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So far... The Fates provided a means for the aged Hermione to be reborn, and the young child, gaining increasing access to her former memories and powers, has finally revealed to her parents that she is magical. Now read on...
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Chapter 4
The Witch Steps Forth
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The Freak
"Are you really sure about this, Hermione?" said Mrs Granger, craning back over the front passenger seat of their parked car. Her husband tapped the driving wheel with his fingertips and stared out at the neat white road sign that said Privet Drive.
Hermione unbuckled her seat belt. "Yes, just leave it to me."
Mr Granger switched off the engine as Hermione climbed out. It was a dry but dull day, and the village of Little Whinging, he considered, did not brighten it up one little bit. Everything in the street seemed to be neatly manicured and in its proper place, but all those places appeared dismal and sterile to the visitor. He grimaced. "And Harry lives in this soulless suburb?"
But Hermione was already walking up the path to number four. If Mr Granger could have seen his seven-year-old daughter's face he would have detected both excitement and apprehension in her expression. He saw her stretch up to the bell push but heard nothing from where he was parked at the edge of the pavement. He wound down his window; cool air breezed into the car. Still no sound except a sparrow chirping and the distant hum of the main road.
But he needed no audible indication to tell him that the big, beefy man who emerged at the doorway to confront his daughter was irritated at being disturbed on a Saturday morning.
"What?" demanded the man. Mr Granger could now hear his growl quite clearly, and judging by her sudden agitated movement, his wife beside him could too. Their daughter's voice was much fainter.
"Please, Mr Dursley, I'd like to see Harry Potter."
The man's face slowly turned a nasty shade of puce and his chest swelled with anger. "Dead!" was the first word he uttered. "With his freaky parents!" were the next four, and "Good riddance!" were the final two. He turned away to close the door but Hermione dodged under his arm and disappeared inside.
Mr Granger was out of his car in an instant, his wife following.
They heard the man shout from within the front hallway. "Get out of my house!"
"Hermione!" Mr Granger stood on the threshold, reluctant even then to cross that invisible boundary of decency and respect unless he was certain he had to.
Hermione was standing before an open cupboard below the hall stairway. It was crammed to bursting with odds and ends: a shiny vacuum cleaner, a boxed electric toaster on a shelf, a cracked plastic freezer basket. An opened packet of decorative candles slid out onto the floor, spilling its contents.
"Happy now are you! The Potters all died in a car crash when their brat was still a baby!"
The man continued ranting, shouting at someone in another room – "The ruddy nerve of it!" – then glaring at the other visitors whose toecaps dared to intrude over the inner edge of his welcome mat without permission. "OUT! OUT!"
Hermione's shoulders had slumped. When she turned back to the front door, Mr and Mrs Granger were shocked. The expression of horror and desolation they saw in their child's face cut them to the quick.
"Come along, darling," breathed Mrs Granger, stooping down to take her bewildered child by the hand.
"Are you one of that lot too?" snarled Dursley, eyeing Mr Granger's dark, hooded longcoat up and down. "GET AWAY FROM HERE! Go away and take your freakish whelp with you!"
Mr Granger opened his mouth, then decided it wasn't worth it. He followed his wife and daughter back to the car and drove away.
"I'm so sorry, baby." Mrs Granger was now sitting on the back seat cuddling her daughter. "You'll make other friends."
"Ith thith nearly at Waterthtones, Mummy?" said Hermione, confused as to where they were going and why she felt so forlorn.
Mrs Granger stared down at the top of her daughter's bushy head, then at her husband's glance in the rear-view mirror. "Don't you still want to go to Charing Cross Road, sweetheart?"
"Yeth, Charing Croth Road bookthop."
Mr Granger slowed the car into the curb and stopped once more. "We have to talk to her, Anne. Remember what we promised?"
Mrs Granger shook her head doubtfully. "Right now? Please don't, Edward."
With a look of resolve, the man twisted around in his seat to face his daughter. "Hermione, you told us it was really important we help you buy some books and equipment in a place called Diagon Alley. You warned us that if you... forgot yourself... we were to insist no matter what. You begged us to take this route so you could meet with your friend Harry Potter and then we were to–"
"Harry?" The girl looked up at both her parents. "Harry's dead ithn't he?" She burst into tears and buried her face against her mother.
"It was a traffic accident, darling. You couldn't have known," said Mr Granger.
"Wathn't! Wathn't an acthident!" There was a fresh bout of sobbing. "Bad withard curthed Harry."
Mr Granger stared over the back of his seat at his wife's expression, and she stared back. They had both learned to take their daughter seriously, no matter how strange her utterances, but they were not prepared for this.
"What do you want us to do, Hermione?" Mr Granger said, then added, "Take your time."
"Should we go on, darling?" asked Mrs Granger. She could feel Hermione shaking her head against her.
"We have to," said Mr Granger. "We swore to her."
"Oh, Edward..."
"Hermione, you made us promise," said Mr Granger. "What do you think that means?"
"Meanth you hath to..." mumbled the girl.
"And you can still find your way?"
There was no answer.
With a sigh, Mr Granger started the car. He sat there thinking for a few moments, then proceeded with the journey on which they had set out earlier.
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Through The Cauldron
"Well, that's the bookshop, but..." said Mr Granger, as they drove up, "it's impossible to park along here."
"Thide threet." said Hermione morosely.
Her father shook his head and turned up the narrow street a little further along.
"It's packed with cars."
"Not all real," said Hermione, pointing.
"What?"
"Jutht park through thothe green carth."
It was an act of great faith that Mr Granger slowly inched towards the end car in a row of about four, expecting a tiny bump, a car alarm, and his quick pullaway with fingers crossed – but nothing of that sort happened. His own vehicle seemed to glide through the green car; ghostly seats, steering wheel faded as they merged into them, and then... he was parked! Where the end green car had gone, he did not know.
He thought for a few moments about their next steps, then, with an uneasy frown he pulled out a hefty leather satchel, patted it once but firmly, then said, "What now?"
Following blind instinct but no real plan, Hermione led them back to Charing Cross Road. She stared at the grubby-looking frontage between the big book shop on one side and a record shop on the other. She placed her hand on the door, feeling the wood surface beneath her palm. There was something very familiar about this...
"That shop's closed down, Hermione," said her mum. "It's empty – look."
"It'th not a sthop!" There was a new spark in Hermione's tone, as if discovering something she had long lost.
"Sure?"
"Yeth!"
Edward looked at Anne. "Okay, remember what we rehearsed? Straight through? Minimum contact? Walk like we're erm... magical? We're the Bradleys? Hermione's erm... Helen, if anyone asks." He looked down at the little girl. "You're Helen, remember?"
His daughter nodded her head cautiously. His wife nodded more nervously as, copying her husband, she pulled up her hood.
Hermione took both their hands and steered them inside, pushing her parents along, but as if they were pulling her.
The interior was clearly an old pub. It was dark, shabby, and smelt of ale and tobacco fumes, yet its cosy quaintness and the soft murmuring motions of its inhabitants made it as intimately alive as Privet Drive had been uninviting and barren. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. The bar was situated within a welcoming recess and, seated before it, a little man in a top hat was talking to the old man serving him. The low buzz of chatter barely paused when the Grangers strode in.
"Mornin'," said the barman.
"Morning." Mr Granger nodded affably, leaning his head forward to indicate he was only passing through.
While pretending the opposite, he let Hermione push them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard where there was nothing but a dustbin, a few weeds – and no other exit.
"Where now?" he frowned. "It's a dead end."
But, driven by an unknown inner compulsion, Hermione was already counting bricks in the wall above the dustbin. "Free up ... two acroth ..." she murmured, then tapped the wall three times with her fingertips.
The brick she had touched quivered – it wriggled – in the middle, a small hole appeared – it grew wider and wider – a second later they were facing an archway large enough for all of them, an archway on to a cobbled street which twisted and turned out of sight.
The Grangers stared in amazement. Anne reached out dizzily to lean on her husband.
"Thith ith really it! It really ith!" breathed Hermione, almost to herself, "It'th... Diagon Alley!"
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Diagon Alley
The sights and sounds, hustle and bustle were dazzling and confusing at first. Apart from the strange, almost medieval garb of the passers-by, there were so many shops it was hard to take them all in.
"Stay close, Hermione. Whatever you do, don't run off," Mrs Granger said anxiously, with a firm grip on her daughter's shoulder.
There was a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest open-fronted store, and Mr Granger hesitated at the wide range of copper, brass, pewter, silver and other unknown metals of which they were made.
"That's on the list – check the list," he said to his wife.
She fumbled a piece of paper from her handbag and they scrutinised it.
"Gringotts – number one priority," they read aloud together, then studied again Hermione's instructions they had rehearsed the week before. Facing the reality seemed quite different.
Anne pulled a worried face. Edward grimaced too, pointing ahead far along the street. "That's the building ... the building where ... they are." He couldn't quite bring himself to voice the name of the creatures that could only exist in fairy tales, but he lifted his shoulders, braced himself, then they marched onwards.
"Stay close, Hermione. Whatever you do, don't run off," repeated her mother.
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The Lady With Red Shoes
"Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, not real... not real... not real," Mr Granger kept muttering under his breath like a mantra.
"I beg your pardon?" growled the goblin behind the till where Edward stood frozen. Seeing goblins along the way, passing them, that was disturbing enough, but to talk to one...
Anne interceded. "We wish to open an account for our daughter and to exchange Muggle money for erm..."
"Gallons," said Mr Granger, recovering somewhat at the sound of his wife's voice. "Galleons, that is," he corrected himself.
The goblin stared blankly back. Was he waiting for something more?
"Oh, yes, right..." Mr Granger hoisted the heavy satchel onto the counter.
While her parents were engaged in this activity, Hermione stared miserably at her reflection in the shiny marble floor. There seemed no purpose in anything they did – though she was not entirely sure why.
A lady's red leather shoes caught her attention as the woman paused to let someone pass. The shoe had a distinctive gold buckle. Hermione looked up. The woman's pink-cheeked face seemed vaguely familiar but she could not recall ever seeing her before. Perhaps it was the dark hair framing her pretty features that made the young woman memorable.
"Come along then, Johnny," she said.
Hermione watched as the lady led her little boy to another counter. The child was gazing around the huge hall with great interest – as were her own parents. She followed the direction of his attention and could not help supposing it was fairly engaging if you were new to the magical world and not feeling so downhearted as she was, and yet...
Imagine if that lady was non-magical too! And what if the boy was here for the first time! Hermione studied him carefully but he was very average: about the same height as herself, neatly-scrubbed face, and inquisitive eyes darting everywhere... they alighted on her! The irises were grey and he wore no glasses, but she'd have known that look anywhere – as well as the way he raked his fingers self-consciously through his unruly brown hair when he noticed her watching him.
With a gasp and a squeal, Hermione cried out, "Harry! Harry Potter!" and, wrenching away from her mother's grasp she ran to the boy, where she jumped up and down with excitement, gawking at his astonished expression, and scarcely able to restrain herself from hugging him.
But silence had spread like a wave through the great hall, followed by a growing ripple of murmurs... "Harry Potter? Did she say, Harry Potter?"
"You're mistaken, young miss," said the red-shoed lady, very firmly. "This is my son, John."
She snatched something from the cashier who was serving her, said, "Time to go, Johnny," and sped off towards the exit in a great hurry, almost dragging the boy behind her.
Hermione tried to follow but felt a hand on her arm. It was her mother. "It's alright, sweetheart, remember when Grandma died and we sometimes thought we saw her in the street? It takes time to accept the loss of someone you care about."
But her daughter was staring right through her, deep in thought. Hestia something-or-other! That was her name! But from where?
She pulled her mother around to her approaching father. "Dad!" As he drew near, she whispered. "A Galleon, quickly, give me a Galleon."
Mr Granger raised an eyebrow at his wife, but she merely shrugged her shoulders. He opened his satchel – which was now bulging heavily – and handed over one of the gold coins.
Hermione dashed to the counter where the red-shoed lady had been served.
"Excuse me, but Aunt Hestia dropped this," she cried. "Could you perhaps, put it in her vault?"
The goblin frowned. "We regret, Miss, that all transactions can only be carried out with the account holder. You must return the coin to Mrs Black yourself."
Hermione stared for only a moment. "Thank you!"
An intense mixture of joy and fear surged then through Hermione. Something wonderful or terrible had happened. The world's events had worked out differently to their original path. Raised in the Magical community, Harry risked being attacked by Voldemort-avengers and accosted by starstruck autograph hunters wherever he went. There was only one Black who could reasonably have been made Harry's guardian: his godfather, Sirius Black – but he was in Azkaban surely? What if his brother Regulus had somehow survived in this world? Was he still a Death Eater, teaching Harry the dark arts and how to avoid the authorities? Or had he reformed? Either way, it was no wonder that the woman pretending to be Harry's mother had been so anxious to get away. The family must be in hiding.
Hermione hastened her parents towards the exit. "Stay close, you two," she said, "Whatever you do, don't run off."
Anne and Edward exchanged glances.
Once outside, Hermione was not at all surprised to see no sign of the red-shoed lady or the boy who was with her.
"Hold my hands, Mum, Dad, and don't let go."
"Don't worry, we won't," smiled Anne to her husband.
The last couple of words were squeezed out of her as if she were being squashed inside a thick, dark, rubber bag. The moment passed, bright daylight opened her eyelids, and a cool breeze stirred against her face. She and her husband stared at the transformed scene: there was a row of grimy houses in front of them where shops had stood a few moments before.
Hermione studied number twelve. Dumbledore, the Secret Keeper, she reasoned, had given her the knowledge, and knowledge was the one thing she had brought back with her from the future – but what if the Fidelius Charm had never been cast at all in this world?
"Tell me, what number house is that?" she said, pointing ahead.
"Eleven. ... Where are all the shops?" said Mrs Granger. "Why has Diagonal Alley...?"
"And that one?" said Hermione gesturing slightly to the right.
"What's going on?" said Mr Granger.
"What number is it?" cried Hermione. "It's important."
Her father sighed. It had been a strange day so far and it was still only mid-morning. "Thirteen. That one's eleven and that's thirteen. Hermione." He decided to be patient and remind her. "All the even numbers will be on the other side of the street – it helps people find an address, remember? Otherwise, they could pass right by it on the other side and have to walk all the way back."
"But we're no longer on a street, Dad," smiled Hermione.
"Of course we – oh!" He had looked behind him for the first time. "You're right, we're not in the alley anymore – it's a square." He shook his head in bewilderment. "How'd we get here? And how strange a house number has been skipped. They don't normally number squares alternately on opposite sides – well, they can't can they? Are we still in magic land whatever it's called? Maybe that's how they do things here?"
"No, Dad, this is ordinary, non-magical London but there is one house hidden here by magic."
"I'll be damned!"
"No worries, I've found out what I needed to know, and we've more work to do!"
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Knockturn Alley
"Aaaaghh! Don't do that!" scolded Mrs Granger, as again without warning, they squeeze-squashed to a new place. It had the appearance of being a quiet corner in Diagon Alley – only grubbier and darker. The buildings loomed in overhead, obscuring what little daylight struggled down from the overcast sky.
"Sorry, Mum. This is Knockturn Alley. Check number two on your list. Remember what we rehearsed?"
"Uuh... magic wand? Guess we want a magic shop then?"
"Mum, they're all magic shops hereabouts. Now watch your step and don't stray out of my sight."
The nervous parents let themselves be led to an extremely dank and grubby shop with black paint peeling off mouldy black woodwork. Above was a black plank scrawled with dark lettering, Pilf's Knacks.
"Makes you wonder why they bothered painting it in the first place," muttered Mr Granger to himself, picking at a flake of very dark grey.
"Got the money ready?" said Hermione.
"Oh, right." Looking furtively left and right, he transferred twenty gold coins out of the satchel into his pocket. Hermione then cast a concealment spell upon the satchel.
A bell clacked tunelessly as they entered the shop. Hermione dug her father in the leg as they stood before the counter.
"Er... yes, we wish to purchase a wand for our daughter," he said stiffly.
"What yer take us for?" growled the ragged old shopkeeper. "We don't sell no wands. Only legit pots, pans, copper measures, silver cutters, hide boxes, locks, jus' what yer see, an' you don't see no wands, right?"
Mr Granger took five Galleons from his pocket and crashed them down on the counter. Then another five. A third five joined them. "You don't see no gold either, do you, Mr Pilf?" he said, scooping them up and putting them back in his pocket.
The old man scrutinised him closely. His breath stank and his teeth were rotten. "Not from round here, are yer?"
"Neither is my gold," said Mr Granger. He felt like he was performing in some strange Dickensian play.
"Right then." The man ambled off down a tight stairwell rough-hewn out of the back wall's coarse rock; every footfall creaked on the rickety wooden steps that had been hammered into place.
Mr Granger stared at his daughter for guidance.
"We follow him!" she mouthed.
Wall torches sprang into life ahead as they descended, revealing that the basement also appeared cut out of the solid granite – pale and unyielding. It was oppressive and claustrophobic. Timber racks filled with open boxes lined every wall of long, thin chambers that seemed no more than connected narrow passageways.
The shopkeeper's rags seemed to creep separately from the sway of his crippled gait as he approached the nearest shelf. "Here," he said, pulling out the first wand atop the box close to his hand. "Here's a good 'un. Werf ten but I'll take nine."
Mr Granger glanced at his daughter. She faked a yawn.
"Worth ten a Knut for kindling a coal fire," said Edward. "Where are your real wands?"
"Oh, thothe ith thweet, Daddy!" Hermione dashed along the narrow room to the end then stared around a corner into another passage.
"Oy! Those is adults'. Yer wun't be able ter use 'em. Junior learnin' wands down 'ere..." He pointed the opposite way.
"Whatever my daughter wants, she can have," said Mr Granger, firmly, as he rattled his pocket.
"Right..." The shopkeeper headed after Hermione who had disappeared around the bend. He began muttering something that sounded like 'spoilt little chit of a...' The Grangers hurried after them both.
At the furthest end of this new room, Hermione had already selected a vine wand of nearly eleven inches. "Pwetty stick, Daddy, and pwetty nobblth all awound!"
"It's lovely, darling," said Mr Granger, dryly. He rolled his eyes at her and hissed, "Don't overdo the baby talk!"
Pilf turned on Mr Granger. "She wun't be able ter 'andle it! Tha's dragon, tha' is!"
"Eight," said Mr Granger firmly, as he counted Hermione's raised fingers over Pilf's shoulder.
The old man appeared to be having a heart attack. Hermione yawned again.
"Eight," repeated Mr Granger, counting out the gold into his other hand.
"I'll not take less n' nine," said the shopkeeper, miraculously recovering from his seizure at sight of the shiny metal.
"Eight," said Granger for a third time, pressing the coins into Pilf's hand but not releasing them.
Pilf hesitated, trying to stare down his customer. "Right," he said finally, his skinny fingers clawing over the gold. "An' anuvver six fer an anti-trace ring, right?" he added with a sly grin.
"We'll chance it, without," said Mrs Granger, reading from Hermione's instructions.
"Your funeral," growled the old man. "Oy, nah where's she gorn?"
Hermione had sprinted back to the junior section.
"Christmas presents for her friends – her friends," recited Mr and Mrs Granger, starting in unison then both tailing off out of sync.
Pilf looked at them oddly as he passed by with his odd shuffle towards where he had seen Hermione go. He found her with a bundle of trainer wands splayed out in her hands, "pwetty colourth!
"Twelve, the lot," said Edward Granger as he came up behind Pilf and started counting out the remaining Galleons.
The old shopkeeper groaned. "Tha's on'y one gee a wand!"
"Yes, but they're only junior practice wands," said Mrs Granger.
"They's 'elp the young un's focus an' learn, an' th' Trace allows 'em!" yelped the man, going into a coughing spasm. Hermione didn't even bother yawning. Edward already knew the typical price of a youngster's wand from her written instructions.
"But they are restricted to safe spells and limit the power too," said Mr Granger pressing his money into Pilf's sweaty hand and bidding him good day.
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Farrimond
After making several more choice purchases from the seedy traders of Knockturn Alley, it was late morning by the time the Grangers left the gloomy street, and, despite the grey sky, the brightly coloured shops and wares of Diagon Alley immediately made the day seem more cheerful.
"Are you sure all those junior wands work?" Mr Granger asked his daughter, as they strolled along.
"Dad, they're all made to the same low standard, which is why they are not very popular. Reputable wandmakers rarely stock them, and no one else is legally authorised. But I could tell the bad ones before I even picked them up – the ones I grabbed are all properly focused for an average user. Well... they're nowhere near as refined as a normal wand, but kids can't really control those until they're eleven. These junior wands help guide them until then." She stopped outside Eeylops, gazing thoughtfully in at the owls preening themselves in the window.
"But you're only seven yourself!" said Mr Granger.
"Yes, but I won't use my new adult wand unless I'm... you know, like now." She didn't remind them that she could perform most magic without a wand at all.
A healthy-looking young brown owl caught her attention; the creature was not fussing and parading itself like most of the others. In fact, the pale borders around his eyes made him look quite studious. Hermione led her parents inside.
"Hath he a name?" she asked the shopkeeper, slipping back easily into her lisp for practice.
"Joan, what have you been calling that new brownie?" the man said to a woman feeding a baby owlet with strips of meat.
She looked up to see where he was pointing. "Tha's Farrimond, born to fly true, an' smart an' strong for his age. Twelve-month he be, and eager to work a'ready!"
Hermione looked closely at the bird, unsure how much of the assistant's word had been sales talk. "What do you think, Farrimond?" she whispered. "Will I be of use to you? I shall be sending out lots of correspondence – some of it quite heavy."
The owl seemed to sniff scornfully at the challenge. He held out one thick leg as his measure. Hermione smiled.
"How much ith he?" she called back. The man answered.
"Eleven. Most browns is ten but he's worth eleven." He'd nodded firmly as he spoke, as if expecting to be challenged on the price.
"Daddy? Ith he too expenthive jutht for little me?" She fluttered her eyelashes.
'Daddy' rolled his eyes at his daughter but paid up.
While they were buying a good stock of owl food and arranging for Farrimond to fly home directly, Mrs Granger was studying Hermione's instructions. "The rest of the list is not in any special order you said, so where next? Apothecary?"
They stepped outside where there was more light to read by, but Hermione was considering a purchase that was not on the list.
"No, I want to buy some old newspapers and history books first – not everything is as I expected, and I don't know why."
"Harry Potter, you mean? You're sure that was him in the bank?"
Hermione nodded. "Then I can browse while we have a home-made dinner in one of The Leaky Cauldron's private parlours."
"Good, this gold is getting heavier," said Mr Granger. "I still don't understand why we need this much. Looking at prices around here, we've got enough to buy years of supplies!"
"We're not spending most of it – we're destroying it. I'll explain another time," said Hermione cryptically.
Her father didn't even blink. Yeah, right, destroy the gold. Makes sense. Why didn't I think of that?
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Old News Is Good News
After carefully selecting a few particular Daily Prophets from the newspaper's archive warehouse, plus a visit to Flourish and Blotts, the family was soon anticipating a nice hot dinner in cosy surroundings. A small fire had lit itself in the grate and the warm rosy glow of the wall lanterns added to the pleasant atmosphere as they prepared to order.
"I'll have the roast pork, please, er... Tom, isn't it?" said Mrs Granger, closing her menu.
"Beef and potato pie, thank you," said Hermione.
"Very good," said the barman, "and for sir?"
Mr Granger pursed his lips. "For me... toad in the hole with..." – Hermione was wide-eyed and shaking her head vigorously at him – "Uuh... on second thoughts," he said, "I'll have the chicken – roast that is!" he added hastily, when he saw his daughter's eyes flash once more.
But it was not long after finishing their meal that they began browsing their purchases. After a while, Hermione sniffed disdainfully.
"Found something?" said her mother.
"Usual stuff. Fudge – that's the Minister for Magic – is still taking the soft option. I'm sure Lucius Malfoy is offering his usual incentives. Listen to this..." Hermione folded her newspaper in half and began to read:
"Thanks to the Ministry's sensible new policies, Hugh Mulciber has been granted an early release on compassionate grounds because his father – who had been pining – now suffers from a weak liver."
Hermione flapped the Daily Prophet angrily and scoffed, "Yes, pining for more Firewhisky!"
She continued, "This leaves Azkaban operating comfortably at half-capacity and great savings have been made by closing the east wing and restricting the wards and guards to the main prison block. Dark violations are now quite rare thanks to the vigilance of our Aurors in diminishing factions like Helm, Black Arc, and the Brotherhood of Darkrise."
"That's what we like to hear," said Mrs Granger, only half-listening as she turned a page of the book on her lap.
"Yes – sounds like a great improvement," said Mr Granger, reaching for another copy of the Prophet.
"Mum, Dad... Fudge is renowned for sweeping problems under the carpet," protested Hermione. "I prefer to know what's going on behind the scenes so that..."
But her father was holding up his hand to silence her as he stared at the newspaper he had just begun to browse. "My God – there really is a Harry Potter!"
He held out the Prophet and Hermione snatched it from him. He watched as she absorbed, wide-eyed, the story on the front page.
After a while, she sat back in a daze, staring at the ceiling in disbelief, and wondering if her dying breath upon the Fates' threads had been the cause of what she had just read.
"He's dead. He's really, really dead!" she kept muttering to herself under her breath. The old newspaper on her lap slid to the floor but she did not rise to pick it up; its bold, half-page headline and the article below it were now burned into her memory forever:
BABY REBOUNDS CURSE!
MARKED AS "HIS" EQUAL!
YOU-KNOW-WHO IS DEAD!
DUMBLEDORE CONFIRMS!
PETTIGREW THE TRAITOR!
"How?" she muttered to herself. "Why did Tom not make the Horcruxes?" Another, more shocking thought, occurred to her: Without Kreacher's terrible experience in the Horcrux cave, would Regulus not have turned away from the dark side?
"What's that, dear?" said her mother, who was still leafing through the latest edition of Significant Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.
"Voldemort ... the dark wizard who I... expected would be... a severe problem – he's truly dead. And an innocent man has not been falsely imprisoned."
"Oh, that's good isn't it, darling?"
"It'th bloody bwilliant!" Hermione's face was lit up as the truth began to sink in. She was young again! Everything was wonderful!
"Hermione! Act your age!" scolded her mother gently.
Hermione laughed. "I'm seriously thinking of pretending the babytalk for a while. It allayth thuthpithionth! I don't want to show my cards yet and nobody would suspect a silly little girl of very much, would they?"
"Well tone it down a bit, Hermione," said her father, "or it will have the opposite effect."
"Right, no overacting." Hermione made a mental note to practise. The plans she had been making were a matter of life and death – least of all her own.
That brought Hermione back down to earth, and her face darkened once more. In her former life, more of her friends and acquaintances had been killed after Voldemort's death than before. Everyone she had ever known and cared about was lost in the early years of her own life while she herself had lived on for another century. Their faces haunted her still, swimming across her inner vision like accusing ghostly apparitions: Neville and Hannah slaughtered together ... Parvati, her husband Amrit, and their children ... All the Weasleys separately ... McGonagall, Luna before she was even twenty ... Hagrid fed to his own creatures ... Mum ... Dad ...
"Hermione?" Mr Granger put down his coffee.
Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sorry, Dad."
"What did you see?" Mr Granger wasn't a fool; he knew his daughter was perceiving and knowing far more than she was telling them.
Nor would she. The visualisation of her mother and father's own brutal death agonies was hers and hers alone to bear.
"Only possibilities and warnings..." said Hermione softly, forcing a tiny smile. "Things I am here to prevent. Let's keep reading..."
But Hermione's thoughts drifted distantly from the text before her – far away to Harry Potter. Was he safely under the protection of Sirius? Or suffering the corrupting influence of Regulus? She must discover the truth at the first opportunity.
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Fair Exchange
There was a sense of triumph when they returned home late that afternoon. All of their objectives had been accomplished, and Hermione was especially buoyant about Harry. After tea they sauntered down the garden.
"How did that goblin get so much into my satchel?" said Mr Granger, staring at the large pile of shining gold coins he had tipped out onto the workbench in the garden shed.
"It's magic," said Anne, as if that was how she intended to explain everything strange in the future.
"Mum's right," said Hermione as she scrutinised the bellows pressure on a new furnace that stood in the corner. "Undetectable Extension Charm to be exact." She hover-dragged a heavy iron mould across the floor close by.
"I'm not sure I'm happy with this, Hermione," said Mr Granger. "You're planning to produce counterfeits, aren't you? To make more Galleons?"
"No, Dad, we're going to destroy the coins."
Mr Granger blinked. "Rrrright... I knew that. ... Uuh... and why exactly are we doing this?"
"We're melting them down into little ingots which we can trade for cash at any High Street gold dealer or jewellers."
"I see..." said Mr Granger in his I-don't-see-at-all voice.
Mrs Granger said quite firmly, "It's magic, Edward."
"Nice try, Mum, but no, we get a much better rate of exchange. We can then use the cash to buy more Galleons at Gringotts."
"Which we can melt down again...?" said her father.
Hermione nodded.
"But that's, uuh... won't Gringotts be out of pocket?"
"No, the value that goblins place on gold – the actual metal, I mean – is somewhat lower than Muggles. It's the crafting and enchantment of it they regard highly. Not even goblin magic can create gold, but they can summon it out of their mountains and streams much more cheaply than Muggles can mine or pan for it. It is so easy for them that the goblins simply draw sufficient gold for their needs and to keep their bank in balance. But to completely set your minds at rest, it is the magical community – including the goblins – that we are going to help, so they will all be better off in the long run."
"Uumm... do you think then I might have a little for the dental practice, Hermione? For fillings and such like?"
"Sure, Dad. Just don't tell the goblins. They value their sharp little teeth much more highly than gold. The idea of crudely drilling away precious tooth enamel to fill with gold instead of using magical protection would be offensive to them."
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
The canon exchange rate for a Galleon is only £5 but the gold in it is worth far more to Muggles. In general, the magical community pay no attention to non-magical values or their currency, so have never noticed. Certainly, Hermione isn't going to tell anyone! In time, the goblins will restore their level of coinage without loss to themselves other than the effort of summoning more gold from the ground and transforming it. Hermione is not being greedy; she needs the capital to fund the tasks she must undertake. :)
For those that don't know, 'toad in the hole' is a British meal consisting of sausage baked in Yorkshire pudding batter. (unless you order it at the Leaky Cauldron, of course, when it's erm... a toad baked in a hole. :)
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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