Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
"Are you alright there, love?" A kind voice said softly. Fingers brushed hair out of her eyes, "You gave us all a nasty scare, my dear. I'm just so glad they got you out of the river! Wouldn't have liked going to another young'uns funeral."
The voice was faraway, as if underwater and Hermione groaned, whimpering a little as someone edged her arm out from underneath her.
"There, there my dear." The soothing voice said once again, reminding Hermione of Mrs. Weasley and her familiar crooning voice, warmth spilling at her seams. "Easy, easy. You did fall off the Blackfriars bridge, after all."
(Flashes of a woman with crazy dark eyes flitted in front of her, words filled with loathing, "Nasty bitch! You're no daughter of mine! How dare you—"and the rushing of the water, black, rising towards her, the muggy smell of waste hitting her nose as she cut through the air.)
Hermione whimpered in pain as someone slipped thick fingers into her clenched hand, prying her death grip loose, the joints nearly breaking from the brittle feeling that had enveloped them.
("Avada—"and then, "No!"—which one, which one—green, green eyes, a gaping mouth, lips moving—a scream.)
Her eyes fluttered open and she winced, pain searing in her head as she tried to blink away the bright, fluorescent light that shone down on her mercilessly. Her head was pounding and she could feel the throb of thick, slow, red infection settle in her bones, as if her whole body was revolting against the motions that the hands, the thick fingers, were making her do.
"What's—What's going on?" Her voice was dry as it fizzled in the air, as if she'd never spoken a day in her life before, as if she'd never opened her mouth to speak clearly. "Where am I?"
Large, dark brown eyes came into view, tears lining the lashes. A round, high-cheeked face looked down on her, red lipstick on plump lips. Long, sleek black hair hung in a thick braid from her shoulder and Hermione felt it tickle her forehead as the woman leaned down to brush hair out of her eyes again.
"Who are you?" Hermione croaked out, trying to wipe at her eyes.
"Hello, love. I'm Mrs. Porter. The agency left you with me." Pity shone in the dark brown eyes and Hermione found herself frowning—the agency? What agency? They were in the middle of a war!—"Your Ma's going to prison so there's no need to worry."
"What?" Hermione whispered. "Mum's…what…where…no,"
Her mother? Going to prison? No, no, her mother was dead. Her mother had died—she had died, they told her so.
(She could remember the taste of metal on her skin, those crazy black eyes staring down at her, vicious words twisting that beautiful face—"You make me sick.")
Hermione felt panic rise in her throat, choking all efforts of conversation. Her breathing quickened, her hands spasmed as she felt pain vibrate through her body. Everything was hot, hot and sticky and she felt like her head was going to explode if she didn't get any air.
"Hush, darling." Mrs. Porter soothed, running a hand down her arm and Hermione flinched, "Hush now. You're safe, you're safe. There's nothing to be scared of here, love. That woman's not going to find you anymore, she's not going to hurt you. The good guys are here, now."
Something in Hermione calmed at those words, a brush of past memories—that unknown, yet familiar, woman screaming harsh words from pretty lips flitted in her mind—and she struggled to regain to control herself. She knew, vaguely, that tears were streaking down her cheeks, but the heat of her face, the heat of the infection just under her skin had her forgetting. Her fingers twitched as Mrs. Porter ran her fingers in her hair, dragging the fingertips across her skull.
Hermione sucked in another shuddering breath, her body still shaking, before she brushed the tears away with a shaky hand.
As her fingers brushed away the remnants of her sobs, she stopped.
She stared at her hand.
Her pale hand.
When one looked at Hermione Granger, they would see a collected young woman, one with intelligent chocolate brown eyes and a nice, firm smile. They would see a cloud of fuzzy, bushy hair that stuck out everywhere, random curls forming at the base of her neck and the crown of her skull, never to be tamed or pushed down, incapable of being anything but the kinky, shaggy mess that it was and forever would be. They would see her struggling with mountains of books, ink staining her hands, callouses lining her fingers.
They would see her—dark hands, dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair—a witch to be feared, a witch to be wary of, if not terrified.
Hermione stared at her hand.
She had…she had pale skin. White skin.
Milky, lighter than even Ginny's, dotted with faint freckles and short, stubby fingernails that had chipping blue nail polish on them, gold stick-on stars on each digit. They were small hands, dainty in their nature and she could just imagine sliding on pretty, silk gloves, satin, in the same milky-white color they were now, the lace fitting her perfectly. They were princess hands, not one callous in sight, not one ink-stain, not one shakily written reference on the back of her palm, no nothing.
(No dark skin marred by years of living.)
She had pale hands.
Hermione had pale hands.
It was then, sitting in what she later knew to be the hospice room, that her heart began to beat wildly in her chest, the sensation of wrongness, of finality and utter betrayal began to seep through her skin, reaching her bones.
It was then that she began to realize just why, exactly, something felt unfamiliar the moment she woke up.
Hermione sat on the rickety old chair, a stricken look on her face.
Her mind was racing, her fingers aching to pick up a pen and write away, begging to outline ideas of just how—just what—she was doing in a different body.
They had put her in her new room at the 'Institute' as Mrs. Porter called it and told her to make herself at home.
It was a nice room, really. A small, yet comfortable bed with a squeaky mattress sat next to the window which showed a busy street, the train passing right by her head, ugly smoke clouding her view every now and then. It was painted a mint green and had a threadbare red carpet on it with a pair of brown loafers sitting on it, turned towards the bed. A painting of the sea sat on the wall, swaying when the train ran past and mirror with a creaking desk sitting underneath it, a nice wooden chair tucked into it.
The chair she was currently sitting on was tucked in the corner facing the window and the bed, near to the desk and painting and she was curled up on it, the blue pillow underneath her crinkling with old stuffing every time she shifted.
It had been nearly four hours ago when the kind, familiar and yet unknown, Mrs. Porter had escorted to it and she still hadn't moved from the rocking chair, her eyes fixed on an indent in the wall, occasionally drifting to the window when thick, black smoke crossed it.
Desperately, she searched her memories—but the last thing she remembered from the frigid green flash was shocked, angry, grief-stricken green eyes and a gaping, moving mouth curled in a scream. She had tried, over and over again, to rationalize what she was going through.
Perhaps it was an elaborate prank that George and Charlie had pulled on her, making her drink the Polyjuice Potion and setting her up somewhere safe like Harry and Ron had pleaded her to do. Maybe, she had even thought quite creatively, this was just some string of lucid dreaming that was awfully realistic—a new blend on the Happy Dreams Potion Luna had concocted the third year the war waged on, that helped to restore the frail happiness that threaded itself in the air, barely able to hold back the tide of the destruction and desperation that had come with the war.
Again, she roved her hands over her new skin—her new body—and she ignored the way her fingers trembled as they found the familiar scars on her skin, the bumpy lettering of Mudblood, the thick, purple scar on her chest, the nick at her neck, the aching burn at her thigh that, even with the skin-regeneration potion Pomfrey had given her, still wouldn't go back to normal.
If she had a new body, why did she have her old scars?
Tears came to her eyes as her hands traveled over the thick, carving scar in her abdomen. That had been the raid that Neville had died on, when she had flung herself in the way of Sectumsempura, only to have him bleed out next to her, his brown eyes filled with tears as he struggled to thank her for not leaving him.
A knock came at the door and she jumped, blinking away the tears quickly.
"Oi!" An unfamiliar voice called out, harsh and uninviting. "You reckon you can open the door? I'm your new neighbor."
New neighbor? Hermione frowned. Just what is this place?
"It's a fucking orphanage, lass." At the nasty voice's reply to her thoughts, Hermione realized she had spoken aloud. "Now can you open the door or not?"
She stared at it, contemplating.
For all Hermione knew, it was all a dream. She could wake up in the next minute, gasping in a tent in the middle of nowhere, her hands clutching at her chest, Harry to her right, Ron to her left. She could have dozed off from reading too many stacks of books on Horcruxes and Curses on Love, desperately trying to find some kind of solution to end Voldemort's insanity.
It probably wouldn't hurt to open the door.
It was, after all, probably just a dream.
Hermione got up on shaky legs, a shy, brave smile curling her lips as she made her way towards the thick, oak door, her hand trembling as she reached for the brass doorknob.
She found herself staring at narrowed black eyes, a sneer sitting on a pasty face. Pale-blond hair sat in a coif on his head and freckles ran rampant on the bridge of his nose. His cheeks were red and his lips were chapped and ashen, as if neglecting the use of chapstick his entire life.
"Hullo." Hermione said dully, her smile long disappeared. He reminded her of a Malfoy lone gone, yet curdled by the ghosts of the past, anger and rage simmering in cold eyes. "I'm Hermione."
The boy looked at her for an odd moment before the edges of his mouth turned downwards.
"I'm Edward. Edward Gibson." He said snootily, a pale eyebrow raising at her tiny form. "And you are?"
"I'm Hermione Wells."
She blinked.
Wells? She frowned. No, my name's Hermione Granger. My name is Granger, Hermione. Not Wells.
"I mean Hermione G—Wells."
She blinked again. Frustration welled in her chest and she gritted her teeth.
Her name was Granger.
"Whatever, Wells or Ga-Wells—whatever you're called, it's time for dinner. Porter gets antsy when we don't go downstairs right away." The boy sneered, obviously unimpressed with her stuttering. "If you're late, the little kids will eat your pudding. Better hurry, Wellsie."
"It's Gra—"She got cut off with a shriek as a lick of pain traveled up her spine and the boy just stared at her.
"You're the weirdest fucking thing that's walked in here since Waldo left. And that's saying something. He ate bugs for breakfast."
Then he turned on his heel and left.
Hermione gaped, furious both at the strange, unwanted boy and at herself.
What kind of dream is this? I can't even say my own name? And who eats bugs for breakfast?
So! Tell me your thoughts! I'm going to try and write longer chapters but hey, this is what I've got for now. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! :)