The familiar feeling of cat hair tickling at her nose had Hermione sneezing relentlessly into the duvet pulled over her head when she first awoke. The world around her felt muffled with the scent of wet dog in the air and her body feeling very much like jelly as she stretched before falling bonelessly back against the mattress. Streaming sunlight punctured through the feathered down making her pause; when was the last time she had awoken with the sun and not her alarm? Shouldn't she have been at work by now? Perhaps it was her day off? Actually when was her last day off? Did she still have any saved or was Finnicks being vindictive again? The last thing she properly remembered was crossing the Black Lake in the dead of night before the start of term that year.

Hermione suddenly jolted upright as everything came rushing back. The misty-eyed return to Hogwarts, the cold trek to the Isle of the Dead, going through the pain-staking motions of setting up the ritual, the ritual itself. There was the familiar pinch of apparation coupled with the pain of shrinking bones as she returned to her young teen self. Confusion, pain and guilt had roiled within her when she knocked on the (unencumbered) Potter's door and collapsed inside next to her broken wand. Then backlash of the ancient magic had her writhing in pain and seeking out the closest power source to drain dry, like a dry sponge soaking up water.

Hands roved over her body as she checked to make sure that everything was still where they should be and intact. Head, check. Arms, check. Legs, check. Heart, check. It was the bandage bound tightly around her scarred wrist though, that gave her pause. With quaking fingers she unbound the material there, intent on seeing for herself whether the cursed scar was still there. When she had first gotten the branding in question, she'd tried just about anything to get rid of it or even hide it, but Bellatrix had used a cursed blade meaning that nothing short of the darkest magics would do the job. Now, Hermione may have dabbled in some of the darker magics (the ancient ones being questionable enough as it was) but to go that far for a little scar? That was pushing it.

Her breath fell from her lips with a dismayed hiss when she saw that the eight letter word was still there, engraved into her skin. It stung—which wasn't new—something that had tempered with the years, but as she clutched to her aching wrist, she was reminded of the day she first got it. Days spent in the bed in Shell Cottage as she recovered from the torture she'd endured at Bellatrix's hand. Ron would later tell her that they (the prisoners in Malfoy manor) could hear her screams all the way down in the basement.

A wet nose soon prodded at her arm as a sad whine sounded, pulling her from her thoughts and yanking her gaze downwards to where a black deerhound sat looking very sad and sorry for itself at the edge of the mattress. Her unmarred hand was equally as shaky as she reached out to pet the dog next to her, as the scarred one came to rest in her lap. Despite the lack of grey in his coat, Hermione could easily pick out the handsome features of Padfoot in the canine next to her. Mostly because of the many Summers she'd spent with the man and the rest she'd spent pouring over photos with Harry after he'd died.

"Hi puppy" Hermione whispered as she rubbed his ears, silently marvelling at how soft they were and tried to blink back the tears when hands met fur (He was real!). She blinked dumbfounded at the sound of her own voice; it was odd hearing something so high-pitched and young after so many years. She'd always thought she had sounded mature even at this age (many people had told she was, anyhow) but now? Now she thought she sounded like a chipmunk on helium—it was rather embarrassing and she found herself wanting to sink back beneath the covers.

Padfoot whined and prodded at the girl again, this time climbing up onto the small bed and making it dip with the sudden extra weight. Hermione let out a small squeak of surprise at the action, arms flailing about as the deerhound all but scrambled on top of her as he climbed up onto the bed. He took a moment to comfortably situate himself between her legs, mindless of the cat sitting atop her feet. It drew the ire of said golden kneazle and the brunette couldn't help but think of her own squash-faced feline. Hermione, herself, was tossed a glare for her sudden movements as Padfoot climbed on, effectively snubbing her as the feline turned their back to the other two in a huff.

"Guess I'm not moving now, huh?" Hermione sighed looking down at the deerhound in her lap, aware that he was playing the role of overgrown lapdog very well as she ran her fingers through his coarse fur. Logically, she knew that this dog was in fact a wizard, but there was just something about talking to animals like they were the keepers of secrets that made everything feel better. It was like whispering your confessions into the wind, it was unlikely that someone might hear but you'd at least get things off of your chest. "Y'know I'll have to get up to pee eventually, right?"

"Arf!" Padfoot just barked in reply, tail wagging in the kneazle's face.

"Right…"

Glancing about, Hermione found herself in a nursery, not a torture chamber as she'd feared. It was a small room, decked out in an odd assortment of retro and medieval apparel. There lay a wicker rocking chair in the corner of the room, tucked between a furbished cot and the small bed she lay upon. Above her shoulders sat a window that overlooked the front yard and a dusty dresser (which must've coupled as a changing table) that sat against the opposite wall.

It was rather quiet in the nursery—save for the baby monitor & the clock chattering away—a fact that Hermione greatly welcomed as she tried to get her head on straight. So much had happened over such a short time span. She'd successfully travelled back in time, she knew that much, but to when was the question. Okay! Okay! Calm down! Let's look at the facts, what do you know? She sucked in a deep breath as she went over the facts she knew to be true. I'm sitting in a fully-fitted nursery, so Harry must've been born recently; which means that we've passed 1980. And the Potter's house is still standing, so that means it's before 1981; which gives me about a year to work with, right? A year's good, that's not too bad, better even! We did everything in a year before and that was when we didn't know where everything was. So, home-field advantage?

"Wha—ack!" Hermione flinched back from the long wet tongue that slathered itself against her cheek, doing a much better job of pulling her from her thoughts than the wet nose prodding at her arm.

"Ruff!" Padfoot appeared affronted by her actions as he ducked to avoid her wildly flapping arms. "You're the one who licked me!" She replied before falling back against her pillows with a heavy sigh. Hermione turned to face the water-stained ceiling as her expression mirrored her pensive thoughts. "A year, that's good right? You can do a lot in a year…"

Whilst not being able to see the canine, she could practically picture his head tilted in interest, ears flopping to the side as he listened to her muse aloud. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were back at Grimmauld Place whilst Order of the Phoenix members bustled about like busy bees. Ron would be thrashing Harry at another game of Wizard's chess over by the fireplace and Ginny would be not-so-subtly ogling the bespectacled boy across from her brother, whilst the twins cooked up another trick for their joke shop.

Hermione's nose scrunched up as she felt the canine move about, so that he could wobbly stand over her. She could feel his warm breath on her face and her face scrunched up further in disgust as the smell of what could only be described as hot garbage floated down. It was then followed by a nice long lick from chin to forehead.

"Hey! Stop doing that!" Hermione smiled despite herself as she pushed the slobbery canine from the bed, before she sat up to wipe the drool from her face. "Yuck! That's so gross! I mean, I know dog's are s'posed to be cleaner than toilets, but you lick yourself with that thing!"

Padfoot looked entirely too pleased with himself as he flopped none too gently to the floor next to a forgotten wash cloth before climbing to his feet and she swung her legs out of bed. Hermione paused for a moment to shiver at cold wooden floors beneath her socked feet and another more to recognise that she had been redressed in something that was not her clothes. "These…are not my clothes" She looked over the oversized pyjama shirt and thick woollen socks which had just about slipped from her feet. A quick glance down the collar of the billowy shirt showed that not even the underwear was her own. "Who dressed me?" She asked of Padfoot as if the canine was going to respond. He just barked once and wagged his tail playfully as if trying to tell her it was all right. "Yeah, you're no help"

Thankfully the bathroom was easy enough to find. The obnoxiously tiled room lying at the end of the hall and decorated in so many ornate doorknobs that she felt like she was staring at the Prefect's bathroom at Hogwarts. She'd felt odd going to the loo with the owl figurine watching her from the windowsill, but needs must and all that. Even from where she sat she could see the shadow of Padfoot as he sat guarding the door, waiting for her to come out. She was just thankful that the animagus had had enough humane sense to remain outside than coming in like the kneazles had tried (and succeeded) to do. What was it with animals and watching people pee? Hermione wondered as she moved to wash her hands. Is it a trust thing?

And then she paused, gazing upon herself for the first time since she had returned to the past. Her hair had returned to its infamous bushy state, puffing up about her face with added volume thanks to her bed hair and her eyes were just as vibrant as they had ever been. Mercifully, her buck teeth had remained the same size after Pomfrey's (and Malfoy's) interference. Even though that incident hadn't happened until her fourth year, she was nonetheless happy that not everything had to returned to the state it had been when she was 13. She just hoped that her periods would remain the same, because those beginning few years had been hell (which isn't to say they had tempered with time, but she'd learnt better ways to cope. Then again she couldn't exactly purchase Muggle wine as a child). Save for a few features and the haunted look in her eyes, she more or less appeared the same as she had the first time around.

Where the nursery had been a nice and serene quiet to wake to, like the sun on a warm Sunday morning; downstairs was not. Strange and familiar voices floated up the stairs as she descended with the kneazle and Padfoot on her left and her hand gripped tight to the bannister on her right. She had blinked dumbly when the feline had first mounted the canine, wondering at the relationship between the two considering their interactions when she had first awoken. But as she came to a stop in the doorway of the living room, she found herself confronted with so much that her fingers dug into the frame of the archway.

The room was open plan allowing her to see both dining room, kitchen & living room all at once and all three were bustling with so many more ghosts than she had ever seen at once. Some were straight out of history whilst others were the younger versions of the old and grey selves that she knew and all of them with live, beating hearts. To the left lay the living room and adjoining hallway which were occupied with a gaggle of war-hardened aurors and a barely scarred Mad-Eye Moody, who looked more human than prosthetics as they scanned for any further evidence from whatever had happened. They appeared rather gleeful about something, whatever the case.

In the middle sat a tired Remus as he bounced a giggly Harry on his knee, occupying him with various multicoloured shapes to chew and slobber on. At his feet sat Padfoot & the kneazle, who had made a beeline for the pair upon landing on the ground floor. The canine appeared more than happy to join in Harry's drooling over Remus much to the wolf's chagrin. Although her former DADA teacher appeared focused on the toddler in his hands and dog at his feet, she noticed that every now and then he would tilt his head this way and that as if listening in to the conversations around him. Mercifully, there were no signs of Peter the rat.

It was odd seeing Harry as a toddler, having only ever known him from school. Sure, she would've considered the bespectacled boy her brother—and had for many years despite Ron's comments otherwise—but it was still odd seeing him like this, so small and…helpless. There was no scar upon his forehead, no well-worn glasses or bedraggled hair; only a go-fast red onesie with its butt flap buttoned up wrong and foot stuck impressively stuck inside his mouth. The smile pulling at her lips soon gave as she realised that if Harry had been born (as he clearly had), then she would've have been too, being a whole year older than the boy. Which meant that she couldn't answer to her real name unless she wanted to create some weird paradox that ended up with two Hermione's at once (although she'd already kinda done that unwittingly). Perhaps she could use her middle name? Jean was a nice enough name and simple to remember too, and really, it wasn't like she'd be entirely lying if she went by that—it was still her name, just not her first one.

A commotion from the kitchen soon pulled her puzzled attention that way and she soon found herself gazing upon the three most eye-catching people in the room. Lily and James Potter stood on one side of the kitchen absolutely ripping into the wisened headmaster who appeared just as old and grey as the last time the young witch had seen him. On the other side stood Albus Dumbledore, looking for all the world, like the perfect picture of resigned grandfather. He bore no expression of ill will, at least not outwardly because even from the doorway Hermione could see irritation swimming in his eyes.

Hermione froze at the sight of the old wizard, blood running cold and eyes blowing wide. Absently she noted the acknowledgement from the werewolf to her left at her appearance, and the slip of accidental magic that ran through her veins. But it was only as the radio on the kitchen countertop sprang to life, did the rest of the world know that she was there too. Elvis Presley's (You're the) Devil in Disguise crackled to life from the little radio and all eyes eventually swung her way, as she found herself rooted in place.

Here was a man who had played the role of elderly grandfather so well that he'd charmed his way through several generations of witches & wizards until he a loyal following that would defend him to the ends of the earth. Here was a commander of his own formidable army that followed his every word without complaint and would do so, raising their own children with the same beliefs. Here stood a survivor of both wizarding wars; he a narcissist that believed himself above the law and he a creator of the darkest Dark Lords. Just looking at him made Hermione sick with a cocktail of feelings.

She couldn't deny her own feelings of trust that she'd placed in the man who had looked after them (Harry in particular) throughout their years at school. He'd bent the rules and swayed the odds just enough that they would always win, that Gryffindor—the good guys—would come out on top. Life had been good, there was no denying that, but as the war had dragged on and secrets had been spilt, the rose-tinted glasses she had once worn were cast aside in favour of the truth. But of course, Harry was not so easily persuaded—sometimes it made Hermione want to punch the stubbornness out of him. She wasn't sure if it was possible, but that didn't mean she wouldn't give it a damn good go—Malfoy could attest to her right hook, after all.

Hermione stumbled backwards as Dumbledore quickly made his way around the kitchen counter and towards the immobile young witch, eyes cunning and expression kind. The little Gryffindor fumbled for her wand before silently cursing as she remembered it had broken when she had first arrived. She felt her heart rate pick up, thumping wildly in her chest as she backpedalled much to the confusion and concern of the other adults present. Her eyes darted down the hallway where she had seen the aurors working only moments before, but her hopes were dashed when she saw that they had vacated the area in favour of the gardens.

Fear, sudden and unbridled, pricked at her heart as the wisened headmaster approached whispering sweet nothings as he shuffled over the threshold. But Hermione was having none of that. No sooner had Dumbledore reached out to her, did her eyes become illuminated in gold and her magic slipped from her fingers without consent once more. Powered by emotion alone, the old man was flung backwards & away from her and back into the room from which he had just come.

Hermione didn't stay to see if he was all right; didn't check to see if the startled yelps were his. No, instead she spun on her heel with her heart pounding in her ears and raced back up the stairs. Her little feet thundered against the wooden floors as she sped for the bathroom at the end of the hall, slamming the door shut with a bang that reverberated throughout the house and shook the door on its hinges. Her own panic had masked the pursuer on her heels and it wasn't until the door had just barely missed Padfoot's muzzle which had shot forward after her, did she even know he was there. It took her a couple of tries to get the lock to work with her fingers were shaking so bad; but soon enough she was alone again in the obnoxiously tiled bathroom. She sat tucked away in the bathtub with legs pulled to her chest and fingers intertwined with her curls as Padfoot whined and barked at the door, scratching to get in.