Well well well, lovelies. Look who's back with a brand new story...

I've taken a long break from writing because my life had become so chaotic (in both good and bad ways), so reading became my outlet. However, I saw the TV show Imposters on Netflix (which, if you haven't checked it out, Inbar Lavi is a GODDESS) and this story started rolling around in my brain.

I'm hoping this will be the work that lets me consistently write again.

Summary: Hermione makes a living tricking wealthy men out of their hearts and their wallets under the instruction and mentorship of Albus Dumbledore, whose organization runs the most complex and successful cons in the world. After fifteen years in the life, she longs to retreat to a peaceful existence. Albus makes her a deal: seduce Draco Malfoy, scion of the wealthiest and most powerful of England's Sacred Twenty-Eight, into marriage and take the Malfoy family for every Galleon, and he'll allow her to retire in peace. However, her freedom may come at too high a price.

Without further ado, The Lies We Tell Ourselves.

Prologue

The girl's legs swung off the bench she sat on, an ice cream cone clenched in her fist. She held it up to her face, allowing it to shield her while her eyes scanned the very busy crowd in the city square. She wore a dress with her hair in braids, hunching her shoulders as she eyed the strangers passing by. The effect was a loss of several years, until she looked more like eight instead of the twelve she was. It helped too that she'd always been petite for her age, not having hit her growth spurt yet-though that also could have been due to the lack of food. Undernourishment tended to slow puberty.

It didn't take long before a woman came barreling in her general direction, dragging along a small boy who had a deep pout on his face and a resistance in his steps that only made the woman more agitated. The girl might've found the scene almost comical if she'd simply been a girl on a bench with an ice cream cone. But she wasn't.

"Henry, if you don't stop complaining right now, I will take you home and paddle your backside. Do I make myself clear?" she hissed at the little boy, crossing directly in front of the girl's bench.

The girl let out a cry as the boy and his mother passed, dramatically losing her grip on the ice cream cone and watching with wide eyes as the two scoops toppled off the cone, down her hands, and splattered on the ground due to their semi-melted state. Her scuffed shoes were now stained a chocolate brown.

The woman turned at the girl's exclamation, her eyes going from the girl to the dairy massacre on the stone ground and finally to her son, where they narrowed considerably.

"Henry!" she yelled. "Did you make this young lady spill her ice cream?"

"N-no," the boy said, the fear of God etched into his face.

The girl let out a loud sniff, her eyes welling with tears as she raised her ice cream covered hands and stared at them.

"I am so sorry," the woman apologized, removing her hand from her son's and kneeling at the girl's feet, digging in her purse before emerging with some napkins and dabbing at the mess on the girl's shoes. "We should have been watching where we were going."

This statement was punctuated with a glare in her son's direction, the implication very clear who 'we' referred to.

"It's okay," the girl offered weakly, sniffing again and wiping her hands on a napkin the woman shoved in her hand. "It's my fault. I should've been more careful."

"Nonsense," was the woman's gruff answer. "Let me see-I'll just-" she cut herself off, turning her head to study the square. Her eyes finally stopped on an ice cream truck tucked in a little alcove under some awnings, and she stood up.

"Let me buy you another one," the woman said, her eyes looking extremely tired behind her frustration. The girl made a mental note to never become a mum. "What flavor would you like, sweetheart?"

"Umm...chocolate would be nice," came the timid reply.

Henry's mother turned and walked determinedly toward the ice cream truck, leaving the girl with the younger boy, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment from the beratement he'd endured.

"Did I really trip you?" he asked.

The girl didn't reply, just simply smiled at him. Even in the summer heat, Henry felt goosebumps on his arms. His mum might've seen this strange girl as a victim of his incompetence, but her smile was more feral than forgiving. There was something about it that made him think that this had been her plan all along.

Henry averted his eyes and edged away from her, studying the spilled ice cream instead. It had already melted into the cracks between the stones, attracting ants and other small bugs. He forced himself to count the little insects until his mother returned, brushing sweaty blonde bangs from her pale forehead with one hand as the other offered a new chocolate ice cream cone to the girl on the bench.

"Thank you, ma'am," the girl said. "You're very kind."

Henry's mother waved her hand, dismissing the thanks. "It was the least I could do." Another side-eyed glare to her son.

The girl stood then, hesitating before throwing her arms around the woman and squeezing tight. She let go almost immediately, watching as the woman's face grew softer.

"Are you alright out here by yourself?" She asked, looking around them. "Are your parents here?"

"My older brother is coming back. He had to go to the loo," the girl said, crossing her fingers behind her back. Lying was wrong, but loopholes were allowed. "He should be here any second."

"Alright," the woman said, hiking her purse up her shoulder and reaching again for her son's hand. The girl could tell by the white knuckles on the woman's hand that her son was about to get the hiding of his life.

"Thank you again ma'am," the girl said, an easy smile falling on her face as the woman began to turn away.

"You're very welcome, dear," she replied. "Be safe, now."

Henry's head craned over his shoulder to watch the stranger as his mother hauled him away, his eyes confused and suspicious.

The girl watched the pair walk away, waiting until they had entirely disappeared from view before heading in the opposite direction. In her left hand was the replacement cone, and in her right was the woman's wallet, tucked nimbly between her fingers. It was a large one, filled with change that she was afraid would jingle and alert the woman, but luck had been on her side that day. She forced herself not to look at the spoils until she was back in her room, away from anyone who might be able to identify her.

She'd even gotten a free ice cream cone out of it. She gave it a triumphant lick and melted into the summer crowd in the town square, not even having to look behind her to know that the illusion charm had ended, leaving simply drying mud splattered on the stone in front of the bench.

She didn't feel the eyes on her from underneath one of the shaded awnings.

Hermione Granger was a very bright girl. She stopped going to school when she was eleven, having run away from her foster family and the education that came along with it. She never stopped reading, though. Books were her education, taking her around the world and teaching her different languages, concepts in math, big names in literature, well-known events in history, and scientific discoveries.

It was also a way to pass the time. When you were homeless, there were only so many places to go during the day that didn't require payment, and the public library nestled in the middle of downtown London was one of those places. It wasn't often that she went-because she didn't want to make any connections or raise suspicion-but today was an INSET day so she wouldn't draw attention being somewhere other than a school.

She knew that, for whatever reason, police presence had increased in her hunting grounds in London and had made it harder to make a living. Today would be her last day in London before she moved out toward the countryside. Maybe she could even get work - honest work - and learn a trade. She'd be thirteen soon, and might be able to convince someone to hire her. Not a bad deal, as long as no one tried to be her parent.

So, today she wanted to spend her final day in this city doing what she loved: sitting in the back of the library with a stack of books until it made her dizzy to look up from the pages.

The library was small, smaller than she remembered, as she walked through the double doors and entered the quiet sanctuary. She nodded a quick hello to the librarian, who she didn't recognize, and hurried over to the section farthest in the back, shoved in the corner next to a section of academic textbooks from the 1980s that the library had meant to either archive or donate. Reaching behind the row of books, she lifted out a thick tome she'd found a month ago and wiped off the thin layer of dust, cradling it to her chest and retreating to her seat by the big bay window. The chair was saggy - the broken kind where some of the framework had crumbled, making the fabric droop in odd places. Hermione loved it, though. It was the chair no one wanted to sit in. Maybe she felt a kinship.

The book described another world, one with magical people. It detailed the entirety of what it called "The Great Wizarding War," telling of a wizard intent on taking over the world and creating a "pure" race of wizards and witches whose blood was clean. A Wizarding Hitler, Hermione thought to herself.

She felt drawn to it like every fiction book she'd read, but it also held elements that seemed rather dark for a teen fiction work. Overall, reading it set her teeth on edge. However, she continued, feeling as though it was important that she finish it. She wasn't sure why.

It was just after sunset when she reached the last chapter, the fading sunlight peeking its red, pink, and orange colors over the horizon. She flipped the paper, only to discover the final several pages had been removed, ripped close to the binding so that only small jagged scraps remained. Frowning, she ran her fingers over the back inside cover, disappointed that she had never found out what happened after the wizard Grindelwald had been killed.

Sighing, she decided she'd bring this book with her when she left London. Maybe she could find another copy in another library with the final pages. It wouldn't be hard to convince the librarian she'd forgotten her library card and beg for just another day with the book. She found that women especially were easy to fool, particularly when a tearful request came from a young girl.

She rose to her feet and stopped suddenly when faced with a middle-aged looking man, his hair white as snow and a beard the same color neatly trimmed into a sharp angle protruding from chin. His eyes were blue, and they were kind. They also looked at her like he'd seen her soul. It unnerved her, much in the same way the book had. He wore a long grey robe, one that looked almost like a nightgown. It only added to his mystery. No one sane wore that in London.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Albus," he replied, bowing briefly at the waist. It was an odd movement that made him seem from a different time or place. For a second, she wasn't sure if she should curtsy. She settled on sharply nodding her head once. "I see you've found my book."

"You-this is your book?" She blinked, lifting up the book as though to clarify which book they were talking about. "But I discovered it behind some shelves weeks ago. Plus, it's technically the library's book."

Albus's eyebrows raised. "Perhaps I left it there for you to find."

"Why would you do that?"

"Maybe there was something I wanted you to learn."

Hermione studied this strange man, who after careful observation looked both 40 and 140. He was not making fun of her, she knew that much.

"Are you trying to tell me that magic is real? This war actually happened?"

"I'd like for you to see for yourself." Albus's eyes were serious, but Hermione could see softness flitting in their depths. She didn't trust him.

Albus must have noticed her hesitation, because he pulled out a stick from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, her fingers running over the intricate designs carved into it. It was over a foot, longer than the length of her forearm.

"Don't mock me." Her voice was suddenly sharp. She could practically hear her foster siblings jeering at her gullibility after they told her monsters were under her bed, or that there were dinosaurs living in the lake, or that Santa Claus was real. She was done believing in people.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Granger," Albus replied, and Hermione stiffened. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me to another place where I can prove to you the truth of what I am saying without...prying eyes."

"How do you know my name?"

"Let me show you something," Albus continued, reaching out and grasping her hand that held the stick. For some reason, perhaps curiosity, she let him. "Fifteen inches, elder wood, Thestral tail-hair core. Sound familiar?"

Hermione's brain remembered a passage she'd read in the book, about a wizarding wand that had those exact measurements. But it couldn't be...

"Wingardium leviosa," Albus whispered while flicking the stick, and the book in Hermione's hand rose out of her fingers into the air where it hovered, seemingly awaiting further instruction.

Hermione's breath stopped, and she felt something in her mind violently shift. All she could do was stare at the book as it sat in the air. Everything she'd read, about wands and wizards and magic, about war and spells and fantasy...was it all real?

"I've made things happen," she said quietly, so quietly that Albus had to lean in. His hand continued resting on hers as she gripped the wand, a comfortable grounding. "When I was eleven, I found I could make a handful of mud look like an ice cream cone. When I was finished with it, it would turn back to mud. I could do it with a few other things, too."

Albus didn't say a word, and Hermione continued.

"When I was seven, my hair grew three feet overnight. When I was ten, I saw a girl with a chocolate bar and I wanted it. It ended up in my hands and I didn't know how. I ran away before she thought I stole it."

It was quiet then, and Albus flicked the wand so the book slowly lowered back onto the chair where Hermione had been sitting only moments before.

"Am I...different?" Hermione didn't know quite the words to express what she wanted to ask. "Am I like you?"

Albus gently opened Hermione's fingers until the wand-the famous wand that ended the Wizarding War-fell out and into his waiting hand. He tucked it in the pocket of his robe and stood upright, clearing his throat.

"I was rather hoping that we'd find out together," he said. He held out his hand to her then, and she paused.

This man knew her name, which clearly meant he'd been watching her. She didn't know what conceivable reason he would have for trying to gain her trust, but it wasn't so easily given.

Instead of waiting for her, Albus reached around her and grabbed the book, tucking it under his arm as he looked into her face again.

"What do you want with me?" she asked. Everyone wanted something. It would just be interesting to see if he'd be honest.

Albus's eyes shone with pride, and if Hermione didn't know better she'd think he was impressed.

"You have quite the talent, Miss Granger. And I've been looking for someone like you for a long time."

She blinked. "You mean because of the things I did without trying when I was younger?"

"Well, yes." His smile turned positively wolfish then. "But also because I know you took my wand from me and have it in your pocket as we speak."

Hermione flushed. "How did you-?"

She knew then that he'd been watching her games. The ones she'd played to stay alive, the ones she played to keep from boredom. Tricking a young mother out of her wallet and an ice cream cone, coercing a meal out of a server in a restaurant, pickpocketing on the street in order to feed herself. And somehow he'd felt her take his wand from him as he'd reached past her.

"You're not nearly as good as you think you are, Miss Granger," Albus said, leaning in to pat her lightly on the shoulder. "But I could make you better."

With that, he turned around and began walking away, gliding around the bookshelves until he was out of sight.

"Wait!" Hermione called as loud as she dared in a library, jogging after him. She saw him halfway down the mystery aisle and darted forward, catching up in only a few seconds. He said nothing as she matched his stride, waiting until they'd passed the busy librarian and made it out of the double doors onto the dim London street.

"What did you mean when you said you could make me better?" Hermione asked. Albus didn't even look at her as he reached into his own pocket and pulled out his wand, holding it up for her to see.

Hermione froze, patting her pockets only to realize that the wand wasn't there. The bastard had somehow stolen it back.

"You-"

"You can trust me Miss Granger, but you must never mistake me as someone easily duped. If you remember that, I believe our partnership can be a fruitful one."

This time when Albus offered his hand, Hermione took it without hesitation.

And so it begins.

See you next time.