01 July 1981
Potter Cottage, Godric's Hollow

The familiar feeling of cat hair tickling at her nose had Hermione sneezing relentlessly into the duvet over her head when she first woke, The world around her felt muffled with the scent of wet dog in the air, and her body feeling very much like jelly as she stretched before falling bonelessly back against the mattress. Streaming sunlight punctured through the feathered down, making her pause. When was the last time she had awoken with the sun and not her alarm? Shouldn't she have been at work by now? Perhaps it was her day off? Actually when was her last day off? Did she still have any saved or was Finnicks being vindictive again? The last thing she properly remembered was crossing the Black Lake in the dead of night, during the summer solstice.

Hermione suddenly jolted upright as everything came rushing back into focus. The misty-eyed returned to Hogwarts, the cold trek to the Isle of the Dead, going through the pain-staking motions of setting up the ritual and the ritual itself. There was the familiar pinch of apparation coupled with the pain of shrinking bones as she returned to her younger self. Confusion, pain and guilt had roiled within her when she had darted between her childhood home, the Burrow, Surrey, Grimmauld Place and finally passed out upon the Potter's doorstep with a broken wand behind her ear. Then came the backlash of the ancient magicks that had her writhing in pain, and her subconscious seeking out the nearest power source to drain dry; like a sponge soaking up water.

Hands roved over her suddenly smaller and spry body as she checked to make sure that everything was where they should be, and intact. Head, check. Arms, check. Legs, check. Heart, check. It was the bandage bound tightly around her scarred wrist though, that gave her pause; it wasn't the enchanted bandages that she had used in the past, they were far too clean for that. With quaking fingers she unbound the gauze, intent on seeing for herself whether the cursed scar was still there. When she had first gotten the branding in question, she'd tried just about anything to get rid of it or even hide it, but Bellatrix had used a cursed blade meaning that nothing short of the darkest magicks would do the job. Now, Hermione may have dabbled in some of the darker magicks (the ancient ones being questionable enough as it was), but to go that far for a little scar? Even that was pushing it.

Her breath fell from her lips with a dismayed hiss when she saw that the eight letter word was still there, engraved into her skin. It stung—which wasn't new—something that had tempered a little over the years (or perhaps her pain tolerance had just grown), but as she clutched to her aching wrist, she was reminded of the day she'd first gotten it. Days spent int he bed in Shell Cottage as she recovered from the torture she'd endured at Bellatrix's hand. Ron would later tell her that they (the prisoners in Malfoy Manor) could hear her screams all the way down in the basement.

A wet nose soon prodded at her arm as a sad whine sounded, pulling her from her thoughts and yanking her gaze downwards to where a black wolfhound sat looking very sad and sorry for itself, at the edge of the mattress. Her unmarred hand was equally as shaky as she reached out to pet the dog next to her, as the scarred one came to rest in her lap. Despite the lack of grey in his coat, Hermione could easily pick out the handsome features of Padfoot in the canine next to her. Mostly because of the many summers she'd spent with the man and the rest she'd spent pouring over photos with Harry after he'd died.

"Hi, puppy…" Hermione whispered, her voice croaking after so much disuse as she rubbed his ears, silently marvelling at how soft they were and tried to blink back the tears when her hands met fur (he was real!). She blinked dumbfoundedly at the sound of her own voice; it was odd hearing something so high-pitched and young after so many years of sounding like a ten-pack-a-day-smoker. She'd always thought that she had sounded mature even at this age (many people had told her she was, anyhow) but now? Now she thought that she sounded like a chipmunk on helium—it was rather embarrassing and she found herself wanting to sink back beneath the covers.

Padfoot whined and prodded at the girl again, this time climbing up onto the small bed and making it dip with the sudden extra weight. Hermione let out a small squeak of surprise at the action, arms flailing about as the wolfhound all but scrambled on top of her as he climbed up onto the bed and pushed her back against the pillows. He took a moment to comfortably situate himself between her legs, mindless of the cat dozing atop her feet. It drew the ire of said golden kneazle and the brunette couldn't help but think of her own squash-faced feline. Hermione, herself, was a tossed a glare for her sudden movements as Padfoot climbed up, effectively snubbing her as the feline turned their back to the other two in a huff.

"Guess I'm not moving now, huh?" Hermione sighed as she peered down at the wolfhound in her lap, well aware that he was playing the role of the overgrown lapdog very well as she ran her fingers through his coarse fur. Logically, she knew that this dog was in fact a wizard, but there was just something about talking to animals like they were the keepers of secrets that made everything feel better. It was like whispering your confessions into the wind, it was unlikely that someone might hear but you'd at least get things off of your chest. "Y'know I'll have to get up to pee eventually, right?"

"Arf!" Padfoot just barked in reply, tail wagging in the kneazle's face.

"Right…"

Glancing about, Hermione found herself in a nursery, not a torture chamber as she'd first feared. It was a small room, decked out in an odd assortment of retro and medieval apparel. There lay a wicked rocking chair in the corner of the room, tucked between a furbished cradle and the small bed upon which she lay. Above her shoulders sat a window that overlooked the front yard and a dusty dresser (which must've coupled as a changing table) that sat against the opposite wall. And across it all lay a generous helping of animal fur.

It was rather quiet in the nursery—save for the baby monitor & the clock chattering away—a fact that Hermione greatly welcomed as she tried to get her head on straight. So much had happened over such a short time span. She'd successfully (considering who you asked) travelled back in time, she knew that much, but to when was the question. Okay! Okay! Calm down! Let's look at the facts, what do you know? She sucked in a deep breath as she went over the facts she knew to be true. I'm sitting in a fully-fitted nursery, so Harry must've been born recently; which means that we've PASSED 1980. And the Potter's house is still standing, so that means it's BEFORE Halloween, 1981; which gives me about a year to work with, right? A year's good, that's not too bad, better even! We did everything in a year before, and that was when we didn't know where everything was. So, home-field advantage?

"Wha—ack!" Hermione flinched back from the long wet tongue that slathered itself against her cheek, doing a much better job of pulling her from her thoughts than the wet nose prodding at her arm.

"Ruff!" Padfoot appeared affronted by her actions as he ducked to avoid her wildly flapping arms.

"You're the one who licked me!" She replied before falling back against her pillows with a heavy sigh. Hermione turned to face the water-stained ceiling as her expression mirrored her pensive thoughts. "A year, that's good right? You can do a lot in a year…"

Whilst not being able to see the canine, she could practically picture how his head tilted in interest, ear flopping to the side as he listened to her must aloud. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that they were back at Grimmauld Place, whilst the older Order of the Phoenix members bustled about like busy bees. Mrs Weasley would be guarding the kitchen like an angry dragon, Ron would be thrashing Harry at yet another game of Wizard's Chess over by the fireplace and Ginny would be not-so-subtly ogling the bespectacled boy across from her brother. Whilst the twins cooked up some other trick or treat for their joke shop.

Hermione's nose scrunched up in discomfort as she felt the canine move about, resituating himself once more, so that he could wobbily stand over her. She could feel his warm breath on her face, and it scrunched up further, as disgust coloured her features and the smell of, what could only be described as hot garbage, floated down. At her questioning grunt, a nice long lick from chin to forehead followed. "Hey! Stop that!" Hermione smiled despite herself as she pushed the slobbery wolfhound from the bed, before she sat up to wipe the drool from her face. "Yuck! That's so gross! I mean, I know dog's mouths are s'posed to be cleaner than the loos, but you lick yourself with that thing!"

Padfoot looked entirely too pleased with himself as he allowed his much too large frame to be pushed from the bed and flopped none-too-gently to the floor, landing next to the forgotten washcloth before he climbed to his feet. Swinging her legs out of bed, Hermione paused for a moment to shiver at the cold wooden floors beneath her socked feet, to steady her weak feet and another more to recognise that she had redressed in something that was not her own clothes. "These…these are not mine…"

Her gaze roved over the oversized Cokeworth Chiefs t-shirt draped over her shoulders and the thick woollen socks which had just about slipped from her feet. A quick glance down the collar of her billowy shirt showed that not even her underwear was her own. "Who dressed me?" She asked of Padfoot, as if the canine was going to intelligently respond. He just barked once and wagged his tail playfully, as if trying to tell her that it was all right. "Yeah, you no help" She sighed.

Thankfully the bathroom was easy enough to find. The obnoxiously tiled room lying at one end of the hall and decorated in so many ornate doorknobs that she felt like she was staring at the Prefect's bathroom, at Hogwarts. She'd felt odd going to the loo with the owl figurine watching her from the windowsil, but needs must and all that. Even from where she sat, she could still see the shadow of Padfoot as he sat guarding the door, waiting for her to come out. She was just thankful that the animagus had had enough humane sense to remain outside that coming in the kneazle had tried (and succeeded) to do. What was it with animals and watching people pee? Hermione wondered as she moved to wash her hands. Is it a trust thing?

And then she paused, gazing upon herself fully for the first time since she had returned to the past. Her hair had returned to its infamous bushy state (the same one which had, embarrassingly, earned it its own Beast Classification), puffing up about her face with added volume thanks to her bed hair. Looking herself in the mirror right then, she could see why it had been given the classification of Head Devourer, but that didn't mean she had to like it; all it did was make her sorely miss her bonnet. At least her eyes were just as vibrantly brown as they had always been; if a little more golden than she last remembered.

Lifting her layers, she found the usual litany of scars which she had accumulated over the years; some from work, but most from her school years at Hogwarts. That was the problem with Gryffindor pride, it tended to earn you a fair bit of permanent rough & tumble. Most had faded with age or turned a soft silver, but a few more permanent ones still remained. In particular, there was one that cut across her waist, courtesy of one Antonin Dolohov. It had been the result of some miscellaneous purple spell (one of his own creation, according to Madam Pomfrey), from their foray into the Department of Mysteries in their fifth year. It was also part of the reason why she and Ron had never worked out. He—coming from a large family—had wanted kids of his own, and she couldn't give him that. She knew, she'd tried.

Save for a few other features and the haunted look in her eyes, she, more or less, appeared to be the same as she had been the first time around. The only difference between this time and the last time she had been ten, was that there was no strange witch knocking on her door, telling her about this magical world she had no clue she belonged to. Nor, was her mother growing frighteningly mad at her father about his "hidden devilish nature" Oh well. Logically, Hermione knew that she was taking these changes rather well for someone who had just regressed in age at least a century—at least, on the outside (she wasn't going to talk about the little box in the back of her mind where she stuffed her panic & insecurities)—but that was the good thing about getting old, nothing bothered you anymore.

Where the nursery had been a nice and serene quiet to wake to, like the sun on a warm Sunday morning; downstairs was decidedly not. Strange and familiar voices floated up the stairs as she descended with the kneazle & Padfoot on her left and her hand gripped tight to the bannister on her right. She had blinked dumbly at the sight when the feline had first mounted the canine, wondering at the relationship between the two considering their interactions when she'd first awoken. But as she came to a stop in the doorway of the living room, she found herself confronted by so much visuals that everything turned to static as her fingers dug into the frame of the archway.

The room was open plan allowing her to see both dining room, kitchen & living room all at once, and all three were bustling with so many more ghosts than she had ever seen at once. Some were straight out of history, whilst others were the younger versions of their old & grey selves that she had known once upon a time. And here they all were with live, beating hearts. To the left lay the living room and adjoining hallway which were occupied with the war-hardened, but barely scarred, Mad-Eye Moody who looked more human than prosthetics as he scanned the cottage for any evidence as to what took down the wards. Apparently, the only reason they were even here was because Remus had blabbed before he'd left for the Moors, and now Lily was reaming into the headmaster for all she was worth.

In the middle sat a bedraggled James as he bounced an equally as giggly Harry on his knee, occupying him with various multicoloured shapes to chew and slobber on, though he seemed more content with just the man's fingers. At his feet sat Padfoot & the kneazle, who had made a beeline for the pair upon landing on the ground floor. The canine appeared more than happy to join in Harry's drooling over James, much to the cervine's chagrin. Although the bespectacled man appeared focused on the toddler in his hands and the dog at his feet, she noticed that every not & then he would tilt his head this way & that as if listening in to the conversations around him. Mercifully, there were no signs of Peter the rat, but neither were there signs of her old DADA professor.

Either way, it was odd seeing Harry as a toddler, having only ever known him from school. Sure, she would've considered the bespectacled boy her brother—and had for many years despite Ron's comments otherwise—but it was still odd seeing him like this, so small and…helpless. There was no scar upon his forehead, no well-worn glasses or bedraggled hair; only a go-fast red onesie with its butt flap buttoned up wrong and foot stuck impressively stuck inside his mouth, alongside his father's fingers.

The fond smile pulling at her lips soon gave way as she realised that if Harry had been born (as he clearly had), then she clearly would have been too, being a whole year older than the boy. Which meant that she couldn't—or shouldn't—answer to her name unless she wanted to create some weird parados that ended up with two Hermione's at once (although she'd already kinda done that unwittingly). Perhaps she could use her middle name? Jean-Marie was a nice enough name, but not really her…Maybe she could be Jean? It was simple and easy to remember too, and really, it wasn't like she'd be entirely lying if she went by that—it was still her name afterall, just not her first one.

A commotion from the kitchen soon pulled her puzzled attention that way and she soon found herself gazing upon the two eye-catching people in the room. Lily Potter stood on one side of the kitchen absolutely ripping into the wisened headmaster who appeared just as old & grey as the last time the younger witch had seen him. On the other side stood Albus Dumbledore, looking for all the world, like perfect picture of resigned grandfather. He bore no expression of ill will, at least not outwardly because even from the doorway Hermione could see irritation swimming in his eyes.

Hermione froze at the sight of the old wizard, blood running cold and eyes blowing wide. Absently she noted the acknowledgment of the cervine to her left as he muttered a quiet, "I'm glad I'm not Moony or Dumbledore" This was likely aided by the slip of accidental magic that ran through her veins and flickered through her wild curls. But unlike her usual accidental magic, which usually ended up with something on fire (as it had done when she was a child), the radio on the kitchen countertop sprung to life, singing Elvis Presley's (You're the) Devil in Disguise. As the crooning voice of the King of Rock filled the cottage, all eyes eventually swung as Hermione found herself rooted in place.

Here was a man who had played the role of elderly grandfather so well that he'd charmed his way through several generations of witches & wizards until he had a loyal following that would defend him to the end of the earth. Here was a commander of his own formidable army that followed his every word without complaint and would do so, raising their own children with the same beliefs. Here stood a survivor of both wizarding wars; he, a narcissist that believed himself above the law and he, a creator of the darkest Dark Lords. Just looking at him made Hermione sick with a cocktail of feelings.

She couldn't deny her own feelings of trust that she'd placed in the man who had looked after them (predominantly Harry, but them as well, to a lesser degree) throughout their years at school. He'd bent the rules and swayed the odds just enough that they would always win, that Gryffindor—the good guys—would come out on top. Life had been good, there was no denying that, but as the war had dragged on and secrets had been spilt, the rose-tinted glasses she had once worn were cast aside in favour of the truth. But of course, Harry was not so easily persuade; sometimes it made Hermione want to punch the stubbornness out of him. She wasn't sure if it was possible, but that didn't mean she wouldn't give it a damn good go. Malfoy could attest to her right hook, afterall.

Hermione stumbled backwards as Dumbledore quickly exited his scolding and made his way around the kitchen counter, towards the immobile young witch with cunning eyes and expression kind. The little Gryffindor fumbled for her wand before silently cursing as she remembered it had broken when she had first arrived. Her heart rate picked up, thumping wildly in her chest as she backpedalled much to the confusion and concern of the other adults, present. Her eyes darted down the hallway where she had seen the war-hardened auror working only moments before, but her hopes were dashed when she saw that he had vacated the area in favour of the gardens.

Fear, sudden & unbridled, prickled at her heart as the wisened headmaster approached whispering sweet nothings as he shuffled over the threshold. But Hermione was having none of that. No sooner had Dumbledore reached out to her, did her eyes become illuminated in gold and her magic slipped from her fingers without her consent once more. Powered by emotion alone, the old man was flung backwards & away from her and back into the room from whence he had just come.

Hermione didn't stay to see if he was all right; didn't check to see if the startled yelps were his. No, instead she spun on her heel with her heart pounding in her ears and raced back up the stairs. Her feet thundered against the wooden floors as she sped for the bathroom at the end of the hall, slamming the door shut with a bang that reverberated throughout the house and shook the door on its hinges.

Her own panic had masked the pursuer on her heels and it wasn't until the door had just barely missed Padfoot's muzzle which had shot forward after her, did she even know he was there. It took her a couple of tries to get the lock to work with her fingers were shaking so bad; but soon enough she was alone again in the obnoxiously tiled bathroom. She sat tucked away in the bathtub with her legs pulled to her chest, and fingers intertwined with her curls as Padfoot whined and barked at the door, scratching to get in.

Scratch that. Almost nothing bothered her anymore.