Chapter Text
They’d been at this for hours, the days and weeks of her torture blending together. However, still, her screams continued to rip through the manor till her vocal cords bled onto the polished floors, so black and shiny she could no longer distinguish where the blood seeping from the cuts covering her body started and ended.
Gone was the bushy-haired girl with too much baby fat; all that was left of her was a shell. She felt like nothing more than a sack of bones as the shock of the cruciatus curse racked through her nerves every few minutes.
She knew her occlumency walls were getting weaker and weaker as she writhed on the floor, no longer begging for mercy, just screaming, as if she had lost her ability to even think through the never-ending torture. They had tried to break her over the previous weeks in more ways than she could even fathom.
There was little left of her that untouched by hands that only meant to harm and maim her. The only thing keeping her from crumbling to the pressure was the thought of Harry, Harry her best friend and brother, the idea of him getting out of all of this, saving the world. He could do it if she just held on and didn’t tell them anything she knew.
When the almost blinding red light of the curse finally flickered out, she felt the rarest moment of hope before it was whisked away like every other one she had, and Bellatrix Lestrange let out a blood-curdling screech, and a heeled boot made contact with Hermione’s head. Suddenly, black spots danced in and out of her vision, threatening to take over. She almost hoped for it. The idea of being unconscious had become a dark companion to her over the last few weeks.
It was then that Bellatrix leaned over her, a rage-filled smile taking over her entire face, eyes wide, shooting back and forth before she screamed and cackled into Hermione’s ear, “If you won't crack for me, maybe it’s time my dog has a turn, I heard you liked dogs, blood traitors, and half beasts.”
And with that, Bellatrix was off her, and Hermione could sense the others in the room, no longer just her and Bellatrix. She rolled her head to the side to see Greyback approaching, the smell of his sweat filling her senses and the grime covering him coming into focus as he straddled her. She had never been one to give up a fight, but as his nails pierced the soft flesh of her neck, she felt her body go limp, just like she had every time he had sought her out since her imprisonment in the manor.
As she felt her blood trickle down her neck, deeper than it had been in days past, his thread-bare composure breaking, she realized she was going to die on the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor at the hands of Fenrir Greyback. As she felt Greyback tug on her clothing, pawing at her bony existence as if he owned her, she took one last moment to fortify her walls.
Hermione Granger would let herself die before she gave her friends up or told them anything about Harry Potter.
Maybe it was that promise always to protect her friends or some ancient god looking down on her, but the sound of apparitions cracking into the room made him pause his torment. The moments moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening—a perfect set of events colliding to change the history of the war forever.
The first was Greyback being blown off her and Hermione scrambling to escape, slipping and sliding as she crawled through her own blood toward a corner of the room.
The second was Draco Malfoy, who had been forced to watch her be tortured for hours, grabbing her arms, pulling her up, and dragging her away from the others. She tried not to call out as she felt her shoulder dislocate at the strength he used to pull her from danger.
Her life-altering change of events didn’t end there; the sequence continued as Dobby grabbed her shoulder to apparate her out of the room, and at the same moment, Bellatrix threw her cursed blade, the same one that had mangled Hermione’s arm for hours, striking Dobby in the chest death inevitable. But the pain gave him one last moment to use all of his power to send her somewhere, anywhere but there.
Then, at the very last second, Draco shoved her purse into her chest just as the world started to fall away with apparition, hitting her directly on her sternum, where Dumbledore's time turner had sat, unused for months.
Hermione tried to let the pull of apparition take over her body, but something was different. She didn’t just feel the uneasy power of moving through space, like someone was tugging at her gut. She felt like her skin was being peeled from her bones, her neck snapping back with the sheer force of Dobby’s last act. She couldn’t close her eyes from the force as those black spots blended into the rapidly changing colors in her vision.
All of that abruptly stopped, though, and suddenly, she was on the beach. Dropped unceremoniously from their travels, it was the final straw, as her body made contact with the wet sand, the force causing the blackness that had been dancing around her vision for hours to swirl with the grey-blue sky and her eyelids slipped shut.
“Gid, did you feel that?” Fabian asked, rising from his chair, the chill of their wards being breached skittering across his skin, the sheer force of the arrival causing goosebumps to break out across his arms.
His brother just looked up at him, confusion coating his features. With slow movements, Fabian watched Gideon bring his finger to his mouth, a warning to be quiet because whatever could break through their wards was something they should fear.
With measured steps, the wizards picked up their wands and, with only a subtle nod, knew the exact route to take to inspect their wards. Three years of training and order missions had prepared the Prewett twins to communicate with just a few movements; sometimes, all it took was a widening of their eyes, and it was akin to wandless Legilimency that they knew precisely what the other was planning.
Fabian moved towards the back of the house, set on the water, not far from Cornwall. He waved his wand slowly, watching as the wards rippled and shimmered, proving they were still in place.
Uncertainty started to build in his gut. Whoever this wizard was had moved through their wards but not taken them down, had not even left a hole during their attack on wards that had been in the Prewett family for centuries.
As he made his way down the seagrass-covered hill towards the very edge, he spotted in the sand what looked like a small child lying on their back, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles, and their head lolling to the side. Fabian whispered as lightly as he could, sending the ghost-like springer spaniel across the property towards Gideon.
Slowly, he approached the small person. As he looked down at them, wand trained to point directly at their chest, he realized the young woman before him was out cold. Gideon came around that moment, skidding to a stop at the sight of her, just a girl, maybe 15, with more hair than a person lying on the beach outside their cottage.
A gasp came from his brother's throat at the sight of her, covered in bruises and blood. Then, he saw the word angrily carved into her arm and felt his tea from earlier threatening to return. The slur looked infected, thick black blood seeping on the sand beneath her arm, and it reeked of dark magic.
“Call Molly and Mum. I’m unsure who or what she is, but this can’t be good,” Fabian whispered, and all Gideon did was nod.
“You bringing her in?” Gideon asked, his voice cracking as they continued to notice the state her: jeans ripped, buttons torn, and claw marks puncturing her cheeks and throat.
“I’ll ward her in, hurry,” and with that, they got to work. With gentle care, Fabian didn’t even know he was capable of. He levitated the young girl, her arms and neck hanging limply. It made him sick.
All he could think about was his nephews and how Mols would yell at him to support their little heads when they were in his arms. He tried his best to keep her head from rolling around as he levitated her slowly back towards the house, where Gideon was already working on transfiguring a bed in the small sunroom for her.
As Fabian set her down on the new bed, the floo roared to life, his sister and mother stepping through. Mols had the twins strapped to her chest, smiling down at them and, with tender love and care, before looking up at her brothers.
He assumed she had probably been excited a few moments ago at the idea of spending time with them in their new home when she got Gideon’s message, but that was until she saw the grave looks on their faces. Fabian watched as Molly came into the room and noticed the new cot. Raising her small freckled hand to her mouth, he watched as all the color drained from her ordinarily rosy cheeks, her pale skin stark against their famously orange hair as she took in their intruder.
“Boys, what is the nature of this?” His mother asked, and the older twins began their short tale of the wards and finding her on the beach. Molly was kneeling almost instantly beside the bed, trying to heal the girl. Waving her wand and asking for potions, for as reckless as people called the twins, Molly was taking the real risk as she had no hesitation to help this girl, who they didn’t even know her name, as she lay most likely dying in their living room. He watched her continue like that for hours, his mother helping and him and his brother taking turns returning to the Burrow to take care of the boys and warn Arthur.
Finally, it seemed like the bruises were fading and the cuts shallower, all those except that disgusting word written on her arm. They barely spoke, as if talking about the situation would bring up the absurdity of it all, spur the anxiety of having some unknown war victim in their home. They could only hope she was on their side.
Their mother again broke the silence, looking at Mols, a sad but proud smile stretching across her face. “You’ve done a good job, Molly. Go home to your family.” Her words were warm but final, and Fabian watched his sister follow without question and gather her things before turning to hug them both, promising to return and asking them to watch over the girl.
As Molly disappeared through the floo, their mother turned back to the young girl, running a loving hand over her forehead, now covered in sweat as the potions and the effects of what had to be dark curses and magic worked through her system. “Oh, sweet girl, who are you? Who did this to you?” she whispered to her, and at that, Fabian felt the weight of the day come crashing back down on him, so previously focused on his tasks of taking care and prepping for this surprise visitor he hadn’t processed that war was closer than any of them had imagined. That war was coming for children, children like his nephews.
“I will stay with her,” his mother offered, but Gideon turned to her, his face haggard as he asked.
“Should we call the order?” Fabian was kicking himself for not thinking to ask that. They had been so obsessed with saving the poor girl they hadn’t called Alastor either.
His mother's response took him by surprise, the previous care and warmth leaving her voice, a hardness she was not known for taking over. Her shining ice-blue eyes turned to look at them, and then Fabian saw it: her hand was clasped tightly around some kind of golden chain, her knuckles turning white around the piece. “No, call my niece Dorea and her husband, Charlus.” Gideon took off to follow her orders without question; their mother had been their leader their whole lives, and neither was going to question her now.
“Fabian, did she have anything else on her? All I see is this small beaded bag?” His mother asked, and Fabian just shook his head no before responding.
“No, I found her with that bag, not even a wand on her.” The images of her before sent a shiver down his back as he watched his mother take the small purse and bring it to the worn round table in their kitchen.
Gideon returned to the room, the day's memories still weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Dorea is on her way, Mum. I think we should call the order,” He supplied, and their mother just shook her head firmly before opening the bag. A gasp escaped her lips, and both wizards held their wands, ready to strike or protect. Fabian wasn’t sure.
Their mother just looked up with an impressed smile on her face, just like the ones she gave him when she would catch him in some outlandish scheme as a child. “Undetectable extension charm, very detailed work. She must be a smart little witch. There is so much in here.” she began pulling things out randomly as she continued answering Gideon’s question. “I don’t want to call Albus because she was wearing Albus’s time turner, and I have some questions for her before he swoops in.”
“That is very Slytherin of you, Aunt Leticia.” Dorea’s voice startled them as the witch entered the kitchen, Charlus Potter following close behind. “Now, could one of you boys start some tea? And the other bring us up to speed about whatever is happening here?” Dorea asked, and Fabian and Gideon shared a quick look before springing into action, tea cups flying while they each filled the Potters in with the facts of earlier that afternoon and how the girl who was now sleeping in their sunroom came to be in their presence.
As the twins wrapped up, Dorea nodded, continuing to watch their mother pull more items out of the purse. It had to be endless. They watched as canvas tents and empty rations for food clattered against the table and floor. Still, after what felt like an eternity, their mother smiled widely, pulling out a stack of papers wrapped in a string, the words and moving pictures immediately giving them away.
“Ah, the prophet, so we know she’s British at least,” Gideon supplied, and Charlus indulged him with a small laugh before Dorea opened the parcel, her steel grey eyes going wide.
“Is this why you called me? Did you suspect this?” She asked, and their mother looked at her with a grave face.
“When I saw the time turner, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t expect this, but I felt something. A Rosier came by just before the boys called -”
“Pandora? The supposed seer?” Fabian interrupted his disbelief, evident in his question, and their mother nodded.
“Yes, she was visiting her fiance. He lives near my Molly, remember? She did not say much; just said to trust family first and call upon her when it was time, and well, Dorea, you were the only family I could think of that would know what to do with something this dark.”
“How dark, Leticia?” Dorea asked, setting her teacup down with the slightest of shakes, so unlike the formidable witch. Dorea Potter was known across the order, never one to back down from a battle, an expert duelist, but most importantly, a strategist. She couldn’t see the future, but she was a Slytherin and a Black, able to predict how Death Eaters might respond in times of war. Fabian had always been impressed by her, a snake in lion's clothing.
“Well, it’s a Black knife that did the damage to her arms the boys described. I can feel the blood magic, but I’m afraid this is even darker,” Their mother said before turning one of the copies of the prophet around to them.
The words “WANTED UNDESIRABLES” were splashed across the cover, and below were three pictures.
The first of the girl in the other room, Hermione Granger, mudblood stamped across the top corner of her photo. She looked so different than the victim in the other room; in this photo, she seems flustered, eyes wide, not scared but like she’s been cornered, more animal than a girl. But she looks alive at least, cheeks full and blushed, hair sparking with magic at the edges. Fabian can’t help but think she looks like a fighter, feisty almost.
As if that wasn’t shocking enough, the next one made everyone in the room feel ill. Next to her was a familiar-looking boy with black hair, a lightning bolt-shaped scar across his forehead, and round glasses framing his face. Harry Potter, it reads, the spitting image of James Potter, a fellow Gryffindor just a few years younger than Fabian, scowling at them. Where Hermione looks frustrated, Harry looks annoyed, callous almost, his eyes flashing with ire.
And lastly was a young man covered in familiar freckles and a mop of messy hair, Ronald Billius Weasley, his bright eyes looking directly at them. Fabian feels like he will be sick at the sight of the bruise covering this kid's jaw and the sunken look of his eyes. His mind has put the pieces together. He knows this is Mols’ son, but that's not true. Molly and Arthur don’t have a son named Ron, but Arthur has a brother named Billius.
The room went quiet as they looked at the unknown but still familiar photos until Charlus read at the top, “August 1997, Merlin help us she’s from the future.”
Slowly, as if she’s still trying to drag her tired body across the floor of Malfoy Manor, Hermione feels herself start to wake up. It feels like hours as she lays there, desperately trying to gather her strength just to open her eyes, almost like her will is wrestling with her weakened body, but finally, she’s able to pry them open. Soft grey-washed wood walls greet her, and she can hear the ocean in the background; the whole thing is rather soothing, a bit like meditating in her delirious state.
But the the stark contrast to her previous existence when she was last awake is suddenly jarring, and despite her body’s protests, she’s desperate to get up and find out where she is. She barely even turns her head to the side before she’s come face-to-face with a red-headed man, her vision still a bit blurry as she sucks in a breath and asks, “Bill?”
The man laughs and shakes his head. “No, Gideon, but Bill will probably be around later”. Hermione’s certain she’s heard that name before but can’t quite place it. He must notice her confusion because he smirks at her, a funny lopsided thing that reminds her of Fred, before continuing, “Gideon Prewett, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. Looks like you’ve taken a serious tumble getting here haven’t ya?”
Hermione raises one eyebrow to study him, trying to decipher who this man is and if he plans to kill her sooner rather than later. “I have had worse, I suppose. Where is everyone?” She asks cautiously, watching Gideon nervously play with his sweater's end. Interesting, is he nervous because of her or who he assumes everyone is?
“While I would like to hear more about that, especially from a cute little bird like you, That sounds like a story for another day, Miss Granger. We have another story to sort out first. Give me a minute, and there are some people for you to meet.” Hermione watches him, a bit of a flirt, but he seems more nervous of her than she is of him, so she takes that as a win. She finds it odd that he keeps calling her by her full name, but she assumes that after having it splashed in the paper so much recently, it’s not unheard of for someone to recognize her.
Looking around the room, she starts thinking about her escape. She's unsure where her bag is, but it shouldn't be too hard if she can get someone’s wand in her hand. Speaking of wands, she has no idea where hers has gotten off to; snatchers probably snapped if she had to guess.
She keeps noting all the things that could inflict damage in the room. A very large lamp near her is a good option, maybe brass? Heavy enough. She also eyes a few fire pokers, which are much farther away. She could try to floo if it’s open, but it's risky if the ministry is still tracking her.
However, her internal tangent on household weaponry is interrupted when a group of people she has never met or seen before enters the room. Slowly, shes pushing herself up even more, trying to back away from this group of strangers, only to realize she’d been tucked so tightly into this bed that her legs couldn’t move.
The memories of the last time she was awake come flooding back to her, Greyback’s legs pinning hers together, his claws on her neck and between her legs. She’s frozen, a pathetic whimper coming out of her throat, raw and scratchy as if she can still smell him all over her.
Dorea Potter can see the moment the young witch starts to unravel. Gone was the girl casing the room just moments ago, and in front of her now is a scared child, desperately trying to get away.
Acting quickly, she takes a step forward. “Hermione, sweetheart, it’s okay. We’re friends, maybe even family.” She tried to make the words as soft and comforting as possible as she approached the bed, this Hermione just looking up at her, her pupils blown wide, her arms trembling to hold herself up.
“Hermione, I think you should lay down. I’ll prop up the pillows for you so you can still see everyone,” Dorea continues, adding gentle cooing noises like you would with a baby, anything really to calm the poor girl. She can’t imagine what type of battle she’s been thrown from to land here.
Hermione gives her a shaky nod, and with a gentle flick of her wrist, Dorea arranges the pillows behind her, smiling gently as the younger witch lays back in them, not relaxed per se but not shaking to support her own body.
“Hermione, may I sit next to you and explain?” She questions, deciding to play it safe, letting her make the decisions and know their every move, despite Dorea’s desperation to know more about her supposed grandson of her currently unwed son.
Again, Hermione nods, but Dorea notes how she looks at a picture frame just to the side of the small cot. She can’t even help the chuckle that escapes her. She’s almost relieved at how bright of a witch this Hermione is, always on edge, and while that frame is no match for a wand, Hermione appears to have plenty of fight left in her. Dorea assumes she's going to need it for whatever comes next.
“My name is Dorea Potter. Is that name familiar to you?” she watches as a range of emotions coat Hermione’s face before she shakes her head no and responds.
“I only know one Potter, and I don’t know where he is,” Hermione responds defensively, and Dorea just smiles, a protector too. She’d garnished as much from the articles she had read in her bag and the small diary, but she didn’t plan on telling her or anyone else in the room that she had found and read the small leather notebook last night.
“I don’t suppose you would, seeing as he’s not here,” Dorea says and watches as relief floods Hermione. She realizes it will probably be the last bit because it’s time to rip the bandage off and tell the poor girl what's happening. “He’s not here, Hermione, because he hasn’t been born yet. I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s May 17th, 1978.”
Hermione nods as Dorea says it, whispering the words to herself a few times. “1978, May 1978.” she moves her hand to her neck, and Dorea notices how her eyes blow wide when she realizes the time turner is no longer there, just a bandage where the glass had cut into her sternum.
The girl looks up at Dorea and then around the room, finally taking in the rest of the occupants. She squares her shoulders before turning back to Dorea and saying, “I know how to win this war,” she states it plainly, but Dorea notes the sadness in her eyes.
Something that should feel at least a little victorious must be bittersweet for a girl with no family or friends. She’s already vowed to Leticia that this girl, vital to their future grandchildren, would be safe with them. Still, seeing her now, the determination in her eyes seals it for Dorea, but first, this child needs to heal and grow. They can help her win a war on a different day.
As Dorea looks at her, imagining Hermione as her adopted grandchild, which she might have been had the world she came from been different, she smiles. “I’m sure you do, but that might have to wait based on your current state. How about I introduce you to a few others, hmm?”
Hermione just nods, and Dorea turns to find the rest of the house staring at the two of them. She gives a slightly imploring look at Leticia, who laughs before walking over. “Hullo, Hermione, my name is Leticia Prewett. You’ve met one of my sons, Gideon.” Leticia motions for him to step closer to the bed, and Hermione eyes him before nodding, “And this is my other son, Fabian. Twins run in our family.” Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, looking back and forth at both twins.
“They look more like Bill and Charlie than Fred and George,” she whispers mostly to herself as if cataloging all the differences between her world and theirs.
“Ha, well, the Prewett genes are robust, my dear. I assume that means you know my daughter Molly? She’ll be over later today if you would like to meet her?” Leticia asks the question cautiously, and Hermione seems to wobble again. Her voice is shaky when she responds.
“I’d love to meet Mrs. Weasley again.” That causes the twins to laugh before turning big grins over to her. It seems to comfort her or at least not scare her away like their presence did previously.
“Mols is going to die when she hears that,” Gideon supplies.
“Always complaining that she’s an old lady now with all those boys,” Fabian counters, and so it continues.
“Five of 'em, giving her grey hair, you see.”
“Well, maybe you already knew that”
Dorea watches as Hermione takes in the sight of their back and forth. A small smile creeps across her face before she finds the perfect moment to interrupt them, almost like she’s done it before. “Mrs. Weasley did not have any grey hair last time I saw her.” the twins laugh before Fabian opens his mouth to ask her a question, but Dorea interrupts.
“Hermione, this is my husband, Charlus Potter.” Charlus steps forward and offers her his hand. She eyes it again as if inspecting it for trouble before accepting it.
A wide grin breaks out across Charlus’s face. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. Nice strong handshake, my dear.” Dorea can’t help but smile at her husband and his ability to bring a bit of sunshine to every interaction, so Gryffindor of him. Dorea decides to capitalize on that moment. Hermione seemingly starting to understand that they mean no harm to her, she asks the question that will finally give them answers,
“I can’t imagine how overwhelming this must be for you, but I’m unsure how much you know about us, and we’d like to know a bit more about you. Do you feel up for a bit of tea and chatter?” She tries to imbue as much hope and promise into the words, and she watches as Hermione debates her answer, looking around the room to finally decide who is friend and foe.
“Yes, we probably should, shouldn’t we?” She responded, and Dorea couldn’t help but smile a little wider. She was right. Hermione’s a fighter, not one to back down from a challenge.
That first conversation had been easy. Hermione only had the strength to get through her first few years of schooling, explaining how she met Harry and Ron and a brief overview of Harry’s life. Dorea, she noticed, was a powerful witch, never wavering as Hermione recounted a simplified version of the story of how James and Lily Potter were murdered on Halloween 1981.
“So we have a few years? To stop this all from happening?” Charlus asked her, and Hermione smiled, hopeful for the first time in days she realized.
“I hope so, Mr. Potter. That reminds me, I have some notes in my bag.” She looked around, having noted her camping supplies strewn around the room. She wasn’t foolish enough to judge them for going through her things; she would have done the same thing, but they had the decency to at least look a little embarrassed now that she was asking for them.
Fabian, she believed, handed her the bag. She began digging around, pulling out a muggle school folder with information from The Order out first and then leaning halfway into the bag, she grabbed the pensieve she had shrunk and borrowed from Dumbledore’s office, realizing how it might be helpful later to show her memories versus tell them.
“Is that a Pensieve?” Dorea asked, wonder in her tone, and Hermione nodded excitedly.
“I thought I’d pull a few memories so when I’m tired, you can keep learning?” She asked. The others nodded excitedly.
“Make sure you pull a few fun ones. Can’t all be doom and gloom?” Gideon asked her with a smile, and she made a note to pull some of her favorite Fred and George memories just for them.
“I will, but first, I want to ensure you have these. They are Order records, and we can use them to prevent a few deaths. Things will change obviously once we start, but it will also explain some of the questions you might have,” Hermione said, a sad quiver in her voice, as she floated the folder over to Dorea, their current defacto leader.
“Will these explain why so few of us have been in your memories?” Dorea asked, and Hermione nodded her response, too afraid to speak out loud the fates of those in the room. They weren’t positive.
“Well, out with Dorea - what finally does the great Prewett Twins in?” Fabian added with a chuckle, and Leticia glared at him for his inappropriate response in the face of a document that held so many deaths.
Hermione watched silently as Dorea duplicated the records and handed them around the table. Slowly, each person flipped through the folder, the room's tone changing drastically. Long gone were the tales of trolls in the bathroom, replaced with grim realities that Molly would be one of the few faces she recognized in 1978.
“Peter fucking Pettigrew? That bloody idiot?” Gideon shouted. Hermione flinched at the raised voice, and Fabian was quick to quiet his brother with a stern look and a hard hand on his shoulder. It was so like Fred and George it caused her throat to close, one to react and the other to either fuel the flames or redirect the anger.
“Now boys, we don’t know if he will take that path anymore,” Leticia shared, and the twins seemed to take the slight scolding seriously, grown men held accountable by a witch who was no more than 5 feet tall. Hermione got a look at her then.
Leticia reminded her so much of Ginny, except miniature, you could say. Instead of bright orange-red hair, Leticia’s was a soft grey, but it was the perfect stick straight down her back, just like Ginny’s had been. Despite being a witch well into her prime, she had the same glimmering eyes and athletic build. It made Hermione’s heart hurt to think she’d never see her friend again.
“He killed McKinnon?” Fabian asked her quietly to her right, and Hermione nodded, taking a breath to steel herself before sharing what she knew.
“From understanding, yes, the McKinnon loss seemed to hit hard because it was among the firsts. I only ever heard Professor Lupin mention it once.” She paused as confusion swept across the table, but she continued talking, “He told Harry and me this story about how it had probably been Peter who told Death Eaters where to find their family. It’s supposed to happen this August.” The others looked at her with sad smiles, and she couldn’t imagine what it was like knowing your friends were destined to die before they did.
“Did you say Professor Lupin?” Charlus asked, a glimmer of laughter floating into his words, a distraction from the story she had just told them.
She smiled back at him. “I guess you probably call him Remus. He was my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in my third year, a bit of a mentor.” She watched their reactions morph into something sweet and joyous. Dorea, in particular, seemed relieved at the detail.
“You knew Remus well then? What about Sirius?” Charlus asked, and Hermione tried to contain her grimace as she thought about her third year.
“Maybe it would be better if I showed you my third year?” she offered, and everyone nodded their agreement. With careful precision, she pulled the memory from her mind, the first of many of the next few days.
She’d pull a memory, wait for them to watch it, and answer their questions. They would take breaks, the twins always asking her questions about herself and what she liked. They regaled her with stories about the 70s and what the young Weasley boys were up to, making her laugh and forget for a few moments where she was. After a few days, she finally dared to see Molly, who was warm and welcoming, letting Hermione hold Fred and George. It was a miracle what tiny babies could do for a tired soul.
The cycle would start again with a few memories pulled, spending time with those outside the pensieve, answering questions, and rebuilding her strength. It was nice to have a routine again, even if she felt she was getting better at a snail's pace.