Hermione and Co. belong to Ms. Rowling, not me. I'm making not a cent from this fanfic.
Responses welcome!
Mine Protector
Chapter 2: "Enter Hermione Granger"
Harry had thanked his lucky stars when the Weasley's had saved him from the Dursley's yet again. On the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Ron, Herminone, and Ginny had showed up on Privet drive--muggle style--in one of the ministry cars Arthur Weasley borrowed on occasion. "What? Who...who drove?" Harry had gasped, still realing at his good fortune.
"I did, of course," Hermione said. "I tested for my license over the summer. Pretty big coming of age thing for muggles, you know."
Harry knew. Dudley himself had just received a little vintage Fiat from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia--a reward for (barely) passing most of this classes, and dropping twenty pounds in the process. Not that it did much good; Dudley could still scarcly squeeze himself behind the wheel of the little sports car. Harry had to admit, for once, that the Dursley's could be crafty. What better way to coerce Dudley into losing weight than to dangle a ripe juicey plum of an italian sportscar under his nose?
In the Minestry car, Harry had been impressed with Hermione's knowledge of London's roads--she was also clearly confident behind the wheel, steering with one hand and letting the other rest casually in the open window. Weirdly, it made him feel suddenly younger than her. Don't be such a stupid prat, he scolded himself. Hermione's got muggle parents--most wizards you know don't drive, no matter their age. He noticed that Ron, though, seemed equally taken with Hermione's new skill. Or maybe it was her newly tamed tresses that he was admiring, or the black sleeveless dress she wore that displayed her long, tan arms.
Harry looked hopelessly down at his raggedy Dursley clothes and too-small trainers. In the backseat, Ron wasn't dressed much better--he was wearing an ancient Chudley Cannons tee and his pants were a bit too short for his legs. Ginny looked just as he remembered her. Ah well. Hermione had always seemed more....adult, than the rest of them, he reasoned. There was just something about her.
---
Not long after the famous Harry Potter turned sixteen, young wizards and witches from all over Britain hung up their summer clothes in exchange for crisp school robes. This included one muggle-born Hermione Granger, who boarded the Hogwart's Express with her friends, laughing and betting five galleons that for once, Harry was going to beat Ron at wizarding chess.
"Get bloody serious!" Ron exclaimed, hauling his trunk into a wardrobe inside their compartment.
"Wait and see," Hemione said, releasing a much annoyed Crookshanks from his wicker basket, from which he'd been mewling bitterly ever since they'd made their way to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. To her friends, and to the rest of Hogwart's student body, Hermione was more or less exactly as she'd been for all five of their previous school years: clever, a bit bossy, and definitly more than a bit sure of herself.
And why shouldn't they see all those things? Hermione asked herself. (For she found it impossible to even think of herself as Helena privately while at Hogwarts. Believing in the lies that created Hermione was the only way she could keep up the charade). She'd perfected the persona of Hermione Granger to such a level that she often had to remind herself that she -wasn't- Hermione Granger. On the other hand... if she had spent five years of her life as Hermione, what did that make Helena? Where did Helena go? Was it Hermione that didn't exist, or was it -herself-? Sometimes it was enough to make her want to shut-down, all those nights of laying in the dormitory and reminding herself of her duty to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, reminding herself of her true identity and purpose.
But no one would ever, not in a million years, guess such conflict lay beneath the cool, assured exterior of Hermione Granger. She entered her sixth year at Hogwarts a little taller than everyone expected, perhaps a little more poised, too. Even Molly Weasley, who should have been too busy with thoughts of her own children to notice such things, had pulled her aside on that first night at the Burrow. "My, Hermione dear," she breathed, holding her at arm's length. "You look quite grown up, I must say. I expect the boys might pass out when they see you." Hermione had giggled bashfully, dodging the compliment without saying a word, though internally she wondered if she shouldn't have taken an extra sip of the VesClotho, just for good measure.
Too late now. Hermione hunted around the train compartment for a place to stash her duffle, but all the space was taken up with trunks, brooms, and animals. "Blast," she mumbled. "If it weren't for dress robes, I could have squeezed everything into one trunk."
"Yeah right," Harry said, watching Ron set up the chessboard. "I saw all those new shoes and saucy skirts you brought to wear under your robes. Thinking of finding a replacement for Krum this term, are we?"
"Hardly," she said. "I'm a prefect now, remember?"
"Uggghh... You're starting to sound just like Perc, Herm." Ron groaned and keeled over as if to be sick.
Hermione ignored him, distracted, and finally slipped out to the hallway, pacing for a few moments before moving down the train until she reached a near-empty car, occupied by two tiny students. First years, presumably. They gazed at her Prefect's badge in awe, not speaking, and barely nodded compliance when she asked if she could store her duffle in their compartment.
When she returned to her friends, she found that Ron and Harry already had their game underway. Neville Longbottom was dozing in the corner, and Ginny was circling pictures in "Young Modern Witchware", a catalog that was popular with teenaged girls.
"Well!" She exlaimed, looking around brightly. "I think I'll get a head-start on the new Arithmancy book. I've been waiting to crack into it all week."
Even Ginny looked startled at the announcement. "Hermione! Don't you ever rest?" she asked, lowering her catalog just so Hermione could read the exasperation etched on her face.
"Not ever," Hermione said, laughing. "Actually, I'm more curious as to why we had no Defense Against the Dark Arts book to buy this year. It's not like Snape to not require a textbook."
"Ron didn't tell you?" Harry asked her, puzzled, then turned to Ron. "Tell her..." he said, jabbing an elbow in her direction.
"Snape's not teaching it," Ron announced, his mouth stuffed with cockaroach cluster. "Dad told me that Dumbledore had to pull a bunch of strings at the Ministry to bring in a brand new teacher."
"Ha!" Harry chortled a little noise of glee, though it wasn't clear if this was in reaction to what Ron said, or because his knight was currently pummeling Ron's into dust. Then he looked up with a sudden frown. "But why? Why a new Dark Arts teacher? Snape'll have seizures when he finds out he's lost the job."
"Not necessarily," Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, he must have known that the Dark Arts position he had last year was only temporary." It was true. Fleur Delacour had taken on the Potion Master's classes for a one year teaching intership, but was now back at Beauxbatons with a full time position--still hypnotizing students with her silvery tresses, no doubt..
"Unfortunately," Ron grimaced. "Potions was a whole lot sunnier last year though, wasn't it?"
Neville let out a little squeak from over in the corner where he'd been sleeping only a few minutes ago. "But Dark Arts...." he breathed, barely audible. "Darks Arts with Snape was terrible!" In actuality, Snape had been a little more pleasant once he'd finally received the coveted Dark Arts position, but unlike his gift for mixing potions, he didn't seem to actually know many practical lessons for fighting the Dark Arts. Instead, he filled the class time with
long, boring lectures that rivaled Professor Binn's history lessons. During those lectures, Hermione had found herself half-longing for the return of imposter Moody. -Not only were his lessons more interesting,- she'd think, tucking her wand behind her ear absently, -But if he were back, I might be able to....- Of course, she never allowed herself to entertain such thoughts for more than a second.
Harry tilted his head back thoughtfully, then said, not particularly concerned, "Imagine how bad he'll be, though, when he's back at his old potion's post." For all of them, Snape's nastiness had become more or less a fact of life, and for the next ten minutes or so they speculated on who the new Dark Arts instructor might be, wondering outloud whether or not he might actually survive the position for longer than a year.
"What do you mean, 'He'?" Ginny piped up, irritated. "It could be a woman, you know!' At this, Hermione couldn't help but surpress a smile. But she was growing tired of the subject, fully aware that at tonight's feast she would have to act surprised--and pleased, of course--when Dumbledore finally revealed the new Dark Arts professor as Sirius Black. To signal her boredom with the conversation, she propped open "Advanced Arithmancy" and feigned interest in the charts and numbers before her, tapping a new quill against her knee.
Soon enough, Ron and Harry slipped back into the silent concentration that their chess game required, and Ginny and Neville left to find some of the other Gryffindors, leaving Hermione free to gaze out the window absently, her arithmancy book pressed against her chest. Outside, the scenery changed as they headed north--the quiet countryside moors were long behind them, and the train often careened past sheer rock walls and dangerous outcroppings. As the sky darkened, though, her spirits were oddly lifted. Maybe it was being around Ron and Harry again, or maybe it was because...because it was almost nice to be sixteen again, to be heading back to Hogwart's, where a new school year lay out before her like a clean sheet of parchment. She closed her eyes at the thought, and just before dozing off, told herself that this time around, she must not fail.
---
Hermione woke up to several unpleasant pokes in the shoulder, unsure of how much time had passed.
"Herm....Herm!" Ron said, using the tip of his wand to rouse her. "You owe me five galleons. Harry couldn't beat me to save his life."
"I don't care," she groaned, swatting his wand away. "I was having a good dream for once!"
Ron shrugged. "The train's coming to a stop now anyway. Best find my money now, or you're liable to forget."
"With you reminding me? Not likely!" Hermione stood up and stretched. The train was rolling uneasily from side to side as it slowed down, and she took advantage of Crookshank's currently comatose state by slipping him into his basket and latching it shut.
"I see the castle!" Harry exclaimed, his nose pushed up to the window. And as if in conformation, the train's shrill whistle sounded as the steam engine chugged to a halt. Ron was already dragging his trunks out into the hallway, shouting Ginny's name and threatening to leave her things behind if she didn't run help him.
"Ready?" Harry asked, tucking Hedwig's cage under his arm.
"Just about," Hermione said, buttoning her robes. She gathered her things up and was waiting in the hallway, straightening her prefect's badge, when she remembered that she'd left her duffle back in a car full of first-years. She made Harry promise to watch her things, then pushed her way back through the crowd of students waiting to exit the train. A few of them grumbled in annoyance at her approach, but she ignored them--even Malfoy, who hissed "Hey Mudblood..wrong way!" as she lunged past him hurriedly. When she finally made it to the car, it was eerily empty; her duffle was slouched on the floor like an abandoned pet, and was the only piece of luggage in the compartment. But that wasn't all that was left behind. A long strip of parchment had been coiled around the duffle's carrying strap, too obvious to be anything other than a note of some sort. Hermione bent over and unrolled it. It contained a single sentence and took her less than a second to read:
"I know that you're not who you say you are."
Responses welcome!
Mine Protector
Chapter 2: "Enter Hermione Granger"
Harry had thanked his lucky stars when the Weasley's had saved him from the Dursley's yet again. On the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Ron, Herminone, and Ginny had showed up on Privet drive--muggle style--in one of the ministry cars Arthur Weasley borrowed on occasion. "What? Who...who drove?" Harry had gasped, still realing at his good fortune.
"I did, of course," Hermione said. "I tested for my license over the summer. Pretty big coming of age thing for muggles, you know."
Harry knew. Dudley himself had just received a little vintage Fiat from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia--a reward for (barely) passing most of this classes, and dropping twenty pounds in the process. Not that it did much good; Dudley could still scarcly squeeze himself behind the wheel of the little sports car. Harry had to admit, for once, that the Dursley's could be crafty. What better way to coerce Dudley into losing weight than to dangle a ripe juicey plum of an italian sportscar under his nose?
In the Minestry car, Harry had been impressed with Hermione's knowledge of London's roads--she was also clearly confident behind the wheel, steering with one hand and letting the other rest casually in the open window. Weirdly, it made him feel suddenly younger than her. Don't be such a stupid prat, he scolded himself. Hermione's got muggle parents--most wizards you know don't drive, no matter their age. He noticed that Ron, though, seemed equally taken with Hermione's new skill. Or maybe it was her newly tamed tresses that he was admiring, or the black sleeveless dress she wore that displayed her long, tan arms.
Harry looked hopelessly down at his raggedy Dursley clothes and too-small trainers. In the backseat, Ron wasn't dressed much better--he was wearing an ancient Chudley Cannons tee and his pants were a bit too short for his legs. Ginny looked just as he remembered her. Ah well. Hermione had always seemed more....adult, than the rest of them, he reasoned. There was just something about her.
---
Not long after the famous Harry Potter turned sixteen, young wizards and witches from all over Britain hung up their summer clothes in exchange for crisp school robes. This included one muggle-born Hermione Granger, who boarded the Hogwart's Express with her friends, laughing and betting five galleons that for once, Harry was going to beat Ron at wizarding chess.
"Get bloody serious!" Ron exclaimed, hauling his trunk into a wardrobe inside their compartment.
"Wait and see," Hemione said, releasing a much annoyed Crookshanks from his wicker basket, from which he'd been mewling bitterly ever since they'd made their way to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. To her friends, and to the rest of Hogwart's student body, Hermione was more or less exactly as she'd been for all five of their previous school years: clever, a bit bossy, and definitly more than a bit sure of herself.
And why shouldn't they see all those things? Hermione asked herself. (For she found it impossible to even think of herself as Helena privately while at Hogwarts. Believing in the lies that created Hermione was the only way she could keep up the charade). She'd perfected the persona of Hermione Granger to such a level that she often had to remind herself that she -wasn't- Hermione Granger. On the other hand... if she had spent five years of her life as Hermione, what did that make Helena? Where did Helena go? Was it Hermione that didn't exist, or was it -herself-? Sometimes it was enough to make her want to shut-down, all those nights of laying in the dormitory and reminding herself of her duty to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, reminding herself of her true identity and purpose.
But no one would ever, not in a million years, guess such conflict lay beneath the cool, assured exterior of Hermione Granger. She entered her sixth year at Hogwarts a little taller than everyone expected, perhaps a little more poised, too. Even Molly Weasley, who should have been too busy with thoughts of her own children to notice such things, had pulled her aside on that first night at the Burrow. "My, Hermione dear," she breathed, holding her at arm's length. "You look quite grown up, I must say. I expect the boys might pass out when they see you." Hermione had giggled bashfully, dodging the compliment without saying a word, though internally she wondered if she shouldn't have taken an extra sip of the VesClotho, just for good measure.
Too late now. Hermione hunted around the train compartment for a place to stash her duffle, but all the space was taken up with trunks, brooms, and animals. "Blast," she mumbled. "If it weren't for dress robes, I could have squeezed everything into one trunk."
"Yeah right," Harry said, watching Ron set up the chessboard. "I saw all those new shoes and saucy skirts you brought to wear under your robes. Thinking of finding a replacement for Krum this term, are we?"
"Hardly," she said. "I'm a prefect now, remember?"
"Uggghh... You're starting to sound just like Perc, Herm." Ron groaned and keeled over as if to be sick.
Hermione ignored him, distracted, and finally slipped out to the hallway, pacing for a few moments before moving down the train until she reached a near-empty car, occupied by two tiny students. First years, presumably. They gazed at her Prefect's badge in awe, not speaking, and barely nodded compliance when she asked if she could store her duffle in their compartment.
When she returned to her friends, she found that Ron and Harry already had their game underway. Neville Longbottom was dozing in the corner, and Ginny was circling pictures in "Young Modern Witchware", a catalog that was popular with teenaged girls.
"Well!" She exlaimed, looking around brightly. "I think I'll get a head-start on the new Arithmancy book. I've been waiting to crack into it all week."
Even Ginny looked startled at the announcement. "Hermione! Don't you ever rest?" she asked, lowering her catalog just so Hermione could read the exasperation etched on her face.
"Not ever," Hermione said, laughing. "Actually, I'm more curious as to why we had no Defense Against the Dark Arts book to buy this year. It's not like Snape to not require a textbook."
"Ron didn't tell you?" Harry asked her, puzzled, then turned to Ron. "Tell her..." he said, jabbing an elbow in her direction.
"Snape's not teaching it," Ron announced, his mouth stuffed with cockaroach cluster. "Dad told me that Dumbledore had to pull a bunch of strings at the Ministry to bring in a brand new teacher."
"Ha!" Harry chortled a little noise of glee, though it wasn't clear if this was in reaction to what Ron said, or because his knight was currently pummeling Ron's into dust. Then he looked up with a sudden frown. "But why? Why a new Dark Arts teacher? Snape'll have seizures when he finds out he's lost the job."
"Not necessarily," Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, he must have known that the Dark Arts position he had last year was only temporary." It was true. Fleur Delacour had taken on the Potion Master's classes for a one year teaching intership, but was now back at Beauxbatons with a full time position--still hypnotizing students with her silvery tresses, no doubt..
"Unfortunately," Ron grimaced. "Potions was a whole lot sunnier last year though, wasn't it?"
Neville let out a little squeak from over in the corner where he'd been sleeping only a few minutes ago. "But Dark Arts...." he breathed, barely audible. "Darks Arts with Snape was terrible!" In actuality, Snape had been a little more pleasant once he'd finally received the coveted Dark Arts position, but unlike his gift for mixing potions, he didn't seem to actually know many practical lessons for fighting the Dark Arts. Instead, he filled the class time with
long, boring lectures that rivaled Professor Binn's history lessons. During those lectures, Hermione had found herself half-longing for the return of imposter Moody. -Not only were his lessons more interesting,- she'd think, tucking her wand behind her ear absently, -But if he were back, I might be able to....- Of course, she never allowed herself to entertain such thoughts for more than a second.
Harry tilted his head back thoughtfully, then said, not particularly concerned, "Imagine how bad he'll be, though, when he's back at his old potion's post." For all of them, Snape's nastiness had become more or less a fact of life, and for the next ten minutes or so they speculated on who the new Dark Arts instructor might be, wondering outloud whether or not he might actually survive the position for longer than a year.
"What do you mean, 'He'?" Ginny piped up, irritated. "It could be a woman, you know!' At this, Hermione couldn't help but surpress a smile. But she was growing tired of the subject, fully aware that at tonight's feast she would have to act surprised--and pleased, of course--when Dumbledore finally revealed the new Dark Arts professor as Sirius Black. To signal her boredom with the conversation, she propped open "Advanced Arithmancy" and feigned interest in the charts and numbers before her, tapping a new quill against her knee.
Soon enough, Ron and Harry slipped back into the silent concentration that their chess game required, and Ginny and Neville left to find some of the other Gryffindors, leaving Hermione free to gaze out the window absently, her arithmancy book pressed against her chest. Outside, the scenery changed as they headed north--the quiet countryside moors were long behind them, and the train often careened past sheer rock walls and dangerous outcroppings. As the sky darkened, though, her spirits were oddly lifted. Maybe it was being around Ron and Harry again, or maybe it was because...because it was almost nice to be sixteen again, to be heading back to Hogwart's, where a new school year lay out before her like a clean sheet of parchment. She closed her eyes at the thought, and just before dozing off, told herself that this time around, she must not fail.
---
Hermione woke up to several unpleasant pokes in the shoulder, unsure of how much time had passed.
"Herm....Herm!" Ron said, using the tip of his wand to rouse her. "You owe me five galleons. Harry couldn't beat me to save his life."
"I don't care," she groaned, swatting his wand away. "I was having a good dream for once!"
Ron shrugged. "The train's coming to a stop now anyway. Best find my money now, or you're liable to forget."
"With you reminding me? Not likely!" Hermione stood up and stretched. The train was rolling uneasily from side to side as it slowed down, and she took advantage of Crookshank's currently comatose state by slipping him into his basket and latching it shut.
"I see the castle!" Harry exclaimed, his nose pushed up to the window. And as if in conformation, the train's shrill whistle sounded as the steam engine chugged to a halt. Ron was already dragging his trunks out into the hallway, shouting Ginny's name and threatening to leave her things behind if she didn't run help him.
"Ready?" Harry asked, tucking Hedwig's cage under his arm.
"Just about," Hermione said, buttoning her robes. She gathered her things up and was waiting in the hallway, straightening her prefect's badge, when she remembered that she'd left her duffle back in a car full of first-years. She made Harry promise to watch her things, then pushed her way back through the crowd of students waiting to exit the train. A few of them grumbled in annoyance at her approach, but she ignored them--even Malfoy, who hissed "Hey Mudblood..wrong way!" as she lunged past him hurriedly. When she finally made it to the car, it was eerily empty; her duffle was slouched on the floor like an abandoned pet, and was the only piece of luggage in the compartment. But that wasn't all that was left behind. A long strip of parchment had been coiled around the duffle's carrying strap, too obvious to be anything other than a note of some sort. Hermione bent over and unrolled it. It contained a single sentence and took her less than a second to read:
"I know that you're not who you say you are."
