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So far... After the early death of all her friends, and the collapse of both magical and Muggle civilisation by the 22nd century, the Fates provided a means for the aged Hermione to be reborn. But the young child needs to adjust slowly to her former memories and powers as they are briefly recalled and forgotten again intermittently. Now read on...

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Chapter 2

Growing Pains


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~~~ Big Incident at a Little Teashop ~~~

More than a year passed peacefully by in the parish of Elmbridge during which Hermione, now talking regularly despite a childish lisp, never mentioned her imaginary friend, Hawwy. Indeed, she seemed to have utterly forgotten him, and was half jumping with excitement when she was allowed to step out of her pushchair on her second birthday's shopping trip.

"Hold Mummy's hand darling," smiled Mrs Granger. She glanced up and down the busy street then turned to her friend, Mary Derwent, who was prodding a package down further into her trolley.

Anne said, "Mary, have we time for a cup of tea? My throat's dry as dust. Is there a café near here?"

"Yes, there's the Wheel just along there – look. Come on. Joe's not picking us up for another thirty minutes."

They walked along, Hermione enjoying her new freedom, yet clinging tightly to her mother's hand and pointing at everything that caught her attention. "Doggy!" – "That's right, darling." A loud engine roared by in the road. "By'thicle!" – "That's a motorbike, dearest."

As they neared the teashop, Hermione squatted down to stare mournfully at the crushed body of a little bird in the gutter. "Ith it p-poorly, Mummy? Ith the thparrow...?"

"It's gone to heaven, darling. With baby Jesus, remember?"

The child looked up wide-eyed at her mother, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had been declared with such certainty. Mary paused patiently with them, a grim smile on her face, then leaned almost imperceptibly towards the door, ready to go in.

Hermione's eyes flickered her way and lit up with delight as she pointed at the window full of cakes, scones, buns, and a giant teapot display. "Potter'th Wheel!" she squealed.

With a puzzled frown on her face, Mary looked back and forth between Hermione, the shop sign, and Anne. "I thought you hadn't shopped here before?"

Anne Granger struggled awkwardly to manoeuvre her little girl and the pushchair through the door. "She's just good at repeating what people say; she's a quick learner."

"But I didn't say Potter's–"

"Ith Hawwy in here, Mummy? Ith thith wh-where Hawwy livth?" Hermione was excited; she pushed ahead and broke away from her mother's grasp.

"Hawwy! Hawwy!" The little girl ran through the teashop, scanning all the faces of the startled diners. A dark-haired, middle-aged man wearing glasses looked up from his Daily Telegraph.

"H-Hawwy?"

The man smiled, embarrassed, and shook his head, glancing around at the other luncheoners before averting his gaze back inside the protective wings of the newspaper, trying to pretend the misidentification was of no consequence.

As Anne caught up with her wayward daughter, she was met with a contorted grimace of desperate loss; for a moment, Mrs Granger hardly knew her own child.

"Hawwy'th with baby Jeethuth!" wailed Hermione.

Huge fat tears rolled down the girl's cheeks as Anne Granger gathered up her child and swept back out to the street, leaving Mary to struggle after them with the pushchair, trolley, and mouthed apologies to all the staring faces.

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~~~ The Halloween Murders ~~~

The faces of Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall both turned up towards a sustained growl emanating from the night sky above Privet Drive. The rumbling increased to a roar as its source – a motorbike and sidecar – descended to the road close by them, then, abruptly, the noise cut out and silence soothed their ears once more.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, "and..."

The man seated in the sidecar stepped out carefully. In his arms was a bundle of blankets.

"What happened, Sirius?" said Dumbledore. There was an unusually firm edge to his tone.

"My fault... all my fault," said Sirius, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible even in the empty street. He stared at the tiny burden he carried as if in apology.

"Is that...?" said McGonagall.

"Foun' this," said Hagrid, holding out a small sheet of paper to the Headmaster, "in You-know-who's pocket. Known it weren't your 'andwriting, sir."

McGonagall gasped. "Then he's definitely dead?"

"–as a dodo an' twice as ugly. Not a mark on 'im – tho' he 'as now, I'll wager," said Hagrid. "I confess I give 'im a kick up the arse – 'bin wantin' to do tha' fer–"

"Hagrid!" cried McGonagall, in a kind of stifled yelp which then reduced to a barely-heard mutter, "That's not where I would have kicked him."

Dumbledore studied the note and frowned.

"Lily an' James's address," Hagrid explained to McGonagall, who was looking inquiringly at the Headmaster. "Sirius says it's Pettigrew's writin'."

Eyes widening, McGonagall leaned forward and immediately gasped in recognition. "You're right, Sirius – that is Peter's limp scrawl!"

"You changed the Secret-keeper?" Dumbledore examined Sirius's face very closely.

Sirius nodded. "I curse myself for it. I thought... I suspected... Remus was the one – but it was Peter all along." He lowered his head and walked away a few paces where he remained, hugging the bundle as if for comfort and staring into the distance.

"Took it badly," murmured Hagrid. "I 'ad ter grab 'im, stop 'im goin' after Peter. Thought it bes' ter bring 'im 'ere."

"You did right, Hagrid," said Dumbledore, patting the half-giant on the arm. "Not a mark on Voldemort, you say?"

Hagrid stiffened at the direct use of the dark wizard's name, but he answered Dumbledore's question. "We reckon'd it could only be th' killin' curse rebounded on 'im somehow."

"No... shield effects? No magical... conflict? No damage to him or anything else? The room? The cottage?"

"None. The on'y mark is on poor little 'Arry's forehead."

The Headmaster's entire frame eased upwards a little, as if gravity itself had lifted a crushing pressure from him. "This changes everything. Minerva, remind me to recommend a raise in salary for Madam Pince."

McGonagall blinked several times. "Our librarian?"

"Myrtle Warren's ghost told me that while still a schoolgirl, Irma showed a kindness to a butterfly which indirectly prevented Voldemort learning the secret of immortality. That should be rewarded. Very underrated, insects are, in my opinion."

McGonagall's eyes were now blinking so rapidly, they threatened to pop out from under her glasses and flutter away like the insect she was puzzling over.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore, "I'll need to go directly to the Ministry from here to make sure the body and wand are cremated and the ashes dispersed across an unknowable sea; on no account must Voldemort be honoured with a tomb likely to attract sympathisers to his cause."

"Professor Dumbledore, sir... I forgot summat... took this off 'im fer yeh..." Hagrid held up a wand of yew – no more than a twig in the big man's meaty paw.

"Snap it," Dumbledore said quietly.

"Headmaster, shouldn't we...?" said McGonagall.

"I have no stomach for reviewing the spells that took the lives of Lily and James." Dumbledore's tone was unusually bitter. "Snap it," he repeated. When Hagrid did so, he added, "And again."

The remains were incinerated and vanished by Dumbledore's own wand. "It is done."

A breeze came up, flapping their long robes.

"Enough of death; now we must consider the living," said Dumbledore softly, then in the same low tone he hissed to the man who stood apart from them, "Sirius!"

Sirius came back to the group huddled near the neatly-clipped grass of number four. Dumbledore did not hesitate. "In the circumstances, as you are Harry's godfather, it seems appropriate that you take responsibility for his upbringing. If you apply for guardianship or adoption, I will support your offer. May we see the child?"

Sirius gaped for a second or two... "Of course."

He parted the top of the blankets; the others bowed their heads to see better. The face of a baby boy, fast asleep, was just visible. He had a tiny curved abrasion under the front of his jet-black hair – perhaps merely from where the tip of the dark wizard's wand had physically struck his tender skin. The wound was still inflamed from the recent attack but was not bleeding.

"Can you heal it, Albus?" said Sirius.

"...the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal..." murmured Dumbledore, thoughtfully.

"What did you say, Headmaster? What do you mean?" said McGonagall, looking startled.

Dumbledore replied, "I see no reason that this be kept secret any longer. ... There is a prophecy recorded at the Ministry declaring that a child born at the end of July would be the equal of Lord Voldemort and have power to vanquish him. That prophecy appears to have now been fulfilled."

He looked long and hard at the baby's injury, then spun charms across it of which he examined the results most carefully.

"It is a harmless mark but I'm not sure I should remove it. At any rate, in time it will fade somewhat, darken, and look like any other tendril of his hair. Come, there is much to do..."

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~~~ Total Recall ~~~

Several more fruitful autumns blessed the country and the now five-year-old Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet during the half-term holidays. Blue Peter was on the television but she was only listening with one ear while she happily read her new birthday book, Robinson Crusoe.

"Mummy, what'th th-thpatterdatheth m-mean?"

Mrs Granger called back from the kitchen where she was preparing the evening meal. "Spatterdashes? Uuh... I erm... don't know, dear."

The television droned on, '...Coming up in this Halloween special, we'll be showing you how to make a witch's hat, but first here is–'

"Look it up in Daddy's big dictionary, darling."

'Thank you,' droned the television. 'These are all simple costumes you can make for All Hallows but you will need–'

"Hermione?"

But Hermione could not answer. She was staring, ashen-faced at the television screen upon which was displayed a dark-robed figure clutching a broomstick. To the young girl, the live television picture now appeared startlingly vivid yet sluggish – almost frozen, like a VHS on frame-by-frame. The book slipped from Hermione's grip, across her lap, and slowly, ever so slowly, onto the hearthrug, drawing her near-hypnotised gaze. She could see with a new clarity who she really was.

Hermione had stopped breathing.

There was a face she loved. It wasn't in the physical room, yet in her mind's eye the image was just as substantial and even more intense because of its significance. She could see him clearly now – forgotten but remembered at last: Harry Potter.

She drew a first breath.

All her memories were flooding back – even the memories that these recollections had happened before several times, yet had slipped from her mind as often. Slowly she rose to her feet. Clearly, changing the Fates' Fabric of Life had given her this chance of another lifetime. She must not waste a minute of it; he might need her. The thought of a four-year-old Harry's spirit being broken by the Dursleys' cruel mental abuse was unthinkable, intolerable. It. Must. Be. Stopped!

The television said, 'After covering the cardboard with the black, sticky-backed plastic, roll it into a cone and secure it temporarily with a paperclip – you might need to ask a parent to help here.'

Eyes widened in astonishment and delight. Mum and Dad are not dead! "MUM!" she shrieked.

Hermione scurried to the open kitchen doorway and gazed in rapture at her mother. It had been decades since she'd seen her alive – at least with these eyes. Those eyes shimmered now.

Mrs Granger, astonished by Hermione's cry, dropped the potato peeler onto the draining board as her little daughter ran up and wrapped her arms around her.

"I've missed you so much, Mum!" sobbed Hermione. "Oh, Mum, Oh, Mum."

The puzzled adult smiled and stroked her fingers through Hermione's bushy hair. "What brought this on sweetheart? Which book have you been reading?"

Hermione stiffened, then pulled away towards a kitchen chair upon which lay a memo pad. "Books! Mum, can I borrow your notebook? I have quite a variety of important tasks to accomplish and I must get organised A.S.A.P. – there may not be much time!" She flipped over to find a blank page, then began to neatly write a list.

Anne Granger stared in wonder at her five-year-old.

"I'll need your assistance, and Dad's support too – that's paramount," said Hermione, half to herself, then wrote it down. "I'll have to use the spare room for storage and preparations. There'll be purchases to make... sufficient funds must be raised." She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her mother's ballpoint pen for a few seconds then went across and climbed up onto the chair below the wall calender.

"1984... 1984... What happened in 1984 or 5...?" She frowned for a moment, then her eyes brightened. "Mum! What year did Last Suspect win the Grand National?" Hearing no reply, she turned too abruptly – almost falling off the chair – and looked at her mother expectantly.

Mrs Granger was leaning feebly against the sink unit. In one hand she clutched a handkerchief which she held to her mouth; in the other she limply gripped a large kitchen knife. Her face was distraught. An expression of terror was holding back the threat of glistening tears.

"Who are you?" she whimpered. "What have you done with my daughter?" The strength of her voice dropped even further until she was almost inaudible. "Where's my little baby?" She pointed the blade shakily in Hermione's direction.

Hermione stared open-mouthed, realising that in her haste she had been tactless. "Mum! It's me! It's still me! I'm still your Hermione – but growing up fast."

She jumped down off the chair and walked forward smiling, but when her mother cringed fearfully away, Hermione backed off in alarm. "I'm not possessed, Mum! My head's not going to spin round!" She stared in dismay at the fear in her mother's eyes. "Sorry, Mum – I'll keep my distance."

Climbing back on the chair, Hermione sat down cross-legged in what she hoped was a non-aggressive attitude, wondering how to present herself. She couldn't pretend by lisping and acting childishly – that wouldn't fool her mum. She would have to appeal to her mothering instincts. "Mum, I desperately need your help so we can work this out together."

She studied her mother's expression carefully before continuing, "You've noticed odd things happen with me – learning to read early and, uuh... inexplicable, impossible things like er... well, that broken vase that erm... got mended..."

"Wha– what is h-happening with you? You sound so..."

"I'm er... different, Mum – I'm a magi– that is, a erm... specially-gifted person. It's uuh..." – Hermione thought quickly, knowing her mother would freak out if she knew the truth that her infant had access to the memories and powers of a 130-year-old witch – "the fact is it's making me grow up a bit faster than normal that's all."

"But..."

"It's happened before a few times briefly – remember that night I woke up screaming? It never lasted, so this might not either. Mum, there's something important I want you to do in case I relapse again. It's Harry Potter, he's–"

"Your imaginary friend?"

"He's real, Mum, Harry's a real boy. He's only four and has to live with cruel relatives. We have to go and..." her voice tailed off into confusion. "We have to..."

"Hermione?" Mrs Granger looked at the expression of bewilderment on her daughter's face. Determination had faded in the child's eyes leaving only innocence.

"Mummy, what'th th-thpatterdatheth m-mean?"

Mrs Granger couldn't speak for a few moments, then she said hoarsely, "Look it up in Daddy's big dictionary, darling."

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~~~ Clearing Things Up ~~~

Mr Granger helped his wife clear away the dishes from their evening meal, then grabbed a tea towel and began to dry while she washed the pots and pans. Not a word passed between them for a few minutes.

"What's on your mind, Anne?" Edward knew something was troubling her.

"Oh, I was wondering if we might, you know, reverse our roles – just to try it out you understand."

"You want to dry? You hate drying!" He made a face of comical surprise.

"Not the dishes!" she laughed thinly, "I mean, I resume full time work at the surgery and you work part time instead of me – take Hermione to and from school and so on."

"Mmm... we talked about this before she was born, remember? We agreed that you'd... is she...? is something... has something happened then?"

"Hermione needs help, Ed."

"She's fine – just hyperactive and extremely intelligent."

"Hermione's NOT fine!" cried Anne, dunking a saucepan back into the hot water with a splash. "There's something seriously wrong. This afternoon she had another..."

"Another one of her turns?"

"Yes, but... well, she sounded... so... different.. so... grown up – almost bossy."

"Bossy? Our little Hermione? You must be joking, Anne." Edward laughed quietly, not wishing to wake the child asleep upstairs. "She's such a passive, sweet little creature."

"Exactly, which is why her behaviour was so–"

"So... what?"

"Well, I was going to say... abnormal."

Edward shook his tea towel irritably at his wife. "Now this is getting ridiculous! My little girl is NOT abnormal!"

"But–"

"Enough!"

There was silence for a while. Finally, Edward yielded. "Sorry, Anne. ... Alright, alright, I'll have a word with Saunders; he might know someone who could speak to her in a discreet way – but our Hermione is NOT abnormal!"

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~~~ The Disquieting Gates ~~~

Mrs Granger frowned at her rain-spattered watch as she helped Hermione down from the bus – they'd had to let their second car go to meet baby expenses – then studied the address on the form given to her by their colleague, Doctor Saunders. His initial examination and questioning had led them to a clinic appointment.

A grimace crossed her face as they turned the corner; the building was very old and rather forbidding, and the foul weather didn't help. The road was clearly Victorian and boasted what was surely one of the few cobbled surfaces remaining in the country. The cold rain washed along the gutters and only the wetness of the street litter prevented it from being blown by the wind. She glanced once more at the soaking, dripping document she held to check the address."Oh, well, I guess that must be the place. Come on, we should be home in time for lunch."

But as she stepped out, Mrs Granger found herself anchored by the little hand in hers. She looked down. Hermione's face was pinched with distress.

Mrs Granger crouched to reassure her child with an arm around her shoulder. "Why, you're trembling, sweetheart!"

"Pleathe d-don't p-put me in the athylum, Mummy!"

Her mother gave a weak smile. "Where did you hear such a word?" She shook her head then released a sigh. "Have you been reading Daddy's books again? Listen, it's not an asylum, darling, it's only a day clinic. They'll tell us what to do, then we can go home."

"Am I a m-mad p-perthon, Mummy? Ith that'th what'th wrong with m-me?"

Anne Granger gasped and struggled to speak. "There's nothing wrong with you dearest! Don't ever think that! Mummy loves you very much." She gave Hermione a long hug then they walked on – the child setting a doubtful snail's pace as their shoes clattered and splashed along the narrow, puddled pavement towards the wrought iron gates.

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~~~ Clinical Trial ~~~

The receptionist haughtily shook her long blonde curls and pointed the Grangers vaguely and without interest towards the consultant's surgery door before continuing her telephone conversation. "Yes, I know... Oh, is he?" – giggles – "You don't say! ... Who'd have thought it? Oh, did you see–? Yes! Wasn't he drop-dead gorgeous!"

Anne knocked and upon hearing a distant "Enter!" she let herself in and introduced herself and Hermione to the senior physician. He nodded and shuffled a few papers noisily around on his desk.

"Mrs Granger, from Doctor Saunders report, there are definite indications that your child may be suffering from dissociative identity disorder triggered by early emotional trauma – what used to be called a split personality. We need to verify this then investigate the cause before we can begin treatment."

The rain was now fizzing very loudly on the window and the doctor had raised his voice to be heard. His face dipped briefly into the pool of yellow light cast by his desk lamp as he studied his appointment book.

Anne Granger stared in horror at the consultant. "But Mr Lander, Hermione has never suffered any severe shock, and she's well-balanced and very intelligent for her age."

"I'm sure she is, but the fact remains, it is essential we find out what has troubled her so deeply. Hypnosis may help to uncover those memories." He picked up his telephone and began muttering into it.

Anne felt little tug on her sleeve followed by a whimper. "Am I a thpoilt p-perthonality, Mummy? I'm not, am I?"

Mrs Granger's eyes flashed. "Not at all, darling, you're–"

Lander's telephone crashed back into its cradle. "We'll be taking the child in for observation for a few days so we–"

"What! Surely not! No. I don't think it's a good idea for her to be away from home."

The doctor sighed. "I'm afraid I must insist."

"You can't do that!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Granger but we can. I have here a court order enabling us to evaluate her case. There are signs she may have been... mistreated. I'm not saying you personally are responsible but–"

Anne Granger leapt to her feet. "What are you implying!" She took Hermione's hand and helped her down from her chair. "We're leaving!"

Lander shook his head and got to his feet too. "I'm sorry but she must stay. The ward sister will–"

"Mummy!" whimpered Hermione, clinging to her mother's raincoat and pleading up to her with tear-filled eyes. "Pleathe don't leave me! Pleathe don't leave me in the Loony bin! Don't let Thithter Daunt ch-choke m-me in a thwaitjacket!"

"I'm not leaving you, Hermione!"

"P-Promithe?"

"I promise!"

A dark frown had creased Lander's brow. "What have you been saying to her! How does she hear such words as Loony bin and straitjacket? Mrs Granger, we must–"

The door opened and a smiling black woman with a pleasantly-rounded face stepped in.

"Ah, Sister Lamb, would you escort this child to Doctor Randall, please? He's preparing–"

"NO!" shrieked Anne, as the newcomer gently took Hermione's arm to draw her away. "Let go of her!"

"MUMMY!" wailed Hermione.

Anne Granger had no intention of surrendering her daughter. She pushed the nurse roughly to one side and scooped up Hermione in her arms, failing to notice Lander's hand was pressed firmly on a push button at the side of his desk.

Her way out was blocked by two attendants who burst into the room and held the poor woman's arms while Sister Lamb – with a soothing "There, there, you'll be fine" – carefully detached Hermione and carried her away. Mother and daughter struggled and screamed their distress.

"My baby! Give me back my baby!" Mrs Granger's eyes blazed, but her attempts to strike out were ineffective against the much stronger orderlies.

"MUMMY! MUMMY!"

Once Hermione's shrieks of despair had faded into the distance, Mrs Granger collapsed, supported only by the men, who helped her to a seat. "I want my baby..." sobbed Anne.

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~~~ A Mental Incursion ~~~

Doctor Phineas Randall frowned. After twenty minutes calmly questioning and presenting comforting suggestions to the girl, she was still extremely agitated. Hermione was lying on a softly-cushioned examination trolley with gentle music playing quietly in the background – yet remained rigid with fear.

"Bring over the nitro, Sister Lamb, it'll help her become more receptive to the hypnotherapy."

Hermione watched anxiously as the nurse wheeled over a cylinder enwrapped with tubing and cables. The doctor then took the longest tube from his assistant and fitted a wide nozzle onto the end.

"No need to worry, little girl," said Randall. "It won't hurt a bit, and we'll be able to find out what's troubling you."

"Ith it gath?" wailed Hermione.

"Yes, it's a very pleasant gas that will help me to uncover your deepest memories so–"

"NOOOO!" cried Hermione.

"Sister, can you hold her arms while...? That's it..." He moved the mask carefully towards Hermione's mouth...

"Aaagh! She BIT me!" Randall dropped the mask and pulled away, wincing at the wound on his right hand. "Bloody teeth marks!"

"Doctor!"

Randall rounded on the unfortunate woman. "Don't just stand there! Fetch me a dressing – and get me the restraints while you're at it!"

"Oh, surely not for such a little child?"

"DO IT!" The medical man glared at Hermione for a few seconds, clearly thinking about how to handle the situation, then he whirled around and called after the nurse, "Bring me back a cup of tea as well!"

"Sir! Remember, the machine is out of order?"

"Then boil a kettle, you foolish–! You can do that can't you!" His words were as stinging as his injury.

"But the kitchen is at the opposite end of the building to the medications and supplies – it'll take me most of ten minutes to get them all." She bit her lip then summoning up her courage, lifted her chin defiantly. "You know the rules, Doctor Randall – either a parent or a qualified nurse must be present while–"

"RUN, DAMN YOU! Do you want me to bleed to death!" He sucked the side of his finger and hustled the nurse to the door. "GO!"

Sister Lamb sniffled as he slammed the door on her, and her eyes widened as she heard the lock click shut. After only a few moments of hesitation, off she hurried as fast as her rather plump legs would carry her.

"Now, you little–" muttered the man to himself as he spun around to deal with his patient once more.

The doctor strode back to Hermione who, off balance, was trying to sit up. He grabbed the tubing, worked the end firmly into his hand, then pressed his other forearm across the little girl's chest, almost at her throat, pinning her down while he forced the mask over her mouth. "You will do as you are told, you hear? It's not going to hurt, you silly thing! Just breathe deeply..." He twisted a valve and the flexible tube began hissing like a snake.

Hermione's eyes widened in horror, then, without warning, they suddenly flared with understanding and intelligence; a deep, unconscious instinct had taken over. "Enough!"

"Wh-what? What was that?" stuttered the doctor, easing the pressure off the girl's ribcage. He staggered back – had something invisibly pushed him? A puzzled frown creased his forehead. Tendrils of impressions were creeping like inquisitive insects into his thoughts, making him blink and shudder.

Hermione finally sat up. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "Now this won't hurt a bit..."

The doctor sank limply into a chair. An odd sensation of being examined very deeply seized him, yet he found he could not move. Inquiries and suggestions were penetrating his mind which he was unable to resist.

You rent your house to yourself via a clandestine business...? came a murmur in his brain. Aah...

"So your wife will get nothing," Hermione said aloud, nodding her head in understanding. "You're a nasty piece of work, aren't you, Doctor Randall?"

"I'm a nasty piece of work," repeated the man in a monotone.

"You wish to write up your report very quickly," declared Hermione with a tone of authority, "affirming I am mentally stable and intelligent but maturing rapidly in unexpected steps then slipping back a little – that process will eventually smooth itself out and I'll be fine. The practice has made a huge mistake keeping me here and I should be released immediately or risk litigation."

"I must hurry to finish my report–" said the doctor, struggling to his feet and rushing over to his desk where he seized a ballpoint pen and began writing furiously.

After a while, the door handle rattled then the muffled sound of Sister Lamb's voice could be heard. There was a tentative knocking.

"You must hurry," said Hermione.

"Yes, I must hurry," agreed the man, as from a daze.

"Doctor! Please let me in!" The door handle clicked and clacked ineffectually again.

When the pen finally fell from Randall's aching fingers, Hermione said, "You will tell that blonde bimbo in reception to go stuff herself then, over the next few days, you will have all of your assets signed over to your wife and agree liberal alimony. You will resign from your partnership here and seek employment in... let's see... the sewers should suit your nature."

"Yes..." murmured the man, with a faraway glaze across his eyes, "I've always deserved to work with sewage..."

Hermione glanced towards the increasingly desperate noise coming from the door. "Thank the good lady Sister Lamb for her help, and... give her a raise in salary. Oh, and after she has escorted me to my mother, give her an hour's break while she drinks your tea." There was a smile on Hermione's lips, but it was a grim one. Alohomora. Her wandless hand had barely moved.

The door flew open and Sister Lamb stumbled inside. "Doctor...!"

"Ah, there you are, Dorothy, my dear!" beamed Randall. "Thank you so much for your help - you have been of great assistance to me. In fact, I want to increase your pay beginning immediately - you deserve it! Could you escort the young lady back to her mother, please, and give Mr Lander this report? Young Hermione is fine – a wonderful girl – she can leave whenever she wishes."

Sister Lamb stared in disbelief as she set down the rattling tray she was carrying and took the form from him. "Miss Granger can go?" she croaked. She looked down at the smiling girl who reached out and took her hand.

"Yes, yes!" cried Randall. "Then you can take a well-earned break for an hour – here, have my cup of tea – you sound rather dry."

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

I agree the doctor in that last scene edges on the unbelievable but I needed to demonstrate the depth of Hermione's power over others and how her magic is gradually returning to her remembrance.

Voldemort IS dead. No question. I wanted to convey that clearly by as many differences to the scene at the cottage as possible. No damage to the building. No lightning-bolt wound – just a normal one. No disappearing body. I assume all those original events were to do with magical conflict between the immortality conveyed by the Horcruxes, and the rebounding death curse. But in my story Voldemort just drops dead.

Many thanks to menm for beta-reading and helping clarify any confusing sections. Thanks also to everyone for comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)

- Hippothestrowl

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