A/N: I suggest skipping this chapter if you don't like weed lmao.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Tags: SIOC, Outsider POV, Hermione POV, Implied/Referenced Recreational Drug Use, Crime

Summary: n/a

The year is 1991 and there is a child in his house.

This would be odd enough, alarming even, aside from the fact that Steve is in the business of selling illegal substances. Not much! Just things like marijuana, LSD, mushrooms... Nothing too hard. And generally, Steve will sell to anyone, including that one memorable seventeen year old who paid in golden coins. But a kid? He's never sold to anyone who wasn't of age to at least get their A-levels.

But here she is. She's short, scrawny, with tanned skin and brown curls that are tugged back into a braid. She wears glasses - large, circular ones that take up half her face and magnify her brown eyes - and is wearing a school uniform, though he doesn't recognize it from the area. But then, school is supposed to be out until next month, right? Or was it last month? He hasn't had to worry about that in a very long time. She's even carrying a book bag! When she smiles hesitently, he notices a gap between her large, front teeth.

"C'mon Steve," Mick is saying, standing next to the girl. Loyal customer, Mick. Bit of a dumbass, though. "She's super smart, knows how to keep a secret - she just wants to get high!"

Steve groans, rubs a hand over his face and pushes his bangs out of his eyes. Sure enough, the kid's hand keeps drifting to a bulging pocket where he knows she must have money. Probably taken right out of her own piggy bank, too.

"You know what - look - kid," he rambles, crouching to get on the kid's level - she's barely taller than his hip! "What's your name?"

She smiles, polite and just like a lawyer or some shit, and says, "Delia. Just Delia."

Smart kid. Or, he rethinks, not so smart to be getting into drugs.

"Delia," he smiles, hopefully nicely. His teeth aren't the best, but she doesn't seem to take notice. "I'm Steve. Do you know what you're doing right now?"

Delia doesn't look uncertain. "Well, I thought I was trying to buy drugs."

He barks a laugh out without thinking. Mick's giggling, too, the pissant. Fine.

"How much are you looking to buy?" he asks, deciding not to baby her. If she can't keep up, she shouldn't be here.

"A pound," she says confidently.

Steve's jaw drops. Delia doesn't change her mind in the time it takes him to look at a sheepish Mick and back to her childish face. In fact, her smile takes on an amused smirk-like look.

"A pound," he repeats. Delia nods, and Steve swallows. "What does a ten year old need a pound for?"

This gets something. Delia's brow pinches just the slightest, and if Steve didn't have younger siblings himself he wouldn't have been able to tell. Her lips thin, and her eyes narrow.

"I'm 12 in a month, thank you," she sniffs.

"12," he corrects indulgently with an amused air. Kids, he thinks, always eager to be older than they are. When did he stop doing that, he wonders? When did he start thinking of himself as an adult - and of them as kids? "My point stands. What does a 12 year old want with a pound of weed?"

Delia is actually starting to look annoyed. "I understand it can be disconcerting to deal to a little girl, but this isn't my first rodeo." What American movies is she watching to have that saying come so easy? "I'd like a pound, how much can you sell for one?"

Steve looks at Mick again. The ruddy bastard has the audacity to look proud! Why, if Steve finds out this is Mick's little cousin paid to make a fool of him for Mick's amusement, Steve'll kick his ass.

"Around twenty-three hundred and twenty pounds ," he says after a moment of thought.

Delia nods after a moment of thinking, and he can see her lips twitching like she's trying to not think aloud. "Alright, sounds reasonable."

She fishes out the large wad of banknotes in her pocket. They're all 50£ notes and in various states of distress. Without prompting, Delia turns to his kitchen table and starts to count them out aloud, placing the notes in piles of 500£. All in all, she counts out 2350£, and still has enough to shove a small handful back into her pocket. Throughout it all, Steve is suddenly glad that Mick is the one to have brought her here. Dumbass though he is, Mick would never rob a little girl. Some of his other customers couldn't say the same.

She then turns to him, a stack of money behind her on the table that no 12-year-old should have, and raises an eyebrow. There's a cheeky glint to her eyes, and for a moment she smiles, dimple-cheeked and tongue caught between her teeth, before she schools her face. If she were older, Steve might be inclined to get to know her better - as is, all he sees when she looks at him is his younger siblings.

God, he must be going to hell for this.

"Any specific strain you're looking for?" he asks finally.

"Sativa," she says without skipping a beat. Damn, he had hoped to make her nervous with a question most people buying from him couldn't answer. Most people just thought grass and didn't try to differentiate between the strains.

He nods and stands from his crouch. (His knees twinge and he hides a wince. When had Steve started to get so old?) He doesn't keep his wares in the kitchen, which would be dumb. He buys by the pound, so there's no need for him to even open a bag. Hefting one into his arms, Steve carries it back to the kitchen where Mick and Delia are talking quietly.

Steve pauses outside the door, to listen.

"-buying this much," Mick is saying. "Where did the days go of a little girl buying a gram of shitty hash from me during her lunch break go?"

"In the trash along with my first tampon," Delia says brazenly. Mick isn't fazed, to Steve's surprise. What kind of kid, especially a tween girl, talks like that? "Desperate times, desperate measures."

Mick nods, reaching a hand to muss up her hair. "Boarding school."

Delia opens her mouth to reply with a crooked grin before the expression drops as Steve walks back into the room. Steve himself is deep in thought. Boarding school, huh? That could explain it. Mick, he knew, often times sold to his friends to make a quick buck. He had also graduated with his A-levels last year, so he could, maybe, be in the same area as Delia whilst she was in school. A few connections between friends and siblings and Steve could see Mick selling to a kid without thinking about that kid telling on him.

Steve sets the clear bag down onto the kitchen table, next to the money. It looks like something out of a crime movie, he thinks.

For a moment, Delia simply stares at the large bag. The corners of her lips twitch, like she wants to smile brightly. Then, she reaches forward, and after a look at Steve, undoes the twist-tie keeping the bag closed. She reaches in and pulls out a bud that easily weighs ten grams. Delia turns it over and over in her hands, feeling and looking closely at it, inspecting the colors and crystals. Then she takes a whiff of it - it's a powerful smell, but definitely not the dankest Steve has ever had. Even so, the act has Steve torn between nervous and incredulous.

A little girl inspecting weed like a particularly paranoid buyer.

When the exchange is made, all she gives is another polite smile, thanking him for his work. Then she opens her backpack, and a the overpowering odor of coffee hit him full force. Inside, the bottom of her pack has a thick layer of coffee beans, a science book taped to the back to give the bag some structure. It's lined with… Dryer sheets? Innovative, he thinks.

She hefts the bag into her backpack, securing it tightly. When it's shut, all he can smell is the faint smell of lavender and coffee.

"Thank you for your time, sir," she says to him, politely declining her head.

Ah , Steve thinks. I'm really going to Hell.

"It's just Steve, kid," he says, and grabs a napkin out of his dispenser on the table and a nearby pen. "If you ever need anything, weed related or not, call me."

She takes the written-on napkin gently, surprise written in the way her eyes widen, gratitude in the way she holds the napkin close to her. She doesn't say anything, just nods and gives him a smile. A genuine one, like the one she gave Mick before he'd interrupted, tongue-in-teeth.

"Granger, Cordelia!" calls the stern-faced woman who had introduced herself as Professor McGonagall.

Hermione watches as her twin sister walks up to the stool where the Sorting Hat sits, wringing her hands. She had been worried about this, about if they were to go to different Houses, and if they would stay as close as they were if they didn't end up together. Hermione was certain of where she wanted to go, personally; Gryffindor seemed to be the best House, hands-down, especially if their Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, had come from it. But when she had questioned Cordelia on the subject, her sister had gotten quite pensive.

"I've noticed a bit of a trend in bias," she had said, motioning towards her own stack of books. Cordelia was perhaps the only person to read more than Hermione herself. "But I rather think it'll be a toss up. I don't mind where I go."

That was Cordelia, though. Hermione had never understood her sister's attitude, how she never seemed to have any actual ambitions aside from reading or hanging out with older kids in their town. It was something Hermione fought hard to not be jealous over. Just because Hermione couldn't make a friend outside her sister didn't mean she had to be mad that her sister could. Hermione just didn't understand it! They did all the same things, read at the same pace, were top students in their grades; what about Cordelia did people like that they didn't about Hermione?

Oh, wait, the Sorting!

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione had missed Cordelia sitting down and having the Hat placed on her head. However, it seemed to be taking Cordelia quite a while, and the minutes dragged on and on. Hermione didn't look around, but she could see in the corners of her eyes that the other students were getting antsy.

Finally, after a very long amount of time, the Hat opened it's sewn mouth.

" HUFFLEPUFF!" it shouted, and the table of yellow and black rose up in cheers.

Hermione watched her sister, now clad in yellow and black, as the girl strode to her new table. Cordelia met her eyes as she settled in next to Finch-Fletchly, Justin, and gave her an encouraging smile.

"Granger, Hermione!" called Professor McGonagall.

Hermione took a deep breath.

- best friends with Megan Jones (younger sister to Gwenog Jones, older sister to Peter Jones, dark skinned and broad shouldered, her hair pulled back into cornrows) and Wayne Hopkins (a rather sleazy looking boy with short, greasy black hair always combed back with perpetually-narrowed eyes and a crooked nose).

- acquaintances with Cedric Diggory, later they date during her fourth (his seventh) year during the Triwizard Tournament. (Cho ends up dating Harry for a few months before they break up awkwardly. When Cedric is killed, Cordelia does not take it well. Hermione fears her sister is going Dark.)

- more interested in smoking weed than doing homework, but knows where her priorities should be.

- sixth year has a fling with Daphne Greengrass.

- Joins Dumbledore's Army ASAP

- actually becomes quite good friends with Steve, though she has to take care to not reveal magic. Steve is quite worried for the little sister he's adopted who always comes back from her school year with tales of murder and intrigue. (When she has to go into hiding when Snape takes over Hogwarts, she leaves him a letter that worries him greatly. There are terrorist attacks happening everywhere and she seems to be involved in some sort of underground war.)

A/N: decided to leave the notes in at the end, which i haven't been doing.

Comment if you'd like. Use the ideas I present in your own fics if you want, just drop a link to your fic in the comments.