A/N: Hermione isn't going to be dating any of the characters in here, as this isn't meant to be a romance (at least not at this point, for sure), so nobody has reason to be getting all pissy because you think I switched it to a Hermione/whomever fic. Just to let you know.
Sunday morning dawned clear and bright, and Hermione woke with it. The pink-grey sky seemed rather welcoming, even from her rather uncomfortable position on the floor. She had very little recollection of how she'd spent Saturday, really, aside from being quite certain she'd scrubbed the garage clean, as well as her room, before the pain potion had worn off entirely and she'd curled up into a rather miserable ball on her dark-colored bedroom rug. She must've slept after that, because the next thing she heard was footsteps on the stairwell, and the door to her room creaking open.
She didn't dare move a muscle, as it was far too late to try and look productive, so she pretended to still be asleep. It was her mother, and she must've been in one of her better moods, because only silence reigned for a few moments, before the woman sighed, and simply spoke. Hermione gave no indication whatsoever that she was awake, but it didn't matter; the silent rules governed situations like this, as well.
"I told your father not to be so harsh with you, yesterday. Oh, you no doubt deserved a punishment, but you and I both know you'd have done quite well without the excesses he went to. You're a bright girl, Hermione, and we just want to see you do well. I'm sure you simply put off studying too late, as always, distracted by the fun environment of your school. A little more discipline is all you need, now that you realize what success will require."
The "sleeping" girl didn't as much as twitch. Her mother was in one of her "doting parent" moods, pretending that she had no real part in her daughter's punishment, and Hermione wasn't about to do anything that might spoil it. Waking, or, rather, allowing the false half-illusion of sleep to fall from the one-sided conversation, would change the mood in an instant.
"This summer should be good for you, give you a chance to learn about the real world, to realize we won't be there to look after you for all of your life. At some point, you have to become a contributing member of society, you know; all we're trying to do is raise you to be a good one. And you have to do well academically, Hermione, or they'll never accept your odd personality. If you really make something of yourself, though… then some of your grosser faults will be looked over as eccentricities."
Hermione didn't twitch, keeping her breathing even, trying not to hear what was being said, and failing all the same. She kept her face blank, her expression as even as her heartbeat was not, steeling herself against the little barbs, but feeling them fully in some deep, dark place in her soul. They made a home, there, hidden with all the other things like them, making her feel so much less than human, so very far from "normal". Often, conversations like these were intended to make her break. But this time, she couldn't afford it. Too much hung in the balance.
"I know you're awake."
Hermione knew far better than to respond.
The silence stretched on for a full minute,and then another. Her mother sighed, deep and mournful and heavy-burdened, as though all the pain in the world were less terrible than to have such a daughter as she.
Finally, the elder Granger spoke again. "If you must." Then paused for a few more moments.
"Your work will begin on Monday, as you know. You've tomorrow off entirely, as I thought it might be a nice treat. It would be nice if you had some nice, normal friends you could visit" – another sigh – "but it's alright. I thought it would give you the opportunity to pick up some study-guides for the exams. I'm sure you've enough money left from term-time to cover the cost." The clack of shoes on hardwood indicated she was leaving, and the creak of the door affirmed that impression.
There was a pause, and she added. "Come straight to the front door, when you finish; I'll be checking everything you purchase. No fiction, and nothing off-topic. You can get school-year sorts of texts if you must, there will be lists by year at the bookstore, but be discrete."
The door closed, the steps receded down the stairs, and Hermione counted to two hundred before cautiously opening one eye to look at her clocks. The muggle one read six PM, and the Wizarding one read "time to plan". Taking the advice of her favorite inanimate object, she popped open the trunk, chugged a pain-potion, and tugged a spiral-bound notebook from underneath the neat stacks of wizarding textbooks.
First, she needed a plan.
And then she'd need a list.
She'd stayed awake long enough to make both, and prepare everything she needed for today. She planned to leave a note for her parents, telling them she'd left so early because she had to change the money from school-term. Though she didn't specifically say it, the ambiguous note meant that she was heading to Diagon Alley, to Gringotts', and implied that she'd be gone all day. It was, after all, a long and rather bothersome bus-ride to the wizarding district, and she'd neglected to mention the existence of the Knight Bus. As her parents "knew" she didn't have any access to any other form of wizarding travel, like the floo, they would assume she'd be gone all day. She should have enough time to complete her shopping, get the study guides, and return home before they even had the chance to suspect something.
She dressed quickly in the things she'd laid out the night before; the only thing at all odd about her garments was that it was mid-summer, and she'd chosen slacks and a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse. She'd picked through her clothes until she found something that at least appeared summery, and thought she'd done well-enough that no one would comment. The hair she still wore curly during the school year provided more than enough of a disguise; by use of a potion it was sleeked back, and it was unlikely anyone would recognize her. Refusing to waste any more time on her appearance, she tugged her hair into a braid, grabbed her knapsack, and began the cautious-but-hurried process of getting down the steps, through the garage, and out the side-door.
She didn't meet anyone on the way, not even the gardener. She didn't dare hail the bus near the house, not even near the houses of anyone they knew, so she set off quickly towards the muggle bus-station. Just to be sure, she'd take the muggle bus into some muggle area poor enough to be devoid of her parents' friends, which, while she'd wait until the third, would be any stop past the first. They were snobs, certainly; had they been magical, her parents would surely be pure-blooded bigots, most likely best friends with the Malfoys and their ilk.
She muffled the soft half-growl that threatened to form, thinking of her enemies. Though, just now, she wasn't so very certain they were wrong about muggles; at the very least, she wouldn't be upset if some of them decided to kill off the remnant of her muggle heritage in a Death Eater raid. Though, honestly, they couldn't be right about the rest of that rot; if magic depended upon breeding, then she couldn't have possibly been born with any. Were it genetic, she would've had to have had wizard or witch somewhere in her family tree. That, or it meant that everyone carried the gene for using magic, even if it wasn't always active, which would suggest they were all descended from a common ancestor at some point, which would once more void the whole pure-blood theory. Putting a stop to her rather circular and useless argument, she focused instead on walking a touch faster, grateful that the pain potion could cover the misery she would otherwise be in. She didn't have anything to cover the drain on her usual energy, though; she desperately needed such potions, but that was what the trip was for. Determined, she quickly traversed the last two blocks before the bus stop.
Just as she reached the stop, a bus turned the corner and pulled up. Pleased with the good timing, she boarded quickly. A quick glance to verify that the bus was the one she should have taken (if she didn't have a magical means of travel), just incase anyone was watching, paid, and settled herself in a seat towards the middle. She wasn't quite home free yet, and wouldn't allow herself to really relax until she returned home in the evening, but it was a good start.
Well, honestly, she wouldn't allow herself to relax fully until the moment of her first class of her sixth year, until she was absolutely certain that they couldn't just up and decide to remove her from the wizarding world. On the other hand, today was the best break she would have until that time, and she really ought to enjoy it, at least somewhat. It was also likely to be the last few minutes she would spend in the wizarding world until after the Fu… Hermione's mind froze. School-year Hermione was refusing to let less-overprotected-and-rule-abiding-Hermione swear. She nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but quickly settled herself, keeping her expression neutral, and her mind focused on getting off at the right stop.
It was only a few minutes' ride, really. The neighborhood she stopped in was tidy and middle-class, but there was very little chance anyone her parents knew would be around to see her leaving the bus early. She got off the bus and headed about a block over, to where she knew there was a small park. Hermione took some time; just because none of her parents' friends were here, didn't mean she wouldn't arouse suspicion if she walked purposefully into the slight bit of trees and trails surrounding the park. Someone would be bound to wonder where she was going in such a hurry. Breathing deeply, inhaling the soothing scent of trees and fresh-cut grass, she let go of everything that was bothering her. She truly enjoyed the walk, strolling leisurely towards a woodchip-floored trail, occasionally sporting a half-smile as she observed the antics of the children-at-play. Only a few dozen steps down, and the trail disappeared into the trees. Quite suddenly, Hermione was all business again. She looked carefully, but no-one was about. She could still hear the children on the playground, but, checking once more, thought herself quite safe enough; she hailed the Knight Bus.
She hadn't thought of everything, after all, as she realized when a boy, perhaps five years older than herself, stepped out and did a double-take, asking. "Well, now, what's this? Why didn't you just apparate?"
Not really wanting to reveal her age or name, she answered vaguely, "It would be rather more dangerous, wouldn't it?"
He stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Don't go telling me those old fuddy-duddies at the Apparation License Bureau convinced you of that all that rot about splinching half the time?"
Not wanting to single herself out any more than she already had, she allowed some of her exhaustion to show on her face. "No, no; I just think I'm too tired to try it, really."
At that, he smiled at her sympathetically, offered his hand to help her in, and asked her where she was headed.
The ride was even quicker than the previous one, though rather more expensive. In the wizarding world, most objects could be conjured or transfigured, so it was no wonder that most wizards made a living from services rather than goods (though charmed or otherwise magical goods were a different story, and it was considered poor taste to wear transfigured clothing). This also, however, served to drive up the prices of those services. It worked well for all of wizard-kind, and they didn't see it as expensive, but it worked poorly for anyone who had to exchange from a muggle economy; who, after all, thought it reasonable to pay an equivalent of three or so, just to ride a bus?
And yet, before she could begin to seriously debate the advantages and disadvantages to one society over the other, or the ever-increasing similarities between technology and magic, the Knight Bus was stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione found herself staring at the empty space where the wizarding pub ought to be. As always, it took the age-old muggle-repelling charms a moment to let her see the building, as they'd originally been keyed to keep out muggle-borns, as well. She sighed at the reminder, yet again, that she didn't fully belong in this society; not any more, as her parents made quite certain she knew, than she belonged in the society to which she was born. Neither reminder had been necessary for years, she was quite aware that she was an outcast, and that her sort of odd didn't become any less so just by changing worlds.
Even as she resisted the nagging impression - that she ought to look away, look past, and disregard what she was seeing - that was left by the wards, the hidden building melded into visibility before her. Hiking her pack up on her shoulder, she crossed into the building, trying to remain casual and inconspicuous. She went straight to the pubs' bathroom, tugging the long, dark, ambiguous black cloak over her shoulders, though leaving the hood down. It was charmed to adjust to temperature - in this case it would keep her cool - as would be the cloaks of anyone else wandering the alley, and she would draw far less attention if she didn't appear to be wearing muggle clothes.
Her pack now nearly empty, only containing her remaining wizarding funds and a small notepad, she folded it up into one of its own pockets – an ingenious design, really, for a society devoid of magic – and tucked it into a pocket in her slacks, along with the notepad. Clipping the pouch full of wizarding money to her belt, she settled the cloak around herself, and stepped out of the stall to check her appearance. She'd worn a pair of muggle platform boots to give herself the illusion of height, but the cloak –one she'd bought for dress use – was already sized for high heels, and covered them fully. She applied a touch of a magical makeup, adjusted the clasp a touch, and smiled with satisfaction at the results. The mirror reflected almost exactly the image she'd intended; straight-haired, average-heighted, and covered in cloak, she looked several years older, very little like herself, and not the least bit muggle.
Several hours later, Hermione was wandering the back halls of Flourish and Blotts, feeling rather accomplished in her work. She'd begun with a very long list of things to do, and all that was left was to check out, drop by Blyders' to purchase her muggle texts, and return home. Pain potions in quantity had kept her injuries from paining her, and a few energy potions had meant she even felt rather normal. Gold from a vault Harry had set aside for her, identical to one that awaited Ron (but that Ron wouldn't know about until the need arose), had padded her pockets, and provided for all of her expenses. A tidy little charmed bag, which appeared to all muggles as being rather worn and quite empty (unless items were placed into the "normal" compartment of the bag), contained, in actuality, three additional magical compartments each the full size of the bag (though no larger, the expansion charm would've cost too much). Two of the magical compartments of the bag were fairly well filled with wizarding clothes, potions supplies, writing materials, and a rather large amount of muggle cash. One whole compartment was left for the texts she intended to purchase, but she wasn't entirely certain they would fit. The "normal" compartment was reserved for her muggle supplies, for the things her mother would see.
A large notice board that she'd never paid a great deal of attention to caught her eye; something, for once, managing to distract her from the written word. Situated beside a door, left open, that appeared to lead to an office, was a rather large board, plastered with a colorful myriad of notices. One of these, wedged between a clipping of this weeks' horoscopes and a notice for a doxie removal service, proclaimed an incredible, unbelievable offer. She blinked, then forcefully closed her eyes before re-opening them; it was still there. An odd sideways glance informed her of her horoscope, "The fates have taken mercy on you, and your fortune changes for the better.", and Hermione felt as though she must have stepped into an alternate reality. But still, it was only a simple thing, and perhaps it meant nothing at all. And yet - it was an offer for a job, and one that she felt not only fit her perfectly, but that she was more than qualified for.
Oh, she'd hoped to find a job this summer, but she'd hardly thought something so perfect would fall right into her lap. A half-blood was beginning a scientific journal, intended to detail research regarding mixes of muggle technology and magic. Considering his topic, he wanted all of the articles submitted to be kept in digitized form, but hadn't ever learned to type. Basically, he wanted a data-entry clerk, to work in his or her own office or system, to be paid on a per-article basis. Tearing the note from the board, she tucked into her bag, before making her way to the front and paying for her purchases. She had to restrain herself from displaying her excitement; running pell-mell through the wizarding district in pursuit of a pay-phone would do little to keep up her disguise.
Instead, she casually strolled the remaining length of the alley, finally disappearing back through the brick wall-gate, and into the pub. Once more in the bathroom, and after checking to ensure no-one else was present, she shucked her disguise in favor of a muggle one. If she intended to take on this job, there were a few supplies she needed yet, one of which she'd intended to purchase anyhow – a muggle cellular. Until she knew if she had the job, that'd be all she'd get. Heading out into muggle London, she scanned the street. A handful of buildings down, and she spotted what she needed.
Making sparing use of her cash, she obtained the lowest-end, cheapest, most featureless phone she could, as all she needed was a working method of communication. A handful of minutes-cards were added to the purchase, along with a soda (she doubted she'd see anything like one for rather a while, and there was a certain pleasure in defying her parents' no-sweets rule). Plopping herself onto a bench beside the noisy street didn't seem like a good idea, but she didn't really want to go too far, and the traffic noise might keep her from being overheard. On the other hand, there wasn't really anything magic-related likely to be spoken in this particular discussion, and she did want to sound professional.
Ducking into a rather cozy looking coffee house, which was nearly devoid of customers at this time of day, she ordered an iced drink and settled herself into a chair near the front windows. She tugged the paper from the bottom of her bag, smoothed it, and took a deep breath. As she dialed the number, her fingers half-shook at the possibilities this could open up. Hearing someone pick up, she sat up straighter, almost as though to impress her invisible interviewer.
"Professor Richle's office, how can I help you?" a feminine voice spoke.
Forcibly steadying her hands, and with them her voice, Hermione answered. "Good afternoon. I'm calling in response to an add, the one placed at –"
"Very good." the voice interrupted. "I'll get him for you."
Slightly miffed at the abrupt tone, but realizing more than likely that the receptionist was afraid muggles might hear, Hermione waited. She was somewhat surprised to hear echoing footsteps, and the muffled half-sounds of a distant conversation, but assumed the girl just hadn't bothered to put her on hold. Shortly, another voice answered.
"This is Dr. Richle." The voice was certainly male, and, while rather deep, sounded younger than she expected.
"My name is He-" she paused for the barest instant, but there was nothing for it, she'd have to give her real name. "Hermione Granger. I'm interested in applying for the position mentioned in your add."
"Ahhh. Tell me, how were you born?" To a true muggle, it would simply seem an odd question, but it was a common one in the wizarding world, when attempting to converse where muggles might hear.
"Gifted, but to those who were not." She replied, after a moment.
"Good, good. You type, then?"
"Quite well, sir." Hermione considered adding a words-per-minute, but rather thought it might confuse the man, as well as being unnecessary in a job where she wouldn't be paid by the hour.
"Good. I've not had any other responses as yet, so you have the job, at least for now. We'll do this on a trial run. I'll send you the first article, and I want it sent back on a computer disc; a floppy, not a CD – we haven't convinced CD's to work near magic yet."
"And pay, sir?"
"My, did I forget to mention it? Yes, pay… I'll pay seven galleons for the first article, and if all works out, ten for every article after that."
Hermione had to bite her lower lip to keep from gasping. That was certainly a lot of money for typing up a single article.
He seemed to interpret her silence wrongly, for he asked. "Is that an unfair payment? I know the calligraphers charge a great deal more, but I'd heard that typing was faster and far simpler once learned."
"No, no, it's quite fair, sir. I would be pleased to take on the work, then."
"Good, good!" He proclaimed. "And none of this 'sir' business – you must call me Edwin."
Something was severely bothering Hermione, however. "Certainly, s… Edwin. But I do have to ask – why not have your receptionist type it for you?"
A roaring, but not unpleasant, laugh met her ears. "Get Val to do it? Lord, do you have any idea how long it took to train her to answer the telly? She kept trying to tell the telephone whom she wanted to dial, instead of putting in the number, and complaining that no-one could possibly transport her voice if her head didn't travel with it."
Hermione shared the man's laughter, though rather more quietly. Wizards could be rather amusing when confronted with technology, after all.
"Ah, thanks for the laugh." Edwin continued, more calmly. "Now, where would you like the manuscript sent?"
Hermione had known this might come, and, considering, wished she'd made the stop first. "I'm going to take out a postal box for it, but I haven't acquired one yet. Is it alright if I call back with the address?"
"Fine idea, having a box for this, not making the muggles hunt for a wizarding home. Might make use of that, myself. Yes, certainly; just leave the message with Val, I've a lecture soon and won't be in. Is there a number I can reach you at?"
With the explanation that she had a mobile and was often "out of range", Hermione gave him the number and reassured him that she would reply to any messages he left in her voicemail. With a final thanks, she ended the conversation.
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, she flagged down a server. As the double-chocolate cake topped with coffe-flavored ice cream was placed before her, she truly smiled for the first time since she'd arrived home. Pain and torment securely locked in a far-removed section of her brain, she dug her fork through the sugary mess that might have been a dentists' worst nightmare. She savored it, each bite another defiant strike against her parents. On the whole, it was a thorough beating, and one she relished.