AN: Thanks to Imraphel for Brit-picking the chocolate choices, and I swear I make no money from product placement and lament the fact I haven't been able to taste test them myself to give a more realistic description. Just so everyone knows, no this isn't a crack fic; it just has humor in it. Now on to what you're all interested in: a chapter all about the character I've been teasing since Chapter 2.

.o0O0o.

Hermione closed her eyes and savored the rich flavor as the dark chocolate of her Bournville bar melted in her mouth. She sectioned off each square for private consumption. Each silky square was a victory against her mother's decade long anti-sugar regime. Hermione's was a guerrilla campaign. The fact this little victory was gained while the feathered version of her mother sat staring down at her from the tree across the way made it taste all the more delicious.

Imogen cried her call at her, as if the owl saw her blatant rule-breaking and disapproved. Hermione opened her eyes as if surprised to hear anything at all and cupped a hand around her ear as if straining to hear the bird. Imogen cried again.

'What was that?' the bushy-haired brunette seemed to say as she did the motion again. 'I can't quite hear.'

The owl flew away, back to its usual spot on the other side of the house.

"Another victory," Hermione said as she snapped off another dark square and popped it in her mouth after swallowing the first. She smiled and went back to studying the old textbook in front of her.

Momentum might be on her side today but things had not always gone so smoothly. In fact, it almost didn't happen at all. It was on their way home from King's Cross Station that the fires of war had been lit. On their way north and east, her father stopped to refuel at a gas station near Newmarket. Minnie the mini mint Mini Mark III was a hungry machine, one that was older than she was, and her father loved coincidences. His dental practice was on Newmarket Road, so of course they had to stop when the turnoff said Newmarket. The fact they were closer to Exning than Newmarket fell on deaf ears, as did the fact the two Newmarkets were on the same road, only 50 miles apart and therefore likely not a coincidence at all.

She had followed her father inside, more to be away from her mother – who stayed in the car – than to stretch her legs. Maybe it was the fact there was an entire other world out there which seemed to run counter to the way her mother operated, or perhaps it was simply the fact she had friends there, but ever since Hermione had stepped off the Hogwarts Express everything about the woman had been grating on her.

Cold, emotionless, and overly-logical, that was Dr. Puckle. She might be one of the best oral and maxillofacial surgeons in the country but her interpersonal skills left much to be desired. Her father had once said that her mother simply wasn't programmed for human interaction, a manufacturer's mistake and if only he could find her manual…

Her mother had never wanted kids, Hermione knew that. She had heard her say it when she was little. But it wasn't as if she hadn't tried, for years she had pushed herself: constantly studying, constantly revising, constantly drilling, trying to be the very image of her mother, desperately seeking some sign that she approved. There was always some criticism though: she had been too slow with her calculation, had delayed unnecessarily by asking for the word's etymology when it was obvious, she could have finished the game two moves faster had she really wanted to win.

"Curly Wurly?" her father asked, dragging her from her thoughts. Safely hidden from the car's view in the convenience store's candy aisle the man was finally free to indulge his sweet tooth. "It's chocolate-coated caramel goodness. You used to love them," he finished in a sing-song voice as he wagged the candy bar back and forth.

If four-out-of-five dentists recommended something, Dan Granger would say the exact opposite; then laughingly jest he'd have all the more teeth to clean when his patients made their next appointments. This strange outlook on life, coupled with a pair of overly expressive eyes and a head of hair that could only be called a small coiffed bush, led her to believe he was much more of a child's cartoon than a dentist. How he ended up married to her mother she'd never know but suspected there was some sort of contract negotiation or robotic testing involved.

"You're silly, Dad," she said as she took the candy bar away from him as if she were the parent and he were the child. After all, she had been five the last time she had eaten a Curly Wurly. He shrugged and went to the cashier to pay for his chips, drink, and the candy bar the lanky man would pocket before ever getting in sight of the car.

She had fully intended to put the candy bar back on the shelf when it happened, a quick clear Beep! from Minnie's horn. Her mother had summoned; they had taken too long. She grabbed something from the shelf and walked decisively up to the cashier next to her father.

"Is that all for you?" the cashier asked, ringing up the purchases.

"These too," Hermione said, adding two Curly Wurlies to the small pile.

The cashier looked to her father before continuing.

"That'll do us," her father said with a smile and handed over the money to pay the bill. "That's my Granger-girl," he said with a supportive arm around her as he pocketed his candy. "Don't tell your mother."

On its way from her shoulder her father's hand strayed towards her chocolate. She playfully smacked it. "Hands off my Curly Wurly!" she said, reciting the candy's old slogan.

With that little act of defiance near Newmarket, the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had begun.

It was almost an hour later, behind the closed door of her room, that Hermione had finally eaten the serpentine chocolate lattice. Slightly melted from being held in her pocket the rest of the way home, it nonetheless tasted illicitly good. The multicolored wrapper she saved for later use and that night snuck out to the kitchen to stick it to the fridge with a magnet like some modern day Martin Luther.

The next wrapper appeared on the kitchen counter the next afternoon. The purple packaging of a Dairy Milk bar appeared inside the fridge itself after that – propped up against her mother's skim milk like it belonged there. She had tried to appear engrossed in her pleas to McGonagall and Flitwick while her mother looked at her calculatingly.

Her father had thought that one was clever, later saying she was a lot braver than he was. He had no problem at all though in handing over a few pounds every once in a while so she could continue her campaign, as long as he was provided with a large share of the chocolate. Apparently a bit of chocolate once in a while was fine but he didn't want her to think he was okay with her banging her teeth out with a hammer as soon as she got home from school. Hermione didn't mind, she wasn't doing it for chocolate, she was doing it to send a message. She was never going to be her mother.

As the days passed something else had started to wear on her, other than her mother's decided lack of response. She had heard nothing from Ron. Hermione knew she shouldn't have asked him to find out what Harry had thought of her, especially after what Ron had said earlier, but had cowardly thought she had no other option but to get him to ask. Of course she had another option; she could have just talked to Harry and handled the whole thing herself. She just hadn't thought she could deal with that kind of rejection and the risk of losing her best friend was too great for anything less than the absolute surety of a positive response.

Her father finally pulled her aside after Ron's letter came telling her nothing but silence was coming from his letter to Harry and she had looked like she really needed to talk. Once she assured him the feather duster that was Ron's owl was still alive and wasn't her problem, she started to tell her story. She didn't name names, and only said things in the most roundabout way – her father didn't need to know just how dangerous the wizarding world could be – but it didn't take a genius to figure out what the whole issue was about. It was about a boy; a boy she liked, a boy she liked who was also her friend.

Unlike her mother, her father was always one to listen. And unlike her mother, who could only criticize and tear down, her father like to explore. There were no tutting that she was too young for this kind of thing or that she should be concentrating on her schoolwork. Instead, he asked equally roundabout questions about the boy in question. Nothing about what this boy's name was or what their parents were like, instead he asked about the boy himself. What was he like? What did he like? What was his background like? What did they have in common? And just as importantly, what did they have at odds? She had to admit that even after knowing him for months, she didn't really know him that well. She hinted he was well known, even if he wasn't precisely what you'd call popular.

"Well then, I'd say you're in a very unique position here," her father said encouragingly.

"To have my first real friendships destroyed and have to go through the rest of my life like a Puckle?" she asked, referencing her mother.

"I highly doubt that's going to happen," he said bracingly. "You're in a unique position because you're thinking about this now rather than a few years from now, and because everyone else in your year is probably oblivious to this sort of thing. Meanwhile you, my little Puckle, have your foot in the door."

"I am not a little Puckle," Hermione said stubbornly. "And what do you mean 'my foot in the door'? I feel more like I have my foot in my mouth and am just waiting for the opportunity to chew. I can't believe I admitted all that to Ron. If Ha-he hadn't been in the hospital wing at the time I never would have," she said, hoping to play it off like Harry'd had some sort of Quidditch injury.

"You have your foot in the door by already being friends with this boy," her father explained. "They always say the best couples always start off as friends. But you haven't been friends with him so long that your – how do I put this – group dynamic, has had a chance to set like dried cement. There's still a great deal of wiggle room for things to change between now and – whenever it is I finally let you date – in, like, ten years or so."

Hermione rolled her eyes but saw what he was getting at.

"If all this had only come up four or five years from now–," he said, looking like the option would've suited him better than having to talk about this now. "–Then you might be in a position where trying to pursue anything really would put your established friendship in jeopardy, or worse."

"How could it be worse than losing H– my friend?" Hermione quickly corrected herself.

"He could end up valuing the friendship you've built up over the years too much to put it at risk by changing it, or worse start thinking of you as some sort of sister," he said derisively. "If either one of those happen you're stuck. If you stop being his friend because of it you look shallow, and if you stick around you'll have to watch as he starts going out with every other girl but you."

"So you're saying that I should just ask him out," Hermione said for him.

"No," her father said dramatically holding up his hands to ward off the very idea. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. And once again, no. You'll never hear a father say that his twelve year old daughter should be dating," he said aghast at the very idea, his eyes a little bugged out.

"I'm just saying you could – get to know the boy a bit better. On a, er – a bit of a – um, a more personal level?" her father tried to uncomfortably clarify as he hunted around for the right words to say.

"I'm not saying date," he stated as he continued. "You won't ever hear me say date. Just–," he gestured with his hands as if their flapping could somehow make all other forms of communication unnecessary. "–Just talk like this. Just share with him all of this more personal stuff you don't share with anyone else, and get him to do the same. And maybe, if you both see something there worth building on… then, in ten years, you could maybe possibly someday think about considering the option of going on one of those 'D'-word-things at some point down the line," he finished rather green around the gills.

Hermione could see the logic in what he said, though the 'ten years' comment was patently ridiculous. 'Third Years are allowed visits to Hogsmeade,' Hermione reminded herself. 'And Hogwarts, a History does say it's become a traditional destination for many first dates.' With a rudimentary plan in mind, she decided that what her father doesn't know won't hurt him, or cause him to look sick and wave his arms about hopelessly.

"And how exactly am I supposed to get him to talk?" she asked. "He's always come across as a much more private person, unless it's about Quidditch and then it's not about him at all."

"Well, you could always talk to him about that," her father said with a grin.

Hermione didn't look convinced.

"Hey, if a girl comes off as a sports fan she's liable to get snapped up pretty quick. I've seen it happen."

"Everyone there is a sports fan," Hermione explained. "They really don't have anything else to do except for a few silly games and 'pulling pranks'."

Her father didn't say anything for a while after that. It was his way of drawing out whatever else might be hiding under the surface. It used to work all the time when she was little but if he thought she'd say something just to fill the empty silence then he was sadly mistaken.

"It is exciting to watch him play," she admitted finally.

Her father smiled and poked her side. She tried not to blush, knowing it was painfully obvious to both of them the last word was only tacked on for decorum.

"If he's honestly looking for a Quidditch witch–," Hermione said, trying to regain her equilibrium, "–they're not hard to find. Half the team is female."

"And what do you think about that?" he asked with another poke.

"I know he'll have other interests besides me," Hermione said with a look. "I don't expect him to hang out in the Library all the time; he's not that much of a studier. And I know he wouldn't expect me to go to every Quidditch practice and swoon if he let me wear his old jersey," she said derisively. If someone swooned around Harry he'd be more likely to think they were sick.

"You know, you're not supposed to be this mature at twelve," her father said.

"And you're supposed to be more mature than you are at forty," Hermione countered.

"It's forty-one," he said levelly. "But I'm a guy," he said with a grin. "We're never more mature than we have to be. You'll want to remember that."

Hermione sighed and shook her head. She sincerely hoped being more Granger didn't lead to her being such a daft dimbo like her father.

"Well then, little miss maturity," her father said as he got up and walked to her desk. "You should have no problem doing what comes next."

She watched in horror as he pulled out a clean piece of parchment and readied her quill and ink. 'Uh oh,' Hermione thought as she briefly considered fleeing to the safety of the public library. She had to discard the idea when she found that her feet wouldn't move. This was the problem with having her father be the person she always talked to; he always made her made her deal with the real issue involved and then made her follow through with things when the solution was obvious.

She walked over with leaden feet like a convict to the electric chair.

He patted her on the head as she took her seat and left her with one last bit of advice.

"Embrace your inner Granger," her father said sagely. "Write to him and tell him all the stuff you haven't been telling me; and without planning everything out like a Puckle. I think you'll be surprised at the response."

'Gryffindors are supposed to be brave,' Hermione reminded herself. Why couldn't she have just let the Sorting Hat put her in Ravenclaw instead? 'Because you're intelligent, not flighty,' she reminded herself as she recalled her run-in with some giggly older Ravenclaw girls while looking for Neville's toad on the train.

"Oh, and in case you forgot," her father said with only his head still poking around the door. "The boy you like is named Harry. For some reason it just keeps getting stuck on your tongue," he said with an odd look on his face. "You might want to practice saying it out loud. Toodle-oo," he left with a smile and bright popping eyes.

She'd been caught, though given the fact she had written home naming only two people as friends the deduction wasn't a hard one to make. She had tried so hard not to say his name during this only to blow it by saying Ron's. The last time she'd started to say the other out loud – well, in this context anyway – she'd jinxed the whole thing and it had been the most painfully awkward moment of her life! How were you supposed to say, "Sorry, Ron. Thanks for saying you like me too, but it wasn't you I was talking about," and have it not be awkward for everyone?

Hermione took the quill and started to write. She briefly panicked and thought about starting over when 'Dear Harry' appeared at the top; she hadn't meant to let that slip out so soon. She calmed herself by thinking that he probably wouldn't think twice about it; it was the traditional way to start a letter after all.

As she caught him up on her summer so far, keeping the Chocolate Bar Rebellion a secret lest her mother have a chance to read it before she sent it off, Hermione found herself relaxing. She had even managed to make a joke. It helped by thinking of him simply as 'my friend Harry' rather than 'Harry, that cute boy I like.' Soon enough she found herself writing about things in the same way she's always been able to talk about things with her father, with no real barrier between them.

She had caught it when father had pointed out that that part had changed. It was like he knew there were simply things about the wizarding world she'd never be able to share with an old muggle dentist like him. It made her wonder if this was why he wanted her to do this. Even if things with Harry never went anywhere romantic and they only became really close friends, at least she'd have someone who'd be there for her in the way he always had been. For some reason that made the uncaring qualities of her mother loom even larger in her mind.

She pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on writing about the subject at hand: Harry, and what he meant to her. As she wrote it soon became blurred as what this letter really was. Was it really a letter to Harry, letting him know what she thought about him, or was it a letter from the hidden Granger part of her letting her know what she thought of Harry? She knew she liked him, she knew she admired him, but the way the words began appearing on the paper, almost without thought... She had never truly thought about how central Harry had become to her. It was almost scary when she thought about it. No wonder she didn't tell him herself, she'd probably come across as some star-struck fan girl.

'No,' she thought, 'Harry would never think of me like that. We're friends.'

Finally she got to the end and looked at what she wrote.

'Curse that inner Granger,' she thought. It had admitted the one thing she hadn't even been willing to admit to herself: even if things between them never went the way she wanted, there was no way around it, she would always be his. Whether it is as best friends, significant others, or – she blushed – anything more, was entirely up to him now.

Hermione plucked up what Gryffindor courage she still had left and tied the letter to Errol's feet with trembling hands before she could change her mind. There was no way she was going to trust Imogen with this. As the owl flew away it felt like it was carrying off some piece of herself. She drew a calming breath and tried to relax. Everything was going to be alright. It was. It was. The troops momentarily heartened, she started planning what targets her Bon Bon Brigade would hit next.

.o0O0o.

The campaign was in chaos, the troops in shambles, and the commander grievously wounded and fled the field in full retreat. The enemy didn't even have to fire a shot; hers was a self-inflicted wound. Hermione lay in bed, curled around her faithful copy of Hogwarts, a History and wishing she were there now. Any normal day, even one with the threat of You-Know-Who barreling into the common room and murdering the lot of them, would be infinitely better than being where she was now.

How could she have been so stupid as to send that letter? Write it, read it, decide it was too personal to actually send, burn it, and then write a second letter less 'Oh-my-God,-Harry,-you've-got-to-marry-me-now-or-I'll-die.' Was that so hard? Was that too much to ask?

And what did she get from following her father's advice? Silence, more than two whole weeks of silence. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Harry had read the letter and had rightfully freaked. Ron still denied hearing anything from Harry but if he had heard something he wasn't likely to tell her anyway. She was just the clingy want-to-be fan girl for "Harry Potter" after all, not the legitimate friend who only wanted–

She sighed. She didn't know what she wanted any more. If she was honest with herself, as she'd been raised to be, Hermione knew she did know. She wanted the whole thing reversed like it had never happened so everything could go back to the way they were before she had royally messed them up. How was she going to face them again? It was impossible Ron didn't know everything that had been in the letter by now. He was Harry's best friend, he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and he probably had Harry over at his place right now talking about how mad she was to even think Harry might like her back!

Hermione placed her pillow over her face and briefly considered smothering herself as the slightly scuffing sounds her father had been making all day in the attic made its way down to her. She finally had to concede this was getting her less than nowhere. It was exactly like her candy campaign. Aside from the first calculating look her mother had never reacted, and Harry never responded. The two things were completely separate issues, yet in her mind the success of the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had melted into the issue with Harry.

How could she hope to concentrate on showing how unPuckle she was when the huge issue of Harry was still unresolved? Send another letter begging her case again? That'd just make things worse. She had to face facts. Harry was a lost cause, just like the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her mother didn't care, and neither did Harry. Nobody cares about a Puckle.

If Hermione hadn't been sulking she never would have heard it, this quiet brushing sound, like paper slipping off a desk or – or something sliding under the door! She lifted the pillow and craned her head to see what it was. Reinforcements had arrived, reinforcements in the guise of the garish pink packaging of a Fry's Turkish Delight. On top was a note.

'He doesn't define you. ¡Viva la revolución!'

She tore open the door and hugged her father for all she was worth, and at the moment she felt worth quite a lot. She didn't even notice how much she had needed this until she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Hermione scrubbed her eyes dry. If neither one of them wanted her then they weren't worth crying over.

"Well," her father said once she let him breathe again. "That saves me from having to slide this under there too."

He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. She recognized the handwriting.

"It's from Professor McGonagall," she said, astounded. It had been ages since she had sent off asking for something to occupy her time and prepare for next year. She hadn't expected a response after so long.

"The owl must've thought 'window closed, curtains shut' meant no personal deliveries and I'd do in a pinch," her father said. "This one, though, is the really weird one, because it didn't get here by any owl."

He handed her a book. But it wasn't just any book; it was an old, beat-up copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2!

"But – Then how did–?" she stammered.

"Magic, I would guess. Isn't that the way your world works? Either way, your guess is as good as mine," her father shrugged. "I came down from checking the insulation, saw the owl, and when I turned around there was the book sitting on the counter. I guess someone wants you to have it."

"But I'm not allowed to do magic outside of school, even to practice," she told him.

"That doesn't mean you can't study up and practice everything except putting it all together in one final abracadabra," the man said with a smile.

She hugged him again.

"And what's that one for?" he asked.

"For everything."

She knew then what she had to do. It was her only way out. She had to write to Harry and tell him there were no hard feelings and that all she wanted was to be his friend. It'd hurt, but it's just the way things had to be.

.o0O0o.

Two weeks, why did this have to come up every two weeks?

'Because you're able to distract yourself for the first week,' the voice in her head that sounded like her father told her. 'After that you start getting worried because you should have heard something by then. At two weeks you think there's no way a response would've taken so long so something must've happened.'

Hermione snapped the book shut. She knew studying wasn't going to be able to get her out of this one just as she knew better than to argue with her father when it came to thoughts and feelings. They had talked too often when she was younger for the echo of him still stuck in her head not to be the same way, at least when it came to her. She often thought he'd missed his calling when he'd gone into dentistry and not counselling or psychology, or even history or one the other humanities. The man absorbed it all like a sponge.

But what could've happened to prevent anyone from hearing from Harry though?

'You said he wasn't much of a studier, maybe he's even less of a writer.'

Hermione shook her head. Her father might know her but he didn't know Harry like she did. Harry would never abandon his friends; brood, perhaps, but never just disappear. If her letter to him hadn't been enough to make him respond, and her second letter hadn't been enough, then surely Ron's repeated call for him to visit for his own birthday should've had him chomping at the bit to get away from his relatives and there's no way Ron scoring that kind of coup wouldn't have resulted in a cheer which would've been clearly audible all the way from – wherever it was he lived.

'Maybe there's something to that relative issue,' the mental echo of her father said.

Hermione suddenly got a deepening sense of dread. Harry had said that he disliked his relatives, he called them horrible. But everyone exaggerates when it comes to their parents. She didn't really think her mother was a robot, no matter how apt the comparison. But what if the Dursleys really were horrible? What if they weren't just horrible but abusive? Harry could be lying with bruises from head to toe, starving, and alone and she didn't even have his telephone number to check!

'Calm down, Hermione, you're panicking.'

She didn't know if that had come from the echo of her father or from some self-protective Puckle part of herself, but either way she was glad it was there. There had to be something she could do to find out, or to help if she could. Telling her parents would do no good; they couldn't call every Dursley in Surrey asking if they had a Potter living with them. Did the wizarding world have something like the Child Protection System? For a society backwards enough to still use quills in the twentieth century, let alone allow a giant Cerberus to be kept in a school, Hermione had severe doubts it had any concept of child welfare at all.

There had to be something she could do, someone else she could write to. Think, Hermione, think! Professor McGonagall? She was sure to take this seriously. Then again, she was so busy chasing down all the new students that even if she knew where Harry lived it might be another two weeks before she was able to catch up with her mail and know to check on him.

Professor Dumbledore? He was no good; he didn't interact with the students at all except to take his meals with them. He might be the head of the school, preside over the legislature, and oversee a body of international wizards but that only meant it'd take him even longer when it came to answering his mail.

A smile bloomed on her face as the solution presented itself; a solution with glinting beetle-like eyes and a big bushy beard. Hagrid! He'd be perfect. He'd pull down the moon if it was for Harry, and he already knew where he lived! Harry said Hagrid was the one to deliver his Hogwarts letter in the first place. McGonagall must've been very busy last year for him to have been drafted, but whatever the reason was Hermione was glad for it if it helped out now.

Plan in place, she started to write.

.o0O0o.

Today was going to be a good day. Not only had she gotten Harry's 'Hello world, I'm still alive' message just the night before but this morning may have seen the tipping point for the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her chocolate and chocolate chip muffins had dealt a real blow to the enemy. Much to the later lament of her father, her mother hadn't simply thrown them away; she threw them away roughly and smashed them beneath other garbage.

Her mother might be more machine now than man, twisted and evil, but the little tantrum showed there was still a bit of human left in her. It seemed like after more than a month of surprise attacks her mother's patience was wearing thin and the human inside that exoskeleton was no longer amused, not when her daily bran muffin had been shanghaied and replaced. Hermione smiled as she relived the memory. At this rate, maybe by the end of the summer she might actually get her mother to swear. She had to fight the urge to laugh lest she get her Bournville all over her book.

She began to turn the page and start the next chapter when there was movement and a soft thump at her window. An owl had landed; a snow white owl. So much for Harry not being much of a writer. Hermione took a calming breath before opening the window.

"Hello, Hedwig, you have a nice flight?" she asked as she nervously untied the letter.

Hedwig gave her an affectionate nip.

'At least there's one female in my life not a stranger to a little affection,' she thought. Hermione smiled, it was a strangely calming sensation, and one she welcomed for she needed calming at the moment.

As the moment lingered and the letter was still in her hands, Hedwig looked at her as if to ask why she hadn't opened it. It was what you did with letters after all. Hermione took another calming breath. It was just a letter, she had told him to bin the other ones, so what was she worried about? This one was probably sent to tell her he was looking forward to leaving for Ron's in a few days and would contact her again if the Wednesday after the Hogwarts book list came out would work for them. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

'Hey Hermione,' the letter started, and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Hey was good, hey was friendly, hey was comfortable – so why did she feel a bit sad? Did she want him to completely disregard everything she had said in the last letter only to have to face the friendship-crushing awkwardness again?

'Today has to be the strangest day of my life. I really wish you could've been there,' Harry continued. Hermione couldn't imagine how anything could be stranger than giant three-headed dogs, strangulating plants, keys that attacked, and a possessed man with two faces but she couldn't deny it felt nice to be missed.

'I guess the big news is that I'm away from the Dursleys and I'm never going back!'

There was a split-second of reflected joy before what it meant caught up to her. Harry had run away?

'Don't worry; I'm safe and sound at the Burrow. That's Ron's place, by the way.'

She took a calming breath.

'They had a bit of a party for us tonight and his older brother, Bill, gave me his old room since he moved to Egypt ages ago.'

Hermione thought that was certainly nice of them, but what was Harry going to do, stay with Ron for the rest of his life and become a Weasley? She shook away the sudden image of a Harry with ginger hair and freckles.

'I'd really like to tell you why I won't be going back and all the big stuff I found out today, but I learned that letters by owl can be intercepted really easily and I think Lichfield would kill me if I did. He's my litigator and was a bailiff for my grandfather.'

'A bailiff?' Hermione thought. 'That makes Harry sound like some sort of landed gentry.'

'If this gets out before he's ready,' Harry continued, 'Lichfield says we could get crushed in court and I'd be right back to the Dursleys.'

Taking that as a given, she supposed she could see why Harry would want to keep whatever it was close to his chest, but she could at least hope he'd tell her when they saw each other next.

'I hope you understand; I trust you more than anyone,' Hermione read and couldn't help but smile.

'And speaking of letters—,' she read ominously as her blood began to run cold and the smile slid off her face. 'I've got to say, I found yours much more interesting than Ron's. It's certainly not what I'd call basic stuff.'

Hermione could only sigh in resignation as she contemplated throwing the rest of the letter away unread. Why did this have to happen today? It had been such a good day, why did he have to ruin it by doing the one thing she didn't want him to do? She really had no one to blame but herself.

'There may be some of the really recent stuff I can't tell you right now,' she read curiously. '—but I'd really like to get to know you too.'

Hermione's mind told her this couldn't be happening.

'So, I guess the question now is… What do you want to know?'

.o0O0o.

AN: I know I'm horrible for leaving it there, but feel free to tell me how horrible I am in a review.

That said, Hermione's mother being "Dr. Puckle" is a reference to how JKR almost had that as Hermione's last name before changing it to Granger. Of course, I decided to turn several fan fiction tropes on their heads when it came to the Grangers. The question to me wasn't: "Why does Hermione study all the time and have no friends?" because that's always going to get the fanon response. Instead I asked: "How does a young girl become the Hermione we see in Sorcerer's Stone?" Now that's a question which demands a much more complex and deeper psychological reason you can then use to flesh out her entire family, as well as provide the character something to rebel against as she tries to determine her own place in the world.

Thanks for reading.