Despite the dark, threatening clouds looming over the buildings, the windows and curtains of 221 were wide open that Saturday. When Hermione's cab pulled up in front Speedy's, she could hear the sound of 90's rock music and a hoover coming from somewhere in the house. She had barely left the car when the door opened, and Mrs Hudson appeared wearing a flowery apron and bright pink rubber gloves, surrounded by a cloud of toxic fumes that smelled of carpet cleaner and bleach. Behind her, in the small hall, there were several stacked boxes.
"Good afternoon, dear! We were tidying up," she said beaming at Hermione.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson," answered Hermione while picking up a suitcase from the boot of the cab and placing it on the doorstep. "You shouldn't have; I could have helped."
"Nonsense," Martha turned around and shouted into the hall. "John! Hermione is here!"
John appeared shortly after, with a mop hanging from his trousers and a box which he left on top of one of the stacks. "Is that all you have?" he said, eyeing the few belongings that Hermione had brought, scattered over the sidewalk. "Books?"
Hermione gestured toward the two large suitcases. "I have clothes too! And some shoes."
John shook his head, smiling. "Let's get all this stuff in." Without waiting for an answer, John hoisted up the biggest suitcase and went back upstairs. Hermione began to move her boxes into the corridor, being careful to put them far away from others. Mrs Hudson watched her and closed the door behind her.
"We were going to move them to the basement. Nobody uses it," she muttered as she wiped one box with a cloth. "We've been putting things away for days. Newspapers, documents..."
Hermione stepped forward, but Mrs Hudson had already slipped away into the kitchen, muffling a cry. The boiling kettle and the music being turned up covered any other sound.
John glanced around when he returned to continue carrying things upstairs. "Where's Mrs Hudson?"
"Making tea," Hermione replied, grabbing a box of her own and following him upstairs. With the clutter gone, the living room seemed larger, brighter, and not so dreary anymore. There were empty spaces on the shelf, and the tables were clear. The red carpet she had not noticed the first time around was visible and clean, and the air did not smell damp and dusty. John or Mrs Hudson had decoratively and strategically placed some deep green succulents about the place; although the skull remained in plain sight, with its bullet holes and yellow grin intact.
John broke her concentration when he said "Figured you'd need some space."
"That is very kind of you John, thank you,"
Hermione began to empty the boxes while John made the last trip downstairs. Book after book, she placed them on top of one of the tables based on their authors' and subjects' categories. As usually happened when she was surrounded by books, she lost herself in them until John cleared his throat to get her attention from the book in her hand.
"I looked for your name online," he commented.
She responded with a laugh while putting away another book onto one of her stacks before asking "Anything interesting?"
"'Magic and myths during Norman England' came up a lot," He replied.
"Oh, that? That's nothing" In an absolute stroke of genius from Anthea – Mycroft's right-hand woman - she had built an online track record for Hermione Black. There was an unused Facebook profile, a few abstracts from conferences that never happened, and a few books she had published with the most insipid names they could think of. No one, unless they knew what they were looking for, would know that the information was fabricated. Hermione sincerely doubted hacking was within John's skills, and hoped he wouldn't be interested in any of the so-called books.
"It's a thesis from years ago, for a specialist publisher - it's not for the general public,"
"I also saw 'Runic influence in modern language: Futhorc as a case example.' Some Cambridge professors said it was 'eye-opening'"
"Unless linguistics is your area, I think it would be quite dull," lied Hermione. "Maybe I should try fiction, that probably brings in more money."
Hermione finished putting the last cup away in the kitchen cupboard, then draped her blanket over the back of the couch. Two boxes - bathroom and bedroom - were lined up near the door, with several bags scattered in between. As she started to lug one of the heavier bags towards the bedroom, John rose from his seat on his armchair where he had been reading one of her magazines and announced he was going out to buy dinner. Hermione felt a jolt of apprehension as she imagined him dealing with the reality that she would soon be living in the same space Sherlock had occupied.
She paused for a moment in front of her new room. The handle looked polished, so someone - probably Mrs Hudson - had come in recently. Not knowing what to expect, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The scene left her speechless.
Everything in the room had remained untouched, an undisturbed picture of a moment in time. The robe was strewn across the unmade bed. The wardrobe was open, displaying a perfect row of navy blue and black suits. A pair of shoes had been left on the side of the room. The window had recently been opened, probably that very day, because the room still had the smell of dampness from being closed for so long. The only clean place was the dresser by the door, where Mrs Hudson had left fresh sheets. She stood there for a few minutes, looking at a dead man's belongings, trying to understand why they were there. Why no one, neither Mycroft nor his parents, had claimed them.
John will be back in around an hour, she thought. Better get to work.
After bringing all her things inside, Hermione decided to deal with the bed first. As she removed the old sheets and started making the bed again, she could see the difference in quality. The ones Mrs Hudson had given her were far from cheap but were nothing compared to the Egyptian cotton of Sherlock's sheets. Then, she emptied one of her suitcases on the bed and left it open on the floor. She put the bedding in it and then started with the clothes. Expensive suit after expensive suit, Hermione cleaned out the wardrobe and continued with the drawers near the bed: from T-shirts with exorbitant price tags still on to perfectly folded ties, handkerchiefs, socks. When she was going through the underwear drawer, a pair of black boxers became wedged at the bottom. She yanked them out, fumbling her hand around until she felt a gap between the drawer and the bottom.
Intrigued, Hermione pulled out the drawer and studied it. The size of the hole was too large to be a manufacturing error, and the depth from the inside seemed to be different than on the outside. She spotted a letter opener next to a pile of papers near the bed and used it to lift up the wooden panel.
Stashed underneath were roughly 20 photos, all well-preserved and dated. Some were of Mr and Mrs Holmes in front of a country house, while others showed Mycroft with a baby Sherlock or John with Mrs Hudson. What must it be like to live in such a way that even harmless pictures can be considered a liability? Again, she thought about Mycroft. Would he have a similar secret place where he tucked away the memories he held dear?
The sound of the main door opening startled her. Her heart raced as if she'd been caught doing something forbidden by seeing those photos Sherlock had tried so hard to hide. Quickly putting everything back in its place, hastily left the room before John got into the kitchen; feeling like she was staying in a space shared with a ghost.
Hermione settled into a comfortable routine in the dying days of January. Freed from her duties with MI-7 until further notice, she passed her days with Mrs Hudson, drinking tea and reading, and her evenings keeping track of John's movements: 'at home', 'meeting the therapist', 'engaged in conversation', 'still no job'. While Mrs Hudson was lenient with John's mourning process, Hermione wasn't sure if he had any savings left from when he served as an army medic or what the job situation was like—something she should discuss with Mycroft soon.
However, there were signs that John was on his way to recovery—like agreeing to rent out a room for the first one. His attitude changed over time and his tension dissipated. Certainly, in the beginning, there were hiccups like when Hermione sat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace and John had retreated to his bedroom, or when she took the spot where Sherlock's microscope used to be and he spent a couple of days teary-eyed. But now, nothing seemed to bother him too much—not even her Sherlock's door opening and closing when he was there.
Regent's Park was Baker Street's greatest asset, so Hermione went for long runs through it enjoying the scenery —a vast difference from the small park near her previous place. As she jogged by the lake, her headphones suddenly began ringing, forcing her to a stop, panting. She accepted the call right away.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hello to you too, darling," came the reply from a deep voice on the other end. A grin spread across Hermione's face. "Have I caught you in the middle of something fun?"
"Just out for a run, nothing else exciting going on, Sirius."
"That's too bad pup! You're too young for that," Sirius said. "Mycroft tells me you've moved west recently."
"Probably the best job I've done for Mycroft so far. Is he back yet?" She reached the exit of the park by Clarence Terrace and spotted John entering number 221 on Baker Street. "Have you heard from him?"
"From his Illuminati summit? Not yet, will be soon, probably today or tomorrow. That's not why I'm calling though. Are you free tomorrow evening? I'd like to take my favourite girl out for an extravagant dinner so she can tell me all about this John Watson lad."
"Yes, tomorrow sounds good."
"Perfect. Gotta go, pup. Love you."
"Love you too."
Later that day, she had just planned to have a nice bath and a cup of tea when John told her 'Mike' was calling. Wearing her robe with her hair still covered in a towel, she entered the kitchen and started the kettle before picking up the phone with an amused smirk.
"Hi, Mike. You're back already?" said Hermione, leaning against the counter and taking two fresh tea bags from the tin where they kept them.
"Can't you go elsewhere?" Mycroft's voice sounded tired and annoyed-just how she liked him when she wanted to have some fun at his expense. "You know I abhor that name." Hermione poured the hot water while stifling her laugh.
"I know. Wait, I was making some tea for John and me."
"For God's sake, Hermione." came Mycroft's exasperated reply. She could almost picture him in his office, cufflinks discarded on the desk, expensive suit creased from the flight, and carrying an exasperated facial expression and fingers stapled over his closed eyes.
"I did tell you about John, didn't I? My new flatmate?" Holding a cup of tea in one hand and covering the receiver with her palm, she added to John, "I'm going to talk in my room so you can carry on reading, okay?" She heard John thanking her for the tea and she winked at him before going to her room and shutting the door."What were you saying, Mike?"
Mycroft sighed loudly. "Could you please behave like an adult?"
"You are no fun, Mike," she teased, placing emphasis on his name. He groaned again and Hermione giggled out loud - he could be such a drama queen sometimes. "Come on now, Mycroft - this is the most exciting thing I've done in two weeks."
"I assume that everything else has been quiet then," he replied dryly.
"Almost deadly so," she muttered while placing her cup down and lying on her bed. "I was going to drop by yours as soon as I knew you were back. To give you an update and ask about John's financial situation - didn't you tell me Anthea was looking into it?"
"I should have more information in the next few days," he said, pausing before continuing. "I had a conversation with Sirius," his tone was casual but held a heavy undertone she recognised from their business conversations. "I don't mean to impose, but there are a couple of things the three of us ought to discuss, so I'll be joining you for dinner tomorrow."
Hermione frowned; when Sirius and Mycroft were together it usually meant they were handling magical affairs.
"Mycroft, what is it?"
"I'm afraid that it's too delicate to mention over the phone. See you tomorrow," he said before hanging up. Now hundreds of questions flew through her head, making the twenty-four hours leading up to the dinner seem like a lifetime.
That night Hermione chose jeans, a burgundy cashmere sweater, and black heels to go out in. She was putting on the final touches to her makeup when John came in with the groceries. He set down the bags and glanced at her reflection in the mirror through the open bathroom door.
"You look incredible," he said with a smile. "Big date?"
"Thanks, John," she replied as she rummaged through a nearby drawer for a black hairband to tie her hair into a messy bun. "And no, Dad's taking me out for dinner tonight, and he has this bad habit of taking me to places where I either under or overdress, so thought I'd go for something in between."
She took her trench coat and purse before saying goodbye to him. "I'll try not to stay out too late and wake you up."
John laughed and shook his head. "Don't worry about it."
Hermione knew he wouldn't be sleeping anyway; although his appearance had improved, the exhaustion and sorrow in his eyes were still evident. On days like this, she had a better understanding of Sherlock: there were very few things in this world you hated more than an unhappy John Watson.
She flagged down a cab that dropped her off at the Zuma restaurant. Inside, she asked the maître d' for a reservation under the name 'Black'. He motioned for her to go down a narrow hallway, and when she opened the door of the private room, two men sat on opposite sides of a table, each exuding power in their own way.
Sirius, in his tight pants and slightly unbuttoned white shirt, was lounging in a chair sipping on a glass of bourbon, while Mycroft, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and seated with perfect posture, held a glass of red wine to his lips. As soon as Sirius spotted Hermione, he leapt from the chair and hugged her tightly. His familiar scent never failed to make her feel safe, stirring up years of memories and the love she had for him. She kissed him on the cheek before moving over to where Mycroft sat and giving him a kiss too - something she rarely ever did unless it was in an intimate setting.
"You look lovelier every time I see you," Sirius said. "Doesn't she, Mycroft?" Mycroft only responded to this by raising his glass to her.
"I'm glad that your fashion sense has remained intact after living with Dr Watson," he added.
"Now you're just fishing for compliments," Hermione laughed. "But I'll indulge you: you look very handsome as well. Both of you." She then took off her coat as a waiter brought out a glass of white wine and set it down before her. "But I doubt we're here to talk about John, so let's get on with it," she continued, rolling up her sweater sleeves. The men reacted immediately: Sirius sat straight up in his chair, while Mycroft laid down his glass and adopted his professional posture-legs crossed, hands settled firmly on the armrests of his chair.
"Never one for small talk, my dear," Sirius eventually murmured.
"I can only imagine why you two are here," Hermione said to Mycroft and Sirius."Don't tell me this is about the ball, is it?"
"In a way," answered Mycroft. He picked up his suitcase from where it lay against his chair and took out a folder. "This was waiting on my desk when I arrived yesterday."
He handed it to Sirius, who then placed it in front of Hermione. On the front was her name, Granger, printed in red letters. She opened the cover slowly and saw a blurry image of herself taken from some sort of security footage. Her fingers trembled as she continued flipping through the pages.
"It looks like the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has learned a thing or two, despite our beliefs on the contrary," Mycroft remarked with a look to Sirius before addressing Hermione again. "In one of your missions, a couple of months back, you were authorised to use magic. You also had to erase the memory of the ones you found along your way, as is protocol. And in a very unlike you fashion, you forgot one." Mycroft reached out across the table and turned the page for her. He pointed to a mug shot on one of the pages—a picture of a teenage boy. "Luca Ricci. He was the closest to the explosion, he barely had a pulse when you found him, and you made a rookie mistake and thought that he was dead."
Sirius stepped forward and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Mycroft, if the ambulance had arrived any later he wouldn't have made it."
"But he did, therefore it was a mistake," responded Mycroft in a tone that left no room for arguments. "Now they have proof Hermione exposed magic to a muggle, and are filing charges including aggression, muggle battering and mugglephobia."
"But I'm a muggle-born," argued Hermione. "How would I attack someone because they are muggles?"
"They don't care for plausibility," Mycroft replied. "They just want you to know they could put you in jail for life, Hermione."
"Do we... How did they get this?" Hermione questioned, looking at Sirius. He shook his head.
"I tried to do some digging. The man was brought to the hospital in critical condition and afterwards miraculously recovered. He talked to the carabinieri about a woman with an English accent, they then went to the Interpol, and from there to the I.W.P. Someone must have told the Chief Auror." Sirius refrained from mentioning his name, but Hermione knew full well who he was speaking about. He handed her his glass of whiskey, which she gulped down without thinking. It felt like fire on its way down her throat and she struggled not to cough as she looked up at Mycroft ready for him to express his disappointment.
"Unless they really want to see me behind bars, I assume they want something in return."
"What they've always wanted from you - but with interest," Mycroft remarked before taking a sip from his wine. "They want you to show up at the Second of May celebration wearing a beautiful gown and deliver a speech praising the government and expressing your support."
Hermione felt her shame evaporate and give way to a burning rage. The alcohol seemed to bring to life the magic that had been sleeping in her veins and she could feel it cracking and pulsing through her fingertips. "You're joking," she said disbelievingly.
"I wish we were," Sirius looked at her. "I've been keeping my word, so you are not aware of how delicate the situation is in the magic world. People are getting worried about how little things have changed. So Kingsley has been trying to pull all the stops to keep them satisfied, with little success. So when this information appeared... You are literally the last die they have they can roll."
"Ah," Hermione sighed bitterly. "So they resort to blackmail now. Muggles and wizards may be different but politics always brings them together." She raised her eyebrows inquisitively. "Whose idea was this?"
"Kingsley didn't say," Sirius answered. "After it was decided to contact your supervisor, he came to me for 'advice'. He gathered that as the new official liaison, the news would reach me sooner or later. They didn't realise I'd be the one delivering the news to you."
"And what did you tell him?" Hermione asked cautiously.
"Well," Sirius began softly, rubbing his thumb against Hermione's shoulder lightly. "I told him he wasn't half as good of a politician as he thought if this were his solution to getting support. But Kingsley went ahead with it anyway so maybe I'm losing my touch." He cracked a small smile before continuing somberly, "I'm always in your corner though, pup.
"Hermione is right, Sirius. Politicians do this kind of thing all the time, Sirius. Only this time, it has been directed at us." Mycroft stood from his seat and walked over to Hermione. He rarely showed such affection, but now he took her hand in his own and looked into her eyes with a rare intensity. "Hermione," he said gently."It won't be pleasant, but unless we have something better on them, you are going to have to comply, Hermione. And I'd rather have you uncomfortable for one night than locked away in a fortress in the middle of the sea."
Hermione swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat and nodded quietly. She felt Sirius' presence behind her before Mycroft released her hand and returned to his place at the head of the table. Sirius brushed a kiss to her temple, murmuring reassurances that everything would be okay, though she wished she could believe him with all her heart.