A/N: This story began as part of a Hermione Granger Big Bang fest, but then summer rolled around, and I was finding it hard to write. This is a winter story to me, it just feels like something that needs to be written in the fall/winter. I have several chapters completed and plan to have this story done by early 2019. I don't have a set update schedule on this but expect about once a week or so.

This story is rated M for language, themes, and sexual content. Please be advised.

Also - this story has an ambiguously happy ending.

Beta'd by the lovely msmerlin. Thank you for your work on this!

If you loved this (or hated it) let me know about it in a review! Find the aesthetic for this story on my tumblr: crochetawayhpff or my Facebook Shan Crochetaway.

Update! Many, many thanks to LaBelladoneX and her daughter for helping to make the Irish translations not straight from Google Translate. I'm terrible about telling people that I use Google Translate because I just forget, but I did, and it was all wrong and LaBelladoneX kindly PM'd me to help me correct it. So many thanks to her! Also, apparently I was calling the language the wrong thing too, so my apologies there as well.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

There is so much grey to every story — nothing is so black and white.

-Lisa Ling

Chapter 1: The Book That Started It All

October 2021

Hermione Granger-Weasley coughed and waved her hand in front of her face as the dust settled from the giant tome she had set onto her desk. It was the last book from a collection that had just been donated from the Selwyn estate. She'd been saving it for last, since it was the biggest, and couldn't wait to dig her fingers into it. Hermione had been working as a researcher in the Department of Mysteries for the last nine years, moving to a lower stress department after her divorce from Ron. The Ministry had rooms full of texts and artifacts both donated and confiscated, and not nearly enough manpower to go through them all. It was just Hermione and her boss, an elderly man named Aggie Corvin.

Aggie decided on the priority of projects, leaving Hermione the best part, in her opinion. She read every book, examined each artifact and decided whether it was worth going to the Ministry archives. Some aspects of her job were really boring, for instance even if she knew the book was already in the archives, Hermione had to compare the texts to make sure they were actually identical. That part she hated but had created a spell to make it go easier. Her favorite were well-known texts that were annotated by hand. Sometimes the annotations were enlightening, most often they were snarky and gave Hermione a good giggle.

She thrived on books like the one in front of her. It was old, at least a few hundred years, there was no identifying text or marks on the cover or binding, and she was sure she'd never seen one like it before. Which meant, it was probably an undiscovered text. She smiled as she ran her hands down the cover. She'd already checked it over thoroughly for any traces of dark magic; there were none. The book hummed pleasantly under her fingers, as magical books tended to do. It made her even more excited.

"That the last of the lot?" Aggie asked as he peered around the corner to Hermione's office. Aggie had wispy white hair that sat on his head like a corona around the sun. He had dark, brown skin that was littered in liver spots and had been the head of the Department of Mysteries Magical Artifact division for longer than Hermione had been alive.

"It is," Hermione nodded as she glanced up at her boss. It was nearing the end of the day, and Hermione knew she should wait for tomorrow to open it, but she couldn't help getting at least a few minutes to look at it tonight.

"And that's the one you think is totally unique?" Aggie inquired as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame.

"Yep," Hermione grinned. "I've checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. No Dark magic residue and no identifying characteristics. Unless you count that it having no identifying characteristics as an identifying characteristic."

Aggie grinned, "Maybe, it should be one? Although, I haven't come across too many books with no identifying characteristics. What did you enter into the registry?"

All books were registered with all of the details one could think of, size, weight, page count, binding type, cover type, and on and on.

"The usual, and that author and title were unknown or undetermined at the time."

Aggie nodded, returning her grin. He at least understood her excitement to examine a new text.

"Don't stay too late. I'll have Brown check on you. If you're still here when he comes around don't bother coming in tomorrow."

Hermione smiled indulgently at her boss. "Of course not, Aggie."

Aggie left her office with a wave of his hand and Hermione shook her head at her boss. Geoffrey Brown was the only maintenance staff member cleared for cleaning the Department of Mysteries, and he and Aggie were good friends. Aggie liked to keep Hermione from overworking herself, as was she wouldn't So he would often send Brown around to make sure she'd gone home. If Brown caught her still working, he'd report to Aggie. The first time she was caught, Hermione had scoffed and came into work the next morning at her normal start time of seven. Aggie had tried to order her to leave, but she ignored him. So he marched her upstairs to the Atrium and forced her into the Floo. Hermione was humiliated and properly chastised. He'd clearly shown her he was not the be messed with and over the years, Hermione had learned to respect him for that. She would still occasionally stay late. However, she knew better than to come into work the next day. Aggie would just drag her back home again, and it wasn't worth the hassle.

She thought it was sweet he cared so much about her work/life balance, and if she were honest with herself, she'd probably live at the Ministry in order to avoid going back to her lonely cottage. At least during the school year. During Hogwarts breaks and in the summer Hermione was a model employee because her kids were home. Even if they were at Ron's, Hermione didn't permit herself to stay at work too late. She never knew if plans would fall through with her ex-husband, and never wanted her children to feel like her work mattered more than they did.

It was mid-October now, and Rose and Hugo had been back at Hogwarts for a month and a half already as the days went on, Hermione found herself working later and later — even bringing work home with her if necessary. She knew she lived a boring life, and most of the time she was fine with that. She loved the access to research and rare texts that she had on a day-to-day basis. Her days as a social crusader were over. She preferred to stay out of the spotlight. Especially since her ex-husband and his wife were always in it.

Ron and Romilda. Who would have thought they'd be married when they all attended Hogwarts together so many years ago? The love potion incident from Hermione and Ron's sixth year at Hogwarts was now discussed as though it was something sweet for Romilda to have done. Nevermind that Harry was her target, or that Ron had ended up ingesting poison before he was cured, or that he'd been with Lavender Brown at the time. Hermione wanted to scoff, but the reminder of Lavender sobered her. Lavender hadn't survived the final battle, and it was a death that Hermione still had a hard time with, even twenty-three years later. Neither Harry nor Ron understood. Not only had she roomed with Lavender for six years, but they had also been friends, before Ron anyway.

Hermione sighed as her thoughts turned to her ex. Ron. Most days she tried not to think about him. He'd broken her heart, and even nine years later, the wound still felt raw sometimes. Despite the fact that he'd given her the best things about her life, their children. His negligence and apathy had killed their marriage faster than any affair would have. After Hugo had been born Ron had just stopped caring about anything. Least of all, Hermione and the kids. Hermione had tried, for three years she'd tried to keep Ron and the family together. Hermione tried her best to be the perfect wife, but she couldn't give up working. Her mum had worked a full-time job, and Hermione was no different. Molly watched their kids, mostly at Ron's insistence, and Hermione let her with a smile, but her teeth gritted at the snide, anti-feminist, anti-Hermione comments Molly made day in and day out. Every day she got home from work in time to pick the kids up from Molly and Arthur's and still have time to make dinner for Ron when he got off at the joke shop at six. Faithfully, she cleaned their house, made meals, and worked a full-time job. And Ron just didn't care. After she'd successfully pulled together Hugo's third birthday party all by herself, she'd had enough. She gave Ron an ultimatum. He could either begin to help around the house, or she was done. Ron chose divorce.

It did make her life more difficult, but at least she didn't have resentment against Ron boiling under her skin like lava anymore. She was free to let go of all of her feelings toward Ron, and with the help of her therapist, she did just that. Except she couldn't quite forgive him. When he'd married Romilda Vane less than a year after their divorce was final, she hadn't been all that surprised. Ron couldn't function without a woman around to take care of him, and Hermione had come to terms with it long ago.

She shook herself from her thoughts and glanced at her watch. It was half-past five. Brown wouldn't be around until eight or nine, so she had plenty of time to dig into the book in front of her and leave the department before he came around.

Hermione was too excited to sit, and in truth, the book was a foot and a half thick, standing would make it easier to examine the pages. She cast one last diagnostic charm, making sure there wasn't a trigger or trip that would spring upon opening the book. When it came back clean, she laid her wand to the side. Slowly, with her right hand, she turned the cover over. The inside was blank, but that wasn't unusual. She turned the first page, it too was blank, also not unusual. Older books especially tended to have a few blank pages at the beginning. Hermione kept turning the pages. They were all blank. She frowned and began turning them faster and faster. Now she was almost a quarter way through the book, and they were all blank. Maybe a Revealing charm? She placed her right hand flat on the page, to hold to book open as she thought about it. A hum of magic responded, and Hermione couldn't help but send a soft wave of her own magic back at the book.

When she looked down at the page, there was writing under her hand. She moved her hand, and exactly three sentences written in what appeared to be Irish had appeared.

"Cosantóir draíochta, caomhnóir draíochta: An féidir leat mé a fheiceáil tríd an Liath? Tar tríd an Imbhalla, tar go dtí na daoine atá beo," she mumbled aloud before she could stop herself.

As soon as Hermione realized what she had done, her eyes widened, and she jumped back from the book, looking around her office fearfully. The book thumped closed loudly, making Hermione start once more. She felt goose-flesh break out across her skin. A gentle swirl of magic surrounded her and was gone once more. Fuck.

Hermione could not believe she had just said an unknown incantation out loud. How stupid was she? It was the first rule of research, and in all her years in the Department of Mysteries, she had never once broken it. She shook her head. Maybe she was more tired than she thought. She glanced at the innocuous-looking tome once more and decided she wasn't going to touch it again.

Clearly, there was some sort of low-level compulsion charm on it or something. A compulsion charm that didn't show itself when you were examining it? A voice whispered in her head. Hermione knew it was ridiculous. She shook her head and buried that thought. Grasping her wand, she levitated the book to the safebox she kept on her bookshelf next to her office door. It was a magic-deadening box. It would deaden any magic the book contained, meaning that until the book was removed from the box, it was harmless.

She passed Brown on her way out of the Department and ducked behind a desk before he could see her. No way was she not coming in to examine that book some more tomorrow. Hermione glanced at her watch as she waited for Brown to pass and a frown crossed her face. It was five-thirty when she opened the book, and now it was eight. Where had two-and-a-half hours gone?

Hermione sipped from her glass of wine as she flipped through the Irish to English translation book. It was tattered and torn, a lot of magical artifacts were written in Irish and Hermione had put this book through its paces.

She glanced at the parchment she had next to the book. She had a few of the words translated already:

Cosantóir Draíochta, Caomhnóir Draíochta:

Magical Protector, Magical Guardian:

An féidir leat mé a fheiceáil tríd an Liath?

Can you

Tar tríd an Imbhalla, tar go dtí na daoine atá beo.

She frowned 'féidir' was can, ah there it was, 'fheiceáil' was see. She sighed and took another sip from her wine glass. This was taking forever. She wished she was fluent or knew someone who was.

'Mé' was 'me' and 'tríd an' was 'through the,' what was the last bit? She searched through the book for 'Liath'... Grey. That's what it was. She turned back to her parchment:

Cosantóir Draíochta, Caomhnóir Draíochta:

Magical Protector, Magical Guardian:

An féidir leat mé a fheiceáil tríd an Liath?

Can you see me through the Grey?

Tar tríd an Imbhalla, tar go dtí na daoineatá beo.

She glared down at the parchment. Well, she could figure out part of the last bit:

Cosantóir Draíochta, Caomhnóir Draíochta:

Magical Protector, Magical Guardian:

An féidir leat mé a fheiceáil tríd an Liath?

Can you see me through the Grey?

Tar tríd an Imbhalla, tar go dtí na daoine atá beo.

through the

'Tar tríd' is come through, and 'imbhalla' is… she couldn't find it. Hermione let out a frustrated sound and looked back at the parchment in front of her:

Cosantóir Draíochta, Caomhnóir Draíochta:

Magical Protector, Magical Guardian:

An féidir leat mé a fheiceáil tríd an Liath?

Can you see me through the Grey?

Tar tríd an Imbhalla, tar go dtí na daoine atá beo.

Come through the

She closed the dictionary and rubbed her eyes. This could wait. She was exhausted and could finish the rest tomorrow. She stood from the little kitchen table and tossed the dictionary in her bag to bring to work with her in the morning. After rinsing out her wine glass, Hermione retired to bed.

"Hermione…"

Someone was calling her name. She could just hear it over the sound of wind rushing in her ears. She looked around and seemed to be in a formless grey cloud. Nothing was there. Nothing was solid. The grey swirled and twirled around her in tantalizing patterns that were almost recognizable, but not quite. She spun in a slow circle, trying to make sense of the formless landscape before her. But nothing made sense. Her hair whipped around her head in the ever-present wind.

"Hermione," the voice whispered to her. She knew that voice, who was it? She whipped her head toward the sound and took a small step in that direction.

"Hermione." She turned around looking for the person calling her name. All she saw was grey. Where was she? The voice came from a different direction, and she turned toward it.

"Hermione!" The voice was louder. Closer. Hermione turned around again. She didn't see anyone. The voice sounded like it came from behind her, so she started walking toward it. She had to find who was calling her. She didn't know why, but she was compelled to search out the caller.

"Hermione!" Even louder and closer now, she began to run toward the voice. She was finally going in the right direction. She heard her name called over and over again and ran faster and faster toward the sound.

"Hermione!" She stopped. The voice was right next to her. Who was it? She turned toward the sound and came face-to-face with a dark-haired man. He had grey eyes and dark, wavy hair down to his shoulders. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn't place him. He was tall, towering over her. But he didn't see her. He seemed to look right through her.

"Who are you?" she asked. She cocked her head to the side like she would recognize him from the new angle. His name was right on the tip of her tongue. She definitely knew this man. She took him in entirely, he was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit with a wizarding robe thrown over top.

"Hermione!" he shouted as if he couldn't see her. He was standing right in front of her. She took a step closer and reached out her hand, but he seemed to move backward. She began walking toward him as he looked around, looking for her.

"What is your name?" she asked again and the closer she got to him, the further he went. She didn't understand this place or this man in front of her. Who was he? Why did she recognize him? Why couldn't she remember him?

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione bolted upright in bed, she was panting and covered in sweat, and the phantom man's voice was still ringing in her ears. She looked around. She was in her cottage, it was early, but she could see the sun shining through her window. She glanced at her bedside clock and groaned; it was half-past seven already. Normally she was at work by now. Sighing, she stood from the bed and stretched her back. Getting old wasn't fun, even if she was a witch.

Coffee. She needed coffee first. She ambled to the kitchen and began boiling water on the cooker. After scooping a couple of tablespoons of coffee grounds into her french press, she leaned her bum against the counter and yawned. An owl flapped at the window above the sink, and she opened it to let him in. He was carrying the Daily Prophet. She glanced at it and rubbed her bleary eyes. She still couldn't figure out that bizarre dream she had. She gazed idly at the headlines as she tried to grasp the edges of her dream. But like all dreams, the more she thought about it, the more it faded away.

Who was that man she dreamt about? She was sure she knew him, but she didn't recognize him. She shook herself as she pushed the plunger on the french press and poured herself a cup of coffee. Breathing deeply, she took her first sip and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, the man from her dream was standing in her kitchen. Same dark, wavy hair, same grey eyes, same old-fashioned three-piece suit with a wizarding robe thrown over it. And she suddenly remembered exactly who he was.

"Don't scream," Sirius Black said as Hermione inhaled to do just that.