Chapter Text
2010 – Wiltshire
Evan Bell had never been easily frightened.
He hadn’t been frightened as a young boy when he had accidentally set his dinner on fire when his parents insisted he finish his broccoli. His mother had trembled while his father looked at him in shock and apprehension while he stared fully entranced by the flames, trying to figure out how they had come to be.
He hadn’t been frightened when he received his letter from Ivelmory. His little sister Annie had sobbed, terrified of impending separation from her brother while he sank in relief to finally understand the previously unexplainable.
He hadn’t been frightened when war broke out in Britain. While many of his No-Maj friends elected to lie low and temporarily leave school in the event the war spread, he had plotted on how to escape the UK and defend his kin in blood status. Unfortunately, being 14 with no money to his own name had made that venture quite impossible.
And when he was finally able to take the opportunity to relocate his entire life to London to follow his dream and begin a proper journalism career, Evan Bell had not hesitated to leave everything and everyone he knew behind.
If there was one consistency in his life, it was that he faced the unknown head on.
No, Evan Bell had never truly known fear. Not until he entered the gates of Malfoy Manor.
Long before he was aware of the magic coursing through his veins, it had been Evan’s dream to become a writer, a researcher, a true journalist. That desire had only grown when he had entered the wizarding world. During the war, he had hungrily consumed every paper available, every scrap of news from owl, and every rumor and had been horrified to discover that wizarding journalism standards were even worse than their non-magic counterparts, which was truly saying something.
Propaganda ran rampant and it was damn near impossible to get any sort of consistent information from one periodical to the next. Britain’s reporting fluctuated from canonizing Harry Potter to insinuating he was the anti-Christ. France and Germany tried to publish facts but ultimately shrank away from criticizing the Dark Lord’s regime. Bulgaria was in full support of Voldemort’s agenda and had their own bounties out on the Golden Trio. Russia had Death Eater sympathies. America stayed woefully neutral. He had thought things might improve upon the cessation of the fighting but there was still little to be found in the ways of true journalistic integrity.
The British ministry had spent the years following the war promoting unity and ensuring the population that the times were truly changing. However, whispers across the pond indicated that despite Voldemort’s defeat, people of non-magical birth were still discriminated against. Death Eater values may have become taboo but Pureblood values had not. Evan’s heart broke for his No-Maj counterparts in Britain and for his heroes who fought tirelessly for equality in the aftermath of the devastation. He knew that nobody was truly willing to tell the story of the struggles of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger and nobody was willing to admit that the end of the war had not meant the end of the discrimination so he promised himself he would end the tireless propaganda and misinformation and give their stories the truth it deserved.
He kept up with every article in the aftermath, documenting inconsistencies and embellishments, trying to piece together what the press could not or would not say. He worked part time during school as a bartender in the No-Maj world to save up money. Upon graduation, he took an entry level role as a copy editor at The New York Ghost to build his credibility. At night, he painstakingly chronicled the names of every single person associated with the resistance and their current standing, hoping some might be interested in speaking with a neutral party after years of sensationalization. And when he had finally scrapped together enough savings for an international portkey and a small flat, he began a gap year to travel to England to finally begin his research in chronicling the 2nd British Wizarding War and the plight of the No-Maj’s in the country.
And so, Evan found himself staring at the sprawling land of Malfoy Manor. The grounds were so massive he thought they may go on forever; it had taken him hours to find the entrance gate itself upon his arrival. The grass was dead and brown and dozens of barren trees sprinkled the grounds looking rotted. He could see in the distance what looked to be a garden but even from his strained vantage point, he knew the weeds outnumbered the flowers ten to one. As he stared at the rusted gate, he hesitated.
There was something cold about this place. Where should have stood a grand manor, protected by centuries of enchantments and blood wards, stood a dilapidated ruin that looked as though it may crumble at a moments notice. This couldn’t possibly be where she lived. But, he had received a response to his inquiry to meet, short as it may have been, with clear instructions on where to go. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, calling upon his lifelong bravery and reminding himself that he was there to right the wrongs against his kind. He reached for the gate but before he could make contact, it swung open with a deafening groan. Taking another deep breath, he stepped through and instantly the gate slammed behind him.
Despite the clear skies only a moment earlier, a storm began to roll in the instant he heard the lock click into place. The sky had turned a sickening green color and a wind was picking up with such fierce, he thought wildly that a tornado was about to strike. He began to hurry toward the entrance as the wind howled around him. He jumped at a loud crack of thunder and began to sprint when a pained shriek pierced his ears, growing steadily louder, although he couldn’t pinpoint the source; it enveloped him from all directions. When the rain began, it did not begin softly, instead pouring downward like a tidal wave from the sky. He still had a ways to go as the ground began to grow soft and thick with mud. He briefly wondered if he had entered a circle of Hell when a bolt of lighting lit the sky up with such ferocity that it nearly blinded him. As he looked at the estate, he saw a dark figure looming in the shadows, illuminated by the lightning yet completely shadowed. He would swear years later it was glaring menacingly, directly at him.
He fell face first into the mud.
He scrambled to his feet, forcing them into action, now fully fearing for his life. In spite of how silly it seemed, he knew that what was happening was beyond nature, beyond any magic he had ever seen. He used all of his strength to propel forward and, what seemed like hours later despite only minute having passed, he stumbled onto hard ground, now only feet from the entryway. Before he could lunge for the door, it swung open in a way that was more menacing than welcoming. He didn’t have time to dwell on this fear as the thunder sounded again and he stumbled into the foyer.
The room was dim, only lit by a dozen candles scattered about but even with limited vision, he could tell that it was covered in a thick coat of dust. He paused for a moment to catch his breath when he saw a tuft of white blonde hair peaking from behind the door. A little boy with grey eyes and solemn face poked his head out.
“You’ll want to move,” he said in a soft voice. Evan was registering his words when the door began to swing shut at an alarming pace. He leapt out of the way just in time as it closed with a bang and tried to gather himself.
He and the boy stared at each other for a moment, his heart beating wildly as he tried to gather his bearings. Nobody else seemed to be around and calling out into the cavernous estate was a daunting prospect.
“Excuse me,” he started slowly, “do you know where I might find –“
“Scorpius!” came a sharp voice from somewhere and everywhere, “you know you’re supposed to be in bed. How many times must I tell you not to leave your room during the storms?” Footsteps echoed down the hall, although from which direction he couldn’t be sure.
The little boy, Scorpius, jumped slightly and looked properly abashed. He gave Evan one last look, his eyes widening as though he was trying to communicate something, before scampering to the right and out of sight. The footsteps echoed closer until a shadowed figure appeared down the hall in front of him. As it moved closer, more candles lit, bringing a welcome light to the entrance hall. It took a moment to adjust but it was her. Hermione Granger.
She didn’t look how she did in the pictures. She was draped in long black robes, clearly expensive, barefoot, and without jewelry save for the large emerald stone on her left hand. Physically, her features were exactly how he knew them to be. Tiny stature and slim build, a wild halo of curls, and large brown eyes. But there was a hardness to her; she looked sharper, colder, and angrier. For years, Evan Bell had worshipped Hermione Granger from afar, the most famous No-Maj in the world. She had fought for the oppressed and downtrodden when no one else would and had been key in the defeat of the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. He had dreamt of meeting her to humbly thank her for all she had done for their own kind. But in this moment, looking at his hero in the flesh, he wanted to turn and run back into the storm.
“You’re late,” she said sharply, “I held it off as long as I could. If you must insist on making a career of intruding on the personal lives of others, it would behoove you to have some manners.” He was taken aback by the propriety, the aristocracy in her tone. But that wasn’t right. Hermione Granger was like him, non-magic parents, thrust into a world that denied them any sort of lineage.
“I apologize Miss Granger,” he managed to choke out, “ Your land is extensive; when I arrived it took me ages to find the entrance gate.”
She looked away from him as though she had not heard a single word he said. “You’re dripping mud everywhere. I’m not sure where you learned this conduct but it’s certainly not the standard I keep.”
He did his best not to gape at her – she was lecturing him about standards while her home looked as though it hadn’t had any proper upkeep since the early 19th century.
“Again, I apologize, the storm –“
She scoffed and flicked her palm; immediately the mud vanished and his clothes dried. A wandless, nonverbal evanesco and terego. While her demeanor left something to be desired, it was clear her talent hadn’t been exaggerated.
“Thank you and I am terribly sorry for the delay,” he started, hoping to get on better footing, “please allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Evan Bell –“
“You went over this in your letter. You graduated from Ivelmory 8 years ago at the top of your class and have worked for the New York Ghost since, until your recent declaration of a year long hiatus. You are an aspiring researcher and journalist looking to write an unbiased expose – as if there’s such a thing in journalism – on the war. You’re a muggleborn like myself yet still thought it was a grand idea to come to a country that is doing its best to put Americas former Jim Crowe laws to shame which makes me question your intelligence and self preservation. Anything else?”
He felt as though he had just been slapped. His irritation was starting to overtake his fear, particularly now that he was no longer sopping wet and covered in muck.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you and it seems clear you’re not interested in my apologies. You had every right to decline meeting with me; I was unable to predict how difficult it would be to enter your grounds and entirely caught off guard by the storm.” He paused as she leveled him with a cool stare yet she said nothing. “I’ve admired you for a long time and was honored you agreed to speak with me. It seems as though it would be best for me to leave.”
She continued to stare at him, expressionless, and he once again wondered if she had heard him. He made to turn on his heel and once again brave the storm when she finally spoke. It was much softer than he expected.
"This isn't my land."
"Excuse me?"
“You said my land - it's not mine. And I’m not somebody you should admire. It’s been a long time since there has been anything admirable about me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. They stood awkwardly for what could have been seconds or hours when she spoke again, her sharpness fully returned.
“You’ll want to stay the night. The storm is dangerous and will only get worse. You can have your meeting in the morning, the hour is much to late now and I have things to attend to. You’ll find a room upstairs in the east wing. Do try to remember you’re a wizard – I’d hate for you to break something and wake the children because you’ve forgotten you can cast Lumos.” She turned abruptly and exited down the hall from which she came.
He remained still, completely baffled and uneasy, confident he had made a mistake in coming here. But he knew she was right; the storm had picked up and the winds were ramming against the glass as though trying to break through. There was no way he would be able to make it to the gate, much less apparate in these conditions. He reached in his pocket, digging for his wand and cursing himself for having forgotten about it. Despite her disdain and less than warm welcome, he was deeply embarrassed to have lost himself in front of the most famous witch in the country. He muttered a quick lumos and made his way to the stairs.
When he found his way the top of the winding staircase and turned east, he was once again befuddled. There were dozens of doors, all closed, down a hallway so long he could not see the end. He wasn’t sure to what room she had been referring or where the children she had mentioned might be. He crept forward slowly, trying not to make a sound and gain her ire once more. He had hoped he’d come across an open door indicating his quarters or perhaps a neon sign guiding his way but no such thing appeared. They all remained tightly shut save for one ahead on the right. It was cracked slightly with soft light permeating the endless dark. He thought he could hear the quiet hum of a tune. He couldn’t imagine the woman he had just met enjoying something so joyous as music so he decided to take his chance.
When he pushed open the door, his confusion only doubled. He began to wonder if the walls were imbued with a perpetual Confundus. The bright yellow walls were papered with sketches of magical creatures, some he recognized and some that looked as though a small child had run through paint to color them. The floor was covered in note pads, ink pots, quills, and paints and there were several half drank mugs of tea scattered about. In one corner there was an unkempt bed with a thick blue and bronze blanket; on the side table next to it sat a bust of a womans head wearing the strangest headpiece he had ever seen. In the other corner were two plush armchairs, mismatched in lime green and burnt orange. In the center sat a large fireplace that looked completely unused, an improbability in this cold and drafty place.
But the most interesting thing of all was the woman sitting cross legged in the middle of the chaos. She had long dirty blonde hair that hung to her back and wide pale eyes. She was dressed in deep purple robes that were scattered with stars that moved, creating different constellations across the fabric, and a necklace made of butterbeer corks. She smiled at him dreamily.
“Hello Evan,” she greeted him, still smiling, “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“So soon, I’m terribly late,” he stuttered before realizing he did not have an appointment with this woman, “I’m so sorry, have we met?” he asked uncertainly. She looked oddly familiar.
“Oh no, not on this plane at least. But we were always going to meet if that helps, although the circumstances have certainly shifted. And I think you do know me, even if you don’t know you do.”
He stared at her dumbly, wishing he were back in the rain.
“Oh! I’m being so rude!” she said standing, her smile brightening further, if such a thing was possible. “Lovely to meet you, I’m Luna Lovegood.”
Luna Lovegood. The name struck him like a freight train and it all came rushing back. She had been a key fighter in the resistance, a deeply loyal friend to the golden trio, a perceived oddity, and a respected Magizoologist. She had been on his list to contact. He grasped her hand, shaking it firmly and tried to put on a smile, however shaky.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you. Did Miss Granger tell you I was coming? I was planning to write to you later in my trip, I had no idea you were staying here.”
“Oh no, Hermione doesn’t speak much to anyone as of late. Her aura has darkened so much I’m sure the words are a little frightened to come out, although not all of the nargles have gone. I’m sure she’ll remember how to converse any day now.”
He nodded solemnly, hoping she didn’t realize he had no idea what she was talking about. Hermione Granger had already insulted his intelligence; he couldn’t let the rest of Wizarding Britain know he didn’t know what a nargle was. The utter embarrassment, what had Ivelmory been teaching him?
“You and I do have so much to talk about though. If we hadn’t met here, I’m not sure that things could be fixed, although the centaurs have said it’s quite dependent on Mars. Theirs is such a temperamental magic though, so I’m very pleased to not to have to rely on it.”
He desperately wanted to have some understanding of what was happening but he thought it best to clear his head. “Would you mind showing me to my quarters? Miss Granger didn’t give me much direction.”
“Oh no, best not to settle in right now. The storms make the Manor quite emotional. Or the emotions make the Manor quite volatile. I'm not sure. Regardless, you don’t quite know what you’ll get with this weather. If you don’t mind, I can send for some tea while we wait it out?”
He rubbed his forehead, a migraine threatening to emerge. None of this was making sense. His host had spoken to him with so much disdain, he was quite convinced she wanted him dead. His other housemate for the night was speaking in riddles. His lodging appeared to have a mind of its own and the weather was reminiscent of Armageddon.
“Would it be terribly impolite to ask for a strong drink?” At this point he wasn’t sure if he cared for propriety. If he wasn't allowed to sleep, he should be allowed to drink.
She grinned at that. “Tippy!” she called and a house elf in fine green robes appeared to them in a deep bow.
“Miss is calling for Tippy?”
“So sorry to bother you but would you mind taking Evan’s bag to the White Room and bringing us some tea and perhaps something stronger?”
"Of course miss! Tippy loves helping mistresses friend! Tippy will be right back!” The little elf gave a deep bow and disapparated away with a loud crack.
“Hermione Granger has a house elf?” he asked in disbelief. He was now second guessing his entire trip, his entire mission, his entire understanding of what he thought he knew.
“Oh no, Tippy is free. Hermione employs several although she did have to fight with them regarding benefits. They would only accept one day off a month and it was driving her mad,” Luna said, dreamy expression on her face. She pointed to the armchairs in the corner of the room. “Please get settled in, I’ll just be a moment.” With that, she slipped quickly out of the room.
When the elf returned, she brought with her a large pot of tea with milk, sugar, and lemon on the side, a bottle of firewhiskey, two bottles of wine, and what looked to be an assortment of No-Maj beer. She snapped her fingers and the fireplace next to him roared to life; he had never felt so grateful to any person or creature in his life. He thanked her emphatically for her thoroughness and watched her smile happily before disapparating away.
He poured a tall glass of firewhiskey and drained it in one gulp, not even pausing to savor the burn. As he set out to pour himself a second, Luna returned, anxiety written on her face. She quickly smoothed it back into her dreamy smile and glided over to pour herself a glass of wine and settle in.
“You can ask what you want to ask,” she started, “I do apologize in advance because I know how much your book means to you but you’ll find those aren’t the answers you really want.”
“I don’t know where to begin,” he started slowly, “everything I’ve ever read about Hermione Granger, I wasn’t expecting this.”
"What do you know about her, in the years after the war?" Luna asked, somewhat warily.
"There isn't much to find, truth be told. For someone with her notoriety, she's been able to evade the press shockingly well. I know she worked briefly for the ministry. I know she was married and eventually divorced. I know she managed to get a seat in the Wizengamot but rarely attends sessions, if ever. And I know she's currently residing here, a place that isn't her home. None of it really adds up."
“You want to know what happened to her.” It was a statement, not a question. He nodded.
“They always do. The problem is that they’re not asking the right question. It’s not what happened to her. It’s who.”