Disclaimer: Well, hrm. Checked my bank account and there aren't millions
of dollars in it. So I guess that J.K. Rowling hasn't decided to gift me
with ownership of the Harry Potter series. Tsk.
Thanks go, as always, to Alison, who I'm basically writing this for, because she says such *nice* things about my fictions. For Mike, who listens to practically incoherent murmurings about characterization and Britisms at three a.m.. And, oddly enough, for my tenth grade English teacher, who was married on the Winter Solstice. In-ter-est-ing, I always thought.
Here we go, chapter one! In which our hero *finally* shows up. Again, please read and let me know what you think. I'm developing slowly, so. . .be patient, ducks. And also be warned, this is even longer than the last chapter.
Incidentally, thanks, Brittany.
8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8
"every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end"
-semisonic, "closing time"
8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8
It was funny, Hermione thought, how two months can seem like seven years when seven years had gone by like two months. During the summer, when the shadows stay long and it's possible to read outside for almost twelve hours, she felt like she was trapped in some sort of time warp, like she'd broken a time turner mid-spin and she was forever stuck in some sort of strange loop. She'd tried to keep busy, studying and reading the Daily Prophet and practicing spells behind the high privacy fence her father had put up around the backyard in honor of her ability to practice magic outside of school.
Today she was engaging in a rare flight of teenage fancy, turning blades of grass into flowers. She was quickly running out of flowers to transform grass into, though, seeing as she had turned one poor innocent blade into a pansy. She wrinkled her nose just looking at it. That was one Slytherin she ended up hating even after You-Know-Who left their world, whereas most of them she had felt slightly sorry for. She still remembered how angry Pansy Parkinson had been when Draco stood her up for the Graduation Ball to go with Ginny Weasley. The looks when they had walked in had been worth a million Galleons. But that was months ago and Hermione could take some small comfort that she was in her favorite corner of the backyard and Pansy was far, far away. Not only was Hermione in the yard, but to completely the pretty English summer picture, Crookshanks, seemingly unaware of his mistress' sulky spell, was slinking about just a few feet away, hunting a small white butterfly. Her parents were at work that day, so she was alone.
Having just turned a three-inch high piece of grass into a four-foot high Bird of Paradise plant, Hermione blinked as she realized that she was bored. She had actually finished all the reading she had assigned herself in preparations for her move to Puddlemere in the fall. She was going to be apprenticing at a company that specialized in MediPotions and she had spent a good deal of the last two months studying every text on the subject she could find. Hermione had a lot of resources, so she was rather disappointed that she seemed to have exhausted them all. She had a strange suspicion, completely unconfirmed, that Albus Dumbledore, upon noticing how much material Madame Pince was owling out to her favorite former Hogwarts student, had instructed her to stop so Hermione would end up in this highly deplorable situation.
Of course, Dumbledore had probably twinkled in that irritating fashion that he had as he instructed Madame Pince to tell Hermione that all the Owls were on vacation and that she should be doing the same. When she had Flooed to enquire about Apparating in, she was told that Hogwarts was being fumigated and that all the staff were about to depart for the last part of the summer and that she was far too pale. What rot. She didn't understand why Dumbledore had so encouraged Harry and Ron to mess about, anyway, and why he was pulling her down with them. Either way, the Headmaster's "secret" desire that the three of them act like children meant that she had spent the last two weeks slouching about in this deplorable fashion and had a week more to go.
Frowningly sulkily, she rolled over onto her back, thumping her arms against the ground in a rather satisfying fashion, and found her mind wandering completely unbidden to that night two months ago when Harry Potter had invaded her peaceful summer. He'd flown off into the night and the next day, oh the surprise, a lengthy story about his breakup with Susan had appeared in the Daily Prophet. The subsequent picture of them making up, disgustingly, had appeared three days later and caused Hermione to wish that there were still Dark Lords roaming about so the paper would report news that people actually cared about instead of all this nonsense. Honestly, the Prophet was no better than those silly tabloids her aunt read these days. She still remembered, vividly, tearing the paper apart page by page and then absently dropping them into a tiny bluebell flame she had conjured in one of her mother's saucers, much to said mother's dismay. Later that day she'd sent Harry an owl congratulating him and carefully not making any reference to the Incident, as she liked to call it.
Two weeks later she'd gotten a reply from Harry saying that he was sorry he hadn't written sooner, but he was on his way to Quidditch training camp. Would she mind terribly if they caught up at the end of the summer and, no, she didn't have to send a reply, he'd be in touch when he wasn't so busy. Her first thought was that this couldn't be Harry. Even Harry wouldn't send a missive containing such absurd sentiments. She has almost expected to find an autographed picture tucked in the parchment somewhere. After realizing that the messy scrawl was indeed his (and checking it for tampering charms), her second was that she had no such plans to do any catching up. As far as she was concerned, Harry Potter was someone she would respond to politely if she ran into him in public and otherwise she was going to forget he existed. Oddly enough, her relationship with Ron was still cordial, if cooler than she would've liked, but she figured that was just fallout from the events that were unfolding with the three of them. Which didn't surprise her. In their last year at Hogwarts, Ron and Harry had bonded over girls and become much closer, apparently, that she had thought at the beginning of the summer. Hermione surmised that she had been tolerated as a useful source of information about the opposite sex.
Which was something she was not going to dwell on, she told herself firmly. She had felt very out of sorts this summer because of such thoughts. She was done being Harry Potter's doormat. And Ron? Well, it didn't take much effort to be polite and he was far too thick to see that polite was, indeed, about the extent of their relationship these days. And they had made that choice as well. No matter how much it hurt her, she was completely going to let them decide what they wanted to do, what their level of involvement was going to be. If they wanted to be her friends, she had no problems welcoming them back with open arms. Otherwise, she wasn't going to chase them. Hermione Granger, she thought to herself, did not chase people.
She prided herself on the way she was handling this. But there was still that lurking suspicion that if she stopped to think about it too deeply, her heart would probably break into three distinct parts and she'd only keep a third. She laughed softly, realizing to herself that that was silly sentimentality, and she didn't have time for it. In fact, it wasn't like it had been all that much of a surprise. People grew apart, after all. She wasn't going to linger on, like some silly person. No, sir, Hermione Granger was headed for great things and useless crushes on prats weren't part of them. Nor did she have room for fading friendships. If they were going to be her friends, they would come around. In the meantime, though, she had been staring up at the sky for twenty minutes musing about seventh year and Harry and Ron and that whole mess, exactly like she had said she wouldn't.
No, Hermione sighed to herself, it wouldn't do, this inactivity. She was trying to get on with her life, basically, and here she was, moping about her admittedly beautiful backyard. But it was still her backyard and so, she decided, she was going to go to Diagon Alley and see if she could pick up a little more reading material. She went into the house, changed into a light blue sundress and pulled her hair back in a messy ponytail with a matching ribbon. Hermione smiled at the archaic piece of cloth in her hair and wondered, for the millionth time, why she didn't use elastic bands. It must have been because of all her time spent in the wizarding world. After all, combs and ribbon were easily available, but it was nearly impossible to get some no-metal elastic ponytail holders at Gladrags. Descending to the first floor and stooping to pet the now-indoors Crookshanks, she was feeling considerably better about the day. She jotted a quick note to her parents and, walking into the backyard, Apparated to the small park in the alley especially for that purpose.
Hermione had always been rather ambivalent about Apparating. She always hit her mark and had begun to do so almost immediately after she began training, which had been early. Of course, she, Harry and Ron had gotten to train for it early - after all, who knew when they'd need it? It had been a blatant bit of favoritism on the part of everyone involved, but it had been considered a necessary evil. And while she never hated doing things she was good at it, she didn't have to clap for joy every time she purposefully winked herself out of existance. And there was something funny about Apparating. There was always the inevitable bit of nausea and feelings of insecurity that came with appearing somewhere without a full grasp of the exact nature of the point you were appearing in.
For example, how was she to know that George Weasley was standing on the Apparation point at Dumbledore Park? Furthermore, how was she to know he had his hands full of dye his mother had managed to make from the Weasleys' garden? She couldn't have predicted, either, that George had forgotten to screw one of the lids on tightly when he had inspected a jar of it. After all, Trelawney had always said she was terrible at Divination, had she not? And so, her Inner Eye clouded, Hermione hadn't been aware of any part of that when she Apparated to the park, and hence, was quite surprised to be not only laying on top of the aforementioned George Weasley, but covered in violent orange dye. Ah, the irony, she thought to herself, Ron would've had a picnic with this. She'd ended up Chudley Cannons orange and landed on the wrong Weasley. For a second, she didn't move at all, she'd just lifted her head.
"Good afternoon, George, how are you?" Her voice was more polite than anything and as she dropped her head, she missed George's look of surprise at being recognized sliding into a smirk.
"Not George, Hermione Granger. I'm Fred. Tsk. And you were a prefect." The redhead smiled engagingly at her. "Incidentally, are you planning on getting up? I mean, not that this is uncomfortable, but I can think of a few other places we could try it." And at that, the smirk went straight to a leer.
"Indeed, I was," Hermione said as she started to get up, "both thinking of getting up, obviously, and a prefect. Goodness knows I caught you doing enough at Hogwarts to tell the difference, by the way. You, George, have a clump of freckles right here," she said, reaching a finger out to hover just above his cheek, "that Fred does not. Not to mention all those holidays I visited the Burrow before you two moved out." George looked down at her finger, hovering close enough to his cheek that it felt like it was actually resting on his skin, and then met her eyes. What he saw in them made him slightly worried. It was like something was missing within them. And it made him wonder if maybe she wouldn't like to go to the Burrow and have a bit of tea with his mum and maybe one of those nice scones she still pressed on them when he and Fred visited for lunch. She flushed then, slightly, under his gaze and slid her eyes away. He looked at her face for a moment longer and then he, too, looked away. By this time, she had fully risen and was surveying the damage to her dress.
"Umm, right then." George looked a little put out at being recognized before he'd had a chance to go anywhere with it, but he remembered that Hermione had always been able to tell them apart. Which became unfortunate once she was a prefect. Much more difficult to get away with things when someone quite clever was running the show. Assisting in running the show, anyway. And Hermione was nothing if not quite clever. In fact, she'd already managed to charm away the supposedly indelible dye she gotten all over her dress when she had landed on him.
"You know, George, I would ask what that color is for, but I'm not sure I want to know. It's hideous." She spoke like he had asked her about the weather. Seven years of various Weasley antics had taught her that she most likely didn't want to ask any questions, because those would lead to answers, and the answers would lead to big headaches. Besides, truth be told, she wasn't really all that eager to spend much time with George, because he was quite likely to ask her if she'd heard from Ron or invite her to the Burrow or something of that sort. While she wasn't angry at the Weasleys, it brought back memories of a better time that she wasn't sure she could handle.
George beamed down at her and then at the jars. "Ah. Awful orange for our newest product! It's an Exploding Quill. Every time you write something that's not quite true it explodes." Against her better judgment, Hermione found herself becoming a bit interested in the concept.
"Hrm. Not good for a typical student's letters home, then. Or Divination homework, which you used to cheat at all the time setting, might I add, a horrible example for.well, a horrible example." She said the last part in a rush, George noticed, as if she were avoiding mentioning names. "Honestly, designing a quill like that. It's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?"
"Well. Yes. But we're not at Hogwarts, now, are we? Was all Fred's idea, actually, and a brilliant one at that. We figure they'll sell like mad around the holidays. Gifts for your more sporting friends and your enemies, alike. Perfect idea. Chaos at Hogwarts and money in our pockets." George looked smugly down at the jars he still held.
Hermione's eyes widened a bit and she tried to hold back a laugh When she found she honestly couldn't help it, she giggled. George, who was still thinking of the frantically studious girl he had known before, got a bit of a stunned look on his face and joined in. After all, this was Hermione Granger. She was always vaguely disapproving of he and Fred, she never laughed with them or at any of their ideas. Most of the time she'd simply rolled her eyes and flounced away. And, now that he looked, he had to admit that the year and a half since he'd last seen her properly had treated her kindly. She had grown a bit taller, stretching out the last of her childhood roundness to a slenderness that wasn't unattractive on her. Her hair had been tamed as well and she seemed to carry herself with the confidence all the honors she had received should have given her. And, yet, there was something else that had changed and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
George cleared his throat after the two of them stopped chuckling. "So. Meeting Harry and my git of a brother?" He had meant the question to be light, but he didn't miss the way Hermione's face darkened when he mentioned the two of them. Interesting, that was.
"Umm, no, I'm just looking for a little reading material." She seemed nervous and glanced around a few times. "Are they around here?"
"Actually, Ron definitely is. He's working at 3W today. I think, but I'm not sure, that Harry might be stopping by." George noticed that when he said that Hermione actually started a bit then regained her composure. He decided to try something. . . "Maybe you'd like to come visit? Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is looking lovely now that it's open. I don't think you've been to see us yet, have you? And you should. We could use someone to look over some of our new ideas."
"Ah, no. I don't think I quite have time, you see, my parents are expecting me back and I'm not sure I've remembered to feed Crookshanks and I've got to pack for Puddlemere and, George, it was really nice to see you and I wish I could stop by the store, but I must run, but you'll tell your mother I said hello, right?" He wasn't sure she'd breathed the whole time she'd said that and was shocked when, taking a breath, she reached out, touched his arm once and turned to leave. She had smiled but something in her eyes looked a bit distressed.
George started forward, as if to grab her arm, to stop her from running off so quickly, but she had disappeared into the other witches and wizards strolling along Diagon Alley that sunny day. He sighed, inexplicably, and started towards the store. It was definitely possible, no, probable from the way she'd run off, that his wanker of a younger brother had something to do with this. Maybe he'd ask a few questions, see if his younger sister knew anything about this. Perhaps, he'd have her stop by the store. She wouldn't come of her own free will but, he thought as he smiled his special Weasley-twin-up-to-something-bad-smile, maybe she'd stop by anyway. Looking resolute, he started off down the alley towards the store.
In the meantime, Hermione, having found her way to Flourish and Blotts was feeling confused. She hadn't meant to run like that. Hadn't she, just this morning, been talking about how she was going to get over what had happened with Harry and Ron? Ron worked here, she could hardly hope to avoid him. And what if Harry signed to Puddlemere? She couldn't spend her entire life avoiding them. Sighing, she ran her hands over the fronts of a shelf of books and, selecting a few, decided that she'd had quite enough of the wizarding world for today and after she'd paid, made her way back down to Dumbledore Park. She couldn't help but feel a little ashamed, though, for stopping the wonderful conversation she was having with, of all people, George Weasley. And, sighing once again, she realized that slinking down the alley wasn't exactly helping her pride either. Laughing mockingly at herself, she clutched her bag and Apparated, landing neatly in the backyard.
Looking lazily at her watch, she decided to go up to her room to read for a while. She'd gotten two of the Potions journals she didn't subscribe to and a copy of Boom!: Just What Makes Good Potions Go Bad? to read this afternoon. She remembered plans to go out to dinner with her parents being made, but now she wasn't quite so sure she would be good company.
Entering her room, the same one she'd had since she was a child, Hermione felt a sense of calm come over her. The room was exactly the way she wanted it thanks to her parents, who had filled it with lovely things in an attempt to lure Hermione home for holidays. One side of the room was floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with various texts she'd collected over the years. In front of the bookshelf there was a chaise lounge, draped with a yellow quilt Hermione's grandmother had given her. One wall had a large window, complete with window seat, which had a desk to the left of it. Her desk was almost impossibly neat and entirely unremarkable, except for a large inkstand, complete with a large quill, and a roll of parchment on something that looked like a paper towel hanger. Those looked largely unused, but there was a notebook lying underneath her laptop and an assortment of pens in a mug from her parents' practice. The rest of her room was taken up with her four-poster bed, which her parents had bought after she'd come home raving about how lovely the beds at Hogwarts were, and her dresser. Two other doors were in her bedroom, one leading to the little bathroom that was off of her room and one into her closet. The walls were crème colored and most of the furnishings were slightly darker wood. Looking at these reassuring surroundings, Hermione settled into the chaise, a book in one hand, the other absently petting Crookshanks.
She stayed that way for about an hour until her reading was disturbed by an odd tapping noise. To be honest, she had actually succumbed to the summer sunshine and started to daydream a little and the tap-tap-tap had startled her so badly, she dropped her book. She was actually kind of glad she had been disrupted, the thoughts about actually going to see George were a bit much. The entirely time she'd known him, he'd been trouble. Fun trouble during the summers, but he had little respect for authority and didn't study nearly as much as he should have. He would've been a great student if he had only focused. But the tapping was still going on, reminding Hermione what had dragged her out of her reverie in the first place. It was an owl, she could tell that much, but it was unfamiliar. Most of the owls her friends used tapped in a certain rhythm and this one was different. Perhaps it was the owl from Unicorn Horns and Boomslang Skins with the last of the potions ingredients she had ordered. Excellent, she thought as she went to the window.
Only to promptly stop in wonder. The owl was no ordinary owl. It was roughly the size of Hedwig, but that's where all similarities stopped. This owl was rainbow striped. Rainbows! Like a piece of candy or a stuffed toy her father had won her at a carnival years ago. Remembering it was here to deliver something to her, she opened the window and let it in. It sailed gently around her head three times, raining a glittery substance on her room and person. Hermione didn't quite know what to think. Should she be angry? Was it dropping something dangerous in her room? Since she didn't have any experiments out that could be ruined, she decided not to be too worried and casually investigated the sparkling substance, only to discover it was, in fact, harmless pink glitter. By this time, the owl was perching on her desk, holding one leg out proudly and hooting a little. Hermione laughed a little and gave it a friendly ruffle of the feathers as she unattached the parchment it was bearing on its leg.
"You certainly are something else, aren't you?" She smiled at the creature and gave it a few owl treats she kept in her desk for the purpose. Hermione had always been fond of wizarding owls. They were such smart creatures. Though you'd never tell from the way this one was carrying on, hooting proudly and hopping about. "Who are you from, silly owl?" And she unrolled the letter she had just received. Unfortunately, as she unrolled it, more of the glitter escaped, covering an even larger area of her room in sparkles. A small rectangular box also fell out. She looked at the mess disparagingly for a moment, decided a quick spell when she was done would take care of it and started to read.
Oi, Hermione!
After seeing you looking so blue today, I decided to try to see if another color would suit you. Of course, maybe blue would work better. You looked brilliant in your blue dress today. Scientific experimentation needs to be done here, I believe. Feel free to enclose a picture of you in the pink glitter.
(Here, Hermione almost dropped the letter in shock. Was George Weasley actually flirting with her?)
I hope you enjoyed the first test of the Cloud Parchment (Rains Down Glitter, Every Time!) and said hello to Gratiano. Make sure you tell him how pretty he is, he's awfully vain. I've also enclosed something else. And, remember, I told you you should come visit.
Forge
P.S. The glitter won't go away with a spell, but will disappear sometime. We're not quite sure how long it takes, though, so let us know.
Merlin. This mess was going to be in her room for who knows how long and it was entirely George Weasley's fault. And it was pink, of all colors. Pink!
George,
This glitter is making a horrible mess so if any pictures will be forthcoming, they will certainly be of my sparkling nightmare of a bedroom. Incidentally, I'm not the least bit fond of pink, so next time you decide to use me as a guinea pig, do have the courtesy to ask. My mother will be most unhappy, I believe.
Gratiano is your owl's name? I wasn't aware you'd read Shakespeare. He's a lovely owl and I think his coloring is just perfect for his place of employment. Which, by the way, I will visit as soon as my schedule permits.
Thank you for your thoughts, George, and I really do hope to see you again soon.
Hermione Granger
P.S. Cover yourself in glitter and find out how long it takes.
She laughed a little as she attached the parchment to the waiting owl and, with another pat on the head, sent it off into the afternoon sky. George was really a nice sort, she mused, for all his mischief making. Attractive, too, now that she was old enough to appreciate it and free of other ties, imaginary or otherwise. He was tall and had the striking Weasley red hair and deep brown eyes. He was also intelligent than she'd originally suspected, apparently. She'd known that he and Fred were smart enough to run a business and clever enough to invent their own products, but she hadn't been aware that either one of them had read The Merchant of Venice, as their owl proved. In fact, George wasn't a bad sort and it was a shame she hadn't noticed before. She pulled a face at that last part. Who knew how much she'd missed out on because of her ridiculous feelings for that silly boy, Harry? Determined to put that out of her thoughts, she opened the small rectangular box and discovered a tiny lapel pin in the shape of a quill. It was blue colored and rather attractive looking. Glancing down at her sundress, she decided that it would look lovely for her dinner with her parents. She pinned it on her dress and reached up a hand to adjust it.
And was shocked when she felt the familiar terror of being sucked away by Portkey. Even more shocking, was the fuss when she landed. She was on her bottom, on a wooden surface in a room somewhere, facing a wall of filing cabinets. The first thing she became aware of was the popping of Filibuster Fireworks directly over her head. The second were the faces of George and Fred Weasley to either side of her.
"George, it worked. We're brilliant. We're going to make a million Galleons off of these." Fred was doing a little dance, completely oblivious to the shifts in Hermione's facial muscles.
"I believe you're right, brother mine." George was also thrilled, but had the grace to look a little abashed.
Deep breaths, Hermione told herself, deep breaths. She was going to be calm and rational and relaxed and CALM. She was going to stay serene and not get angry or upset. Honestly, she mused, she should've known better. Calm, she repeated to herself. She was going to stay calm. She was going to act like they had invited her for tea. Yes. That was what she was going to do. She sat up and took another deep breath and another one and then decided that calm was a long way away from how she felt.
"WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" She had realized she was upset and that she had every right to be, but even she was a little surprised by her shrieking. So much for calm, teatime thoughts. On the other hand, these were the Weasley twins and they had just swept her away from her comfortable bedroom, which one of them had just covered in awful pink glitter. Right then, she decided - shrieking was, in fact, in order. "HOW DARE YOU REMOVE ME FROM MY BEDROOM LIKE THAT?!?"
She would've gone on, but Fred started laughing. Laughed at her distress. The very indignity of it was enough to stop her in her tracks. Well, she fumed, we'll see about this, and pulled her wand out of the ankle strap she had started using towards the end of the war. She adjusted her hand on the grip and was slightly mollified when Fred looked distinctly nervous. "Come on, George. Let's get ickle Ronniekins. I'll watch the store and you can bring him back here to say hello and explain the product to our dear 'Mione." The brothers left the room, George sparing a backwards glance at the girl on the desk and leaving the door open a bit. Right. Stiff upper lip. She was going to stay calm and, oh, god, hadn't George told her earlier that Harry might be around? She didn't want to see him. And she wasn't going to just disappear, either. Pushing the door open she met Ron, George and, yes, Harry, in the hallway leading to the office.
"George. I believe I may have mentioned that my parents were expecting me. We were going out to dinner and I must get back. As much as I would enjoy this reunion," she looked at Harry and Ron, "I'm afraid it will have to wait." And, with that, she tipped her chin up and Apparated away. Ron, Harry and George looked at the spot she had been. Ron and George were a little surprised and Harry looked a bit guilty.
"Right then. I'll go after her. Explain that we were just playing, calm her down a bit." Ron and Harry looked shocked and Ron started to speak.
"Blimey, George, she'll get ov. . ." He never got to finish the statement. George, with a concerned look on her face, had Apparated away. Ron looked at Harry, who surely looked just as surprised. "Harry. What's he going and doing now? It's just Hermione."
`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`
**Author note**
I love love love you for reading this and next chapter, stuff starts happening. Word.
Thanks go, as always, to Alison, who I'm basically writing this for, because she says such *nice* things about my fictions. For Mike, who listens to practically incoherent murmurings about characterization and Britisms at three a.m.. And, oddly enough, for my tenth grade English teacher, who was married on the Winter Solstice. In-ter-est-ing, I always thought.
Here we go, chapter one! In which our hero *finally* shows up. Again, please read and let me know what you think. I'm developing slowly, so. . .be patient, ducks. And also be warned, this is even longer than the last chapter.
Incidentally, thanks, Brittany.
8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8
"every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end"
-semisonic, "closing time"
8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8
It was funny, Hermione thought, how two months can seem like seven years when seven years had gone by like two months. During the summer, when the shadows stay long and it's possible to read outside for almost twelve hours, she felt like she was trapped in some sort of time warp, like she'd broken a time turner mid-spin and she was forever stuck in some sort of strange loop. She'd tried to keep busy, studying and reading the Daily Prophet and practicing spells behind the high privacy fence her father had put up around the backyard in honor of her ability to practice magic outside of school.
Today she was engaging in a rare flight of teenage fancy, turning blades of grass into flowers. She was quickly running out of flowers to transform grass into, though, seeing as she had turned one poor innocent blade into a pansy. She wrinkled her nose just looking at it. That was one Slytherin she ended up hating even after You-Know-Who left their world, whereas most of them she had felt slightly sorry for. She still remembered how angry Pansy Parkinson had been when Draco stood her up for the Graduation Ball to go with Ginny Weasley. The looks when they had walked in had been worth a million Galleons. But that was months ago and Hermione could take some small comfort that she was in her favorite corner of the backyard and Pansy was far, far away. Not only was Hermione in the yard, but to completely the pretty English summer picture, Crookshanks, seemingly unaware of his mistress' sulky spell, was slinking about just a few feet away, hunting a small white butterfly. Her parents were at work that day, so she was alone.
Having just turned a three-inch high piece of grass into a four-foot high Bird of Paradise plant, Hermione blinked as she realized that she was bored. She had actually finished all the reading she had assigned herself in preparations for her move to Puddlemere in the fall. She was going to be apprenticing at a company that specialized in MediPotions and she had spent a good deal of the last two months studying every text on the subject she could find. Hermione had a lot of resources, so she was rather disappointed that she seemed to have exhausted them all. She had a strange suspicion, completely unconfirmed, that Albus Dumbledore, upon noticing how much material Madame Pince was owling out to her favorite former Hogwarts student, had instructed her to stop so Hermione would end up in this highly deplorable situation.
Of course, Dumbledore had probably twinkled in that irritating fashion that he had as he instructed Madame Pince to tell Hermione that all the Owls were on vacation and that she should be doing the same. When she had Flooed to enquire about Apparating in, she was told that Hogwarts was being fumigated and that all the staff were about to depart for the last part of the summer and that she was far too pale. What rot. She didn't understand why Dumbledore had so encouraged Harry and Ron to mess about, anyway, and why he was pulling her down with them. Either way, the Headmaster's "secret" desire that the three of them act like children meant that she had spent the last two weeks slouching about in this deplorable fashion and had a week more to go.
Frowningly sulkily, she rolled over onto her back, thumping her arms against the ground in a rather satisfying fashion, and found her mind wandering completely unbidden to that night two months ago when Harry Potter had invaded her peaceful summer. He'd flown off into the night and the next day, oh the surprise, a lengthy story about his breakup with Susan had appeared in the Daily Prophet. The subsequent picture of them making up, disgustingly, had appeared three days later and caused Hermione to wish that there were still Dark Lords roaming about so the paper would report news that people actually cared about instead of all this nonsense. Honestly, the Prophet was no better than those silly tabloids her aunt read these days. She still remembered, vividly, tearing the paper apart page by page and then absently dropping them into a tiny bluebell flame she had conjured in one of her mother's saucers, much to said mother's dismay. Later that day she'd sent Harry an owl congratulating him and carefully not making any reference to the Incident, as she liked to call it.
Two weeks later she'd gotten a reply from Harry saying that he was sorry he hadn't written sooner, but he was on his way to Quidditch training camp. Would she mind terribly if they caught up at the end of the summer and, no, she didn't have to send a reply, he'd be in touch when he wasn't so busy. Her first thought was that this couldn't be Harry. Even Harry wouldn't send a missive containing such absurd sentiments. She has almost expected to find an autographed picture tucked in the parchment somewhere. After realizing that the messy scrawl was indeed his (and checking it for tampering charms), her second was that she had no such plans to do any catching up. As far as she was concerned, Harry Potter was someone she would respond to politely if she ran into him in public and otherwise she was going to forget he existed. Oddly enough, her relationship with Ron was still cordial, if cooler than she would've liked, but she figured that was just fallout from the events that were unfolding with the three of them. Which didn't surprise her. In their last year at Hogwarts, Ron and Harry had bonded over girls and become much closer, apparently, that she had thought at the beginning of the summer. Hermione surmised that she had been tolerated as a useful source of information about the opposite sex.
Which was something she was not going to dwell on, she told herself firmly. She had felt very out of sorts this summer because of such thoughts. She was done being Harry Potter's doormat. And Ron? Well, it didn't take much effort to be polite and he was far too thick to see that polite was, indeed, about the extent of their relationship these days. And they had made that choice as well. No matter how much it hurt her, she was completely going to let them decide what they wanted to do, what their level of involvement was going to be. If they wanted to be her friends, she had no problems welcoming them back with open arms. Otherwise, she wasn't going to chase them. Hermione Granger, she thought to herself, did not chase people.
She prided herself on the way she was handling this. But there was still that lurking suspicion that if she stopped to think about it too deeply, her heart would probably break into three distinct parts and she'd only keep a third. She laughed softly, realizing to herself that that was silly sentimentality, and she didn't have time for it. In fact, it wasn't like it had been all that much of a surprise. People grew apart, after all. She wasn't going to linger on, like some silly person. No, sir, Hermione Granger was headed for great things and useless crushes on prats weren't part of them. Nor did she have room for fading friendships. If they were going to be her friends, they would come around. In the meantime, though, she had been staring up at the sky for twenty minutes musing about seventh year and Harry and Ron and that whole mess, exactly like she had said she wouldn't.
No, Hermione sighed to herself, it wouldn't do, this inactivity. She was trying to get on with her life, basically, and here she was, moping about her admittedly beautiful backyard. But it was still her backyard and so, she decided, she was going to go to Diagon Alley and see if she could pick up a little more reading material. She went into the house, changed into a light blue sundress and pulled her hair back in a messy ponytail with a matching ribbon. Hermione smiled at the archaic piece of cloth in her hair and wondered, for the millionth time, why she didn't use elastic bands. It must have been because of all her time spent in the wizarding world. After all, combs and ribbon were easily available, but it was nearly impossible to get some no-metal elastic ponytail holders at Gladrags. Descending to the first floor and stooping to pet the now-indoors Crookshanks, she was feeling considerably better about the day. She jotted a quick note to her parents and, walking into the backyard, Apparated to the small park in the alley especially for that purpose.
Hermione had always been rather ambivalent about Apparating. She always hit her mark and had begun to do so almost immediately after she began training, which had been early. Of course, she, Harry and Ron had gotten to train for it early - after all, who knew when they'd need it? It had been a blatant bit of favoritism on the part of everyone involved, but it had been considered a necessary evil. And while she never hated doing things she was good at it, she didn't have to clap for joy every time she purposefully winked herself out of existance. And there was something funny about Apparating. There was always the inevitable bit of nausea and feelings of insecurity that came with appearing somewhere without a full grasp of the exact nature of the point you were appearing in.
For example, how was she to know that George Weasley was standing on the Apparation point at Dumbledore Park? Furthermore, how was she to know he had his hands full of dye his mother had managed to make from the Weasleys' garden? She couldn't have predicted, either, that George had forgotten to screw one of the lids on tightly when he had inspected a jar of it. After all, Trelawney had always said she was terrible at Divination, had she not? And so, her Inner Eye clouded, Hermione hadn't been aware of any part of that when she Apparated to the park, and hence, was quite surprised to be not only laying on top of the aforementioned George Weasley, but covered in violent orange dye. Ah, the irony, she thought to herself, Ron would've had a picnic with this. She'd ended up Chudley Cannons orange and landed on the wrong Weasley. For a second, she didn't move at all, she'd just lifted her head.
"Good afternoon, George, how are you?" Her voice was more polite than anything and as she dropped her head, she missed George's look of surprise at being recognized sliding into a smirk.
"Not George, Hermione Granger. I'm Fred. Tsk. And you were a prefect." The redhead smiled engagingly at her. "Incidentally, are you planning on getting up? I mean, not that this is uncomfortable, but I can think of a few other places we could try it." And at that, the smirk went straight to a leer.
"Indeed, I was," Hermione said as she started to get up, "both thinking of getting up, obviously, and a prefect. Goodness knows I caught you doing enough at Hogwarts to tell the difference, by the way. You, George, have a clump of freckles right here," she said, reaching a finger out to hover just above his cheek, "that Fred does not. Not to mention all those holidays I visited the Burrow before you two moved out." George looked down at her finger, hovering close enough to his cheek that it felt like it was actually resting on his skin, and then met her eyes. What he saw in them made him slightly worried. It was like something was missing within them. And it made him wonder if maybe she wouldn't like to go to the Burrow and have a bit of tea with his mum and maybe one of those nice scones she still pressed on them when he and Fred visited for lunch. She flushed then, slightly, under his gaze and slid her eyes away. He looked at her face for a moment longer and then he, too, looked away. By this time, she had fully risen and was surveying the damage to her dress.
"Umm, right then." George looked a little put out at being recognized before he'd had a chance to go anywhere with it, but he remembered that Hermione had always been able to tell them apart. Which became unfortunate once she was a prefect. Much more difficult to get away with things when someone quite clever was running the show. Assisting in running the show, anyway. And Hermione was nothing if not quite clever. In fact, she'd already managed to charm away the supposedly indelible dye she gotten all over her dress when she had landed on him.
"You know, George, I would ask what that color is for, but I'm not sure I want to know. It's hideous." She spoke like he had asked her about the weather. Seven years of various Weasley antics had taught her that she most likely didn't want to ask any questions, because those would lead to answers, and the answers would lead to big headaches. Besides, truth be told, she wasn't really all that eager to spend much time with George, because he was quite likely to ask her if she'd heard from Ron or invite her to the Burrow or something of that sort. While she wasn't angry at the Weasleys, it brought back memories of a better time that she wasn't sure she could handle.
George beamed down at her and then at the jars. "Ah. Awful orange for our newest product! It's an Exploding Quill. Every time you write something that's not quite true it explodes." Against her better judgment, Hermione found herself becoming a bit interested in the concept.
"Hrm. Not good for a typical student's letters home, then. Or Divination homework, which you used to cheat at all the time setting, might I add, a horrible example for.well, a horrible example." She said the last part in a rush, George noticed, as if she were avoiding mentioning names. "Honestly, designing a quill like that. It's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?"
"Well. Yes. But we're not at Hogwarts, now, are we? Was all Fred's idea, actually, and a brilliant one at that. We figure they'll sell like mad around the holidays. Gifts for your more sporting friends and your enemies, alike. Perfect idea. Chaos at Hogwarts and money in our pockets." George looked smugly down at the jars he still held.
Hermione's eyes widened a bit and she tried to hold back a laugh When she found she honestly couldn't help it, she giggled. George, who was still thinking of the frantically studious girl he had known before, got a bit of a stunned look on his face and joined in. After all, this was Hermione Granger. She was always vaguely disapproving of he and Fred, she never laughed with them or at any of their ideas. Most of the time she'd simply rolled her eyes and flounced away. And, now that he looked, he had to admit that the year and a half since he'd last seen her properly had treated her kindly. She had grown a bit taller, stretching out the last of her childhood roundness to a slenderness that wasn't unattractive on her. Her hair had been tamed as well and she seemed to carry herself with the confidence all the honors she had received should have given her. And, yet, there was something else that had changed and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
George cleared his throat after the two of them stopped chuckling. "So. Meeting Harry and my git of a brother?" He had meant the question to be light, but he didn't miss the way Hermione's face darkened when he mentioned the two of them. Interesting, that was.
"Umm, no, I'm just looking for a little reading material." She seemed nervous and glanced around a few times. "Are they around here?"
"Actually, Ron definitely is. He's working at 3W today. I think, but I'm not sure, that Harry might be stopping by." George noticed that when he said that Hermione actually started a bit then regained her composure. He decided to try something. . . "Maybe you'd like to come visit? Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is looking lovely now that it's open. I don't think you've been to see us yet, have you? And you should. We could use someone to look over some of our new ideas."
"Ah, no. I don't think I quite have time, you see, my parents are expecting me back and I'm not sure I've remembered to feed Crookshanks and I've got to pack for Puddlemere and, George, it was really nice to see you and I wish I could stop by the store, but I must run, but you'll tell your mother I said hello, right?" He wasn't sure she'd breathed the whole time she'd said that and was shocked when, taking a breath, she reached out, touched his arm once and turned to leave. She had smiled but something in her eyes looked a bit distressed.
George started forward, as if to grab her arm, to stop her from running off so quickly, but she had disappeared into the other witches and wizards strolling along Diagon Alley that sunny day. He sighed, inexplicably, and started towards the store. It was definitely possible, no, probable from the way she'd run off, that his wanker of a younger brother had something to do with this. Maybe he'd ask a few questions, see if his younger sister knew anything about this. Perhaps, he'd have her stop by the store. She wouldn't come of her own free will but, he thought as he smiled his special Weasley-twin-up-to-something-bad-smile, maybe she'd stop by anyway. Looking resolute, he started off down the alley towards the store.
In the meantime, Hermione, having found her way to Flourish and Blotts was feeling confused. She hadn't meant to run like that. Hadn't she, just this morning, been talking about how she was going to get over what had happened with Harry and Ron? Ron worked here, she could hardly hope to avoid him. And what if Harry signed to Puddlemere? She couldn't spend her entire life avoiding them. Sighing, she ran her hands over the fronts of a shelf of books and, selecting a few, decided that she'd had quite enough of the wizarding world for today and after she'd paid, made her way back down to Dumbledore Park. She couldn't help but feel a little ashamed, though, for stopping the wonderful conversation she was having with, of all people, George Weasley. And, sighing once again, she realized that slinking down the alley wasn't exactly helping her pride either. Laughing mockingly at herself, she clutched her bag and Apparated, landing neatly in the backyard.
Looking lazily at her watch, she decided to go up to her room to read for a while. She'd gotten two of the Potions journals she didn't subscribe to and a copy of Boom!: Just What Makes Good Potions Go Bad? to read this afternoon. She remembered plans to go out to dinner with her parents being made, but now she wasn't quite so sure she would be good company.
Entering her room, the same one she'd had since she was a child, Hermione felt a sense of calm come over her. The room was exactly the way she wanted it thanks to her parents, who had filled it with lovely things in an attempt to lure Hermione home for holidays. One side of the room was floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with various texts she'd collected over the years. In front of the bookshelf there was a chaise lounge, draped with a yellow quilt Hermione's grandmother had given her. One wall had a large window, complete with window seat, which had a desk to the left of it. Her desk was almost impossibly neat and entirely unremarkable, except for a large inkstand, complete with a large quill, and a roll of parchment on something that looked like a paper towel hanger. Those looked largely unused, but there was a notebook lying underneath her laptop and an assortment of pens in a mug from her parents' practice. The rest of her room was taken up with her four-poster bed, which her parents had bought after she'd come home raving about how lovely the beds at Hogwarts were, and her dresser. Two other doors were in her bedroom, one leading to the little bathroom that was off of her room and one into her closet. The walls were crème colored and most of the furnishings were slightly darker wood. Looking at these reassuring surroundings, Hermione settled into the chaise, a book in one hand, the other absently petting Crookshanks.
She stayed that way for about an hour until her reading was disturbed by an odd tapping noise. To be honest, she had actually succumbed to the summer sunshine and started to daydream a little and the tap-tap-tap had startled her so badly, she dropped her book. She was actually kind of glad she had been disrupted, the thoughts about actually going to see George were a bit much. The entirely time she'd known him, he'd been trouble. Fun trouble during the summers, but he had little respect for authority and didn't study nearly as much as he should have. He would've been a great student if he had only focused. But the tapping was still going on, reminding Hermione what had dragged her out of her reverie in the first place. It was an owl, she could tell that much, but it was unfamiliar. Most of the owls her friends used tapped in a certain rhythm and this one was different. Perhaps it was the owl from Unicorn Horns and Boomslang Skins with the last of the potions ingredients she had ordered. Excellent, she thought as she went to the window.
Only to promptly stop in wonder. The owl was no ordinary owl. It was roughly the size of Hedwig, but that's where all similarities stopped. This owl was rainbow striped. Rainbows! Like a piece of candy or a stuffed toy her father had won her at a carnival years ago. Remembering it was here to deliver something to her, she opened the window and let it in. It sailed gently around her head three times, raining a glittery substance on her room and person. Hermione didn't quite know what to think. Should she be angry? Was it dropping something dangerous in her room? Since she didn't have any experiments out that could be ruined, she decided not to be too worried and casually investigated the sparkling substance, only to discover it was, in fact, harmless pink glitter. By this time, the owl was perching on her desk, holding one leg out proudly and hooting a little. Hermione laughed a little and gave it a friendly ruffle of the feathers as she unattached the parchment it was bearing on its leg.
"You certainly are something else, aren't you?" She smiled at the creature and gave it a few owl treats she kept in her desk for the purpose. Hermione had always been fond of wizarding owls. They were such smart creatures. Though you'd never tell from the way this one was carrying on, hooting proudly and hopping about. "Who are you from, silly owl?" And she unrolled the letter she had just received. Unfortunately, as she unrolled it, more of the glitter escaped, covering an even larger area of her room in sparkles. A small rectangular box also fell out. She looked at the mess disparagingly for a moment, decided a quick spell when she was done would take care of it and started to read.
Oi, Hermione!
After seeing you looking so blue today, I decided to try to see if another color would suit you. Of course, maybe blue would work better. You looked brilliant in your blue dress today. Scientific experimentation needs to be done here, I believe. Feel free to enclose a picture of you in the pink glitter.
(Here, Hermione almost dropped the letter in shock. Was George Weasley actually flirting with her?)
I hope you enjoyed the first test of the Cloud Parchment (Rains Down Glitter, Every Time!) and said hello to Gratiano. Make sure you tell him how pretty he is, he's awfully vain. I've also enclosed something else. And, remember, I told you you should come visit.
Forge
P.S. The glitter won't go away with a spell, but will disappear sometime. We're not quite sure how long it takes, though, so let us know.
Merlin. This mess was going to be in her room for who knows how long and it was entirely George Weasley's fault. And it was pink, of all colors. Pink!
George,
This glitter is making a horrible mess so if any pictures will be forthcoming, they will certainly be of my sparkling nightmare of a bedroom. Incidentally, I'm not the least bit fond of pink, so next time you decide to use me as a guinea pig, do have the courtesy to ask. My mother will be most unhappy, I believe.
Gratiano is your owl's name? I wasn't aware you'd read Shakespeare. He's a lovely owl and I think his coloring is just perfect for his place of employment. Which, by the way, I will visit as soon as my schedule permits.
Thank you for your thoughts, George, and I really do hope to see you again soon.
Hermione Granger
P.S. Cover yourself in glitter and find out how long it takes.
She laughed a little as she attached the parchment to the waiting owl and, with another pat on the head, sent it off into the afternoon sky. George was really a nice sort, she mused, for all his mischief making. Attractive, too, now that she was old enough to appreciate it and free of other ties, imaginary or otherwise. He was tall and had the striking Weasley red hair and deep brown eyes. He was also intelligent than she'd originally suspected, apparently. She'd known that he and Fred were smart enough to run a business and clever enough to invent their own products, but she hadn't been aware that either one of them had read The Merchant of Venice, as their owl proved. In fact, George wasn't a bad sort and it was a shame she hadn't noticed before. She pulled a face at that last part. Who knew how much she'd missed out on because of her ridiculous feelings for that silly boy, Harry? Determined to put that out of her thoughts, she opened the small rectangular box and discovered a tiny lapel pin in the shape of a quill. It was blue colored and rather attractive looking. Glancing down at her sundress, she decided that it would look lovely for her dinner with her parents. She pinned it on her dress and reached up a hand to adjust it.
And was shocked when she felt the familiar terror of being sucked away by Portkey. Even more shocking, was the fuss when she landed. She was on her bottom, on a wooden surface in a room somewhere, facing a wall of filing cabinets. The first thing she became aware of was the popping of Filibuster Fireworks directly over her head. The second were the faces of George and Fred Weasley to either side of her.
"George, it worked. We're brilliant. We're going to make a million Galleons off of these." Fred was doing a little dance, completely oblivious to the shifts in Hermione's facial muscles.
"I believe you're right, brother mine." George was also thrilled, but had the grace to look a little abashed.
Deep breaths, Hermione told herself, deep breaths. She was going to be calm and rational and relaxed and CALM. She was going to stay serene and not get angry or upset. Honestly, she mused, she should've known better. Calm, she repeated to herself. She was going to stay calm. She was going to act like they had invited her for tea. Yes. That was what she was going to do. She sat up and took another deep breath and another one and then decided that calm was a long way away from how she felt.
"WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" She had realized she was upset and that she had every right to be, but even she was a little surprised by her shrieking. So much for calm, teatime thoughts. On the other hand, these were the Weasley twins and they had just swept her away from her comfortable bedroom, which one of them had just covered in awful pink glitter. Right then, she decided - shrieking was, in fact, in order. "HOW DARE YOU REMOVE ME FROM MY BEDROOM LIKE THAT?!?"
She would've gone on, but Fred started laughing. Laughed at her distress. The very indignity of it was enough to stop her in her tracks. Well, she fumed, we'll see about this, and pulled her wand out of the ankle strap she had started using towards the end of the war. She adjusted her hand on the grip and was slightly mollified when Fred looked distinctly nervous. "Come on, George. Let's get ickle Ronniekins. I'll watch the store and you can bring him back here to say hello and explain the product to our dear 'Mione." The brothers left the room, George sparing a backwards glance at the girl on the desk and leaving the door open a bit. Right. Stiff upper lip. She was going to stay calm and, oh, god, hadn't George told her earlier that Harry might be around? She didn't want to see him. And she wasn't going to just disappear, either. Pushing the door open she met Ron, George and, yes, Harry, in the hallway leading to the office.
"George. I believe I may have mentioned that my parents were expecting me. We were going out to dinner and I must get back. As much as I would enjoy this reunion," she looked at Harry and Ron, "I'm afraid it will have to wait." And, with that, she tipped her chin up and Apparated away. Ron, Harry and George looked at the spot she had been. Ron and George were a little surprised and Harry looked a bit guilty.
"Right then. I'll go after her. Explain that we were just playing, calm her down a bit." Ron and Harry looked shocked and Ron started to speak.
"Blimey, George, she'll get ov. . ." He never got to finish the statement. George, with a concerned look on her face, had Apparated away. Ron looked at Harry, who surely looked just as surprised. "Harry. What's he going and doing now? It's just Hermione."
`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`8`
**Author note**
I love love love you for reading this and next chapter, stuff starts happening. Word.