It Does Not Do To Dwell On Dreams And Forget To Live

The wind flowed through her hair, the pale blonde strands tickling across her face, nearly white in the dull morning sun. It was flyway and long, dry hair that needed a firm wash. It was as if the heat of bubbling cauldrons she regularly found herself over had sapped the health right out of it. She had been brewing a lot… It was one of the few tasks her magic could actively handle this soon in her life. And it was one of the few things she could do to break the tedium of research. He's trying so hard not to seem sad, giving me challenge after challenge. He has been wonderful with this, accepting and so… Good to me. She waded her pale, skinny legs through the river. Her delicate toes tested the mossy rocks and gripped at the exposed bits of the cool river mud. It seeped between her toes, comfortingly cool, almost silky in feel. Her hands were spread out wide for balance as she made her way. His wand, stolen or perhaps generously left for her to use, is wrapped in a towel for protection and was between her clenched teeth. Her skirt, soft yellow, long and dragging, followed with the gentle current tangling slightly around her legs.

It reminded her of Helga, the color, a shade or two off from the famed crest of Hufflepuff, but it was close enough that she felt comfort in it.

Part of her- the part of her that was much older still felt as though the knee-length cotton skirt was far too short. It exposed parts of her that she would have been scandalized to show- especially considering she had no proper stockings, even at her young age. But silk or cotton stockings were no longer necessary, and slightly expensive to purchase- an extra expensive she wouldn't put on Him. The younger part of her, the her that was new and looking carefully at the world around her with a sense of never-ending delight for revisiting it, felt that it was much too long. Got in the way when she wanted to jump or run.

But she was always more or less compromising with herself- allowing the older part in her temper and examine and compare to her old memories, while the younger bits of her enjoyed as her older part could not.

She was this curious mix, both old and new- both elder in mind and infantile. One did not rule the other, it was more as if she existed in a constant, turning process of blending both. She thought of Self as one, but it was fed by two. Older memories making way for new. Never fading, but rather turning gentle as new memories came to her. She was reborn- the same person in a sense- but with the initial memories of her body before magic had manifested as maturely as it did. She wondered, as she often did, making her way across the river for her prized potion ingredients, if she was the only one of the four to come back as she had. And even if her friends had come back, were they this old and new person as well?

This curious mix of who they had been, and this new person they were yet becoming? Had their new selves taken over? Were they even the same gender as they had been? Or would she have to find a young boy with Helga's kind smile? Or a brash young woman with Godric's swagger? Or a wizened old woman with Salazar's disapproving glare? Were they the same age as she, or were they yet to be born, or had already gone grey and weathered as she never had the opportunity to become? Did they have their memories as clear and vivid as she did? Or was it only her? Or did they see the past in dreams, wispy and dubious as clouds or unseen as the wind?

Am I alone?

She pushed that last thought away.

She also pushed back the fear that they had forgotten her, as she had died so young. Fifty-three, and surely her friends had lived much more than that? She had no idea how to find the exact way of their deaths, nearly a millennium after the fact, doubtful of the accuracy of such records. Her own death was only written sparsely about, all the texts of her first life only mentioning her contribution to Hogwarts, her intelligence and breeding, and little of the end of her life. There were hardly any mentions of how young she had been and even less mention of the circumstances of the death. Her beloved's name had not even withstood the test of time, though many had erroneously thought she had come to his Clan instead of the other way round. Her daughter's existence had no mention that she could actively find, and the Clan Ravenclaw was said to have died out due to her own negligence to produce a child. Or her 'unnamed' husband's failure to bring a second wife after her passing.

With that, she was left with only her own estimations of what had happened to her beloved husband Ruaraidh, to her most precious friends, or if her beautiful little bird had ever been found. I think not, with the way she has been lost to the course of history… Unless my beautiful Helen got her wish and removed herself from my legacy. Surely her friends had forgotten her, or grown together after her death, a trio instead of a quartet? She pushed that thought aside as well. Because the older part of herself, the woman with wisdom and intellect, Rowena Ravenclaw, refused to bow down, refused to accept anything less than the fact that she would see her three friends again, and they would be reunited at home.

She just had to wait.

I am patient. I will see them again.

I will.

I just have to wait.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

1983

Molly Weasley understood, hours later as she waited impatiently for any sort of news, that she might lose her youngest son to whatever mystery illness that had afflicted him.

At first, she refused to believe such a thing could happen. Ron was only three-years-old. How could a toddler die? Not when he hadn't had so much as a cold in his three years of life. Not when she had had so many healthy children, five strong boys, and a girl who had so much energy. Not when, for pure-bloods, both the Prewitt's and the Weasley's had surprisingly little history of infant mortality and stillborns.

My Ronnie must be okay. Had been a constant thought in her head, a constant prayer. But her prayer was ringing false.

As more time went on, sitting in the Saint Mungo's waiting room, heart in her throat, closing it and making feel dry and scratchy... She understood that her sheer willpower and denial was not enough to save her son. It hadn't been enough to bring back Gideon and Fabian. Ron was in real danger of dying- and Molly could do nothing but wait. Sit in the waiting room and do nothing. It was worse, in some ways, then what had happened with her brothers- at least her brothers had been grown men, at least her brothers had gone down fighting in a blaze of War Time glory. That was something of a comfort. It was a short life they had lived, but twenty-nine was a much better age than three.

Their deaths had been so quick, as if a pit had open underneath her feet. Instantaneous, without a mention of warning. They died doing what they thought was best. With Ron, it was as if she felt as if she was trapped in a small, closed room, watching as the pit crawled ever closer and closer to her feet. Because Ron had no such glory- he was just a baby boy that had fallen into a fit that was killing him.

"Molly?" and she turns to Arthur, his voice soft and hesitant.

Molly looked at her husband, taking in his rumpled robes and bloodshot eyes. Her Patronus had not been as calm as she had hoped, then. Part of her wants nothing more to fall into his arms and sob her heart out- but Bill, only thirteen and pale is at her side, standing, silent, pausing from his wild pacing. He remembers Uncle Gid and Uncle Fab, and he remembers losing them just as much as I do. He stopped as he spotted his father, stopped, and she can see his jaw work. That strong jaw that reminds her of a younger Arthur, those blue eyes, also from his father, are bloodshot with lack of sleep, and what she suspected were tears when he had gone to the loo and stayed for a suspiciously long time. She sees something that makes her own jaw tighten, so much so that her temples ache. She cannot collapse in front of her young son, or fall apart at the sight of her husband. So she gives him a watery smile, trying her best to cease her trembling.

"How are the children?" she asked.

Arthur swallowed, tightly.

"I flooed Billius as soon as I was able. He is was putting them down to sleep last I saw. They kept asking for Ron... Especially the twins."

Something eased in Molly, at the thought that the rest of her children were safe and in their Uncle's care. She swallowed and made a note to thank her brother-in-law. They might never see eye to eye on certain things, but he adored his nephews and niece. And for him to take care of them now, to answer hard questions of worry from children, she knew it was not easy.

"Can... Can you tell me what happened?" asked Arthur, brows furrowed.

"I don't know what happened, Arthur. Ronnie just collapsed," she told him softly, a few tears escaping her, despite her best efforts.

Arthur is already moving, hand resting at the small of her back, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

"The twins said he did his first magic, Dad," said Bill, quietly, the quietest Molly had ever seen her boisterous eldest, "And the Healers think it might have something to do with his Core?"

Arthur's brows furrowed again, and his hand moved, slowly, gently so that it was on Molly's waist. It held there, fingers digging into her side in gentle reassurance.

"Any other news?"

"No. They just told us to wait here."

They sat, huddled in tense silence as they waited. Arthur is now rubbing her back in gentle reassurance. No words needed as they watch their eldest resume his pacing. Molly's mind is whirling. What is happening… What is taking so long?

"Mr. and Mrs. Wesleay?"

Molly stood up, straightening her robes as an exhausted-looking Healer came to them, lime robes sagging off of her form, and her frizzled hair sticking out of her sloppy braid. She was a younger woman, much too young, as if she had just finished her apprenticeship status. It did nothing to fill Molly with confidence, nor did the deep lines under her brown eyes, or the timid way her hands twisted in the sleeves of her robes.

"We have news of your son's condition…" her eyes flicker to Bill, brows smashing together.

"You can speak in front of our son," said Arthur, firmly.

"Well, let me be frank, Mrs. And Mr. Weasley, Ronald is still in danger as far as we are concerned. We've managed to stop the convulsing of his muscles, however, his heart rate and fever have yet to let up. Ma'am, sir, have you ever heard of an obscurial?" she asked, warily, her soft voice hoarse and drained.

Dread came to Molly beyond measure, she nearly collapsed into Arthur as he came to grip her waist tighter.

"We have never hurt Ron in our lives, he has no reason to repress his magic," said her husband, and while many would call him an absent-minded man, Molly always knew that Arthur had a spine of steel. Judging on how frosty his voice had become, the young healer knew as well, as she shifted uncomfortably as her husband started the witch down, "So I ask you how a three-year-old healthy child developed an obscurial overnight at the first sign of his magic?"

The Healer shifted uneasily again, visibly swallowing thickly.

"Sir, we're not implying any such thing, I had only asked if you were aware of what an obscurial is?"

Arthur simply pursed his lips. Bill surprised them all by answering:

"When a magical child is forced to repress their talent through physical or psychological abuse, they develop a parasitical magical force inside of them called Obscurus, resulting from their strong emotions of distress," he said softly, and when they turned to him, he was pale, his freckles standing starkly against his skin, "Got top marks on magical creatures, me. How can you think that's Ronnie? He's just a baby. Mum and Dad have done nothing to him. He's just a baby."

The Healer sighed, hands coming to tighten over the clipboard she had on her hands.

"To be frank, we have no idea what is wrong. His symptoms are fairly similar to an Obscurial, but we have checked that route and know for sure your son doesn't fit the criteria for one. All we know is that Ronald has suffered a sudden, large influx of magic that reacted to emotional stress, much like a normal, healthy baby would do with accidental magic. But… There's something wrong with that magic, almost, but not quite like it's been tainted by dark magic like an Obscurial... It is his own, and not a parasitic attachment as far as we can tell… But..."

Molly dared not breathe.

"But?" she whispered, horror in her tone.

"But it's too much. Too much magic, and it's attaching itself to quickly to him. Cores normally develop naturally over time. They expand and grow with age magic maturing with their body. But this is like his body is trying to cram as much magic as it can in the span of a few hours. But this is more like magic that's meant for his adult self. The body of a three-year-old is not meant to house this much magic. We're trying our best to slow it down, to try and relieve the strain it's causing him."

Arthur's grip on her waist tightened.

"What are our options?"

The Healer bit her lip, before breathing deeply and sighing.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley… We have none at the moment. We are exercising the only option we have at the moment. Because we have no idea how to stop it. We're trying our best to slow it down, but the Magical Core is a delicate thing to handle. If we push too far we can either render Ron a squib or… we might kill him. For now, all we can do is slow it down and observe best we can. If things keep going as they are… I- We have little doubt he will survive the night."

Molly choked back a sob. Poor Bill did not suppress his, visibly agitated, clenching his fists as tears fell from his blue eyes.

"Please… Please, can we see him?"

The Healer hesitated, before nodding.

"Only one at a time and I'm afraid young Bill will have to stay behind. The ward has a lot of very sick people and they don't have a strong enough immune system to combat things if he carrying anything."

Silently, Arthur made to move by Bill, sitting down and running a hand through his vivid hair. Wariness and exhaustion dragged him to slump on the chair.

"I'll send a Patronus out to… Out to Dumbledore. See if he has any idea," he said softly, hand coming around Bill, who, wordlessly, pushed his face into his father's chest to hide the tears that were falling from his eyes.

Molly nodded, her hands reaching out to briefly touch her husband's cheek, patting her eldest son's hair before she followed behind the Healer. They were not in the Children's Ward, signifying how terrible of a situation Ron was in. When they came into the room, surrounded by Healers, Molly felt her stomach drop at the sight of her young son on a too big of a bed. She swallowed thickly, looking silently between the healers as they did their jobs, huffing, and puffing, sweating in a steady trickle as they weaved their complex magic. It made the room glow in soft blues and gentlest yellows. Molly did the best she could to stay out of their way, settling into an unoccupied corner of the room, itching to run to the bedside, but knowing she cannot without being in the way. So she waited. Quiet, heart in her throat as she watched them work on her son.

She is not sure how much time has passed, when the Healer that came to them in the waiting room, came to her and asked her quietly whether she would like her husband to come and be in the room.

Molly looked at her son, young, so small on the bed. She hesitated before she gave a sharp nod to her. She cannot help but give one last over her shoulder, as she walked out of the room. Pale, so pale that his brown freckles stand starkly on his skin. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and his hair was bright and a lovely shock of red. His eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird over his blue eyes. Molly had to clench her fists to prevent herself from running to his side.

Ron himself, is in an odd state of awareness and unawareness.

His eyes flutter, and vaguely he can see colors, blurred without shapes. Streaks of light… So pretty but so frightening. He reached for his magic long lost, trying desperately to make all of it his again. Because there is so much. He cannot sit ideal, cannot be content to wait. So many plans left undone. So many things left unattended. So many words left without being spoken.

But there's something wrong in it, even as he reached, a half adult half toddler as he moaned, trying desperately to keep himself altogether, drowning in his magic, lost in the tide of it, half-aware and half-blind to it. It seemed to fill his body like dark-brackish filled water. Oozing into every reach of his body, clawing at him, tearing at him, so cold and wrong.

Dark magic has a price.

In his new life, he realized it, felt the sheer agony of his mutilated adult core trying to add itself to his untouched, delicate core of a child. This, this they calculated as a possible side effect, he thought, around the pain, even as the majority of his mind was screaming: NO NO NO NO, MUMMY MUMMY MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY! Not the pain, but rather the maturity of their magical soul translating into their new bodies, but his was damaged. I did this to myself. He had torn bits of himself away in his experiments. Tossed away pieces of himself he had never realized he had lost in the first place. He had made scars into his core in his first life, where he had never felt it, but he was feeling the consequences now. Knows what he has lost know that he has it again, feels the pain of the absence more keenly than when he had let it go.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, reaching, moments of his life as Salazar filtering through his mind, longing for forgiveness of his mistakes, of the folly of his own arrogance.

He realized, that as Salazar Slytherin, for all his plans, for his cunning, for all his breeding, he had been a fool. A reckless, reckless, arrogant fool.

As Ron Weasley, he would do better.

I will be better.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

1981

Sirius Black held Harry in his arms. Thrown deeply into his shirt, beneath his leather jacket, to protect him from the wind. My little pup, pressed against my heart. They crossed the skies in a tense, horrible silence. Harry had only cried for a few fitful minutes into their flight before his horrible writhing settled into painful little whimpers and faint scratches against Sirius's skin. In the wind, he can barely hear it, more feel it against his naked chest, snot, tears against his skin. Little hands gripped into his flesh, claws, his fingernails needing a trimming, but Sirius barely felt it. Barely felt the welts that are already forming or the fact that little Harry had drawn blood.

His eyes are dry in the night sky, having thrust his goggles, transfigured larger, to Hagrid, who needed them to drive, as they were charmed for night driving and against the wind. So dry that he could not see past the tears that formed in his eyes. The tears from the wind, just the wind. Sirius swallowed thickly, forcibly blinking his eyes. His arms trembled, trying to support Harry as closely to his chest, and from the cold air, the wetness of the clouds as Hagrid moved across the night sky.

All he can do is focus on the warmth he felt on his chest, as he had pushed Harry into his shirt, pushed him into it to keep a firm hold of him, confined him a little better. He is a flash of heat against Sirius's naked skin, and Sirius can feel the beat of his heart. It is galloping like a herd of charging hippogriffs, and Sirius can only hope it slowed down as he rubbed his back. He supported his little head as Lily had drilled into him. Part of him could not believe the head he was supporting used to fit in the span of his hand.

Even in sleep, Harry is fitful, struggling in his arms, unhappy and in so much pain.

Merlin this can't be right. Merlin Peter is more than likely dead- Lily and James are dead.

"NOT FAR NOW, " called Hagrid, and even his booming voice is lost somewhat in the winds- Sirius guessed more or less, from the way that Hagrid is moving his hands toward the ground that they will land soon.

Sirius has no idea where they are- just knew that they are not heading towards Hogwarts. The surprise came to him suddenly.

Where are we going? Hagrid should have asked me to apparate to Hogwarts.

The question is vague, in his mind, but all he can really focus on is the little bundle in his arms. They land ten minutes later, in a silent, peaceful street. Sirius still doesn't know where he was, beyond knowing it to be entirely Muggle, but he managed to shakily get out of the sidecar just before Hagrid swings off the motorcycle, switching it off in the same second. He stepped, uncertain, grip tight on his velvet cloak, but not on Harry. No his hold in Harry is gentle and ever careful. He can hear his godson's cries. Painful suckling hiccups that pierce Sirius's heart like a dagger.

"Professor," he whispered, hoarsely, as he sees Minerva Mcgonagall tartan robes and all, Albus Dumbledore at her heels, coming up the drive in a brisk walk, eyes focused on Hagrid.

She paused but for a second, looking at him, eyes wide.

It is then that Sirius Black can admit that the tears come.

"Professor, it's all my fault," he tells her, as his vision blurs, "Lily and James-"

He cannot finish his statement before a streak of red light comes at him. No word of warning. Just light. But with Harry in his arms, in shock as he as he is, Sirius dodged out of the way, forcefully conjuring a weak but servable shield, wand whipping to his hand in a millisecond. He turned and hiked Harry up in the same movement so that he is draped over his shoulder, his teeth bared, and cannot help but give a breathless whine of surprise. It is a dog-like sound, when he sees Albus Dumbledore holding his stark white wand in his hand pointed, at Sirius with its tip still blazing.

"Headmaster," his voice shook, but he can't help that.

"Albus have you lost your mind-"

"Why are you here Sirius?" Dumbledore's voice was as he had never heard it before. It was dark and furious, and his blue eyes, so keen at being able to see through the Marauders' mischief as children, were blazing in cold fury, like an icy flame.

"I-"

"Why did you give them to the Voldemort?!" his voice was thunder of fury.

Despite himself, Sirius can't help but flinch a little, eyes waiting, waiting for the familiar crack at the trigger of the Taboo. No one came, and Sirius let out a breath. It is then that the question sank into his mind, and he felt his heart start to pound in disbelief and hurt.

"Headmaster-"

"SIRIUS," bellowed Hagrid,"SIRIUS HOW COULD YA DO THA' TO LILY AND JAME-"

"I RATHER HAVE DIED!" He screamed, and he can't help but fall to his knees, hunching over his godson, tears and snot falling with abandon. But he made sure to look straight into Dumbledore's furious eyes, dropping his Occlumency barriers without hesitation, he felt the slight dip as a second mind came to his own, felt the brutal force of no care for himself. And still he spoke, "I should have been the one. I should have never switched with Peter as Secret Keeper, but James agreed- He thought it was so clever. Who WOULD SUSPECT IT? AND NOW THEY'RE DEAD. IT'S ALL MY FAULT. I KILLED THE THREE OF THEM."

Silence met his confession, and Sirius Black sobbed on his knees, clutching Harry to himself. Dumbledore stubbled back, chest heaving. He only sobbed harder when Professor McGonagall sank to her knees with him and wrapped her arms around him. To his keener senses, the familiar smell of laurel flowers, ginger biscuits and cat made him relax, and all he could do was cry and shake helplessly at what he caused.

"It should have been me, it should have been me..." he helplessly said, "I killed them. I killed Peter and Lily and James… It's all my fault and Harry needs me. There's something wrong with Harry, Headmaster Dumbledore- Please, help him."

Harry, Harry himself heard this all from a distance, his mind a swirling inferno. It runs hot, a burn of magic and memory and emotion across his too fragile a space, lighting up his reincarnated soul in a myriad of synapsis. Burning flashes of memories came to him, the familiar pang of fondness as he spied Helga's blonde curls that had faded to a snowy white, the ache in his heart at Salazar's face as he died, the loss of Rowena's soft and rare smile.

The soft laugh of his mummy, the way her auburn hair had caught the light, the green of her emerald eyes. The sparkling hazel eyes of his daddy, the boisterous way he would play with Harry, the way his hands would be impossibly gentle as he held him.

Harry Potter took the burn steadily, faithfully, bravely tempering the limits of his young self to accept all of who he had been- all with the fragile being he was.

To honor the brave of heart, had been my creed. My Christian-name had been Godric, my clan Gryffindor, my home had been Hogwarts Castle. My friends had been Helga, Salazar and Rowena…

I am….

Godric.

But not Godric.

I'm Harry.

Just Harry now.

But I will live my life as courageous as I can, just as before.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

1984

Emmeline Granger, felt her heart in her throat, as Hermione made her way carefully across the room reaching for a book on the shelf. Her daughter's face was serious, and her way of walking was deliberate. Hermione had always been a serious child. But ever since her seizure, nearly a year to the date, she had gone from serious to morose. She hardly laughed anymore, and while several psychologists and neurologists had assured her it was a common enough occurrence to see a slight personality change after what most Doctors had diagnosed as a stroke... Emmeline found this change to be too startling. Hermione had never been what one would call an excitable child, yes, but she had always questioned, with an adorable fever to know. She had asked questions so fast her words would slur together, tug eagerly on Emmeline's sleeve to look over her shoulder at the book in her hand. She would beg for books with brown eyes wide and a large a shy smile on her face…

But now Hermione did no such thing.

She never begged for books, she only asked politely. At the first negative, Hermione only gave a nod of reluctant acknowledgment, as if she did not like her judgment but accepted it. Before, her daughter would have at the very least asked a few more times. Now she never asked more than once. She never clambered onto Emmeline's lap anymore, only laid a careful hand on her arm to achieve her mother's attention. She never danced on her toes in eagerness, and her smile and laugh had faded into a ghostly memory.

"Mother," a careful, polite sort of tone, it was what Hermione would give at any moment. No fast slurring words or excitable recitation of facts, "The book I require is on the highest shelf."

I'm not mummy anymore.

Hermione gestured to the shelf.

"Which one dear?"

"The one about the fairytales, Mother, the German one."

Emmeline reached for the book, thick and heavy as it was, and carefully placed it in her daughter's waiting hands. It was a complete set of the original two volumes of Grimm Fairy Tales, the one with the English translation and original German side by side, and it was a favorite of her's now. It wasn't as if Hermione had not read Fairy Tales before, but now she devoured them. Henry was going out of his way to find more and more obscure ones, volumes of different countries with stranger and stranger tales of magic and morality lessons. Calling in favors with their University to out-source more volumes. The best Emmeline could see it, her daughter found comfort in them, in the fantastical and strange, she who had suffered such a severe medical condition at such a tender age. Why else would her daughter skew so far in a genre she had previous little interest in? Henry claimed that Hermione was looking for something in those pages, but what, Emmeline could not personally fathom.

Hermione took the large book with an air of fragility that had never been present before the seizure. Her daughter had previously possessed the normal roundness of all young children, but in the coming months after her seizure she had lost quite a bit of weight. Her appetite had waned, drastically. It showed in the fragile bones of her wrists, the sharp elbows and how her cheeks had lost some of their roundness. She knew despite the constant state of drowsiness that her daughter slept very poorly. It was evident in the bruises beneath her eyes.

"Is it too heavy, I can carry-"

"No Mother, I can hold it."

Her stare was almost as if she was reprimanding her, thought Emmeline with a fond smile as she saw a familiar part of her baby. Hermione had always been an independent sort, and that had only been reinforced with her delicate health. She asked for assistance at the very last resort, and Emmeline knew if she wasn't present in the room her five-year-old would have climbed the oak shelves herself to retrieve the book. With careful precision, Hermione carried the book to the window-seat of the small library of the spare bedroom of their flat, sinking into the cushion, leaning against the cool glass.

For a moment, Hermione looked over London with faraway eyes, a frown appearing on her face as she looked across the city. Part of Emmeline wondered if she should have followed her own maman's advice when they had started their practice, and chosen a less urban location. But for a young couple, the slightly run-down building had enough room to build their practice, and have a somewhat comfortable home with a little care and input. They had never thought of children living within the flat, and though Henry had always longed for a child, when Emmeline had reached thirty-eight she had doubted it would happen… They had forgone the comfort of a larger home, liking the ease of their current neighborhood and the flight of stairs that consisted of their commute.

But then Hermione had come, and they had made the decision to not untangle their lives. The flat didn't need two studies and there was an excellent school system she could access within London when the time came. Emmeline's maman now claimed that was what had caused Hermione's seizure- the city air and life- and that she would be safer in the French countryside with her.

Part of Emmeline had debated it, but through recommendations from both Medical and Mental professionals, she and Henry had opted to keep their daughter home.

Without another word, Hermione began to read furiously fast, her soft brown eyes flickering across the page. Emmeline watched her daughter carefully as her hand went to her pen. She was jotting down notes in a horrible scrawl that was quite unlike her previous neat looped writing. It wasn't quite legible to Emmeline.

"All normal," the speech therapist had said with a reassuring smile," Hermione is relearning things. It will be a while before her penmanship improves- it's just part of the process, Doctor Granger."

Emmeline frowned at the horrible scrawl that was Hermione's new handwriting, a mess of scribbles, shaky symbols, and odd accents that Hermione seemed to be unaware she was making. It didn't even seem like English to Emmeline, but whenever Hermione was asked to read from it, it seemed to make sense to her.

"Wrong, wrong..." muttered Hermione, softly, as she went.

"I'll be just in the kitchen, Hermione," she told her daughter, hovering by the door.

"I would like tea if it is not too much trouble?" asked Hermione, her words, like much of Hermione's actions as of late, were deliberate. Careful of each of her syllables.

In the early days since the incident, Hermione had spoken in gibbered, slurred speech. Not quite right, not fully forming her words and pulling in odds spattering of phrases she had picked up here or there. Emmeline had understood some Latin, and from what Henry had said he had caught phrases of what he recognized as the 'Canterbury Tales' until she had started to focus on her words.

"Of course, sweetheart," she told her daughter, softly, "Mummy's going to be in the kitchen. If you need anything-"

"Come to you, I know."

And then, without another word, Hermione returned to her book. Knowing it was best to give some space.

"Don't crowd her, Emmeline," Henry constantly told her, voice soothing.

"I just want to make sure-"

"I know. But smothering her isn't what Hermione needs. Since you left the practice, you have always been hovering. It isn't healthy, for you or for her. "

Emmeline pursed her lips, fists clenching.

"Do you resent me for leaving our practice? Is this what you are trying to tell me?"

"Of course not, love. But you have to give each other space. That's what's best for both of you."

Emmeline did not hide her tears and pressed her head into Henry's neck. He held her, soft and warm.

"I'm just scared of what's happened to her. She's my baby, Henri," she whispered, her native french accent slipping in her stress.

"It's going to be alright, love. Hermione's going to be fine."

Her new mother, Emmeline, Hermione thought softly looking up from her book as she quietly closed the door behind her, Was a kind woman.

It was evident in the way she had left her work, as a muggle healer, doctor, for her sake. How far we humans have come, for a woman to be a healer and be lauded for it, instead of criminalized. It was a curious profession to focus only on the teeth but for Hermione, it showed progress. It showed that people were willing to delegate for efficiency. Something Hermione fully approved of. Certainly, when she had been Headmistress, she had solely wished for a further divide of the departments.

Do not think of Hogwarts.

Hermione suppressed tears, her sobs sudden and wracking through her chest. It was something she found herself doing, often, whenever she thought of her people. Of the home, she had built with her precious friends. Of my children, and my children's children. Of my sweet Auln's face weathered and handsome beside her, of his arms as she drifted off to her last sleep. It was difficult to process, everything, and while she could count the experiment she and her friends had started so long ago a rousing success-

Magic seemed to be gone from the world.

Oh, she still felt it in the Earth, she still saw the presence of creatures… Or at least the remnants of them. And she felt it within herself, beautiful and vibrant, humming and entwined with her very soul. That I apparently posse, how fascinating. But her people, Wizards, and Witches had disappeared from the annals of history. Thrown off as ignorance, thrown away as trickery. Left to the tales of children, Hermione could not help but cling too for the familiarity she found in them. She was attempting to construct a timeline through them, and locate her people. But more and more she found that she was lead to dead ends. She was running out of options, only a year into her searching and it hurt.

To think in what she estimated to only be a mere millennial that witches and wizards had been hunted to extinction, or bread out as many had feared. That she, reborn, could be one of the few to survive in this modern new world. It was difficult to understand. And so horrifically lonely to contemplate.

Her sadness felt like a cloak about her small shoulders. It made food ash in her mouth. It made nights long and full of shadows. It made her mind a burrow of dark places, of fears and doubts of the very possibility of her friends not waking up in this new world as she had. Of being the sole witch in a strange world she was only beginning to understand. They must be out there, Rowena, Salazar, and Godric. She can not even begin to think that they had not been reincarnated with her. If she had come to the twentieth century without anyone, as she was beginning to suspect to fear than Hermione Granger had no idea what to do.

All previous chapters have been edited- there really hasn't been much change to them, just some grammatical fixes and maybe an added sentence or two. The chapter with the Author's note has been deleted, and I thank anyone who has been so patient when it came to this story. I adore Harry Potter fandom, but I haven't been really in touch with the fandom for a while now. This is why The Language of Flowers was taken down, and why A Study of Lions and Badgers has not been updated in a while -.-(these were my other Harry Potter fanfics). But, well, here we are.

I meant to post this earlier but figured I needed to finish up my editing before then. I cannot promise that the next chapter will be ready any time soon, but since I have an appalling amount of time on my hands- well. Maybe it will be soon.

Be safe, be well.

~Happy Reading,

Moon Witch '96