Disclaimer: Not mine.

Three

1st September 1944

Hermione liked Dumbledore's house; it had character which reflected its owner perfectly. The halls were shadowy and dusty, but the living room was full of books and magical gadgets that sparkled and beeped, warm and cozy and cramped. It reminded her of his future office at Hogwarts greatly. Her guestroom was in Gryffindor colors and the kitchen strongly resembled Molly's kitchen at the Burrow. All in all, Dumbledore's house from the inside was a very homey place.

However, there was one thing Hermione disliked about the year 1944 immensely; the cold. Dumbledore told her that it was the coldest year he could remember, and then he spent half an hour putting warming charms on her school uniforms promptly ignoring her loud vocal protests.

Thinking about it, Dumbledore had been very enthusiastic about helping her, and had even managed to be polite and amusing during their trip to Diagon alley the previous afternoon. There had been looks, though, and offensive mutterings at his address from random strangers which had confused the witch.

Hermione had to confess that the expression Dumbledore had adopted when he had heard them had been murderous and had chilled her to the bone. No wonder that Voldemort had feared him for so long, it was quite easy to be afraid of the man; she had been able to feel his magic swirling around them violently and in that moment, she had felt fear – pure, paralyzing fear. Younger Dumbledore was a quick-tempered man and Hermione had begun to wonder why he was so disliked by general public.

She gave up after remembering that face and just watched him sort through her cloaks and jumpers. "Sir, you don't have to do that. I could manage on my own."

"I have no doubts about that, Miss Dumbledore, but indulge an old man." He smiled and continued with his work. "You will discover that this age differs from yours. Women, especially beautiful women, are treated as the treasures they are."

She laughed lightly and shook her head while Dumbledore grinned broadly. He was far from old, a wizard still in his prime, and without that beard of his, it was easier to see his smiles. There was a large variety of them; mischievous, sad, wary, downright amused…

"I am not joking, Missy!" He said sternly, his eyes twinkling. After a moment of hesitation, he continued soberly. "Hogwarts is an elitist school and the boys attending it were brought up with very traditional beliefs. I am perfectly aware of your ability cast a warming charm on your clothes, and that you can open the door for yourself, or that you won't fall down the stairs. They all know it, too, but it doesn't change the fact that we will cast it for you, we will open the door for you, and you will always, always precede us on the staircases."

He closed the trunk and looked at her. "Don't look so shocked, my dear! Are you meaning to tell me that such common courtesy completely disappeared in your time?"

"It's hard to find, Professor." Hermione shrugged and checked the time, mulling over his words. Courtesy hadn't disappeared, of course, but she couldn't remember the last time someone opened the door for her like that. Then she laughed again – it was not true, the last person who had opened the door for her in her time had been Dumbledore himself.

"We have to go, sir." She sighed softly clearly unhappy about the situation.

"Yes, of course." Dumbledore shrunk her trunk and put it in his pocket, and then he summoned their cloaks and offered her his hand. "May I?"

Hermione inwardly grinned at his formality and took a step closer to him, taking his hand. As a seventh year, she wasn't supposed to Apparate on her own yet – she pretended to be barely seventeen and therefore she didn't have her license yet. He winked, and they were on their way.

A side-long with Dumbledore was surprisingly comfortable, and he held her upright after she stumbled on the platform 93/4. He didn't even snigger as Harry usually did when she lost her footing – which she barely did, but it happened on occasion when she was preoccupied by this or that.

"Thank you, Professor!" She stepped away quickly, shuddering in the cold morning air. Dumbledore nodded briefly at her and looked around, keeping track of those who noticed them; it was quite a number of nosy people.

"Here," Dumbledore wrapped her cloak around her and smoothed it down her shoulders, still discreetly glancing around them. "We'll talk later. Now, my dear, go and meet your new schoolmates."

With that, Dumbledore pressed her trunk into her palm and with another wink, disappeared without a sound. Hermione blinked a few times and shook her head – trust Dumbledore to master a silent Apparition. Then she noticed that two students in Gryffindor robes were watching from the train with wide eyes.

After a second, she realized that she knew them and with an uncertain smile she waved. The boy, tall and blond and shockingly handsome, opened the window and smiled, "Hello there! I haven't seen you before. A new student?"

"Was that professor Dumbledore?" The girl, proud and keen and very Scottish, nodded towards the place where Dumbledore had stood. "Do you know him? And for Merlin's sake, what happened to his beard and hair?"

"Obviously, Minnie, he just blew up his lab again! Are you related or something? Cause Dumbledore is our Head of House." The boy grinned. "Oh, why don't you sit with us? I'm Alastor Moody and this snobby spitfire is Minerva McGonagall. Come on, hop on!"

Hermione glanced at McGonagall who raised an eyebrow at her as if asking whether or not there was a problem, then grinned wickedly and smacked Moody over his head. "Who is a snobby spitfire, you mongrel?"

Hermione suppressed the insane urge to laugh out loud. It hadn't occurred to her, but she was far from alone. Her old teachers were right in front of her and if she was going to be Dumbledore's friend, there was no reason why she shouldn't be theirs, too.

"I'm Hermione Dumbledore." She slipped into the seat next to McGonagall and shook hands with them. "Albus is my uncle."

"Uh, I didn't know that he had any siblings, let alone a niece hidden somewhere."

"Well." Hermione smiled shyly. "Uncle is a private man. It's a family trait…"

They spent the train ride chatting and Hermione cautiously steered the conversation to Moody's and McGonagall's families or school subjects. Alastor was unbelievably nosy while Minerva was respectful if only a little reserved, and she had to reprimand her friend a few times.

"Alastor! Leave the poor girl be or else! Can't you see that she is uncomfortable?"

McGonagall was unsurprisingly the Head Girl so Moody grumbled a little, but dropped the subject. It was obvious by the way they interacted with each other that they were the best of friends, even though their social standing differed greatly as far as Hermione could tell. Minerva was the only daughter of the House of McGonagall, an old Scottish pureblood family, not extremely wealthy but proud and respectable. Alastor came from a long line of Aurors, and most of them had died poor and miserable.

When they were nearing Hogwarts, it was Alastor who asked her the dreaded question, "So, any idea what House you'll be sorted into?"

"I would say Gryffindor, of course," McGonagall smiled. "According to my father, no Dumbledore was sorted elsewhere in the last four hundred years."

"Eh, I was sorted yesterday, actually." Hermione fell silent for a moment. "The hat said Slytherin."

"Oh." They both watched her with wide eyes but recovered quickly. "That's… unexpected."

"Uncle wasn't pleased." Hermione turned from them and looked out of the window. "Is it really that bad? Being a Slytherin?"

"I'd say!" Alastor clapped her shoulder. "They are real gits. I'm sorry, Hermione."

"Well, Slytherins are… rather peculiar, one could say."

"What's Minerva trying to say is that they are mostly dark. It's in their blood. Only Slytherins get sorted into Slytherin, for generations, and they all cling to those nonsense beliefs about blood purity and all."

"There is nothing wrong in keeping the traditions intact, Alastor." McGonagall said in a brittle tone.

"Traditions, yes. Prejudices, no." He looked at her challengingly.

Hermione tuned them out completely when they started bickering about McGonagall's family views; even predominantly light supporters as the McGonagalls or Longbottoms clung to beliefs of blood purity and traditions, and Moody, a son of a half-blood, had to disagree.

The fight ended with McGonagall storming out to 'check the prefects' and Moody gazing angrily out of the window. He glanced at Hermione after a minute.

"Huh, I'm sorry you had to witness that, it really wasn't about you being a Slytherin or anything. Minnie is stubborn and a McGonagall to boot. I asked her to marry me, but she is betrothed to some scrawny Rawenclaw boy since childhood, and she plans to marry him to honor her father's wishes." Alastor then looked at her kindly and shrugged his shoulder. "That's life, I suppose. Anyway, would you like to play chess with me?"

Hermione found herself nodding. She didn't know what else to say and she certainly didn't wish to think about two lonely and weary professors she knew in her own time. Neither of them had ever married as far as she knew.

Who else is shocked by Minnie and Alastor? I am :D My borrowed characters do as they wish, obviously...