A/N - After such consistent droughts, I didn't think I'd post again so soon. But, I had it ready, and the reviewer Chloe inspired me. Thank you for all the kind words from all my reviewers! To the guest who paraphrased Dumbledore and Snape's exchange, ~heart eye emoji~.

Chapter 18 - Confidence

Hermione finished up her letters to both Ron and Harry, and tied them to the waiting owls. She didn't have much to tell them, but felt like she was doing due diligence in her communications. Even if she did feel like she was dropping stones into an endless pit, as they never responded. She wasn't even sure if Harry received her letters, but she knew Ron did.

Slackers. She sighed, knowing that she probably missed them more than they missed her. She just felt so… cut off.

The young witch knew it wasn't healthy, being in a bubble at home, alone with her thoughts. Every summer made her time at Hogwarts seem a little like a dream. She didn't witness any magic except her own, and even then rarely. After all, underage students weren't allowed to do magic, technically, though Professor McGonagall had long ago made an agreement with the ministry that, "the most promising young witch of a generation should not be allowed to get rusty simply because she is not from a wizarding family." Thus, as long as she was alone, in her room, and around no other witches, wizards, or muggles, she could practice spells she had been rightfully taught at Hogwarts.

Hermione wondered if the spells Bellatrix had taught her counted as "rightfully taught". She doubted they did, and didn't really want to find out via a ministry official knocking on her door.

Just as she was thinking about this, there was an actual knock at the door. The young witch hurried to put her wand out of sight, only pulling it back out again quickly to re-transfigure her new dragon figurine back into a stack of parchment. She was putting the wand back in the drawer of her desk when her mother walked in.

"Hermione, dear. Could you please run a few errands for me today? I was planning on doing them, but had forgotten I was to spend time with Mrs. Branburn next door."

Mrs. Branburn was Hermione's elderly neighbor, and her lack of physical sight or hearing was compensated by her ESP for gossip and drama. Hermione's mother spent time with her every week so the teen was not sure how the older woman had forgotten. She figured it was probably another ploy to get her daughter out of the house, but really, she needed a reason to go. If she couldn't be in the land of magic, she should at least join the land of the muggles.

Six stops later, to dry cleaning, the butcher, the bakery (that one was ok), the post office, and on and seemingly on, Hermione had to wonder what she had been thinking. She enjoyed walking around and even taking the tube, but this was getting ridiculous. The young witch decided to entertain herself imagining apparating to and from locations, where she'd need to do it to avoid being seen, what else she'd be able to do once she was of age in two years.

I'll be able to apparate to all these places, hope I don't splinch myself… I'll be able to drink fire whiskey, prob won't want to do that… Ooh, can help mum with the housework using magic, she'll enjoy that… Can accio Dad's slippers so I don't have to keep fetching them… Can have sex with grown-ups…

She immediately flushed, unsure of why she'd thought of that last one, or in those terms. She technically could sneak off and have sex now, just like some of her peers, even though she wasn't interested in anyone like that. Anyone else not of age, that is.

Hermione became so flustered by her own line of thinking that in her attempts to bring her mind to heel, she wandered the lanes with a total lack of directional thinking. When she finally stopped to try to get a grip on herself, she realized that she was not anywhere near her next destination. She recognized some of the local shops, however, and realized she was very near the book shop her mother had sent her to on her last outing.

Not one to pass up a clear message from the universe, Hermione decided to take a detour to visit the little bookseller. As she was approaching the shopfront, she noticed a familiar-looking motion at the other end of the block. Squinting, Hermione saw ahead of her a jet-black set of long curls swaying hypnotically atop an unknown person. She didn't spare a thought, but hurried after the person, hoping beyond hope that it was who she thought it was.

By the time the young witch reached the far corner, the person was gone. Scanning the remaining people, Hermione was frantic to spot the curls again, while at the same time berating herself.

There is no way that was her. We are in the middle of muggle London, and she wouldn't be caught dead here. She's off doing Voldemort's bidding, surely. If she were even here, what would she be up to? Not looking for me. Probably finding muggles to torture. It wasn't her. There are other people with that kind of hair. I mean, half of London's rock bands in the 80's had her hair. There is no way that was her.

Hermione's academic and logical line of reasoning was strong, but it couldn't penetrate the other part of her brain that was listening to her heart and gut and fingertips and breath, all telling her that had been her beloved Professor Black.

She took a deep breath and retraced her steps to Persephone Books, where she forced herself to peruse the shelves for a solid 30 minutes.

Interestingly, she did not have to force herself to return to the shop the next day, at about the same time. Nor the next day or the day after that. Hermione's mother went from being quite pleased that her daughter was getting out of the house to wondering what nefarious schemes she was up to each day. Only when Hermione brought home a new book every few days did she begin to believe her alibi.

For her part, Hermione had taken to sitting in the shop for hours, reading and eventually buying. It was the latter habit that allowed her to stay in the shopkeeper's good graces, that and her ability to converse knowledgeably on a wide variety of topics. She was certainly not the typical teenage girl, and the shopkeeper had the good sense to keep plying her with good books. But, aside from the random customers and occasional readers, Hermione and the woman who worked there were each other's only company. No raven-haired woman showed up, at least none with the dark, brooding eyes and confident swagger that Hermione was seeking.

And what would you do if she DID walk in through that door? Hermione wondered to herself one afternoon as she was preparing to leave her house again. It's not like she'd be happy to see you, or like you could just pick up the magic lessons and pretend nothing had happened. She shook her head at her own thoughts, and picked up the plant book.

Nothing had been written back, and there were just Hermione's last words on the fresh, white paper.

"I know you want me to apologize for misleading you. I lied about my name. Everything else was true."

Hermione had gotten to the point where she would have been happy to see a charred page, just to know the raven-haired woman was on the other side, that they were still connected. Hermione sighed, and dropped the slim volume into her bag.

That afternoon was another fruitless day at the book shop, though Hermione was learning to enjoy her time there for the sake of it, and not just in anticipation of something impossible happening. Even so, when she exited the shop and saw, again, a dark head of curls far down the street, she couldn't help but thrill that her wait had been worth it. She hurried as fast as she could without breaking into a run, but again lost the person. No matter. The young witch had been right, she knew she had, and she would wait as long as it took.

At home again, Hermione paced her room, trying to think of how to engage the dark witch, how to somehow lure her in closer. Even if she didn't know what she'd do if she caught her.

I can't chase her. She likes to be in charge. But I can't let her think that I'm the same pushover I was when we met. She has to know I'm not willing to compromise my values. Of course I'm not. I'm never going to her side of things. But…

Hermione wasn't willing to vocalize it to herself, not even mentally. But there, just out of official word space, lingered what she really thought: I can't lose her. I can't lose her. I can't lose her.

The next morning, Hermione sought advice from her mother. Mrs. Granger was almost speechless with delight, but managed not to give away too much of her excitement.

"Mum, if I wanted to be more self-confident, or rather, SHOW that I'm more self-confident, how do I do that?"

"Hermione, haven't you always been very confident? Are you not feeling confident, honey? Because you are the most talented, beautiful, lovely…"

"MUM. I know you think that of me. And sometimes I think that of me too, or at least a little bit. But I think I've also seemed like kind of a pushover in the past. I think it's why my… friend tried to take advantage of me and things fell apart last term. But I'm different now, and I want it to be obvious."

"So you want to show off your new confidence?"

Hermione nodded. They were on the right track now. Mrs. Granger wrinkled her brow in concentration for a moment.

"Well, I mean, body language is so important. You have to act confident, even if you aren't sometimes. Stand up straight, speak firmly, and all that."

"Yes, but I already do a lot of that. But there is still something about me that makes people think that sometimes I am weaker than I am."

"Maybe you need to send a signal that they'll understand, then. I don't suppose you get to muck about much with your uniform at school, but I know growing up if I wanted to be a new person, I dressed differently. Once I even cut off most of my hair!"

"I don't think… I mean, I don't want to go that far… but maybe I think you are on to something."

Hermione shot down her mother's rapid-fire offers to go shopping for new clothes and disappeared upstairs to her room. She rummaged around in her closet, found a pair of black jeans she hadn't worn since last summer, and squeezed into them and a long flowing shirt that had a tiny amount of cleavage. She examined herself in the mirror, made a few adjustments to her appearance with her wand, and left the house. The quick glimpse that her mother caught of her made her gasp out loud. Well, that'll do, I expect!

The shopkeeper of Persephone similarly gasped when Hermione walked in, but she hid it well. She merely paired a, "Nice hair!" with raised eyebrows, and Hermione felt seen. The young witch made a preemptive purchase, then took her new book to a table in the back, somewhat out of sight. She pulled out a ballpoint pen with green ink and wrote an inscription on the inside page.

Then she settled down and unpacked her companion plant book. The words were the same, sitting there, almost mocking her. But Hermione had had enough. She would try one more thing, and if that didn't work, well. I'll let things go, I really will. It's time. Beneath her previous words she wrote in green, "I'd like to continue my education. I invite you to join me in that endeavor, should you have the time and desire."

Hermione flushed at writing the word, "desire", but didn't change a thing. She closed the book, sat back, and waited.

Then she felt foolish for waiting, put the book in her bag, and picked up her new purchase to read. She'd barely begun when the door to the shop opened. There was the black curly hair.

Hermione could barely breathe as she ran her eyes down from the crown of the woman's head to her eyes. The woman wasn't looking at her, though her eyes were scanning the shop for someone. It had to be those eyes. She knew those eyes, that face, those lips. The expression on that beautiful face wasn't as cocky as she was expecting, as there appeared to be discomfiture mixed in with her confidence.

She's in a muggle shop. Holy crap, she came to a muggle shop in muggle London. For me?

Hermione caught her thoughts veering, took a deep breath and stood. She was going to follow through with her plan if it killed her. The young witch walked as confidently as she could towards the raven-haired woman.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I believe this might be the book you are looking for? I hope you enjoy it as much as I have."

Then the young witch strode out the door, utterly ignoring the shopkeeper's farewell, her own shaking legs, and the stare directed at the back of her head.

Once the beautiful, older woman could tear her gaze from the departing young woman, from the swing of her straightened locks with a blue streak in them, from the bare shoulder and the curves those pants showed off so effectively, once she could bring herself back to this place and time, she looked down at the book in her hand.

The cover lay open to the title page. There, beneath the title "Gardener's Nightcap" was written in shiny green ink, "Won't you join me?"

The dark-haired woman took a deep breath, turned, and left the shop.