Indigo Autumn: A Novella

by J. Rolande

Prologue: Revelations and Confessions

"I can't believe you agreed not to go back to Hogwarts," Ron said once again, flopping down on the orange Chudley Cannons bedspread, his equally orange hair seeming to blend in and make him look bald.

"You said that seven times now," Hermione pointed out primly, reaching over and smoothing a crease out of the fabric. "Once on the train back to London..." she began ticking things off on her fingers. "Again at your parents', then on the way to the Dursleys, and then with Harry—but that time Harry said it with you—then at Godric's Hollow, and on the way back from Godric's Hollow, then over tea, and now. Seven," she finished.

"You counted?" Ron asked, propping himself up on his elbows. "You counted. I can't believe you sometimes. Why would a person, well, a sane person, count something like that?"

Hermione smiled a bit. "It's just something I've always done. I don't mean to."

"Don't mean to what?" Harry asked, poking his bespectacled face around the corner, then altogether entering Ron's room. He looked like he'd grown even more over the summer, or maybe it was the slight, prematurely haggard expression he'd developed only since the visit to his parents' graves.

Whatever it was that had caused it, Hermione had noticed it almost immediately, much like she immediately noticed just about everything around her. She pasted on a grin she did not feel; that seemed to be the way of things these days, between the three of them. They'd been inseparable friends for almost seven years, and only now they were pretending, play-acting, for one another. "Ron was just commenting on the fact I've counted how many times he said he can't believe I'm not going back to Hogwarts."

Harry grinned a bit himself, which helped make him look a bit more like the seventeen-year-old he actually was. "Well, I can't say I blame him," he added, shooting his grin over at Ron. "I honestly thought you'd change your mind at the last moment."

Hermione feigned shock. "Haven't I proven myself loyal to you and your causes right along?" she asked. "Just because I like school and find it important doesn't mean I can't tell when something's more important, you know."

Normally Harry and Ron would have found themselves enjoying gales of laughter at such a statement. "You, find something more important than school?" Harry would say. "What'll you do without school?" Ron would say. "Shrivel up and die, perhaps," Hermione would say. But now the predictable gibes and lighthearted taunts had no place in their conversations. Ever since that night at the end of the past school year they'd somehow felt a sense of necessity when it came to their friendship, a sense that they couldn't waste time teasing anymore. There was a feeling of urgency about everything they did together, because no one, themselves included, knew which journey, which comment, which remark, would be their last.

There was now the tense silence they'd become accustomed to of late. Most of their time together was like this: tense, silent, uncertain. Rarely did they speak except out of necessity, and usually it was Harry who broke the silences. Harry, the Boy Who Lived. Harry, the avatar of Voldemort. Harry, their best friend who was destined to save their world from Voldemort's reign of terror. They looked to him for his leadership and guidance and did as their loyalty to him demanded. They stuck by him through thick and thin, no matter how cliche the term was.

Once again Harry did not disappoint. He broke the silence, his speech the knife that cut through it. "So, Hermione..." he began.

She looked up from the slightly warped wooden floor of the Burrow's top floor. "Yes?"

"Well... I was wondering. What were you doing before Hogwarts?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, slightly perplexed.

"Ron was raised here, in a wizard family," Harry explained, gesticulating around the room. "His whole family went to Hogwarts, so it was natural that's where he'd wind up. You know I was with the Dursleys," he said, wrinkling up his nose a bit; Ron followed suit, and Hermione smiled in spite of herself. Harry smiled a bit too. "But you... all we know is your parents are Muggles and dentists. That's all. You never talk about them, or what you were doing before Hogwarts."

Ron straightened up, nearly bumping his carrot-topped head on a low rafter. "Bloody hell, Hermione, Harry's right!" he exclaimed. "So tell us all the details. Were you always as bossy as this?" he asked with a grin.

Hermione couldn't resist and threw a lopsided pillow at him, hitting him squarely in the face. "Not fair! I wasn't ready!" he complained.

"That's the point," she shot back, smiling.

"What were you like?" Harry asked. "Did you always like school?"

"Yeah, what was Muggle school like?" Ron asked, intrigued. "I know Harry's told me, but I want to know from someone smart," he added, dodging another pillow.

Hermione became thoughtful. "What school was like..." she said, slightly dreamily. "I suppose... I suppose it was fine," she said lamely. "I don't think it was that different from Harry's experiences."

"You didn't have a cousin and his mates bullying you," Harry pointed out sagely. "You had a family who cared how you did, you know, how your marks were."

Hermione actually felt herself start to squirm a bit, and felt a flush creep into her cheeks. "Oh, well..." And then she realized that she might never have the chance to say this again, that even as soon as this night, or tomorrow, or the day after she could be dead, or they could be, and these things could go unsaid. Why was she embarrassed, anyway? Why would she want to keep these secrets from her two best friends? And now that she was of age in their world, and had truly found a place where she belonged, what did her past life in the Muggle world really matter?

"My parents were chuffed when I got my letter," she finally said, something about the tone of her voice drawing Harry and Ron's rapt gazes. She turned over on her stomach and rested her chin on her arms. "They finally had an answer."

"The Dursleys were afraid of my letter," Harry said. "And Aunt Petunia knew about Hogwarts. Your parents didn't know anything, and they were actually glad about your letter?" he asked incredulously.

Hermione flashed a wry grin. "You wanted to know what my life was like before Hogwarts?" She asked, almost challenging. "You want to know why I enjoy school, and learning, and overachieving?"

"Well, yes," Ron said in a sarcastic manner, rolling his eyes. "There's got to be some reason."

"There is. It's nothing I worked for, or tried to become. It's something I am. I've always been this way; all Hogwarts did was give me an outlet for it. A real outlet."

"Hermione, I don't understand," Harry said.

"Very few people ever did," she told him. "My parents included. Let's just say Hogwarts answered their one burning question in life: what to do with me."

Ron nearly spit out the water he was quaffing. It was already September, but it was still warm out, and even warmer in the attic of the Burrow. "What to do with you?" he nearly shrieked. "Hermione, you're not serious, are you? You're obsessed with the rules! You're the smartest person I've ever met! Your parents needed to do something with you?"

"Yes," she said simply, everything, all the thoughts, memories, and feelings coming back to her, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. She thought she'd buried them and they were long gone; Hogwarts had given her exactly what she'd needed. She'd found herself there. She'd put her old life behind her. And now she had to remember it. "I've always been... like this, as you put it. I never fit in, anywhere and was afraid that even at Hogwarts I wouldn't. Finally, that Halloween, first year, I thought it was over, because I still wasn't understood. And then the thing with the troll and all... then we became friends and things worked out for the best." She smiled fondly at her two friends.

"What a stroll down Memory Lane," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Tell us something we don't already know, will you? That's what we're interested in." Harry nodded in agreement. Both boys had fixed rapt gazes on Hermione.

"I suppose I've beaten around the bush long enough," she acquiesced. "Yes. So even though I was smart and such, I wasn't easy for my parents to deal with. But there was a reason." She took a deep breath. She'd never admitted this to anyone before, and even now, in the presence of her best friends she found it hard to wrap her mind and mouth around the words. "I... I'm a prodigy," she finally said. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, and she quickly averted her eyes from the boys.

"We knew that," Ron snapped, again rolling his eyes. "McGonagall gave you the Time Turner so you could take extra classes in our third year. Third year! You're always in the library. You get all the spells right away."

"See, that's the thing though, Ron, I'm always in the library," she said. "I had to work for it. Some of it was talent. Okay, the practical parts were talent, and easy," she admitted. "But the rest of it... the history, the theory, all the background stuff, that I had to work at, and it felt good to work at it, because I'd never had to work at anything before. And that's what frustrated me and my parents. And my school teachers. And my peers. Not my friends. I never had friends. Until first year."

"But Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, sitting up straighter. "Being a prodigy's a grand thing, isn't it? I mean, everything's easy for you."

"Not when you're in Year Eleven before you're even eleven years old," she confessed quietly. "When everyone else your age is in Year Seven? When everyone else in your classes is about five or six years older than you? Try being in Sixth Form before those classmates because you've surpassed them in the curriculum. Imagine the odd looks you get. Imagine having to consider University when most people your age, their grandest concern is what they're going to do on summer holiday."

"Calm down, Hermione!" Harry said quickly, catching Ron's eye. "It's okay, I didn't mean to upset you, we can talk about something else—"

"No, no, it's okay. I think I should talk about this," she said, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "Just try to imagine what you were like back then, Harry, Ron," she told them. "Try to remember that, then try to imagine the eleven-year-old you trying to think about anything other than pranks, sweets, and sticking your noses where they didn't belong," she finished, flashing a knowing grin through her tears.

"I can't," the boys said in unintended unison.

"But it was more than that," she continued after taking in a deep breath. "Try being eleven with the mentality of someone much older, and trying to interact with adults who don't understand that. Adults including your parents."

"I never much liked adults anyway," Ron offered, trying to be sympathetic. It elicited a grin from Hermione. "It's hard enough interacting with them at eleven. Bloody hell, I hated interacting with Percy when I was eleven. I hate interacting with him now, actually," he added thoughtfully. "Don't you dare tell me you understand Percy again," he warned.

Hermione actually laughed at that, a sound that was alien to all of them. Laughter was a precious commodity these days, and she'd never been well known for her laughter. It was a welcome change of things. "Well, to a degree I do. There are people who like the rules. Love them, really. Need them. And then there are Indigos."

"Indigos?" Harry asked blankly.

"Blue people?" Ron asked. "Or purple? Or something in the middle?" He chuckled at his own bad joke.

"No, Indigo Children," Hermione explained, trying not to be cross with them for not understanding. "It's the only explanation for me." She looked meaningfully at each of them, leveling them with her shrewd, clear gaze. "I've never told anyone about this before–"

"Sounds like you never had anyone to tell before," Ron interrupted.

"Touché," she retorted with a half-grin. "But really, if you want to know about it you'll have to listen to me. Because it's not easy to talk about."

"We're listening," Harry said, sitting up even straighter and peering at Hermione, his green eyes magnified by his glasses. "Please tell us?"

His voice was gentle, sincere. Hermione couldn't help but feel a sense of warming in her, a feeling of contentment and belonging. They accepted her, even with her no less than odd background. And they always would. She took a deep breath, slightly shaky, then began.

"There are geniuses. There are prodigies. Then... then there are people like me. Indigo Child Prodigies. We're not easy people to be around... and we're not easy people to be," she finished, even as images, voices, memories, and emotions flooded back into her heart, mind, and spirt.