((You'll forgive me a bit of creative license with the computer; I'm not
well up on my tech history.))
It was the oddest awakening Hermione had even experienced.
How did you wake up when you were dead?
But she didn't feel dead - ghosts didn't get cramps in their legs, did they? Did their cheeks get sore from being pressed against a hardwood floor?
And even if she were alive - why was she still lying here? Her past-parents had been seconds away from busting down the door; surely she'd been out longer than that. And the room was deathly quiet.
First step - gather more information, her mind prodded. Wincing, Hermione sat up, bracing her hands against the shiny floor. The first thing her gaze fell on was the corner where the rocking chair had stood; it was empty. Relief flooded her. Could it all have possibly been a bad dream?
But the cold floor under her palms refuted that - in the present, *her* present, this room was carpeted.
Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A computer - clunky by the standards she knew - was centered on a wooden desk. Stacks of paper surrounded the monitor. The screensaver was on - hesitating a moment, she poked the mouse with one finger.
The 'saver seemed to take forever to disengage; never had she appreciated her own laptop so. Finally, the screen groaned into view. The time blinked at the bottom-right corner, informing her than it was 3:47 AM. Very helpful. Shifting the mouse, she double-clicked on the tiny numbers. After another interminable wait, the date/time window popped up, and she stared with horrified eyes at the calendar.
June. 1976.
Now Hermione remembered; her bedroom had been used as her father's office before -
Bile rose in her throat. Before she was born. Which was worse? she wondered with traces of hysteria. To live in a time when you'd killed yourself...
Or to live having never existed?
It was the oddest awakening Hermione had even experienced.
How did you wake up when you were dead?
But she didn't feel dead - ghosts didn't get cramps in their legs, did they? Did their cheeks get sore from being pressed against a hardwood floor?
And even if she were alive - why was she still lying here? Her past-parents had been seconds away from busting down the door; surely she'd been out longer than that. And the room was deathly quiet.
First step - gather more information, her mind prodded. Wincing, Hermione sat up, bracing her hands against the shiny floor. The first thing her gaze fell on was the corner where the rocking chair had stood; it was empty. Relief flooded her. Could it all have possibly been a bad dream?
But the cold floor under her palms refuted that - in the present, *her* present, this room was carpeted.
Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A computer - clunky by the standards she knew - was centered on a wooden desk. Stacks of paper surrounded the monitor. The screensaver was on - hesitating a moment, she poked the mouse with one finger.
The 'saver seemed to take forever to disengage; never had she appreciated her own laptop so. Finally, the screen groaned into view. The time blinked at the bottom-right corner, informing her than it was 3:47 AM. Very helpful. Shifting the mouse, she double-clicked on the tiny numbers. After another interminable wait, the date/time window popped up, and she stared with horrified eyes at the calendar.
June. 1976.
Now Hermione remembered; her bedroom had been used as her father's office before -
Bile rose in her throat. Before she was born. Which was worse? she wondered with traces of hysteria. To live in a time when you'd killed yourself...
Or to live having never existed?
