during a lull in bookings. At the sink, she had rolled her sleeves to avoid getting them wet, handing Marcie the dishes to dry.
“My child,” she had cooed, slamming the wet plate onto the pale blue Formica counter and gripping Hermione’s arm with her two small hands. “Who did this?”
Although Quercus was an inherently magical person, responsible for a possibly sentient forest, Hermione hadn’t quite figured out how much Marcie understood about magic. Marcie appeared to be wholly Muggle, perhaps with a sensitivity to their kind?
Regardless of her host’s awareness of magic, Hermione was wary about the use of her wand in front of her host, for fear of breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Not to mention the fear of ruining all the wiring at Ash House. And because she avoided doing magic around Marcie, she also wasn’t sure if she should talk about her scar, which was most definitely cursed and caused by magic.
Instead, she had carefully met the old woman’s wrinkled, grey eyes as they filled with tears. Hermione was touched by her empathy and felt her own tears gathering. It had been so long since someone had mothered her that she had nearly forgotten how wonderful it felt simply to be seen.
Instead of fabricating an elaborate lie, which had never been one of her strengths, Hermione had smiled sadly back, lifting her other soapy hand to cover Marcie’s with her own.
“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” She had asked quietly, watching the emotions cross over the old woman’s face.
Marcie’s over-penciled eyebrows had furrowed, a frown pulling her lips down and causing the wrinkles on her face to appear deeper.
“… was done with so much hatred,” her voice barely above a whisper. They looked at each other, clear brown eyes meeting milky grey. Marcie hadn’t asked what the word meant, nor had she probed Hermione for any other information. Instead, she had thrown her dish rag aside and asked if she fancied a drive for some ice cream, and proceeded to never say another word about it.
There were times, however, that Hermione could sometimes feel her eyes on the forearm she now kept covered. It was never malicious or perhaps even on purpose, but Marcie would let her eyes linger or do a quick double take as Hermione discarded her rubber cleaning gloves or rolled her sleeves up, and it was enough.
With that in mind, she shrugged on the blue denim shirt before heading out to the truck for their trip to Hag’s Hearth.
~~
The drive had been filled with patchy radio service and Marcie’s soft snores as she rested her head against the window of the old truck, as Hermione drove.
Occasionally, her lips would twitch up in a grin, and Hermione wondered what she was dreaming of. The tiny woman was full of gnarled joints and bony curves. There was a slight hunch of her spine as she shuffled from here to there, which often resulted in the occasional catastrophe, bumping into furniture and scattering tabletop items she couldn’t see as she looked at her feet.
While she slept, she looked at peace, her wrinkled cheeks soft and relaxed. She had braided her white hair to the side of her head today, threatening for the hundredth time to chop it all off when it wouldn’t cooperate with the barrette she added to the end. This had made Hermione smile, her own hair always causing her grief as well.
It was important, she had explained before falling asleep, to look one’s best when out and about in town. She had even drawn on her eyebrows today a soft shade of auburn, which she claimed had been the color of her hair twenty years ago. Her blouse had berry stains on the left cuff that Hermione had chosen not to mention.
Although she had never driven Marcie to Hag’s Hearth, she had visited it once before. The tiny Muggle village had a few hundred people who worked and lived there. The white stone cottages with thick brown rafters and thatched roofs reminded Hermione a bit of the residential homes in Hogsmeade, though she hadn’t visited leisurely since Sixth Year.
Last summer, she had been convinced by some travelers to watch the sunrise from Hag’s Hill, supposedly a landmark experience. And it had been beautiful, the sun rising over the thick copse of trees in the valley below. The travelers, three girls around her age, had packed a blanket and a thermos and sat on the hill with their cameras to capture the moment. Hermione had done her best to engage the women, but had been happy to sit and enjoy being still for a while.
Aside from her sunrise trip, she hadn’t been back to the village and had no idea how Marcie found the shop they were headed to. It was seldom that the older woman ever left Nowhere. The tiny village hosted a small co-op grocery, two small restaurants, and a handful of shops that catered to the tourists who visited.
The bakery she had ordered the baked goods from was apparently the only place she could find a baker willing to make a vegan dessert, which was surprising considering how tiny Hag’s Hearth was. How many vegans could there possibly be?
After a morning of uneventful driving, they pulled onto the street to take advantage of public parking. The walk to the bakery was short, but the journey was long as Hermione matched strides with Marcie.
“The Norse honored the god of fertility at Lammas celebrations. D’ya think any witches will be leaving Nowhere with more than they arrived with?” It was hard to see the wicked grin the old woman wore on her face as she took a few more shuffle steps. She turned sideways to better catch Hermione sputter in bewilderment, shooting her a wink.
She recovered, barely, and fanned her warm face with her hand. “I certainly hope there are zero pregnant witches in our guest home.” It was a statement made in complete earnestness, whether Marcie knew it or not.
Not that there was a chance of pregnancy for the Gryffindor witch. It wasn’t something you could manage on your own, which she had been doing for a very long time.
Outside of the bakery stood a sandwich board decorated in bright chalk paint depicting hand-drawn cupcakes and bread baskets and advertising vegan and nonvegan specialty options. Marcie took measured steps in as Hermione held the door open, greeting the woman behind the counter warmly and pushing through a small gathering of teenage boys.
“Watch it, granny!” One of the boys muttered, his pimpled face pulled into an ugly sneer. The two boys had been milling about in front of the doorway, one checking cork board full of colorful flyers while the other stuck his hands in his pockets.
Hermione resisted the urge to outright hex the young man, her temper never having waned much from her school days. Considering the punishment for violence against Muggles, she focused intently to wordlessly charm the fabric of his shirt to itch uncomfortably.
No one was rude to Ms.Marcie on her watch.
Keeping her wand securely holstered against her thigh, Hermione walked briskly to the counter to catch up to where Marcie was chatting up an employee. From the corner of her eye, she caught the young man pulling a face as he reached behind his neck to adjust the collar of his green t-shirt, making Hermione grin.
“I should be sendin’ Ian and Peter to-yah Marcie dear. Them twos’ll eat-ah feast ev'ry night if I let’em.” The woman behind the counter had curly dark hair piled into a bright blue hairnet. The name tag sewn onto her apron read Agatha in faded red embroidery. Her eyes seemed tired, but bright. The blue-green of her irises was magnified by very large oval frames that kept slipping down her nose.
The boys moved closer to the display case and groaned, likely the two in question. Their embarrassment satisfied something in Hermione, her grin growing by the minute. Her vindictive streak from her Hogwarts days was apparently very much still present.
Because she had turned to see the teens grumble and groan, she now had a perfect view out of the large picture window that faced the front of the street. A few folks were walking by the shop across the street, a small cafe by the looks of it. The bakery was in a prime position on the main road through the village. She had noticed the greengrocer further down the cross street, as well as the local constabulary and a courier office on the corner, as they walked from the truck.
Drawing her gaze back to directly in front of the bakery, she was shocked to see a giant black raven sitting atop the sandwich board, cleaning its feathers as if it frequently visited this spot to preen.
What in Merlin’s name was the Azkaban raven doing in a Muggle municipality? Moreover, how the hell was she supposed to extricate the envelope from its talons without the townspeople assuming she was absolutely mental?
Glancing back at her companion, who was happily chit-chatting with the bakery lady, Hermione decided she’d best cut and run.
“Marcie, I think I left my wallet back in the truck. I’m going to quickly pop over and grab it. You’ll be okay here?” She asked over her shoulder, already stepping around the two boys and walking towards the door.
The older woman and her friend behind the counter continued chatting, the former waving Hermione away without turning to see her out. Two pairs of teenage eyes tracked her as she left, although she hadn’t noticed.
~~
The raven and the witch blinked at one another from their respective sides of the pavement outside the building. A minute passed in silence, neither of them making a move toward one another. It was unsurprising that Hermione cracked first; she had never been one for subtlety or grace.
“Do-you-notice-where-we-are?” She asked through gritted teeth, doing her best not look like a madwoman talking openly with a bloody bird. Turning her head, she could see shoppers on the street leaving with a bag of groceries and another couple walking up the road, talking animatedly. Through the window of the bakery, the two boys watched the curly-haired witch, unsure of what to make of her.
The raven croaked, turning its head towards the front door of the bakery, seemingly saying, “You were in there”.
Hermione twirled one of the curls that had escaped the low twist she had them in as she debated a moment. Was she really going to engage in a back-and-forth with a big black bird on a giant sign for vegan cupcakes in broad daylight? No. That was insanity. Instead, she invited him back to her truck.
The logical, totally normal option, at least that’s what she told herself.
Speaking out of the side of her mouth, she ground out, “Follow me to the truck”. The raven bobbed its head ever so slightly, stretching its wings out. Satisfied her message was received, she nodded once and began walking.
The bird took off and began flapping low as it flew towards the bed of the ancient pickup truck. By the time Hermione stomped over to the truck, she was feeling hot and mildly irritated. The sun was now high in the sky, and the breeze nonexistent, making her ornery.
She stepped off the curb and into the street so she could lift the latch to the bed of the truck and lay it down so she could have a seat, bunching her skirt in her hands before hopping up and looking around to ensure there was no one around.
“This is a bit ridiculous. You are lovely, of course. But Muggles don’t get mail this way. We’re risking the Statute,” she whispered inconspicuously, looking down at her hands in her lap and absently twirling the plain gold band she wore on her index finger.
The raven waddled closer, setting a small trinket onto her lap. A grey and black stone, misshapen with rough edges and a single smooth side. Lifting it so she could inspect it further, she noticed the etchings on the smooth side, crude lines arranged into two triangles, the top points touching. To others, it might look like a child’s rendering of a bow tie.
But Hermione was a witch, and well-read in runes.
Dagaz
Breakthrough. Awakening. New beginnings. Balance.
It was the symbol for hope and protection, for fresh opportunities and growth.
And it had been given, very intentionally, to her from a raven who was connected to Azkaban. Her mind whirled.
“Is it too much to ask that you somehow made this?” Exhaling as she looked skyward, as if the divine would give her an answer from above. She was exasperated after waiting a month for a return letter, and now that one was literally in her lap, she wasn’t sure what to make of it.
The raven seemed to pity her, hopping up onto her leg and nudging her hand with its beak. With coaxing, he was able to get her to stroke his head as he made a low cooing whirr sound.
“This is insanity,” she thought out loud. “It’s just a dumb letter.”
Here she was, on a trip to a vegan bakery outside of a town called Nowhere, where she worked alongside a Druid who seemed to speak with the flora and fauna of the North Wood, while also speaking of rugby at dinners with the ever-kind Marcie of the Ash Guest House.
Seemingly in confirmation of her statement, the raven nipped at one of her fingers, lifting his leg to offer her the letter she had been waiting and worrying over for the last month.
It was a foregone conclusion that she would take it.