A/N : Thank you for reading.

DISCLAIMER: This is a crossover story and I do not own either of these works - neither the Harry Potter series (which is JK Rowling's) or the Twilight series (Stephenie Meyer's). Any characters you recognise are not mine and the only thing I own is the plot. If the plot is also one you recognise, it was definitely not my intention to copy it and I am terribly sorry if it seems the same. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED.

WEDNESDAY 20TH APRIL 2005

POP!

"OOF!"

Damn, International Apparition was a stupid idea to come all this way. I knew I should've applied for a Portkey instead.

"Point me."

A quick wandless spell later and she was walking towards the direction of her uncle's house. Along the way, she recounted her story and made several stops to check and recheck that everything was perfect and she had nothing to worry about and oh Merlin, I hope I don't mess this up.

She hid her wand along her wand holster and disillusioned it, taking care to assure it still works - it was a nervous tic she had: flicking her wrist every 5 minutes and feeling relief take over her body as she felt the cool black walnut wood of her wand slide into her smooth palm and the relief hung around her shoulders for another 5 minutes or so before she had to repeat the process. Only sweet Godric knows how I'm going to survive the next year or so. She was aware that she should get it checked out just as she was aware of many other things. She was aware that she was 'One of the Brightest Witches in the Wizarding World' - the 'of her age' part being knocked off and replaced after the Wizarding World recognised her magical prowess.

She was Hermione Granger, esteemed war heroine, best friend of Harry Potter, the brains of the Golden Trio, 26 years-of-age but still looked 17 and that's because she was. She was immortal and she could honestly say she hated it. Some cruel, cruel dark witch had cursed her before she had left for the colloquially-termed 'Horcrux Hunt' and she was doomed to live a long life, condemned to watch as friends and family died and left her behind. At least I have my books, she thought sniffing. It was a very idiotic curse (in Hermione's opinion), allowing her to be injured beyond measures but keeping her alive just before she completely died. She would take the same amount of time to heal as any normal human, well witch, would but she would always have that single life strand left that was the magic of the curse.

There was one mildly positive attribute: she wouldn't look a day older than when the curse hit her. The pristine self she was at 17 would be preserved for decades, centuries, millennia more to come. She wouldn't gain wrinkles or have grey hair or lose her memory(thankfully) or lose any ability to move and she wouldn't get to experience that valuable part of life. There was a theory in the back of her mind that this was one of those curses invented long time ago by evil pureblood men who would take a pretty young witch to torture and rape, and keep her, not even as a mistress, but a toy - something to take away their frustration of being irreversibly betrothed to a frigid pureblood witch.

The in æternum vive curse was banned now. The witch who'd cast it had her strong lasting magical signature clinging to Hermione's magical core and it wasn't hard to find her. Hermione hadn't wanted to know who it was. The old bitter woman was sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss - she was deemed deserving of the fate after she had caused such suffering to the Wizarding World's favourite witch despite earlier promises by the Ministry to banish capital punishment - and she was dead now. The curse hadn't broken at her death and Hermione lost all her hope. Even towards her death, the old witch hadn't felt a shred of regret - 'if she couldn't keep her good looks, she'd curse someone pretty and their looks would haunt them forever'. Hermione had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time and a lot of the time, Hermione hated herself for her looks because then, she might not have been the target and then she would live a normal life. The Ministry and pretty much all the British wizards and witches had hated the caster of the spell and her death had been comparably as painful as possible for a punishment which takes away your actual soul.

Really, however, the Wizarding World was just happy at their good fortune to always have the brilliant witch around. Her compassionate, loyal ways were not lost to wizards and witches and she was regarded with reverence wherever there was magic.

She had observed as life passed by. She had been Maid of Honour for Ginny Weasley at her matrimonial ceremony to Harry Potter and bridesmaids for many of her other friends: the war inspiring them to marry their significant others while they were young. She had watched as they grew older each year and attended birthday parties where they had celebrated adding a year to their age. She had seen babies after popping out of their overjoyed mothers and she had wished them well. She had confounded people at birthdays, weddings, engagement parties, to get rid of their sympathetic looks towards her.

They knew, of course, when they woke up feeling a little blank and confused the next morning, and she knew they knew, but they granted her at least this one thing after all her kindness and undying grace so they didn't say a word and she didn't either.

It had only been 7 years since she realised that she wasn't aging and she had felt a presence of magic on her body which had served to retain her life after the fiasco that was Bellatrix and then she found out. One extensive magical check later and she found out that she would never age and she was still 17 by all purposes even though no, I'm 20 I swear, please, please don't tell me more I don't want to hear it but she accepted it after a year of denying and crying and refusing to hear a word of it.

She always disappeared for a few days on her 'birthday' and for the first few years, people asked others, discreetly nudging them, "Is Ms Hermione not going to celebrate her birthday", and they would receive back a look that screamed have-you-been-living-under-a-rock while they passed forwards a small clipping from the Daily Prophet to explain to them what they themselves could not in words. She would book an expensive, picture-perfect holiday for herself near a Muggle beach or a Muggle hotel with a pretty view or a Muggle villa with Muggle servants and Muggle technology but she still kept her wand on her. She had to because the one time she didn't have it; the one time where she didn't have good reflexes and couldn't sense people coming, couldn't sense invisible curses hitting her had ruined the rest of her life and she couldn't make the same mistake again even though she literally wouldn't be able to ever again. On those few days, she tried her best to remain out of the sight of any and all magical beings and after the first few years, wizards and witches that recognised her on her 'holiday' wouldn't acknowledge her or mention her red-rimmed eyes that at first, when there were still questions, she swore was because of heavy alcohol consumption, because how could they? How could they go about reminding her of the fact that she wasn't aging, not really, and the birthdays that her parents, grandparents, even her friends after she made some, had made such a big deal of before had no meaning, no purpose and what on earth was a cake going to do? So, those few days of the year, when Hermione Granger, esteemed war heroine, best friend of Harry Potter, the brains of the Golden Trio let go of her responsibilities and disappeared, were ignored - a taboo placed on the subject - and when she came back, everyone worked to make sure nothing was out of place and no-one treated her differently or pityingly because everyone knew she hated it and they owed her that much at least - nearly everyone in the Wizarding World was indebted to her for life and those who weren't could see her everlasting sadness behind her ever-kind smile.

She could make jokes and laugh about her situation now though: "Thank Merlin Voldemort didn't find out about this - I don't think I could fight a hot Tom Riddle." and "You look so young - do tell me your secrets." (Ginny)

She just watched and observed and lived, but not really, and studied and read and watched and observed again.

Still, it had only really been 7 years and her friends didn't look older than her by much and she could just pin it on good genes to the Muggles. There was one thing stopping her living an actual life however. She couldn't bear the thought of having babies or getting married because how would she let them go; how could she not convince them to hold on while she kept them on life support; how could she ever understand that "people die, Hermione" because "no, people don't die, I'm not going to die so you must be saying that I'm not people and what am I then, Harry?"; how could she live after they died? She just stuck to her one night stands where she tried her hardest to not let people fall in love with her and enjoyed the feeling of people years younger than her telling her she was so pretty, so beautiful, so gorgeous but in the morning she always ended up feeling like a goddamn pervert and it had only been 7 years and how do vampires do this and then the idea struck.

Seeing her uncle's house just ahead of the sickly envy-green forest trees, she went through her mental checklist. A content smile danced around her cheeks once she assured there were no flaws and she took a deep breath to take in her surroundings. Resolving to come here occasionally to take these calming breaths, she headed over to the edge of the forest, the black walnut wood periodically rubbing against her satin-silk skin. She climbed up the dark steps and pasting a slightly anxious yet nonetheless charming smile on her face, she rapped her knuckles three short times, stopping, then a further two times with small breaks in between them too. The door swung open and the enthusiasm was unquestionably shown within the rapid movement of the wood. She beamed her brightest smile in unbound pure merriment.

"UNCLE CHARLIE!"

"MIA!"

A flurry of movement, a squeezing of the ribs and a chokehold later and she felt at home;safe.