Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe, it's characters, or the brilliant images one JKR has created in our minds. Sadly, I don't make money with this either.
Additional disclaimer: No mice were harmed during the creation of this prologue, and it all makes sense in my head.
Summary: Non-magic AU. A chance encounter makes Hermione question her perception of self, her attitutes towards life, the universe and the rest, and above all she would like to figure out how one dark-eyed stranger manages to make her feel like a girl with issues.
Author's Note: It's been a while, and this will be slow in updates. I'm mostly writing this for myself - partly it's funny, partly it's a bit sad, but overall it makes me smile. We won't defeat Voldemort here or save the world, so if you're looking for heroic stories, this is probably not going to be to your liking. There will be het, there will be slash, and a good dose of friendship for balance. Just so you know.
Prologue: Sundays
There had to be mice in the flat, Hermione thought, her brain slow and muddled from sleep. There had to be, because during the night one of them appeared to have crawled into her mouth to die, leaving behind an unpleasant furry feeling on her tongue and the most atrocious taste ever invented.
She lay there, thinking about it for a while, but imagining a dead mouse in her mouth made her want to hurl.
She groaned – or tried to. What emerged sounded more like a strangled whimper. The morning after the night before, Hermione thought resentfully, was too much punishment for the night before the morning after.
It was a slow process, but gradually she managed to get up and wrap her dressing gown around herself.
Success. Vertical position without swaying or throwing up.
Don'tthinkofthatdon'tthinkofthatdon'tthinkofthat...
Right. What was next, again?
Walking. Kitchen. Tea!
Sitting at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of hot, delicious caffeine, Hermione decided that she did feel like a human being, after all. She sighed. Time to contemplate when everything had started to go wrong, clearly – though that was hardly a challenge. Everything had been fine until, two days prior, Harry had said the words they had all come to fear.
"I have a brilliant idea!"
Hermione leaned her elbows on the table and shook her head, very gently so. "That boy's idiotic schemes!"
It had started like an innocent joke. One night, back during her first year at university, they had all sat together for a night of fun and when the subject of going out had been raised, they hadn't been able to come up with something they all wanted to do.
After quite a bit of arguing, Harry had put his beer bottle on the table with an audible clang and, as everyone turned to look at him, he'd spread his arms wide and declared: "I have a great idea, ladies and gentlemen! From today on, we'll be ambassadors of music!"
It had all made sense to their intoxicated minds, and Hermione could admit that the plan had merit even after the hangover had come and gone. So a new tradition had begun. Regardless of personal preference, once in a while they all met and went to a club or bar together. Every time there was a different scene, a different type of music involved. Harry even insisted they dress the part.
Oh, sometimes it was good. Hermione remembered that jazz concert rather fondly, and even though she had scoffed at it she had enjoyed Reggae night rather more than she'd expected, but... still.
A rave?
No wonder her head hurt so much. Part of it was the alcohol, no doubt, but those beats must have rattled her brain all night. That kind of thing couldn't be healthy.
At least she hadn't done anything embarrassing.
Had she?
There was a brief moment of panic, but Hermione fought it down. She didn't feel like parts of last night were missing, so that was a good sign. Hopefully.
"Good morning, sunshine!"
Hermione winced as the loud voice from the door made her headache flare up. No doubt about who that was, at least. "Morning, Seamus," she mumbled.
Her flatmate threw her a grin and opened one of the kitchen cupboards, most likely hunting down his impossibly sweet cereal. "What, not feeling good today?"
It was horrible that someone could be so happy when Hermione was quite sure that he had had more to drink than she had. "Shut up."
"Suit yourself. More tea?"
Hermione had to smile despite herself. And that was the best thing about sharing a flat with Seamus, really: He was insane, he was Irish, he hadn't heard of tact, but he knew the best bribes.
It was just not fair.
Turning her head towards the window and blinking rapidly, she decided her headache wasn't so bad by now, thanks to caffeine. "At least it's Sunday," she said, trying to calm herself. "I have all evening to finish my essay."
"Good Lord, woman. It's the day of rest. Don't blaspheme in my presence by talking of work."
Hermione stuck out her tongue at her flatmate, then joined in his laughter.
All in all, it was a very normal Sunday.
Some miles further north, Harry Potter stood in the middle of his kitchen and tried to decide where to start. Admittedly – the piles of dirty dishes were reaching dangerous heights, and judging by the smell the fridge had developed new life forms, but... it would all still be there the next day, right? Then he took a deep breath, and that decided the case.
He hurried to leave the battlefield. "Ron?" he asked loudly. Then again, his friend's location wasn't that difficult to guess.
The redhead was sitting on the couch – or rather, on Harry's bed which doubled as living room furniture during the day. He looked up when Harry spoke, averting his eyes from his football magazine with visible difficulty. "What?"
Harry reached up to adjust his glasses. "We have to do something about that kitchen. It's disgusting."
Ron grinned. "Wrong, mate. You have to do something about it. I don't live here."
"Could've fooled me." Harry rolled his eyes and flopped down on the bed next to his best friend. "I could've sworn I heard you snore last night. And there's the matter of breakfast..."
"Oh come on!" Ron shuddered. "You know what my mum's like about coming home in the middle of the night."
At that, Harry had to laugh, if only for a moment. Over the years he had gotten to know Ron's mother, Molly Weasley, quite well, and she was a force to be reckoned with. Quite like Harry imagined a mother should be. "Just help me, you git," he said lightly, pushing aside the sudden wave of melancholia.
His friend shrugged, finally closing his magazine. "Alright," he agreed, "only because that was a good choice last night, though."
"Damn right it was!" Harry patted his right shoulder with his left hand. "You're a true genius, Harry, and I don't mind cleaning – hey!" He laughed and barely managed to roll out of the way as Ron beat him with a pillow.
"Dream on, Potter," Ron said, but his voice held no malice. He did, however, toss the pillow aside and got up from the bed. "Come on then, Wonder Boy."
Harry followed him back to the kitchen, only a bit reluctant. "How do you think the others are doing today?" But it was mostly boredom which prompted the question. After having been friends for years, Harry could predict their behaviour quite well.
Ron was well aware of that, and rolled his eyes as he turned the tap to fill the sink with water. "If you're desperate to know, call them," he suggested. "Ginny's sulking, Parvati's probably still snogging that idiot from last night – yeurgh, Potter! What the hell is this?" He held up the offending object, a plate covered with orange fur.
The dark-haired man coughed. "Ah... didn't we make curry last week?"
"Two weeks ago, actually. Huh. I didn't now it could turn into this." With a slight grimace Ron dunked the plate into the sink.
Harry grinned, although he felt quite embarrassed. "You're a true friend, Ron." He said it teasingly, but he knew the redhead would understand the sentiment behind it. Well, he might. Ron was loyal like no one else he knew, but sometimes subtlety was completely lost on him.
Not waiting to hear Ron's answer, Harry started throwing rubbish in the bin. When the redhead did reply, though, it was somewhat unexpected. "Wonder how Hermione's doing," he said. "You know how she gets."
Immediately about ten comments came to mind, but Harry wisely refrained from voicing any of them. The topic of Ron and Hermione's on and off relationship had become exhausting long before it turned into a permanent off. "Hungover, I suppose," he said instead, and flashed his friend a grin. "And anyway, mate – I thought you and Lavender...?"
Predictably enough Ron blushed crimson. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so sad, Harry thought, but that was followed by the cold knowledge that he was no dating genius either.
Slowly but surely the counters were becoming visible again, and Harry grabbed a dishtowel to dry the pile of kitchen utensils Ron had cleaned. "Lavender?" he prompted when it became clear the redhead wouldn't speak.
"She's not talking to me," Ron ground out. "I don't know why, and yes, I apologized already, but whatever." He glanced at Harry, his expression dark. "And that's all. It's bad enough cleaning your dump like some housewife, nancy boy. Gossiping about girls takes this too far."
At that, Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Since I'm such a nancy boy, shall we talk about blokes instead?"
His instincts served him well, and he jumped aside as Ron splashed soapy dishwater at him, his face a picture of outrage.
But by God, it felt good to have a crazy, normal Sunday.