Chapter Text
Fuck. This. Shit.
No, Hermione didn't usually swear. Unlike what most people thought, it wasn't because she was actually against swearing, far from it. It was because when the situation really called for swearing, she wanted it to have the maximum possible impact, which could be achieved by avoiding it whenever it wasn't absolutely necessary.
This? This was definitely a time when it was absolutely fucking necessary.
She was inordinately pleased at getting off one really good bombarda before one of the dozen or so acid-green lights from hell caught her in the fucking face. She saw just enough to know it caught that thrice-cursed, fucking asshole Auror Sergeant in the head before the world went dark.
She died delighted to know she took that fucker out with her.
She'd like to say the war made her more bloodthirsty, but she'd be lying, and she hated lying, even to herself. She'd always been vicious.
She opened her eyes to find herself in a room that looked an awful lot like the waiting room in her parents’ dental office, except that the secretary at the desk, answering calls and typing on a top-of-the-line computer, was a particularly active skeleton.
Ah, there you are. Sorry about the wait, busy day.
“Not actually a problem, Your Eminence,” Hermione answered as politely as she could.
That’s a new title for me, Death chuckled.
“I don’t imagine you have a gender, when you’re responsible for everyone and probably every thing that dies, so I simply grabbed the most neutral one from the top of the list,” Hermione shrugged. “Would you prefer Majesty? Grace? Holiness? Radiance? Most Reverend? My Liege? Supreme Overlord?”
Oh, I do think I like you. You may call me whatever you wish, though I appreciate the thought.
Hermione nodded with as serious an expression as she could manage, “As you wish, Your Most Radiant and Supreme Majesty. What can I do for you?”
It's more what I can do for you, actually. You were not scheduled to be here just yet. And I have more than enough to do with those who were scheduled today. Or who justly deserved a bombarda to the face. Death smiled fondly, causing Hermione to blush. So. Forward or back?
"I'm sorry, what?" Hermione asked.
You get a choice, Hermione Jean Granger: forward to rest, or back to try again.
"Oh," she said, biting her lip in thought. "Any caveats or tasks, rules I need to follow?"
No. Death's smile was disturbing. Just keep being you.
Well, she supposed that might make things easier. Or harder, actually.
A lot harder.
What the hell, it's not like she'd ever been afraid of hard work, and if she could make things better…
***
She woke up to her room at her parents’ house, fairly certain she hadn’t actually given an answer. She supposed it didn’t actually matter, as she’d been going to say “Back” anyway, and she hardly believed Death Themself could not read minds when They so chose.
When, exactly, was "Back" anyway? She was in her parent's house in London, but had MUDBLOOD clearly written on her arms, though they had nicely scarred over, a feat they had assuredly not accomplished when she'd died.
Curses mark the soul, Ms. Granger, simply undoing time doesn't leave the soul unmarked.
Right, and apparently Death was still watching. She'd better give her new, Most Radiant and Supreme Overlord a good show, then, hadn't she?
She reached for her wand on her nightstand to cast a quick tempus charm, and found it missing. Damn. Fortunately, her parents were long used to her waking up in the middle of the night for a sudden research binge. She hadn't been able to quell her need to know since she was three and waking her parents up at four in the morning to ask how planes stayed up. They'd taught her to find the answers she needed herself as quickly as they could and left her to it.
She turned on her bedside lamp and checked her clock and calendar.
12:01 AM, the 21st of June, 1991, they proudly declared. Her books for Hogwarts, both the listed required and suggested reading, and the half-dozen extra books she'd picked up, were on her desk but her parents wouldn't be taking her to get her wand until late next week.
Best get to work, then, she thought, climbing out of bed and stumbling as she'd forgotten how much shorter her legs were.
"Oh, fuck," she whispered in sudden horror. "I'm going to have to go through puberty all over again, aren't I?"
***
Getting to Gringotts’ the next day was… not hard. School was out, so all she had to do was announce her intention to go to the library. Her parents had long since arrived at the conclusion she would live there if she could, and only expected her home in time for dinner. They made sure she had bus fare and money for lunch and sent her on her way.
Their first floor flat on Dean Street was only a few blocks from Charing Cross Road and a couple more from there to Diagon Alley. She didn’t even really need the bus fare. She would need it if she was actually headed to the closest public library, a fair bit south and on the far side of Charing Cross Road, so she simply pocketed it. After a thought, she tossed her school bag over one arm and a light sweater over the other on her way out the door.
Ten minutes later, she was in The Leaky Cauldron giving Tom the Bartender her biggest, most innocent eyes asking if he could please open the Alley for her. A few minutes after that she was giving the same eyes to a Gringotts’ teller.
"I'd like to speak to an account manager, please," she said as politely as she could.
"Name?"
"Hermione Granger, sir. It was suggested I might be of a squibbed Dagworth-Granger line, but I have no idea if that's true or not. I'd like to find out."
"Follow Copperclaw. Next."
She thanked him and followed the goblin that appeared by her side.
Down and around long curving hallways until the goblin finally stopped and rapped sharply on a door.
"Ms. Hermione Granger," the young goblin announced, as they opened the door.
"Come."
Hermione stepped in and closed the door behind her, reading the name on the desk plaque quickly.
“Ah, Ms. Granger. How can I help you today?”
“Account Manager Gladdok. I am given to understand that the goblin nation prizes honesty and secrecy. Is that true?”
Gladdok’s face was grim, “It is. Do you require it?”
“I do,” Hermione nodded, setting her sweater and bag in one chair as she sat in the other. “I died. I was eighteen and the year was 1998. I had a short but lovely chat with Death and woke up in my childhood bed at midnight. This morning.” She held out her arms, “I got these some weeks before my death and they hadn’t healed yet.”
“I see. The weapon that carved them was cursed, which leaves marks on the soul.”
“It was,” she agreed.
“What can we do for you, Ms. Granger?” Gladdok asked after a moment.
“I intend to avoid the war that is coming,” Hermione began, “to do that I may need to do things that will eventually require proof of my circumstances. If anyone can provide such documents without the Ministry getting involved until I need to use them, it’s Gringotts.”
“You told the teller you wished to know if you were of the Dagworth-Granger line,” the account manager inquired, just this side of accusing.
“Truth. Just not all of it,” Hermione defended, “I hardly wanted to announce dying in a war that consumed all of Magical Britain in public.”
“All of Magical Britain, you say? Goblins do not, as a rule, involve themselves in the affairs of wizards.”
“The Dork Lord Moldyshorts,” Hermione said seriously, “will not respect your neutrality. He will not respect the sanctity of your halls nor the sanctity of Hogwarts.”
“What evidence can you give of this?” Gladdok demanded.
“There is or will be a horcrux in one of your vaults.” Hermione said, pulling her back as straight as it could go and firming her jaw. “A vault to which Bellatrix Black-Lestrange has or will have access to. The horcrux is in a golden goblet with a badger impression on it that once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. The Vault is seven one one, belonging to the Lestrange Family. It is not his only horcrux,” she cautioned, “simply the one in Gringotts. Further, though it will take longer to verify, at the end of July, the Dork Lord will attempt to steal something from vault seven one three. He will be difficult to stop as he will be a wraith, having lost his body in killing James and Lily Potter. He doesn’t get what he was after, entirely because the item was withdrawn earlier on the same day he came.”
Gladdok thought for a moment and then made a note on a pad beside her. “It will be checked. If what you say is true, Gringotts will owe you a debt. Tell me, what is in vault Seven One Three, if you know.”
“The Philosopher’s Stone. Made and owned by Nicholas Flamel. Dumbledore will have Rubeus Hagrid bring a letter to withdraw it.”
Gladdok made another note. “Very well, let us begin with a Lineage test, it will answer the official question that brings you here. Then we shall do an Inheritance test. Cost will be discussed after, when your evidence has been verified.”
A few minutes later, Hermione fought down the urge to laugh hysterically. Turns out, her twice-great grandmother was a Dagworth-Granger, a squib who married a Selwyn squib. The couple chose Dagworth as their married name and had three children. Her mother was the grandchild of their youngest, a girl who married a black man who, it turned out, was also a squib, newly emigrated from Palestine. The Granger name came from Hermione’s father, who had no magical antecedents within the ten generations the Test was able to check. Everyone who had speculated, herself included, had assumed it was her father’s side that had the squib line.
The laughter died in her throat as her Inheritance test glowed with words.
Hermione Jean Granger
Born 1979/9/22
Died 1998/6/21
Reborn 1991/6/21
Mother: Debora Amani Abbas Granger
Father: John Michael Granger
Ownership:
Vault 2031: 47G, 7S, 32K (uninvested)
Heirships:
Dagworth-Granger (unacknowledged, pending acceptance)
Selwyn (unacknowledged, pending acceptance)
Hufflepuff (Granted by Lady Magic and Helga Hufflepuff)
What???
Gladdok grinned. It was a particularly vicious thing. “I’ll send for the rings, then. And see about your property in other people’s vaults.”
Oh, well, in that case, Hermione fully approved of the viciousness.
***
The audit to locate all her property took a couple of weeks. She remembered that her parents had only taken her to get her wand when they did because she had begged them to, so she put it off for another week, hoping to make as few trips as possible.
On Saturday, the 6th of July, early in the morning, Hermione walked back into the bank, with her parents in tow. “Hello again,” she said to the teller, who she was happy to note was the same one she’d spoken to last time. “I’d like to make a withdrawal, and there should be some documents for me?”
“Sign here, Ms. Granger,” the Teller instructed, pushing a ledger and quill towards her. The counter was as high as her eyes, so she stood on tiptoe to sign, certain it would be an unholy mess, and glad they used magic to verify identity rather than rely on matching signatures.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name, last time,” She said as she fell back to standing normally.
“Teller Grimthorn, Ms. Granger. How much are you wanting to withdraw?”
“Forty Galleons, please, Teller Grimthorn.”
“Hermione! That’s most of what we put in your account,” her father scolded.
“I know, Papa,” she sighed. Then she explained, “but I’m not planning to withdraw any more until next year. I don’t know how expensive my wand will be, and we still have to get my robes. I’d rather have it on hand and not need it, than not have it and find we need it.”
“That’s fair,” Mama sighed, “as long as you spend it wisely and re-deposit any galleons remaining when we’re done.”
Teller Grimthorn looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Perhaps a compromise?” he offered. “For twenty pounds sterling, or seven knuts, I can give you a purse linked to your accounts, so that you may withdraw as you need, and leave the Galleons where they are until you need them.”
“Oh! Yes,” Hermione agreed, “That’d be much better.” Especially since it didn’t involve her parents knowing about the other accounts.
Papa handed a 20£ bill across the counter. "How much to get her a ledger to keep track of her account in?" He asked.
"15£ for a basic ledger, 25 for an automatically updating one."
Papa considered and then handed the 25£ over.
Grimthorn passed the bag, ledger, and a manilla envelope to Hermione. "May your gold ever flow, Ms. Granger," he smiled.
"And may your enemies tremble, Teller Grimthorn," she returned with a nod.
"What was that?" Mama asked as they left the bank, a hint of censure in her voice. Mama didn't like violence, even verbally.
"Traditional goblin greetings and farewells, the extra-reading book I got on wizarding banking mentioned it. I only wanted to give him the same politeness he gave me, Mama," Hermione answered.
Mama frowned slightly but let it go. Politeness trumped personal beliefs, after all.
They went straight to Ollivander's, given that they didn't know what a wand would cost, and didn't want to accidentally go over budget on clothes and find they didn't have enough for her wand.
It was hard to see Mr. Ollivander for the first time since the Malfoy's dungeon. Hermione couldn't help wondering what he'd see this time.
She tracked his eyes as he peered at her face, caught sight of her rings and then peered at her parents.
"Hello," she said nervously. "I'm Hermione Granger."
"First year at Hogwarts, of course," he said, reaching for his measuring tape. "Which is your dominant hand?"
Hermione held out her right hand, and he set the measuring tape to its job as he examined her hand. He paled, ever more with each second as his eyes trailed up from her fingertips, across the scars on her arm, carefully hidden with makeup as they were, to her eyes. What did he see?
His lips quivered a moment before his jaw firmed. "Yes, I have just the wand for you."
He snapped and the measuring tape fell to the countertop. He bustled to the back and returned with three boxes.
"It'll be one of these three, no doubt."
Hermione watched as he kept his hands well clear of the boxes and simply gestured for her to open them. He was afraid of them. Why?
Her hand went, as if pulled, to the box on the right, lifting the lid. She looked inside and saw a beautiful spiral of white, black, and red. Not her first wand of Vine at all, but somehow even more alluring to her than it had been. She lifted it out and felt the ground move beneath her as the wand fountained with a veritable rainbow of color.
Mr. Ollivander swept the other two boxes away quickly. "It is rare that a witch or wizard matches to a wand so quickly, Ms. Granger. Blackthorn, Aspen, and Cedar, with a Sphinx hair core.” Oh, that was why he was afraid. What were the other two wands, then? “A wand for those of sure and determined purpose, strong morals, and a keen mind, who will, most assuredly, turn our world on its head. I suppose you'll be wanting a sheath for it? Wrist or belt?"
“Yes, please, and wrist, if you have them,” Hermione answered. Somehow she was not surprised when he returned with a black and yellow auror-model wrist-sheath. It just seemed like the sort of thing he’d know.
***
Honestly, the rest of the summer break was rather boring, really. There wasn’t much she could do to prepare for what was coming until she was at Hogwarts again besides studying everything she could get her hands on and plot. Both of which she did quite a lot of.
She’d quickly given up on attempting to cover her scars with makeup and had switched to wearing lightweight, long-sleeved blouses at all times. Getting used to the looks her parents gave her each morning took longer. She wasn’t looking forward to living in a dorm with other girls, who would very much question why they never saw her arms below the elbow, but once she was on school grounds she could get away with casting glamours on them. Assuming nothing occurred to neutralize that magic.
Which it absolutely would, because between her, Ron, and Harry, their luck was just like that. Bugger. Maybe she should look into enchanting a bracelet to hold the glamour? She’d have to look that up in the school library, though, as she didn’t have the books necessary.
In mid-August, her parents took her out for her birthday, as she wouldn't be home next month when her birthday actually occurred. As usual, they'd insisted she invite friends from school, but she didn't actually have those, yet. Her mother braced for the tears that had come every year since she started school when none of the people she had invited showed up. There were no tears. Hermione knew she'd have friends soon enough, and no reason to talk to the people from the old school soon anyway.
Honestly, she was just revelling in getting another six years with her parents. More, if she didn't have to send them off to Australia, having forgotten they'd ever had a daughter, again.
As always, Mama took her shopping for a few new outfits the day before, including one nice dress, which had a full circle skirt with a dozen layers of chiffon in three shades of green, silver vines and leaves embroidered on the bodice, hem and cuffs, and sheer, long sleeves with a slight tie dyed pattern. The variations in the color of the sleeves and the top layer of the dress meant that even though you could see her arms clearly, there was no sign of the scars. It was beautiful. And she was absolutely taking it with her to Hogwarts, even if all she did was flounce around the castle in it on weekends. It was a pity there'd be no dances till fourth year and she would outgrow it by then. Maybe she could ask one of the girls for a wizarding seamstress who could duplicate it for that dance.
At her request, after thinking back on the frustration of using quills and ink pots, her birthday gift was a pair of fine fountain pens. She hadn't expected Papa to have gone out and found ones made of actual silver and gold, rather than simply getting a few cheaper sets from the local craft supply store, and to include a polishing kit with them. Papa said nothing as her eyes welled up and she hugged the pens close. "Fine pens for writing fine thoughts," Papa said simply as he hugged her. Papa was never much of one for words, that was Mama, but he gave the best hugs.
The day of her early birthday celebration, she put the nice dress on, and they spent the whole day at the theater. Just like always. This year was a matinee performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and a nice dinner followed by an evening performance of Macbeth.
If she spent that evening accidentally writing a thesis on the role Shakespeare's depiction of fae, magic, and witches may have played in the events leading up to the Statute of Secrecy… Well, who would know?
***
September first rolled around and she found herself staring at the familiar train with slowly growing dread. The part of her that had been excited to see her friends again, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, George, Fred, was suddenly realizing that they wouldn't know her. And certainly wouldn't react well to a strange eleven year old crying all over them. And she would, she wasn't even going to try to claim she'd processed the grief of three of them dying. She was going to see them, and she was going to start bawling. Especially Fred. Harry and Neville had been standing beside her when she had died, and while a part of her knew they'd died too, she hadn't seen it, hadn't had even thirty seconds in a world in which they did not exist. Fred though. She'd seen Fred fall, had had several hours to know, in her soul, he was gone. And now he wasn't. None of them were. George would even have both ears here, which was suddenly odd to think about.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself she'd signed on for the hard work of making it better. They were alive and they were damned well going to stay that way. She hugged her parents one more time and pretended the tears were for missing them, and got on the damned train. She had work to do, dammit.
Avoiding all the carriages she sat in last time, and hoping to begin making changes here, now, by making new connections she hadn't last time, she wound up in a carriage already inhabited by several first year girls. It was a strange mix of pure blood girls of all houses, girls she'd never seen together in seven years. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, both Patil twins and Lavender Brown all sat together.
She was resigned to an entirely dull affair, and possibly having to move carriages, when introductions turned to half the carriage discussing the boys they could see out of the window, and the other half was incredibly interested in Hermione's Heritage.
"I was raised muggle," Hermione said, deciding rather more truth than she'd have given last time was necessary. "But the professor who came with my letter asked if we'd any relation to the Dagworth-Grangers. My parents honestly didn't know, so I had a lineage test done at Gringotts. Technically, I suppose I count as a half blood. It's really quite funny. You see, the Granger name comes from my father, who's all muggle going back ten generations at least, but my mother's side is mostly pure blood squibs marrying pure blood squibs, or half-blood second or third generation squibs who didn't know they were anything but muggle. And that line does include the Dagworth-Grangers, Selwyns, and families from all over the world, including the Abbas family from Palestine." Hermione paused, hoping it looked thoughtful rather than premeditated. "I wonder if all muggleborns aren't actually descended from squibs who've simply forgotten who their ancestors were." There, that should make the Slytherins think about the rhetoric their parents shill out.
Susan nodded thoughtfully, and Pansy and Daphne at least stopped talking while their brains rebooted under the new information, the looks of shocked confusion lingering on their faces. Daphne recovered first and offered to teach Hermione how the upper society worked. Hermione accepted, there's only so much one can learn from books, after all, and happily added Daphne to her mental list of possible allies.
Finally, they pulled away from the station, and with boys no longer in view, conversation shifted away from them. Hermione perked up when it shifted to what Houses they expected to be Sorted into. Here, too, was something she could change, she just had to do it right.
"What about you, Hermione?" Daphne asked. "Where do you think you'll be Sorted?"
"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Hermione asked airily.
"Of course it matters!" Pansy scoffed. "Much of Wixen Society perceives certain values in a person based on where they sorted! Our whole lives depend on the Sorting! Many jobs and prospective spouses only really look at certain House graduates! Everyone knows Hufflepuffs work hard, Ravenclaws know how to research, Slytherins are resourceful, and Gryffindors aren’t scared of anything! How people perceive you determines what you can do, and how you sort affects how people perceive you!"
"Pansy, you're definitely sorting into Slytherin," Susan said wryly, "you can relax."
"I still think Sorting is rather silly." Hermione said. "Hear me out.," She implored, raising a hand to calm the outraged interjections. "Just because people perceive things doesn't make them true. In any event where the traits of the Houses matters, be it a catastrophic accident, a natural disaster, an attack by evil people, an oppressive government, or a war, no one House's traits will ever be enough. You need all of them. Cunning and resourcefulness, creativity and knowledge, courage and honor, justice, loyalty, and an awful lot of willingness to do hard, dirty work. You won't survive much less keep any of the people you love alive without all of them. It doesn't matter if people, the whole of society even, perceive value in the hard working and humble or in the cunning and resourceful, one is not inherently more or less valuable than the other."
The carriage was silent as she took a breath. Good. They were listening. "Valuing, training, any one House's traits above the others, or worse, neglecting the value of those other traits altogether, is just plain silly." Hermione smirked wryly, "Besides, why should anyone get to dictate how you live your life and who you're friends with? Let alone based on something as ridiculous as where your assigned dorm is or what colors you're wearing. Unless you wear nothing but bright pink in your forties,” She added, enjoying her own inside joke, even if no one else would appreciate it for five years, if ever. “I reserve the right to stop being friends with you, then." She got serious again, "but that's my choice, and no one is allowed to make it for me."
Lavender whimpered, “I can’t tell! That’s so Slytherin! But Also Gryffindor? And very Hufflepuff, but all presented like a Ravenclaw!”
And that was how the girls divided again into two conversations. One set arguing over where Hermione would sort, the other betting on how long it would take to sort her. No one betting thought she wouldn’t be a Hat Stall, they just disagreed on how long the Hat would stall. Just to shake things up, Hermione bet on less than three minutes.
Satisfied with her work for the day, Hermione sat back and let the conversation go. The Trolley lady came and went and Neville never showed up looking for his toad. She tried not to be sad but wound up staring out the window, wondering what changed.
***
Of all of her friends last time around, Hermione was the first to be Sorted.
Neville had never come looking for Trevor. The boat ride across the lake had been shared with Susan, Pansy, and Daphne instead of Harry, Ron, and Neville. She had avoided them on the train for fear of the grief of seeing them not know her, and now she hadn’t seen them at all and wouldn’t until after she was sitting at a table they may not be at. The new and entirely different grief distracted her and she startled when Professor McGonnagall called her name. She hadn’t even heard the other names being called, much less noticed the time it took for a dozen people to be sorted.
Oooo, an Aspects-sent time traveler! That may actually be a first, for me.
Hermione rolled her eyes, she wasn’t here to be entertainment for sartorial relics, she was here to be Sorted into a House.
It’s been a thousand years and a hundred thousand heads, forgive me for a moment of enjoying seeing something unique for once. The Hat said grumpily.
And that would be why Hermione has never been so daft as to long for immortality as many people seemed to. (People were morons.)
No, of course not, you’re much too practical for that, aren’t you? But practicality isn’t actually a Sortable trait. So, Time Traveler, where do I put you? Hmmm, I’d say you’ve learned about all there is about bravery and chivalry, and you certainly don’t need help with either research habits, knowledge or creativity; nor resourcefulness, cunning or ambition. Do you Ms. Convinces-Goblins-She’s-Bellatrix-Black?
“I don’t need help with loyalty, honesty or fairness either, but I still have to be sorted into one of them.”
The Hat laughed. Very true. Very true, indeed, Ms. Granger. Very well then, what would you say is your best trait?
Hermione thought about it, thought through all of her previous life and death and life, knowing full well the Hat would see all of it. In all of the Hat's songs she had heard him sing, spite was never listed as a sortable trait.
Indeed, not, I'm afraid. All four of them operated almost entirely on spite, so it doesn't help differentiate.
She nodded and set it aside, looking for something else. Something equally defining her as spite.
No. Death's smile was disturbing. Just keep being you.
The memory rang in her head with Truth and a depth she hadn’t considered when it happened.
Well, she supposed that might make things easier. Or harder, actually.
A lot harder.
What the hell, it's not like she'd ever been afraid of hard work, and if she could make things better…
Ha, that is a good one. I know just where to put you then. Better be…
“HUFFLEPUFF!”