Author's Note: Re-edit. Remember, if you've forgotten so far, that this is an AU story.
Important Questions Answered (Spoiler Alert for Deathly Hollows): Can't the healers of St. Mungo's grow Hermione's fingers back? The answer is no. The magic that splinched her fingers was exceedingly powerful, and for those of you who don't remember, scars from powerful (i.e., dark) magic don't heal. Rowling backs me up on this in Deathly Hallows with what happens to Saintly George Weasley, and why Mad-Eye Moody looks like a piece of chewed meat. The rest of Hermione's cuts and bruises were all from mainly getting tossed around like a rag doll into things such as glass cases, which is why regular magic and a good two months rest healed her up nicely.
And yes, I am purposefully calling Hermione 'Hermes Graingier'. It wouldn't be prudent at all for a 'Hermione Granger' to exist before her time, now would it?
It was hard not to stop and stare sometimes, but Hermione controlled the urge.
Diagon Alley teemed with last-minute school shoppers and the usual market crowd, all dressed in robe styles and carrying books more than thirty years out of date. Yet each pair of feet kicked up dust on the same brick road she had always remembered, and gloved hands pointed at posters on the same brick walls she had once pointed at not so long ago. It was as if someone had taken a cherished picture and drawn images there that didn't belong.
Or, rather, just her image.
With a bag of school robes in her undamaged hand, Hermione witch slipped through the crowd like a ghost. Her expressive brown eyes glazed over as her mind obsessed with the surrealness of her situation, and how dangerous it was to be interacting so freely with people. Though her memories were as full of holes as a piece of Swiss cheese, that much was painfully obvious.
In her distraction, Hermione's nimble feet led her to the entrance of a familiar shop. Books cluttered its storefront window, and through the open door it was easy to catch sight of the overly crammed bookshelves and random piles of volumes scattered from the doorway up to the second floor. The Flourish and Blotts clerk inside spotted her immediately as she hesitated at the doorway and waved her a greeting; Hermione's baby blue robes stood out from the crowd with its tight fit far more flattering and noticeable than the hefty overcloaks so many tired witches seemed to be wearing.
"Welcome!" he cried out from behind a massive stack of tomes. "School books upstairs!"
The rosy-cheeked employee squeezed by her and a dozen other customers to jog up the wooden banistered staircase. Hermione followed him closely behind, finding a clear path to the back of the store. Her bandaged fingers slid the required books off their shelves and into her shopping bag effortlessly. The monotony of the movement, one book after another, slide and fall, all became a distant rhythm in her mind. And then something clicked.
Curiosity glinted in Hermione's glassy eyes as she made her way to the very back of Flourish and Blotts, to a small collection of bookshelves tucked away by the employee's lounge. Well, I'll be damned… Her thin, pale finger traced along the leather spines protruding from the disorganized bookshelf, like a stick drawn across a picket fence. Off the top of her head, Hermione could pick out a small handful of authors and books that the Ministry had banned from public sale. No, will ban. These books are legal now.
Here, tucked away from the prying eyes of young children and sensitive mothers, was a small collection of books that in all probability would be burned, thrown away, or sold off to a collector in Knockturn Alley. Haphazardly organized before her was a treasure trove of information, and information was precisely what Miss 'Graingier' needed.
"Let's see," she whispered softly, "that's not so bad. Yes, Dark Creatures and Where to Find Them, that's good. Vampire Chronicles, the signed copy? I think not. Timekeeper? God, that sounds promising…"
Hermione left the bustling bookstore with heavier bags than she intended, and a heavy conscience. It felt wrong to be adding suspicious non-school books to her headmaster's tab.
Ha, a dead man's tab.
A chill slid up her spine as vertigo seized her miserable body once more. Feeling more disturbed by the moment, Hermione paused outside the Three Broomsticks and let the crowd surge past her. She put a trembling hand to her forehead; the skin there felt cold and clammy. The young witch gripped the red brick wall and focused her attention away from the moving streets and the reality that was so hard to grasp.
Dully, her brown eyes gazed over the numerous missing person and wanted posters that had been magically pasted against the grimy wall. Sad eyes blinked at her from moving pictures; some of the missing children jumped about in their frames and waved at her frantically. The posters, she noted darkly, had been hastily put over older posters in want of room, which covered other, older posters, which covered more posters…
A strong hand suddenly rested itself on her shoulder. Instinctly, Hermione whipped around and brandished her wand in her hand.
The short, balding man before her only blinked as the witch's wand clattered to the ground, slipping from the weak grasp of her bandaged fingers. The Ministry chauffeur sighed and picked it up for her, then moved to take up her shopping bags as well.
"That's enough of that, Miss. Let's get you to the Leaky Cauldron and set you up a room. Really, you look bloody awful."
Clutching her head in pain, she moaned an agreement.
Some supper and a few hours of deep, troubled sleep later, Hermione was sitting up in her four-poster bed and clutching her wand in her left hand. It was too difficult to try and grip it with her right hand, she had decided. There was no stability there, having to pinch it between her thumb and what was left of her index finger.
No, no, no! For God's sake, I wasn't born left-handed for a reason!
Across the room on her abused, mahogany dresser was a brightly wrapped chocolate malt. The only way Hermione was going to let herself have that awfully temping treat was to levitate it all the way to her mouth, using her left hand. So far she had gotten it to wobble and rise up a few inches off the dresser- not even close to perfection.
But Hermione wasn't the obsessive school girl she once was. She had been through too many battles, too many funerals, and far too many full moons to let impatience start to gnaw at her now of all times. At least she was pretty sure those things had happened. With all the nightmares, it was hard to tell anymore.
With a deep breath, she started up the exercise again.
It took her the better part of the next day to finally conquer the awkwardness of the left-handed movements. She wasn't as speedy as she had been, albeit, but Hermione knew she could still be handy in a fight.
Steam swirled in the air around her, thick with noise. Luggage carts squeaked noisily as commuters made their way to their trains while chatting idly or giving loud goodbyes. Silent and brimming with determination, Hermione passed unnoticed through gate 9 ¾.
The young witch had already dressed into her school robes and blended in finely with her fellow classmates. While the other students hugged their parents goodbye on the station platform, Hermione made her way into the practically empty Hogwart's Express and picked out a nice, empty compartment to lock herself in. Fatigue and discomfort were already wracking her body, but she took comfort in knowing that it would all be over soon.
I'll talk to Dumbledore. There has to be a way for me to get back. With any manner of luck, I'll be able to set things right again, or at least remember everything again.
Hermione stretched herself out in the sweet solitude of her train compartment and contented herself with reading the oldest version of Hogwarts: A History that she'd ever gotten her hands on.
The trip was uneventful, and a lovely piece of relaxation. If only she knew that it would be many, many weeks until she'd find such peace again.
Her trunk was tiny in comparison to those of the other students, and the smug little witch couldn't help but glow a little with pride as they all struggled to drag their things off the train. Of course, she had charmed her bag to be bigger on the inside, as any self-respecting witch or wizard should.
"This won't be so bad," she sighed softly, carrying her small trunk with a single hand. "I have more magical experience than most of these kids ever will. I'll get through this."
That became Hermione's mantra as she made her way to the carriages, pushing through nervous first years and jittery second years. Her frail body, still regaining its former shape, was jostled painfully around in the rush of the crowd.
I'll get through this, I'll get through this. I've survived too much to let a thing like school get me.
Three strangers were already sitting in the carriage she had chosen, looking perplexed as a new student entered their midst. Half of her wanted to snap at them to stop staring at her, but she was concentrating too hard on not glancing at the nightmarish creatures pulling the carriages.
"What are those things, d'you reckon?" Harry asked, as the other students surged past them.
"What things?"
"The horse things pulling the carriages!"
"What are you talking about?"
"At the – there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the coach! It's right there in front–"
Harry paused, looking between his two best friends with confusion.
"Can't…can't you see them?"
Yes, Harry, I can see them now.
Hermione sat quietly and unassuming at the edge of the Gryffindor table, listening with disinterest as whispers filled the area. Whether or not they had anything to do with her, she really didn't care. Rumors would fade with time, and within weeks the world would forget her existence. All memories fade with time- that was the law of time, and an important note for its travelers- but Hermione couldn't help feel a little tense at the thought of interacting with the past.
I can fix a few memories if I have to, but Jesus Christ, what if I have to fix everybody's memories? I know I won't have to…but what if I have to? Does that even make sense? Have I stopped making sense?
The Sorting Hat was brought out and began to sing its ever-changing song, but the music faded into muffled silence in her ears. The robes on her body felt heavy and foreign; more than anything she wanted to be in Muggle clothes again. Pictures drifted into her mind of being back at the Black household, sitting around the chessboard with a cup of hot chocolate. She wanted that old comfort so badly that it brought tears to her eyes.
It's too hard to think straight. I think…I think I'm supposed to be making some kind of plan right now. An escape plan, maybe? I can't remember. The boys always depended on her for plans, for all that cunning and wit they seemed to associate her with. Was there a strategy, a way for going back home that she'd missed? Why did it feel like she was supposed to be doing something? Why? Why can't you remember, Hermione? What are you forgetting?
"Um…are you alright?" Came a tentative voice. Hermione started in her seat and stared at the concerned-looking Gryffindors around her. All of them complete strangers to her. An awful feeling grew in her stomach, like she'd somehow failed herself by letting her guard down so easily.
"I'm fine." She replied, her voice soft and meek. Shrugging, her classmates returned to the sorting.
Dinner came shortly after. Hermione fidgeted in her seat more and more as the night progressed, pulling on the sleeves of her robes, or continually readjusting the ponytail she'd put her hair up in. Why hadn't they announced her yet? Was Dumbledore going to pull her aside? Or…had they forgotten her?
Feeling completely sick to her stomach, Hermione pushed away her plate of food and instead contented herself with staring up at her headmaster. So alive, so chatty; he was just as she'd always remembered him.
The speech he gave was, as usual, brief and pointless. Albus warned the students to be careful and wary, and to enjoy themselves during the upcoming term. Not once did he even glance in her direction. Disappointed, the new seventh year student followed her classmates to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Many of those around her did their best to try and catch her eye, or try to make conversation by commenting on how nice the feast had been, but there was something suspicious in their glances. Here in the wizarding world, 1977 was a time when 'new' meant 'different' and 'different' meant 'dangerous.' It probably didn't help that she wasn't answering them.
Hermione fell into a bitter mood and ignored her classmates on the short walk to Gryffindor Tower. As she moved to step into the common room, however, a hand on her shoulder stopped her dead in her tracks. Wildly she turned to face a cheerful looking prefect.
"Hermes Graingier? You are wanted in Professor Dumbledore's office immediately."
Her breath caught in her throat. Without a second's hesitation, she dashed through the opened portrait and back down the hallway.
"It's down-" the prefect called out frantically, but she threw a curt wave towards him as she ran.
"Thank you!" Hermione cried and disappeared around the corner. Her steps were frenzied and her breath erratic as she barreled down the hallway and up the enchanted staircases towards the headmaster's office. Fear and anticipation overcame all her senses, forcing her to push her still-weakened body to its limit.
Dumbledore was waiting for her outside the steps to his office. His eyes twinkled as he watched Hermione slow her pace, gasping for breath as he beckoned her onwards.
Wordlessly she followed him up the stone staircase into his office. Countless treasures glittered on his desk and shelves; sneakoscopes of all colors and sizes, bejeweled trinkets, and a few odd pieces of jewelry. Fawkes stirred on his perch beside the headmaster's desk; candlelight illuminated his brilliant feathers, making him gleam as if he were pure fire.
"Sit, please." Dumbledore said softly, bringing her out of her reverie. A few portraits of now-deceased headmasters glared at her for disturbing their sleep as she slipped quietly into the cushy chair opposite her old professor. The old man across from her sighed softly, glancing at her with earnest.
"This is a delicate matter, Hermes. What is it that you can tell me about your past?"
All the breath left her body as she pushed her brain for the correct answer. Minutes ticked away, but Dumbledore gave no hint of the slightest impatience. Finally the words formed, though Hermione was still unsure if they were right.
"This is neither the time, nor the place, sir. What is important is…is the future. I don't think it is right for me to tell you what happened that night at the Department of Mysteries, or anything else about my past. There's too much at stake, too much... danger. But I hope you understand that I could never be a subordinate of Voldemort." She whispered. To her great surprise, a grin formed on Dumbledore's thin lips.
"Oh, I think I'm beginning to understand. You say his name without fear. Those who do are either his devout followers, who would not deny having ties to him, or a great adversary to him. There is much more to you, Miss Graingier, than meets the eye."
There was a pause of silence again. Hermione stared up at the colorful stained glass windows behind her old headmaster, wondering dreamily what they looked like in the sunlight.
"We cannot seem to find any relatives or acquaintances of yours." He finally spoke, his soothing voice bringing her back from her reverie.
"I, um, have none."
"I'm going to assume, then, that you have arrived here from the Salem Institute of Washington, over in America. I doubt anybody would question the validity of that statement; the school is terribly secluded, and a home to a number of orphaned witches and wizards. Foreign students are often welcomed there in order to help spread tolerance and 'brotherly love' throughout the wizarding world. Would it be correct of me to assume that you were once an English transfer student to Salem, and have now returned to your native home?"
Hermione nodded her head dumbly, trying to comprehend. Did he just hand me an alibi? Does…does this mean he understands? God, I wish that man would just stop talking in riddles for once.
"Sir," she spoke uncertainly, "what should I do? You've brought me here, but I don't know what to do anymore. Quite frankly, there's a lot I don't remember anymore."
"Keep a low profile, first of all. It does bother me to ask you to hide your true potential as a student, but the less attention that is drawn to you, the better. The Ministry still views you as a suspicious character, and many Ministry officials have children that attend here."
"Shouldn't I leave?" Hermione breathed, almost dizzy with confusion. "Would it not be safer if I left while the damage is at a minimum?"
Dumbledore's piercing eyes rested on her bandaged right hand, and a thoughtful look overcame his wizened face.
"You speak like a true soldier, but the only safe place is here, Hermes. If you left, there are too many chances that you would be picked up by a Death Eater, which would be the worst possible thing that could happen to you. No matter where you go, this is still your present, and there will always be danger for you. Here, at least, I can promise that you will have every resource available to you, and that I will do my best to help set things right."
"I'm overwhelmed, sir." Her voice was unsteady, on the verge of choking on her words. His words were like a light in the darkness and it touched her aching heart. Fawkes let out a small cry from his perch, craning his head at the tired and emotional witch while Dumbledore stroked his glossy wings reassuringly.
"One last question, Miss Graingier, and please answer it as truthfully as you can. Do you know anyone here, perhaps even indirectly? Is there someone who could, in the future, point you out and remember your face?"
Damn, my head is pounding. Am I forgetting something? Is there something I should be remembering? Perhaps something familiar about all this? I can't think of anything off the top of my head. Maybe…maybe that means it's okay.
Images of Remus and her school days there at Hogwarts played through her mind in a continuous loop, but that was all that came to her. She pushed away the doubt in her cloudy mind, too tired to sort through her muddled thoughts.
"I don't think so, sir."
"That's fine then. This won't be the last of our conversations, I promise." He stood and beckoned her to stand as well. Rounding his handsome desk, Hermione's headmaster settled a warm hand on her shaking shoulder and smiled down at her.
"If ever something is bothering you, don't hesitate to drop in. You are always welcome here. Just tell the stone gargoyle the password, which is 'Cockroach Cluster', and he'll let you through."
"I know that." She muttered distantly, rubbing her eyes on her sleeves. Everything was looking a bit fuzzy.
Albus walked her to the door where they exchanged a round of thank you's and goodnights. The young witch continued to wipe at her eyes as she turned and walked back to her dormitory.
Maybe everything will turn out alright. Oh Remus, Harry, I swear I'll get back to you somehow.
The sound of knocking filled Dumbledore's quiet office.
"Come in."
"S-sorry to bother you, sir, but Professor McGonagall said you asked to see me."
The headmaster smiled up at the nervous student and stood from his seat at his desk.
"Yes. And please, don't apologize; I am the one who called you here at such a late hour, after all." The boy ran a hand through his faded brown hair and smiled weakly up at his professor.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, fear reflected in his tired eyes.
"I wanted to know if you could assist me with something."
The handsome youth brightened up considerably at this.
"Of course, sir."
"These are dark times, as you well know, and I'm afraid things are not going to clear up anytime soon. The Ministry is having trouble holding up against the forces of the Dark Lord, and they want my assistance now more than ever. I won't have much time to be involved with dealings here in Hogwarts, so I've decided to trust you with something very important. There is a new transfer student here, a seventh year, who I am placing in the Gryffindor house. Her name is Hermes Graingier, and I want you to keep an eye on her." Dumbledore turned and moved back towards his desk, looking exhausted.
"I would not ask if I didn't trust you so implicitly. It is important to me that you keep an eye on her and help her stay out of trouble, as discreetly as you possibly can. This is a delicate matter, you understand."
"You have my word, Professor." The boy swore solemnly.
"Thank you, Mr. Lupin. Thank you very much. You may return to your dormitory now."
A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.
-Carol Shields
Author's Note: These first four chapters have been BORING, I know! It's the lack of human interaction and action, which is killing me. And I know I rushed this one a bit, but I'm excited about introducing the Marauders. And no, I don't care about describing her interactions with the other Hogwarts' students and worrying about them remembering her. Do you remember all the quiet, nondescript kids from your high school days?
By the way, that bolded quote about the horses is straight from the fourth book. Hermione can see them now because she's seen dead people, get it?
So, can Hermione handle being back in school? And how will she react to her new 'guardian'? Next chapter- 'Indemnity Crisis'.