Disclaimer: Well, Hermione is so out-of-character that you could call this version mine, but all the people and places belong to J.K. Rowling and her legal publishers.

Author's Note: How long ago did I start this? Is it six months ago, or are we up to seven? A weird idea about second chances that got slightly out of hand: I played with tentative plot development ideas that were sort of soap-opera-esque, decided the story was stupid, and let it lie dormant. Then my beta-reader Meliara said, "Remember that great Harry Potter fanfiction story you were writing before you became insanely obsessed with The Lord of the Rings?" or words to that effect. Now that I have decided to put an end to my Frodo-killing spree, as Meliara thinks I am psychotic, I am taking this out of hiding and posting the beginnings and then finishing the thing. Let's see if I can sustain a chapter-fic for longer than 10 pages. Please, for God's sake, review me to give me the will to go on. Give me any suggestions you may have. And do drop by my other fics, HP and LOTR, while waiting for me to finish this. Thank you ;-).

Chapter 1

Recollection

The bricks and the concrete that surrounded the back lot of the Leaky Cauldron, blank and stony as always, stirred images in Hermione's memory that had long been dormant. She recalled the first time she came here – not yet eleven years old, terrified, excited, and determined in a young, naïve, eager way to conquer the new world she had just discovered. She touched her hand to the bricks of the wall that stood as a locked door between her and the world of wizardry, a fantasy land from long ago that seemed now almost like a dream… Then, locked doors had never been a problem for Hermione. All she had to do was whip out her wand from her billowing black robes, tap it to the lock, and whisper, "Alohomora!" The solution to any problem was, as though in a magical utopia from the pages of a book, the hidden mystical power in an ordinary thin stick of wood, the physical incarnation of every Muggle's dream and faith in the inheritance of the meek. The wand…Hermione pulled it from the inner pocket of her coat, and nervously twiddled it between her fingers. It had been so long since her magic had seen daylight, and the sun had looked upon the piece of wood that embodied her power as a witch. For so long, many doors had been locked to her, but she could do nothing. For so long, she had been trying to live by her power as a human being.

Suddenly decisive, Hermione counted two bricks up, three bricks over, and tapped the brick she landed upon with the wand. Her stomach felt like it was turning over within her; she feared that she had made the wrong choice, that reentry into the world she had left would remind her of why she had been avoiding it.

Like a whispered "Alohomora!" of the distant past, the tap to the brick was the key to a door that perhaps should have stayed barred – the bricks shifted and opened into an arch leading to the cobblestone, shop-lined, magic-filled Diagon Alley. The quaint little buildings and their quaint little people, dressed in robes, cloaks, and pointed hats and talking of "Quidditch," the "Ministry of Magic," "Hogwarts," and the price of dragon liver were a sharp reminder to Hermione that she was a stranger now. But it was all so familiar – Quality Quidditch Supplies, where broomsticks were on display and young children ogled and revered them, wide-eyed; Eeylops Owl Emporium, from which soft hooting and rustling noises came; the apothecary, with jars of curious potion ingredients lined up in the windows; Ollivander's wand shop, subdued, shrouded in cobwebs, age, mystery, and importance.

Recollection, like a ginger cat sitting darkened in the shadows,

Emerges from the shaded corners of memory

To nudge me and rub against my leg, an old friend

But provokes tears for the half-bitter sweetness of its love.

Every emotion turned to poetry in Hermione's mind, for she was a poet.

Slowly, as though in a trance, Hermione walked down the old-fashioned street, attracting strange looks from the wizards and witches around her for her plainly Muggle garb – the long black coat over black pants, the black headscarf covering her thick, shoulder-length, golden-brown hair, the gold cross on a chain plainly visible, hanging outside her clothing. She gazed into the windows of shops, as wide-eyed and astonished as she had been the first time she saw these too-fantastic-to-be-true places and things. She wandered into the bookshop, Flourish and Blotts, entranced by the unbelievable titles that struck her as humorous now that she had not seen them for so long: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, A History of Magic, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration; there were books of charms and curses, magical potions and ways to predict the future. I never would have believed it, Hermione thought, if I hadn't experienced it, didn't know for a fact that this was all true.

A shopkeeper in plain black robes and a matching pointed wizard's hat came hurrying over, asking anxiously with his hands clasped in front of his chest, "May I help you?"

Startled, Hermione turned, then smiled slowly. Everything was exactly the same as it had been all those years before. "No," she said. "No, thank you. I'm just looking around…"

Recollection is a distant hunger,

Long ago forgotten, accustomed to starvation;

Too hungry to tear the gaze away from living memories,

Too hungry to do anything but gaze.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she strolled back towards the door, reading every amazing title, memorizing the feeling of awe, excitement, and exhilarating apprehension flooding over her in the same way it had seventeen years ago, as gradually her astonished mind assimilated the new experiences surrounding it and realized, once again, that it had not been, was not, a dream.

Hermione emerged into the cold, crisp autumn air of London's streets, so different from the Mediterranean climate to which she had become accustomed. She found herself drawn into every shop, to marvel once more at the owls being sold as pets and as message carriers; at the frog toes and beetle eyes, unicorn tail hairs and dragon scales being purchased as household ingredients; at the bizarre, unimaginable variety of candies, from blood-flavored lollipops to vomit-flavored jelly beans. It was laughable, but it had been the fulfillment of every romantic dream; it was all so odd, and odder yet since it was commonplace.

Hermione didn't know why she wanted to go into Ollivander's. There wasn't really anything to gawk at; just long boxes, wooden sticks, and dust. But she entered that small, understated, intriguing building of a will not her own, as if trying to complete her journey from a life of magic to non-magic and back to magic again – her identity; but her destiny? – as it had started. She had to duck to pass through the low doorway. No one was inside, except for Mr. Ollivander himself, who glided mysteriously from near the door to the back room. The stacks upon stacks of wand boxes and the one little rickety chair in the corner were exactly the same as they had been; it was as if the entire wizarding world had been in a freeze-frame, waiting for her to return, as it knew she would.

"How may I help you today?" he asked, his voice still misty and shrouded, full of concealed knowledge and a lifetime of memories.

"I don't really need anyting, merci," Hermione said as politely as possible when the misty, silvery eyes were unnerving her so. "I'm just – looking around."

Mr. Ollivander narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on placing the familiarity of the new voice and face. Then his eyes widened as he remembered suddenly –

"Miss Hermione Granger," he half-whispered. "I almost didn't recognize you behind the French accent."

Hermione laughed. "I 'ave been away for a long time," she said. She looked around the little shop. "Business seems to be slow in November, when all ze new 'ogwarts students already have zeir wands, and it won't be 'til Christmas holidays when zey come to you to replace the wands zey've blown up."

"I remember every wand I've sold, as you recall, Miss Granger," he said suddenly, his voice as vague, misty, and mysterious as his silvery eyes.

"Mrs. Couillaud now," Hermione corrected the wand-seller quietly, not sure if he could hear her.

"I remember your wand well. Willow, eleven-and-a-quarter inches, swishy, well-suited to both charm work and transfiguration." He paused, staring intently at Hermione. "Do you remember the magical substance that gives your wand its power?"

"Dragon 'eartstring, I believe," Hermione replied, a bit mystified.

"Yes…unusual combination, a wood as delicate and flexible as willow, a core as strong as dragon heartstring. I wasn't even sure myself if it would agree with anyone."

"It has worked quite well, it turns out," Hermione said. "I was top of my class at 'ogwarts, before I went traveling back into the Muggle world."

"Yes…yes." Mr. Ollivander busied himself with rearranging crooked stacks of wand boxes. "Funny, the way things turn out…" he said ambiguously. He glanced at an old grandfather clock in the back corner. Its hand was pointing at the part of the face labeled "Nip off to lunch, then."

"Oh!" Hermione said. "I don't mean to be intruding on your lunch hour."

"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Ollivander said vaguely.

"Really, I should be going," Hermione said. Not that I have anywhere to go, she added silently.

She walked back out of the small shop, a bell tinkling faintly. It was odd, when she could look for a little café – in which to sit, drink coffee, and write poetry – and not find one, when for two years they had lined every street of her home city.

Slipping her icy hands into the pockets of her coat, Hermione strolled down the street in the direction she had come, trying to sort through all of her confused memories.

Recollection is a cloud bank on the horizon, lit and glowing

With the illumination of the crimson half-circle sun.

Not knowing whether the sun is rising or setting,

I wait for the rainstorm to descend.

Hermione hypothesized that the place she would be most likely to find coffee on the beverages list was Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, rather than the Leaky Cauldron, where the majority of drinks was alcoholic, so she moseyed in the direction of the little place. Like in Ollivander's, a bell rang softly when she opened the door and entered. It was not crowded, the day being a nippy one. There were a few young children, who had begged reluctant parents into letting them have ice cream, sitting importantly at the Woolworth-style white counter on the high stools. A few businesspeople on lunch break were doing paperwork in a clean, quiet environment, sipping interesting-colored phosphate sodas through straws. Hermione scanned the tables and booths, seeing that there were several empty ones. She stepped up to the counter, ready to order coffee (which was, in fact, on the list of beverages), when the door's bell rang again, and she turned curiously to see who had come in.

The person's head was bent, seemingly against the chilly wind that gusted through the open door before it closed again, abruptly shutting out the draft. He removed a navy blue wizard's hat that matched his plain, businesslike robes. The disheveled head of hat hair that was uncovered was bright red-orange. Wildly hopeful and happily surprised, Hermione asked of the man – who appeared to be her own age – "Ron? Ron Weasley?"

He looked up, blue eyes slightly widened and mildly startled. The throat-sounded 'r' in his name evidenced an accent that was unmistakably French. "Fleur?" he inquired randomly.

The woman that walked hurriedly towards him was dressed like a Muggle, and all in black. "No," she said, sounding excited. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar to Ron, but he was having trouble placing it. "Air-me-own Coo-yo," was what her next words sounded like. The second word left him nonplussed, but the first reminded him of another accent – Bulgarian – and a mispronounced name: Hermy-own…Herm-own-ninny…

"Hermione?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Oui," she said, nodding and smiling.

"Oh, my God!" he said, shaking his head. "Hermione? Where have you been for eleven years? Stupid question – France, obviously. Where else would you have picked up that accent? I'm babbling now, but – God, it's good to see you!"

"Not just France," she said. "Germany, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Austria, America…everywhere."

"And I've just stayed here for eleven years, getting old and boring… Say, what are you here for? If we want ice cream, we'd better get it now, and then I can interrogate you while it melts. Plan, eh?"

Hermione and Ron walked up to the counter. "I'd just like coffee, black, s'il vous plait," Hermione said to the worker behind the counter. Looking only slightly guilty, Ron said, "Large chocolate ice cream, please. I'll pay for both."

"I 'ope zat's dessert?" Hermione said pointedly.

"Hey, I had a healthy lunch yesterday…or maybe it was Monday… Oh, come on, it's an emotional reunion after a separation of over a decade! Why do you still have the 'eat your vegetables' mentality towards me?" Ron asked irritably.

"Because you need it," Hermione said, a laugh in her voice.

"That's five Sickles, sir," the worker said impatiently. Ron rummaged in his pocket and produced the silver coins.

"Next time you tell me to eat my vegetables, I'm making you pay," Ron said to Hermione as they went to find a table.

Recollection is a fickle thing –

Bittersweet memories, lost innocence

That bring forth tears of regret;

Reminders of the innocence not yet lost

That stir laughter among the tears.