Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was starting a new chapter of her life.
She and Ron had split a year prior, and the news that his newest girlfriend was none other than Lavender Brown had surprisingly failed to send her into a tailspin. It was the first time he’d presented a new girlfriend—and he’d had a number of them since their split—to their social group without driving her to cry into a drink. That it was Lavender, of all people, only made her more certain that she was finally truly over their breakup. On top of that, the job she held at the Ministry, a dull and monotonous position in which she had toiled with little mobility for years in the Department for the Care and Regulation of Magical Creatures, had finally completely lost its appeal. After wilting like a neglected plant under a manager who refused to see her as anything more than a thorough and careful report-filer, she had finally put in her notice.
Although she had a standing offer from Headmistress McGonagall to teach at Hogwarts, she wanted time to decompress and think things through. It appealed to her; she had a lifelong fondness for Hogwarts, and great respect for McGonagall. Despite it all, she didn’t want to leap in on a knee-jerk response. So she booked a vacation, choosing to slow down deliberately and do everything the muggle way. Booking flights through Heathrow, she took pleasure in visiting a bookshop she used to frequent with her parents. She wanted soaring snow-capped mountains over mirror-glass lakes, scenery she would never see at home in England. After thorough research, she booked a trip to the United States. The gorgeous photos of Glacier National Park that she had seen online had done all the work to make up her mind.
Most importantly, it was as far removed from home as she could imagine.
Arriving in the little lakeside cottage she had rented for a week, she set her bags down. A sliding door opened to a covered deck. She sat in one of the cushioned chairs and took in the view, enjoying the sun glittering off the surface of the lake and the ice-capped stony peaks beyond. She had booked a week for herself to simply relax in the little American lake town. Getting away would allow her to slow down and breathe for the first time in recent memory. To really let go and mull through her life and the next steps she would take.
She changed into comfortable leggings and an old sweatshirt of Harry’s, long since pilfered from his overgrown collection of quidditch gear. The small, neatly landscaped hill that led to the dock on the river was grassy, so she opted to take the short walk barefoot. There was a fire pit and a small shed on the rocky shore, and the water lapped pleasantly against the dock.
After sitting for a while with her feet in the cold lake water, she decided to explore the shed. Inside were two kayaks; one designed for two people, and a single. Despite not having much experience with it she decided to take the kayak out onto the water, vowing not to go too far, in case she tired faster than she thought she would.
The day went quickly after that.
It was all wonderful until she stepped into the shower, exhausted after a long day of kayaking on the lake, to find that the water pressure was so weak that it actually made her angry.
Ugh. I’m already wet, I can’t get my bloody wand.
A moment later, she nearly leapt out of her skin as a sleepy, though pleasant, male voice piped up.
...what? Already wet?
Eyes wide, Hermione spun in the shower. She was alone, but the voice had been as clear as day. After a moment of panic she realized that she hadn’t said a word out loud. He, whoever he was, had responded to her thoughts. In her thoughts. She tried again.
Hello?
The man’s voice replied again. What’s happening to me?
She’d never heard of anything like this in her entire life. Pressing her hand to her face, she checked for fever. Perhaps she was hallucinating. She didn’t feel feverish; in fact, she felt perfectly fine, aside from the sudden phenomenon of a man’s voice ringing through her head.
What’s happening to you? What’s happening to me??
She felt his begrudging response as much as she heard it. Mildly aggravated and still waking up, he grumbled at her. It’s five in the bloody morning, whoever you are. You woke me, you explain.
I don’t know, I’m not exactly in a position to do research at the moment.
What?
I’m in the shower.
Why are you up so early?
I’m not, it’s 10 pm here. I’ve taken a holiday in America.
Why can I hear you? His voice, aggravation swiftly subsumed by curiosity, had leveled into a pleasant and distantly familiar baritone. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt as though she knew him. As though she was supposed to know him. Perhaps that was just another part of whatever was causing them to hear one another.
Her alarm was swiftly changing into inquisitiveness.
I don’t fucking know, Hermione thought, and then she snorted to herself. Sorry.
Swear all you like. This is bloody bizarre.
Where are you?
I am currently lying in bed in my flat.
Which is where?
Diagon Alley. You?
I live in east London. You must be filthy rich if you live on Diagon Alley.
I get by. Who are you?
She hesitated. The man was clearly a wizard, so the odds of him knowing her by name were very high. Too high. The Daily Prophet had created a persona for her that she tolerated, but that didn’t reflect who she really was. If she gave him her name, he’d decide, just like everyone else, that he already knew her. The thought wasn’t pleasant, so she offered a deal. This may sound odd but can we avoid names to start with? People tend to treat me differently when they learn who I am.
Though she couldn’t hear him, she could swear he chuckled in response. Suits me. My name has a similar effect.
What shall I call you in the meantime?
Clearly amused, he offered, Your conscience?
Ha ha. Does that make me yours?
You don’t trust me not to lead you astray?
I know nothing about you, except that somehow I can speak to you in my mind and also that you’ve thoroughly distracted me from my terrible shower.
How can a shower be terrible?
The water pressure is pathetic. I may as well be standing outside in a drizzle.
That’s a shame.
Truly.
In that case, I apologize for distracting you, though I have no idea how I’m even doing it.
I think I started it, so maybe I should apologize for waking you.
There are worse ways to wake up than hearing a lovely woman’s voice in your head talking about being wet and naked.
She couldn’t help but smile, her face flaring with heat. Oh my god. The voice in my head is a flirt.
Though a laugh didn’t come through the mental connection, she once again knew intrinsically that he had done it. The more she spoke with him, the more questions she had. This bond, whatever it was, had her very curious. Only if I like what I’m seeing. Or hearing, in this case.
At least you have a nice voice.
Shall I give you instructions to follow? Step one: lather your body thoroughly with soap. Feel free to describe it to me.
Her cheeks burned and she bit her lip. Oh, no. You’d better not be a horrendous lothario.
Hardly. I have no interest in wasting time with women who have no real interest in me.
If they’re trying to date you, aren't they interested?
Not in me. My family is wealthy enough that I have had to learn how to tell when the interest is in my vaults.
Oh. That’s unfortunate. I can understand, in a way. Not necessarily about the vaults, but about interest being for the wrong reasons. I’m recognizable, it has led to some awkward encounters.
There is also that. I’ve considered glamours sometimes.
I’ve used them before, she admitted. The end of her relationship with Ron had led to increased attention from some of the wizarding world’s gossip columnists, and her solution had been to alter her hair and wardrobe. It had largely worked, allowing her a respite from the worst of it. She felt an odd blend of amusement and skepticism come to her, and she furrowed her brow. I wouldn’t lie to you.
I’m just wondering if you’re actually real. I’ve been single for ages and now I’m suddenly hearing a woman’s voice in my head. Perhaps I’ve finally gone mad and you are merely a manifestation of my loneliness.
Hardly.
A coping mechanism.
You’re so quick to dismiss me!
Maybe I am only talking to myself as I lose my mind. Or maybe I’m still asleep and this is a very vivid dream.
I assure you I am not merely a figment of your imagination, she insisted with a frown. A wave of something appreciative washed over her, and with a small smile she opened the complimentary bottle of body wash and took a sniff. This soap smells nice, at least.
What does it smell like?
Some sort of flower. Bottle says… She turned the bottle in her hand, searching for the descriptive label. Lilac.
So the woman’s voice in my head smells like lilac and is soaking wet and naked. Why can’t we share sight?
She laughed to herself. I don’t know that I’d want our introduction to be a surprise peep show in a terrible shower. If I’m going to be naked in front of someone I’d rather know I don’t look half-drowned.
That’s fair.
She snorted. I should say so.
What do you suppose this connection is?
No idea.
Whatever it is, I like it.
I suppose I’m lucky you’re not an arsehole.
Do you know I’m not?
I mean, I suppose I don’t, she admitted. Would you admit to it if you were?
I can be, sometimes. Though now that I’m an adult, I usually have a reason.
Were you an arsehole for no reason when you were younger?
Sometimes. I told you, my family has money. There are stereotypes of kids like me for a reason. I think I fit all of them.
I think I was insufferable as a child, she offered in return. She felt a mild hum of amusement come her way, a gentle wave of it, as though he was shaking his head at her attempt to make him feel better. She barrelled on. I’m sure everyone looks back at their younger self like this. You’re hardly the first person to look back and think, “oh no, I was a git.”
Maybe. I’m sure if you saw how I acted back then you’d dislike me.
Maybe I would dislike that version of you. But you’ve grown up, haven’t you?
I like to think so.
And you said now you usually have a reason if you’re being an arsehole.
I don’t think I’m an arsehole without having been pushed toward it in some way.
That doesn’t sound like something an arsehole would say.
She felt a little bloom of warm appreciation. So you’re the gentle sort.
That depends on who you ask.
I’m asking you.
She thought for a moment, rinsing the soap from her body, finally satisfied that she’d gotten it all off despite the water pressure problem. I don’t know how to describe myself. I don’t think I’m a horrid bitch, but I also don’t think I’m particularly gentle. I have my moments.
It seems that you’re very thoughtful, at the very least.
I do think a lot.
Me, too.
Also, I have finally finished this miserable shower. Now begins the interminable process of falling asleep.
You don’t sleep well?
I never really have, but it’s worse since the war. I frequently have nightmares.
Same.
I know we said no names but can you tell me a little of what you look like? It feels strange only having a voice to work with.
Fair enough, the voice replied as Hermione retrieved her wand and dried her hair. She pulled on a nightie and then slipped under the bedding, settling back against the sinfully fluffy pillows. I have sharp features. My mother uses the word distinguished. I got them from my father. I’ve been called pointy before.
She barked a laugh. Though she knew the man was dead, she couldn’t help but think of Professor Snape, with his aquiline nose and his lanky features. Pointy? Someone told you you’re pointy?
Ex-girlfriend, among others. She compared me to a bird.
She could’ve picked kinder words.
I don’t think she would have known how, he replied, and again Hermione could feel his amusement.
Some birds are very beautiful, she added.
Very true, he replied pleasantly. It was clear to her that the connection was more than simply their ability to speak. It was too bad she was far removed from any magical library she could think of, or she’d be researching all day tomorrow.
It’s funny, I can feel it when you find something entertaining. I don’t hear you laugh, but I can tell it entertained you. Like we’re sharing emotions.
Yeah, I could feel it when you called me a flirt. You liked it. And you’re very curious about this whole thing, you keep sending me little thrills. It’s endearing.
It’s fascinating! What do you suppose this is?
I work near a library, I’ll nip in today and see what I can find. Were you a Ravenclaw?
I was not.
Don’t tell me. I think it will be fun to guess.
Okay, I won’t tell you, she thought, wondering if it would give too much away to inform him of her house, anyway. It suited her that he wanted to guess at it. So, about what you look like…
You next.
You only said one thing!
So tell me one and then I’ll tell you another.
I’ve got brown eyes. An ex once told me they were the colour of firewhiskey.
Firewhiskey’s got some red to it. Very pretty in lamplight.
You’re familiar.
Any wizard of age is familiar with the colour of firewhiskey, love.
Her heart fluttered at the endearment. He had a way of speaking to her that set her immediately at ease. His tone was casual, but somehow conveyed that his attention was fully hers. And he had her completely enraptured. She’d stood in the shower staring at nothing for ages before she’d rinsed herself off. Charmed, she replied. I suppose.
Do you drink?
I prefer wine, but yes.
Red or white?
Red. Hermione smirked to herself. She had burrowed into the bedding and folded her hands over her stomach, content to lie with her eyes closed and have this strange mental conversation. Whoever he was, she was intrigued by him, and he seemed just as content to follow the mysterious connection between them. She yawned. Your turn again.
My eyes are blue. Not a true blue, but sort of a very grey blue. My mother says they’re my best feature.
Like the sky when it gets overcast?
Something like that.
My stormy-eyed mystery man.
My brown-eyed lilac-scented mental crisis.
I assure you I am not an invention.
So you say. It’s your turn again.
I have a lot of hair. At least twice what a normal person would have.
Colour?
Also brown.
I bet it’s gorgeous. I’ve always liked women with good hair.
Now that I’m an adult and know all the necessary spells and maintenance, I think it’s my finest feature.
I don’t know, you made your eyes sound incredible.
You just like firewhiskey.
Again, joy came through clear as a bell as he replied. I definitely like this connection, whatever it is.
Me too, Hermione admitted. She yawned again. I’m afraid you may lose me in a little while. I’ve gotten very comfortable in this bed.
If I talk you to sleep perhaps you’ll see me in your dreams.
She couldn’t help but smile to herself. As of now I will see a bird with blue eyes swirling a glass of firewhiskey.
My hair is blond.
Blond hair, blue eyes.
Honestly, you should probably just picture grey. They’re barely blue at all.
Okay. Blond hair, grey eyes. And next you’ll tell me you’re tall and broad shouldered and I’ll have no choice but to swoon.
Lucky you, I am both of those things. Swoon away.
Merlin save me. A veritable catalogue of Hollywood heartthrobs filtered through her mind, six-foot tall muscle-bound heroes named Chris, one after the other. The man in my head is a proper Viking.
She’d made him laugh again. How tall are you?
I am unremarkably average in height for a woman. Not tall, not short.
And what about your shape?
What?
You asked if I was broad-shouldered.
Oh! Well, I’ve been told I have good hips and—
Merlin, I can somehow tell that you’re blushing, that’s adorable.
She knew her blushing had only gotten worse now that he’d called it out. I will leave the rest of me a mystery for now, thank you very much.
Again, amusement, as he replied, Something to discover later, I suppose. What do you think would happen if we met in person?
We could always find out. I’ll be back in England Saturday evening. I wonder if the voice in your head sounds like my actual voice.
I hope so. I like your voice.
I like yours, too. It’s strangely familiar, but I can’t attach it to anyone. Maybe you just remind me of somebody.
Yours too, he admitted. But I can’t place it, either. Perhaps it’s just part of this bond?
Maybe.
I can feel how sleepy you are. I can shut up.
What if we don’t get to do this again?
He paused long enough that she started to wonder if she’d lost the connection, until his voice came gently back to her, a careful reticence in his tone. I hadn’t thought of that. Why would this only happen once?
I don’t know.
Well how about this. If it doesn’t happen again, I’ll meet you on the corner in front of Gringott’s on Sunday for lunch. Noon?
Hermione smiled broadly, rolled over, and buried her arms beneath her pillow, letting her exhaustion drag her into darkness. I’d like that.
Goodnight, you.
Goodnight.