Mya's First Attempt at a Fanfic in Forever...

[Molly Prewett]

So, I'm writing for the first time since I can even remember. It's nothing fancy, just a Hermione-centric timeturner fic, but it feels good to be giving writing a go again. I've only got a prologue and chapter one so far, but I'm working on it. ~flails~


PROLOGUE
Hermione Granger sighs and shakes her mane of thick hair back from her face as she pulls the next box closer. Sometimes, working for the Department of Mysteries sounded far more interesting than it actually was. But, a year on from the Second War and almost twenty now, she was happy to have a life, let alone a job, and if having a boring run of cataloguing sensitive artefacts passed on from other departments was the price she had to pay sometimes, then pay she would.

She looks carefully into the box before her and what appears to be a basic timeturner nestles innocently amongst the packing. Lifting it out, she holds it up to begin her examination. It looks very much like the one she’d used when she was a third year, causing Hermione to sigh again. It’s probably just a standard issue timeturner, but she decides it’s best to follow protocol – it is there for a reason after all – and run the basic diagnostic spells before marking the box completed.

“Hey ‘Mione. You got time for lunch?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, Hermione looks up to see her best friend and housemate in the doorway of her office. She smiles.
“Give me just a moment to put this away, Harry,” she says, moving to put the timeturner away. She can deal with it later.

What she should have noticed is that the chain of the timeturner is weak. What she should have done was hold the timeturner itself, rather than the chain. And when the chain breaks, dropping the timeturner towards her desk, what she definitely should have done was step back, and not reach for it. But she reaches for the falling object on blind instinct, making contact with it just as it hits her desk.

It shatters against the hard wooden surface and Hermione’s hand slams down against the desk, splinters of glass piercing the palm of her hand. She barely has time to glance back at Harry and mutter an “Oh!” of shock and pain before a rushing sensation overwhelms her body, everything in the world bleeding out to white.

[Molly Prewett]

CHAPTER ONE – Conversations With Dead People

She’s in her chair, slumped over her desk when she comes to with a little groan. She’s got a splitting headache, and Hermione can still feel the prickle of glass in her palms. Taking her time, she opens her eyes and pushes herself upright. She blinks. This is not her office. A little line creases the space between her eyes. Hermione knows this room – she’s seen it before when Harry gave her a tour of where he works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

She’s in a holding cell. The kind in which suspects are held for questioning before they are transported to Azkaban.

Letting out a tiny sound of apprehension, her eyes fly about the room, taking in the bare walls and the lone figure standing guard at the door. She opens her mouth, ready to ask for Harry and what in the name of Merlin is going on when there is a knock at the door. Her guard turns to open it and Hermione stands on reflex, fidgeting nervously as her guard mutters with someone on the other side of the door.

“Glad you’re here,” her guard mumbles. “She just woke up now.”

The guard walks out and another figure walks in to take his place. Hermione’s eyes widen. Tall, long silvery beard, light blue eyes twinkling at her from behind half moon spectacles...

“Oh no,” Hermione mutters, sinking back into her seat while her mind scrambles to try and play catch-up.

Albus Dumbledore slides gracefully into the seat across the table from Hermione, fixing her with a stern, but not unkind stare. “Do you know who I am?”

Hermione nods. “Dumbledore,” she says, not yet game to say much in case she says the wrong thing. Still, her brain sorts frantically through the possibilities. Is she hallucinating? Alternative reality? Is she dead? Does Dumbledore not know her? He doesn’t seem to be giving any indication of recognition, and it unsettles her greatly.

“Yes, I am,” he replies, the raspy, soft voice unnerving Hermione with its familiarity. “And do you know where you are, Miss...?”

She deliberately does not take the opportunity to fill in the blank he’s obviously left for her to supply her name. “Yes, I’m... Wait!” A flash of a memory, something Harry once told her, blazes to the forefront of her mind and she cuts herself off. Information is the key, she reminds herself. Don’t give too much away... “What’s your favourite kind of jam?”

There’s a moment of silence in which she and Dumbledore regard each other, then the old wizard smiles at her. “Am I to understand that if I answer with ‘raspberry’, it will comfort you in some small way?” he says kindly. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Miss...?”

“Good answer,” Hermione says with a tiny, relieved smile. He may not know who she is, but at least she can be a little more certain he is, in fact, Albus Dumbledore. “My name is Hermione, and I... I shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, talking to the table in front of her now.
“Wherever... holy cricket!” she says for the first time since the age of twelve. “What day is it? The date, please?”

“Why, it’s July 3rd, Hermione,” Dumbledore says at once, and if he is surprised by her sudden question, he masks it well.

“What year?”

This time, the wizened wizard cannot help but blink at her. Almost imperceptibly, he shifts, but even the air around him seems more alert at once. “It is 1979. Is that a problem for you?”

“.......................... ohshit,” Hermione moans under her breath after several long seconds of horrified silence. She turns her hand over, examining the shards of the timeturner still embedded in the soft skin of her palm with little smears of blood encrusted around them. So much for standard issue.

“Hermione?” Dumbledore prompts, his gaze boring intently into hers. “How long?”

“Twenty years,” Hermione breathes in response. Merlin, she was twenty years in the past. She takes a deep breath and speaks, slowly, measuring every word carefully. “I know times here are dark, and my arrival must be unsettling, to say the least,” she says, her eyes flickering towards the door, behind which she can imagine an array of frightened wizards ready to toss the strange young woman who turned up out of thin air into Azkaban for the Dementors to deal with. Very deliberately, she pushes the sleeve of her robes up to expose her unmarked left arm, making sure to meet Dumbledore’s gaze head on. “I am not a Death Eater. Where I’m from, I work in the Department of Mysteries, and it was only an accident that I ended up here. I mean no harm to anyone.”

“I see,” Dumbledore says, his raspy voice soft as ever. He falls silent for quite a few minutes, while Hermione’s palm stings and itches and she does her best not to fidget awkwardly. “Well, Hermione,” he finally smiles slightly at her. “What do you say we move this conversation to somewhere a little more comfortable, and have that hand looked at while we’re at it?”

Hermione passes her uninjured hand over her eyes, fighting the urge to simply faint with relief. “You’ll help me? Thank you,” she breathes.
Getting smoothly to his feet, Dumbledore moves around to Hermione’s side, taking her elbow and helping her to her feet. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, not letting go of her elbow as he moves over and knocks on the door to be let out.

It’s something of a blur, the next hour. A flurry of words between Dumbledore and the small, stern cluster of Ministry wizards clearly intent on keeping her locked up – twice she was certain she was headed straight for the Dementors – and a lot of glowering in her general direction later, she was whizzing through the Floo Network and emerging into the pristine whiteness of Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing.

“It looks exactly the same,” she murmurs, her eyes darting around. Of course, the last time she set eyes on the Hospital Wing, it had been a hectic casualty ward. A mess and maze of blood and pain and bodies flying back and forth in a desperate bid to salvage whatever lives they could. Now, she was looking at the sleepy, desolate ward, the sterile smell somehow stronger in the absence of students for the summer.
Stepping out of the grate behind her and brushing ash from his beard, Dumbledore calls once for Madame Pomfrey.

The matron appears from her office at once, and Hermione manages to hide her shock that the stern old woman she is used to was once in fact a much younger, warmer, more vibrant witch behind a polite smile. She suffers the usual fussing over her hand, using tiredness and injury as an excuse not to engage in conversation, until finally the last of the glass is plucked from her hand and the wounds washed and closed.

Dumbledore takes her straight from the Hospital Wing to the staff quarters of the castle, leaving her in a snug apartment to rest, with the promises of returning to speak with her some more later. Hermione stands awkwardly in the centre of the apartment for a few minutes, looking about herself as if she’s not quite sure she’s meant to touch anything.

She has no idea how she’s meant to rest, when really her energies are focused on not panicking, but she goes and takes a seat on the couch, pulling a pocketbook out of her robes and methodically taking stock of her meagre possessions here in 1979. 23 galleons, 50 pounds in muggle money, a handful of sickles and knuts not even worth counting. A couple of photographs, now even more precious to her than they’d ever been before. One of her and Teddy cuddling that brings a bittersweet smile to Hermione’s face. Of all the things to happen to her since finding out she was a witch, she thinks becoming godmother to an ex-professor’s child might just have been the strangest. She’s pretty sure it had thrown Harry too, but they were both instantly determined that Teddy would have the best life they could possibly give him. And so they’d moved into Grimmauld Place, graciously accepted all Mrs Weasley’s help and advice and babysitting services, and worked together to raise Teddy. Hermione’s eyes water, watching the little hand wave at her from the photo, and puts it aside to look at the next one.

The next photo is the Golden Trio. The nickname flashes across her mind and she chuckles dryly. They’re younger in the picture, maybe 4th or 5th year, and there’s a ridiculous innocence about them that Hermione doesn’t remember ever feeling. Hermione looks at the faces of each of the boys flanking her in the photograph, her expression soft. Harry, her best friend. And Ron... well, at least they’d managed to salvage some semblance of friendship from their brief, ill-advised romance in the weeks following the war. It was doomed from the start – they were too different and always would be, but Hermione has long since come to the realisation that it was one of those things she needed to try, and fail at, to truly understand that it wouldn’t work. She still has a soft spot for Ron, and she’d believed she loved him at the time, but he was still growing up and Hermione couldn’t wait. The stress of learning to care for Teddy had been more than enough at the time, and Ron’s underdeveloped maturity had simply proven too much for her.

Her eyes still watering, Hermione reaches for the next thing she can call her own. A muggle driver’s licence. Although she apparated or took the Floo Network almost everywhere, her parents had requested she learn to drive a car. And she had to admit, identification in the muggle world was handy sometimes. She looks at the birth date. 19/09/1979. She’s not even born yet. “Best keep that out of sight,” she mutters to herself. “Until I can get out of here... if I can.” Hermione bites her lip. She’s read somewhat extensively about time travel, first for her own timeturner use back in third year, and later as part of her studies to become an Unspeakable, and everything she has read to date suggests that travelling forwards in time is extremely difficult, if not impossible. Then again, going back more than a few hours is rather unheard of in itself.

She gathers up all her possessions and slips them back inside her robes for safekeeping, then curls up on the couch, hugging a cushion. Dumbledore finds her like that a couple of hours later, Hermione blinks back the persistent tears in her eyes and pushes herself upright, smiling feebly at the Headmaster.

“Shall I make some tea?” he asks, going to the small kitchenette and filling the kettle with water.

“Please,” Hermione says, and a couple of minutes later she and Dumbledore are sitting across from each other at the two of them are seated across from each other at the table, steaming mugs of tea in hand.

Dumbledore just waits, an air of polite expectation about him as he smiles over his beverage.

Hermione frowns. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do, here. It’s dangerous, my being in this time. I’ve had a timeturner in the past, I know that time travel is really dangerous and I can’t even imagine the damage my presence could do,” she says, then pauses. She takes a sip of tea while she plans her next words. “I suppose the best thing to do would be for me to stay out of sight and go back to my own time as quickly and quietly as possible. I’m petrified I’ll say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and destroy the future as I know it. But Professor, is it even possible that I might be able to return to my own time?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the wizard responds, his face sincere in sympathy. “I will do my best to find a way to help you – you may not be surprised to hear I have many friends upon which I can call. And in the meantime, Hermione, you’re welcome to the Hogwarts library at your leisure. If there’s a way, between the two of us we’ll do our very best to find it.”

“And in the meantime, I just wait?” Hermione sighs. The thought sounds less than appealing to her. It’s not her style to hide away while others fight and die around her.

Dumbledore picks up on her vibe easily. “Do you really think you could manage that, Hermione?”

“No,” Hermione sighs. “I would feel wrong if I wasn’t trying to help somehow. Surely there’s something I could do for the Order or something?”

“What do you know of the Order?”

The question from Dumbledore is quick and sharp, and Hermione is taken slightly aback by his tone.

“Er... I know that it’s an organisation created by yourself that resists Voldemort and protects wizards and muggles alike. Truthfully I was never a member in my own time, I was either too young or too busy fighting Voldemort, but I was acquainted with several members and well aware of its existence, you could say.”

Dumbledore stares at her for the longest time, and not for the first time in her life Hermione gets the impression she’s being read like a book.
“Very well,” the old wizard finally sighs. “I suppose I’m not in much of a position to be turning down offered help, am I Miss Granger?”

Hermione smiles a little, despite the severity of the situation. “I suppose not.”

They talk a little while longer, and by the time the evening is over, they seem to have come to a tentative truce, and Hermione is left to a sleepless night worrying over the family and friends she’s left behind, and the path that lays before her.

The Order meeting, held only a couple of days after Hermione’s arrival, was to be held in the Great Hall. When Hermione had expressed her surprise that Dumbledore would allow such a meeting to take place at Hogwarts, the old wizard had smiled as if pleased by her thoughtfulness, but immediately dispelled her fears. “Only for the summer, Hermione,” he had said with a little smile. “When there are no students, and very few staff members about to interrupt and stumble upon something they ought not to. Why not take advantage of some of the best wards in all of Britain?”

Hermione has to admit she’s nervous. Even in her own time, she’s never really been to an official Order meeting – as kids they’d never been allowed, and then they’d been on the run hunting for horcruxes. She’s not really sure what to expect. Not really sure how to behave. In the end she settles on taking a book from the Library – Hogwarts: A History for the sheer comfort factor – and settling on the bench at the Gryffindor table, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. They trickle in slowly at first, then in thicker clumps until there are about twenty five witches and wizards now occupying the Great Hall. A few cast curious or mistrustful looks in her direction as they mill about, chatting with each other or taking seats to await Dumbledore and the start of the meeting, but none actually speak to her.

Glancing discreetly up from the pages of her book, her eyes skid over the people assembled about her, looking for familiar faces despite the stupidity of doing so. Even if she does recognise anyone here, there’s no chance in the world of them recognising her. Not for another twenty years or so, at any rate. There. She spots them – the group she’s been waiting for all this time. Young and whole and looking for all the world like they own the place, like they’re still the coolest gang at Hogwarts, Hermione spots four young men about her age, and a woman with them. She’s very pretty, with deep red hair and phenomenally green eyes. It’s not until she’s been looking at them for a few seconds, the eyes of her best friend in another person’s face, that Hermione finally realises Lily Potter is holding her gaze. She offers a friendly smile to Hermione, who conjures one in return before ducking her head back down to her page, her eyes roving over it without taking in a word.

“Is she new? She’s a cute bird.”

She’s fairly certain she’s not meant to have heard that, nor the chuckling response that comes a moment later. Her eyes freeze on the page, but she calls on all her self-control not to let her head whip around to stare at her unsolicited admirer.

“Do try and keep it in your pants for just one meeting, brother of mine. You could pretend it’s a social experiment.”

Hermione turns her head just a little, as discreetly as possible, to try and identify the ‘brothers’, but her efforts are thwarted by the entrance of Dumbledore, which commands the attention of all in the room. The brothers, before she can sneak a glance at either of their faces, turn as one to face the front and Hermione is left with only the rear impression. It’s quite a nice impression, to be honest, but not entirely helpful for identification purposes. She doesn’t even know which had spoken first, but one is a little taller and thinner, a lanky sort of frame that hints at underlying strength while the other is an inch or two shorter, but with broader shoulders that suggest power. Both have waves of thick dark hair on their heads and Hermione chews her lip lightly, wondering who they could be.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Dumbledore says from the front of the group, clapping his hands together and beaming around at the gathering as if he’s just arrived for a tea party. A hush falls over the assembly at once and people scatter for seats on the benches nearby, or to stand impassively at the back of the group. Hermione, book closed now, turns her face expectantly towards Dumbledore.

“Let’s begin,” Dumbledore says, falling to business at once. “Alastor, what can you tell us from within the Ministry.”

Hermione studies Alastor Moody as he stands before the group, giving the latest updates from inside the Ministry of Magic in his grizzled voice. He’s younger, his body and face significantly more intact, but he is so very unmistakeably Moody that it’s almost comforting. His message itself is anything but comforting, though. Suspected spies within the ranks at the Ministry, troubles recruiting new members to the Order of the Phoenix because they don’t know who to trust, and it’s never an easy task, convincing people to put their lives on the line, a general spate of anti-muggle activity that the Ministry keeps carefully under wraps. Constant Vigilance! Constant Vigilance! Constant Vigilance! It almost brings a nostalgic smile to Hermione’s face. She remembers, then, looking into the younger Moody’s face, how he falls to his death rescuing Harry from Privet Drive for the last time, and the urge to smile drops well below zero. Alastor Moody: Dead.

When Moody is finished, the floor gives way to a tall, lean mass of pure muscle and blonde hair that Hermione quickly learns is Caradoc Dearborn. His information about the group of Death Eaters his covert ops team has been closing steadily in on for a fortnight doesn’t even make it to Hermione’s ears through the rushing sound that has flooded them. Caradoc Dearborn: Dead. Most likely. They’ll never find the body.

‘I’m in a room full of ghosts.’ The thought makes Hermione feel suddenly ill. She sits in stony silence through the rest of the meeting, her mind tallying up the corpses around her. Marlene McKinnon. Benjy Fenwick. Edgar Bones. Dorcas Meadowes. All dead. James and Lily Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Hermione’s throat closes over. Dead and gone. Peter Pettigrew. Dead, and a traitor. Hermione clenches her hands into fists and forces her attention back to the meeting. She reminds herself she’d known all along this would be hard, confronting. But she’s made the choice to help, to try and do something to make things better, and the price of that is going to have to be associating with people she already knows are dead. She doesn’t notice, lost in her own thoughts, that on more than one occasion throughout the meeting Dumbledore is staring somewhat intently at her.

“Gideon?” Dumbledore says, looking up expectantly. “Have the Death Eater raids increased in the last month?”

Hermione’s stomach twists once more. Gideon Prewett. The stockier of the two she’d overheard earlier steps forward, hands nonchalantly shoved into his pockets and an easy, reassuring grin flashing over his face. And his brother, Fabian, Hermione presumes, her eyes briefly visiting the taller of the two, lounged on a bench next to Caradoc Dearborn, long legs stretched out in front of him. Both dead. It took five Death Eaters to bring Mrs Weasley’s brothers down, and they fought like heroes. And yet, still dead.

“It’s been a slow month for raids, and my social life is much obliged,” Gideon says, winking roguishly at Lily Potter. Lily giggles lightly and rolls her eyes while James glowers beside her, throwing a possessive arm about his wife’s shoulders. Hermione fights the urge to shake her head herself, and it dawns on her that Gideon was the brother who had called her cute. Well, judging by his brother’s response to that comment, and his own behaviour, Hermione suspects he’s called every girl in the order cute at least once.

“No deaths that we can make out for the month so far, but I guess we all know what that means,” Gideon continues.

“Constant - !” Fabian calls out, one finger raised imperiously in the air.

“ - Vigilance!” Gideon finishes with a flourish.

Hermione blinks, reminded of another set of twins who sometimes spoke as if one sentence was coming from two mouths. One of those twins was dead now, too. Judging by the muted snort from Sirius, Hermione guesses this is a semi-regular feature of Order meetings.

Correctly interpreting that if Gideon’s presentation had dissolved into playful banter at Moody’s expense, Dumbledore steps forward to reclaim the floor. “Thank you, Gideon. If there’s no further news....?” the old wizard glances around with polite expectancy, but continues upon seeing no takers. “Well, you may have noticed that we have a new member – please make Hermione welcome. You all have your assignments, and I’ll be in touch for the next meeting. Good night.”

It happens rather fast, and Hermione doesn’t quite see it coming. One moment she’s hearing her name, and seeing about twenty five sets of eyes swivel in her direction, and the next there’s the sounds of talking and laughter and a flurry of movement. Oh, and a redhead taking a seat next to her with a big smile.

“Hi,” she says, extending a hand. “Lily Potter. Nice to meet you, Hermione is it?”

“Yes, Hermione Granger,” she parrots, her eyes just a tiny bit wide but otherwise showing no outward distress at the thought of shaking the hand of her best friend’s mother, when her best friend is an orphan. “Nice to meet you, Lily.”

They’re joined then, somewhat predictably, by the Marauders. Hermione suffers through the introductions to the four young men with a smile and an air of quiet composure, hoping that she at least comes off as polite and shy as opposed to withdrawn and rude.

“Where are you from, Hermione?” Lily asks, once there’s an acceptable lull in the conversation.

Hermione opens her mouth, the story she’d concocted and rehearsed with Dumbledore springing to the forefront of her mind, but before she can recite it, Sirius Black slides onto the bench next to her, stretching his arms out along the table behind her. A cocky grin flashes at her.
“I’m not usually this forward, darlin’” – out of the corner of her eye Hermione sees Remus Lupin shake his head in disbelief – “But I’ve gotta ask – are your legs tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all night.”

“Erm, what? They’re not nearly as sore as they will be by the time I’ve finished running away from you.”

Hermione can’t quite believe that just happened. But she’s pretty sure she just got hit on by her best friend’s godfather, and she’s pretty sure she just shot him down. Quite spectacularly, she hopes. Neither, apparently, can Sirius, whose mouth has dropped open as he stares at Hermione in complete and utter confusion, as if he’s not really sure what’s going on.

A smooth chuckle breaks through the stunned silence. “Cute and smart, hmm? Nice one, doll. Fabian Prewett, lovely to meet you.”
Hermione turns away from the still gaping Sirius, somehow finding her hand being lifted smoothly towards the lips of the taller Prewett brother.
His smile is charming, and seems to take command of his whole face, reflecting in his eyes, and Hermione can’t help but smile in return.

“Pleasure,” she says simply, suddenly aware that the group around her has grown. “I’m Hermione.”

“This is my slightly-less-attractive-brother, Gideon, and this is Caradoc,” Fabian says, dropping her hand and waving his own at each of his companions in turn.

“Please, Fay, you already said she was smart. Surely she can see the superior physical specimen for herself,” Gideon scoffs, taking offense to his less-attractive title. “Charmed, Hermione,” he says with a wink, then falls into playful banter with his brother that saves Hermione the trouble of responding.

“Don’t mind that,” Lily murmurs in her ear. “They’ll be at each other all night now.” Lily’s giggling slightly though, and when Hermione glances back at the redhead, she can’t help but chuckle too.

“And where did you come from, Hermione?”

Hermione locks gazes with Caradoc Dearborn, lifting her chin just a little. His voice is just a touch cold, chilled with suspicion, and the chattering within the little group diminishes due to a combination of awkwardness and curiosity for her answer. She’s suddenly incredibly grateful she and Dumbledore practiced this part.

“I’m from America, lately,” she says, her voice steady. “I was born and raised in England though. My best friend and I decided to leave when our godson’s parents were killed by Death Eaters last year – we didn’t want him to grow up around the war. But I had heard rumours that the situation had deteriorated, and I wanted to help.”

“And what can you do to help?” Caradoc persists, his gaze intense and demanding. Hermione is left with the distinct impression that Caradoc Dearborn is a man who likes to be in control.

Hermione rises to the challenge, bristling a little because who the hell does this guy think he is? “Well I’ve got a near-photographic memory so I can retain all sorts of information. I also speed-read, so that’s a lot of information going in. I can solve problems in a crisis, I’ve had experience in the field, I’ve yet to attempt a spell without success, I can decipher runes and my wards are rather strong. Can I ask what you do for the Order?” she shoots back.

“That’s for me to know,” Caradoc retorts.

“Give it a rest, Rad,” Fabian mutters. “Would Dumbledore have let her in the Order if she wasn’t trustworthy?”

Neither Hermione nor Caradoc has the chance to press their case further, as at that moment Dumbledore appears in between James and Remus, smiling serenely around at the group. “Wonderful, wonderful, just what I like to see – everyone getting along.”

Hermione bites back a snort, and notices she’s not the only one, but Dumbledore graciously overlooks it.

“Caradoc, Fabian, Gideon, if I might have a word?” Dumbledore says, gesturing to a quieter corner of the Great Hall, which is, in fact, rapidly emptying.

The three older wizards take their leave of the younger group to follow Dumbledore, Gideon sparing a second to wink at the girls and Caradoc barely grunting a farewell and a moment of silence descends in their wake.

“Don’t mind Caradoc,” Lily finally says. “He’s really very friendly once you get to know him, just a little cautious around new people. You can’t really blame people for that in these times.”

“No,” Hermione says, smiling at the other woman to reassure her that she is not mortally offended. She’s more mildly annoyed because rudeness irks her. The boys seem to have fallen into their own conversation, leaving Lily and Hermione free to get to know each other a little more. “It’s fine. I do understand, Lily.”

“So you’ve only recently returned to England? Where are you staying?”

“Here, actually,” Hermione says. “At Hogwarts, for now. Since it’s summer and I won’t be disturbing any students, Professor Dumbledore has very kindly offered me lodgings in the staff wing until I get settled in and can make alternative arrangements.”

Lily smiles, and thinks that at least it’s clear Dumbledore trusts Hermione. He wouldn’t let just anyone stay at his school, after all. “Oh well at least I know where to reach you now. Do you want to maybe have a coffee with me sometime before the next meeting? I could help you settle in, introduce you around a bit? There’s not all that many girls in the Order, but a couple of us are pretty close... there’s Alice, she’s on her Honeymoon though and won’t be back for a couple of days. She’s just lovely, though, I bet you’d really like her.”

Flattered, Hermione smiles. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble? That would be brilliant.”

Lily smiles in response, and the two women chat for a few more minutes until the last of the Order crowd disperses. A couple of hours later, when Hermione slips between her soft sheets at last, her final thought before drifting off to sleep is that she’s been a complete fool to presume she could handle this, handle all these conversations with dead people.

[Angelina Johnson]

-flails-

I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE IT!

But I think you already knew that...
<.<
>.>

[Molly Prewett]

*had an inkling*

>.>
<.<

*loves you lots*

[Ravenclaw Mod]

NDKHAJKJDSBFKDKJFNDKJSBKFJDBSKFKJDLSBNFKJNDSK

THIS IS AMAZING
YOU'RE AMAZING
I LOVE HERMIONE
AND GIDEON
ADKSLNFSKJNG
BUT
OMG
I GOTTA SAY
I LOVE FABIAN SO MUCH
HE'S JUST AWESOME IN HERE
AND I WANNA BE HIS BFF
AND
UM
THAT IS ALL
I LOVE YOU
AND I LOVE THIS FANFICTION
<3

[Molly Prewett]

*blushes*

I love you SO much.
Thanks!
~flails~

[Nikki Orwell]

Mya, how is everything you write so perfect? This is amazing. I absolutely adore it. I wish I could give you constructive criticism, but there is literally nothing I would want you to change. You are an incredible writer!
Lots of love!

[Romilda Vane]

I AGREE WITH NIKKI.

WONDERFUL, JUST WONDERFUL. I DON'T THINK ANYTHING COULD POSSIBLY BE BETTER!

I CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE!!! ~FLAILS~

[Lucy Weasley]

MYA YOU'RE AMAZING
LIKE OMG.
I LOVE YOUR WRITING LIKE WOAHH
YOU WRITE FABIAN BETTER THAN I DO
OMG I LOVE IT
I LOVE YOU
IT'S AMAZING
YOU'RE AMAZING
OMG I LOVE ITTTTT. *attacks*

[Daphne Greengrass]

THAT WAS AWESOME.
I LOVE IT SO MUCH.
SO SO MUCH.

[Mya Lupin]

*blushes*
Thanks guys, I love you all. I'll get the next chapter started ASAP!

AND CISSA - OMG! NOT EVEN! NOBODY IN THE WORLD WRITES FABIAN PREWETT BETTER THAN YOU!
*tacklehugs*

[Lucy Weasley]

NOT TRUE BECAUSE YOU DID AN AWESOME SUPER AMAZING JOB! *is tackled and returns hug*

[Remus Lupin]

AHHHH
AWESOME MYA!!!!!!!!!! *FLAILS*
I LOVVVVVE IT AND CAN'T WAIT TO READ MORE!!
<3

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