Fallen Saint

Written By: Logical Nonsense

Chapter: Two - "Wanna Be Somebody Else"

Summary: Hermione was brutally murdered in her fifth year of Hogwarts, but now someone has brought her back. Why? How? Everything will be just like it always was, right? No. Hermione doesn't remember her past life or anyone from it. How are the Terrific Trio supposed to act now? And without the prejudices Hermione lived with before, how much will she change?

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: HP and the SS, HP and the CS, HP and the PoA, HP and the GoF

Disclaimer:

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Additional Disclaimer: Possible references/themes from Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Authors Note: ______ If you have any questions, comments, criticism (or praise) please leave a review! The next chapter should be up by ______ --- If you leave an email address, I will email you when I post the next chapter.

*

"Doctor, doctor won't you please prescribe
somethin'
A day in the life of someone else?"

"Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else"

Title: Don't Let Me Get Me

Album: Misundaztood (Pink)

*

"Hermione."

I was painting my nails a dark purple with silver lightning bolts that actually flashed gold, when someone waved their hand in front of my face. My vision was blocked by the hand, so I slipped and got purple all over the tip of my finger. I grumbled about it and looked up.

"Hello? I've been saying your name for about forever!" Ron exaggerated. He was sitting at the opposite end of the bed in the Hospital Wing of Warthogs or whatever the school's name was. I have no idea why he would want to watch me paint my nails, but whatever tickles his fancy.

"Sorry," I mumbled, wiping the excess nail polish away with a cotton ball. I hadn't gotten used to my new name, although it's not entirely new – because I don't remember my old one, which is exactly the same as my new one. Oh jeez, now I've confused myself. "Are you sure you're not bored?"

"Nope," He grinned cheekily, and I found myself cracking a small smile. "Watching you paint your nails is entirely fascinating!" he laughed. It was quite contagious and I let a small giggle slip.

"But," I composed myself, "don't you have homework or, you know, other friends?"

"Nope and nope."

"You have no other friends?" I translated his 'nope' skeptically.

"Well, Harry – but he's still catatonic," his smile had completely disappeared, but only for a second, "Dean is teaching Seamus how to play some muggle game – something where you kick a ball. Great fun," he rolled his eyes, "so you're stuck with me."

"Lucky me," I replied dryly, but I was actually glad he was here to keep me company. I could somewhat forget everything and just act like the sixteen year old girl I'm supposed to be. I glanced out the window, watching a large bird circle above the forest – or Forbidden Forest, as I've been told it's called. It still gives me the heebie-jeebies just to look at it; to know that thing is still probably out there. The evil unicorn – does that sound pathetic or what?

"You know," he began, "you never were very sarcastic before –" he stopped. In all the time I'd spent with him since my arrival last week, he hadn't once mentioned my death or reappearance.

"I died?" I ventured. He, as well as I, would have to accept that fact. He shrugged and swung his foot across the blue Berber carpet of the Hospital Wing floor.

"You never cared much about your appearance then, either. I don't think I've ever seen you paint your nails – except for the Yule Ball in fourth year," he declared, and I tried to remember something about a Yule Ball. Unfortunately, my mind remained blank.

"Hmm, I guess death changes people," I shrugged. Ron didn't reply so I looked up; he looked so sad, like he lost a friend. Was I the lost friend? Was I really that different back then? I changed the subject, "I'm getting my own room sometime this week."

"Really? Cool," he seemed distracted, but I paid it no mind. The lightning bolts I had painted on my nails were dry and now needed a clear topcoat. I dug through the basket at my side – a gift from Madame Pompfrey – that contained nailpolish, nailpolish remover, make-up, and some cheap jewelry. It was a nice thought. I pulled out the clear polish and tried to open it. Unfortunately, the cap was stuck.

"Here, I got it," Ron took it out of my hand and wrenched it open. He handed it back to me, smiling shyly. He opened his mouth about to say something, but abruptly closed it.

"What?" I asked. He'd been doing it all morning, and it was beginning to get on my nerves. Plus, I was simply curious. He shook his head, running a hand through his dark reddish-orange hair. It was such an innocent, distracted expression but it made my stomach do a funny whirly thing. I blushed, rolling my eyes at myself. I mean, here was Ron – someone who I've apparently known since I was eleven (not that I remember any of this) and I'm beginning to fancy him!

"Do you remem –" Ron began, but was interrupted when Madame Pompfrey rushed in.

"Oh dear! Hermione, darling, could you please give me a hand? Oh wait! Let me just adjust –" she paused, whipped out her wand, mumbled something, then replaced it in her pocket, grinning. "You don't mind being a blonde, do you?"

I pulled a strand of hair in front of my face. It was bleach blonde and silky smooth.

"Hermione, take this will you?" she passed me a handful of bottles and bustled over in the other direction. I wobbled around the curtain and out into the main area of the Hospital Wing. Three students sat, fidgeting, on the edge of a bed. Two young girls, one with enormously large ears and the other with a purpling hand, were glaring daggers at each other. An older boy, probably third year, was biting his lips and holding his wrist tightly. He looked to be in a decent amount of pain.

I deposited the bottles on the table and went over to the boy. He didn't notice my arrival, for his eyes were shut tightly.

"Excuse me?" I asked softly, not wanting to frighten him. He jumped slightly and looked up at me with wide, tearful blue eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"I-I h-hurt my-my hand," he held his right hand against his chest, cradling it with his other hand.

"How did you do that?" I asked him kindly, pulling his hand away from his chest slowly, gently.

"I f-fell of my broom during q-quidditch p-practice," he let me examine his wrist without complaint.

I let go, held up one finger to indicate for him to hold on, and walked over to a cupboard on the opposite side of the room. Scanning the tubes, bottles, and jars I chose a bottle filled with green powder labeled angrolyrica. I brought it to his side, scooped a bit on my finger, and rubbed it on the big bruise appearing near the base of his hand.

"Does it still hurt?" I asked, when the bruise refused to go away. His eyes were wider than when he had first come in, and he shook his head.

"It feels fine," he tentatively tapped his wrist, but didn't flinch or wince at all, "It's just fine!"

I smiled, "Just wait for Madame Pompfrey to get done with those girls and she'll come make sure it's okay."

He nodded, still looking with amazement at his wrist.

"Her- Herley! Harley!" Madame Pompfrey called, changing my name. She sounded somewhat upset, "What did you do? You could have poisoned him!"

"I just –" I blanched, "I thought it would help," I shrugged, feeling incredibly guilty. What if I had poisoned him?

"Why would you ever think that?" She snapped, attending to his wrist. I was about to answer when she spoke again, "Merlin's beard, what did you give him? It's completely healed."

"I just rubbed a bit of this stuff," I picked up the bottle and handed it to her, "on his wrist."

"Hmm," she paused thoughtfully. "Eric, you can return to practice," she shooed him out, "Herm – Harley, Professor Dumbledore wanted to see you. Ask Mr. Weasley to take you there, alright?" she said absently, rolling the bottle around in her hand. The green powder slipped down the sides, leaving a fine coat of green dust. I nodded, biting my lip. What if they kicked me out?

"Ron, will you take me to Dumbledore's office?" I asked, and he glanced up sharply. He had been examining my make-up. I raised an eyebrow, and his face turned faintly pink.

"I was – I was just –"

I laughed, "Come on."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a horrible hick accent and bowed gallantly. I wrapped my arm around his, and he escorted me down the hall.

*

"Ms. Granger, please, sit down," Dumbledore gestured to the chair in front of his desk. I sat down obediently and let my eyes wander around the room. Dumbledore cleared his throat, politely demanding my attention. I turned and flashed him a small smile.

"How are you doing, sir?" I asked. I had not forgotten my manners at least.

"Quite well, and you?"

"I'm alright," I smiled again. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

"I see you've gone blonde," Dumbledore chuckled, and I blushed. I began to explain, but he held up a hand to stop me, "Madame Pompfrey and I have decided to allow you contact with the other students. We cannot allow you back as Hermione, but as … what was it Madame Pompfrey called you?"

"Harley, sir. But – how did you know…" I trailed off. He wasn't in the Hospital Wing when she slipped up and nearly called me Hermione, changing it to Harley at the last moment.

"I have my ways," his blue eyes danced mischievously, "Now, on to more serious matters. We've begun research on, put simply, raising the dead. The Order –"

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but what's the Order?"

"Oh dear! Of course, you wouldn't know about that! The Order of the Phoenix is a, uh, military type of establishment. They are working against Voldemort and his supporters," he explained, stroking his beard as he spoke, "Well, I have directed the Order to look into the ancient magics it would take to resurrect someone. They're also attempting to figure out why you were raised.

"We haven't had any breakthroughs thus far, but it's only so long before someone slips. Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of this," he finished and leaned back in his chair.

I contemplated all he had said, "Sir, if I am going to be Harley – and not Hermione, maybe everyone who knows I'm Hermione should also call me Harley, you know? So they won't slip up in public, they can practice when we're alone," I nibbled on my lip. For some reason, I didn't want to be Hermione. I didn't want her shadow hanging over me – I didn't want to have that pressure to be as accomplished as she apparently was.

Dumbledore seemed to read my thoughts because he didn't answer right away, and when he did it was oddly cryptic, "You may be anyone you want to be, but don't forget who you are."

Okay, there's a riddle for you. I didn't bother trying to figure it out; I probably wouldn't have been able to even if I tried.

Hermione would have been able to. An annoying voice in my head hissed. I pushed it away, trying to forget Hermione. I wasn't Hermione. I was Harley. What the fuck kind of name is Harley?

"Should I –" I gestured to the door and stood up half-way. He nodded, so I quietly excused myself, scurrying out of the room. His all knowing nature was seriously freaking me out.

"Hermione," Ron hurried over as I stepped out of the hidden passage to Dumbledore's office.

"Ron," I took a deep breath, "I'm not Hermione anymore. And, you know, I don't want to be. I can't have her shadow hanging over me. It's too much pressure – she was perfect, and I'm, well, I'm not. I'm far from perfect."

Ron was staring at the blood red carpet, scratching at it with his foot. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but he didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry, but – I'm not her. I-I … I'm just not. If you can't accept that, I'll understand if you don't want to hang out any longer. I'm sure it must be difficult, but – I just, I can't be her for you. I can't," I shrugged. He still hadn't said anything; he hadn't moved at all.

"Well, I guess I'll see you," I said and began to walk slowly away. I wished he'd call out to me, tell me to wait. Tell me he still wanted to be my friend, I was still worth something to him – even if I wasn't Hermione. But he didn't.

*

"I can do this," I mumbled to myself, stepping over the threshold of the Potions dungeon, "I'll be fine. This'll be easy. It's only classes. I remember all that stuff. I'll be fine."

"Harley Nicholson," A dark haired man, one I hadn't met, glared at me. I nodded slightly, and he wrote something down on a piece of paper lying on his desk. He spoke again, "Sit by Ms. Zambini."

I looked around frantically. Who was Ms. Zambini? Finally, my eyes caught another girl's. She was pretty, but not beautiful. She had a dark complexion, but more of a reddish tint to her skin. Her hair, ebony waves of silk, was in a half ponytail, the rest floated down her back. She nodded subtly, and I ventured to the assigned table. As I crossed the room, I left a trail of whispers.

I smiled at the girl, but she only nodded her greeting. This will be fun, I thought, not expecting it to be fun at all.