A pair of white sneakers pounded the pavement in an even cadence in the night. Light gray jogging pants made a gentle swishing sound in between the beats. The maker of these sounds, however, was entirely oblivious; the music in her ears had little to do with the sounds of the night. The beat of shoes on pavement faltered as tiredness became too much. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to continue through the tiredness, drawing power from the song through herself. She opened her eyes again, focused once more on the path ahead. A perfect metaphor for my life she thought to herself, push yourself until you can go no further, draw strength from somewhere, and then take another step.
Though a jogger or two was a usual sight on this street, no one was out to see it at eleven at night. In wintertime, she liked to jog during the day. It gave her a chance to greet the neighbors, wave at other joggers, and generally provided enough distraction to make the headphones unnecessary. In the heat of the height of summer, however, there was nothing for it but to jog at night, and she never found the time until late.
Faithful as she was to her workout regime, such things weren't in her nature. By nature, she was bookish, quiet, and introverted. Sports were for watching, in her opinion, though her parents had forced her into half a dozen years of ballet lessons. That, alongside piano, voice, and art lessons, had taken up much of her "free time" as a child. All of that had changed, however, when she had turned eleven.
She remembered standing there, holding the envelope, staring at her name. Always raised to be practical, and to never believe the unbelievable, she had thought it a joke. A very good joke, too, as she had nearly thought, for a moment, that she possessed magical powers. Until the next day, when she'd come walking back from piano lessons to an important-looking car in the drive, and a pair of important-looking officials seated in the living room, talking with her parents. They'd sat her down, smiled at her, and told her the best news of her whole life: that the joke letter she'd gotten, wasn't. Wasn't a joke. Quite the opposite, in fact, it was wholly true.
That had been the beginning, of a very different, very exciting life, of a life where it seemed that anything could happen. Life in a world of magic was, no other word for it, magical. The most magical thing of all about the magical world, however, was the way that every story seemed to have a happy ending. In just the first year she had spent there, she'd made incredible friends and accomplished remarkable, impossible things. A few more years in that world had only increased her faith in the unbelievable.
A month ago, however, everything had changed. And now, what had never been obvious before, but was now painfully so, is that magic couldn't solve all of her problems. The problems in her life wouldn't go away, and there really might not be a happy ending. So it was that she had left that world, had broken off contact with it, and was, in the least, taking a break. She was far too practical to say, at this point, that she would never return. For now, she was simply taking the time to choose. After all, there were plenty of other things she could do. Why should she have to live through the misery and pain - that only an observer, learning of it in the comfort of a chair, in a warm room, with plenty to eat and drink - could call an adventure. No, better to live days one at a time, and enjoy them. And if she died for not acting, for not being the heroine, at least there would only be a few moments, or maybe hours, of misery.
Her increasingly dark line of thought was interrupted by the sight of home up ahead. One last burst of speed completed her run, leaving her panting from the sprint, but feeling better. The physical effort seemed to help a bit in clearing her head, if nothing else. She made herself walk towards the end of the block and back, finally sitting down on the front step. She closed her eyes, took of her headphones, and breathed in the night. She was very glad to sit still, just listening without looking, as she was certain that she couldn't move an inch more.
The oddest, faint noise of jingling metal met her ears. As she listened, it seemed to grow louder, until she decided she had to open her eyes, and see what it was. With a groan, she looked about, only to see a dog bounding towards her across the lawn. The picture of exuberance, a gray and white husky, blue eyes bright, was chasing in her direction. Tongue lolling, tags jingling, he trotted over. She figured he had likely followed her on her run, from one of the neighbors' yards or so, though she didn't recognize him. He stood a moment, watching her, and she figured she ought to at least find out who he belonged to, perhaps she'd return him. She looked at the dog quizzically, her head to one side, and he mimicked her gesture. She smiled, and said "sit". The dog promptly sat, and reached out his head a bit in the universal "pet me" expression of dogs. She obliged, letting him sniff her hand first, and then scratching behind his ears, as she checked his tags.
The red oval tag declaring the dogs' vaccinations was attached to his collar, but, oddly, this was the only tag. No tag proclaiming the owner, or an address, or a telephone number. That was foolish of his owners she thought to herself who wouldn't want a beauty like him? So well behaved, too, she smiled as he sat perfectly, obviously enjoying the attention. With a sigh and one last pat for the dog, however, she stood, turned, and climbed the rest of the steps to the door.
As she reached for the handle, however, bringing the key from the chain around her wrist, a hopelessly cute whine caught her attention. She turned to see the husky sitting behind her, puppy dog eyes pleading for food and comfort. Another pair of puppy dog eyes came to mind, a pair she wouldn't see again, a pair that was the reason she was... no, better not to think like that. This puppy, however, had caught at her heart, and as the choice was the lonely echoes of her house or keeping him (only until she found his owners, of course), she suddenly found there was no choice at all. Smiling, she turned back to the door, and beckoned her new friend in first.
Bounding in ahead of her, as though this had always been his home, the Husky immediately made the place seem more welcoming. The last few months had been lonely, to say the least. Just the presence of the dog made her too-neat ground floor flat seem more lived in. Five seconds in her house and he was already staring at the fridge. Just like Ron, she thought to herself, and then with a bit of a smirk, dog must be male. Although, she thought to herself, on second thought, he is a bit thin.
Fifteen more minutes found her perfectly clean white casserole dish half-filled with water, and her once-perfectly-washed and crumb-free kitchen floor splattered in water droplets, food particulate, and flecks of drool. It also found one of her favorite blue plates being liked clean of all the leftovers, odds and ends she could find in her fridge that she thought might appeal to a dog. Apparently, all of them did. He looked up at her as if to say any more? with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyed expression possible. Unbelievably, the white eyebrows in the mostly grey face seemed to add to the expression, making it not only nearly human, but nearly irresistible as well. Sadly, however, her fridge had nothing left to yield.
"I'm sorry, dog, but that's all I've got." She said, "I'll go grocery shopping tomorrow, though, and get you some dog food. It'll likely taste better to you than this lot did, anyways"
The dog seemed almost disappointed at her announcement, but the expression was fleeting, replaced by one of contentment as he flopped down at her feet. Or, to be more accurate, on her feet. She smiled to herself, thinking that she could hardly complain. Sitting here, with a dog on her feet, in a completely messed up kitchen, made her feel more human, more herself, than she had in months. She glanced up then, though, and the sight of a too-old, almost completely unrecognizable reflection met her, reminding her of her situation. Well maybe not myself precisely she thought, but definitely more human.
The dog gave a soft, contented sigh, bringing her out of her rather uncharacteristic introspective moment. Noticing the time, she knew she needed to get to bed. Her nice, perfectly ordinary job at the convenience store down the street started at 8 AM sharp; if she went to bed now, she'd be sleepy, even as it was. Truth to tell, she loved her job. She loved the perfectly ordinary routine of it. The neat shelves, the even change, candy, home electronics. Kids with CD players complaining that the store offered no good music to add to their collections. Even the bedraggled folks, trudging in from too many hours at work to buy single-dose packets of headache reliever and a bottle of some fizzy beverage they didn't even bother to check the name of.
A year had changed the whole world, for this girl. A year ago had found her on the doorstep of a friend, at a time appointed by a thirteen year old witch to a half-believing older brother-like cousin, neither of them knowing it would ever be used. A conversation held on the first day back from school in June of 1993, between Mark Danielson and Hermione Granger.
"So let me get this straight" said Mark. "You chase off to wizarding school again this year, where you discover your best friend is hunted by a notorious mass murderer. To pursue more classes than there are hours in the day, you receive a device that lets you live days twice... which you do, without trying to do the whole sleeping thing twice - which, by the way, is usually a requirement of functioning normally. During the year, you discover that one of your teachers turns into a raging monster once a month, and decide to like him anyway. So somehow or another, you make it through a year of this, get to nearly the end, and then end up in a massive tangled mess, which results in the breaking of numerous laws and rules, a reversal of time, and a mass change in the timelines which only doesn't solve everything there is to solve because you don't want to change the timelines."
"Er, yes, that is ... rather the gist of it" speaks Hermione, softly, staring at her hands. Realizing how odd and unbelievable this all sounds, hearing it put like that.
"So tell me, with all that you changed, why didn't you kill, or at least capture, that rat when you had the chance?"
Hermione looked up sharply at that "You mean you believe me?"she asked.
"Of course I believe you, Hermione. I'll always believe you. And, even if I don't understand your reasoning, I'll always be here for you. Which is why I agree to your request. If you ever need to come back, for whatever reason, I'll be here, I'll be waiting, I'll be ready, and I'll believe you."
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "One week from tomorrow then, at one o'clock PM. And you can't ever tell me about me if I do come, or else I might not come, or I might change something or run into myself or..." her sentence wandered off, as she realized she was rambling.
Mark cocked an eyebrow at her "I'll leave you to decipher that bit, I think. One week from tomorrow, I'll be waiting, with everything set up for future-you to use, if the need ever arises."
Exactly one week later, or a few years and three months later, depending on your perspective, Hermione rang the doorbell of Mark's house. And nineteen year old Mark met Twenty-two year old Hermione. To his credit, only a breif look of shock crossed his face before Mark chuckled and let Hermione in. Only twenty four hours later, Hermione had a small, neat, furnished ground-floor flat in a nice but completely inconspicuous muggle neighborhood. The whole venture was funded courtesy of one Harry Potter, who had decided that, since he was partly her reason for being here, he ought to at least send her off with a small withdrawl from his vault. Two weeks later, unable to stand the lack of activity, even if she could afford it, Hermione had found her inconspicuous muggle job. One within walking distance, to avoid the small problem of a car, and the far greater one of a liscense.
The mom-and-pop corner store only wanted to see that she was a decent sort, a hard worker, and came with good references; exactly as she had hoped. They took one look at her identification and didn't give it another thought. The folks issuing licenses, however, would be neither easily won over nor easily fooled. And discovering that the girl in front of them was really "Hermione Granger, 13" and not "Hannah Green, age 22" would only lead to a set of questions, and eventually a certain ministry's involvement, that she would rather avoid.
Mark had been her confidante ever since she could remember, and he remained so even now. She could talk with him about things she couldn't even discuss with Harry or Ron. He dropped by her flat, most weekends, to cheer her up, to take her out someplace fun. He called, too, sometimes. Just to check on her, or to joke with her; to tell her about the last letter the "other" her had written him, which often brought forth stories from third year. Most times, the stories were horribly funny in retrospect, even if they'd been just plain horrible when living through them. When she really needed to talk, though, about why she was really here, and what was going on, she couldn't tell him. It was the only thing she had to keep from him, and it was the thing she most needed to talk about.
Mark had understood, though. He had known without her even needing to say that she couldn't discuss her reason for returning. He had simply accepted it, and not questioned her further. Mark was just that sort of a man. He knew she needed to work things out, though, and had often (quite tactfully) suggested a dog or a cat as not only a companion, but a means of unloading. Feeling the comforting warmth of the dog at her feet, she realized that Mark was quite right.
"You could be just what I need, you know, dog" she told him "I do rather hope your owners don't catch up with you."
She paused, then added, guiltily "I will have to look, though. I know I'd miss you an awful lot if it was me you'd run off from." The dog looked up at her then, his intense blue eyes meeting her worried hazel ones, and seemed almost to smile, before laying his head back down.
A/N I'm going to post this now, before I re-write it any more. This story is going to be very long. Very, very long. I'm going to finish this story, I have it sorted out from beginning to end, I just have to write the words that go in between. I need a beta! Preferably one with better grammar skills than I have. Even better would be one with a great sense of humor, who would be happy to insert comedy, especially of the wry variety, which I love to read but cannot write.