Obligatory A/N: Kintsugi takes place after the events of HPDH. I've kept mostly to canon with two major exceptions: Hermione obliviates her parents and reconstructs their false memories instead of casting a memory modification spell. And Fred doesn't die. I just didn't have the heart to leave him dead.
Aside from those two, the events of HP stay primarily unchanged in this fic and I just veer off the rails from there. I've been in the mood to write a Charmione for a while and this idea took hold of me and just wouldn't let go, so I've been feverishly working on it ever since. My favorite parts of the books were always the details about spellwork, potionmaking, and the various bits of history so I'll try to delve into more of all of those throughout the story. It starts out a little slow, but there'll be plenty of action and PLENTY OF CHARLIE later on.
Minimal Ron bashing - he's still one of her best friends, after all. Rated M for language, violence, and future smut.
Fair warning: I'm currently juggling multiple schedules so my updates might be irregular - there could be one update a week and then three the next but I'll try to make sure I'm posting at least a chapter every 7 days. I just can't promise the updates will land on a single predictable day. Also, for those of you like me who have been burned a few too many times before: I plan to complete this story and write regularly. I don't know how long it'll end up being, but this chapter encapsulates the first two sentences of a 17-page plot I've got written out soooo it should last a while! Don't worry, it won't take that long to get to the good stuff. I don't really expect reviews this early in the game but if you feel like leaving one, I'd love you forever.
Obvious disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. My compliments and eternal gratitude to JKR for giving us such a magical world to get lost in when our own worlds aren't quite what we wish them to be.
Hermione Granger sat in the waiting room of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, trying hard to ignore the rather pungent odor of wet socks emanating from the wizard a few chairs to her right. He had been staring at her for several minutes now between tufts of dripping blue fur and seemed inclined to speak. At present, she was in no mood for conversation. It was all she could do to stay seated, one foot tapping impatiently on the linoleum as she waited for the assigned mediwizards who would accompany her to Australia.
Over the past few months, she'd begun to understand on a personal level why Harry had always hated attention; the trio was stopped everywhere they went - in the streets of muggle London, in the shops in Diagon Alley. Even the occasional grocery run couldn't be completed without someone rushing over and grabbing her hand to thank her for all she'd done during the war. In the beginning, it had felt strange; like they'd mistaken her for someone else. But as time wore on, the Daily Prophet printed more and more detailed articles covering their academic and personal lives. It began touting them as the heroes of the second war. And Hermione found that having every eye upon the three of them only reminded her of how much suffering they'd all been through. She still woke up in the early hours of the morning covered in a sheen of sweat that felt too much like blood, clutching her arm over the raised scars that no amount of magic had been able to fade. She could still hear the voices, see Bellatrix's wild eyes popping at her from the darkness as the witch set an invisible fire in her bones. No, Hermione didn't like to be reminded.
A pair of mediwitches in lime green robes approached just as the blue-furred wizard began to scoot his chair closer, and Hermione jumped to her feet.
"Miss Granger," the mediwitch extended her hand with a warm smile. Her hair was a dark brown that framed her face and her brow was lightly lined with premature wrinkles - the same wrinkles that had become a sort of trademark feature in many healers during the war. Hermione shook her hand gratefully. "I'm Adria Tunsley, spell damage practitioner and this is my colleague Matilda. We'll be accompanying you today. If you'll follow us, we have a room set aside." Hermione nodded mutely, nerves mounting as she settled into the reality that this was the day. She knew her parents would be beside themselves when they figured out what she'd done to protect them. The reunion wouldn't be a wholly pleasant one, she knew. There would surely be an argument when they discovered she'd willingly put herself in danger, made worse by the violation they were sure to feel at having their memories wiped. But she would finally see them again and that thought alone had kept her going while she, Harry, and the Weasleys reunited and mourned their losses at Grimmauld Place.
She followed the mediwitches down a series of winding hallways, trying not to think too much about Fred, who was still currently in a vegetative state on St. Mungo's fourth floor after a combination of unidentifiable curses had nearly killed him in the final battle. The Weasleys had been devastated, but it was George in particular who hadn't been the same since. He spent his days sitting with his twin in the hospital, or else locked away in their flat above the joke shop, leaving the business to run itself with the help of their friend Lee Jordan. Hermione knew he was trying every concoction he could get his hands on in the hope that he'd land upon a cure. But Fred had always been the better hand at potions, and Hermione had spent more than one evening in the last month patching up the burns and boils from failed experiments. Despite her best efforts, George simply sat and gazed abstractedly at nothing with red-rimmed eyes. He hadn't spoken more than a few sentences at a time since May.
The mediwitches reached a doorway on the left side of a particularly silent ward and gestured for her to enter first. The room was old but clean, illuminated by a cluster of bright bubbles near the ceiling that mostly concealed a patch of flaking drywall. A single pink flower lay on the slightly battered bedside table.
"Now," Adria said as the door swung shut behind them, "the procedure is a fairly simple one. We'll introduce ourselves as members of a community and housing board. It's a simple spell, convincing your parents we've contacted them ahead of time. You'll not be required to do anything; a loved one's presence in itself frequently increases the chances of cognitive recovery. Matilda will begin by asking them a series of mundane questions for distraction while I cast the necessary charms. Do you have any questions before we portkey?"
"Just the main one, really." Hermione said as evenly as she could, knowing her expression had already betrayed her worries, "What is the probability the procedure will be successful? What should I do if it isn't?"
"That is, of course, an understandable concern," Adria nodded sympathetically. "The success rate relies on several variables. Minds require delicate magic and each mind is unique, so some variations of a charm work better than others depending on the person. For example, an individual who has not had a happy past may not respond to a happy influence when recovering and vice versa. The mind seeks what it already knows. Another major variable is the strength of the original memory charm. A light cognitive glamour is an easy thing to remove, but a charm that changes the conceptual architecture of a person's thoughts is a great deal more difficult to repair. Of course, if the charm is unable to be lifted there are other alternatives. In your particular case, you would have the option to re-alter their memories so that they once again include you as a daughter. There is no guarantee this method would result in a continuation of your prior relationship. Synthetic memories never reach as deeply as the real ones, you see. But they would recognize you as family."
Hermione nodded. Having to look into her parents' eyes and know their memories of her were synthetic sounded almost worse than losing them entirely. If that was supposed to be a comforting alternative, she bitterly doubted the mediwitch had ever lost someone important. Adria gave her what she assumed was supposed to be an encouraging smile and took hold of the pink flower on the table. Matilda mimicked her movements and the two waited. Hermione took a deep breath and closed her fingers around the stem of the plant. With a jerk behind her navel, the three of them vanished.
Hermione blinked in the bright sunlight and looked around. Though it was technically winter in the southern hemisphere, the day was just as warm as the one she'd left behind in London and the sky was cloudless and vast. She'd landed with a soft thump on the green, well-manicured lawn of a rather large house. A sign on the mailbox read WILKINS in blue lettering and a bleached wooden fence ran the sides of the property. Yes, she thought with a small amount of pride, of course they'd be happy here. The house was white with warm, wooden trim. A sudden lump formed in her throat as she caught sight of her mother pulling a set of tall glasses down from a cupboard through a wide kitchen window.
"Miss Granger, are you ready to proceed?" She heard Matilda ask from behind her. The two mediwitches had transfigured their robes into simple, dark green muggle dresses. Adria was inspecting the unattended lawnmower in the front garden curiously.
"... Yes. Yes, of course." Hermione jumped to her feet and brushed her hands down her dark jeans. She looked again at the window, but her mother had gone. Steeling her resolve for the task at hand, she nodded to the mediwitches and followed them up the front steps of her parents' house.
Hermione could swear she felt her nerves jump to a frantic octave when Matilda rapped her knuckles against the front door. There was a dizzy buzzing in her head and her knees trembled as the door swung open and her father appeared at the threshold.
"Can I help you?" he asked, looking around at the three of them with a politely puzzled expression. She had to choke back the sob that threatened to escape her lips at the sight of his too-familiar face. His lively brown eyes were bright, his face tan from the southern sun. The honey-colored ringlets of his hair, just beginning to streak with grey at the temples, were as unruly as her own. Matilda extended her hand.
"Mr. Wilkins I presume. My name is Maria Hedgeweather," Matilda bluffed smoothly, giving the man's hand a firm shake. "The three of us are on the Townsville board of housing and community development. I believe you received our letter?" Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Adria perform a quick, tricky motion with the wand stowed up her sleeve. Her father's eyes unfocused briefly but he didn't miss a beat as he nodded and welcomed them inside.
The interior of the house was bright and spacious in a way their house in England had never quite achieved. There were pictures lining the walls and Hermione realized with a jolt in her stomach that many of them had once contained her face as well. There were odd gaps in those pictures that looked as though her parents were sitting too far apart. There was a comfortable, modern-looking couch in place of pride in the living room. Blue. Her mother had always loved blue. It was everywhere. The fireplace mantel displayed a series of silver picture frames - more photographs from their lives back home. There was even a picture of the couple in the Forest of Dean and she wondered who they thought had taken the picture. She knew she had been the one holding the camera that day.
"Monica, the ladies from the board of housing are here," her father called. It was an odd sensation for Hermione, hearing him call her mother by the wrong name. Like watching a film with the wrong lines. Her stomach was in knots.
"The board of what?" came a voice from down the hall and her mother came into view, wiping her hands on a blue dishtowel. "Oh, of course!" She had to hand it to the witch - Adria's spellwork was quick and subtle. She'd barely raised her arm, as if she were simply picking a speck of lint off her dress. Hermione's mother turned to greet them with a smile. Her heart leapt when those familiar green eyes met her own, but they passed over her with a placid gesture toward the blue couch. They sat.
The next hour was one of the longest and most emotionally draining experiences of Hermione's life. Matilda asked numerous questions about their life in Townsville while Adria performed her assessment and charms under the guise of toying with her sleeve. She watched her parents closely for any signs of recognition, but there were none. Every glance her way sent her stomach lurching with hope. Finally, Adria turned and gave a subtle shake of her head. The three excused themselves and thanked the Wilkinses for their time.
"I'm sorry, dear," Adria said in a low voice as they walked slowly down the front drive. "The memory charms you used seem to have been quite powerful. I'm afraid the effects are irreversible." Hermione didn't respond. Somewhere deep inside her, something had cracked. All the hope she'd felt. All the times she'd played through how she would explain the situation to her parents. All the scenarios where they'd hug each other tightly again and move home, where she could tell them in detail of her adventures with Harry and Ron over a plate of her mother's homemade quiche. All of it was gone.
"We can go back and alter their memories if you'd like," Adria suggested, breaking her out of her reverie. "It only takes a few -"
"No." Hermione interrupted, her voice harsher than she intended. "No," she said again, "They're happy here. They're safe. That's all that matters." But inside, she couldn't convince herself. Yes, they were safe and comfortably settled in at a beautiful house. Yes, they were alive. But they weren't her parents anymore, not in their lives. The realization constricted her chest and she allowed them to place the portkey in her palm as the world came spinning and crashing down around her.