A/N: Hello! Welcome to chapter eight! I've only got the one chapter for you today, my apologies. I sat down to write this one but instead got hit by a whammy of inspiration for Iacta which really isn't a thing that happens often, so I had to make the most of it (and then at 2AM THIS MORNING I suddenly had this blazing scene in my head for like, ten chapters in the future, which is great and also frustrating). Plus, overall it's been a not-so-great week of writing for me, I've had some trouble with my health, so I tried my best to get this one out on time anyway. It's not as long as I wanted it to be because I haven't gotten to the ceremony yet, but that gave me an opportunity to try and get Hermione's head straight.

Love Always,

Eli x

Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.

Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence, sexual scenes... The whole lot, basically. Dumbledore Bashing, too. Severus doesn't have the best time, bless him.

The Ghost of Grimmauld Place

Chapter Eight

Wednesday 19th August 1970

Potter Manor, Hermione's Room

Hermione awoke to an insistent scraping and tapping at her door, like every other morning. The sun had risen perhaps two hours before, shining cheerfully through the parted drapes half-heartedly concealing her window, lighting the gleaming hardwood floor in a path straight to Hermione's face. Sleep-drunk, still, she flung a hand over her eyes and groaned for the disturbance which would not stop.

She had been at Potter Manor for a month now, the month she had originally promised Dorea after their emotional encounter in the Morning Room the day after her arrival. The days were filled with demonstrations of family life; affection and teachings from Dorea, who had taken to her role as Mother like a duck to water, whose instruction of Hermione in all things 'pure-blood Potter' were interspersed with rides around the grounds on the backs of Thestrals – "the best magical horses," Dorea claimed, "strong, loyal and loving" – and time spent in the ladies parlour playing games and listening to stories of Dorea's own childhood. She was also subject to endless dry jokes and lectures from Charlus, who took great pleasure in educating her on any topic under the sun, all of which she listened to avidly with the thirst for knowledge that so characterised her.

It was the time she spent with James that stayed with her, though, memories of their time together somewhat making up for the increasingly large gaps she found in her own mind. He was a playful child, often laying traps and pranks on her around the house, but preferring when they could work together on a project – his mischief combined with her innate intelligence making them a formidable pair. More than once Charlus had found the furniture of his study stuck to the ceiling, a changed colour, or on one occasion moved two-point-five inches to the left (that one had been Hermione's idea, and they had hidden behind a tapestry to observe Charlus banging his ankles into every piece of furniture, swearing up a storm with no idea what had occurred).

They were nine and ten years old, nowhere near proficient in magic but competent at controlling their accidental outbursts – something James' parents had taught him from the very first, skills which seemed to come naturally to Hermione and was blamed on her natural discipline (though she knew better). They messed about in abandoned suites, hunting for treasure, playing hide-and-seek and tag across the polished floors of the ballroom. They rough-housed with Monty, and James introduced her to the working dogs that lived in the stables; one male and two females, all Muggle sheepdogs, trained to rid the grounds of gnomes but equally happy to take a few hours out for fetch and wrestling.

Hermione thought she had never been so dirty in her life as she had gotten this past month, nor quite as happy as she felt running headlong through the forest at the back of their property, hand in hand with James until they fell, at speed, into the river that separated the wild trees from the carefully cultivated orchard, coming up for air laughing and spluttering with mud in their shoes and fish down their shirts.

Every-time they referred to one another as 'sister' or 'brother', Dorea would smile a little more and Charlus would send his wife soft-eyed expressions of a father's satisfaction.

Still, there were no guarantees, as Hermione knew too well. Today she would decide whether she should stay with them or find accommodations elsewhere. If she chose to stay with them, she knew they could send her away on a whim. She felt like family, but there was a wedge between them, thin but existent. Her brown hair and eyes reminded her whom she was and was not as she looked in the mirror. Her skin tone so much darker than Dorea's porcelain, a few shades lighter than James and Charlus'. It wasn't just a question of whether she'd like to stay with them – the answer to which would be a resounding 'yes' – but whether she could trust them with herself.

The scratching at the door had grown louder, which wasn't a sign that they had grown more impatient, but rather that James had gotten on his knees to join in. Hermione rolled her eyes at his antics, but was unable to surpress the smile that twitched her lips. He was so impatient, her brother, couldn't wait for anything for more than ten minutes without wreaking havoc.

"Get up, lazy!" he shouted as if to punctuate the point, Monty barking along.

"I'm awake!" she shouted, laughter thrumming in her voice. It had taken her a few days to get used to the change in her voice, and now she barely blinked at the difference. It was like that with other things, too – the more time she spent with James, the more comfortable she was in her nine-year-old body, doing childish things. He brought out the bits of her personality she had thought buried, the parts that craved excitement and mischief. She didn't know for sure, but she had a sneaking suspicion that in her old life there hadn't had much call for fun and games.

Slipping from her bed, she pulled her robe to her and slung it around her shoulders. In the mirror above the bureau she checked that she was decent, patting down her curls as if that could make them any tamer (which it would not, would never) before crossing to the door.

It swung open at her touch, spilling James into the room. Monty, ever the opportunist, yelped excitedly and burrowed his way under the boy's shirt, twin tails whirring with glee. James gave a shout, his arms flailing helplessly, but Monty was too comfortable in his new home, his entire body disguised by the folds of material, all but the tails that continued to thud out a perky tune on James's rump.

"You know better," Hermione scolded him through giggles. Monty was only a puppy, and while he'd been house-trained, nobody had yet been able to teach him manners. The little crup had a weakness for small, dark spaces and human body heat, so if the two were offered in one neat package, he just couldn't help himself. In the time Hermione had been resident here, she'd found him in her laundry basket twice, her bed every night for a week, and even after a stern warning Monty still tried to crawl up her skirt when she was sat down.

"Get 'im off! 'Mione! Help!" James shouted through a mouthful of rug, flailing his arms. Monty held strong, causing Hermione to laugh ever harder. The little crup buried his nose in James' neck, making the boy squeak most manfully at the sensation. Hermione, feeling like the torture had run its course, kneeled to help drag the thin material of his pyjama shirt up. Monty squirmed in displeasure, more so when she dug her hands beneath his belly and pulled, turning his head to peer at her confusedly.

"You know you're not supposed to do that," she said in the firmest voice she could manage, which was, sadly, not very firm at all. "James doesn't like it."

Monty's nose twitched as she lifted him in the air, then he flexed his body and squirmed around, reaching up to lick her on the nose. She smiled for him, and he yapped happily. James scrambled up from the floor, pulling his pyjama shirt down with a scowl. "Bloody dog," he said with affection, reaching out to scratch his ears. Then his face turned more serious, looking up at Hermione. "Today's the day."

Today was, indeed, the day. She sighed, setting Monty down on her bed, where he burrowed beneath the dishevelled covers until only his nose was visible, poking out the end of the duvet. His split-tails disturbed the covers slightly as they tapped against the mattress, but otherwise he was near-invisible. "Look, James-"

"Hermione," he interrupted, looking much older than his ten years as he stared down at her. "I want you to stay."

She frowned. "It's not that easy." It wasn't, she told herself firmly, though by now she was trying to convince herself just as much as she was James.

"Of course it is," James pouted, confused that she would even try to disagree. "You're my sister, and I want you to stay."

"But, your parents-"

"Mum and Dad," he stressed. "Mum and Dad want you to stay, too. We all do. You're family, and if you leave me, I'll…" He cast around for a suitable threat, before grinning brightly. "I'll cry!"

She gave him a little bemused smile to mask her faltering resolve. "You said only yesterday that boys don't cry."

He shrugged, not at all ashamed. "If you leave me, I will. And I'll scream. Probably break some stuff, too."

Snorting a laugh, she watched him smile back at her. "You're so spoiled, James."

Apparently sensing some chink in her armour, he backed up to flop down on the bed. "I know," he replied smugly, folding his arms beneath his head. He looked so very small, even starfished out. His limbs were gangly and thin, his hair so desperately messy she felt the need to attack him with a comb, despite knowing that her attempts would be futile. The Potters had as much magic in their hair as she did, and like hers being bushy, theirs liked to be messy. There was no getting around that. He twisted over onto his stomach to watch her with big, hazel eyes. "I get what I want and I want you to stay."

Hermione smiled softly, though she was frozen inside. Panic rose through her limbs, and she knew why. She wanted to stay. She wanted it more than she'd wanted anything else in her life, at least, than she could remember wanting anything. Spending years trapped in the Ministry waiting for advances to be made in time-travel theory sounded interesting, but cold. Empty. No amount of research could take the place of a family – especially not this family, with their laughter, affectionate hugs, loud arguments and louder love. Growing up with James would be a gift, she knew. He was sweet and loyal as much as he was spoiled and stubborn. A tantrum or two didn't detract from the time they spent together when everything just seemed to synchronise.

But he was a little boy, he'd move on to the next big thing soon enough. If she left he would be sad for a few days, and then Charlus would bring him a new puppy and he'd forget all about Hermione. If she stayed, Merlin knew how long he'd appreciate her presence before that soured into resentment for the girl who stole his parent's time and attention.

Plus, there was something in Hermione's head telling her to leave. It got louder every day, and while she couldn't quite decipher its message, she could feel its terror at the idea of her assimilating herself into this time, with these people. It wasn't her instincts, more her conscience, though she had no clue why her conscience would weigh in on this issue. She wasn't hurting anybody by being here, was she?

Whether she was or wasn't was moot, anyway. Her conscience wasn't the problem. She could pretend it was, but it wasn't. Mostly, she was just scared, and she was lion enough to admit that… at least, to herself.

James was watching her from where he laid on her bed, waiting for her to come back to the real world. Once she focused back on him, he smiled. "Mum made crȇpes," he sang, then pulled a disgusted face, "Dad's been squeezing fresh lemons all morning. I think they're trying to bribe you."

She fastened her robe more securely. "Why didn't you say so earlier? Bribery is much more successful than emotional blackmail, James, you know that."

"So you'll stay?" He hopped off the bed with a grin.

"I didn't say that. It'll take a lot more than pancakes to convince me."

"More crȇpes?" Dorea asked, pushing the serving dish towards Hermione. James lunged forward and took another three, humming happily as he spread melted chocolate over the top, industriously avoiding Dorea's scolding eye. "James!"

"No, thank-you, Mrs. Potter," Hermione demurred, laying her cutlery parallel on her plate and licking the remains of lemon and sugar from her top lip. "I think eight is enough, really."

The older woman clucked but let it go, starting to clear the dining table. Usually, one of the elves would take the job, but it was obvious that this morning they were playing to their audience – hiding the elves that made Hermione so inexplicably uncomfortable, instead working on breakfast as a family. Dorea had to wrestle the little pot of melted chocolate from James's grubby mitts, plying him with the last of the strawberries before he would release his prize. Charlus chuckled from the top of the table, ducking away from Dorea's chiding slap when she realised he wasn't helping.

Hermione got up to help only to be pushed back into her chair. "Don't worry about it," Dorea said, a hand patting the young girl's shoulder. "This is your breakfast."

"Oh, Mrs. Potter, you shouldn't have -"

"But we did, so now you'll have to live with that." Charlus told her, popping a blueberry into his mouth while Dorea wasn't looking. "It's your day, Hermione, whatever you choose to do. And, please, if you can't call me 'dad', please call me Charlus."

She wasn't sure she could do that, she'd been raised to have too much respect for authority figures to dare call them by their first name. Just the thought sent her cheeks flagging red, her tongue felt too big for her mouth. "I can't do that, Mr. Potter," she said shyly, staring down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. She heard him let out a gusty sigh before he spoke again.

"Will you come with me, please, Hermione?"

Her head shot up to scan his face. It was inscrutable, but his eyes were kind. Dorea had paused her bustling to stare at her husband. He held up a hand, holding Hermione's stare. "Please."

James's head swivelled between Hermione and Charlus as if he were watching a tennis match, waiting for one of them to break. Hermione held her breath. Terror ripped through her chest. Was that the final straw? Were they sending her away now, without giving her a choice? Because she wouldn't call him by name? But that would be ridiculous – she was only being respectful! They were high-class people, they would understand that. It must be something else, and there were plenty of offenses to choose from: she was too messy, too bossy, too lazy. She'd waited too long, given them too much hell, they didn't want her anymore, she was too late. Tears welled up behind her eyes.

Nodding, she deposited her handkerchief on the table and followed Charlus out of the room, up the stairs and across to a room beside the library without making eye-contact with anybody. This was humiliating, that they knew what was going on. Would she get to say good-bye, or would he just hustle her out the back door? She saw a little wrinkly face out of the corner of her eye and another possibility occurred to her – was it because she didn't like the elves? Oh, gods…

He held the door open for her to go through, passing under his arm without even ducking. She felt more and more small, young, with each passing day, and she knew she needed someone to look after her – it could have been the Potters, but she had been too stubborn, too over-protective of herself, and now that chance was slipping away.

"Take a seat, Hermione. We need to talk."

She hustled over to the chair that faced the desk, hopping up and folding her hands on her knees, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her chin was raised, watching Charlus closely as he settled across from her in his worn leather chair. If he had made his choice, she would accept it. She wasn't going to sacrifice her dignity by shouting or bawling. She was a Gryffindor, and a grown woman, despite her small frame.

His hazel eyes moved across her face, seeming to drink in every feature. There was something unfathomably sad there, disappointed.

"You're not staying, are you?" he asked, but it was phrased more like a statement. Confusion whirled through her, pushing back the tears. Was that him letting her down easily? Or was he talking about her decision again? "Hermione," he said gently, bringing her attention back to him. He smiled again, sadly. "Talk to me. What are you thinking?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, perplexed. What was he asking? "I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand."

Charlus frowned, leaning his elbow on the desk, chin in hand. Somehow, despite him being an undeniably imposing presence, sitting behind that desk he still looked like a kid playing adult. Charlus Potter just wasn't the sort of man to spend his life behind a desk. "You're holding back, sweetheart. I need to know why. It's only fair, after all, that we know why you're rejecting us."

"Rejecting you?" she reared back in shock. "I'm not rejecting you!"

"You don't want to be our daughter," Charlus pointed out.

"Of course I do," she responded quickly, without a single thought. "You're wonderful, of course I want to be your daughter."

Charlus's mouth ticked up, but his eyes remained untouched by mirth. "Then why are you rejecting us? No, my dear, you can't argue with that. You can't even call me by name."

Hermione crossed her arms defensively. "I can too, Mr. Potter."

"There you go again. Are you so uncomfortable here that you dare not call us by anything other than our titles? I've let it pass this past month, thinking you'll relax about it, but here we are, the morning of your decision and nothing has changed. You're holding back."

"And if I am?" Hermione bit her tongue, wincing. She wanted to be quiet, just let him give her the speech and send her away, but it wasn't in her to do so. She was a fighter.

Charlus shook his head sadly. "Then I suppose there's no point in continuing. We asked you to be open to us. You've resolutely kept yourself closed, which is as big a sign as any that this won't work out. So, what I'm going to do, is write a letter to the Ministry." He pulled a sheaf of parchment onto his blotter, uncorked an inkwell and coated the nib of a ruby-red quill. "I'll send it straight to Mr. Donovan, he's the head of the Department of Mysteries. He'll take you in, make sure you're comfortable, and you won't have to see us ever again." He glanced up, face blank. "You'll be out of here by the end of the day."

Frozen, Hermione could only stare. She hadn't expected that – any of that. She realised she hadn't really thought they'd send her away, either. For all of her fear and concern, they had always been there, reassuring her, acting as a safety net. It was all well and good for her to play it up in her mind, to hold onto that terror, but now that it was becoming real… She realised she hadn't truly believed it.

And now here Charlus was, all ready to send her away. She must have done something awful to trigger it – something larger than refusing to say their names. It was clear that Charlus considered that but a symptom of a larger problem.

She thought back; Dorea and Charlus had made it clear over the past month that they would adore her as their daughter. They craved a daughter so badly it was nearly painful for them. Over the past four weeks they had pulled her further and further into the fold with a desperation no one could miss, not even the blind. Dorea had asked her every day to call her 'mum'. Charlus had held her as she cried for her lost life twice.

The evidence revealed itself slowly, showing Hermione that it was, in fact, her that held back. Her that backed away a step for every two she took forward. Her that buried herself in a book whenever things got emotion. She that looked away from Dorea when the older woman watched her with affection. Charlus was right. And now, the idea that she had hurt them so badly with her actions shattered her inside. "Mr. Potter-"

"Charlus," he corrected sharply, his eyes like ice. Hermione swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat, trying that out.

"Ch… Charlus," she mouthed every syllable exaggeratedly, unable to resist a wince. Charlus's face softened though, looking marginally more approachable. "I'm so sorry," she continued, widening her eyes to hold back her tears. "I didn't mean to hurt you, or Mrs.- Dorea. I just…" she flinched involuntarily, her eyes gliding off to one side. "This is the sort of thing I do, and I can't help it. It hurts people, I hurt people, accidentally but it happens all the same. You'd get tired of it, they always do.

"I can't remember much, but I know that I hurt my parents back… then, whenever or wherever it was. I had no friends, very little family. At night I dream of being trapped in an empty room, starved and lost, the way I would be if you sent me away and I couldn't… I just can't take that risk." Salty, stinging tears rolled out from her eyes and down her cheeks.

Charlus took her hand, tugging her forward until she was out of her chair and stood in front of him. "Hermione, dear. We've been over this." He shook his head. "People don't love you in spite of your flaws, sweetheart, they love you because of them. And we do. We love you already. Sending you away would hurt more than anything you could possibly do while here – short of murdering us, probably." Hermione let out a watery chuckle, tapping him lightly on his shoulder in reprimand. He pulled her under his arm, squeezing her in a hug.

"Look, Hermione, we do love you. You're a part of this family we didn't even realise we needed until you appeared. However… we can't spend the rest of our lives trying to prove it to you to keep you from running. It's not fair, not on any of us." Pulling her back, he set his hands on her shoulders and kneeled on the ground, setting their faces at an equal height. His eyes were a tumultuous swirl of muddy green, showing a warning even before he said his next words.

"You need to take a leap of faith, Hermione. We can't do anything more to convince you – this needs to be your choice. Either you trust us, or you don't." He tapped her on the nose gently. "I'm afraid I'll need to hurry you on that, too. What will it be?"

Shuffling her feet, she frowned even as a determination formed in her brain. "I told James I wouldn't bow to emotional blackmail," she scolded lightly, and was rewarded with a smile.

"Ah, yes, but James is only ten. I'm much older, and much better at it." He grinned widely, transforming him into an older version of James in the throes of mischief. "What'll it be? I warn you now, little girl, if you leave me, I'll cry."

She couldn't hold back the laughter.