July 1995
It had been a week since the disastrous end of their fourth year at Hogwarts, and Hermione was honestly just glad to have gotten away home. She had taken quite a lot of solace in her normal routines: breakfast with her parents before they went to work, studying for her GSCEs (she couldn't rule out attending university, after all) before meeting her mother for lunch, taking a walk to do some of the shopping before her parents came home.
This afternoon, Hermione had sat down for a second study session, and somehow nodded off before she'd finished reading the first paragraph. She woke up, startled, from another strange dream, of a kind she hadn't had since January.
She'd been outside in a parking lot, and had heard a noise like a rush of wind. She had spun around, seeing to her horror that a door behind her had been left open. She rushed forward into a shabby-looking hotel room, only to see a hooded figure bending over the body of a young boy. She was frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as a white vapor coiled up from the boy's mouth and nose and up into the hood of the stooping figure. Suddenly she felt a weight in her hands, a firearm with a long barrel (a shotgun?), and shaking where she stood, she took unsteady aim. She aimed the weapon and fired but the shot went wide, striking one of the walls near the ceiling. It was too close to him, she couldn't risk hurting Sammy.
The boy's name was Sammy. Her little brother.
The creature was bent down low over him now, and the light coming out of Sammy's mouth was beginning to flicker and fade. She had to shoot. She had to shoot this creature now, or Sammy was going to die. She found a focus she didn't know she had, and leveled the weapon at the creature's head.
Before she could pull the trigger, a great bear of a man rushed in the room. He shouted at her, his voice full of reproach as she was shoved aside, a split second before another shot sounded in the dead air of the hotel room, and the creature disappeared in a blur of speed.
She awoke with an ache in her chest as guilt overtook her: guilt for failing to protect her brother. He could have been hurt, he could have died, and it was all her fault. Her fault for leaving, for leaving the door open. She let the thing in. Let it get Sam, the only person she had in the world.
The dissonant thoughts echoed through her mind, and she could not shake them. Viciously she forced into her mind the memories of her family, of her parents, of how she didn't have any siblings, but had found brothers in Harry and Ron. Their years at Hogwarts, the scrapes they'd been through: defeating the cave troll, solving the clues to for Harry to find the Philosopher's Stone, figuring out what guarded the Chamber of Secrets, rescuing Sirius and Buckbeak both from certain death. Surviving the Quidditch World Cup and the revelation of the Dark Lord to the world. That was her life. That was her reality.
Her breathing labored, she stood up and went into the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with shaking hands. She knew what her mother would say: Breathe, Hermione. Slow down. In, out. Sip the tea. Breathe again. In, out. In, out. Good.
By the time the kettle whistled, Hermione was able to pour the water into her mug without spilling it. By the time her parents returned home, she was stretched out comfortably on the sofa, reading the chemistry textbook propped on her lap. She didn't want to trouble them with such a silly thing as a dream.
By the end of July, Hermione's dreams were getting more constant. It was a vicious cycle: she'd fall asleep studying in the afternoon and have a horrible dream, end up staying up too late studying to avoid sleeping, end up falling asleep at 3 a.m., wake up to another horrible dream, try not to fall asleep studying, fail, repeat. Day after day, night after night, these people haunted her sleep: the boy Sam (sometimes a child of about 8, but mostly about 12) and his (their) father. She (her soulmate?) was either a teenager fighting the most terrifying creatures, or she was a tween getting into loads of trouble with her (his?) father. The man treated her as though he was her a recruitment officer instead of a parent. More often than not, his was the presence in the dream that sent her flying towards consciousness. She began wishing she could cast a Silencing Charm around her bed, to make sure she didn't disturb anyone else whenever she woke.
As always she said nothing to her parents, but played off her problems as merely studying too late, which she promised to try and do better, until they would shook their heads at their studious little girl, although her mother's brow was always creased with worry.
When it finally came time for Hermione to visit her friends, her parents accepted the invitation with a touch of urgency, encouraging her to leave her Muggle textbooks at home, reminding her she'd have her Hogwarts materials soon enough. They'd driven to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Molly, Ron and Ginny, and after a pleasant if lively meal, returned to their London flat, while Hermione and the Weasleys Floo'd back to the Burrow.
Fred and George were there to meet them when they stepped out of the fireplace, and had immediately grabbed both Ron and Ginny for a game of Quidditch, and recruited Hermione for referee. As she sat in the relative shade of the garden, she felt relaxed for the first time in what seemed like ages: watching the four of them zoom around on their broomsticks and sipping lemonade in the afternoon heat as bees buzzed lazily through blossoming angelica, sage, and dittany.
After drowsing for a while in the shade, Hermione felt very much refreshed. She begged off refereeing (she wasn't doing anything anyway) in favor of going back in the house. She'd planned to study again, until she remembered that she hadn't any textbooks to study. She decided then she'd go and see if Mrs. Weasley needed any help with anything.
Hermione found her in the kitchen, busy with preparations for tonight's supper. Molly accepted the help gladly, putting Hermione to work peeling potatoes (the Muggle way), while she managed the rest with a wave of her wand. "It's kind of you to come and keep me company," she beamed, as a tray of bread rolls were sent off to a shelf above the oven to rise. Hermione just smiled politely, and went on with her peeling. The simple domesticity of things was soothing, and she hesitated to do anything that might break the proverbial spell.
Molly cocked her head for a moment, taking in the sight of the girl - young woman, really - willingly and effortlessly doing a chore that every one of her natural children would do everything in their power to avoid. "Well, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to know at least one of you children will know how to cook when you grow up. I'm afraid every last Weasley will either starve or live on takeaway, unless they are fortunate enough to find soulmates who know more than they do about cooking."
Perhaps Hermione hadn't been paying proper attention, but her wandering mind had snapped back at the word 'soulmate'. "I'm sorry," she said, brow furrowed very much like her mother's, "find soulmates? But those aren't real," she began, and then backtracked, "are they?"
Mrs. Weasley looked at her curiously and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. "Of course, they're real," she said, with genuine concern plain on her otherwise cheerful face. "Don't Muggles have soulmates, too?"
Hermione frowned, unsure how to answer. "Well," she answered haltingly, "there are lots of books and movies where people find their One True Love. It's all very pat: one night you dream about The One, and then they meet, totally by chance, fall in love, etc." Her brows creased again, this time considering what she'd just said. "I'd always thought it had to be a load of rubbish."
Mrs. Weasley sighed in understanding. "Oh, we have that rubbish, too. Romantic hogwash, the lot of it. Nothing about the real work, or even the real dreams." She laid a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder, and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "Someday, more likely than not, you'll start dreaming, just like Arthur and I did. Only it's not some misted over vision of your true love's face, I can tell you." The woman gave a quick scoffing laugh that was almost like a snort. "You start by dreaming their dreams, whatever strange things are in their heads, and after a while you are generally able to piece together who they are."
Despite the gentleness of her words, Hermione stiffened at Mrs. Weasley's pronouncement. The older woman noticed immediately, and sat back with a dawning realization. "You've had a dream you can't explain, haven't you?"
Hermione was so stunned, she could only nod.
"My goodness, child," Molly Weasley clucked, "and you not even believing such things were real? No wonder you're upset." She took both of Hermione's hands, which had long since stopped peeling potatoes, in her own, and held them comfortingly. "If you want, I'll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it. If you don't, well, I'll make you a cup of tea anyway, and we can just sit here quiet until you feel better."
Hermione, mind reeling, just nodded again as Mrs. Weasley steered her over to the near end of the long dining table, getting her settled with a plate of biscuits as the teakettle filled itself before setting itself to boil on the hob. With a few more deft wand movements, sugar and milk appeared on the table, and the doors to the rest of the house shut with a snap of a lock. "I'll cast a privacy charm, if you want to talk," she offered, and Hermione nodded for a third time. She was terrifically frightened now, but feared that if she didn't talk about this with someone, it would be the end of getting proper sleep.
For a long time, she couldn't speak. Staring into her teacup didn't seem to be giving her the boost of courage she needed to break the silence. Her thoughts were still whirling in her head, refusing to settle long enough for her to choose where to begin, when Molly broke it for her.
"Sip the tea, love. Breathe in, breathe out."
Automatically she raised the dark builder's brew to her lips, inhaling the strong, sweet aroma before taking an obedient sip. Her racing mind slowed a bit, and she took a second sip, which she rolled around her tongue, relishing the contrasting flavors of bitter and milky and sweet. "It's the dreams," she said at least, when her voice had found itself. "They're nightmares... they're all nightmares." She took a steadying breath, willing herself not to even begin to tear up. If she started crying, she wouldn't be able to say it.
Molly's face was a grim mask, worry and concern warring with sympathy and understanding. She let the girl take her time; stepping in now would only stop the torrent that so obviously needed unleashing.
"And they're so strange," Hermione wailed at last, "I'm always fighting, hunting strange things that are like but unlike real magical beings and creatures. People with werewolf fangs, Dementors with human bodies, ghosts that attack people and possess them! Always fighting, always killing, or nearly being killed! And Sammy, he's so vulnerable, I can't leave him alone or he'll get hurt…"
"Wait," said Mrs. Weasley impulsively, belatedly hoping this wouldn't stop Hermione talking, "you said a name. Whose is it?"
"My brother's," the girl replied, mercifully still on track, "he's about four years younger than me, and I left him alone once and the Dementor-thing nearly got him and Dad looked like he wanted to kill me, he was so mad."
The poor thing looked terrified, but Molly was actually a bit encouraged. She had so much detail, so soon, but then Hermione always had been both bright and observant. "Okay," Molly interjected again, hoping to Merlin that her luck would hold, "what does your brother look like?"
"Getting tall, and more tanned now than when he was younger. Used to be so pale white he almost looked sick. Hair's almost blond, too, getting long and shaggy," Hermione replied, staring hard into the memory of her dreams.
The Weasley matriarch carefully folded her hands in her lap, holding herself as still as possible. She wasn't sure if she dared to interrupt the flow of Hermione's words a third time. There was taking a risk, and then there was being foolhardy. While she didn't mistake herself for any kind of sage, Molly took a certain amount of pride in being able to read people well, especially those she considered family. This odd, brilliant young woman had quickly become one of them, and Molly knew that any long, silent spell from her wasn't some momentary distraction, but a deep examination. Her mind didn't wander, it delved. Unlike some of her children, Hermione didn't need direction, but time. When the young girl across from her let out a small gasp, Molly knew her patience was about to be well paid.
The light in those warm, brown eyes had returned, and Hermione looked up at her with a mixture of dismay and delight. "They're...I just realized, they sound American. And I know names. Two of them!" She worried her bottom lip, but already she was fairly vibrating with excitement. "That's good, right?"
Molly beamed, proud as ever, but with a touch of relief that the girl had come back to herself so quickly. "It is very good, my dear," she affirmed. "Two names is an excellent place to start."
"Start?" Hermione, bless her, stopped dead in her tracks, and blinked three times in rapid succession.
The older woman stifled a giggle. "To find your soulmate, of course." She didn't think the girl's cheeks could glow much more, but glow they did, a deep red like mahogany.
"Find, um, right," Hermione stood abruptly, as her thoughts flew in all directions, fingers rapidly twiddling as she began pacing the small kitchen, "yes, I could… yes, um, yes." She was halfway out the door before she remembered Molly and came rushing back in, flying into her arms, wrapping her in a tight hug. "Thank you," Hermione mumbled into her shoulder.
Just as quickly she sped away again, before Molly realized something. "Wait," she called after the young woman's retreating back, "what's the second name?"
"Dean," Hermione half-shouted over her shoulder as she rushed up the stairs, "his name is Dean!"