Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2nd August 1991 (11 years old)

Hermione’s parents were dead.

Actually dead.

Never coming back, dead.

Just a few moments ago, she’d been watching a film with them, laughing, eating cookie dough ice cream, and now they were dead.

The thought was hard to process, especially under the current circumstances that were nothing short of terrifying. Situations like these only happened to people featured in ‘breaking news’ reports or in the serial killer documentaries that her mother had recently become obsessed with: ‘It’s research, Hermione, you need to know the signs!’. There were no signs this evening though. No forewarning. No reason. In fact, Hermione didn't even know who the people currently hellbent on destroying her home with strange bolts of light were.

The hallway was momentarily bathed in an eerie green light, the sound of splintering furniture and angry yells reverberating up the stairs from the intruders in the living room below. Heart pounding violently in her chest, breath coming out in short, panicked pants, Hermione yanked open the door to the spare bedroom and tore across the space. Flinging aside the curtains, she began desperately fumbling with the handles, trying to find a way to wrench open the windows.

Only, the windows were locked, and there was no sign of the key.

“No, no, no!” she whimpered, spinning around to hurry out and try the windows in another room.

She’d barely made it a step when a man stumbled through the doorway, his back to her, waving a stick that was sending blinding flashes of light through the air. Gasping, Hermione leapt sideways, feet sliding on a silky fur rug as she squeezed herself into the small space between the bedside table and the wall.

A scared whimper escaped her as the man was forced further into the room, his bulk preventing her only escape. With his focus solely on whomever was in the hallway, the man edged along the side of the bed towards the wall on the opposite side of the room to Hermione, all the while continuously firing lights out of his strange stick.

The words her mother had desperately yelled moments ago echoed through Hermione’s mind as she cowered, trapped: ‘Save yourself, Hermione! Do whatever you need to do, promise me!’ Of course, Hermione had promised, and her mother had forcefully shoved her up the stairs, away from the chaos unfolding in their, once peaceful, home. Sadly, it was clear that she’d already failed her mother’s dying wish, having been thwarted by the first obstacle in her path: a sodding window.

“Back off, Bella!” the man growled, his expression filled with anger as he flicked long strands of jet-black hair from his eyes.

The stick, clutched tightly in his outstretched hand, was pointed towards the doorway directly into the face of a woman with sharp, angular features and black, matted hair that was peppered with grey.

“You’re scaring the poor girl, Severus!” the woman, Bella, coo’ed, flicking her wrist to send a bolt of red light soaring towards the man, Severus.

The light hit some kind of invisible barrier and fizzled out with a hiss, making Hermione flinch in surprise. She managed to knock her hip against the bedside table, but given the amount of adrenaline racing through her body, she didn't even register the pain.

“Considering you just ordered your lapdogs to murder the girl's parents, I think we both know who is actually responsible for scaring her!” Severus replied testily.

“Filthy lies!” the woman screeched, attempting what Hermione thought was supposed to be a look of indignation, before she turned her attention away from Severus to address Hermione directly: “Come here, little one, Auntie Bella will protect you from the nasty man.”

Now, Hermione knew for a fact that she did not have an Auntie Bella. She did have an Auntie Mildred, who had bought a holiday home in Spain and who, according to her mother, had been too busy ‘flirting with skin cancer’ to return home for Hermione’s eleventh birthday. But that information hardly seemed relevant at this precise moment in time. Unless maybe it was. Aunt Mildred was technically her legal guardian now that her parents… how could they be dead? They’d been halfway through watching The Parent Trap.

“Child,” Severus bit out slowly, his eyes never leaving the imposter Aunt. “If there is an ounce of sense in that tiny brain of yours, you will take my hand.” The man extended his hand, the one not holding the strange stick, towards her, and expelled an impatient snort when Hermione didn't immediately move to take it.

It had gotten to the point where her legs were shaking so much that Hermione didn't think they would be able to hold her up much longer, so she nervously shuffled her weight from foot to foot as she looked hesitantly from the man’s hand, to the stranger attached to it. Unfortunately for him, he looked remarkably like the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and therefore, Hermione decided that trusting him would probably not be advisable.

Taking a stumbling step backwards and pressing herself more firmly against the bedroom wall, Hermione looked away from the offered hand, prompting the imposter Aunt to throw her head back and cackle hysterically. The somewhat alarming reaction caused a shift in the dark velvet cloak she was wearing and, to Hermione’s surprise, it revealed a boy standing hesitantly behind her in the hallway. With their line of sight unhindered, the boy’s silvery grey eyes fixed on Hermione, quickly taking her in, cowered against the wall, trapped. His expression remained blank, unreadable, and it was ridiculous that out of all the things to focus on, Hermione couldn't help but think that his hair looked stupid. For a boy who appeared to be around her age, he wore his white-blonde hair slicked back into a style that seemed more suited to a much older man.

“Little one,” the imposter Aunt called in a sing-song voice, attempting to take a step forward, only to be blocked by another flashing light from Severus. “Come with Auntie Bella; I promise I’ll protect you.”

“Protect her?! Don’t make me laugh, Bella,” Severus spat. “The only thing you’ve managed to protect over the years is a pathetic obsession with a psychopath who’ll never love you!”

“You’re one to talk about unrequited obsession! Tell me, Severus, how is the lovely Lily Potter nowadays?” the Imposter Aunt asked sweetly, tilting her head to the side and pouting in a way that seemed very mocking.

Severus did not respond with words, instead he fired three flashes of light from his stick, all of which the imposter Aunt either dodged or blocked with her own stick.

“Do you see how violent he is?!” the imposter Aunt asked Hermione, pointing with her wand towards Severus. “We protect children like you… special children. Isn’t that right, Draco?” The imposter Aunt grabbed the blonde boy and roughly pulled him forward by the shoulder.

He, Draco, clenched his jaw as he tripped over his own feet following the abrupt movement, but quickly schooled his features as he righted himself. Briefly his gaze flicked to Severus before the blank stare landed on Hermione again.

“Why did you bring him here?!” Severus demanded, gesturing towards Draco. “It’s unsafe! Narcissa would never allow it!”

“No, she wouldn't," the imposter Aunt confessed. “But I don't need to ask my darling sister for permission to take my nephew on a little field trip now, do I?”

“Unbelievable,” Severus groused.

The shaking which had now taken over Hermione’s entire body and was making her limbs feel weak and useless, forced her to clutch onto the bed for support. In an attempt to calm down, she inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, just like her mother had taught her when she’d felt claustrophobic in the line to meet Father Christmas at Harrods. However, it became clear that her body was positively drowning in adrenaline when the focused breathing made absolutely no difference.

Desperately seeking out any ray of hope, Hermione focused again on the only person in the room who did not seem to pose any immediate threat. Draco’s silvery grey eyes met her brown ones, but he didn’t react: no flinch, or twitch, or quirk of the lips, he just stared at her blankly. If he’d been brought here to convince Hermione that she should trust the imposter Aunt, he wasn’t doing a very good job, and something deep down told her that he might be doing it on purpose.

The pragmatic part of her brain managed to confirm that one thing was abundantly clear, and that was, if Hermione were to honour her mother’s wishes by surviving, then she would have to trust one of these people because they had her, quite literally, cornered. As if he could tell that Hermione was mentally attempting to calculate her options, Draco continued to stare at her, his gaze working to ground her, allowing her a moment to think clearly. Perhaps Bella was the better choice? Draco appeared to be healthy and unharmed. Yet, something about his blank demeanor was unsettling. But the other choice was Severus, the Child Catcher, who, from what Hermione could tell, had come alone and thought that beguiling her with passive-aggressive insults was the best way to gain her trust.

The only positive to speak of was that she didn't think either of them had killed her parents. Her father had been slain by a monstrous man with scars down his face resembling claw-marks, and when her mother had been cut down mid-scream, both Bella and Severus had been in the process of following Hermione up the stairs. Absently, her hand found the edge of the bedside table, and she gripped it tightly, the contact with something solid helping (unfortunately) to convince her that this wasn’t some kind of feverish nightmare.

“Child, you must come with me now!” Severus insisted, stretching a hand across the bed again. “Trust me, your life will be nothing short of hellish if you go with Bella.”

“Nonsense! Come along Deary! Draco will give you a full tour of the mansion when we get back. You’ll want for nothing with me, unlike with these nasty people…” she hissed at Severus like a snake, making Hermione's eyes widen… “This lot eat dirt and sleep in shacks infested with ghouls! My mansion is protected by blood wards; no one gets in without my permission. You’d be safe there.”

“You’d be far from safe,” Severus growled. “If you go with Bella, you will be locked up, tortured, forced into servitude, and worse.”

The minutest twitch of Draco’s eyebrow drew Hermione’s attention back to him, but again his face became an emotionless mask under her gaze.

“Enough of all this pointless chatter. Come on, Girl! We have to go!” Bella snapped, clicking her fingers and pointing to a spot on the floor next to her, as if bringing a pet to heel.

It was clear that her time to make a decision was quickly running out, and Hermione found herself frantically looking between the two adults, wondering how she’d come to find herself in such a nightmare. It had just been a regular Tuesday night: bath, book, dinner, and film. Where had it all gone wrong?! What had possessed these people to infiltrate her family home and… no. She couldn't think about her parents right now, she needed focus in order to figure out her next move.

Swallowing, Hermione took a hesitant step forward, towards the only person in the room that she thought she could potentially trust: Draco. The action caused Bella, who was standing behind him, to throw her head back and let out an almighty shriek of triumph. It was in the second that she was distracted, that Hermione saw Draco give the minutest shake of his head. The gesture, though brief and so insignificant that Hermione wondered for a second if she’d imagined it, sent a clear message.

No.

Wrong choice.

Think again.

Don’t be misled by my presence here.

With the decision made for her and without wasting another second, Hermione leapt across the bed and grabbed Severus’s outstretched hand. The moment their skin connected, Hermione let out a choked gasp as all the air was abruptly sucked from her lungs and the world warped around her.

When she came to, Hermione found herself sprawled out on bumpy wooden floorboards, covered in a thin rug that, unfortunately, offered her aching body absolutely no comfort whatsoever. A bright light was rudely attempting to infiltrate her eyelids, heightening the remnants of nausea left over from the… well, she wasn't exactly sure what had happened, but she’d definitely passed out and was almost certainly no longer in her family home. Deciding that hiding from reality for at least a little while longer was the most preferable option, Hermione kept her eyes firmly shut, though, unfortunately, the lack of sight did not block out the voices.

“Is she dead?” enquired a male voice from somewhere nearby.

“Of course she isn't dead, Ronald!” replied an exasperated woman. The sound of slipper-clad feet hastily made their way towards her, followed by the same woman snapping, “Move out of the way, Fred! And George, if you so much as attempt to poke her with that stick, you can kiss goodbye to any hope of a new broomstick.”

The response, to what Hermione considered a very odd threat, came in the form of an overly dramatic sigh and muttered, “Always ruins all our fun, doesn't she, Fred?”

“She does, George. A little stick prodding never hurt anyone.”

A shifting in the air around her and the unmistakable sound of rustling fabric relayed to Hermione that someone was crouching down beside her. Bracing for the stick, she was pleasantly surprised when a warm hand was pressed against her forehead and, following some muttered words, a cooling sensation began steadily flowing through her body.

“I’m fine,” Severus sniffed from somewhere nearby. “Should anyone deem it appropriate to show me a modicum of concern.”

“Clearly no one did deem it appropriate, or they would have said something,” responded a male voice.

“James! We’ve talked about this!” chided a female voice. “Ignore him, Severus, we are all very relieved that you returned uninjured and were able to save the girl.”

“Did he save her? She doesn't look very alive from where I’m standing,” asked another male voice. “And what of the girl’s parents? The Muggles?”

Hermione's entire body stiffened at the words, forcing her lungs to constrict and making it impossible to draw breath.

“Dead,” Severus confirmed abruptly.

It felt as though Hermione’s heart was in a free fall, plummeting uninvited into her stomach, which only intensified the nausea. A pained sob that she didn't even recognise as her own tore from her throat, and without conscious thought, she rolled onto her side, pulled her knees against her chest, and buried her face against them.

“Oh no! Oh dear, you poor thing. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” A pair of arms wrapped around Hermione’s body and pulled her into an embrace. Her cheek landed against a shoulder, wisps of hair tickled her forehead, and her fingers tangled into the soft wool of a knitted cardigan as sob after sob were uncontrollably wrenched from her body. “That’s it, let it all out. I’ll take care of you…My name’s Molly, by the way, and I’ll stay here with you for as long as you need.” A hand found its way into Hermione’s hair and began smoothing it.

“Is there a protocol for this?” Ronald whispered.

“She’s only crying, Ron, it’s not like she is about to blow up a safehouse,” Fred or George replied.

“Right, but what do you do when girls cry? It would really help if there was a protocol," Ronald insisted.

“Bribary works with Gin, do we have any chocolate?” Fred or George suggested.

“I thought chocolate only worked for dementor attacks?” Ronald noted, as Hermione attempted to bury her face further into the knitted cardigan to block the voices out.

“Dementors mess with a person's emotions, Ron, and this girl is clearly very emotional right now,” Fred or George explained as though Ronald were stupid.

“Right. Yeah, when you put it like that it actually makes a lot of sense. Harry, help me find some chocolate,” Ronald instructed.

“She doesn't need chocolate, you idiots! She just needs time,” came the exasperated voice of a young female.

“Gin’s right, let’s give her some space,” came another male voice.

“Harry…” Gin said breathlessly. “Did you just… agree with me?” The question was followed by a strange squeak, probably from mortification upon realising that she’d asked such a ridiculous question out loud, and then came the sound of hurried footsteps as she made a hasty retreat from the room.

“Nice to see the crush is still going strong,” Fred or George remarked. “Harry, I must insist that you tone down on the charm, or else our poor sister's face will be forever stained a very unforgiving shade of red.”

“Indeed, the shade clashes terribly with her hair,” whoever out of Fred and George hadn’t spoken the first time added.

“I think it's sweet,” the female who had stuck up for Severus earlier cut in, causing Harry to groan, “Mum do not say things like that! It is not sweet, it's actually really embarrassing."

“Was it not just agreed that the girl needed some space?” Severus snapped, irritation dripping from every syllable. “Why are you all still here?”

The comment prompted a cacophony of shuffling feet, muttered grievances, and slammed doors as the room cleared out.

“There, there, it’s ok,” Molly soothed gently, stroking a hand over Hermione’s hair and down her back.

“Where am I?” she croaked, her throat fighting against the simple task of producing words.

“The Burrow, home of the Weasley family, temporary home of the Potter family, and safe house for the resistance group, The Order of the Phoenix. You’re well protected here,” Molly replied, leaning back slightly when Hermione shifted to lift her head.

Reluctantly, she pried tear-stricken eyes open to survey her surroundings. The woman holding her had a kind, motherly face, with a spattering of freckles and worry-lines marring the corners of her eyes. An excess of flyaway red hair had been swept up into a messy bun, held in place with a wooden spoon… which Hermione might have found funny under different circumstances. Beside her, a large soot-streaked fireplace with lots of trinkets littering the mantel was lit, although none of its warmth penetrated Hermione’s skin. It appeared that she had landed on the floor of a kitchen-come-dining-come-living room, as though someone had removed all the walls to create one giant multi-functioning and slightly haphazard space.

Severus was seated in a straight-backed chair at a wooden dining table a small distance away, tucking into a bowl of soup and deliberately averting his gaze. The only other people present were located on a small sofa in the living area: a bespectacled man with dark, flyaway hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, and a woman with bright green eyes and hair a shade darker than Molly's.

A loud clank drew Hermione’s attention back to the kitchen and towards a floating saucepan that appeared to be cleaning itself in mid-air. It was hardly surprising, she supposed, that such extreme stress would lead to hallucinations. Blinking a few times, Hermione attempted to rid the rogue saucepan from her vision, only when she looked back it was still there.

“None of this is real,” she muttered, fingers tightening on Molly’s cardigan. It was a well known fact in the Granger household that Hermione had a very vivid imagination. One time, she’d even convinced herself that during extreme bouts of frustration her hair could produce actual sparks… but this floating saucepan was leaning a bit too much into the realms of insanity for her liking. “I’d like to wake up from this nightmare now.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Severus remarked, still refusing to look at her.

The woman on the sofa shot Severus a chastising look before pushing to her feet and walking over to kneel down in front of Hermione. She squeezed her hand as she said, “I know this is a lot to take in, and I promise we are going to do our best to guide you through it, but not tonight. You’ve been through an extremely traumatic event and are in shock. The only thing you need right now is a hot drink and some rest.”

“But…” Hermione sniffed, looking back at the saucepan, the inquisitive part of her brain needing some kind of explanation for the impossible sight.

The man from the sofa approached and knelt down in front of her too, eyes twinkling through his glasses. “I’m James Potter,” he confirmed, then indicated to the woman next to him. “This is my wife Lily. Now, I have a question for you: Have you ever made anything happen? Anything you couldn’t explain?”

Hermione opened her mouth, preparing to tell these questionably sane people who had somehow infiltrated her nightmare to kindly go away, when she faltered, the words dying on the tip of her tongue as she remembered the sparks shooting from her hair. They’d set fire to a towel. Her mother had blamed the incident on a faulty hair dryer and a vivid imagination, but when Hermione thought about it, the sparks weren't the only odd thing to have happened…

“That’s what I thought,” James said softly.

“A discussion for later,” Molly cut in, rubbing Hermione’s arm. “First, let’s make you that hot drink that Lily mentioned.”

“Ok,” Hermione said numbly, allowing Lily to pull her to her feet and guide her into the chair directly opposite Severus at the table. As Molly bustled about tapping a stick on things, Hermione watched the sullen-faced man finish his soup and finally look up to meet her gaze with a scowl. “Who was the blonde boy?” she asked softly, the memory of his silvery-grey eyes swimming to the forefront of her mind.

“Blonde boy?” James questioned sharply, prompting everyone in the room to immediately turn their attention towards Severus.

“Bella is nothing if not cunningly resourceful,” Severus replied. “She had Draco with her in an attempt to fool the girl into going with them willingly. From what I have ascertained, the Dark Lord does not like the pets to be damaged before he has examined their minds, and Bella does not give off that maternal vibe that children tend to respond to.”

“Why would Bellatrix willingly drag her own nephew into such a dangerous situation?!” Lily exclaimed.

“Let’s not be naive, Bella would murder Draco if the Dark Lord ordered it,” Severus drawled, although his tone was a little softer when addressing Lily, compared to the others.

“Can you help him?” Hermione rasped, closing her hands around a mug that Molly had just set down in front of her.

Severus’s dark eyes narrowed in frustration as he hissed, “I’ve already tried, but my godson is a lost cause. I suggest you direct your concern elsewhere, because in a few short years, he’ll be promoted from bait to executioner.”

“Draco isn’t a lost cause,” Hermione struggled to say around the lump in her throat. “He is the only reason I changed my mind and grabbed your hand instead of Bella’s. If I made the right choice, then he saved my life.”

2 weeks later

“My parents are dead. Their ashes are buried under the oak tree in The Burrow garden. Magic is real. I am a witch. This is not, unfortunately, a nightmare.”

Sometimes repeating the facts, no matter how harsh, was the only way Hermione could cope with the abrupt upheaval of her life. She had taken to repeating them on a near constant loop, like a mantra to keep herself grounded as she navigated the swirling sea of grief battling to drag her below the surface.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Hermione slowly twisted the door handle to the room she’d been hiding in for the past two weeks and crept out into the hallway. Ginevra Weasley, who the room belonged to, had been temporarily relocated to the floor of her twin brothers' room to allow Hermione some space to grieve privately. From what she could tell, Ginny was both excited and slightly annoyed by this because when she had delivered breakfast one morning, she’d hastily whispered, “You owe me. Bunking with the twins is definitely fun, but they fart worse than Errol after Sirius fed him baked beans.” Unfortunately, like many things Hermione had heard since arriving at The Burrow, the sentence had only made partial sense, but she’d at least gotten the gist.

Quietly, Hermione padded her way towards the bathroom door, confident that she wouldn't bump into anyone, as it was 2.30am. She’d quickly learned that the middle of the night was the best time to commandeer the only bathroom in a house stuffed to the brim with people, the majority of whom were boys. The door was shut when she approached, which wasn't unusual, but what was unusual was that it didn’t budge when Hermione tried to open it.

Someone must have locked it, and that someone unfortunately must have heard her because a short moment later, the door clicked and swung open to reveal Harry. Hermione didn't know anyone very well yet, in fact, she had actually only spoken to Harry once, when Molly had insisted that she leave the bedroom and join them for dinner to celebrate Ginny’s tenth birthday. Harry had said, “Hi,” Hermione had said, “Hi,” and that’s as far as the conversation had gone.

“Oh hey, it’s you,” Harry whispered. “It didn't take you long to figure out that it’s safer to use the bathroom in the middle of the night then? I’m an only child, and even though I've lived here for nearly two years, I still prefer this over the threat of someone flushing my head down the toilet for taking too long.” He leaned against the doorframe, apparently not realising that the reason Hermione had sought out the bathroom was because she actually needed to use it.

“I’m sorry. I didn't realise it was occupied,” Hermione replied, her voice coming out raspy from the lack of use.

“Oh, don’t worry! I'm done,” he replied with a lazy wave behind him, somehow still not realising that he was blocking the door. “We haven't met properly yet, I’m Harry,” he smiled and held out his hand.

“Hermione,” she replied, hesitantly placing her hand into his, which prompted an awkwardly formal handshake.

“I’m sorry about your parents…” Harry grimaced, quickly babbling… “Urgh, sorry… I thought that would be an appropriate thing to say, but hearing the words out loud… Well, they’re a bit inadequate, aren't they? But I'm not sure how else to say it, you know? Of course, you know… that was a stupid thing to say too. I can’t even imagine… you must be… urgh, how are you? Are you good?” another grimace… “Of course you’re not good!” Having apparently flustered himself out of the ability to form coherent sentences, he ran a shaky hand through his hair, which made it stick out at random angles just like his father’s, and then pretended to hit his head repeatedly against the wooden door frame.

A strange noise escaped Hermione, and it took her a moment to realise that it was a short burst of laughter. “My goodness, you’re horrible at this,” she concluded, smiling despite herself.

“Hey now! At least I'm trying,” Harry replied, a grin spreading across his face at her reaction. “Ron keeps making me check rooms to make sure you aren’t in them crying before we enter! Although, he did suggest a fireworks display to cheer you up, which I thought was actually a pretty cool idea. Molly, however, threatened to make him clean dishes for a week by hand if he followed through on the suggestion. Can you imagine?! BY HAND!”

“I’ve always cleaned the dishes by hand,” Hermione replied blankly.

“Oh. Yeah, because you’re Muggle-born… is that… oh!! Would that cheer you up?” he asked, eyebrows suddenly shooting up as if he’d been struck by a miraculous idea. “Should we go downstairs and wash things up by hand? Because we could…” he indicated down the stairs.

“You’re offering to wash up dishes with me at 2.30 am because you think it might cheer me up?" Hermione clarified, the sentence making her want to cry for some reason.

“Yeah, I mean if anyone deserves a bit of cheer, it's you.”

The corners of Hermione’s mouth twitched up into a smile. “Thank you, Harry, that's a really sweet offer, but I think I’d much rather pee… and, please don't take offence, but I think I'd be more comfortable doing it alone.”

“OH!” Harry pushed away from the doorframe and stepped out of her way, his cheeks flaming red. “Of course! Sorry, in case you haven’t realised it yet, I'm an idiot who likes to block bathroom doorways, apparently.”

As Hermione made her way into the bathroom, she turned to call over her shoulder. “Perhaps, if you’re free tomorrow, you could give me a tour of the garden? I only saw it briefly when Molly, Arthur, and I buried my…” she swallowed and took a deep breath… “I think maybe some fresh air would be nice.”

“Of course! I’d be happy to! OH! I can show you how to throw gnomes over the fence, that always cheers me right up!” Harry replied excitedly, before grinning and hurrying away in the direction of the room he shared with Ron.

Not for the first time since arriving at The Burrow, Hermione found herself thinking that witches and wizards had some very strange ways of entertaining themselves. Just today, for example, from the window of her room she’d observed Arthur Weasley juggling rubber ducks, the twins attempting to bury each other alive, James trying to modify a motorbike to spit fireballs, and Lily sketching shirtless pictures of him. Perhaps she should make them aware of the utter delights that came from quietly losing yourself in a good book.

6 weeks later - 27th September 1991

“Hermione! Come downstairs, we’ve found one that we think might work!” Arthur yelled.

Yelling was the preferred way of communicating within the confines of The Burrow, and given that the house wasn't all that big, Hermione considered it unnecessary and highly irritating. Yet, frustratingly, it was the only form of communication that the boys would respond to.

“Oh exciting!” Ginny squeaked, leaping to her feet and managing to knock over the card tower they’d spent the best part of the afternoon working on.

“Hardly,” Hermione mumbled. “I’m probably going to set something on fire again.”

“I know!” Ginny squealed. “I can’t wait! Can you aim the new wand at Mum’s knitting? She’s working on a new hat for me at the moment, and it’s absolutely ghastly.”

The request was actually quite reasonable; the hat Molly had charmed her knitting needles to create looked more like a garment you’d find in a raffle hosted by the WI than a fashion accessory for a ten year old.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hermione confirmed, because, at the end of the day, if she was about to commit arson, she may as well take out some questionable knitwear in the process.

When Hermione had made it to the ground floor of the Burrow, it was to find Arthur sitting at the dining table and sipping whisky with a man she didn’t recognise. The stranger looked up when she entered and smiled, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who clearly felt right at home. If her dad were to describe this man, he would have called him a Hells Angel because of the random assortment of tattoos, rugged leather jacket, and dark hair tied back into a loose bun. If her mother were to describe this man, she’d likely say he looked edible and a sudden warmth flooded Hermione’s face at the thought.

“Hermione! Glad you could join us! I don’t think you’ve met Sirius yet?” Arthur said cheerily, pulling out a chair and indicating for her to sit down.

“Urm, no,” Hermione said quietly. “It’s nice to meet you, Sirius.”

“Likewise,” Sirius replied in a gruff, masculine voice that did strange fluttery things to her body. “I hope everyone is taking good care of you, especially Prongs. If he isn’t, just let me know and I’ll present you with his antlers… You could hang them from your bedroom wall and use them as a cloak hanger.”

“Huh?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“The whole magic thing is very new to our Hermione,” Arthur explained. “We haven’t covered the whole Animagus thing yet, still trying to explain the war and... What was it you were learning about yesterday?”

“Chocolate Frog Cards, they actually have pictures that can come and go as they please!” Hermione exclaimed, making Sirius bark out a laugh.

A loud bang from upstairs, possibly an explosion, rattled the walls, making Arthur sigh. “I better go and check what that was,” he said, standing up. “Last time I discovered that the twins had blown up their beds for some reason or another… I never did work out why, but they said something about experimenting with muggle lighter fluid. You wouldn’t know anything about how they happened to acquire such a substance, would you, Sirius?”

“If I answer that question truthfully, I fear you’ll take my whisky away,” Sirius replied as Arthur made a hasty departure, muttering something under his breath about the war being too heinous to deprive a man of his whisky. “So, tell me,” Sirius said, turning the full weight of his attention onto Hermione, which, for some reason, made her palms sweat. “How are you holding up, Freckles?”

At this rate Hermione's face was going to need some ice, because ‘Freckles’?! She had never been given a nickname before, and it rendered her momentarily incapacitated.

When normal functions finally resumed, she replied quietly, “I’m not entirely sure how to answer that question. None of this seems real, I keep randomly crying, and even though there are more people in this house than it should reasonably be able to hold, I can’t help but feel lonely.”

“Hmm,” Sirius hummed, nodding thoughtfully and peering around until he found an old colouring book that was discarded on top of a mountain of miscellaneous items, including: socks, a lute and a broken broomstick. “This should work,” he confirmed, tapping it with his wand. Fascinated, Hermione watched the colouring book transform into a leatherbound diary with ‘Freckles’ embossed in gold lettering across the front. “I often find that when I'm feeling a bit lost, writing down my thoughts and feelings can help.” He handed Hermione the diary, adding, “I’d really appreciate it if you refrain from ever relaying that information to James.”

She turned the diary over and over in her hands, thoroughly inspecting it, and failing to find any signs of the colouring book it had once been. “I can’t wait until I can learn how to do this,” Hermione declared, awe clear in her tone

“Ah, well in that case, you’ll need one of these,” Sirius confirmed, pulling a wand from the pocket of his leather jacket and handing it to Hermione with a wink. “Go on, give it a wave… and try to aim it at something mundane, Molly has a vicious slap that I’d rather not be on the receiving end of.”

With wide eyes, Hermione closed her fingers around the polished wood and gasped as a prickling sensation quickly spread across her skin, raising all the hairs on her arm.

“That's a good sign,” Sirius encouraged.

Barely breathing, Hermione waved the wand in the direction of Molly’s knitting, and the needles sped up, now knitting the ghastly hat at double speed. “Ginny won’t be very happy with me; I was supposed to set that hat on fire,” she remarked, a smile lighting up her face when Sirius began laughing.