Chapter Thirteen - Friends, Foes and Faringdon
Home. A word that Hermione Granger could now legitimately apply to two places.
The first place to hold that distinction, her parents home in Oxfordshire, appeared out of the window of her families car as it rounded the corner into Highworth Road.
The family home was typical of those in the market town she had lived in all her life; quaint, brick built, two story buildings. In number fifteens case, painted cream with Ivy growing round the ground floor bay window.
As her mother guided the family car onto the gravel driveway and up to the wooden garage door to the side of the main house, Hermione caught sight of their eccentric neighbours home, complete with turret, which returned her thoughts to the second place that could now hold the title of home from home; Hogwarts.
And it had only taken a mountain troll to make it so.
oOo
Hermione had been holed up in the girls bathroom all afternoon of the day of the Halloween feast, crying. It was an activity she found herself partaking in more and more often in recent weeks.
More often than she cared to admit to herself, or anyone else for that matter.
Harry, was cold and distant, despite the progress she thought she had been making after the midnight duel affair, and Ron Weasley was just downright confrontational.
As for her other classmates, so caught up had she been in her attempts to get closer to Harry, that they mostly didn't even acknowledge she existed. They had all had formed their own little clicks and groups without her.
Even Neville Longbottom, who had followed her like a shadow for much of the first week, didn't go out of his way to speak with her anymore.
Friendless and lonely, Hermione found herself, more often than not, sat alone with her homework in the common room, retiring to bed either first or last, so as not to have her nose rubbed in what she did not have - Friends.
It wasn't like she wasn't used to the rude comments about being a know-it-all, or a teachers pet. She had, after all, suffered much the same treatment during her muggle education. But for some reason, when those same snide remarks came from Harry's best friend, Ron Weasley, they cut much more deeply, and she seemed incapable of turning the other cheek.
She had been only trying to help him after all - correcting his pronunciation for the levitation charm, Wingardium Leviosa, during Professor Flitwicks charm class. She was quite accomplished at the spell, but the red heads retort had been biting;
"It's no wonder no one can stand her," he had said to Harry as they filed out of class. "She's a nightmare, honestly."
Hermione had felt the all too familiar sensation of tears prickling the inside of her eyelids, the realisation sinking in that it wasn't Ron Weasley's comments that hurt her so, rather, that Harry was hardly jumping to her defence.
Determined not to give Ronald Weasley the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to tears, she bolted for the bathroom, knocking into Harry as she fled.
There she had stayed for the remainder of the day, because whilst she loathed the thought of missing classes, every time she thought she had her volatile emotions under control, and her face no longer looked blotchy and red, she would feel the sting of fresh hot tears bubbling to the surface once more.
"What's wrong with me?" she had half sobbed, half bellowed, as she sat in the locked compartment, her question both related to her current condition, but also her inability to make a connection with Harry, or anyone else for that matter.
A few times during the afternoon, some of the other girls in her year, perhaps out of some sense of female comradely, poked their heads around the bathroom door. But Hermione, in no mood to be mollycoddled, asked them, in a tone that bore an uncomfortable similarity to Moaning Myrtle, to leave her alone.
Finally, and only when her wrist watch indicated that the rest of the school would be at the Halloween feast, did she unlock the door to her cubical, and make for the exit, her eyes downcast. Her intention to make her way directly to the Gryffindor dormitory, hoping to avoid meeting anyone on the way.
Hermione had always scoffed at actresses who, in the face of grave, on-screen danger, never ran, or tried to defend themselves - instead, they always screamed.
She would never scoff again, for as she exited her cubical, wiping the tears from her lashes, she came face to face (or more accurately face to knee) with a towering mountain troll.
The piercing scream that tore from her lips would have made even the most tacky Hollywood B-list movie director proud.
Her wild eyes darted between the trolls dim, unintelligent eyes, which were roving around the room attempting to located the sound of her terrified screams, and the enormous wooden club it held in it's hand. It looked like it could crush her easily.
Shrinking into the far corner, she groped blindly for her wand with shaking hands, but found them unable to do her bidding, as all the while, the troll lumbered nearer.
I'm going to die, she realised grimly.
The sound of a tile splintering stopped both the troll and Hermione's morbid thoughts in their tracks; the troll's tiny head spinning around stupidly to locate the source of the distraction.
Following it's gaze Hermione found the source of it's confusion. Stood behind one of it's tree truck sized legs stood the a diminutive figure dressed in student robes. His green eyes determined and set.
Harry.
Despite everything, Harry and Ron had come to her rescue.
oOo
In retrospect, becoming their friends had been ridiculously easy - she had simply stopped trying.
She hadn't lied to professor McGonagall about her role in the incident in an attempt to manipulate Harry and Ron into liking her, merely that she didn't want to see them punished after they had risked their own lives in an attempt to save hers. It was, she reflected, a very Gryffindor thing to do, and that sense of belonging had filled her with pride.
Since the incident the trio had become close friends, and rarely was one seen around the castle without the other two being close by.
So close in fact that she was loathed to leave them behind during the holidays. But she had already decided following the revelations of the last few weeks to make one final attempt to locate the Other Hermione to ask for advice.
It seemed obvious now that Professor Snape had let the mountain troll into the castle to create a diversion whilst he attempted to steal whatever Fluffy, the ridiculously named, three headed pet dog that belonged to Hagrid, was guarding.
Even with her earlier suspicions regarding Snape, she hadn't wanted to believe, perhaps through some deep seated respect for authority figures, that a teacher, even one as hostile as Snape, would so willingly place his students in danger. Those misgivings had been quickly dispelled during the first Quidditch game of the year, during which Hermione only narrowly prevented him from killing Harry by setting fire to his robes, as he had attempted to jinx Harry's broom.
The real question was, why? What was Snape doing cursing Harry if he was after what lay under the trap door? Surely drawing attention to himself like that was unwise, at best, if he were attempting to steal whatever was being hidden in the castle.
They had already made some headway on that front, but, if she was honest, they had only succeeded in posing more questions than they had answered. Hagrid had let slip that Fluffy was indeed guarding something; something Hermione needed to discover if she hoped to keep Harry alive; something that was very important to a man named Nicolas Flamel.
But aside from the name they had learnt nothing else about the illusive Flamel, despite spending every spare moment in the library researching him.
Hermione was leaving her boys as she had come to think of them, with instructions to continue their, so far unsuccessful, research into Flamel whilst she was away. Truthfully she wanted to stay and help, but with everything that was happening at the school she desperately needed to talk to the Other Hermione. If she could even find her that was.
So much was different in this time line now. Her elder self had never mentioned anyone, even in passing, by the name of Flamel, and she was certain the Other Hermione would not have forgotten to mention a troll attack, or an attempt by Snape on Harry's life if it had happened in her time. The only logical conclusion therefore was that none of these things had occurred. Which meant Hermione was fighting blind.
oOo
Her Father heaved her heavy trunk, laden as it was with several school library books; books she intended to use to continue her own research into Flamel over the holidays.
Hermione's Mother fumbled with the large bunch of keys she always carried, half of which didn't fit any lock they still owned as far as Hermione knew, finally succeeding in unlocking the front door. Several loud grunts accompanied her Fathers appearance alongside them at the threshold of number fifteen as he manhandled the heavy case.
As the door swung open, Hermione caught a scent she would always associate with home; spearmint toothpaste. She felt her lips quirk into an involuntary smile.
"Everything all right dear?" questioned her Mother over the muttered complaints of her Father as he wrestled the overloaded trunk over the doorstep.
"Just pleased to home Mum." Hermione replied honestly.
Truth be known, she had wanted to run straight to the town library to re-start her hunt for clues into her elder selfs disappearance immediately, but it was clear that her parents were missing their only child desperately (and, in all honesty she, them) so it was several days after her trip home on the Hogwarts Express that she was able to pay a visit to her old haunt.
On December the twenty-third, her Father announced that he had some 'last minute' things to pick up in town. Hermione snorted into the mug of tea she had been nursing, whilst her Mother rolled her eyes in a knowing, long suffering, sort of way.
Hermione couldn't recall a single holiday season where her father didn't rush out in a frantic panic to do some, or more truthfully, all, of his Christmas shopping.
Never-the-less they both agreed to go with him. Mostly because they were both keen to get out of the house, so poor had the weather been since her return from school that the family had been all but housebound for the last few days.
But whilst it was no longer pouring with rain, or 'a frog strangling gully washer' as her Father had colourfully described the sheer volume of water deposited over their little corner of the country, it was still bitterly cold.
So having elected to walk the short distance to the small shopping street in the centre of town, the Granger's wrapped up warm against the piercing chill of the late December day, and ventured out, looking twice their normal size under several layers of thick winter clothing.
As they ambled along the pavements they passed several very familiar landmarks. Her old primary school, her parents practise, and the town's library, complete with twenty foot high Christmas tree.
The lights inside were turned off making Hermione's heart sink until she noted the opening hours board indicating shortened hours during the holidays - it would open only after lunch today. In spite of herself, and knowing full well the unlikelihood of sighting her doppelgänger, Hermione found her eyes raking the darkened bay window, searching, unsuccessfully for the familiar shock of grey hair of her counterpart.
As they turned onto the high street everything looked exactly the same as it did every Christmas in the narrow streets of the oldest part of town. But equally completely different; Smaller somehow.
The towns shops and main street had been decorated with their usual coloured lights and trinkets, and the townsfolk bustled about doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Hermione even caught a glimpse of one of the locally famous dyed Pigeons - bright pink - as they walked past the antiques shop window.
As she expected, her Father's 'last minute things to pick up' turned out to be a very extensive list, their arms growing increasingly laden with gifts and bags from various stores around the town, and, as usual, he was less than subtle when it came to their own gifts.
He had ordered Hermione and her Mother to remain outside an expensive boutique that specialized in perfumes twenty minutes ago, and had done so again now that they had reached the tantalising warmth of the doorway to the towns book store "Why don't I just come in with you and tell you what I want." Hermione called out to her Father's retreating back as he made his way inside, feigning deafness.
"Well I shan't be standing out here in this cold again." Hermione would have believed that her Mother was angry had she not been smiling as she spoke. "Shall we?" she added indicating the small tea room located at the back of the store.
Hermione eagerly agreed.
oOo
"Len!" called a voice Hermione recognised an hour later as the frozen family made their way back home through the meandering streets, weighed down with packages.
Turning on the spot looking back towards the town square Hermione caught sight of the owner of the voice. Her 'uncle' Gideon emerging from the local public house - The Bell.
Gideon Boswell was Hermione's Father's oldest friend, having grown up in Faringdon together. He was a slightly portly man with blond hair that now showed a few flecks of grey at the temples and a rather boisterous grin that often made him look like he was up to no good.
Mr Boswell no longer lived in the town, but Hermione knew his parents still did and surmised he must be visiting over the holidays. All her life she had been encouraged to call him 'Uncle', despite sharing no family with him. It hadn't occurred to her to mind before, but now, approaching her teens, it's seemed somehow less appropriate, and was a practise she intended to cease.
Not that she disliked Gideon. Far from it. She had always enjoyed his irreverent, somewhat juvenile humour At least in small doses.
"Gid!" exclaimed her Father, beaming as he caught sight of his old friend too.
The two shook hands, somewhat awkwardly thanks to odd shaped packages held precariously under arms, before Gideon embraced her Mother, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
" - and bless me! Is this little Mione?" he added, regarding Hermione.
"Hello Mr Boswell." she said smiling sweetly, trying not to let her annoyance at being called 'little' show on her face.
"Mr Boswell's my Father." he stated, although he didn't sound cross. "Call me Gideon." he added, showing more perception to a twelve year olds concerns than she had given him credit for. "Fancy coming inside for a swift one Len?" Gideon continued smoothly without missing a beat, nodding his head in the direction of the pub he had just vacated.
Hermione followed his line of sight; the pub did look very warm and cosy. For a brief moment she wanted nothing more than to warm up beside the roaring fire she could make out through the leaded window, but her thoughts quickly returned to the library and her reason for coming home for the holidays. She couldn't afford not to go today; the library would be shut tomorrow.
Some of this must have shown on her face, for her Mother, glancing in her direction began to decline the invitation.
"Mum and Dad are inside, they'd been thrilled to see you all." Gideon interrupted. Apparently he didn't want to take no for an answer,
"Well - " began her Father, mulling over the offer.
"Actually," interjected Hermione, realising that she wouldn't be able to spend as long as she wanted to in the library if her parents tagged along. "You go. I need to pop to the Library."
Gideon clapped her Father on the shoulder. "It's a done deal then."
A goofy grin, that Hermione only ever saw on her Fathers face when he and his old school friend were together, spread across his features. It was an expression that meant Hermione had no trouble believing the tall tales of mischief that Gideon had retold of their mis-spent youth.
Her Mother was regarding her with an entirely different expression. It said very clearly, what could a young witch possibly want to study at a muggle library?
She shifted slightly uncomfortably under the scrutiny but was spared further interrogation by Gideon wrapping his arm around her Father shoulder and offering the crook of his arm to her Mother. " Come on you two," he said amiably as he began to steer them away. "Don't want to stand in the way of the smartest kid I've ever known and her books."
"Go straight home after the library dear." called her Mother back to her. "We'll be back for dinner." she added, although her expression bore testament that that was more a hope than an expectation.
Hermione shouted her agreement and her goodbyes to her parents retreating backs before she hurried off in the other direction.
oOo
The fluorescent lights that spilled out of the large curved window at the front of the library lit the several steps of the library's front entrance adequately in the gloom of the winter day, allowing her to bound up them confidently.
Pushing the double doors aside Hermione entered the familiar, and blessedly warm space. A Christmas tree, far smaller than the real one outside, adorned the front desk, it's twinkling lights passing odd patterns over the face of the librarian who acknowledged Hermione with a single nod of her head.
Turning left, she approached 'their' spot, noting with a sinking feeling that the space was unoccupied.
The realist in her had expect as much but the reality was still something of a blow.
Hermione flopped down into one of the red plastic chairs, which had faded to a pale pink in the near constant sunlight of the southerly facing window.
Depositing herself with slightly more force than she intended she felt something slip from her pocket onto the floor - her wand. She had taken to carrying it everywhere, even though she was very aware she was not permitted to perform any magic outside of school. As she bent to pick it up, her peripheral vision caught sight of something stuck to the underside of the table.
A folded piece of parchment.
A note!
Her heart leapt from where it had settled in her stomach, right into her throat, where it began beating painfully.
Hands trembling slightly she retrieved the folded note, and smoothed it open on the table top.
Dearest Hermione,
She recognised instantly the neat penmanship of her own hand. Or rather that of her elder self.
I write this knowing I have little time remaining to me; certain that I will not be around to answer all the questions you will desire answers to. I am dying -
Hermione paused. She had always suspected her elder self was hiding something in regards to her health. Occasionally Hermione had caught sight of a pained expression or sharp intake of breath from the elder woman, but had always had her enquiries to her condition brushed aside with a pithy retort;
"If you don't have any aches and pains when you get to my age, you can think yourself lucky." The Other Hermione had often joked.
Returning her attention to the note she read on;
- I'm not even sure I could offer you any certainty, even if I could be with you.
Our actions in changing the time line can not occur within a vacuum - there are, and must be, consequences. No doubt by now you have already notice subtle differences from the events as I have recalled them.
Some not so subtle, Hermione mused as she read, recalling Snapes attempt on Harry's life.
Accordingly my foreknowledge can no longer be relied upon as it once was.
I hoped I would be around long enough to offer you some degree of guidance, but perhaps it is better this way.
I know this will offer you little comfort, but know this; you are a remarkable, talented and intelligent witch, but you also posses something I never had at your age - a willingness to take a leap of faith. Trust in your instincts; do what feels right.
You are the chosen one Hermione - trust in yourself and your destiny will be fulfilled.
I meet my end, safe in the knowledge that Voldermort will soon suffer the same fate.
Take care young one,
Love
H
Hermione dried her eyes on the back of her palms before re-reading the note several times. But no matter which way she looked at it, only one thing could be said with certainty; her mentor was dead. She was on her own.
No. Not on your own. You have Ron and Harry. Together you can achieve anything.
The inner voice spoke to her in the tone of the snide companion she had learnt to live with over the past few months, but for once it offered encouragement, not torment.
Refolding to note and slipping into the back pocket of her jeans, Hermione stood, squared her shoulders, and strode purposefully from the library, certain she would never return there again. There were no answers here anymore.
If there was answers to be found, they would be sought in the magical world.
A/N We shan't be back with the younger Hermione for a while, as the next couple of chapters focus on AU Hermione back in 1984. The next chapter is called 'The Boy at Number Four' so we get to meet four year old Harry!
I own nothing.