.

So far... The Fates provided a means for the aged Hermione to be reborn and, at seven years old, she has gained almost constant access to her former memories and powers. On a trip to Diagon Alley, she discovered that Voldemort really is dead, while the 'Boy Who Lived' was not raised at Privet Drive but at Grimmauld Place. Now read on...

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Chapter 5

Reaching Out


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Happy Tears

Waking from sleep, a little boy gazed out of his bedroom window at the moon's bright sphere. Uncle Remus is having fun in the forest tonight... The child envied him that freedom. Being Harry Potter meant confinement. He was wanted – but mostly at a distance – by fans, foe, family, and friends of the family. Isolation had seemed a necessity. Still, there was the garden, the occasional shopping trips or to the country under strict supervision, and, of course, his mum and dad loved him dearly so he wasn't too lonely. How lucky I am that Sirius and Hestia 'dopted me!

When you're eleven, life will open up for you, Sirius reminded him in empty moments. You'll have more friends than you know what to do with! And as for girls...! Then Mum would always scold Dad in a playful way which made Harry laugh, though he didn't know why Dad was getting told off. A girl might be very good company, after all!

A sigh escaped Harry's lips, very audible in the silence. It would have been nice to have had brothers and sisters... He twisted around on the bed to look across to his mother's photograph on his special shelf. Beside her smiling image was a more sombre picture: that of his grandparents. In the gloom, and without his glasses, he could barely see them waving. They had a sad, serious look on their faces, as though they had lost something very precious, or were signalling goodbye to a loved one. It was his mum who had explained that she was the one they were leaving behind because, while a little girl, she had been accidentally kicked in the stomach by a young Abraxan horse and spent months in St. Mungo's.

Too lazily-sleepy to reach for his spectacles, he squinted, as if he might somehow divine the inner wound that had denied him siblings. Perhaps if he wished hard enough on his magic then she would be healed in the photo before he was born and he might have at least one brother or sister by the time he–

He stared. The picture was shimmering. His dad had warned him about controlling his feelings to limit the effects of accidental magic.

Not taking his eyes off the photograph, he scrabbled blindly for his glasses, lunging and seizing them once a finger had touched the edge of their frame. Curiosity had temporarily driven away his sluggishness. He thrust the glasses on and widened his eyes to gather in as much light as possible.

There was a small human form – merely an outline – partly obscuring the picture, and scarcely visible because the entire bedroom scene was traced by only a few edges of scattered moonlight. His parents often cautioned, RUN if anything suspicious happened, but a six-year-old rarely remembers such admonitions at the time they are most needed – especially when the potential threat was as pretty and harmless-looking as this one.

The spirit – if that is what it was – seemed to him now to be that of a little girl. He was going to be in so much trouble if his accidental magic had summoned a mischievous presence.

"Hello..."

The boy's mouth fell open when he heard the faint voice. He moved his jaw up and down a little, trying to say something in reply, but nothing came out.

"I regret troubling you," continued the voice, "I thought you would not be awake at this time."

No colour yet but substance was slowly and surely being added to the spiritous silhouette. An idea occurred to the boy and he sat up straighter on his bed.

"Are you... are you my new sister?"

The apparition shook its fuzzy, silvery head and a tiny breath of a giggle came to his ears.

Harry felt the urge to show remorse for what he supposed could only have been his own accidental magic. "I say, I'm awfully sorry if I conjured you up. I didn't mean to... well, I wanted to but... I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"You didn't conjure me, Harry." More details of the creature now came to Harry's eyes.

"You're the girl from Gringotts!"

"Yeth... I am. I'm Hermione."

"Uuh... did I summon you? Oh, goodness, if I did! Were you asleep? I'm terribly, terribly sorry. You see, I was hoping for a sister and it sort of popped you out the picture frame–"

"It'th alright, Harry. I can be a friend. Will a friend do?"

Harry blinked, gulped, and thought for a few moments. He'd never been asked that before. Interviews, endorsements, handshakes, yes. He'd even received a request to be exhibited at a party. But few strangers offered him anything – least of all themselves. "That's good of you. You wouldn't mind? How kind you are after I popped you out and everything."

Hermione was finding the manners of this six-year-old Harry quite endearing. "That mutht have been cointhidence. You didn't thummon me; it'th more the other way round, actually."

"You summoned yourself here? ... Oh ... it's not for... not for an autograph is it? We get flocks of owls with signing books attached. I'm not supposed– I don't mind though, really, I don't," he added hastily, waving his arms madly. "You can have a dozen autographs a day if you like and don't tell anyone. I've been practising signing properly with all the letters joined up. Would you like to see?"

He swung out of the bed and went across to a low table under the window where he crouched and reached for a small quill. Hermione floated over and watched as, with tongue between his teeth, he smoothly stroked out his name on a sheet of parchment. "There!" He held it up and turned to see if she approved.

Though still tenuous and silvery, her face was now fully formed. Harry's eyes widened. "Oh, you can smile! I worried you might be sort of stuck like granny's photo." He waved in its direction and, noticing her curiosity, added, "Would you care to see my shelf?"

He trotted over. Hermione floated after him, noting how much brighter the house's decor was compared to her former life. A set of broad yellow shelves framed by two white wardrobes were mostly arrayed with the usual bedroom bric-a-brac, but the second from lowest was strewn with photographs and numerous personal effects a boy might cherish: a brass alligator robe-clip biting on a fancy ring with badly-matching cufflinks tangled through it, a smoothly-rounded, coloured stone centred carefully upon a gold coin, a large dog-collar tightened around a hand mirror, and a scratched magnifying glass lens.

"All my most favourite things are here," he began. "That's Grandma and Grandad Jones. This other one is Uncle Regulus, and this one's Mummy and Daddy. Oh, and here are my first parents – I've got two mummies and daddies, you see," he added proudly. "Here's a really neat pebble from Brighton where we went on holiday last. There were lots but Dad said this is the best one and we were lucky to find it – oh, yes, this is my own Galleon! It tosses itself and spins heads or tails for games and things! Shall I show you!"

But Hermione was staring at the image of Sirius Black with his arm around the red-shoe lady, Hestia– "Joanth!" said Hermione, "Your Mum'th name wath Hethtia Joanth!"

"Yes. Summoning makes you talk funny – did you know? What happens when you're not summoning about and all that? Do you squeeze back into pictures?"

Hermione wondered if she should cut back on her fake lisp. "No, I live in Elmbridge."

The small boy thought about that for a while. "Do you go in the street sometimes? I do, when it's allowed. It must be jolly, seeing you in the street." He reached out tentatively, but his hand passed through her shoulder.

"Uthually, I'm tholid, jutht like you," explained Hermione. "Like in Gringotth last week, remember?"

Harry's eyes grew as large as saucers. "Mum lets me go with her sometimes! I could see you properly one day. What day is your account? She goes on a middle Friday of each month."

"That wath my birthday."

"Mine's July the thirty-first! How old are you?"

"Theven."

"I'm six. What's your– oh, I forgot your name! I'm dreadfully sorry!"

"That's alright. I'm Hermione."

He mimed with his lips, unsure how to say it.

"Hermione," she repeated more slowly. An immense desire arose within the young girl to hear him say her name for the first time in a century. She tried again. "Her ... my ... oh ... knee."

"Her ... my ... oh ... knee," he enunciated very slowly and carefully. "Hermione." He seemed to be savouring the word. "That's the best name I ever heard! ... Could we write it for my shelf?"

Choked by a fierce surge of emotion, Hermione was unable to reply. She drifted after him back to his little table under the moonlight. He wrote an 'H' then hesitated. "Might you help me spell it, please? I'd be very grateful." When again she didn't answer, he whirled his head around to look at her expression.

A trail of silvery, weightless teardrops glistened in the air behind the translucent girl.

His mouth fell open again. "Is the summons hurting? Shall I fetch Mummy? She can kiss things better – truly, she can!"

More tears floated left and right as Hermione shook her head. "It'th alright. I'm jutht happy."

In wonder, he reached up a fingertip to the nearest ghostly droplet, then let his hand fall. His eyes were beginning to droop with the sudden sleepiness that graces young children. "I wish you were real..." he murmured drowsily.

"I am real," whispered Hermione, as she watched him slump softly down onto the carpet, eyes fully closed now. The faint silvery light suggested his hair might still be half-brown from his bank visit, but whether his eyes remained grey she'd been unable to determine.

Silently, she drifted him back into bed and summoned up the bedclothes. He never felt the ethereal kiss she feathered onto his cheek, but in the morning he would find her completed name on his special shelf with one magical teardrop floating above it.

For her part, Hermione Disapparated back to her own bed in Elmbridge, and lay awhile reviewing the visit and rejoicing in how unspoilt the child was. That had to be Hestia's sensible restraint – for Sirius would dote on his adopted son. The house at Grimmauld Place was much more bright and cheery than it had been formerly – again, surely a sign of a loving mother's touch.

Fatigue reduced the analysis to dream-dozing. Her own spell of immateriality had wearied her. Even partial invisibility together with non-solidity could not be sustained without a cost, but she'd had to be ready to fade rapidly should Hestia or Sirius have approached the bedroom. Anyway, she reminded herself, the intention had not originally been to interact with Harry yet; the wakeful boy had surprised her. She was glad now he had. And with that happy thought, she fell fast asleep.

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A Little Sweetener

Regret did not trouble Hermione when she arose the next morning, but she was concerned nonetheless, and various thoughts kept turning over and over in her mind as she dressed herself. The floating immaterial teardrop magic would fade within days and likely only a house-elf might notice it during that time. Hermione had printed her name as separate, upright characters, not too different from Harry's own capital 'H' so probably they would assume he had written it himself. Hopefully, Sirius and Hestia would regard any mention of her by Harry as an imaginary friend, just as her own parents had. With luck, his drowsiness towards the end of her visit might induce the child to suppose or be persuaded that he had dreamt the whole thing.

"Hermione!"

"Coming, Mum!"

The young girl sighed and headed downstairs for breakfast. How was she to become Harry's friend more openly if he was so well protected? Perhaps when she gifted him one of the junior wands, that might break the ice with his parents and then–

"Toast? Sausage cob? Bacon sandwich? ... Or just cornflakes?"

"Thanks, yes – no sweetener."

"Since when?"

"Oh, right... just a little perhaps. Dad already gone to work?" She glanced out the window to where Farrimond had taken up residence in their larch tree.

Mrs Granger nodded and tilted the packet. Hermione half-listened and watched as the golden cereal pattered and rustled into her dish, but her attention was elsewhere. How was she to get the wand to Harry? Her first visit to Grimmauld Place had demonstrated the Fidelius Charm still regarded her as a 'secret-knower' – that must have been imprinted onto the magic and knowledge she had retained from her other life – but she could hardly walk in on the family without an invitation or explanation.

"What snacks do you want for playtime?"

"Oh, Mum! We've not had playtime since nursery school! We have 'recess'."

"Pardon me for living! Define 'recess'."

Hermione shook her head mockingly and smiled. "Recess is when the kids have a short period of leisure time outside, free from lessons."

"And 'playtime'?"

"That's when the infants have a short period of leisure time... outside, erm... free from lessons."

"I rest my case. So, what do you want for playtime?"

Hermione grinned. "Any of those baby carrots in the crisper?"

"That all? I'll put in a couple of crackers as well..."

What if she knocked on the Blacks' door and offered the wand gift-wrapped? She might say an older friend at Hogwarts had asked Dumbledore to give her the address. Yes, that was one-third true; Charlie Weasley had been a true friend to conceal her whilst Macnair's gang gutted him and strung up his intestines...

"Eat up – don't want to be late for kindergarten." Mrs Granger smirked as she emphasised the last word.

Hermione crunched, not really enjoying the meal anymore, but grateful, at least, that she had not accepted the sausage.

What had Harry said about autograph books arriving by owl? Yes, his family can receive owls, of course, for the magical creatures home in on the person not the place, and the Blacks must have provided blind access through an open window. That's what she'd have to do in the hope of making some degree of contact: Farrimond could take the wand with a nice letter to sweeten up Mr and Mrs Black, and hopefully they might respond. She must not fail Harry this time.

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A Time of Giving

Mrs Hestia Black stretched back in her favourite leather armchair and eyed the remaining heap of letters and packages in their mail basket rather gloomily.

Sirius saw how tired she looked. "Let's leave the rest till tomorrow, Hest."

"Then there'll be more deliveries, won't there? We'll never catch up." She shook her head at Kreacher, their house-elf, who never stopped looking eager to do the work for her.

Sirius said, "No regrets, I hope?"

Hestia's eyes flashed across to her husband. "Never! This is only during the Christmas season. I'd do it all year round if I had to; Harry's worth infinitely more to me than dealing with a few miserable begging letters." She reinforced her claim by grabbing the next packet with renewed vigour.

Sirius smiled as he rejoined her, taking a large envelope. "Next delivery's not till mid-morning. We can do a quarter of these now and the rest first thing tomorrow."

"Half."

"A third."

"Deal!" said Hestia, as she tore away the wrapping from another autograph book. "Notice how they are always new and never have any previous signatures?" She handed the book to Kreacher who inserted a standard apology letter and began rewrapping the delivery.

Sirius read out, "Dear Harry, please come to my party on Christmas day... That's about three of those we've had this week. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad." He skimmed the envelope across to the old house-elf who stretched up and caught it somewhat reluctantly. "Kreacher, bring us another pot of tea here, and keep it hot this time."

"As master wishes. Kreacher is here to serve."

"Just go," muttered Sirius under his breath, but with a pop, the elf had already vanished to the kitchen.

Sirius let out a long breath. "Well, at least he's not as bad as he used to be, I grant him that. You've done wonders with Kreacher, dear."

He grabbed another book-sized package but looked up when he heard no reply. "Hest? Hestia? What is it?"

Mrs Black normally only read the first paragraph of Harry's mail. It was rare for her to continue because after five years she could usually see with one glance the common pattern of the whole message. But this letter she had read right to the end. Twice.

"Hestia?"

His wife handed the letter over while she opened its accompanying parcel. It was an unusually slender packet compared to those they usually received: books, framed fan portraits, frames requesting portraits in oil, and Boy-who-lived tee-shirts, all with additional demands to sign and return.

"Dear Harry," recited Sirius.

"Earlier this year, I was so thrilled to discover I'm magical, that I quickly set out to find out all I could about this amazing, happy community of witches and wizards. But it made me cry to learn of the loss of your first parents and the seclusion you must endure through no fault of your own. At least you again have a wonderful, caring mother and father."

Sirius glanced up briefly at his wife before continuing.

"I resolved to try to bring you some cheer by saving up my sickles for a nice Christmas present. Everybody loves Christmas, don't they! I thought long and hard what to get you. Mummy said all wizards probably need a magic wand to wave about so that's what I set out to buy you. But last week the man in the shop told me I had nowhere near enough saved up and was only able to offer me a toy wand – though he did say it worked a bit. There was no way for me to be sure until I can afford one for myself as well. I just did not want to swish yours until you'd had a swish yourself!"

There was a hiss of wood through the air and the room lit up with coloured sparks of light. For a while, Sirius stared at the wand that Hestia held in her hand, then he turned back to the message.

"I hope you might try the wand anyway, and accept it in the spirit with which I send it. My dearest wish is that it will bring you a little happiness this Christmas.

"With all my love,

"Hermione"

"It appears to be a child's training wand, not a toy at all!" said Hestia. "We'd talked about getting him one when he's seven but there's no reason he can't begin now, is there? We must write back and thank– what was her name again?"

"Hermione – but there's no full name."

"No? There must be! How did she suppose an owl could possibly–?"

"Bring her something back?" said Sirius. "I don't think she was trying to get anything from Harry at all."

They couple sat in silence for a while, looking at each other.

"She bought Harry a wand. An actual wand," said Hestia.

"Even before she considered buying herself one," nodded Sirius.

"We have to find who she is," said Hestia. "At the very least, send a thankyou note from Harry."

"How?"

Hestia frowned, trying to think. "The letter said something about discovering–?"

Sirius stared at the letter again. "...discovered that she was magical..."

"So she must be Muggle-born?"

"Seems so."

"And of school age – quite young by the way she writes, no more than ten I would think. So... we'd have to search Muggle primary school records..."

"If she's eleven, she'd already be at Hogwarts, right? I'll ask Minerva if they've got anyone named Hermione. Perhaps she might– hey! We're forgetting, her name will have been down since birth anyway, even if she's only ten!" Sirius whipped out his wand. "Expecto–"

"STOP, STOP! Sirius, it's gone midnight! Likely Minerva will be asleep!"

"Oh, right..."

"Time we were too. Let's leave this lot till the morning."

Sirius nodded, yawned, and, after only a few more minutes of consideration they both Disapparated upstairs, leaving only the sound of a faint double-clap behind them.

There was another louder snap. Kreacher stood there mournfully holding a tray. "Poor Kreacher does his duty. 'Bring it to us here', Master said. 'Keep it hot', is Lord Black's demand. Nobody thinks of poor Kreacher keeping tea hot here all night, oh, no..."

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A Good One

"Sorry, Farrimond," said Hermione, hugging her coat around her shoulders against the wind. "Yes, I know I said I'd be sending out lots of correspondence, but it will take time for more magical people to get to know me. Both of us must be patient. I miss them all so much – even more now they are alive again and so close."

There was the smell of snow in the air but she knew it was unlikely to fall this far south. Hermione tried to recall if there had been a white Christmas in 1986 the first time around. She shook her head. This was the year she had been given her first, and only, two-wheeler bicycle and had fallen off on Boxing Day, grazing her knee on the dry pavement. Wait! There had been a decent snowfall in January. ... Had Harry even seen snow?

The sky remained grey and empty when she craned her neck upwards for another of so many searches that morning. "No sign of any other owls, I suppose, Farri?"

The owl ruffled its feathers and Hermione sighed. "I'd hoped for at least an acknowledgement – just to establish a first contact. Do you think perhaps I wasn't subtle enough by omitting my surname? Or too subtle? Surely they'd figure out they could ask Minerva? I suppose they get zillions of letters. Oh well, I'll try again in the new year."

"Hermione! Are you helping or what?" – her father's voice – "These decorations won't put themselves up!" There was the sound of laughter from the house.

Not without magic, they won't, mused the young girl. "Coming, Dad!"

It was fun pinning up colourful streamers by hand, making the pleasant diversion last, and saving her magic for those awkward corners of the ceiling that even her father couldn't reach without a stepladder.

Mrs Granger was starting on the walls, pinning up paper pompoms and half-unfolding honeycomb trees – still getting a satisfying thrill from imagining the other half of each tree was inside the wall. She looked sideways self-consciously; Hermione was smirking at her soppy, sentimental expression. "Scoot! Get the cards!" said her mother.

"Right here, Mum. Quite a haul this year; we'll need to string some along the wall."

"Tinsel – use the silver tinsel. I got extra."

She stepped down from the chair on which she had been standing and reached for another box.

Mr Granger was at the front window, grumbling to the room in general, "Where's Don got to? He said he'd drop the tree off half an hour ago."

"Traffic probably," said Mrs Granger. "It's Christmas eve this morning, remember? Last minute shoppers? He'll probably come around by Long Lane. Stop pacing and help with the ceiling."

He pulled a face, but dawdled over and began wincing upwards while hinting in Hermione's direction. "What we need is a little magic..."

But his daughter was pretending not to hear. "Mum, shall I still put family cards on the mantel? There's less room this year. Or we could–"

She was interrupted by a knock on the front door.

"That's him now. I'll get it," said Mr Granger, dashing off into the hallway.

"Move those dinky figures onto the top of the TV first, Hermione, no, wait, on the sideboard. Should be enough room then."

"Right."

"Erm... Anne, we have guests..."

Hermione twisted around, a cluster of pottery snowmen in her arms. Coming in behind her father was a long-haired gentleman wearing a smart coat and a broad smile. The last time she had seen that man had been after a far different, long-ago Christmas when, looking desolate, he had hugged Harry goodbye for the last time on the steps of 12 Grimmauld Place.

The ceramic figures crashed to the ground as Hermione burst into tears and dashed forward with a quivering shout, "SIRIUS! ooh..." – she stopped herself – "I'm th–thorry – Lord Black." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand but the young girl was physically shaking, and so was her voice. "I'm... I'm thorry... uuh... I recognithed y-you from the Daily Prophet!" Hermione struggled to bring her emotions under control and think up an excuse. "Y-You're a... hero of mine!"

"Ah, you must be Hermione." He put a hand to her shoulder by way of greeting, and felt her trembling. He grinned sideways at her mother. "Very emotional, isn't she?"

"Uuh... when she's nervous... er... I'm... erm... Anne, uuh... Lord? Black." They shook hands.

"Hardly ever use the title. Call me Sirius, please." He turned back to Hermione. "Now, what's all this hero stuff about?"

But the girl was already staring at the little boy who was being coaxed forward in front of the red-shoe lady, Mrs Black.

"My God," said Mrs Granger, "is this the legendary Harry Potter for real? Or should I say, Harry Black?"

"No, everybody thinks that," said the woman. "Sirius resolved to keep the Potter name in honour of his parents, and I agreed. I'm Hestia, by the way."

The adults shook hands. Harry stared at Hermione. She stared back, wondering if she dared... The explosion of conversation had lapsed into silence with everyone watching the two children. The bushy-haired girl closed the gap to her old friend and squeezed him tight in a big hug. Sirius laughed.

The boy's expression over her shoulder was one of astonishment, but he waited a respectable amount of time before stepping back. "I say, you cry an awful lot, don't you? Oh, you're a real girl! I can feel you!" He gazed in wonder, touching her cheek.

"Wow! You should get out more!" laughed Mr Granger.

"Erm... yeth, I'm real," said Hermione very quickly. She moved an additional step away. To hide her embarrassment, she wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks with her hankie while covertly examining him once more. His hair was black and tousled, just as she remembered it. He wore glasses, and... his eyes were green.

"This is the real me too now," he said. "Not like how I–"

"Would you like to help uth with the decorationth?" she broke in swiftly – anything to minimise the chance of a slip of the tongue that might give away her prior visit.

Harry shook his head as his eyes swept the boxes and packets of ornaments and streamers. "I can't do magic yet."

"Oh, we don't uthe magic to put them up here!" cried Hermione. "Come on, it'th more fun without!"

"How about a glass of wine?" said Edward, veering Sirius off towards the sideboard. He stopped. "Oh, are you driving? No, of course not. Oh wait, here's a good one... You didn't fly here on your 'witch's broomsticks' did you?" Edward gave a hearty laugh.

Hestia stopped her conversation with Anne and looked across the room. Hermione froze with crossed-fingers hidden inside a bag of party balloons.

"Erm... you didn't, did you?" added Edward, rather anxiously.

"Not in this weather," winked Sirius. "No, Apparition, of course."

"Oh, right, haha!" said Edward, nervously sploshing wine into a glass and handing it over. "Would that be a ghostly apparition?" He glanced worriedly towards the front window, hoping he wouldn't see some kind of spectre floating out there. Hestia chuckled softly and raised an eyebrow at Sirius who was holding a straight face with difficulty.

Harry was giggling now too. Hermione was demonstrating how to inflate balloons with a plastic hand pump. He thought it hilariously funny.

"Well then, cheers," said Sirius, once everyone had a drink in their hand and were inhaling its fruity aroma.

"Cheers! Merry Christmas everyone! Have a good one!"

The doorbell rang. "Excuse me, a moment," said Edward, as he headed out into the hall.

"How's London life suit you, Sirius?" said Anne.

Hestia gasped and steadied her drink. Sirius frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Hermione jumped up, knocking over a box of baubles with a loud tinkle. "I told Mummy, you probably live in London becauth... uuh..."

Sirius raised one eyebrow.

"...becauth that'th where I'd hide Harry if it were me. Theven million Muggles – nobody'd find him in London! Manchethter or Birmingham would do but the accthent would draw attention."

There was a moment's hesitation before Sirius answered. "Smart girl you have there, Anne."

"Tell me about it! Sometimes she's too smart for her own–"

Hermione cut her off, "But how did you find me, Mr Black?"

"Hogwarts. Your name's been down since you were born."

"Hogwartth! I read about it! They'll admit me, you think? I do hope they will. I've not been able to find out yet."

"Definitely," said Hestia. "How old are you? What month is your birthday?"

"Theptember. I'm theven."

Hestia and Sirius's eyes met. He said, "So... you'll be starting the same year as Harry."

"At Hogwarts?" said Harry, who had been playing with a family of snowmen on the carpet. "Me and Hermione will be together at Hogwarts, Daddy?"

Sirius nodded then ducked aside as the top end of a spruce tree came poking through the doorway. "Here, let me give you a hand with that, Edward."

"It'th the tree! The tree!" squealed Hermione, jumping up and down.

"The tree! The tree!" mimicked Harry, scurrying to his feet and copying Hermione's leaps of joy.

During the following hour, Sirius kept grinning as he watched his son excitedly help adorn the tree with bells, baubles, and candle lights.

"This is what he's been missing all these years," he whispered to Hestia. "Yes, he does enjoy it when we swish all the decorations into place in a few seconds, but he can't participate with the magic yet."

"No, Sirius, what's wrong is his not having a brother or sister to enjoy it with him." Hestia looked at her husband's expression. He was frowning. She knew what he would say.

"Not your fault!" he hissed softly.

"Of course it is!" she mouthed, "and we've denied him friends as well!"

"You mean I have," muttered Sirius.

"I didn't say that!" she breathed in his ear, one eye on their hosts. "With the very best of motives, we've been wary of his vulnerability in the magical community. However..." Hestia gestured to the Grangers who were lifting Harry and Hermione up together to pin a puffball on the wall.

Sirius nodded and added in a low voice, "We never even considered a Muggle-raised friend, did we?"

.

School's Out

Hermione did get her bicycle again – and a child's broomstick from the Blacks too – but it was Harry who spent most time riding them both over a Christmas spontaneously shared between the two households. By covert prearrangement, she also received one of her own junior wands from her parents in order to obscure the white lie in her letter to the Blacks. It was a happy season but it worked out better than Hermione imagined.

School loomed ominously in the New Year for the young girl. Spending most of the day sitting in a Muggle children's classroom was not the fun it had been first time around for the bookworm. So she was excited when Hestia invited her to share Harry's home tutoring for two or three mornings a week.

"Can I, Mummy? Can I?"

"Sadly, the education authorities won't allow you to take time off normal school," said her mother.

Hestia smiled. "The House of Black can fix that easily with the Ministry, Anne. Very few magical families living in Muggle areas send their children to Muggle schools. In the wizarding community we find a few mornings' study is more than enough to learn essential life skills, and Hermione's abilities in reading, writing, and arithmetic are probably already better than my own from what I've seen!"

Hestia confirmed by owl a few days after.

"Will you be squishing there or do you want me to take you?" Hermione's mother asked on the first morning as she prepared her daughter's 'playtime' lunchbox.

"No, I won't be able to explain to the Blacks how I can Apparate. I'll take the Knight Bus instead. It's faster than the car, and it will save you driving into London. It can stop right outside and you can watch me get on safely if it makes you feel better."

Mrs Granger shook her head. "I still don't like all these secrets. The Blacks seem a nice family."

"I know, Mum, but remember what we discussed yesterday? What they don't know can't hurt them? I can only let them learn a little so as not to draw the attention of others."

Mrs Granger kissed her daughter goodbye on the doorstep. " 'Bye, Hermione. Be good."

" 'Bye, Mum."

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

In response to complaints about Hermione sounding too babyish (at age 7) and difficult to understand – I agree. I've removed the 'Hawwy's and so on from the last chapter and will avoid in future. As for the lisp, this will be mostly fake now because Hermione will remain mostly lucid, and the whole lisp thing will be used only when she's pretending nervousness with certain people. By about Year 2 at Hogwarts I think it will be gone. But while it's here, I'll try to make it clearer and use the letter S less. It's not easy because it's important to the story to know when she's either regressed or is faking it. Remember, just change 'th' to 's' if in doubt. :)

Just so there is no doubt, Voldemort is definitely dead. That was the entire origin of this story idea - to write new material without repeating the old scenes of Quirrell-head, Chamber of Secrets, Tri-wizard Tournament, Horcrux hunting. That's all gone. But an unpossessed Quirrell will be at Hogwarts, minus his turban. Good or evil? You'll have to wait and find out! Umbridge will also return. And Skeeter. But there'll be more villains too (and more payback! heehee!) :)

Can owls find locations hidden behind a Fidelius charm? I doubt it was intended in canon but I don't recall any specific statement on the matter. I like to think that owls home in on the person like moths to a flame but normally when they cannot find any access they give up and return. However, if say, an attic window is left open with an external sill to perch on then they are drawn to it. :)

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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