Partial – 1/5

On her right side, Hermione is looking attentively at the speakers. Pink lips curls into a small smile, her right hand lays daintily in her lap like she is a lady of faultless etiquette. On that side, she is the epitome of the perfect daughter of the hosts.

On her left side, Hermione is looking longingly out the window. Red lips curls into a sharp grimace, her left hand has ink-flecked fingers clenching around the fragile neck of the empty wine glass. On that side, she is a grenade waiting to explode.

She is a precarious contradiction. The numerous hollies around her quiver in fear and the winter sun cowardly hides behind the clouds. A few snowflakes fall outside, gently spinning to the cold ground and melt immediately at landing, like they never existed in such individual beauty at all. She wants to go outside. She wants to be cold, not warm. Vulgar, not polite. She wants to spray sparks from her wand, shout from the identical rooftops, apparate to the London central and drink butterbeer in Hogsmeade.

But the real Hermione is locked in a magical cage and her vocal screams are smothered with a silencing charm. The contradictions, the many parts of Hermione, are held back by a velvet rope, and the only Hermiones allowed into the Christmas Lunch are Hermione the Polite, Hermione the Host and Hermione the Lady to make the ultimate Hermione: Hermione the Perfect.

And so, Hermione the Perfect listens to Friend Of the Family, Dentistry Colleague, Uncle, Aunt, Cousin, Grandparent, Second Cousin, Rover the Labrador tell her everything she needs to know.

Hermione the Perfect is too thin.

Hermione the Perfect has bushy hair.

Hermione the Perfect still has large teeth.

Hermione the Perfect needs to wear makeup.

Hermione the Perfect seems too tired and too lifeless.

Hermione the Perfect is, therefore, not so perfect after all.

On the matter of these imperfections, each Hermione has a different reaction. Hermione the Reasonable is considering each as she weighs the pros and cons. Hermione the Suicidal has cracked the wine glass, watched the blood spurt past the pieces and now lies irrationally dead in a dark corner. Hermione the Malicious is looking up dark curses, Muggles and Ministry be damned.

In reality, Hermione the Perfect nods at these observations, agrees, and moves on. Problem solved.

She pauses for a breather from the mingling, and Hermione the Bouncer accidentally lets Hermione the Lonely and Hermione the Tired in, and so the breath becomes a sigh and the sigh becomes exhaustion. Hermione the Lonely looks at the slightly sick Christmas tree, still majestic, regal and important, incredibly, as it stands in the middle of the room. Hermione the Excited fell terminally ill at the start of the season, and so Hermione the Lonely is not excited for Christmas. Hermione the Reasonable says she simply grew out of it, and, anyway, Hermione the Observational adds in, it was much better at Hogwarts. All able-bodied Hermiones nod wholeheartedly. Hermione the Krum-addicted would have giggled sickeningly, but Hermione the Destined-For-Ron may or may not have stupefied her and Hermione the Cheated may or may not have stupefied her as well. Hermione the Observational again sends word that she's observed a distinctive pattern of murdered Hermiones in the past, and that there are a few residents missing. Hermione the Reasonable reminds her that new Hermiones have moved in, so it doesn't really matter.

Hermione the Bothered tells them to shut up or else. Hermione the Bouncer 'escorts' the newcomers out.

Not all the guests have arrived. Hermione the Bouncer allows Hermione the Observational back in to survey the room. Mr. Granger is talking to a Dentist Colleague in the middle of the sitting room, waving his hands around in what is deemed an inaccurate example of scraping teeth, thank you Hermione the Daughter. Mrs. Granger weaves through the small crowd and holds a plate of nibbles up high to offer, the name or make of the appetizer no Hermione can define, but each suppose must be Christmassy in some way or another. Hermione the Daughter thinks her parent's look happy, but Hermione the Observational can see the tightness of their backs through the jumpers and the lines around their faces that remind Hermione the Regretful that they are on their guard: there's a witch in the room. Hermione the Regretful tries to talk to Hermione the Reasonable about how she was protecting them. Hermione the Observational shakes her bushy head and disagrees. Magic against them by their own daughter is betrayal. Their lives were taken, albeit only for a time.

Hermione the Observational observes the laments in Hermione the Regretful's eyes and turns back to the crowd. Two ten-year-old cousins are scrutinizing in disbelief and dissatisfaction the oatmeal, Santa-shaped, sugarless biscuits as they take a bite, grab a napkin, spit them in and throw them out. No Hermione blames them much.

After scanning the room and only seeing stranger's faces, Hermione the Observational catches sight of her grandparents sitting on the lounges facing the yellow fire. Grandfather Jack is tending it with the metal poker, a smile of pure gaiety upon his face as Grandfather Merrick stares clueless at the chessboard, looking glum. Hermione the Witch calls in that Grandfather Jack would love wizard's chess, no matter how barbaric Hermione the Sheltered thinks it is. Hermione the Sheltered is becoming much smaller and frailer as Hermione the Warrior rises further towards her rank every day.

Hermione, any Hermione, is always careful of her Grandmothers. Hermione the Malicious sometimes wishes they'd keel over and die soon, but is then immediately tackled to the ground by Hermione the Caring, stared down stonily by the more righteous Hermiones and has to choke out an apology to retain her malevolent status or else cease to exist. It's an ironic trap, though, but Hermione the Malicious is so lost in her malice that she doesn't realise.

It's not that they're bad. On the contrary, they are quite nice old ladies who deserve presents rather than coal. They simply love to talk, and not everyone loves to listen.

And, as it happens, Hermione, in her Hermione the Perfect form, is just about to be preyed upon by these quite nice old ladies who simply love to talk when the doorbell rings and she receives a gesture from her mother to answer it like a good, ladylike Hermione the Host. She turns in her settled position at the window to try and see who it is, but, alas, the only vision is a contrast of black coat against white, rapidly melting snow. Hermione the Perfect navigates perfectly through the sitting room, past the warm fire and into the small hallway to open the door. She breathes a sigh of exhaustion, realises, and Hermione the Bouncer kicks Hermione the Lonely and Hermione the Tired out the door. Her façade rightly in place, Hermione the Perfect opens the door.

She smiles. 'Good Afternoon, do come in.'

The woman who slides past with a smile has brown hair and brown eyes, quietly beautiful, much like Mrs. Granger. A young girl, around fifteen, follows her, along with a man remarkably similar with lighter brown hair and darker skin. But it's the last visitor who she's most interested in. He stands proudly, just less than men's average height, stocky and burly built with brown eyes and brown hair poking out from underneath a blue and gold striped beanie, a matching scarf wrapped around his neck. He grins at her, nods and accidentally brushes against her jeans with his leg as he shuffles past. Hermione the Observational sets off the alarms. Her eyes widen. She swallows. Hermione the Attracted hopes he isn't a long-lost cousin.

Through all this assault, Hermione the Perfect prevails, says, 'Coats and scarfs,' she pauses, 'er…' Hermione the Socially-Inept breaks through and yells doomsday warnings for a moment before she is hauled back out, 'and beanies are being held in this room.' The girl is looking at her steadily, like she is a celebrity or famous, and the Last Visitor grins again. Hermione the Perfect splendidly ignores Hermione the Observational's observations and gestures to a magically enlarged coat closet that holds a table, a few chairs and some chests from the attic to give it the appearance of previous use. Coats and scarves, no beanies yet, are scattered and sometimes folded around the room.

'Biggest coat cupboard I've ever seen,' chuckles the man, who Hermione the Observational assumes is the family father. Hermione the Attracted tries to find an advantageous window to watch the Last Visitor unwind the scarf, take off the long black coat to reveal a black knitted jumper and dark jeans – she drools shamelessly – and, as if it was a special show, pluck the beanie off from his head and place it delicately on top. A mess of dark brown hat hair is observed… and staggeringlyignored. 'The party's in the sitting room to the left, and lunch will be served within the hour in the dining room on the right.'

The family mother smiles that sweet smile again, thanks her and follows Hermione the Perfect out of the coat cupboard to the sitting room. Hermione the Memory Worker labours fiendishly to figure out just when and where she has seen the family mother and the Last Visitor. When they are all inside and comfortable, after another suspicious though completely accidental brush of contact from the Last Visitor and a devious smirk from the younger girl that places her at the top of Hermione the Prefect's troublemakers list, she about faces and heads towards the bathroom at the far end of the hall.

But Hermione the Frazzled drives her right past it to the far, far end of the hall to her own bedroom. She closes the door, leans against it and tries resolutely to breathe. Hermione the Attracted is in danger of drowning in her own spit as she babbles uncontrollably about his delicious attributes to the air, because everyone has taken cover and some are blocking their ears and hiding in dark corners like whoever is controlling Hermione's body right now.

Definitely not Hermione the Reasonable or her close companion Hermione the Logical. They are too busy trying to close Hermione the Attracted's salivating mouth. Luckily, Hermione the Bouncer just sighs and walks in, plucks out the undesirables, throws them through the entryway and stalks back out, leaving Hermione the Logical the captain's chair.

Hermione the Grateful thanks Hermione the Bouncer as Hermione the Logical rose up and walked to her full length mirror, positioned in the corner of the plain room next to the bed. She stares into its vain, reflective depths, thinking about makeup and hair and teeth and body mass indexes, but nothing seems to help. Help what? Frazzled nerves, images of war, hormones? She still wants to scream. The subject, she isn't sure. Hermione the Logical thinks of too many things to pinpoint just one.

Hermione the Logical divines it time to leave and, logically, saves Hermione the Bouncer the job of forceful exchange, knowing that even a bouncer can get tired of bouncing. Hermione the Perfect walks back out, closes the door softly and retreats past the bathroom, patting her somewhat-constrained hair because Hermione the Self-Conscious is whining about how horrible it is. Suddenly, he comes striding fast around the corner, and Hermione the Warrior only just manages to jump in and pull them out of the way at the very last second. She skids to a halt and subconsciously falls into a battle position, bent at the knees, holding herself up with strong thigh muscles, staying low and she almost, almost draws her wand before shouts not to spring from both Hermione the Muggle and Hermione the Witch.

The Last Visitor looks so astounded at such a reflex that she thought he might applaud for a moment before his features smooth over and he holds up his hands. 'Do your worst,' he says. It would be a threat if he wasn't half-smiling in a lopsided grin. Hermione the Attracted swoons and Hermione the Reasonable scoffs, wondering when the giggling is going to start.

Hermione the Perfect remains perfect under the pressure. She stands up, dons her host voice and asks, 'Are you lost? The bathroom's down there.'

He ignores her pointed finger. 'Actually, I was looking for you.'

Hermione the Observational turns the alarms back on. The spinning red lights force Hermione the Socially-Inept to double her furious panicking and she almost collides with the screaming Hermione the Frazzled. Hermione the Logical tries to deduce why he would be looking for any Hermione at all and watches as Hermione the Memory Worker is still frantically searching, tearing pages and smudging ink. Hermione the Perfect falls away and there's only Hermione the Attracted left in the rising crescendo of panic. 'Oh,' she breathes.

He leans against the hall wall. 'What's your name?'

Hermione the Attracted instinctively copies him, leans against the opposite hall wall. "Hermione. What's yours?'

'Oliver,' he grins, then it fades and his face is serious, as if he can't quite comprehend something. 'I swear I've seen you before but, for the life of me, I can't figure it out.'

'I've seen you too,' Hermione the Attracted manages to say. 'And your mother…'

'She is. She works at Mr. and Mrs. Granger's clinic as a secretary. Relatively new to the job, though.' Hermione the Memory Worker writes that down.

In the easy conversation, the panic has died down and Hermione the Bouncer is once again throwing people out. Hermione the Perfect tries to re-enter, but is rejected because Hermione the Logical is needed right now. 'I'm sure she'll be fine.' Hermione the Attracted thinks it might be useful to know his surname, and he hers. She wants his name, his phone number and his body very close to hers. 'My names Hermione Granger.'

Hermione the Logical belts out a warning about dark wizards and surrounding muggles and the consequences of telling anyone your name without knowing theirs. But his face lights up instantly, and he cries, 'I knew it!' so triumphantly that she is reminded of the time Ginny beat Ron at wizard's chess.

'You did?'

Oliver pushes his short fringe away from his face. 'I did, just then too. Put two and two together: a Hermione at the Granger's Christmas Lunch.' He presents his hand, offering it to shake, 'Oliver Wood, Miss Granger, at your Christmas Lunch.'

Hermione the Logical sighs thankfully and walks out to have Hermione the Reasonable take her place. She shakes his hand with a small smile. 'It's my parent's lunch, really.'

Their hands don't drop immediately, and his feels cool, smooth and large in her small and pale one. Her grip is only slightly less strong than his, for that she's proud. They fall away and their hands lose touch slowly, a trail of the fingertips that has Hermione the Attracted shivering, schooling herself not to snatch it back. He leans away again. 'And it's all in the name of Christmas.'

'Which is three days away, making the title somewhat incorrect,' she notes. Then Hermione the Logical storms back in, yelling what she forgot and places her hand on her hip and locks her ankles. 'Hang on,' she says, 'how did you figure that out?' He grins, leans forwards once more.

Hermione the Reasonable reasons he is two feet from her face now and so, Hermione the Attracted starts fighting for control, crying out obscenities and continuously screaming that it is so close, such an absolutely brilliant opportunity to get so much more intimate, which makes Hermione the Reasonable kick her in the shin and retort that that is not why he's leaning closer. It is instead to tell her, 'I'm a wizard, you know, magically gifted.'

Hermione the Attracted dances around with a bruise on her shin in absolute glee, chanting words like dreamy and wonderful and charming, swooning and giggling with her eyes twinkling and her head in the clouds. Hermione the Bothered commands silence and all Hermiones listen in.

Oliver regards her steadily, backing away again. 'You know,' he says, peering at her, 'it's odd that I've seen you before. I don't read the papers or the magazines in the wizarding world.'

Hermione the Reasonable finds this incredibly odd, asks impulsively, 'Why not?'

Oliver seems to puff out his chest. He stands up and declares, 'Quidditch Keeper for Puddlemere United. I'm on the reserve team for now, but my big break's sure to come.'

Hermione the Memory Worker immediately tosses the 'W' volume away and pulls out 'Q' for Quidditch; she flicks through quickly and runs her fingers down the names column. She tries to fish for other clues. 'And that stops you?'

'My mates tell me the big things that are happening; how the Dream Team saved the World from…' he pauses, looks over at her.

'Voldemort,' she supplies.

'You think it's okay to say it now? So soon?'

'I've been saying it for three years. Why stop now?'

'That's brave. It's only been five months'

Hermione the Self-Conscious pushes her way in and changes the subject, 'I thought most of the wizarding world knew me by looks alone.'

Oliver's eyes flick, and Hermione the Self-Conscious almost dies. Hermione the Attracted just about drops in an over-pleasured faint when she sees he is checking her out through his lashes. Oliver coughs, clears his throat, 'Yeah,' he mutters, 'pretty memorable.'

Hermione the Perfect suddenly starts up a tirade about the importance of host duties and how everyone will wonder where Hermione the Daughter has gone. Everyone agrees; everyone needs a breather from the intensity of the situation.

Then suddenly, a light bulb seems to appear above Hermione the Memory Worker's head and she snaps her fingers, shuts the book and yells the answer triumphantly. 'Hogwarts,' Hermione the Reasonable butts in, managing to lower the volume, 'That's where I've seen you. You were Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.'

His eyes light up to the same wattage as her own. 'And you were friends with Harry, obviously, and the Weasleys. And you…' he snaps his fingers, 'and you fixed Harry's glasses for the last match… and we won.' Oliver leans back on the wall. 'Those were the days.'

They smile at each other. Hermione the Self-Conscious decides that it is too uncomfortable when that is all it is. She says apologetically, 'I have to go be a host now.'

He grins lopsidedly again, and Hermione the Attracted almost forgives Hermione the Self-Conscious for cutting her wooing time short. 'And I have to go be a guest. Serve me well, won't you?'

Hermione the Attracted cannot blurt out all the sultry retorts that such a phrase warrants because Hermione the Witch is one step ahead and has cast a body bind on her. Hermione the Grateful thanks her the most. Hermione the Perfect strides regally in past the red velvet ropes and steps inside. She smiles, 'This way.'

Hermione the Memory Worker is mildly confused when Hermione the Observational recognises that he said nothing major about Quidditch. Oliver Wood always has been Quidditch and only Quidditch, according to Harry Potter. But it is Hermione the Frazzled who takes control when they enter the sitting room.

Time stands still. A biscuit is frozen on its travels to a guest's open mouth. Grandfather Merrick is paused in argument with Grandfather Jack, Mr. and Mrs. Granger stare across the room at each other. Hermione the Observational notes the love in their locked eyes, the sparkling that seems to move and shiver even while time is stopped. Hermione the Memory Worker writes it down in red ink; important and unforgettable.

Whilst Oliver critically nudges a red ball into a better position that's flying mid-air between her two cousins, Hermione the Observational surveys the room, not him, of course, as Hermione the Prefect is simultaneously searching for the culprit. Oliver's sister immediately falls under her radar. Hermione the Prefect looks positively murderous, but the girl still grins deviously and remarks, 'Absolutely brilliant.'

All the lighter Hermiones agree that is certainly is, but Hermione the Prefect is on a mission. She puts her hands on her hips and leers down at the girl. 'And just what is going on here?'

'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' newly released Time Stoppers,' she declares, holding out the packet, 'only affects within a certain radius and it is made like the instant darkness powder. It's just as ingenious, too!'

Oliver chuckles, stands behind his sister and puts his hands on her shoulders. 'Got to hand it to them, it's pretty darn good. How long's it last?'

'The packet says about five minutes. But—'

'Five minutes?' Hermione the Witch repeats disbelievingly, 'damn twins and their smarts…'

'I'll have to tell them you said that.'

'… but it's totally irresponsible. And on my parent's dinner party too! And messing with time; I'll be giving them a talking to when I next see them, I swear.'

'Er… you two, you know—'

'Look, we're wasting time. How about we ditch this and go play Quidditch out the back, just a quick game, eh, Jean?'

'Yeah, but Oliver—'

'Quidditch?' Hermione the Prefect yells, losing control, 'the room is stopped, time has stopped and you want to play Quidditch? We are not playing that ridiculous sport, if you can call it that, while my muggle relatives and guests are stuck in limbo!'

But Hermione the Prefect is too busy to notice the colour draining from Oliver's face. Hermione the Attracted and Hermione the Observational both understand the implications of the last outburst spoken to someone so fanatical as Oliver Wood, and they understand why Jean is repeating over and over to her dumbstruck brother, 'she didn't mean it; really she didn't.' who is glaring at Hermione the Prefect as she continues on and on about consequences of time travel, completely ignorant to the fact that Hermione the Attracted is slowly screaming in agony at such a loss. Hermione the Reasonable fights to stop her and Hermione the Memory Worker is trying to find more paper or parchment to record on.

'Bad things happen to wizards who mess with time. For Merlin's sake, stop that, Jean, because I bloody well do mean it; now is not the time for Quidditch, and no one in their right mind would risk their necks so stupidly, only relying on a twig between their legs for a game. Especially when time is not continuing as it should.' She stops for a breath, notes Oliver's stony gaze. 'What is the counter charm?'

Jean shakes her head. 'There is none, only a genuine guarantee that it will run out.' She checks the packet and her eyes widen. 'There's about thirty seconds left, however, so you might want to leave.'

Oliver storms back out into the hallway and Hermione the Regretful follows much more quietly, just catching Jean's muttering of crazy war heroes and valuable prank time lost before she turns the corner and Hermione the Observational sees Oliver staring a hole in his black dragon hide boots. Hermione the Regretful falls down on her knees and begs forgiveness, spurred on my the murderous glare of Hermione the Attracted that is burning her own hole through her bowed, bushy head.

But none of this happens because Hermione the Caring smashes through Hermione the Bouncer and demands that the situation be treated with the delicacy it needs and deserves because Hermione the Sodding Prefect just insulted Oliver himself by insulting his Quidditch.

And so, she steps forward to work it out, first right, then left, as if she's walking to her death. Oliver looks up with hard eyes and speaks through gritted teeth with his sharp chin clenched.

'I can't believe someone like you would say something like that.'

Hermione the Malicious pushes her way in, and suddenly she is a spitfire, burning with one hundred witty quips on hand for instant use. 'Well I can certainly believe that someone like you would say something as idiotic as that,' she spits, smirking as half the Hermiones drop unconscious to the floor, 'You're, what? Nineteen? Twenty? Where's your responsibility, or your sister's?'

'And where's yours? Did you lose it in the war? Did you just give up and let go?'

Hermione the Malicious strides towards him, utterly furious that he would mention it so menacingly when they were supposed to be talking about whether or not it is idiots who play or do not play Quidditch. He is not supposed to take her oxygen away more than she took his; this is not how it is supposed to be.

'How dare you!' she yells into his face. 'At least I wasn't a coward! At least I fought! At least I had something to give up!' Sudden chattering and merry-making sounds come from the sitting room and kitchen. They hardly notice.

Oliver propels forward and pushes her into the opposite wall, boxing her in with his arms. 'I am not a coward,' he growls quietly. 'I was at a game.'

It does not even occur to Hermione the Malicious to be afraid as she elbows Hermione the Caring from behind and shoots her quip anyway; 'My point exactly.'

They stare at each other, as if it is a very close stand off, and the common bond of determined fire in their eyes goes unnoticed because they are clashing like symbols, like warriors of war, duellists, siblings, enemies and lovers all at the same time.

The feud stops as suddenly as it had begun when Oliver pushes himself off and strides away. She follows a few seconds after. Hermione the Perfect returns in solemn silence.

Grandmother Dorothy has seen her. She throws her net wide and all Hermiones are caught like mindless fish, so the quite nice old lady who simply loves to talk grins toothily at her magnificent catch and reels it in. Help.

-AA-