"Through the Mirror" - Hermione-centric (R/Hr) - Adult
Against my better judgment (if I wanted comments/a wide audience), I post this now. But as it stands, I'm just sitting on it, 'cause it's totally done, sooooo. I'll post it to comms later but in the meantime, Happy Holidays portions-of-flist who care and are around. :)
Title: Through the Mirror
Author: femmenerd
Characters/Pairing: Hermione centric, Ron/Hermione, also featuring Ron, various and sundry Weasley relations, the Grangers and Dumbledore (among others).
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don't sue.
Summary: Canon compliant yet AU. Takes place during the holidays of 1996 (during HPB) and December 2011 (between the body of DH and the epilogue). Hermione needs some perspective.
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by that “what you would want to tell yourself at sixteen” meme. The original word doc was labeled "Hermione Time Travel Fic." Many thanks to oxoniensis for Brit picking and honey_wheeler for the beta.
Word Count: About 11,000.
P.S. The tone of the lj-cut I'm about to make is not consistent throughout the story, FYI.
Prologue
Hermione’s pretty sure she’s never felt so wretched in her life. Stupid McLaggen and his stupid oafish, groping hands and his stupid slobbery mouth! She should have known she was playing with fire when she invited him to Slughorn’s Christmas party, but every time she sees-or even thinks about-Ron kissing Lavender, a red-hot, irrational rage boils up inside her making Hermione do crazy things. First there were the birds and now this. Because even though it doesn’t precisely make sense-considering how Ron can’t seem to pry his lips off her roommate’s face long enough to notice much of anything lately-Hermione still instinctively knew that her going out with Cormac McLaggen would get Ron’s goat. But it was a petty and vindictive thing to do and it only made her feel better for about two seconds anyway.
It’s as though Hermione hardly even recognizes herself anymore. And she hates Ron! She does, she hates him for making her feel this way-angry and sad and out of control. She can’t even enjoy her studies since he turned into a giant git overnight and then took up with Lavender when he’s supposed to be-he’s supposed to be...
Well, she doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be, but she knows what she’s supposed to be and it’s nothing like this. There are big things going on in the world, and all Hermione can do is feel sorry for herself and wallow in the terrible condition of being a teenage girl.
Chatting at the party with Harry and Luna and trying to make light of the horrific mistletoe episode, Hermione feels a dangerous prickling behind her eyeballs indicating that if she stays a minute longer she’ll be blubbering like an idiot in front of the entire party-this even before she spies Cormac headed back. So she runs away as fast as she can, barrelling down hallways and staircases helter-skelter- tearing her dress in the process-not knowing or caring where she’s headed, as long as it’s away..
*
In another time and place, it’s past two in the morning and Hermione still isn’t asleep. Ron’s working a night shift again and she can’t tell if she’s glad or not. It should be a relief to have some time to herself, with the children asleep and the pressures of work at the Ministry (theoretically) elsewhere. Lately, she keeps telling herself that all she really needs is a bit more time alone.
She’d said as much to Ron earlier that day before he’d gone off to work. Okay, she’d yelled as much to Ron, for some reason unable to keep herself from starting a nasty row for no real reason. And just at the beginning of their Christmas hols as well.
It’s the first extended holiday Hermione’s taken since she started work again after Hugo. Her boss practically forced her to, despite Hermione’s protests. She just-it’s the first Christmas since her mum died and really, she’s not sure how she’s supposed to bear that.
Hermione stares into the fireplace and folds herself up under her nightdress, hugging her knees. It’s a jolly fire filled with big, fat logs that Ron and a few of his brothers stacked up by the side of the house earlier in the autumn. She finds herself thinking back on the wide-eyed expressions on her parents’ faces the first time they came to visit in the new house, just before Rosie was born. All those years of knowing her only daughter was a witch and still each time her mum witnessed a magically-enhanced chore or other quotidian aspect of the business of living in the Wizarding world she’d very nearly squeak: charmed wooden spoons stirring the soup pot, Hermione heating bottles of baby formula with a flick of her wand, Ron getting the fire going by way of a quick spell. But her mother had always tried so hard not to behave like she was at all perturbed. Hermione had loved her for it.
The ache of her mother’s absence is a perpetual dull throb in Hermione’s chest. And everyone (Ron) has tried so hard to be sensitive and caring about it all, but the pain doesn’t seem to be abating in the slightest and Hermione feels selfish. Practically everyone she knows is well-versed in losing family members, after all.
Hermione’s sorry for sniping at Ron this afternoon. She already was even before he’d apparated away in a huff to meet Harry at Auror headquarters. Not that Ron hadn’t got in a few zingers himself, to be sure. Something about how most women want to spend time with their husbands and babies.
But it’s not that at all! She loves them. She loves him. Everything just feels like rather a lot of late. Wanting to prove beyond any shadow of anyone’s doubt that she deserves the prized promotion to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement-that she hasn’t gone “soft” from nursing and changing nappies. Wanting to be a good mother.
And, right now, to the fire and the silence of the living room, Hermione can admit it: she can be obsessed with her work and it’s hard-it can be so hard-not to get caught up, to feel pulled in too many directions. But it’s also difficult to figure out where to direct any feelings of resentment when Hermione’s staring down into the freckled face of a very small person who needs her, loves her, grew inside her.
Ron says she’s bonkers to even imply that anyone would doubt her performance. He says they miss her at home. He says half the time he doesn’t know if he wants to snog her or throttle her.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes three and Hermione yawns, realizing that she’s bone tired after all. Plus Molly’s coming in the morning to pick up Rose and Hugo for a weekend with their grandparents, so Hermione needs to wake early to get the children ready. Ron certainly won’t be up for that. She wishes the kitchen were tidier for her mother-in-law’s loving, prying eyes but doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
So Hermione drags her weary body up off the sofa and trudges upstairs, stopping first to pop into Rose’s room where both her progeny are piled in a sleep-sweet tangle of chubby limbs and kicked-off covers-Hugo likes to sleep with his sister in her big-girl bed much of the time. They look peaceful, perfect, hers. Hermione gently ghosts a hand over Rose’s tangled auburn curls and dislodges Hugo’s thumb from his mouth, making an even trade by fetching him the dummy he’s probably too old for. Sometimes Hermione’s jealous that Ginny got a full-fledged redhead in Lily while both of Hermione’s children ended up with the Weasley name but not the hair. Hugo’s is the exact same dark brown as her dad’s was before he went grey! Of course, Hermione’s fairly certain that he’s going to end up as tall as his father and he has the same long, thin nose as Ron. But Hermione enjoys the surreal experience of looking at them and seeing so much of herself in these miraculous miniature people. It seems ridiculous now but when Ron first started making noise about making babies Hermione used to have these fantasies/nightmares that she’d give birth to multiple mini-Rons that looked nothing like her, much less their own independent little selves. There are some things you just can’t understand until they happen to you, she supposes.
Suddenly so tired she can hardly stand up, Hermione kisses her babies each once on the forehead and goes to her own bed just across the hall, snuggling up under the quilt and wishing that Ron were here to just hold her until things feel more quiet inside her head.
*
Hermione keeps running, tears streaming down her face as the inhabitants of paintings tut-tut and tell her to slow down, dearie, you’ll hurt yourself. But she just can’t go back to her room to face Lavender and her giggles and the inevitable Ron-induced love bites on her neck. And the movement feels good, cathartic and reckless.
She runs until she turns a corner to see the Room of Requirement opening, its door widening just for her as she steps inside, filled with a comfortingly familiar emotion-curiosity. Inside it’s emptier than Hermione has ever seen it before, filled mostly by shadows with a solitary lamp illuminating a wooden table in the dead centre of the room. When Hermione reaches the table she finds a hand mirror with a partially tarnished brass frame lying face up on the tabletop; lamplight glinting off patches of shiny brightness, mesmerizing her. Though her fingers are shaking slightly, Hermione picks the mirror up and angles it towards her face, relieved to see the same golden-brown eyes as usual looking back at her. But the cheeks are less round, the hairstyle different... Before Hermione can even begin to process this image, it’s obscured by a brilliant flash of white emanating from the glass and she’s out like a light.
The next thing she knows, Hermione’s startled awake from a deep sleep by a rush of high-pitched sounds, quickly taking the form of words in her muddled mind.
“Wake up, Mum, wake up! Daddy!”
Soon there’s a face to connect with the screeching, a small one with a smattering of freckles over the bridge of a pert nose and wide brown eyes the precise colour of her own. To Hermione’s left comes a sleep-rumbly male voice. First, “Oh bollocks.” Then, “Daddy’s sleeping, Rosie! Pipe down.” Hermione looks from the expectant and unfamiliar child perched at the foot of the bed over to a broad-shouldered back (also covered in freckles) that leads to a poufy down pillow with tufts of ginger hair peeking out underneath as two large hands hold it in place-presumably the origin of the cursing and paternal instruction. She sits up straight as a board and covers her mouth in shock.
“It’s your turn, Hermione, and I had a hard night-vampires run amok. Will you deal with this?”
“Um,” Hermione croaks.
*
Hermione wakes suddenly in a far smaller bed than she’s used to with harsh winter sunlight streaming through bed curtains and onto her face. She blinks, feeling around the bedclothes with her hands. Ron’s not there! Oh god, she thinks, he must still be hacked off at her. Maybe he got pissed after his shift with Harry and didn’t come home at all. This is not good.
This is also...not her bed!
Thoroughly disoriented and not a little bit irritated, Hermione swoops away the curtains and peers out only to find herself in what looks to be a standard Gryffindor girls dormitory. Oh brilliant, just brilliant-she’s come unhinged from stress and started apparating in her sleep. Hermione can just imagine the headlines: “Hermione Granger, war hero and mother of two, cracks up.” But almost immediately, she remembers that of course it’s not even possible to apparate onto Hogwarts grounds.
What on earth is going on?
*
“I must still be dreaming,” Hermione thinks.
This has to be a dream.
Part One: Time Travel’s a Witch
Hermione lies back down, blood rushing in her head but still not obscuring the sounds of trademark Lavender Brown snoring and the little sighs Parvati always used to make when she was dreaming. With trepidation, Hermione lifts her nightgown and gazes down at her body. Her stomach is smooth and winter-time pale, unmarred by stretch marks. Her hips are slim, showing no sign of the extra ten pounds she hasn’t been able to whittle away after two pregnancies. Blushing inexplicably, Hermione slips her hand inside her knickers to find that yes, it’s different down there too, the hair between her legs untrimmed and virginal.
This isn’t just the wrong place, Hermione realises; she’s apparently in the wrong time as well.
As the one-time possessor of a Ministry issue Time-Turner, Hermione knows that this kind of thing is possible, but she’s never heard of any instances of someone travelling through time with just their consciousness alone, not to mention bridging this extended a temporal gap. But there has to be some sort of logical explanation; Hermione just doesn’t know what it is yet.
Rather than panic, Hermione decides to take stock of the information available to her. Let’s see, since she’s at Hogwarts, that limits the field somewhat. And judging by the status of her body-because this is her body, just firmer and younger-it must be either fifth or sixth year. Before the war.
Hermione takes a deep breath. She’ll just-she’ll just go and talk to Minerva! Or-oh wow-Dumbledore. Hermione's head spins for a moment at the thought of seeing him alive again (if not well), but she tries to collect herself, stay on point.
Just then, the other occupants of the room begin stirring and Hermione’s thoughts abruptly shift to the immediate logistics of this. She feels paralyzed. Just how exactly is she supposed to behave normally? Does she even remember what “normal” behaviour would be for her teenage self? Several long minutes pass as the sounds coming from outside the protective drapes around the bed become increasingly noisy, more so than Hermione imagines would be typical for a regular day of lessons. She hears trunks jostling and excited whispering, but still doesn’t move.
Eventually, there’s a rapping against the bedpost and Hermione hears Parvati ask, “Hermione? Are you all right? The train’s leaving in half an hour. You are going home this Christmas, aren’t you?”
Christmas. Home. Going home to her mother. At that moment, any previous plans of action fly from Hermione’s head. All she can think about is seeing her mum’s face again. Surely she can’t pass that up, can she?
So with great effort, Hermione forces herself to answer. “Yes, of course. I’m getting up straight away.”
Time being of the essence, the preparations happen by rote. Her bags are already packed by the side of her bed, an outfit of Muggle clothes folded on top. Hermione pulls on her jeans and jumper quickly, smiling at her roommates but not engaging them in conversation. Which turns out to be quite easily accomplished-even Lavender, who's always been so chatty, seems preoccupied. When they get down to the common room, Hermione realises why, also receiving confirmation that it is definitely sixth year when Lavender attaches herself to Ron while Harry tugs on Hermione’s sleeve, whispering about how he has something “very important to tell her” when they get back from the holidays. Hermione vaguely nods at him, thoroughly distracted.
It’s all just...so strange. She hasn’t thought about this particular time in her life in a while. Hermione remembers it vividly though-the terrible hurt and confusion she’d felt, wanting Ron in ways she didn’t even understand yet, the pining, feeling so uncomfortable with herself. Experimentally, Hermione turns her head to look at the surreal sight of the boy who is to become her husband snogging another girl. But that aside it’s just dizzying to be surrounded by so many familiar faces all looking so young. Entirely different from looking at photo albums, this bizarre proximity to the past actually distances Hermione from her memory in a way. We were such children! It boggles her mind to think that in less than a year, she and Harry and Ron will be wilfully taking on the very grown up task of, well, saving the world.
As for Lavender and Ron-Hermione finds that it still hurts a twinge to look directly at it, but mostly she’s remembering how good it felt to let go of hating Lavender. That was also when she really started to feel secure in her relationship with Ron, when she was able to feel empathy for Lavender and realise what a bad lot the other girl had got really-how Lavender’s only crime had been to fancy a boy who already fancied someone else. Not that the Hermione she’s supposed to be currently would know that, Hermione realises, and turns back to Harry. “Happy Christmas,” she tells him, by way of goodbye.
She doesn’t say anything to Ron though, because not only does she not have the slightest idea what she would say, Hermione also doesn’t want to do anything suspicious.
She just wants to see her mum one more time. After that she’ll set this right.
*
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione allows herself to be dragged out of bed by this very insistent little girl. They careen together out into a hallway and through another door into a child’s bedroom where a toddler-aged boy is blinking himself awake, sucking on his thumb and peering up at them.
“Mummy’s awake, Hugo!” the girl announces. “It’s time to get ready to go to Nana’s house.” She’s all business, this child, climbing up onto the bed and wrapping her arms around the boy, scolding, “Got to put clothes on.”
Hermione just stands there observing the scene. She hasn’t been around children much in her life. As her silence persists, the girl-Rose-turns around and says quietly, “Do you want me to help, Mummy?”
Hermione nods furiously. And then Rose is tearing off into the hallway, leaving Hermione alone with the other little one, who holds his arms up over his head, giving her an imploring look. With a quick glance back to the door, Hermione walks over and hooks her hands under his armpits, picking him up gingerly as she tries to remember everything she’s ever heard anyone say about babies. Aren’t you supposed to hold the back of their heads or something? But that’s with little babies and this boy is already half the size of his sister, maybe three years old, she surmises. Imitating a pose that seems logical, Hermione brings him down to her hip with one of her arms under his bum and the other holding his torso close to her body. It seems to be the right thing because he doesn’t fall, instead cuddling into her and rubbing his mess of brown curls into her shoulder. “Mornin’, Mum,” he chirps, and she’s surprised that he can talk at all, then feels silly for it.
This is-these children think she’s their mother! Hermione boggles, even as she feels a sweetness blooming in her chest as she sniffs the powdery smell of Hugo’s soft baby-skin.
Just then Rose comes back into the room bearing a pile of clothing in her arms, including-oh god!-a small, red Weasley jumper with an orange “H” embossed on the front. She herself has changed into a rather bizarre outfit comprised of not one dress but two (each of different, clashing prints juxtaposed with one hem hanging longer than the other), striped legwarmers and a cardigan over it all.
“I know Nana likes us to wear her jumpers,” Rose explains. “But I ruined mine playing with Al last week.” A guilty expression crosses her face. “Sorry I didn’t tell, Mum, but you were sad...”
“It’s-it’s all right,” Hermione says, putting Hugo back down on the bed and taking the clothes from Rose, reaching one hand down to pat the little girl’s head and smiling through her bewilderment. Rose’s face erupts in dimples and a grin as she hugs Hermione’s leg happily.
After some trial and error, Hermione gets Hugo fastened into a pair of denims, a tee-shirt and his jumper, with Rose prattling all the while. Through the entire process Hermione’s mind is racing-This is-this must be the future, and this is me here,not Lavender. She contemplates whether the Room of Requirement has a consciousness or a sense of humour. She wonders if this is the universe’s way of mocking her for having ever written out “Hermione Granger-Weasley” on a spare piece of parchment that one time, even though she used up a puddle of ink blacking it over.
Afraid to go back into the other bedroom, Hermione is relieved to find a pair of jeans and a pullover in her size amidst a stack of folded laundry in a large washroom next to the nursery. She dresses quickly without even really looking at herself amidst Rose’s plaintive cries of, “I’m hungry, Mum!” Downstairs there’s already coffee brewing in a charmed Muggle coffeemaker. Hermione drinks two cups black and piping hot, hoping to clear her head. She also spies a box of the instant hot oat cereal her mum always makes in the wintertime and decides it seems like the right sort of thing to feed small children for breakfast. The three of them are just sitting down at the kitchen table when the distinct pop of someone apparating interrupts Hermione’s silence, Rose’s humming, and the rhythm Hugo’s banging out with a spoon against the table.
“Good morning!” says a cheery female voice, and Mrs. Weasley approaches with her arms flung wide. Her red hair is streaked more grey and her face bears wrinkles it didn’t the last time Hermione saw her last summer/years and years ago. “Rosie! Hugo! Are you excited to see your grandmother? Hello, Hermione dear, it’s good to see you eating. I’ve been thinking you’re too thin.” Looking down at her lap, Hermione doesn’t think she looks too thin at all, rather curvy actually.
“Nice to see you, Mrs.-Molly,” Hermione stutters, correcting to what she thinks is probably the more appropriate thing to call one’s mother-in-law.
“So nice to see you too! Is my son asleep? Oh of course he is, don’t disturb him. He’s earned his rest. And so have you, I hear! So impressive, one of our own promoted twice in as many years.” Mrs. Weasley beams.
Hermione smiles weakly in response. “Would you like some coffee?” is all she can think to say.
“Oh no, thank you, dear. These two munchkins and I have a date with Santa Claus, don’t we, Hugo?”
“Santa?” Hugo ceases his table-drumming and tilts his head.
“Yes, darling, we’re going to have such fun.” In an aside to Hermione, Mrs. Weasley adds, “Arthur’s got it in his head to take them to the Muggle department stores. I swear, he’s more invested in Hugo and Rose knowing about their Muggle heritage than your dad. Anyway,” she raises her voice again, “Are you all packed and ready to go, Rosie?”
Hermione starts at first, feeling like she does in her nightmares about showing up to class without her homework done, but relaxes when Rose replies, “Yes, Nana,” and points up the stairs.
Before she knows it, they’ve all three left in a blur of knitted hats and scarves and Floo powder and Hermione is alone. She tiptoes around the house looking at everything, terrified to wake the sleeping man upstairs but overwhelmed by curiosity. It’s not over-large but seems comfortable, lived-in. There’s a living room adjoining the combined kitchen/dining room, lots of wide open space divided only by thick wooden beam framing. Doors off the living room reveal a small study with bookshelves reaching up to the ceiling-a pile of very important looking papers bearing Ministry seals and her own name confirm it to be Hermione’s-and another room dominated by a television set and large Chudley Cannons posters on the walls. As she roots through the kitchen cabinets and pantry, Hermione is amused to find a significant amount of quick and easy-to-make meal kits. Cooking never has been her favourite thing, and before this very moment Hermione has never even contemplated Ron so much as boiling water for tea.
But it’s a shelf of framed magical photographs in the front hallway that makes Hermione stop and stare the longest. A few she remembers-pictures of her and Ron and Harry together during their early years at school. The others are overwhelming: Hermione in a simple white wedding dress and Ron in a tux (a Muggle wedding, of course!), Harry and Ron grinning proudly in dress robes at some kind of graduation, Harry and Ginny in a posed photo with three children on their laps (no surprise there). There’s also a black and white still photo of her parents and innumerable pictures of Rose and Hugo from infancy onward. But strangest of all are the images of people Hermione has never met smiling and waving to the camera.
Hermione has to sit down for a while after that. Finally she summons her Gryffindor courage and ascends the stairs to go back to the room she woke up in a few hours ago. She’s hardly in the door before she’s being pulled down to the bed by strong, freckled arms. Startled, Hermione looks into the face attached to this unfamiliar body-the man touching her so casually, the man who is...Ron.
“God love, I’m so bloody sorry about yesterday. I was a total prat,” he mumbles contritely, his breath a sour-sleep whisper against her cheek.
Hermione’s not sure if she’s ever heard Ron apologize so blatantly. She figures he must have done a lot of that to get them here.
*
Continued [ here].
Title: Through the Mirror
Author: femmenerd
Characters/Pairing: Hermione centric, Ron/Hermione, also featuring Ron, various and sundry Weasley relations, the Grangers and Dumbledore (among others).
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don't sue.
Summary: Canon compliant yet AU. Takes place during the holidays of 1996 (during HPB) and December 2011 (between the body of DH and the epilogue). Hermione needs some perspective.
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by that “what you would want to tell yourself at sixteen” meme. The original word doc was labeled "Hermione Time Travel Fic." Many thanks to oxoniensis for Brit picking and honey_wheeler for the beta.
Word Count: About 11,000.
P.S. The tone of the lj-cut I'm about to make is not consistent throughout the story, FYI.
Prologue
Hermione’s pretty sure she’s never felt so wretched in her life. Stupid McLaggen and his stupid oafish, groping hands and his stupid slobbery mouth! She should have known she was playing with fire when she invited him to Slughorn’s Christmas party, but every time she sees-or even thinks about-Ron kissing Lavender, a red-hot, irrational rage boils up inside her making Hermione do crazy things. First there were the birds and now this. Because even though it doesn’t precisely make sense-considering how Ron can’t seem to pry his lips off her roommate’s face long enough to notice much of anything lately-Hermione still instinctively knew that her going out with Cormac McLaggen would get Ron’s goat. But it was a petty and vindictive thing to do and it only made her feel better for about two seconds anyway.
It’s as though Hermione hardly even recognizes herself anymore. And she hates Ron! She does, she hates him for making her feel this way-angry and sad and out of control. She can’t even enjoy her studies since he turned into a giant git overnight and then took up with Lavender when he’s supposed to be-he’s supposed to be...
Well, she doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be, but she knows what she’s supposed to be and it’s nothing like this. There are big things going on in the world, and all Hermione can do is feel sorry for herself and wallow in the terrible condition of being a teenage girl.
Chatting at the party with Harry and Luna and trying to make light of the horrific mistletoe episode, Hermione feels a dangerous prickling behind her eyeballs indicating that if she stays a minute longer she’ll be blubbering like an idiot in front of the entire party-this even before she spies Cormac headed back. So she runs away as fast as she can, barrelling down hallways and staircases helter-skelter- tearing her dress in the process-not knowing or caring where she’s headed, as long as it’s away..
*
In another time and place, it’s past two in the morning and Hermione still isn’t asleep. Ron’s working a night shift again and she can’t tell if she’s glad or not. It should be a relief to have some time to herself, with the children asleep and the pressures of work at the Ministry (theoretically) elsewhere. Lately, she keeps telling herself that all she really needs is a bit more time alone.
She’d said as much to Ron earlier that day before he’d gone off to work. Okay, she’d yelled as much to Ron, for some reason unable to keep herself from starting a nasty row for no real reason. And just at the beginning of their Christmas hols as well.
It’s the first extended holiday Hermione’s taken since she started work again after Hugo. Her boss practically forced her to, despite Hermione’s protests. She just-it’s the first Christmas since her mum died and really, she’s not sure how she’s supposed to bear that.
Hermione stares into the fireplace and folds herself up under her nightdress, hugging her knees. It’s a jolly fire filled with big, fat logs that Ron and a few of his brothers stacked up by the side of the house earlier in the autumn. She finds herself thinking back on the wide-eyed expressions on her parents’ faces the first time they came to visit in the new house, just before Rosie was born. All those years of knowing her only daughter was a witch and still each time her mum witnessed a magically-enhanced chore or other quotidian aspect of the business of living in the Wizarding world she’d very nearly squeak: charmed wooden spoons stirring the soup pot, Hermione heating bottles of baby formula with a flick of her wand, Ron getting the fire going by way of a quick spell. But her mother had always tried so hard not to behave like she was at all perturbed. Hermione had loved her for it.
The ache of her mother’s absence is a perpetual dull throb in Hermione’s chest. And everyone (Ron) has tried so hard to be sensitive and caring about it all, but the pain doesn’t seem to be abating in the slightest and Hermione feels selfish. Practically everyone she knows is well-versed in losing family members, after all.
Hermione’s sorry for sniping at Ron this afternoon. She already was even before he’d apparated away in a huff to meet Harry at Auror headquarters. Not that Ron hadn’t got in a few zingers himself, to be sure. Something about how most women want to spend time with their husbands and babies.
But it’s not that at all! She loves them. She loves him. Everything just feels like rather a lot of late. Wanting to prove beyond any shadow of anyone’s doubt that she deserves the prized promotion to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement-that she hasn’t gone “soft” from nursing and changing nappies. Wanting to be a good mother.
And, right now, to the fire and the silence of the living room, Hermione can admit it: she can be obsessed with her work and it’s hard-it can be so hard-not to get caught up, to feel pulled in too many directions. But it’s also difficult to figure out where to direct any feelings of resentment when Hermione’s staring down into the freckled face of a very small person who needs her, loves her, grew inside her.
Ron says she’s bonkers to even imply that anyone would doubt her performance. He says they miss her at home. He says half the time he doesn’t know if he wants to snog her or throttle her.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes three and Hermione yawns, realizing that she’s bone tired after all. Plus Molly’s coming in the morning to pick up Rose and Hugo for a weekend with their grandparents, so Hermione needs to wake early to get the children ready. Ron certainly won’t be up for that. She wishes the kitchen were tidier for her mother-in-law’s loving, prying eyes but doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
So Hermione drags her weary body up off the sofa and trudges upstairs, stopping first to pop into Rose’s room where both her progeny are piled in a sleep-sweet tangle of chubby limbs and kicked-off covers-Hugo likes to sleep with his sister in her big-girl bed much of the time. They look peaceful, perfect, hers. Hermione gently ghosts a hand over Rose’s tangled auburn curls and dislodges Hugo’s thumb from his mouth, making an even trade by fetching him the dummy he’s probably too old for. Sometimes Hermione’s jealous that Ginny got a full-fledged redhead in Lily while both of Hermione’s children ended up with the Weasley name but not the hair. Hugo’s is the exact same dark brown as her dad’s was before he went grey! Of course, Hermione’s fairly certain that he’s going to end up as tall as his father and he has the same long, thin nose as Ron. But Hermione enjoys the surreal experience of looking at them and seeing so much of herself in these miraculous miniature people. It seems ridiculous now but when Ron first started making noise about making babies Hermione used to have these fantasies/nightmares that she’d give birth to multiple mini-Rons that looked nothing like her, much less their own independent little selves. There are some things you just can’t understand until they happen to you, she supposes.
Suddenly so tired she can hardly stand up, Hermione kisses her babies each once on the forehead and goes to her own bed just across the hall, snuggling up under the quilt and wishing that Ron were here to just hold her until things feel more quiet inside her head.
*
Hermione keeps running, tears streaming down her face as the inhabitants of paintings tut-tut and tell her to slow down, dearie, you’ll hurt yourself. But she just can’t go back to her room to face Lavender and her giggles and the inevitable Ron-induced love bites on her neck. And the movement feels good, cathartic and reckless.
She runs until she turns a corner to see the Room of Requirement opening, its door widening just for her as she steps inside, filled with a comfortingly familiar emotion-curiosity. Inside it’s emptier than Hermione has ever seen it before, filled mostly by shadows with a solitary lamp illuminating a wooden table in the dead centre of the room. When Hermione reaches the table she finds a hand mirror with a partially tarnished brass frame lying face up on the tabletop; lamplight glinting off patches of shiny brightness, mesmerizing her. Though her fingers are shaking slightly, Hermione picks the mirror up and angles it towards her face, relieved to see the same golden-brown eyes as usual looking back at her. But the cheeks are less round, the hairstyle different... Before Hermione can even begin to process this image, it’s obscured by a brilliant flash of white emanating from the glass and she’s out like a light.
The next thing she knows, Hermione’s startled awake from a deep sleep by a rush of high-pitched sounds, quickly taking the form of words in her muddled mind.
“Wake up, Mum, wake up! Daddy!”
Soon there’s a face to connect with the screeching, a small one with a smattering of freckles over the bridge of a pert nose and wide brown eyes the precise colour of her own. To Hermione’s left comes a sleep-rumbly male voice. First, “Oh bollocks.” Then, “Daddy’s sleeping, Rosie! Pipe down.” Hermione looks from the expectant and unfamiliar child perched at the foot of the bed over to a broad-shouldered back (also covered in freckles) that leads to a poufy down pillow with tufts of ginger hair peeking out underneath as two large hands hold it in place-presumably the origin of the cursing and paternal instruction. She sits up straight as a board and covers her mouth in shock.
“It’s your turn, Hermione, and I had a hard night-vampires run amok. Will you deal with this?”
“Um,” Hermione croaks.
*
Hermione wakes suddenly in a far smaller bed than she’s used to with harsh winter sunlight streaming through bed curtains and onto her face. She blinks, feeling around the bedclothes with her hands. Ron’s not there! Oh god, she thinks, he must still be hacked off at her. Maybe he got pissed after his shift with Harry and didn’t come home at all. This is not good.
This is also...not her bed!
Thoroughly disoriented and not a little bit irritated, Hermione swoops away the curtains and peers out only to find herself in what looks to be a standard Gryffindor girls dormitory. Oh brilliant, just brilliant-she’s come unhinged from stress and started apparating in her sleep. Hermione can just imagine the headlines: “Hermione Granger, war hero and mother of two, cracks up.” But almost immediately, she remembers that of course it’s not even possible to apparate onto Hogwarts grounds.
What on earth is going on?
*
“I must still be dreaming,” Hermione thinks.
This has to be a dream.
Part One: Time Travel’s a Witch
Hermione lies back down, blood rushing in her head but still not obscuring the sounds of trademark Lavender Brown snoring and the little sighs Parvati always used to make when she was dreaming. With trepidation, Hermione lifts her nightgown and gazes down at her body. Her stomach is smooth and winter-time pale, unmarred by stretch marks. Her hips are slim, showing no sign of the extra ten pounds she hasn’t been able to whittle away after two pregnancies. Blushing inexplicably, Hermione slips her hand inside her knickers to find that yes, it’s different down there too, the hair between her legs untrimmed and virginal.
This isn’t just the wrong place, Hermione realises; she’s apparently in the wrong time as well.
As the one-time possessor of a Ministry issue Time-Turner, Hermione knows that this kind of thing is possible, but she’s never heard of any instances of someone travelling through time with just their consciousness alone, not to mention bridging this extended a temporal gap. But there has to be some sort of logical explanation; Hermione just doesn’t know what it is yet.
Rather than panic, Hermione decides to take stock of the information available to her. Let’s see, since she’s at Hogwarts, that limits the field somewhat. And judging by the status of her body-because this is her body, just firmer and younger-it must be either fifth or sixth year. Before the war.
Hermione takes a deep breath. She’ll just-she’ll just go and talk to Minerva! Or-oh wow-Dumbledore. Hermione's head spins for a moment at the thought of seeing him alive again (if not well), but she tries to collect herself, stay on point.
Just then, the other occupants of the room begin stirring and Hermione’s thoughts abruptly shift to the immediate logistics of this. She feels paralyzed. Just how exactly is she supposed to behave normally? Does she even remember what “normal” behaviour would be for her teenage self? Several long minutes pass as the sounds coming from outside the protective drapes around the bed become increasingly noisy, more so than Hermione imagines would be typical for a regular day of lessons. She hears trunks jostling and excited whispering, but still doesn’t move.
Eventually, there’s a rapping against the bedpost and Hermione hears Parvati ask, “Hermione? Are you all right? The train’s leaving in half an hour. You are going home this Christmas, aren’t you?”
Christmas. Home. Going home to her mother. At that moment, any previous plans of action fly from Hermione’s head. All she can think about is seeing her mum’s face again. Surely she can’t pass that up, can she?
So with great effort, Hermione forces herself to answer. “Yes, of course. I’m getting up straight away.”
Time being of the essence, the preparations happen by rote. Her bags are already packed by the side of her bed, an outfit of Muggle clothes folded on top. Hermione pulls on her jeans and jumper quickly, smiling at her roommates but not engaging them in conversation. Which turns out to be quite easily accomplished-even Lavender, who's always been so chatty, seems preoccupied. When they get down to the common room, Hermione realises why, also receiving confirmation that it is definitely sixth year when Lavender attaches herself to Ron while Harry tugs on Hermione’s sleeve, whispering about how he has something “very important to tell her” when they get back from the holidays. Hermione vaguely nods at him, thoroughly distracted.
It’s all just...so strange. She hasn’t thought about this particular time in her life in a while. Hermione remembers it vividly though-the terrible hurt and confusion she’d felt, wanting Ron in ways she didn’t even understand yet, the pining, feeling so uncomfortable with herself. Experimentally, Hermione turns her head to look at the surreal sight of the boy who is to become her husband snogging another girl. But that aside it’s just dizzying to be surrounded by so many familiar faces all looking so young. Entirely different from looking at photo albums, this bizarre proximity to the past actually distances Hermione from her memory in a way. We were such children! It boggles her mind to think that in less than a year, she and Harry and Ron will be wilfully taking on the very grown up task of, well, saving the world.
As for Lavender and Ron-Hermione finds that it still hurts a twinge to look directly at it, but mostly she’s remembering how good it felt to let go of hating Lavender. That was also when she really started to feel secure in her relationship with Ron, when she was able to feel empathy for Lavender and realise what a bad lot the other girl had got really-how Lavender’s only crime had been to fancy a boy who already fancied someone else. Not that the Hermione she’s supposed to be currently would know that, Hermione realises, and turns back to Harry. “Happy Christmas,” she tells him, by way of goodbye.
She doesn’t say anything to Ron though, because not only does she not have the slightest idea what she would say, Hermione also doesn’t want to do anything suspicious.
She just wants to see her mum one more time. After that she’ll set this right.
*
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione allows herself to be dragged out of bed by this very insistent little girl. They careen together out into a hallway and through another door into a child’s bedroom where a toddler-aged boy is blinking himself awake, sucking on his thumb and peering up at them.
“Mummy’s awake, Hugo!” the girl announces. “It’s time to get ready to go to Nana’s house.” She’s all business, this child, climbing up onto the bed and wrapping her arms around the boy, scolding, “Got to put clothes on.”
Hermione just stands there observing the scene. She hasn’t been around children much in her life. As her silence persists, the girl-Rose-turns around and says quietly, “Do you want me to help, Mummy?”
Hermione nods furiously. And then Rose is tearing off into the hallway, leaving Hermione alone with the other little one, who holds his arms up over his head, giving her an imploring look. With a quick glance back to the door, Hermione walks over and hooks her hands under his armpits, picking him up gingerly as she tries to remember everything she’s ever heard anyone say about babies. Aren’t you supposed to hold the back of their heads or something? But that’s with little babies and this boy is already half the size of his sister, maybe three years old, she surmises. Imitating a pose that seems logical, Hermione brings him down to her hip with one of her arms under his bum and the other holding his torso close to her body. It seems to be the right thing because he doesn’t fall, instead cuddling into her and rubbing his mess of brown curls into her shoulder. “Mornin’, Mum,” he chirps, and she’s surprised that he can talk at all, then feels silly for it.
This is-these children think she’s their mother! Hermione boggles, even as she feels a sweetness blooming in her chest as she sniffs the powdery smell of Hugo’s soft baby-skin.
Just then Rose comes back into the room bearing a pile of clothing in her arms, including-oh god!-a small, red Weasley jumper with an orange “H” embossed on the front. She herself has changed into a rather bizarre outfit comprised of not one dress but two (each of different, clashing prints juxtaposed with one hem hanging longer than the other), striped legwarmers and a cardigan over it all.
“I know Nana likes us to wear her jumpers,” Rose explains. “But I ruined mine playing with Al last week.” A guilty expression crosses her face. “Sorry I didn’t tell, Mum, but you were sad...”
“It’s-it’s all right,” Hermione says, putting Hugo back down on the bed and taking the clothes from Rose, reaching one hand down to pat the little girl’s head and smiling through her bewilderment. Rose’s face erupts in dimples and a grin as she hugs Hermione’s leg happily.
After some trial and error, Hermione gets Hugo fastened into a pair of denims, a tee-shirt and his jumper, with Rose prattling all the while. Through the entire process Hermione’s mind is racing-This is-this must be the future, and this is me here,not Lavender. She contemplates whether the Room of Requirement has a consciousness or a sense of humour. She wonders if this is the universe’s way of mocking her for having ever written out “Hermione Granger-Weasley” on a spare piece of parchment that one time, even though she used up a puddle of ink blacking it over.
Afraid to go back into the other bedroom, Hermione is relieved to find a pair of jeans and a pullover in her size amidst a stack of folded laundry in a large washroom next to the nursery. She dresses quickly without even really looking at herself amidst Rose’s plaintive cries of, “I’m hungry, Mum!” Downstairs there’s already coffee brewing in a charmed Muggle coffeemaker. Hermione drinks two cups black and piping hot, hoping to clear her head. She also spies a box of the instant hot oat cereal her mum always makes in the wintertime and decides it seems like the right sort of thing to feed small children for breakfast. The three of them are just sitting down at the kitchen table when the distinct pop of someone apparating interrupts Hermione’s silence, Rose’s humming, and the rhythm Hugo’s banging out with a spoon against the table.
“Good morning!” says a cheery female voice, and Mrs. Weasley approaches with her arms flung wide. Her red hair is streaked more grey and her face bears wrinkles it didn’t the last time Hermione saw her last summer/years and years ago. “Rosie! Hugo! Are you excited to see your grandmother? Hello, Hermione dear, it’s good to see you eating. I’ve been thinking you’re too thin.” Looking down at her lap, Hermione doesn’t think she looks too thin at all, rather curvy actually.
“Nice to see you, Mrs.-Molly,” Hermione stutters, correcting to what she thinks is probably the more appropriate thing to call one’s mother-in-law.
“So nice to see you too! Is my son asleep? Oh of course he is, don’t disturb him. He’s earned his rest. And so have you, I hear! So impressive, one of our own promoted twice in as many years.” Mrs. Weasley beams.
Hermione smiles weakly in response. “Would you like some coffee?” is all she can think to say.
“Oh no, thank you, dear. These two munchkins and I have a date with Santa Claus, don’t we, Hugo?”
“Santa?” Hugo ceases his table-drumming and tilts his head.
“Yes, darling, we’re going to have such fun.” In an aside to Hermione, Mrs. Weasley adds, “Arthur’s got it in his head to take them to the Muggle department stores. I swear, he’s more invested in Hugo and Rose knowing about their Muggle heritage than your dad. Anyway,” she raises her voice again, “Are you all packed and ready to go, Rosie?”
Hermione starts at first, feeling like she does in her nightmares about showing up to class without her homework done, but relaxes when Rose replies, “Yes, Nana,” and points up the stairs.
Before she knows it, they’ve all three left in a blur of knitted hats and scarves and Floo powder and Hermione is alone. She tiptoes around the house looking at everything, terrified to wake the sleeping man upstairs but overwhelmed by curiosity. It’s not over-large but seems comfortable, lived-in. There’s a living room adjoining the combined kitchen/dining room, lots of wide open space divided only by thick wooden beam framing. Doors off the living room reveal a small study with bookshelves reaching up to the ceiling-a pile of very important looking papers bearing Ministry seals and her own name confirm it to be Hermione’s-and another room dominated by a television set and large Chudley Cannons posters on the walls. As she roots through the kitchen cabinets and pantry, Hermione is amused to find a significant amount of quick and easy-to-make meal kits. Cooking never has been her favourite thing, and before this very moment Hermione has never even contemplated Ron so much as boiling water for tea.
But it’s a shelf of framed magical photographs in the front hallway that makes Hermione stop and stare the longest. A few she remembers-pictures of her and Ron and Harry together during their early years at school. The others are overwhelming: Hermione in a simple white wedding dress and Ron in a tux (a Muggle wedding, of course!), Harry and Ron grinning proudly in dress robes at some kind of graduation, Harry and Ginny in a posed photo with three children on their laps (no surprise there). There’s also a black and white still photo of her parents and innumerable pictures of Rose and Hugo from infancy onward. But strangest of all are the images of people Hermione has never met smiling and waving to the camera.
Hermione has to sit down for a while after that. Finally she summons her Gryffindor courage and ascends the stairs to go back to the room she woke up in a few hours ago. She’s hardly in the door before she’s being pulled down to the bed by strong, freckled arms. Startled, Hermione looks into the face attached to this unfamiliar body-the man touching her so casually, the man who is...Ron.
“God love, I’m so bloody sorry about yesterday. I was a total prat,” he mumbles contritely, his breath a sour-sleep whisper against her cheek.
Hermione’s not sure if she’s ever heard Ron apologize so blatantly. She figures he must have done a lot of that to get them here.
*
Continued [ here].