For 30+ advance chapter: p atreon.com/Snowing_Melody
Harry stared at the empty staircase where Ginny Weasley had just been, a look of pure bewilderment on his face. "Was it something I said?"
Ron let out a long, suffering sigh, as if bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. "My sister," he explained, his voice full of a deep, fraternal annoyance. "She hasn't shut up about you all summer. 'Did you know Harry Potter has green eyes?' 'Did you know Harry Potter is so brave?' It's been a nightmare."
Harry's ears went red. He was slowly, uncomfortably, getting used to the fact that he was famous in this world. This kind of fannish devotion, however, was still deeply strange.
Just as the food was served, the back door of the Burrow creaked open, and a kind-faced, red-headed man in slightly rumpled Ministry robes walked in. Arthur Weasley's tired face lit up the moment he saw his family and their guests.
"Harry!" he said warmly. He then turned to Hermione, his eyes wide with an almost star-struck admiration. "And you must be Miss Granger! It is an absolute honor. The stories we've been hearing at the Ministry… remarkable!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Defeating a full-grown wizard in your first year—a professor, no less! And a star Beater for the Gryffindor team! It's all anyone is talking about!"
It is? Hermione thought, genuinely surprised. She had assumed the incident would be a nine-day wonder within the school, not headline news at the wizarding world's seat of government. She had, it seemed, underestimated the impact of her actions.
"Well," she said, trying for a modest tone, "Professor Quirrell wasn't exactly at his best…"
"Nonsense, dear," Molly Weasley cut in, beaming with a proud, maternal glow as if Hermione were her own daughter. "And don't forget the Quidditch Cup! Ron told us all about your… creative tactics." She then looked at her own son. "And your final exams! I heard Miss Granger was the only one in her year to get full marks. And you, Ronald, not a single 'Outstanding' on your report!"
Ron, who had been happily stuffing a chicken leg into his mouth, choked, his face a picture of innocent betrayal. Harry, who hadn't gotten any 'Outstandings' either, suddenly found the wood grain of the table incredibly fascinating. Hermione just pretended not to notice, and for a moment, the kitchen was filled with the happy, chaotic atmosphere of a real family dinner.
When the meal was over, Arthur cleared his throat, a boyish, excited look on his face. He pulled a dusty, cardboard box from his briefcase. "Now, Hermione," he began, "Ron told me you gave him that magnificent broomstick. I heard you have a talent for alchemy, so I… well, I used a few connections at the office to pull some things from the evidence locker. Confiscated materials. I thought you might find them useful."
He opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of cotton wool, was a collection of rare and strange alchemical ingredients. Hermione felt a sudden, paranoid jolt. The broom for Ron, the gift for me… Oh no. They're not trying to arrange a marriage, are they? The thought was so absurd, so horrifying, that she had the sudden, wild urge to Apparate back to Marvel and never return.
Shaking off the ridiculous notion, she saw the genuine, good-hearted kindness in Arthur's eyes. She had to reciprocate. She reached into her own enchanted bag. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley. This is… incredibly generous. I have something for you, too."
She placed a cold, heavy, black metal object on the kitchen table.
Arthur's eyes went wide. As a lifelong, obsessive enthusiast of Muggle artifacts, he recognized it instantly. "Is that… is that a Browning Hi-Power?" he breathed, his voice full of a reverence that was almost holy.
"What is it?" Ron asked, peering at the strange object.
"It's a Muggle weapon," Arthur explained, unable to take his eyes off it. "One of their most ingenious designs. But, Hermione, my dear, where on earth did you get such a thing?"
"Found it," she said simply. "I thought you might appreciate it."
"What kind of magic does it do?" Ron asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. "A Muggle wand?"
Hermione looked at him, her expression completely deadpan. "Avada Kedavra," she said calmly.
A shocked, horrified silence fell over the room. Ron, Ginny, and the twins all took an instinctive step back.
"Hermione!" Molly gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
"It's… it's not quite that powerful," Arthur stammered, trying to de-escalate, though he himself looked a little pale. "But it is dangerous. We shouldn't touch it."
"It's fine," Hermione said, picking up the pistol with a casual ease that was deeply unsettling. "I'll make it safe."
What followed was a display that left the entire Weasley family in a state of stunned, silent shock. With a series of swift, economical, and practiced movements, she ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and field-stripped the entire weapon on their kitchen table. The clicks and clacks of the metal parts were alien sounds in this house of creaking wood and gentle magic. She held up the empty frame.
"See? Perfectly safe now."
Arthur and Harry stared at her, their minds struggling to reconcile the image of the brilliant, bookish schoolgirl with this… this child soldier who could disassemble a firearm with the ease of a seasoned commando. Molly and Arthur exchanged a long, worried look. Are we absolutely certain her parents are dentists? Molly's look seemed to say.
The next morning, Hermione was up before the sun. She had shared a room with Ginny, a space filled with colorful posters of the Holyhead Harpies and smelling faintly of girlhood dreams. It was a strange, intimate experience.
She slipped out into the cool, misty dawn of the Weasley's backyard. Here, surrounded by the constant, chaotic thrum of a dozen different magical signatures, she could finally practice. The Ministry's Trace didn't detect who was using magic; it only detected that magic was being used near an underage wizard. In the magical silence of her Muggle parents' home, any spell would be a blaring alarm. But here, at the Burrow, her own magic was just a drop in an ocean of noise.
She drew her wand, the familiar weight a comfort in her hand. It was time to get back to work.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .