Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

Philip Larkin

Hampstead was only a half-hour drive from King's Cross.

Hermione sank back into the brown leather upholstery of her mother's cherished 1939 Vauxhall, listening to the hum of the engine.

She glanced up to meet her mother's warm brown eyes in the rearview mirror.

"How was the journey?"

"Ugh, long," Hermione said, smiling. "I've missed you."

Her mother returned her smile, albeit a little watery. "Oh, not as much as I have. You've grown– you're all grown up now–" Her lip trembled then and she lifted a gloved hand from the steering wheel to pat the top of her cheeks.

The car was small enough that Hermione could lean her head against her mother's shoulder from the backseat.

"Mum, it's only been a few months. I'm the same."

"It's been half a year, Hermione darling. You should write more often."

"I'm sorry. Have you heard from dad?"

"He's doing well. Have you done something to your hair? It looks lovely."

Hermione patted her hair automatically. "Oh, just a charm to make it less frizzy."

Her mother looked amused for some reason.

A bump in the road made the windows of the car rattle. She peered outside and watched the street pass by; some of the buildings, like that cigar shop on Camden Street, were still badly damaged by fire, though they had been mostly rebuilt.

"When is your friend coming?"

Hermione detected a bit of curiosity in her mother's voice. She had never invited a friend from school before. In fact when she'd finally returned home for the first time, after the Blitz, she'd stepped off the train alone, lugging her suitcase behind her while the other students laughed and cried, hugging each other goodbye. "Did you have a good time?" her parents had asked, trying and failing to hide their concern that she didn't have anyone to say goodbye to.

"Claire's meeting us at the Leaky Cauldron on the 31st. She'll be staying for a few days at most. She's never been to the Muggle world before."

Her mother shifted her hands on the steering wheel. Her parents always got a little uncomfortable when she referred to their world as the 'Muggle world'.

"Well, we'd best show her a good time, then," her mother said, giving her a reassuring smile through the rearview mirror.

Home was a place that she'd never left.

It was a tall, three-storey brick townhouse with white Georgian windows, a short and narrow path from the curling iron gates led to the door. There was a loose brick by the doorstep; when she was eight she'd fallen and hit her head on it and bounced back up, right as rain. When she was eleven and due to start at Hogwarts, she'd loosened that brick and on the underside she'd etched the rune uruz in the desperate hope that she would return the next holidays to a house still standing.

The house still stood, even after the Blitz. Her parents hadn't told her about it until it ended, keeping her at Hogwarts through the Christmas holidays until the bombings finally stopped the following year.

What she had witnessed instead was the aftermath.

When she came home for the summer break at the end of first year, she'd stared and stared at the charred, crumbling buildings. In Hampstead, an entire street just a few blocks away from her house had been wiped out. Flattened. Children secretly explored the ruins, though they had been warned away, their faces thin and hungry.

Hermione had returned each holidays when she could with half her suitcase filled with pumpkin pasties and meat pies, all under a stasis charm.

Her mother had almost cried when Hermione had brought home a basket that was charmed to keep food fresh, never mind that there was never enough food to keep in it.

It simply wasn't fair, she thought, as she stood in the warmly lit kitchen of her home watching her mother prepare dinner, a simple meal of soup and bread.

"There's plenty of carrots and beans and cabbage, thanks to the local garden, but one egg per person a week …" Her mother shook her head. "I've saved up some ration tickets for bacon so we can treat our guest when she comes."

Hermione's throat grew tight. "Oh, mum. Please, save them for yourself. We get spoiled up there, you know we do. I can visit Diagon Alley for some provisions…"

Her mother shook her head firmly. "If the entire nation can survive on rations, so can we."

Even the royal family were subject to food rations, as her mother liked to remind her.

Still, it was one egg a week.

Hermione left the silver flask of firewhiskey (which she had refilled) for her father in his study. For her mother, she'd bought a Sneakoscope. Although Greyback had now apparently moved his rampage further north, towards Birmingham, she still felt ill when she remembered the East London attacks.

"Just put it in your purse, mum. Keep it with you."

"What is it?"

"It'll make this high-pitched noise if there's any danger nearby. It's charmed so that only you will be able to hear it."

"Goodness. I expect that would be rather alarming …"

"If you hear it, let's say when you're walking somewhere alone, just run, okay?"

"A-alright."

"Promise me, mum."

"I promise."

.

At night, Hermione wrapped herself in her childhood blanket, one her grandmother had hand-quilted, and found her mother in the living room kneeling by the fireplace.

"Do you need some help?"

"Are you allowed to use magic?"

"Not with my wand but…" She fed the logs with her blue fire until they started to smoulder and catch alight.

Her mother stood up brushing soot from her knees and smiled at her proudly. "Bit of a handy trick, that! Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please. I'll make it."

When they were sitting in front of the fire, sipping from their mugs, Hermione tipped her head onto her mother's shoulder and breathed out a quiet sigh.

"I want to help with the war."

"Hush. It'll be over soon, it's just a matter of time like your dad says."

"But I can help. The war might be ending soon but … maybe I can try to heal wandlessly. Please, take me with you tomorrow to the hospital."

"I can't promise you I'll allow you treat my patients without any medical training."

Her mother chuckled at Hermione's sulky expression.

"How did your exams go? I remember you telling me that you needed eleven O's, whatever they mean."

"They went alright. Our OWLs are in June. And O is for Outstanding - it's the wizarding equivalent of an A."

"And what do you need eleven O's for?"

"Well … to be Minister for Magic, for one," Hermione joked.

Her mother laughed. "My daughter, the first female Minister."

Hermione shook her head. "I wouldn't be the first. Not by a long shot. The first female Minister for Magic was Artemisia Lufkin in 1798. Anyway, politics would be the last thing I want to do–"

Her mother looked taken aback. "In 1798?"

"Yes. It wasn't even a big deal … still isn't actually. As my Defence professor said once, it's magic, not brawn, that counts."

Her mother was quiet. Eventually, she said, "Sometimes … I forget how different a world you live in."

Hermione pulled back to study her mother's face. She was staring into the fire with a strange, thoughtful expression.

She turned back to Hermione and gave her a soft smile. "I spent my younger days marching down the streets for the equal right to vote … I was called all sorts of names but we succeeded … When I turned twenty-one just in time to be able to vote in '29 along with my father and brothers, oh … I felt like I was part of the future." She smiled again, her eyes distant.

"I can't deny, I'm sometimes a little envious … our world must seem so dreary to you, chained as we are to problems that must seem so small when you have magic."

Hermione kissed her mother's cheek. "Oh mum, it's not always peaches and cream, believe me. Just because there's magic, doesn't mean we … there's still a lot of bl– prejudice and bigotry; people still die from incurable diseases but horribly, so much more horribly… it's like, by taking away the smaller problems, we have even bigger ones."

Her mother looked concerned. "But you are safe at Hogwarts?"

Apart from the fact she'd nearly died a handful of times in the past year…

"Yes, of course."

In the morning, Hermione rose and pulled on her running shoes. At least here, her shorts wouldn't raise any eyebrows. The wizarding world was still bizarrely Victorian when it came to clothes.

Running on pavement instead of grass was a different experience altogether. She felt like she was flying.

When she returned, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, her mother looked at her in surprise over her morning cup of tea.

"I didn't know you ran."

"I've been training," Hermione said, flopping down onto the kitchen chair.

"You look fit as a fiddle. How long have you been training?"

"Since … January? Every day. Well except one. I missed one last week."

Her mother looked impressed. Which was gratifying until she ruined it by saying, "You wouldn't be seeing anyone without telling me, would you?"

"Mum!"

"I just– there was a boy, the one with the green eyes, he seemed quite friendly–"

"Stop it, please. As if I would get up and run everyday for a boy–"

"–and do your hair–"

"Mother, please. I need a cup of tea, at least, before you do this to me. It is far too early in the day."

Her mother laughed loudly.

.

She did not accompany her mother to her shift at the local hospital that day. Even though she had asked, her mother had said no.

So Hermione stayed at home. The books in the sitting room were all still there, in the same order, untouched. Understandably, her mother hadn't had time to read.

Hermione had never had a 'favourite book'. Not even as a child. She loved them all, some more than others, of course. The books in her bedroom were organised by genre– history, fiction, poetry, a few picture books from when she was a child. Her magical textbooks took up an entire bookcase. When she turned eleven, she'd stopped reading The Secret Garden, stopped right in the middle of the children's illustrated edition of the Aeneid and started reading Hogwarts, A History instead. She'd walked away from Flourish and Blotts that first time with more books than she could carry. And she'd begged her parents to let her re-visit, which they'd obliged, many times before her first term even began.

The books in the sitting room were her parents' books, collected over the years and organised entirely by favourites. The first shelf, behind her father's leather armchair, was filled with Greek and Roman classics, some even from his school days: Letters from Cicero, several worn editions of the Iliad and The Odyssey, Plato's Symposium. But wedged between them all were Dickens, Dante's Divine Comedy, Wilfred Owen's war poetry and a much-loved copy of Moby Dick.

Her mother's shelf was a mix of Romantic and the more contemporary; Mrs Dalloway and Frankenstein, an anthology of Keats seated next to Faulkner … and her mother's most cherished: a beautiful leather-bound copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Hermione had never read it herself.

Her Muggle education had ended the moment Dumbledore had stepped through that doorway, with her letter in his hand.

At this point she'd read more textbooks than novels.

She trailed her fingers over the spines. As much as she was proud to be a Muggle-born, she'd never actually claimed her heritage. She'd left it all behind. Were she to walk into a local school and sit down among her peers, she would know next to nothing.

These books, so loved by her parents, their names familiar but their contents not … Hermione had never gotten to know them.

And so, she brewed herself a cup of Earl Grey and sat down in her father's leather armchair (which smelled exactly the same as it always had) and opened the first book of many.

On the 31st, her mother drove her to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Claire.

"I'll just wait outside. Don't be long!"

"Won't you come in?"

Her mother gazed at the broken down façade with some trepidation. "No, it always gives me an odd sort of feeling … I've seen enough of the inside, I suppose."

What she meant was that she didn't like to be stared at, as though she were a creature at the London Zoo.

Hermione nodded. "Five minutes."

She spotted Claire's long blonde hair as soon as she walked in. She was sitting at the back, a small black suitcase propped up by the table.

Claire looked up as Hermione approached and smiled brightly, rushing forward for a hug.

"Thank goodness, I was feeling awful sitting by myself in these clothes. I had to borrow them from my cousin– spent a good hour making them fit, since he's a lot taller … the barman has been giving me strange looks, I had to tell him I was in disguise– are you ... are you laughing?"

Claire, bless her, was wearing under her cloak a pair of men's blue trousers and matching vest, along with a silky white dress shirt; the tips of the collar were long and pointy in the wizarding style. She was even wearing a blue bow tie. A pair of shiny black lace-up boots poked out from the bottom of her cloak.

"Claire, I'm so sorry– you must have thought– since you've seen me wear trousers–" Hermione stopped chuckling when she saw that her friend looked quite crestfallen. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I should have said, women do wear dresses, in fact it's far more common. You look very dashing– I'm sorry, wait– you were being thoughtful, Claire, thank you–"

Hermione held onto Claire's arm as it seemed like she was about to march right back into the Floo to change her clothes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Claire said accusingly, her face pink and her eyes unusually bright.

"I'll help you get some Muggle clothes. For now, I'll just–"

Hermione pointed her wand and transfigured the cloak into a coat. She removed the bow tie. "There, now just button that up. Mum's waiting, we should go."

When they walked out onto the street, Claire paused and looked around. An elderly man in a suit touched the edge of his bowler hat as he walked by. A vibrant flower stand on the corner caught her attention before it shifted to a passing double-decker bus. Her eyes were wide and uncertain.

Hermione took the suitcase and stored it in the back of the Vauxhall. Her mother leaned from the driver's seat and waved at Claire.

"How lovely to meet you!"

Claire smiled and returned the greeting but stood awkwardly by the car until Hermione came around and opened the door.

"Oh, I guess you've never been in one of these before. It's called a car– like a carriage, without the Thestrals. No, it doesn't fly but it can go quite fast."

"It's ... very interesting. What are those knobs and dials?" Claire pointed to the dash.

Her mother answered. "This one shows me how fast we're travelling and this one shows me how much fuel is left."

Claire nodded as though she understood.

Hermione laughed. "It's okay to be overwhelmed."

She nodded again before relaxing, slightly. "I didn't realise there were so many people in the Muggle world … "

When she showed Claire how to roll down the window, she was cautiously delighted, her embarrassment over her clothes momentarily forgotten.

.

At home, Hermione showed her the guest room. "The bathroom is just down there and, oh, it all works exactly the same as what we're used to by the way. This is a light switch, you flip it and the light goes on, see? And then off. Yes, just like that."

Claire presented her mother with a gift she'd brought from home, a tall plant with shivering green heart-shaped leaves.

"I potted these myself," she said, stroking the leaves fondly. "It's a Cheering plant. Still young but when it matures it'll put you in a good mood every day if you sit by it, especially if you play one of Celestina Warbeck's songs. I think it's a fan."

"Goodness," her mother said, a hand on her chest, "it's beautiful– look, the leaves are simply shining. You must have cared for it especially well."

A faint blush tinged Claire's cheeks.

For dinner, they had roasted bell peppers stuffed with ham and cheese, curried potatoes and a leek and lentil pie. Her mother served it all on their best china.

"This is delicious," Claire said cheerfully. She was still wearing her blue suit trousers, a sight so odd Hermione wanted to commit it to memory.

Hermione wondered if Claire had been half-expecting something unrecognisable. There were many misconceptions about Muggles, like the one where they ate everything raw because they were barbarians.

"There's not much meat available due to the war," said her mother apologetically.

"Oh?"

"Yes, food is being rationed," said Hermione, tucking into the pie. "People are growing their own vegetables though. The local parks are being used for that purpose. Oh and there's American SPAM as well, I suppose."

"Spam?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Canned pork."

Claire looked far too intrigued at that.

.

"She has lovely blue eyes, like your father. And she seems well brought-up," whispered her mother as she washed the dishes. Claire had excused herself to go to the bathroom.

Had her mother been expecting her friend to be as eccentric as Dumbledore?

Hermione dried off a plate and reached up to put it back in the cupboard. "Mum, are you sure you don't mind me going away on the 11th? I can write back and tell them I'm staying home."

"Do you want to go?"

She shrugged. "It's just– I haven't seen you in so long. I don't want to go back so soon."

Her mother stopped washing the dishes and looked at her. "Will it be of use to your studies?"

"Yes, I guess so. Hector Dagworth-Granger is a world-renowned potioneer. It's a privilege actually, to meet him."

"Then you should go. I know how important your education is to you. You won't learn about any magic while you're here. And whilst I won't deny that I've missed you so– so very much, sweetheart, if it's a good opportunity, you should accept the invitation."

Her mother turned back to the dishes. Hermione regarded her quietly for a moment before saying, "Okay."

.

After dinner, Hermione turned on the wireless.

"Oh, I didn't realise Muggles have these too," said Claire.

"It was invented by Muggles actually. Henry Isaacs, a Muggle-born wizard, took it and adapted it."

Claire's eyebrows rose high on her forehead.

"How does it work then? Without magic?"

Hermione explained, haltingly, about radio waves and tuning into the right frequency.

The wireless skittered through static and garbled voices until they landed in the middle of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Claire paused turning the dial and tilted her head. She listened intently as the orchestra swelled, and then– the sweet sound of an oboe, like a lone bird soaring over a lake… "That's beautiful," she said.

Hermione agreed.

"What other stations are there?" Claire turned the dial again.

A man's voice. "Allied troops maintain pressure on the eastern border of Germany … from our correspondent on the 24th of March: 'Our period of waiting is over. This is the time. We have crossed the Rhine, first through the bund, the wall that retains the flood waters of the Rhine, we're out in the open spaces … overhead goes an absolute criss-cross pattern of our tracers firing in as fast as they can into the German bank, the thunder of our guns echoing and crashing in our ears…"

Hermione reached over and flicked the dial.

"…under Allied bombing its inadequacy increases … inevitably that means that the industrial areas will suffer most, and how long the German people can continue to keep going under such an arrangement is an open question…"

More static as she turned the dial again.

"…Nazi concentration camps continue to be liberated one by one as Allied forces launch their offensives … the conditions are deplorable, the few prisoners that remain appear to be skeletons, their bodies too weak to move. Hundreds of thousands of prisoners who were murdered lie in open graves, their bodies strewn–"

Hermione turned the wireless off.

Claire cleared her throat, nervously. "Is this the war they're talking about?"

She nodded. "It's been going on since I was ten. It's seems it really is only a matter of time now before it ends. Hopefully."

"How do Muggles fight, when they're without wands? Do they fight with swords?"

Hermione glanced at her. "No."

.

The next day, Hermione's request to visit the hospital with her mother was once again denied. Her mother insisted that it was not the proper place to show their guest, to which Hermione had reluctantly agreed.

Hermione lent Claire a nice skirt and jacket and gave her a tour of the local vegetable gardens ("Oh, they're very healthy, look at the number of new shoots!"). When they passed by some empty-looking streets, remnants of crumbled buildings still standing, Claire had turned to her, puzzled.

Hermione then explained what she hadn't yesterday. No, Muggles did not fight with swords. Bombs, explosives capable of bringing down entire buildings and spreading fire, were dropped from planes. And they had been dropped all over London for eight months straight.

"Muggles can fly?"

This was not to the point but Hermione nodded. "Much faster than brooms."

.

"Muggles are a lot more sophisticated than I thought," remarked Claire, as they sat at a quiet tea shop nearby Trafalgar Square. They had taken a cab to the city, though her mother had warned her not to go far.

"I would say that in many areas, Muggles are more sophisticated than wizards. Everything's on a larger scale. But there's nothing sophisticated about war," Hermione added.

She felt oddly listless. Perhaps she was just sick of being reminded of the war. Now that she was back home, it was everywhere; it was the sandbags piled around the entrance to air raid shelters, the sign that hung outside the tea shop that read 'One scone per customer', the smog that filled the streets from the overworking factories, the queues of people outside the butcher's, ration books in hand.

As terrible as it was, Hermione longed to be back at Hogwarts, to sit out in front of the lake … to hold magic in her palm again.

Claire, however, was cheerful. She stirred her tea daintily and bit into her scone as if it wasn't hard and dry.

Hermione felt a little better as the day progressed. They went to watch a film. Claire was enthralled; she clapped loudly as the film ended, spurring looks. "You can't say this isn't magic, Hermione. I refuse to believe you!"

It was admittedly entertaining to see London through Claire's eyes. Everything was fascinating, even the currency. Hermione gave her several coins as keepsakes.

"Who's this on the back?" asked Claire, holding the dirty penny as if it were a nugget of gold. They were walking along the Thames, the sun bright and warm on their skin. Hermione kept thinking about Eidyr and the lake. She wondered if more children had disappeared since.

"That's King George."

"I forgot Muggles have royalty. Is that where they live?" she pointed to Westminster Palace.

Hermione laughed suddenly. "No, that's our Parliament. Buckingham Palace is much bigger. I guess you could say it's like the Wizengamot, but people are elected by popular vote. And the courts are separate from parliament; it was badly damaged by the same bombs, but like the Big Ben," she gestured down the river, "it still stands."

"Sirius mentioned he's visited Muggle London a few times, with James. I wonder if he's been here before? He's never told me about it." Claire looked annoyed.

"Really?" The thought of James and Sirius going on a lark in Muggle London alarmed her. "They didn't cause any trouble, I hope."

Claire smiled joyously as they walked. She raised her arms from her sides and craned her neck into the sky. "Everything seems so much bigger. Grander, somehow. I wasn't expecting it."

And it was sort of grand, wasn't it? It was a world built upon the shoulders of their forebears, hundreds and hundreds of years of civilisation, of wars and art and philosophy.

But why, Hermione thought suddenly, staring into the Thames, did she feel like she was not a part of it?

.

Later, in the cab ride back home, she looked out the window at the slowly darkening streets and found herself wondering if she had ever crossed paths with Riddle in Muggle London before. Or if there were certain places that they both had visited, like the London Zoo before it was bombed, or if they had ever at one point tuned into the same station, listening to the London Philharmonia perhaps, or the BBC. She tried to picture him, wearing Muggle clothes, strolling along the streets, but she couldn't.

He had stayed back at Hogwarts this break; as of this moment, he was probably practising Dark magic somewhere, possibly in the chamber with his basilisk, eating Hokey's vol-au-vents. Perhaps he too had smuggled food in his suitcase whenever he returned to the orphanage in summer, though she doubted that he shared it.

She couldn't picture him in an orphanage either.

.

When her mother dropped Claire off at the Leaky Cauldron a few days later, her suitcase was packed with odd souvenirs: a folded up copy of a London newspaper, a lithograph of Buckingham Palace, several pressed leaves and flowers she'd gathered, a tube of lipstick, Muggle coins, a tin of Earl Grey and a can or two of SPAM.

"I'd love to come visit again," Claire said, giving her a tight hug and kissing her cheek. "After June, would you mind if we spent a day out with Sirius? And James too, if you want. We can watch another film!"

She laughed at Claire's eagerness. "Of course!"

Claire was still beaming when she disappeared into the green flames of the Floo.

On the final day of her stay at home, Hermione helped her mother with the dishes after dinner and made them both a cup of tea, which they drank together in the living room.

Claire's Cheering plant sat proudly on a side table, its green leaves swaying, lifting their mood a little.

"Tell me more about the old days," Hermione said, snuggling into her mother's side.

"The old days?"

"When you were twenty and marching the streets. Or our holidays in France when I was little. I miss France."

Her mother stroked her hair for a moment. "When I was your age, I was a voracious reader. Like you. But my grandmother– she was very old-fashioned– she would try and make me sit still and learn to sew and play the piano. She would tie ribbons in my hair and buy me pretty dresses and she hated that I spent so much time reading. I told her– goodness, I was so precocious– I told her that 'elegance is inferior to virtue' and that I'd much rather develop my mind than adorn a gilt cage."

"Were you quoting Wollstonecraft?"

Her mother looked surprised and a little pleased. "How did you know?"

"I've been reading some of your books. And dad's."

"It's my favourite. I've kept that particular copy of A Vindication since my Oxford days."

"I wanted to go to Oxford," Hermione remembered and her mother laughed.

Then her laughter subsided as she stroked Hermione's hair. "Yes, well, you have far more magical places to be now, darling," she murmured. "You were never one to stay in a gilt cage."

.

Next morning of the 11th, Hermione clutched the portkey Hector had sent, a silver medallion larger than her palm. She held onto her mother's hand as she promised to write, telling her again that she'd be safe, that she'd miss her. Only at the last possible second did Hermione let go, still gazing into her mother's warm brown eyes, smiling tearfully as the Portkey whisked her away.

.

She landed clumsily, alongside her suitcase. Soft patterned carpet cushioned her knees and she stood up to see that she was in a bedroom. A large four-poster bed with pale blue velvet hangings sat against the stone wall on one side, and along the adjacent wall, two tall arched windows let in thick streams of morning light.

Hermione had only a few seconds to take this in, to inhale and smell the old wooden furniture, to register that this quiet feeling of excitement was due to the tingle of magic in the air. She was questioning why she immediately felt so at ease even though it was all unfamiliar when, with a loud crack, a house-elf suddenly appeared.

"Welcome to Dunnottar Castle, miss. Master invites you for morning tea."

"What's your name?"

The elf blinked. "Sasha, miss."

"Sasha, nice to meet you. Is this my room?"

"Yes, miss. You can leave your suitcase, we will unpack for you. Is miss ready to go to morning tea?"

"I am but there's no need to unpack for me. I'll manage," Hermione said with a smile that quickly faded when Sasha looked confused.

"Y-yes miss. Are you ready?"

"Alright."

Sasha tentatively grasped the edge of Hermione's sleeve and disapparated.

They arrived at a covered balcony. Delicate leafy vines wrapped around the supporting stone columns, framing a view that was entirely filled by the glittering expanse of the North Sea. A small table laden with food was set up in front, with several already seated occupants.

Hector was sitting with his back to her, facing the sea. To his left was Riddle, who had been in the act of pressing a strawberry to his lips when she'd arrived. Seated on the other side, however, was someone she hadn't expected at all.

"Professor Dumbledore!" she exclaimed, delightedly. He smiled warmly back at her. "Miss Granger."

Hector turned and smiled also. "Welcome! Please, have a seat– I trust you had a nice break so far?" He still had a rather intimidating air about him but his demeanour was just as warm as Dumbledore's. She greeted him enthusiastically and thanked him for the invitation.

She sat in the remaining chair beside Riddle ("Hi", "Hello"). He was wearing a different set of black tailored robes this time (she wondered, very briefly, if he had borrowed them). She was still in her Muggle clothes. There was no need to change, however; her trousers were unwrinkled, her blouse clean and of good quality.

Hector watched them both and then exchanged an amused glance with Dumbledore. (Had their greeting been that obviously stilted? She didn't think so. They'd both said words.)

An elegant white teapot in the centre of the table flew over and poured tea into her cup.

Hector spoke. "We were just awaiting your arrival. Albus and our young friend Floo'd here from Hogwarts a few minutes ago. I connected my Floo to you Albus," he turned to Dumbledore, "in the vain hope you might visit more often."

Dumbledore chuckled. "My dear friend, of course."

"He always says this, but he never does," said Hector, shaking his head. Again, Hermione marvelled at the potioneer's strange youthfulness. There was an energy to him that was at odds with his lined face and stooped shoulders, his aged hands.

"I've been meaning to ask– long have you known Professor Dumbledore, Hector?" said Hermione, as she splashed a little milk into her tea.

"Oh… about thirty or so years. Right, Albus? We met in 1914 in El Salvador."

"Actually, I believe we first met in 1899 on the eve of my graduation. You were a guest speaker, as I recall."

"That's right. But don't remind me of my age, Albus, it's unsporting."

Dumbledore laughed and took a bite out of his egg sandwich. It occurred to Hermione that she'd never heard her professor laugh before; it was a pleasant, relaxed sound as opposed to his usual reserved chuckles.

"Now," said Hector, dapping his mouth with his napkin. "Miss Granger, Mr Riddle– actually, do you mind terribly if I call you both by your first names? I'd like to dispense with formalities as soon as possible, considering the week ahead of us."

"Of course," they both replied.

"Your potions professor has been singing your praises, and I mean that quite literally... like a song bird." He laughed. "Deservedly, I'm sure. It has been some time since I've taught students as young as yourself– I might be a little out of touch. But there's nothing more enjoyable than watching the bright young minds of tomorrow learn and discover, as I once did. So, consider this place your home while you stay– I'd dare say there's a lot to discover and explore," he said, smiling a little knowingly. "I will give you a tour of the main parts once we've finished our morning tea. Then, I'll give you some time to settle in and come afternoon we shall brew. There's quite a few potion-making techniques I'd like to show you and once we've covered them, we may have a little fun and experiment; my favourite thing to do, as you know, Albus."

"Oh, surely, I do," replied Dumbledore. "I still remember the time you invented that flying potion and tested it on me– I was clanking around with heavy lead boots for a week."

"Flying potion?" said Riddle curiously.

"Ah," said Hector seeming a little embarrassed all of a sudden, "that particular potion isn't Ministry approved."

Hermione could tell Riddle longed to ask more questions on it but he restrained himself. His lips were stained red from the strawberries which he seemed fond of. She tried one and found it very sweet. But the little egg sandwiches were perfect and so were the varieties of cheese. She watched Riddle try the époisses and pressed her lips together to avoid smiling when he frowned at the smell. He didn't touch any of the cheeses after that, though he, like Dumbledore, favoured the little fruit tarts dusted with sugar.

The teapot floated around, refilling their teacups whenever they emptied and a small pitcher of milk began to follow, pouring the exact amount of milk into her tea that she'd put in the first time.

The view of the North Sea, the salty air, the perfect tea, the entertaining anecdotes supplied by Hector and Dumbledore ... it was the loveliest morning tea she'd ever had.

But then, for some reason, she suddenly remembered thin vegetable soup and cans of SPAM and pictured her mother standing alone in the kitchen, washing the dishes. A hollow feeling grew in her chest. She resolved to keep her promise to write home.

.

Dumbledore departed shortly after, his blue eyes twinkling as he patted them both on the shoulder. "I trust that the two of you will learn a great many things this week. Remember to have fun. I will escort you back to Hogwarts on the 17th."

Hermione could almost hear Riddle's internal derision when Dumbledore said 'have fun' (like they were on a picnic instead of being privately tutored by a famous potioneer) but he hid it well with a polite smile, wishing Dumbledore a good rest of break.

Hermione gave Dumbledore an unexpected hug right around the middle, grateful that he'd come. She found that she'd rather missed him and was sad to see him go. "Thank you, professor," she said sincerely.

Dumbledore gave her a fond smile as he stepped into the fireplace of the main hall, a hand raised in farewell.