Chapter Text
2003
Hermione Granger was excellent at hiding. Being the Undesirable Number One required her to be. It had been five years since the Battle at Hogwarts, one of the many battles that Hermione had been involved in. Even though her best friend, Harry Potter, had died then, the resistance lived on.
But her friends and allies dropped like flies. The Battle at Hogsmeade took out Padma Patil. The Battle at Malfoy Manor took George Weasley and Fleur Weasley née Delacour. Seamus Finnegan, Parvati Patil and Luna Lovegood met their fate in an ambush at Hogwarts, while greatly injuring Minerva McGonagall, allowing Delores Umbridge to take over one of the only safe havens the resistance had. The Weasley clan, bar Charlie and Ginny who were in Romania and Ron who was on another mission, had died in a skirmish at Diagon Alley. Any Ministry allies of the Order were killed during the Attack on the Ministry. Ginny took her life after Charlie was killed at the Battle of Gringotts. Ron then defected to the Death Eaters. Dean Thomas and Lee Jordan were killed at the Battle at Grimmauld Place, after Ron had ratted them out. And finally, Neville Longbottom was captured at the Battle in the Room of Requirement, suffering the same fate his parents had met. Hermione had seen it all.
Hermione Granger was alone in this war torn world, she had no hope to win a war against the most powerful Dark Lord in history. She also was not trying to win it anymore. She had given up when Ron Weasley defected to the Death Eaters, though she tried to put up a encouraging front to the others who thought they still had a chance. That chance, she’d quickly learned, died the day Harry did.
But she was still wanted, because with her alive, she gave hope to those who were sympathetic to the cause, but not strong enough to join it. Her being alive meant there could be one last stand, and the Dark Lord could not stand for any coal of the rebellion to flare again.
Her most unlikely ally (who was still alive), was Dudley Dursley. Though Dudley didn’t know her true identity, Dudley knew she was a witch seeking asylum from the war. Nobody would ever think to check if the Muggle cousin of Harry Potter would be housing a witch when their hatred of magic was well known throughout the Wizarding community.
The most logical idea was to leave Britain. But seeing as no other country stepped in to help against the Dark Lord, Hermione wasn’t sure if she would be granted refuge in another country. She had lost trust in anybody but her own mind.
Hermione had become proficient in glamor charms, and it was effective enough to keep her safe. Polyjuice would have been preferable, but the cost of ingredients were expensive, and though Hermione was legally granted half of Harry’s fortune (Ron the other half), the surviving goblins at Gringotts were loyal to Voldemort, and her trying to get access to her money was not something she was willing to risk. However, Ron couldn’t get the money either, since the will that Harry had written in preparation for his death was an ancient and magical binding that even Voldemort could not break it.
But what did Voldemort need with her money, when he had the funding of Wizarding Britain’s finest?
Her glamor charms made her hate looking in the mirror. She was unrecognizable. Her eyes were a deep azure blue, as opposed to her typical chocolate brown. Her skin was pale, looking like she hadn’t seen the sun in ages. Her body was unblemished, though underneath were an assortment of scars. But the most noticeable feature was her hair, no longer its wild curls but tamed straight, white-blonde colored hair.
Dudley knew her as Guinevere, a namesake Hermione took from her childhood stories of magic, when she did not know that magic actually existed. Hermione used no last name. Last names were dangerous, and they immediately gave her away.
Hermione was an expert in wandless magic, as she’d gotten rid of her registered wand so the Death Eaters were unable to track her. Though it was tiring at first, it was now a second language to her. And she used it to pack up what little belongings she had, the most important of them the Elder Wand she’d stolen away at the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. Unfortunately, the Dark had managed to recover the Resurrection Stone once Delores Umbridge had taken over the school.
She’d stayed at Four Privet Drive for a month, by far the longest she’d stayed in one place. It was too long for her to stay. Not that she thought she could get caught with her unrecognizable disguise, but she could not risk the safety of someone who helped her immensely.
“Goodbye, Guinevere,” Dudley said from the doorway.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Dudley,” Hermione nodded, her eyes sweeping over the room Dudley had given her. He had told her Harry had stayed there as well. “I wish you well in your endeavors.”
Hermione had always hated the sensation of Apparating, but since she was the only one out of the majority of her classmates licensed to Apparate, she was assigned to do it more than anybody else. And it was the quickest way to get around Britain. She tried to stay in Muggle Britain, but she occasionally was forced to stay at the Leaky Cauldron and other magical owned hotels and inns. Those were the only times Hermione received news of the Dark Lord’s government. Most of the times, Hermione could live as Guinevere No-Last-Name in peace, but when she stayed in magical Britain, she always felt sick to her stomach. She could see the pain Voldemort had caused, feel the fear lingering on the streets, and she was helpless to do anything. It were days like those that Hermione Granger cursed the world. Albus Dumbledore, for keeping everything so secretive, Harry for his self-sacrificing tendencies, Ron for his defection, Draco Malfoy for his role in starting the war, Snape for being a spy, but them being told too late, the Slytherin-Gryffindor and Muggleborn-Pureblood divide that she’d grown up with, but had started long before she’d ever stepped foot in the once great halls of Hogwarts.
Being a survivor was not a title Hermione Granger held with pride, but it was one that forced her to remember that she had not yet met the same fate as her comrades. Though arguably, death was preferable than living.
Hermione Granger, also known as Guinevere, was twenty-three, and she’d been running all her life. She’d been front and center in a war since she was eleven. She had lived through nightmarish conditions, and she was fucking tired. But as always, fate had other plans for her.