"Malfoy is up to something. You know I'm right," Harry said seriously as they stood in the seventh floor corridor. Harry was still trying to break into the Room of Requirement, and Ron and Hermione were along- albeit reluctantly- as lookouts and consultants. At his continued insistence, they exchanged a look.
"Yes, but, Dumbledore has it under control, Harry." Hermione shook her head, her friend's stubbornness wearing her down.
"Yeah, mate, I don't reckon we should worry too much about it," Ron backed her up. "What's Malfoy going to do right under Dumbledore's nose?"
"Quirrell snuck Lord Voldemort in here right under Dumbledore's nose," Harry replied instantly. Hermione and Ron frowned, as if considering this for the first time. "I'm positive he's no good," the dark-haired boy pressed.
"All right then, Harry, we'll help. But first, get the memory out of Slughorn and then-"
"Miss Granger?" Hermione stopped talking, spinning as Ron's eyes grew wide. Professor McGonagall stood not twenty paces from them. The three exchanged furtive glances. None of the teachers had proven likely to help them in discovering what Malfoy was doing. They seemed to think that Snape and Dumbledore had it well contained, and if she had heard them discussing it, there was a displeased lecture in store for them.
But she was standing with a peculiar expression on her face, mouth drawn and sharp eyes over-bright in the well-lit corridor, gazing at Hermione and looking as if she were trying both not to smile and not to cry at the same time.
"Professor?" Hermione asked timidly as the silence stretched too long.
"Miss Granger…" McGonagall voice was soft and warm for an instant- then she cleared her throat and returned to the brisk, sharp tones she normally used, seeming to banish the brilliance of her eyes at the same time. "The Headmaster requests your presence in his office."
"Why?" Harry and Ron asked quickly, glancing between them.
Professor McGonagall pinned them with a look that told them clearly that it was hardly their business. "That, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, has nothing to do with you. Miss Granger may be free to tell you when she returns. Now- if you'll kindly come with me?" Hermione looked at the two boys, who gave her wide-eyed worry in return, and followed the professor wordlessly.
888
Outside the gargoyle leading to the office, Professor McGonagall stopped and touched Hermione's shoulder gently. Like the first moments in the corridor with Harry and Ron, in place of the professor's customary severity there was a compassion so similar to a mother's that Hermione swallowed hard. What was she about to hear? Panic seized her throat as she imagined the atrocities the Death Eaters might mete out on her parents if they discovered who she was and the place she occupied at Harry's side.
"Professor, my parents…?" she croaked, shuddering as the words passed her lips.
"No, Miss Granger, fear not for your family. They are safe," Professor McGonagall instantly hushed her. "But…no matter what happens, or when- remember that we would never send you into danger," her professor told her softly.
Hermione stared, her relief jolted out by the adrenaline that widened her eyes and hitched her breath. "Professor…?" and her voice warbled more than she would have liked.
But the sympathetic woman vanished as she pronounced the password and the gargoyle groggily shuffled aside. There were no more words- of comfort or warning, as the staircase rotated them to the top and the oak door that for the first time promised not safety, but hazard.
888
"Ah, Hermione," Dumbledore gave her his reassuring smile from the other side of his desk. It did little to warm her or dispel her fears. Tucked in a corner of the room stood Professor Snape, and he did not look up as the Headmaster greeted her. He appeared paler than usual from what she could see of the sallow jaw line and temple as he bent over a book.
She started forward at McGonagall's hand on her back, and stopped as Dumbledore lifted a warning finger. "Don't move any farther." She stopped, and noticed how he skirted the middle of the carpet himself, squeezing around to Professor Snape by pressing against the furniture.
"What-" she started to ask.
"Be still, Miss Granger," Snape hissed in a deadly voice, eyes still locked on his book. "Just for once, you should learn to curb your ever-flapping tongue."
Dumbledore, however, gave her a level look. "Time is rather short now, Hermione, and there is little of it for explanations. We are sending you…elsewhere, to learn something vital to the war. You will be perfectly safe." Snape barely contained a snort, knowing the glares he would receive- and the explanation he would have to tender if he expressed his disbelief. If only the Headmaster knew. 'Perfectly safe' was hardly the term he would use to describe Hermione's three and a half years at Hogwarts of his past.
You will be perfectly safe. Her trust in the Headmaster was absolute, and it shone in her dark eyes as she met his steady blue gaze. "What is it you wish me to learn, sir?" she asked softly, and there was no shakiness now. Snape felt his heart squirm at the quiet, accepting firmness of her voice. She did not flinch from the danger, or ask 'Why me?' or any other irrelevant nonsense…but, without question, consented to the task that could kill her, and would prepare her for a lifetime of pain.
To Hermione's surprise, Dumbledore hesitated at her question and then turned to Snape. "Severus?"
His head snapped up, his eyes blazing as he looked straight to her. Though Dumbledore had asked the question, he was answering her, and Hermione felt a burning intensity in their connection that she had never before experienced with anyone. "The clarinet. Listen for it. When you find that, seek the Echo."
"Clarinet? Echo?" she pressed. But his eyes shrouded as swiftly as they had blazed, the passionate intensity extinguished.
"Must I repeat myself, Miss Granger? If you are one of our most talented witches, you should have a better memory than that."
"Severus," Dumbledore quelled him, and the malevolent gaze returned to its reading. "Is that all we can say?"
"Too much information now will change the result, Headmaster," Snape countered, not looking up. "We learned together." At this last bit, all three heads locked on the Potion's Master, but no voice broke the tension flaring in the room. Long moments stretched- Hermione fumbling to find a question to ask, Dumbledore content to wait, and Snape's lips moving as he concentrated fiercely on his book.
"Where am I going?" Hermione finally burst, question directed to the Headmaster, though she continued to look at Snape as if she had never seen him before.
Dumbledore looked at her with a distant, almost wistful smile, "Somewhere very familiar to you, my dear."
Scarce had the last syllable left his lips when Snape murmured: "The rift is completely open, sir. She can go." His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.
"In a moment, Hermione, I will ask you to step into the middle of my office." Hermione pulled her eyes from her professor to give the open space a glare. Whatever magic had formed there, it was invisible, but powerful. She could feel it like a gash in the air, curtains blown open for a stiff foreign breeze to enter the otherwise comfortable office. "When you…arrive…at your destination, tell me that you were sent, and that you are there to learn."
"Tell you…?"
"Yes. It will be made clearer to you when you get there-"
"Headmaster- she must go now!" Snape called, feeling his throat close around the words as they left his mouth. The magic was reaching a crackling intensity, and, as though drapes fluttered open, Hermione glimpsed a picture of a corridor through the gap, overlaid on the plush rug of the office.
"The rift is unstable and will soon close. Now- into the middle, Hermione!" The blue eyes that she looked to for reassurance were a war of desperation and confidence.
"Good luck, and be careful Miss Granger!" McGonagall bade her, fear dominant in the eyes of Gryffindor's Head of House.
Important to the war effort. They needed her to go. Dumbledore had promised her safety. No more time for caution or questions. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into a hole that she could not see, only feel-
-Hermione felt something strange pass over her, like ice, then warm, then becoming unbearably hot-
-and she was jerked forward, losing her balance, and she would have stumbled, except that one cannot stumble in a place that has no solid floor. Panic threatened to overwhelm her-
-and she was out, reeling, reaching for the support of the nearest bookcase before her vision cleared and she could take in her surroundings.
She was still standing in the Headmaster's office, but Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Snape were gone. The room was empty.
Uncertain of where to go or what to do- cryptic was a generous description of their hasty preparatory warnings- she seated herself in one of the soft chairs in front of the desk and knit her hands together, waiting.
The silver instruments spun and whirred at her. Her natural curiosity almost drove her to examine them, but she did not think Dumbledore would appreciate walking in to find a student poking and prodding his things. Fawkes tilted his head at her curiously from his perch. She tried to evade the distinct feeling that she was…wrong.
Not doing something wrong. Not in trouble, but just wrong. Like her very existence was out of joint.
The door handle turned behind her and she twisted expectantly. Dumbledore entered, his trademark sherbet lemon between his teeth, and stopped, staring at her in surprise.
Her stomach dropped. No matter that he had sent her, he was clearly not expecting this.
"Professor Dumbledore?" she said tremulously after a long silence. Dumbledore nodded slowly, warmth weighted with suspicion in the normally bright eyes.
"I am he."
Clearly, it was her turn, but Hermione was at a complete loss as to what to say. Best to start as this man had instructed her. "Professor Dumbledore sent me," she said hesitantly, aware as she said it how absurd it sounded. His eyebrows rose.
"Most curious," he replied, "as I can testify with certainty that I have never seen you in my life."
She stared at him…and let the wheels that had stopped on her arrival start spinning. The carpet under her feet was the same as always, but the colors glittered brighter in the afternoon sun, and the instruments cluttering his desk included several china and silver ornaments that she knew Harry had broken only last year. And even the man before her seemed…different. The remains of auburn still streaked hair and beard, and his beard wasn't quite long enough yet. But she had taken too long to answer, for he was considering her very seriously, sherbert lemon stuck in his cheek and forgotten.
"Perhaps you had better start at the beginning," he directed, a slight of bite of mistrust clear in his voice as he sat down behind his desk.
She took a deep breath, searching for the best place to start. "It will be made clearer to you when you get there…" Perhaps the only place to start was at the beginning."My name is Hermione Granger, sir. I am a muggle-born witch, currently a sixth year Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1997. I entered your office not five minutes ago, shortly before noon, and stepped into a powerful magical field only to be instantly moved. I have apparently arrived in the same place that I left, but the three professors previously in the room had vanished. I was told- by you- to tell you that I was coming, and that I had been sent to learn about something vital to the war with Voldemort."
Dumbledore had listened politely, steepling his fingers, the misgiving fading as she spoke in earnest. But at the mention of the last name, he sat bolt upright and very still. It was a long moment between the fading of her voice and his next words. "1997?" He waited for her nod, then asked: "Twenty-four years? And still the war rages?"
"Ermmm…" Hermione hesitated, head spinning as she tried to answer his question and fathom her predicament- twenty-four years?- and decided that for the first part, she would go with the simplest- albeit not-quite-true- answer. "Yes."
Dumbledore abruptly deflated, looking old, almost as old as he had this entire last year that she had been at Hogwarts. Twenty-four years had made a difference in the lined face and eyes, but he changed remarkably in the space of an instant, exhaustion adding wrinkles to his tightened mouth and nose.
"Still? Two and a half decades later…?"
He halted, recalled himself and gave her a quiet, reassuring smile. "I apologize. There is much that must be explained to you. Miss Granger…did anyone tell you your destination or what it was you would be doing?"
"No sir."
"And I…my future self, sent you?"
"Yes sir. You said it would be clearer once I got here." She teetered on the verge of mentioning the clarinet, but Dumbledore hadn't seemed to know about that when he turned to Snape, and she kept her mouth closed.
"I said it would be clearer when you arrived?" He drummed his fingers on the desk, tapping them for a moment as he glanced past the lattice-worked windows before looking to her again. "I'm not sure I agree, but, in that case, Miss Granger, I will do what I can to enlighten you. It is September 1st of the year 1973. In approximately one half-hour, the Hogwarts Express will arrive bearing all of the students for this school year. As you doubtless already know, we too are embroiled in a war- though it is quiet for now- against the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort, though for us, the battle has just barely begun." Here he stopped, as if trying to think of other things, and then leaned forward, switching to questions once more.
"How did you get here?"
"I don't really know, sir. Professors Snape and Dumbledore opened a…a hole, I guess, and I stepped into it. They called it a rift, and said it was unstable, and that I had to hurry. But I didn't get a chance to study it." The regret in her voice was thoughtfully genuine as she thought of the missed opportunity.
"A rift. Interesting indeed." A tilt of the silvering head and: "So much for your arrival. What of your departure? Is there a warning sign- a certain thing that will happen, or something you will learn- that will tell you about when you ought to return to your own time?"
"Not that they told me."
He gave her a smile that had the beginnings of mischief touching it, his slightly doddering madcap sense of adventure that always shone at the strangest times. Confused, frightened and alone, Hermione saw little to smile at, but her mouth responded to the deeper amusement in the Headmaster and she felt his confidence feeding and warming her.
"I was cryptic, wasn't I? I shall spend your time here discovering how to open this rift you have described and readying to send you back through it to the appropriate period. When you feel you have learned what you must, come to me, and I will do my best to be ready. Until then… I want to sort you into third year. It will be believable…barely, but possible. As we both know nothing of the reason I sent you here, I want to give you as much time as possible...unless I am to send you elsewhere? Away from Hogwarts?"
"I don't think so, sir," she answered carefully. No one had told her any different. "I think I am to stay here."
His grin was benign as he winked at her. "I don't suppose you know any French?"
"No- why?" she asked, completely off-guard.
"If you are to be Sorted as a third-year, we will have to claim you as a transfer student. You have the significant disadvantage of sounding as if you're straight from Aylesbury."
"I am, sir."
"So I surmised. But most students in the Isles attend Hogwarts, and if not Hogwarts, then her sister in France, Beauxbatons, but I can hardly claim you're from that region if you don't speak the language…" He tapped his upper lip thoughtfully with a long finger for a moment, then his eyes snapped to her. "Of course. I think that will be an admirable solution…Miss Hermione Granger, what do you know of America?"
"Very little, sir."
"Hmmm. Well- as of now, you have transferred out of the Salem Witches' Institute in Salem, Massachusetts, the Head of which is a thoroughly delightful- if slightly stuffy- matron by the name of Marsella Howards."
"Why did I transfer, sir?" she asked.
"Your father got a better job offer here," he spun quickly, "and your family decided to move- back, obviously, since you are clearly from England."
"Perhaps it would be better if my parents still dwelled in America and I were being sent here because they thought I was old enough to be so far away from them," she countered. She focused on the many stories from her childhood rattling around in her mind…it was 1973. Where were her parents? Her mother was in university…and her father had just graduated, which meant- "That's considering, of course, sir, that my parents have not even met one another yet. My mother is only three years older than I am right now. I cannot 'go home' for the holidays."
"Too right. Very good, Miss Granger. A perfectly reasonable story for you to tell any of the curious that might bother you for details."
"Thank you, sir."
But she had already lost him again, the grey look stealing over his face as he drummed his desk, peering out the window. "Twenty-four years," she heard him mutter.
"Ermm- Professor?" she murmured hesitantly.
"Hmm? Ah- I apologize. Do forgive an old man's thoughts for creeping up on him like that. Did you happen to bring anything with you?"
"No," she admitted, frowning. If her professors had been so prepared for this, why hadn't they allowed her to at least pack a bag? "We sort of skipped that stage."
"Then the house-elves will find you suitable wear and books. I think…yes. And not a word about this, even to the staff. They will accept my explanation and I will research a way to return you to your own time when you need to do so."
"Thank you, sir."
"Not at all. I have to admit I am intrigued- your position gives me a very different kind of puzzle to evaluate." His eyes twinkled once more. "You will be Sorted tonight with the first years."
"Yes, sir."
He smiled, and she stood. The once more marked absent cast to his fact indicated clearly that the interview was over. Letting herself out the door and down the spiral staircase at once familiar and not, Hermione felt loneliness descend like a cloak that grew heavier with every step downward. Gone were Harry and Ron, Ginny and Neville and even Parvati and Lavender- vapid as they had been, they were company and she had known them. They had even been members of the DA. Here there was no one whom she knew.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed away the tears that rose in her throat to prick at her eyes. She had work to do…and Dumbledore had sworn to send her home as soon as she learned what she needed for the war.
888
The massive castle was deserted as the gargoyle sprang into place behind her. No sounds echoed off the walls, no cheerful greetings or the wild laughter of the misbehaving. With a pang more violent that she would have thought possible, recalling the Catherine wheels that had sparkled in the air last spring to set fire to Hogwarts during Umbridge's reign, she desperately missed Fred and George.
She stopped at a window, overlooking the lake- Harry's task and the cold hours she had been bewitched at the bottom of it replaying slowly as she waited. And, as she stood lost in thought, she saw it. The Hogwarts Express! It chugged into view, streaming white smoke like a banner. When it screeched to a halt, she saw the students tumbling out. Hagrid's familiar form was wading amongst the tiny first years, and a smile touched her mouth, along with the sudden need to blink away tears. He, and some of the professors, would be the only familiar faces here.
1973. James Potter. Harry's father. And his mother must be here too- and of course Sirius, and Remus Lupin…a wide grin was splitting her face, containing her tears. If Harry was as much like James as everyone claimed, she was not alone.
888
"And tonight…" All of the first years had been Sorted. Dumbledore had found Hermione in the entrance hall and bid her wait in a side room off the Great Hall until he could inform her peers. "…I have to announce a transfer student!"
The staff were suddenly nudging each other, frowning. It appeared that they were as surprised as the student body.
"A third year from the Salem Witches Institute in America, Miss Hermione Granger!" Hermione stepped out, feeling thoroughly embarrassed and very grateful that she was not Harry. If this was what it was like to be him all the time, she would pass.
"Please, put on the Sorting Hat," Dumbledore instructed. Flitwick halted mid-stride where he had been removing them, putting both aging stool and careworn hat back down in the center of the hall.
Hermione carefully examined the hall as she walked slowly towards the Sorting Hat, fighting the urge to sweep her hair in front of her face to hide herself. Most faces were curiously friendly as necks craned to study her. Her eyes swept the Slytherin table, and she recognized, with an unpleasant jolt, one of the prefects- none other than Lucius Malfoy- speaking softly with his friend Walden Macnair, another known Death Eater in her time. She fought to keep her face composed and quickly averted her eyes, looking for a less disturbing place to settle them.
She found it in a startlingly handsome boy at Gryffindor table, one watching her with a slightly calculating look to his eye, and a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. He was seated next to a slender boy with mouse-brown hair and across from-
-it could have been Harry. The messy black hair spiking up all over the place, the easy smile, the intensity. Except, of course, she thought, echoing the words of so many teachers, Ministry members and other adults, for the eyes.
But now she was at the stool, and had no time to look for Lily in the crowd. She slid onto it smoothly, and pulled the hat over her head.
"Ah. Another one. Fine mind, indeed, one of the best I've seen...but your sense of loyalty and your courage- my goodness yes- so strongly developed, leaves absolutely no doubt, no possibility at all. And since you already are one anyway…Better stick to GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindors clapped and whistled, cheering as the new student walked over to sit down with them. There was much whispering of "Budge up!" that fluttered down the table. An American witch was a curiosity that all wanted to indulge.
Hermione slowly approached the table, swallowing nervously. A flash of dark red hair crowned green eyes- and she identified Lily Evans, seated with several other girls, looks of undisguised curiosity frank in their eyes as they stared at her.
But she could not keep herself from looking down the table to where the boys that she knew- would know- as men were seated with the other that she had never gotten to meet.
"She's pretty," James remarked high-handedly, dark eyes flashing as he glanced at his best friend to see what he would say as the girl gradually approached them.
"Yeah," Sirius grunted noncommitally. James hid a grin in his hand. The studied air of nonchalance was one his friend already had down to an art, but it was hardly concealing to anyone who knew him. His interest was piqued, heightened by the fact that she was foreign.
"She's also coming this way," Remus muttered.
"May I join you?" she asked politely.
"Of course," James scooted down the bench to indicate room between himself and Remus. "There's always room for more."
"Sirius Black," Sirius was saying as she took her seat, hand extended. She smiled, reached to take it, only to have him take her fingers and bring the back of her knuckles to his lips to brush them with his mouth. Hermione had to keep herself from gasping as he gave her a wink. This was what Sirius had been like? He looked nothing like the waxen, shadow-cheeked, brooding man that she had met, or even the slightly less haggard but no less shuttered man who had died in the Department of Mysteries last spring. Unbidden, her throat closed. In twenty-four years, this laughing boy whose mouth just brushed her knuckles would be dead, and that lackluster, dying face struggled for dominance with the very alive one in front of her eyes making her blink to rid herself of the unwanted image.
"All right, all right, let someone with slightly less pure-blood chivalry coursing through their veins get a word in," James groused good naturedly. His handshake was firm and natural. Hermione smiled genuinely at his: "James Potter."
"Remus Lupin," the quiet boy said, squeezing the end of her fingers.
"Peter Pettigrew," the last voice squeaked. Hermione froze, hatred roaring in her ears so loudly she feared they could all hear it. She was listening to the wheezing confession in her third year, to Harry's choked explanation of Voldemort's rise at this boy's bidding and with his aid in her fourth…
She couldn't breathe, but she didn't need to. She had a dim impression of something cold and soft grabbing at her hand and then falling away.
"Hello," she finally managed. "I'm Hermione Granger."
"So Dumbledore said," James said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. No one seemed to have noticed her lapse in courtesy. "What do you think?" The drumstick in one hand waved eloquently to include the Great Hall and Hogwarts in general.
"I think it's beautiful- what I've seen of it, anyway," she swiftly qualified. There was much she would have to remember that she didn't know.
"Potter!" A big, bouncing boy with golden hair and shining blue eyes slapped James on the back so hard his spoon of greens clattered into Peter's pumpkin juice as he stopped, his eyes already on Hermione. Something about him seemed very familiar-
"Ludovic Bagman. Ludo for short. Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team," he told her by way of explanation and introduction. "I don't suppose you play?"
"Erm…no," Hermione replied decisively. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see Sirius and James shake their heads sadly as she looked at the boy in front of her. Oddly enough, Ludo Bagman had changed startlingly little in the past two and a half decades. His fit body would be potbellied, his laugh lines more pronounced and his nose broken in several places, but the same round face and boundless kinetic energy exuded from him at forty as well as seventeen. "As a matter of fact, I'm 'abominable' to quote one of my friends from back home."
"Really?" he stared at her earnestly, as if the hope in his gaze could persuade her to change her answer.
"Yes, really. Why?"
"Well, you know, a Chaser graduated and we're holding tryouts this Friday…" he continued to eyeball her with some disappointment. "Too bad you don't play."
"Hey Ludo- I'm trying out this Friday," James poked his friend.
"I know, but, well, the other two Chasers are girls, and girls work out so well together…if you change your mind?" he trailed off hopefully, still minding Hermione, as if enough prodding could encourage her to discover previously ignored brilliance. He gave them another energetic grin and bounced down the table to sell Quidditch to another gaggle of girls.
"'The other two Chasers are girls'," James mimicked with a snort. "So? I can best any girl in the house!"
"You will mate." Sirius was studying his fingernails in a way that indicated this was a long-standing conversation that repeated regularly. "And he'll let you on and that'll be great."
"Yeah…and then somebody like Pratcher'll yell 'Favoritism' and we'll be off the races. Favoritism because my dad and Ludo's go way back," he told Hermione. "They used to play Quidditch on the same team. They used to have an act they'd do - fake out the other team…it was pretty amazing," James proceeded to demonstrate using his fingers as broomsticks. Watching him wave his arms about brought another bout of homesickness to roll her food in her stomach- he looked so much like Ron when he was strategizing, arms and fingers flying, like as not into his neighbor's dinner…
You will go home, she told herself sternly, so do not worry. And when you do, you will never see these people again.
888
Hermione carefully stationed herself in the middle of the pack of boys when they started upstairs after dinner, making sure her intimate knowledge of the castle did not betray her feet into taking her there too quickly.
"Gryffindor Tower," Sirius said proudly, gesturing at the portrait of the Fat Lady. Hermione smiled. Some things did not change…she swiftly took her mind off that track. Nothing could be gained by longing for Harry and Ron. "Much better than the Slytherins'," Sirius was telling her. "They have to rot in some moldy dungeon."
"Think they have snakes in their common room?" James wondered. "'Vermillion'," he told the portrait, and she swung open. James put one foot forward, glanced back to say something to Sirius, and hastily backed away from the opening, bowing slightly with one hand extended.
"Ladies first," he said shyly, the raucous child gone, replaced by a boy desperately wishing to impress.
With the distinct feeling that he was not speaking to her, Hermione twisted her head to follow his gaze.
At thirteen, Lily Evans already bore the promise of great beauty. Her skin glowed soft and flawless in the fire and torchlight, high cheekbones the boundaries of a slim nose and large, almond-shaped green eyes. And her hair…it was a long sheet of darker red that almost became brown in some lights with gold strands shot through it. It was nothing like Ron's fire-engine-red curls and had none of the untidiness that would be her son's trademark. Hermione felt at once too clunky, awkward and unkempt next to this blossoming woman.
James' instantly-acquired manners told all the story she needed to know. Young though they were, it was clear he was already quite taken with her. Sirius and Remus were rolling their eyes at each other behind James' bent back, avoiding the gazes of several of the girls behind Lily, an intense dislike of Sirius evident in their drawn mouths and chilled gazes.
"Thank you, Potter," she replied stiffly, her eyes icy as she, too, glowered at Sirius. He returned her glare with a sarcastic, simpering smile. The pack of girls moved past them, leaving the air almost palpably colder as they brushed by and clambered through the portrait hole.
The boys followed, Hermione last, her head tilted in thought. Somehow…somehow she had always imagined them together, friends like she was with Ron and Harry. But she realized suddenly that she actually knew very little about these men as boys. They had been friends with one another, Animagi, rule-breakers. Three of the four proved intensely loyal to each other and the Light. Remus was gentle, Sirius dark and closed-off, but helpful, passionate, James brave through his death, protecting his wife and his son…
But as schoolmates? Nothing. And she could not expect these barely-teenage children to behave like their mid-thirties counterparts.
And it was clear that Lily Evans wanted little to do with James Potter and the Marauders in general, mostly Sirius.
"What're you thinking about?" Remus asked softly as she folded into an armchair.
"I don't know," she lied, rousing herself from her musings and giving him a quick smile. "Home, I guess."
"Yeah. But…Hogwarts is a great school," he tried to comfort her. "One of the best. Some say the best in the world."
"I know."
"Don't worry. We'll take care of you," he said. The seriousness of his investment turned her lips upward involuntarily. We'll take care of you. Just like Harry and Ron.
"Thank you," she said, her voice light, but her attention on the fireplace. Offer he might, but she wasn't here to be protected. She was here to learn- and not from professors. Her eyes flitted back to him again as he shuffled a pack of Exploding Snap cards.
"So what is the loveliest girl in Gryffindor doing sulking by the fire?" Sirius was suddenly crouched in front of her, black eyes large in mock-worship. She could not keep the grin from her face as he continued to hold her gaze with his serious countenance, and she could feel herself blushing.
"Sirius…" Remus warned gently.
"That color looks good on you," Sirius told her, a smile splitting his face. Hermione flushed a deeper red and quickly turned her eyes elsewhere. Neither Harry or Ron had ever called her 'lovely', and in spite of her knowledge of his future, she had met few boys that could equal Sirius' charm.
"Ermmm…" she stammered. Sirius stood, looking very pleased with himself for flustering her.
"The girl's dormitory is that way," Remus pointed, saving her embarrassment.
"Thank you," she said gratefully, rising swiftly.
"You aren't by chance an early riser, are you?" he asked hopefully.
"I am. Why?"
"Breakfast tomorrow?" he asked hopefully. He jerked his head at Sirius and James. "These sods don't roll their carcasses out of bed in time to do anything but shove a piece of toast in their mouths and go to class."
"Beauty sleep, Remus." Sirius punctuated this statement with a yawn that gave them a display of his teeth. "Why do all the girls chase after me? Because I get a healthy ten hours of sleep a night."
"I like breakfast," Hermione agreed.
"Cool. Well, if you're going to go see your room, get settled…" She nodded. "'Night then."
"'Night."
She started up the circular staircase to her room, and the overwhelming familiarity struck her yet again. So strong it lodged like a stone in her middle…would she spend all of her time here longing to be home? She swallowed the tears that once again threatened to come. Dumbledore has promised to send you back when you're done. You're not alone.
And for the second time that evening, Hermione felt a solid rock of pity forming in her stomach. Harry stood out and alone always, he had for all of his life- ignored and abused before arriving at Hogwarts, raised on an impossibly high pedestal, hero-worshipped and feared in the magical world. Was his life always like this- day in, day out, the knowledge that he was different from all those around him closer than the life's blood running in his veins?
A Node. It seemed a lifetime since she had stood behind that tapestry and eavesdropped on them. And as she opened the oak door to her new and bizarrely old room, nothing seemed any clearer now than when she had heard them talking.