Ch. 1 – The Cupboard

A clump of red brushed over Hermione Granger's eyes. They were forced closed as Molly Weasley continued to embrace her like a long-lost daughter who had just returned home.

"Welcome, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, now swaying so that the ends of her hair tickled Hermione's face.

"Hello," she managed to squeak out. She opened her eyes, peering behind Mrs. Weasley and caught Ron's bemused expression that broke into a friendly smile.

"Hi, Hermione," Ginny said with a grin, standing next to her brother. She seemed to be greatly enjoying watching her mother squeeze out the remaining air from Hermione's body.

"Ron, don't just stand there," Mrs. Weasley scolded her youngest son, after finally releasing Hermione. "Carry her trunk."

"Right," Ron said, scrambling forward to pick up the heavy trunk at Hermione's side.

"No, it's all right," Hermione said hurriedly, reaching for the handle.

"Hermione, just let him carry it," Ginny said. She had also strode forward and grabbed Hermione's outstretched arm, laying it back at her side. "I need your help with something else in the kitchen."

"Okay then," she replied, wondering what it could be as she spotted Crookshanks not far off, chasing a gnome. She awaited Ron's comment regarding the amount of books she had crammed into her trunk and was not disappointed as Ron muttered, "Did you bring the whole library with you?" as he picked it up. She rolled her eyes. He was so predictable.

Ron lumbered into the house, followed by Mrs. Weasley lecturing him on the proper way to hold a guest's trunk as Hermione gave Ginny a hug.

"So what's this pressing issue that you need help with?" she asked after they broke apart.

Ginny looked more than a little disgruntled as she responded only with, "Phlegm."

The two girls entered the house. As soon as they moved to the kitchen, Hermione was greeted by a tall, blonde girl with hints of glowing silver in her hair.

"'Ello!" the girl beamed at the pair.

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the former Triwizard champion in the Weasleys' kitchen.

"'Er…hello," Hermione said, forcing a smile. She chanced a sideways glance at Ginny's face and found that she was looking very cross.

"You are 'Arry's friend!" Fleur said brightly.

"Hermione Granger."

"Yes, of course," Fleur said. Hermione got the distinct feeling that it would not be the last time she would be reminding Fleur of her name.

"We are going to start preparing dinner soon," Fleur told Hermione. "I 'ope you don't mind getting dirty! I 'ad to get used to eet very quick!"

Hermione was saved from having to respond as Fleur turned to Ginny. "You are in a better mood now?" she asked.

Ginny grunted.

"You should smile more!" Fleur continued. "You are too cute not to!" She playfully pinched Ginny's cheek and amazingly seemed to not notice the death glare she was being given by the youngest Weasley.

It was perhaps lucky then that Mrs. Weasley descended the last of the stairs and entered the kitchen. "Oh good, you're already here," she said, looking at Ginny and Hermione. "You girls can help with dinner."

She turned to Fleur. "You can take a break tonight, dear." Hermione noticed the tone with which Mrs. Weasley said the last word was very different than when it had been directed towards her earlier.

"No, eet is fine!" Fleur insisted. "Zere is not much else to do 'ere so eet is better for me!"

"Well, four pairs of hands in the kitchen may be too much…"

Fleur turned to Hermione. "You can rest if you want. You must be tired."

"No, I want to help," Hermione said hastily after Ginny sharply elbowed her side.

"I will bring ze chickens zen," Fleur said with an oblivious smile. She bounced out of the kitchen with Mrs. Weasley silently following her.

Hermione turned to Ginny with a raised eyebrow.

"Bill," Ginny answered. "They announced their wedding. I can't believe he would do this. She's been driving me mad."

"Oh come on, you're exaggerating."

"Yeah? Wait until you see how Ron is around her," Ginny muttered darkly.

Dinner preparation proved to be more of a challenge than Hermione had thought. She had spent most of it awkwardly caught between Mrs. Weasley and Fleur as they kept giving her two different sets of instructions although they were working on the same dish, and was thoroughly amazed that neither of them gave into shouting through the whole ordeal despite the palpable tension. She supposed they had an unspoken agreement to keep up at least, the appearance, of being pleasant. If that was the case, Fleur, whose smile never faded, seemed to be a lot better at it than Mrs. Weasley. Ginny proved to be useless at improving the atmosphere, spending the whole time angrily peeling potatoes in the corner.

Mrs. Weasley looked at her daughter after the last of the plates full of food had covered the dining table.

"Ginny, go fetch Ron. Wherever he is."

"How come Ron never has to help?" Ginny complained loudly.

Mrs. Weasley raised a stern eyebrow. "You know your brother wouldn't get much done with—" she did not finish her sentence as she glanced at Fleur who was now absentmindedly humming and poking the cooked meat with a knife.

"Well, I don't see why he gets to goof around just because he can't control his—"

"Just go find him!"

Ginny stormed off to find Ron. They heard a loud crack from outside signaling that someone had Apparated and Fleur exited as well, saying she was going to greet Bill.

Mrs. Weasley turned to Hermione. "Could you set the individual plates and cups, Hermione?"

"Of course."

"They're in there," Mrs. Weasley pointed with her head to the mahogany cupboard resting in the corner of the kitchen. Hermione walked to the corner and bent down, reaching for the two knobs of the cupboard doors.

"Harry's coming the day after tomorrow by the way," Mrs. Weasley said casually. "Dumbledore sent the message earlier."

Hermione's hands stopped and dropped back to her side as she turned to Mrs. Weasley. "Harry's with Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Dumbledore said they had some business to take care of before Harry could come by."

Images of Harry and Dumbledore side by side valiantly firing off jinxes and deflecting curses entered Hermione's mind. A tiny seed of worry took hold of her and threatened to bloom before she quickly reminded herself that Harry could not possibly come to harm if Dumbledore was personally escorting him. But still…

"I'll be right back, dear," Mrs. Weasley said as she made her way to the bathroom.

Still thinking about Harry, Hermione turned her attention back to the cupboard and pulled the doors open. She felt a sudden, distinct change in the air, as if a rather strong gust of wind had blown past. But strangely, judging from a quick glance outside, it had seemed contained solely within the Weasleys' kitchen. She looked around in puzzlement. Nothing that she saw seemed different. The plates of food on the table looked just as untouched as before and the pans and utensils they had used in meal preparation were still sitting in the sink, waiting to be cleaned.

When she turned back around to peer inside the cupboard, however, she did not see any of the plates or cups that Mrs. Weasley had mentioned. Instead, there was a long strip of darkness. She squinted and could make out a red door at the end of what she now noticed was some sort of hallway. Next to it was a small candle atop a table, faintly illuminating the area.

"Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione turned around and called out. "Your cupboard seems to have an issue!" There was no response. The whole house, in fact, seemed to have fallen completely silent.

It was all very baffling. She assumed the Burrow was no stranger to fantastic, magical happenings but this? What were the chances that none of the Weasleys knew about this when it was in their own kitchen? And hadn't Mrs. Weasley just now told her to grab the plates and cups from here?

Hermione hesitated. Then she heard a whisper that seemed to be coming from the end of the hallway. It was faint, barely perceptible. And strangely, it seemed to be calling her. And most peculiar of all, it sounded suspiciously like—

"Harry," she whispered. She froze. Was it possible? Could he actually be past that door at the end of that hall? Could something have happened to him? She considered the possibility of Harry finding himself in some unexplainable, unforeseen danger and decided almost immediately that it indeed was very possible. Again, she recalled that he was supposedly with Dumbledore and attempted to put her worries to rest. But what if...

She left the kitchen and was soon knocking on the bathroom door. "Mrs. Weasley?" she called. There was no response. The knocks on the door evolved into bangs. "Mrs. Weasley!" There was no response.

"I'm opening the door!" Hermione said. She grabbed the doorknob, twisted and pushed. The door was, of course, not locked and she did not feel wholly surprised to find herself staring into an empty bathroom.

Now starting to mildly panic, she skipped up the stairs until she was outside Ron's room. The door was ajar and she kicked it further in. There was nobody in the room. "Ron!" she called. There was no response.

She backed out the room and ran down the stairs. "Ron! Ginny! Mrs. Weasley!" She paused. "Fleur?" she called.

There was no response. Her mind spinning, she made her way back to the kitchen and once again stared into the darkness emanating from the cupboard.

Again, what sounded like Harry's voice seemed to be calling out to her. Without waiting another second and suppressing all traces of fear she felt, she got on her knees and pushed herself into the cramped space, crawling as fast as she could towards the red door.

The hallway expanded as she went further and soon, there was enough space so that she could stand up and walk normally. She reached the end of the hall and placed her hand cautiously on the doorknob. The voice, though still unintelligible, had grown louder. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, preparing for the worst.

She heard crackling fire and inched forward until she was fully inside the room. The door shut behind her with a creak. "Harry?" she called anxiously. The voice she had heard before answered with a ghostly whisper. She had no idea what it was saying but to finally hear any kind of response to her voice gave her the smallest bit of comfort. She reached in her pocket for her wand and found nothing. Her face turned pale and she gulped nervously. Had she really been so stupid to plunge herself into a potentially dangerous situation without her wand? Where had her mind gone? Her eyes quickly scanned her surroundings and fighting down another cry of surprise, she noticed she was in what looked like a much smaller version of the Gryffindor common room. The only source of light came from a roaring fireplace; an enormous red armchair was situated near it and next to the chair was a small table stand holding up a pile of hardcover books. Hermione then turned her head and found that she had somehow missed the most conspicuous thing in the room: a giant hourglass that was twice her height, sand flowing to the bottom. Judging by the small amount of sand in the bottom half, she could guess that it had started to flow once she had entered the room. Never mind how or why; her head was spinning enough as it was at the impossibility of the situation.

She walked closer to the fireplace and stand. Lost as she was, she found herself doing what she had so many times before in situations of uncertainty and reached for a book. The one on top of the pile was the thinnest of the lot and her jaw dropped as she read the title on the cover: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Hermione pinched herself. As the light pain registered and assured her she was not dreaming, she shook her head. What on earth was going on? Magic was one thing but this? This seemed to go beyond magic. She was not even sure if she actually was on earth anymore. She turned back towards the door she had entered from and noted with much less surprise that it was gone, almost as if she had expected to become trapped in a room with no exit.

A peculiar sense of serenity came over her and it occurred to her that panicking was pointless. There was nothing else to do. She opened the book in her hands to the first page and began to read: Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

She read on, her mind racing and heart skipping a beat every time her eyes came across a familiar name—Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, Sirius—and she became curious. Who had written this? She flipped to the cover page and found there was no author name. It was clearly a fictionalized version of Harry's childhood. But how had it come to be? Figuring that there was only one way she would find the answers to the questions in her head, she sat down on the floor and continued to take in the words on the pages.

As she read about Harry Potter's childhood, she became more convinced that somehow, her friend's life had been adapted into a fantasy novel. She read about how he was forced to wear his cousin's baggy old hand-me-downs, constantly subjected to violence at the hands of that same cousin and mocked at school. And perhaps most preposterous of all was the description of Harry's living conditions. In the story, his aunt and uncle had him sleeping in a cupboard! A cupboard! It was ridiculous!

When she reached the chapter where Harry received his letter from Hogwarts, she smiled. The memory of receiving her own letter warmed her. It was when things had started to make sense—all the strangeness that she had been experiencing. She had finally received an answer and the sensation was so freeing that she had shrieked with happiness and done a little dance, right in front of her shocked parents and Professor McGonagall (who had evidently been attempting to suppress any sort of reaction, but had a faint smile of her own crack through all the same).

But Hermione's smile quickly faded as she read on about how Harry's experience regarding the letter had been nothing like her own. His aunt and uncle had done everything they could to prevent him from reading it—the only sign of wanted contact he had had for ten miserable years. She was frankly shocked at the extent to which they had supposedly gone: traversing to some godforsaken rock in the middle of the sea, armed with a rifle to ward off the delivery. Through all the years, Harry had mentioned his aunt and uncle in passing, of course, but as they were not a subject he was ever keen to talk about, she had never gone further down that line of questioning. But…if this was what he had actually been through? She chalked it up to fictionalized sensationalism and continued to read.

She noted with mild amusement, the bewilderment with which Harry had heard he was indeed a wizard from Hagrid. Her eyes widened at the description of Hagrid giving Harry's cousin a pig's tail ("Hagrid, you didn't!") and quickly reassured herself that it was simply a story. Another big smile worked itself onto her face as she read over the list of their required spellbooks and supplies with nostalgia. How many times had she pored over those exact same books? A new world had been opened to her and she, of course, had tried to discover everything she could about it. She nodded approvingly as book-Harry lay on his bed reading late into the night (Where had that enthusiasm gone?).

Hermione read about the encounter Harry had with the boy at Madam Malkin's Robes, who was undoubtedly Draco Malfoy, and thought about how that conversation had been a source of unease for her friend. Hadn't she heard him relay this story at some point? But unlike in this book, his retelling had not included descriptions of the doubts he had felt. Doubts about how there was no way he could live up to his name. Doubts that, in coming from a non-wizarding background, he would be left behind. Deep down, hadn't she had those exact same doubts? Wasn't that partly why she had read those books over and over? To not give anyone even a chance to reject her?

She reached Harry's journey to King's Cross and was stunned as it told how lost he felt as he did not know how to get on to the platform. "Hagrid!" she said out loud in disbelief. As she read on, the book described a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair and again, her heart skipped a beat; the Weasleys had entered Harry's story. She soon realized that according to the book, amazing as it seemed, Harry and Ron's friendship was merely coincidental. She wondered about that alternate reality where if by chance, she had been the one to encounter him first and had told him how to get on to the platform. Would they have bonded to the same extent? Would he—she gulped nervously—have liked her as a friend without the need for a traumatic troll experience? He and Ron had become closer on the train ride, as she already knew. But if she had been on the train, in that compartment with him from the start, would they have still even been friends? Would their connection over their doubts and worries of coming from Muggle backgrounds have been something they could have bonded over? Or would he have been desperate to let go of everything that reminded him of his miserable past? All these questions and more entered Hermione's head and she almost lost focus of the words on the pages (Nicolas Flamel on the Chocolate Frog card!) until she came across a sentence that made her breath stop. Her face paled as she read over: The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

Hermione had known it was coming. How could she not have? But she still sat stunned for what seemed to be a very long time. Her memory was jolted and as she continued to read, she recalled the very words on the page coming out of her mouth that day on the train, "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

She blinked several times in shock. Was she just remembering wrong? But the moment became as clear as day now that she was reading about it on a page. Those were indeed the first words that she had spoken to Harry and Ron. She ignored with a pang in her heart the descriptions that were applied to her (bossy! bushy! rather large front teeth!) and Ron's words about her after she had left: "Whatever House I'm in, I hope she's not in it."

Now that she was reading about something she had actually experienced, she noted that their encounter had been too detailed to come solely from the imagination of some unrelated writer; it was almost as if one of them had written it. She thought back to Rita Skeeter who had gotten hold of conversation details that she was supposedly nowhere near enough to overhear, until Hermione had discovered that the reporter indeed had been nearby. Everything had made sense with the revelation that the beetle had been there in all those situations. But this book she was now reading? It was not possible. Her mind raced as she racked her brain for possible suspects. Wormtail? Or as he had still been thought of as back then—Scabbers? She quickly rejected the idea with disgust. With mild annoyance at the lack of a clear answer, she gave serious consideration for the first time to the preposterous thought that had been poking around her head since the beginning: this book…was not fiction.

Her mind was whirling. If she accepted that hypothesis, that meant these were the accurate thoughts of how Harry had been feeling in those moments. And in that case… Her eyes widened in horror. The abuse—it was real. The neglect—it was real. She had read over 100 pages of the book and she did not want to admit the possibility. Because despite the inexplicably well-detailed account of her friend's life that she had spent the last hour reading and had convinced herself was mere fiction, it was ridiculous.

Hermione placed the still-open book facedown on her lap. Her breathing grew short and there was a sudden, terrible pain in her heart. She dabbed at her eyes and clutched at her chest, nails poking past the fabric of her shirt and digging into her skin. She kept her hand there until she felt the aching recede and continued to read, now more voraciously than before.

She was with Harry as the book covered many of his firsts and all that he had felt: the frustration from his first lesson with Snape, the elation he had discovered the first time he had been on a broom and how it had been accompanied by his thoughts that for the first time in his life, he could be good at something, reinforced by how instead of being expelled, he had instead been made the Gryffindor Seeker as a first-year.

But when it came time for her early role in his story, it was not as pleasant a discovery. Hermione cringed as she read Harry and Ron's dismissal of her after she had overheard their plans to duel Malfoy at midnight:

"And it's really none of your business," said Harry.

"Good-bye," said Ron.

She let out an exasperated sigh as the book described how to Harry, this was his big chance to beat Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn't miss it. "Honestly," she muttered. But a faint, sad smile nevertheless appeared on her face. It really was how he was. It was partly why she had resolved to make sure to be by his side since becoming his friend. The book portrayed her as a hindrance to Harry and Ron through the whole encounter with Fluffy and she had to swallow down those pesky insecurities that resurfaced. She told herself that it had been five years ago when they had all been immature children—that they had been through so much together afterwards and their relationship as friends had grown way beyond some silly comments from when they were eleven.

Her self-assurances however, did not stop the sting as she read on the page, Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they saw this as an added bonus. The words seemed to be taunting her.

She was granted a temporary reprieve from recalling the sufferings of her eleven-year-old self as Wood explained the rules of Quidditch to Harry. She rolled her eyes. It was no secret that she was not the biggest fan and did not understand what all the uproar was about. It was as if it was some excellent joke that everyone besides her was in on. In her worst days, she would have admitted she thought it all rather silly but she stayed silent for the sake of her friends and cheered Harry on just the same, as although she wasn't particularly fond of the actual sport, seeing him succeed in anything gave her a surge of pride and a comforting, warm feeling inside. But still, she sometimes wondered about the mathematical sense of the scoring system and the rough nature of the sport. 150 points? The constant threat of falling off your broom from those heights! 150 points! The violent fouls! 150 points!

Quidditch quickly ceased to be a distraction as she reached what she had been dreading. Ron's words cut deep as she read them over: "It's no wonder no one can stand her, she's a nightmare, honestly."

The memory of the terrible tear in her heart from that day came back. She blinked several times and exhaled deeply. At least she wasn't crying this time.

"She must've noticed she's got no friends."

And of course, she had noticed. Early on, she had thought that maybe if she had studied enough, it would be enough. And maybe this time, in a different school, in a different world, it would be different. But she had never imagined those first two months would be so…lonely. She had held back. Afraid that if she had attempted to make a friend and failed, the cold sting of rejection would be more unbearable than the loneliness. And everyone would know. That she was putting on just a face. That despite what she was saying, her hurt on the inside would be exposed. So she had thrust herself into her studies, pressuring herself to fill her mind with facts to the point that she could ignore her own reality if she so chose. She had of course, been naturally ambitious from the beginning but using her studies as a distraction was not something she ever wanted to do again.

The troll was released. Hermione's heart skipped a beat as she read that Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm saying, "I've just thought — Hermione. She doesn't know about the troll."

He had gone back for her. It was something she had already known. Something that was obvious as she was still alive and currently reading those very words on the page of this very strange book. But just the same, it made her feel better to see his concern.

She almost wanted to cry with laughter when she read that Harry managed to grab the key, slam the door, and lock it, knowing that it was after that she had found herself face-to-face with the troll, convinced she was about to die after being reduced to a blubbering mess inside the bathroom. A pitiful existence it would have been for sure. And Harry had locked it in with her! She stored that memory for future teasing.

Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid. Hermione grinned as she wiped her eyes. Despite remembering the fear that had been coursing through her at the time, she could not help but smile at the perfect description of him. As the incident drew to a close, she marveled at the reality that of all things, she had a troll to thank for her two best friends.

The rest of the book flew by in a flash as she continued to recall the memories. She really had set Snape on fire (and had been wrong about him). She rolled her eyes as she remembered the Norbert fiasco, carrying the crate with Harry at her side under his Invisibility Cloak—and how stupid they had been to leave it at the top of the tower, something which was stated directly in the text itself. And even though she knew it made no sense—knew it was a meaningless coincidence—she felt a warm pleasure knowing that it was the last Chocolate Frog from her Christmas present to Harry that had allowed them to figure out that the Philosopher's Stone was being hid within Hogwarts.

She read without pause until she reached the moment of Harry and herself in the room before the door of black flames. She had hugged him, hoping to impart any amount of warmth she could muster before they separated. She read her words on the page: Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — friendship and bravery and — oh Harry — be careful! Her face turned pink as she recalled the moment and what she had been about to say before stopping herself in embarrassment. But she put it out of mind and read with horror as the book described Harry's encounter with Quirrell—and Voldemort. Harry had told Ron and her all the details, but to read his exact words—to read as if she had been there with him in those moments—when she knew he had been alone…

The book finished with them winning the House Cup and she felt the joy remembering how she and her friends had contributed to the victory, more than making up for their earlier mishap. She reached the last word (summer), closing the book and placing it down on the floor. She eyed the six remaining books stacked on the small table, looking with particular curiosity at the two on the bottom of the pile. Her head turned to the hourglass, which she had forgotten about up to this point—a significant amount of sand still remaining in the top half. Hermione stood up and grabbed the book on top of the pile that said Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on the front cover. When she sank into the soft armchair that had been unused up to this point, she shifted around until she felt comfortable, opened to the first page, and began to read.