Authors Note: All original characters from the text of Harry Potter do not belong to me; however, Jane Granger, Lindsay Parkinson, Simon Malfoy, and Brynne Granger, and all characters that do not appear in the original text of Harry Potter do belong to me, and are mine alone. The plot and ideas for this story are mine, and any taking of such ideas will be considered plagerism. (ok, thats an exaggeration, but sounds cool.) Disclaimer: this story was one of those things that just appeared in my head, sat down, and came out like this. It is a complete AU fic that is based very loosely on what J.K. Rowling has given us in the books. Don't get mad at me if you don't like it, it isn't meant to stick to canon at all. It is just a little thing that came from somewhere and wished to be written and published. That said, here is the prologue.
Thanks.
Prologue:
I stood outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, which I knew to be the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, when I was eleven for three hours. I cannot say I accomplished much in that sitting besides a lot of crying and learning a bit about anger, but I can say that the feelings and images will never leave me.
I spent a good amount of my first hour in vain attempts to convince the Fat Lady that I was Hermione Granger's little sister, but when the portrait doubted the truth behind my words she began questioning me on Hogwarts' brightest witch and resident Lioness. It was that night, seventeen years ago, that I realized I didn't know my sister. She had kept a diary of her first two years at school, but the summer after her second year she left it at home buried in the depths of her sock drawer. That was where I found the leather bound journal with "Hermione J. Granger" etched onto the front, just like the one that I had, just like the one that Brynne had. The journals were gifts to each of the Granger girls on their first day at Hogwarts, upon receiving the acceptance letter that my parents started expecting for me and Brynne after Hermione received hers.
She had written in her journal diligently, almost everyday, for those first two years away from home, and the soul laid bare upon those parchment pages in neat black scroll was similar to the sister I once had. In that journal Hermione had spoken of more than just homework and school and the war that was on the brink of tearing apart the wizarding and muggle worlds alike. She spoke of Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and countless other friends and enemies she had accumulated over two years.
The Fat Lady asked me who my sister's best friend was, and when I answered correctly with Harry Potter she just gave me a sharp look and said, "Everyone knows that." I gave up and slumped down against the wall, the stones jutting out into my back. An hour passed before anybody came by, and when someone appeared I knew exactly who it was. I scrambled to my feet when I saw the familiar black hair sticking out wildly in all directions and emerald green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Harry Potter was decked out in his red and gold Quidditch robes, his team trailing behind him. Rumor had it that in the upcoming match against Slytherin Harry Potter would snatch the Snitch from underneath Draco Malfoy's nose as he had always done, but I had faith in the blond.
The team gave me a scrutinizing look, but I stood my ground as best I could for being an eleven year old girl staring down seven players, all fourth year and above, of the best team to grace the halls of that school.
"What do you want?" asked a red headed girl whose hand was slipped through Harry Potter's.
I looked at her wondering what harm could be done by my simply being here, standing outside their portrait. The team around her nodded in agreement with her question, each of them wondering what I was doing there. At the time I didn't understand it, I still had a lot to learn about House ties, but in my defense I had only been at Hogwarts for three months, it was nearing winter holiday.
"Looking for Hermione," I responded simply, shrugging my shoulders as if it was no big deal when in reality I really needed to speak to my sister.
"Why?" This time it was Harry Potter himself speaking to me and I immediately realized why the people of my house complained so loudly about him, especially Draco; he spoke as if he were above me. I suppose he was height wise, and age wise, and year wise, but, beyond that, he had no reason to treat me like something foul.
"Don't really see how that concerns you, Potter," I said, my tone imitating those of my Housemates, dripping with disdain and consciously hardening the look on my face into a scowl.
The red headed girl scoffed at me. The rest of the team laughed. "I think it does," he said, "as Hermione is my best friend. What does a Slytherin like you want with her?"
"Yeah, did Malfoy send you up here to do his bidding?" pitched in another.
"If so he has sunk low, asking ickle firsties to do his dirty work. That man truly is a pansy," added another from the back.
I shook my head. "No, Draco doesn't even know who I am, I don't think," I replied, tilting my head to the side pondering this briefly. "No, he doesn't. And as Hermione is your best friend, she is my sister, and what I have to speak to her about does not concern you. Now will you please just let me in?"
They all looked at me like I had grown another head. Silence filled the hallway; it was suffocating. I looked down at my feet. Then laughter echoed off of the walls, entering my left ear, bouncing around in my head a bit, then leaving through my right ear.
"Hermione is an only child," said Harry through his laughter, and the team and him disappeared through the portrait hole. I sank back down on the wall, hot tears pooling behind my eyelids, but before they could fall I saw the familiar bushy head of Hermione pop out from behind the portrait, scanning the hallway for me. She never looked down otherwise she would have seen me. Her eyes filled with relief when she didn't believe me to be there anymore and the portrait shut again.
I sat outside that portrait for another hour wondering why Hermione wouldn't admit to being my sister, or why she hadn't told her friends she had a sister at all. She had two, she had me and Brynne. In the muggle world all three of us were well known, hardly separable, but very different. Hermione was always studious, getting the best grades in school; I was always rebellious, always pushing the boundaries but never getting caught; Brynne was always the sports fanatic, coming home bruised and bleeding from playing too rough.
It seemed in the wizarding world, though, she was Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Head Girl, top of her class, only child; and I was Jane Granger, ickle firstie of Slytherin House. I learned to hate Hermione that night, I learned that hate was the easiest feeling in the world to be consumed by.
Now, I am standing outside of her flat in the wizard part of London, rain pouring down around me, my black robes soaked. The memories of that night are flashing through my mind, and the bitter feelings of hatred are knotting in my stomach. I look down at the note in my hand, twirling it around and around and around. I slip it under the door jam, knock twice, back out of the anti-apparition zones, spin on my heel, and am gone in a flash.
Hermione Granger opens the door of her flat and looks out into the pouring rain, the note clutched in her fist. She recognizes the neat blue handwriting on the outside of the envelope that reads, "To, Hermione Jane Granger, From, Dumbledore's Army." She knows that her sister is somewhere else with another note for another student.