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Hermione lay on her bed, staring at the perfectly ordinary, non-magical ceiling of her suburban London bedroom, bored out of her mind. Goose, the Flerken, was a warm, purring lump of orange fur at the foot of her bed. He seemed to sense her profound ennui, letting out a soft meow before tucking his head under his paws and resuming his nap.
After kidnapping the creature from Fury, she'd been pleasantly surprised to find that her grimoire's [Magical Creatures] collection feature worked as a form of cross-dimensional transport for them. So, when she'd returned to the wizarding world for the holidays, Goose had come with her.
Suddenly, a large, dark shadow fell across her window, plunging the room into twilight.
Her reaction was instantaneous. Years of a different life, a life of constant paranoia and violence, took over. She rolled off the bed, her wand appearing in her hand as if by magic, and scooped up the now-hissing Flerken with her other arm, holding him in front of her like a fluffy, orange shield.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there!" a panicked voice yelped from outside.
Hermione peered through the window. Hovering there, in a beat-up, turquoise Ford Anglia that was somehow, impossibly, flying, was Ron Weasley, his hands raised in a gesture of absolute surrender. Fred and George were crammed in the car with him, all three looking terrified of the wand pointed at their faces.
"Hi, Hermione!" George managed, giving a weak, nervous wave.
The Weasleys? she thought, her battle-ready posture slowly relaxing. What in the world are they doing here?
"Could you… maybe… put the wand down?" Ron asked, his voice trembling slightly. "And the cat? Why are you pointing a cat at us? Is it going to eat us?"
After a brief, shouted conversation through the glass, Hermione finally understood. Harry, it turned out, had been the victim of a rogue house-elf's misguided protection detail. The Ministry had sent him an official warning for underage magic he didn't perform, and Dobby, the elf in question, had been intercepting all his mail. Mr. Weasley, having heard about the warning at work, and Ron, worried sick after not getting a single reply to his letters all summer, had put two and two together. They'd concluded Harry was being held prisoner by his horrible Muggle relatives and had decided to stage a jailbreak.
"We just figured, since you weren't answering your letters either, we'd come and check on you, too," Ron explained. As he spoke, his eyes fell on a neat, untouched stack of envelopes on her windowsill. His face fell. "Oh. You… you got them. You just didn't open them."
A flicker of genuine, human embarrassment shot through Hermione. It was one thing to ignore someone's messages. It was another thing entirely to be caught red-handed with the physical proof of your neglect. The Weasley twins, seeing the entire, awkward exchange, burst into peals of merciless laughter.
After a brief, stilted farewell to her bemused Muggle parents, Hermione accepted the Weasleys' invitation to come and stay. The prospect of seeing the legendary Burrow was infinitely more appealing than spending another week dying of boredom.
The flying car was a magical marvel and a mechanical deathtrap. As they took off, the whole vehicle shuddered and rattled, but the inside was surprisingly spacious, a clear application of an Undetectable Extension Charm. The speed, however, was pathetic. Her magically and technologically enhanced Cyberpunk 2077 could fly circles around this rust bucket.
After nearly an hour of chugging through the clouds, a strange, crooked building came into view, a patchwork tower that looked as though it had been built by a child with too many building blocks and a complete disregard for the laws of physics. It was the Burrow.
"Hermione!"
The moment she stepped through the door, Harry Potter shot up from his seat at a long, cluttered kitchen table, a wide, relieved grin on his face.
"Have you eaten?" Hermione asked, the standard social pleasantry from her past life slipping out automatically.
"Not yet," Harry replied, taking the question literally. "Mrs. Weasley is making lunch. She says we'll eat soon."
"Oh," Harry continued, his expression turning serious, "about the letters. It wasn't me. I didn't get any. A house-elf named Dobby was stealing them."
"It's fine," Hermione shrugged. "I didn't write any."
Harry's happy expression faltered. "…What?" He had imagined, for weeks, that she, like Ron, had been trying to reach him. The boat of their friendship wobbled precariously.
Ron, seeing Harry's crestfallen look, clapped him on the back. "Don't feel bad, mate," he complained loudly. "She didn't even open my letters! Just left them in a pile to gather dust! She's a menace!"
The two boys shared a look of mutual, long-suffering understanding. Being friends with Hermione, they were beginning to realize, was a unique and often frustrating experience.
As Hermione looked around the chaotic, warm, and utterly magical kitchen, Ron's face fell again, a familiar flush of shame on his cheeks. "It's… it's not much, I know," he mumbled, glancing at her secretly. "Not like your parents' house…"
Hermione just patted him on the shoulder. "Are you kidding me, Ron?" she said, and to his surprise, her voice was full of a genuine, undisguised awe. "A house held together by magic, filled with enchanted objects and a garden full of gnomes? This place is a thousand times more valuable than any boring Muggle villa. It's… it's real."
Ron's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. The Weasley twins, watching from the doorway, had to stifle their laughter at their little brother's obvious pride.
"Hermione, dear! It's so wonderful to see you!"
A plump, kind-faced woman with fiery red hair bustled into the room. Molly Weasley enveloped Hermione in a fierce, bone-crushing hug that smelled of flour and cinnamon.
"I've heard so much about you!" she said, finally releasing her. "Thank you, thank you for looking after my boys! If you hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened with that horrible Professor Quirrell!" She then spun on Ron. "And you! I hope you've learned your lesson about running off after trolls and dark wizards! Honestly, the recklessness!"
"But Mum, it was Harry who…" Ron began to protest.
"Don't you talk back!" Molly snapped, then her face softened as she looked at Harry. "And you, Harry dear, so brave! Facing down a dark wizard at your age. We're all so proud of you."
Hermione just watched, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. It was a classic, timeless scene of maternal logic that was, in its own way, as magical as the house itself. Ron was the gifted wand, and Harry was the biological son.
After thoroughly scolding Ron, Molly's attention returned to Hermione. She fussed over her, grabbing her hands, her eyes full of a powerful, maternal affection that made Hermione deeply uncomfortable. Just as she was beginning to feel restless, a thumping sound came from the stairs, and a small, red-headed girl in pajamas ran into the room.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening as she saw the people in the kitchen. Her gaze landed on Harry Potter. A deep, scarlet blush crept up her neck. She let out a small, terrified squeak, then turned and fled back upstairs.
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