Chapter 6: Bits of Spellotape


Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased.
— Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, J.K. Rowling


I awoke before dawn on the morning of the First of September drenched in a cold sweat, my sheets tangled tightly around me. I'd decided against taking the Dreamless Sleep Potion last night, preferring not to take it too often due to its addictive nature. I deeply regretted that decision now. Panting, I tried to recall my nightmare.

Scenes of horror burst across my mind in some sort of perverse order.

Bellatrix cackling with unadulterated glee as she dueled the three of us, watching us dance before her as we dodged her curses. Suddenly, Luna was gone. Sweet, innocent Luna—she didn't deserve this. Then Ginny fell. Ginny—my sister, the only girl I'd ever gotten on with, the only person to ever truly understand my emotions.

Harry's body—broken and defiled by dark magic—the pale skin of his corpse contrasting starkly with the green grass of the Hogwarts lawns, his eyes empty.

Ron staring hopefully down at me, his eyes full of love and something close to adoration—one moment with his hands gripping my waist, holding me securely against his body—the next, the green light of the Unforgivable, his body falling lifelessly to the ground.

Everyone I loved was gone.

Shivering violently, I wrapped my arms tightly around myself as if to stop my body from falling apart. I was almost certain there was a gaping hole in my chest, my heart and lungs on the verge of spilling out. I felt utterly broken—as if I were being held together by bits of Spellotape, ready to shatter to pieces at the slightest rustle of a breeze. My breath was coming out in rattling gasps. My stomach was writhing more than the insides of a Snargaluff pod. I gazed up to the high, vaulted ceilings of my guest quarters, willing the traitorous tears to stop streaming down my face.

Goddamn it, Hermione. Pull yourself together.

This is your life now. That future no longer exists.

But far from comforting me, that thought caused me to cry even harder. I buried my face into my pillow, screams escaping from my throat as I sobbed without abandon, allowing the grief to flow unchecked from my body.

It felt so good to let go.

When it finally seemed I had mourned enough, as if I had shed all of the tears my body held, the sobs suddenly stopped. Still breathing heavily, I sat up slowly, rubbing the remaining tears from my swollen eyes. I silently thanked God that this insane meltdown hadn't occurred yesterday morning while I was still in the hospital wing. That certainly would've given Remus and Sirius a reason to think I'm barking. I slid out of the large four-poster bed, my socked feet hitting the cold floor. I glanced around Dumbledore's personal guest quarters, which he had graciously offered to me for the night, and my eyes landed upon my newly purchased school trunk.

Well, I might as well dress and start my bloody day now, I thought with a grimace. Today, I have the unexpected pleasure of learning how to be a seventh year student at Hogwarts in 19-fucking-77.


I stood alone in a small chamber off the Entrance Hall, fidgeting restlessly with the sleeve of my new school robes, waiting. The torches lining the stoned walls cast an eerie glow about the empty room that did little to settle my nerves. The clamor of hundreds of students chatting happily amongst themselves could be heard through the closed door that led to the rest of the castle, and I knew that it wouldn't be much longer before Professor McGonagall arrived with the new first years.

I glanced down at the watch on my wrist to check the time. It was a large wizards' watch—Harry's watch. It was the watch Mrs. Weasley gave him for his seventeenth birthday. It was a family watch that had once belonged to her late brother, Fabian Prewett. I discovered it within the seemingly endless depths of my little beaded bag this afternoon as I was preparing for the feast, and I couldn't help but fasten it around my wrist. It felt comforting to have a bit of both Harry and the Weasleys with me today. Not only was it a reminder of the family I had lost, but it also represented everything I might be able to change.

The door to the chamber suddenly swung open, and McGonagall entered briskly, the group of new first years trailing nervously behind her. As they entered the room, many of the pupils shot me strange looks, as if silently asking,"Who the hell are you?" Yep, I thought with a sigh, I'm going to look bloody ridiculous up there.

"Ah, Miss Granger. Good, you've already arrived," Professor McGonagall said to me from across the chamber, speaking over the heads of the many eleven-year-olds. She looked just as I had known her, albeit slightly younger and her face less lined. Her black hair was pulled back into her usual severe bun, and she was wearing robes of deep scarlet. I smiled at her unabashed display of Gryffindor house pride. She then looked down slightly, and began to address the rest of the room.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin momentarily, but before you can be seated with the rest of the school, you must be sorted into your respective houses," she paused as there was a collective intake of breath from the new students. "The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—"

Sweet Merlin Professor McGonagall, have you ever changed your speech throughout the years? No variety whatsoever?

I began to zone out as she continued, my eyes scanning the room. God, Ron was right during our fifth year. The first years were tiny little things, and I don't remember being quite that twitchy when I was eleven. There were definitely many more of them than there had been in 1991. I supposed that many of the wizarding population must had postponed having children during the First War, making my entrance class much smaller than was the norm. Well, except for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place shortly in the Great Hall in front of the rest of the school," Professor McGonagall concluded. She glanced around the room, eyeing a few disheveled students carefully. "I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as possible while you wait. I shall return when we are ready for you."

As Professor McGonagall left the room, I heaved a sigh and crossed my arms across my chest, leaning back against the wall behind me. A steady roar of muttering had broken out among the students.

"—some sort of test—"

"—no idea what it is, me da wouldn't tell me—"

"—yeah, I heard you have to fight a bloody troll!—"

I smiled as I remembered my own sorting. Well, my original sorting, I corrected myself. As a Muggle-born student, completely new to the hidden world of magic, I had been absolutely petrified. As usually occurs when I'm nervous, I had begun rapidly listing everything I thought I knew about the situation. With a grimace, I recalled how I'd spouted off every single spell I'd read in the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 to a thoroughly uninterested Sally-Anne Perks, who had been unfortunate enough to stand beside me.

Inspiration suddenly striking, I leaned forward and whispered into the ear of the first year nearest to me, "You know, I heard all you have to do is sit on a stool and put a hat on your head."

The tiny first year boy started at being addressed, his eyes widening."Really?"

I smiled and nodded. "Yep, really. At least, that's what I heard." I put a finger to my lips as McGonagall reentered the chamber, quieting the boy's excited questions.

"Form a line, please," she said, tone characteristically stern. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin."

I queued along with the other students, bring up the rear. I attempted to flatten my bushy curls as we made our way out of the side chamber and toward the Great Hall. The pair of great double doors were opened, and the first years began to file inside. I followed the last of them in.

My eyes became unfocused as I entered the Great Hall.

There had been a battle here.

All I saw was bodies—the corpses of those I loved dearly lying in rows. I raised my eyes to the long table at the front of the hall where the teachers should be, but instead, I only saw him.

Voldemort.

He was reclining slightly in the grand, high-backed chair that was usually occupied by the Headmaster, the Elder Wand held lazily in his long, spider-like fingers.

Red eyes gleaming. Cat-like pupils contracted. Slitted nostrils flaring.

His lipless mouth was curled into a sneer.

I blinked once, and the scene was gone. The Great Hall before me was just as it had been on the night I was sorted as an eleven-year-old. Students were sitting along each of the house tables, watching the first years line up at the front of the hall. Dumbledore was sitting at the very center of the High Table, right where he should be. He caught my eye and gave a tiny nod of reassurance. Hagrid beamed down at me, giving me a small wave of recognition with his dustbin lid-sized hands.

I quickened my pace to catch up with the other students. I forced out deep, calming breaths through my nose in an effort to compose myself, praying that no one else in the room had noticed my peculiar behavior. I joined the other new students as they faced the rest of the school, and watched as McGonagall placed a four-legged stool and a very familiar patched and dirty wizard's hat in front of us.

Just as I knew it would, the rip at the brim of the hat opened wide, and the Sorting Hat began its song. It was remarkably similar to the song it sang in my fifth year—advice to unite from within, be wary of outside foes. I wondered whether the songs of recent years had been similar, because it seemed no one within the hall was surprised by the Hat's warnings. As the song concluded, the hall burst into applause, the Sorting Hat twitching in acknowledgement. I glanced around the Great Hall as Professor McGonagall began calling names from her long roll of parchment, and noticed hundreds of eyes fixed upon me—scrutinizing, questioning.

I don't belong here.

I quickly averted my gaze to the Gryffindor table, searching for a friendly face. I spotted Sirius and Remus sitting near the front. Remus flashed me an encouraging smile, and Sirius gave me a thumbs up as he grinned. Relief flooded through me.

Alive. They're alive.

I'm not alone.

As I stood watching "Angleby, Iliana" sorted into Ravenclaw, doubt began to creep into my mind. What if I wasn't sorted into Gryffindor again? The Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting me in Ravenclaw during my first sorting, and for good reason. I had many qualities that would flourish in Ravenclaw house. But after all I've endured over the last seven years, didn't I belong in Gryffindor? Didn't hunting down fragments of Voldemort's soul count as an act of great courage? And honestly, wasn't this whole bloody trip to the past a test of bravery? I looked up to the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall as "Burke, Leonia" was sorted into Slytherin. Well, I thought as I watched the candles floating along above me, at least there's little to no chance of me ending up in Slytherin.

That's right, Hermione, always a silver lining.

"Fox, Emory" joined the Hufflepuff table, and I knew it would soon be my turn. I looked down and smoothed the front of my robes, begging my heart to cease its violent tattoo against the inside of my chest.

"Granger, Hermione!" Professor McGonagall called out, looking up from her long scroll and catching my eye. A steady hiss of whispers broke out across the entirety of the hall.

"—who is she?—"

"—definitely no first year—"

"—what happened to her face?—"

McGonagall gave me a slight nod, and I took a steadying breath. Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I began the walk forward to the stool, my head held high and shoulders thrust back. If the whole goddamned school was going to whisper about me, I might as well look decent while they did it.

Now I know how Harry felt, I thought wryly.

I was almost to the stool when I stumbled slightly over a crack in the stone floor. Righting myself quickly, I sat down hastily upon the short stool, thrusting the worn pointed hat onto my head to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks. The murmurs of the Great Hall were silenced instantly as the hat slipped over my ears and I stared forward at its black insides.

"Oh-ho, Miss Granger! Or, should I say, Miss Granger-Dumbledore, now," the small voice of the Sorting Hat said in my ear. "I see that this isn't the first time we've met. A time traveler, I take it? You aren't the first, nor will you be the last, I imagine. Very interesting, very interesting, indeed…"

I ignored the comment regarding other travelers. Just go ahead and shout out Gryffindor, I thought, we both know it's where I belong.

"Oh? But is it? I see it's where I placed you before. I'm sure it was right for you then—but is Gryffindor where you belong now? Hmm…" the sorting hat hummed thoughtfully. "You've got brains, that's for sure. I very nearly decided upon Ravenclaw in your future, I see, and no doubt a brilliant mind like yours might seem to belong there. Unwavering loyalty as well—a very Hufflepuff quality. Your friend Harry was very lucky to have you. But no, neither of those are quite the right fit…"

Well we both know it's certainly not going to be Slytherin, I thought, almost laughing aloud.

"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure?" the hat questioned. "I seeing unmatchable cunning inside your head, Miss Granger. You've done some dark deeds in your past as well, very dark, indeed. This is the sort of mind that belongs in Slytherin—how can I pass up a perfect sorting such as this?"

Panic coursed throughout my body, my muscles tensing, fists clenching.

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought angrily to the hat. I'm a Gryffindor! There's no where else I belong. Those "dark deeds" you speak of were only done out of necessity—it took extraordinary courage to do what I did! They'll eat me alive in Slytherin… I paused, then added, I swear to God, Merlin, and Morgana, put me in Slytherin, and I'll nick you from Dumbledore's study and light you on bloody fire. I'm quite proficient at these lovely little bluebell flames…

If a hat could blanch, the Sorting Hat would have done so at that moment. "Very well, very well, Miss Granger," said the hat hastily. "There's no need for violence. If you're sure—"

I'm very, very sure, I thought with determination.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat cried loudly so the entire hall could hear. Cheers and applause broke out from the Gryffindor table. Undoubtedly, the whole house was excited to get the interesting new student. As I removed the hat and placed it back upon the stool, I could have sworn I heard it mutter under its breath, "Bloody fucking Gryffindors…"

I quickly made my way to the Gryffindor table, wondering as I walked where the hell the Sorting Hat learned such colorful language? Didn't it spend all of its time on a shelf behind Dumbledore's desk? I pictured the Headmaster letting a swear slip, and almost giggled. I gazed down the long table, searching for an open place to sit. Remus caught my eye, and both he and Sirius budged up to make room. My face still pink, I slid in between them, taking my seat at the Gryffindor table.

Finally—I'm home.

"What the hell took so long, Hermione?" Sirius breathed in my ear as I settled into my seat. "You were up there for nearly ten minutes!"

My blush intensifying, I shrugged in response, turning to whisper back, "The hat and I were just having a little chat. It thought that the Falmouth Falcons were going to go all the way this year, you see…"

Sirius barked out a laugh, before grasping my shoulder and giving me a quick embrace. "Well congratulations! I knew you'd be in Gryffindor…"

The table fell silent again as the next student—Greengrass, Milton—placed the Sorting Hat on his head. Remus gripped my hand for a moment beneath the table and said under his breath, "I'm glad you're in Gryffindor too, Hermione."

The flush made its way up my neck once again as I squeezed his hand in thanks, muttering a quick, "Me too," before we both let go.

Maybe I had more than just bits of Spellotape keeping me whole here.

The sorting finally ended. Rather than Professor McGonagall retrieving the hat as she had after my original sorting, the caretaker Argus Filch lumbered forward. Looking almost exactly as he had in 1998, he fetched the Sorting Hat and stool, and then shuffled away with his cat Mrs. Norris trailing behind him. Professor Dumbledore stood to address the hall, his arms held out widely in greeting.

"Welcome students, both those that are new and those that are seasoned, to another year of magical education at Hogwarts. Let's not keep you from the delicious feast any longer." With a snap of his long fingers, the long-awaited food appeared on the empty dishes before us. "Shall we tuck in?" He then sat, throwing his long beard over his shoulder and adding food to his plate.

I loaded my own plate with everything from roast chicken to steak and kidney pie, and began to eat. I still hadn't quite grown accustomed to three meals a day yet, and I had to remind myself to slow down as I noticed that I was eating with an almost Ron Weasley-like gusto. I'd realized throughout our many years of friendship that Ron's eating habits mostly stemmed from growing up with six siblings. He'd learned that if he wanted his favorite foods, he had to eat them quickly, before anyone else could. I could hardly fault him for it, but thankfully, he'd managed to become a bit more polite as he'd gotten older. I set my fork down for a moment, and glanced around the table at the other students sitting near us. As I laid eyes on the person sitting across from me, I let out a small gasp.

James Potter.

He looked remarkably like Harry had at seventeen, and I felt my heart contract painfully as I stared at him. I could easily spot the differences, however. Seven years of being Harry's best friend meant that I had his face perfectly memorized. There was the obvious difference in eye color—James's being hazel while Harry's eyes were a bright emerald green—but there were other, more subtle differences as well. James's nose was slightly longer than Harry's, his eyebrows a bit thicker, and his face a little less narrow than Harry's had been. The shared untidy black hair was present in full force, and James also wore glasses, although his were a bit larger and the frames more square.

James grinned at me from across the table with obnoxiously straight, white teeth, before glancing to Sirius and asking, "So Pads, going to introduce us to your friend?"

Sirius was looking from me, to James, and then back again, a strange look on his face as he noticed my odd expression. I managed to close my gaping mouth, and reached my hand across the table, holding it out to James. "Hi, I'm Hermione Granger, as you and the rest of the hall were just informed. And you?"

James burst out laughing as he grasped my hand and shook it. "James Potter. I apologize for the mutt sitting beside you. He's never been house-trained—terrible manners."

I, too, joined in with his laughter, understanding the true meaning behind the joke, even though they didn't know it. Sirius scowled at his friend before turning back to me. "Hermione, these are my other two best mates I told you about. Dickhead," he said, gesturing unnecessarily to James. "And this is Peter."

I looked to the right of James, and if he hadn't been introduced as such, I never would have guessed that the boy sitting there was Wormtail. He looked nothing like the sniveling, watery-eyed rat of a man I'd encountered at fourteen in the Shrieking Shack.

Seventeen-year-old Peter Pettigrew reminded me a little of Neville Longbottom. His face was slightly round, but cheerful, with a hint of pink on each cheek. His grin reached all the way to his eyes, which were a lovely deep shade of blue. He had wavy, mousy brown hair that was swept to the side, in a manner that said I definitely tried hard to make it look this careless. He appeared to be much shorter than his three friends, but he was nowhere near as fat as I was led to believe. He was a little pudgy, but in a way that seemed to suit him. Overall, he was rather attractive. He might not be considered as good-looking as his best mates, but truthfully, they were an unfair standard to judge by.

I'd thought that whenever I first met the young-Wormtail, I would feel nothing but pure hatred. I was wrong. I was, well—I was sad. I pitied the poor boy for what I knew he might become.

The word might echoed within my brain.

He hasn't done anything yet.

I sat up a little from the bench, leaning across the table with my hand outstretched. "Nice to meet you, Peter."

Peter grinned back as he shook my hand as well, and answered, "You too, Hermione." He then returned his attention to his plate, resuming his meal. Well, apparently he wasn't the talkative sort.

"Dick-Head Boy, now," James smirked, and I noticed the badge gleaming on his chest, pinned to his school robes along with another red and gold badge that read Quidditch Captain. I almost gaped at him again. Didn't Remus say during the party at Grimmauld Place that he was the prefect of the group? I could understand Remus not being awarded the Head Boy position—he had enough to be getting on with, after all. But weren't James and Sirius once described as being forerunners of the Weasley twins? Who in their right mind would make James Head Boy?

—Dumbledore. Dumbledore absolutely would.

"Yeah, so I've been told about a thousand times already this summer," said Sirius as he rolled his eyes. "How did our precious Lily-Flower take it when you showed up in the Prefects' Carriage this morning?"

"Don't call her that!" James snapped at Sirius, and Sirius howled with laughter. "She, er, was just a bit—surprised. Wasn't exactly expecting it."

Oh, I understand now. Dumbledore was playing matchmaker. My new Uncle Albus may be a manipulative old coot sometimes, but at least he had a kind heart.

"Neither were we, mate. Neither were we. I reckon Dumbledore's really off his rocker now, making you Head Boy," Sirius said, toasting his glass of pumpkin juice to James. Remus and Peter laughed as James shot Sirius a rude hand gesture. James then turned to me in an obvious effort to change the topic of conversation.

"So Hermione, what brings you to Hogwarts? I don't think we've ever gotten a transfer as a seventh year before," he said as he scooped a bit of apple crumble and a slice of treacle tart onto his plate.

Hmm, so maybe it's only one of his favorites.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sirius shooting James a look that clearly said "abort, abort now!" while giving his head an almost imperceptible jerk. Evidently he was worried I wouldn't want to discuss my mum's death. How kind of him.

"Well, I attended school in America for my first six years, but I recently had to move back here to Hogsmeade to live with my dad," I said with the same guilty shrug as I had given Sirius the day before.

God, I hated lying.

James's eyebrows contracted questioningly. "Hogsmeade? Is your dad a wizard? I don't think I've heard of any wizards with the surname Granger before."

Ah, so we've finally reached it.

Might as well get it over with, Hermione. You're meant to be spreading the false story, are you not?

"Not true, mate. There's Hector Dagworth-Granger who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers," Peter interjected fairly.

"Well, as far as I know, Hector and I aren't related," I said with a small laugh. Is there honestly only one other well-known Granger in the wizarding world? "Yes, my dad is a wizard. But I have my mum's surname, and she was a Muggle." I cast my eyes downward, picking at my food, before adding, "My father is a Dumbledore."

There was nothing but silence in response to this revelation. I dreaded seeing their reactions, but I forced myself to look up. All four wizards were staring at me, mouths open in shock. Peter's lips were moving silently, as if trying to form a question, but not quite succeeding.

Remus was the first to recover enough to ask, "Dumbledore? As in... Albus Dumbledore? The Headmaster?"

"Er—yeah, he's my uncle," I answered. "My dad is his brother, Aberforth. Apparently my mum had a thing for beards back in her day." I attempted nonchalance with another shrug.

I turned to look at Sirius, and I could tell he was feeling guilty over his previous remark regarding Dumbledore's debatable sanity. Not wanting to make a big deal of it, I leaned over and mock-whispered in his ear, loud enough for all four Marauders to hear, "But don't worry, I don't think Uncle Al's barminess runs in the family. His brilliance though—that I certainly inherited."

Sirius's face relaxed and he started laughing, as did the other three. "I was right, always keeping shit interesting. A fucking Dumbledore…" he said, shaking his head. "You certainly left out that part yesterday."

I shrugged for a third time, giving him a little half-smile. "Didn't think it was that important, honestly."

Before any of them could respond, Dumbledore—oh, excuse me, Uncle Albus—stood, raising his hands to silence the room as he began to give the start-of-term notices. I turned my attention to the front of the hall, but I noticed all four wizards continuing to shake their heads in disbelief.


(A/N): So what do you think? We finally have a couple more characters introduced, and there will be many more to come over the next few chapters. Anyone in particular you'd like to see? Any specific situations you'd like the story to include?

Please leave a review and let me know, along with what you think of this chapter! Thanks for reading :)

-liz