Chapter 4 - Hermione

Hermione was not enjoying the summer. Her street was the perfect place to live for a muggle, but for a witch in training it was beginning to be too much. The other kids in the street had begun to call her names like ‘freak’ and ‘weirdo’. She wasn’t even sure how it all started; she just knew that people whom she used to be friendly with were turning against her. As she stumbled up the stairs at her home, in a belated fury of curses and threats, she clutched the remains of her favourite book (A history of Hogwarts) to her chest. It had been trampled on by the other kids in the street and all but shredded.

Slamming the door to her room closed and making the windows shake, she sat down heavily on the bed and looked at the remains of the book. "I wish I was at school!” she said aloud to her empty room. Even Crookshanks, her cat, was nowhere to be seen to give her some comfort.

Needing to take her mind off things she hopped off the bed and began to pace the
room. She paused in front of the full length mirror that hung on the wall beside her wardrobe and glared at her reflection. Her eyes were shiny with restrained tears that she refused to shed over the loss of the book and taunts of the other children of the street.

But as she stared at her reflection in more detail, she could not help but notice how she had changed over the summer. Her long brown bushy hair was beginning to lay a little flatter under its own weight as it grew further down her back. She still did not use makeup. Most of the time that girls her age spent on applying it, she spent with her nose in a book. She had already been to Diagon Alley once during the summer and purchased a stack of books to do extra reading, and now she was running out again.

Sighing she turned away from her reflection and looked out the window. The sun was rising higher in the sky as the morning progressed, but she was already getting behind schedule. She was heading out to the Burrow, supposedly in a matter of an hour or so. As she looked out to the horizon, she could see that dark clouds were gathering against the summer sky again, lightning streaking from cloud to cloud. "Another storm," she whispered to herself. The garden of the house was still soaked from the storm that had raged the other day. Now there was another on its way.

Hermione fingered her wand that lay on her nightstand in unease. Over the past few weeks, unremembered dreams had begun to haunt her thoughts. They were making sleep almost impossible though any details that they carried were lost to her when she woke. All she did know was that she had been more scared in the nightmares than at any other point in her life.

Voldemort had risen and she feared for Harry's life like she never had worried about anything before. Thoughts of their previous battles often raced through her mind.

I’m going to the Burrow, she reminded herself. She would then be back in the wizarding world and with Ron and Harry once again. However, something about the thought of her 5th year at Hogwarts made Hermione shiver and she was suddenly afraid.

But of what?

Afraid of the storm she could see on the horizon?



Harry had double-checked the packing of his trunk to occupy the time from when he had woken up and when the rest of the house was up and about. He could barely keep his patience that morning when Dudley stole his small quarter of pink grapefruit, his right hand sliding up the right sleeve of the baggy roll neck jumper (another hand me down from Dudley) to wrap around the hilt of his wand.

Although Harry knew that to perform magic outside of school was illegal, that did not stop him carrying his wand. He used to only ever carry it in the wizarding world but, since his close call with Voldemort, he felt a lot safer with it.

Heading back up the stairs and into his room, he glanced around to triple check he had everything. All his schoolbooks and homework were now safely tucked inside his trunk along with the few remaining rolls of parchment and potion supplies. His father’s invisibility cloak was sitting under his pillow so he could get to it in a hurry if he needed to escape from attackers. Hedwig’s cage was sitting open on his desk waiting for her return and his most prized possession, his Firebolt racing broom, was wrapped neatly in an old clean bed sheet and resting on a shelf opposite his bed.

All he needed to get out of Number 4 Privet drive was for the Weasley’s to turn up.

He was still unsure how they would be coming to collect him. He still doubted by Floo Powder, and they no longer had a car as it was, as far as he knew, still living wild in the forbidden forest.

There were only two other forms of transport he knew of for wizards and witches, apart from broomsticks of course.

One was to Apparate; a neat trick where you disappeared from one location only to appear instantly in another but you needed to be at least 18 years old to do it. This law was strictly enforced due to the risky nature of the magic involved (something to do with splinching).

The other way was to use a portkey; an enchantment of an everyday object that turned it into a mode of transport, which involved a stomach-wrenching tumble that literally dragged you from one place to another while holding the object.

Still, little did he expect that, at ten thirty in the morning as he was staring up at his ceiling in anticipation of leaving, a ‘pop’ would announce the appearance of Mr Weasley at the foot of his bed.

Harry almost fell back through the doorway in surprise.

“Morning Harry,” he said as if appearing out of thin air in someone’s bedroom was as normal as you could get. Mr Weasley took in the room at a glance before turning to look down at Harry. He was exactly as he remembered him, tall, thin and with a receding hairline of bright red. He was dressed in long green robes that hung a little loosely on him and had obviously seen better days.

“Morning,” was all Harry managed in reply.

“Hope you don’t mind me coming early,” he said as he glanced around the room, eyes stopping on the collection of broken toys that Dudley no longer played with.

Harry shook his head as Mr Weasley turned back to him. “Excellent.”

Suddenly another ‘pop’ and someone else was standing in his room, Apparating with their back to him. This person too had shocking red hair but was slightly shorter and much younger. Turning round, Harry instantly recognised Percy, the Weasley’s middle son. Mr Weasley and Percy looked at each other, and Mr Weasley smiled when Percy gave a slight nod.

“Hi Percy,” said Harry as he closed the door behind him.

“Harry,” he replied distractedly as he moved over to the window to look down into the garden.

“Right then Harry,” said Mr Weasley stepping toward him, “Got everything?”

Harry and drew out his invisibility cloak from under the pillow and carefully draped it over his arm.

“Ah good,” said Mr Weasley. “I was about to ask you where that was.”

“Why?” asked Harry.

“Well,” said Mr Weasley as Percy used his own wand to make the window to Harry’s bedroom disappear, “I’ve borrowed a couple of invisibility cloaks from the Unmentionables and Percy and I will be flying with you to the Burrow.”

“Fly?” ask Harry doubtfully. “We’re going to fly… all the way to the Burrow?”

Mr. Weasley stopped suddenly. “Yes,” he replied, tuning to face Harry with a curious expression. “I though that to a fine Quidditch player like yourself, it should be nothing.” With a sudden smile, he punched Harry jovially in the arm adding “Eh, Harry?”

Harry subconsciously rubbed his arm. “No, I mean… is that allowed?” he asked, once again showing his relative ignorance of the wizarding world despite having been at Hogwarts for four years.

“Allowed?” Mr. Weasley looked at Harry as if he was obtuse. “As long as we are not seen by muggles, yes.”

“You mean it’s not covered by the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?” he asked.

“Oh, that!” piped up Percy. Harry had almost forgotten he was here he had been so quiet staring out of Harry’s now glass-less window. “Well, technically flying doesn’t fall under that particular law.”

“It doesn’t?” Harry questioned, wondering why no one had bothered to explain this little piece of information to him before now. If he had known this he would have gone flying under his cloak all summer. Then it occurred to him that perhaps someone might not want him flying around all summer, and again his thoughts darkened in the light of the knowledge that Voldemort was waiting to kill him.

“Well, it does and it doesn’t. Dad?” Percy looked at his father who was busy studying an ordinary muggle pencil that had been sitting on Harry’s desk in a cup, mostly unused since that mode of writing was replaced by quill and parchment four years ago. Arthur Weasley was preoccupied with any ordinary muggle artefact, so much so that his preoccupation with enchanting these artefacts had gotten him into a bit of trouble with the Ministry of Magic (courtesy of Ron and himself in their second year). Luckily he had managed to avoid too serious a consequence, despite the investigation performed by the ministry.

Mr. Weasley looked up. “Huh? Oh yes, quite right, Percy.” Holding up the pencil he asked Harry. “May I have this?”

Harry smiled slightly and nodded. “Of course, It’s just a pencil.” Harry glanced at Percy as he kept a constant look out the window to the street outside. Harry could swear that Percy seemed anxious to get going.

Slipping the pencil up his sleeve as if it were a wand, Mr Weasley explained further. “You see underage flying is technically forbidden. We wouldn’t want muggles to see young wizards and witches flying about, now would we?” he asked distractedly as his eyes fell on the broken computer sitting next to Harry’s desk. But it is perfectly acceptable if that underage wizard is accompanied by an adult wizard. It’s a bit risky, of course. The Ministry would rather it be completely restricted, but as long as we aren’t observed by muggles we’ll be perfectly within the letter of the law. That, young man, is why we’ve borrowed Invisibility Cloaks for Percy and myself.”

“I thought they were really rare.” Harry held his cloak in his hands lightly and remembered the Christmas morning when he had received this special gift. He suspected that it had been given to him by Professor Dumbledore (but he had no real proof), as it had been his father’s cloak. In a way, he felt he had received it directly from his father. It was very special to him. He liked to think of his cloak as being unique as it made the connection to his father feel more real.

“Oh they are, Harry. Dad had quite a time coming up with these,” said Percy.

“Indeed I did.” Mr Weasley leaned in conspiratorially to Harry. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention we had them and I'll return them to the unmentionables later today.”

Harry nodded dubiously. “I don’t mean to…” words failed him for a moment as he searched for a way to ask a question without seeming like an idiot. “…how are we all going to fly to the Burrow and carry my trunk and things as well? My broom stick can’t take us all.”

“Ah,” said Mr Weasley, Harry’s question drawing his attention away from the broken computer. “Don’t worry about that. Now, is this all that you need?” He asked pointing to the trunk, stacked on top with books, and now Hedwig’s cage courtesy of Percy.

Harry looked around his room. With the exception of his broomstick that was still on the shelf and the cloak in his hands, everything else he needed was sitting either in, or on, his trunk. “Yes.”

Mr. Weasley turned toward the stack of personal belongings and waved his wand. With a sudden, but quiet pop, Harry’s belonging disappeared.

”What spell was that?” Harry asked.

“Well Harry, when you’ve had your wand as long as I have, you’ll learn that sometimes it knows what spell it needs to cast better than you do. That particular spell was ‘sceadwian’, the invisible shadowing spell. The trunk will now be invisible to anyone but me, and will follow me till I de-enchant it. Now, off we go, put your cloak on and be sure you’ve covered your entire broom.”

Harry draped his fathers cloak over his shoulders and looked down to see that he had no visible body. Then, he stepped over and took his Firebolt from the shelf and mounted it before double-checking that the cloak covered the entire broom. It was easer to ensure that the broom was covered than some of the other things that he had hidden under it in the past; like a crate containing a young dragon.

“You first Percy,” said Mr Weasley.

Percy, now invisible except for the broomstick and the hand carrying it, stepped up to the edge of the window, mounted his broom and disappeared. A slight sound of moving air told Harry and Mr Weasley that Percy had taken off.

“Next Harry. No time to spare. Mrs Weasley is expecting us for lunch,” whispered Mr. Weasley, rather loudly.

“What about Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked. “Aren’t we going to tell them where I’ve gone?” Mr Weasley smiled and pulled out a neatly written letter and placed it on Harry’s pillow. Then, waving his wand, Harry’s bed made itself neatly.

Harry wanted to know what the letter said, but instead he followed Percy’s example, mounted his broom and kicked off into the morning air.

He soared out of his room completely invisible, heading up to where he could see Percy waving a hand out from under his cloak. Feeling more exhilarated than at any other point in the summer now he was on his broom he rose into the air.

Mr. Weasley rose to meet them, sticking a hand out from under his cloak. Harry could see that he must have paused long enough to return the window to its former state as the sun now reflected off its clean glass. “No sense in doing any more harm to the muggles house than necessary,” he said cheerily.

Harry wondered if that comment was a reference to the first time George, Fred and Ron had pulled off the bars Uncle Vernon had installed on his bedroom window when they came to rescue him in the flying car. That morning was the first time Harry had ever seen the Burrow. He loved it and was excited to see it and his friends again. Or maybe even last summer when the Weasley’s had exploded the living room fire after they had gotten stuck in the fireplace.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. “Um, how are we to get to the Burrow? I can’t see either of you to follow.” Harry called out. From his left, he heard a response.

”I’ve got that one covered,” said Percy smugly. “Suddenly an owl swooped past Harry’s head and began to fly north. “Just follow Hermes,” he said. “He knows the way.”

“We should hurry,” added Mr Weasley, “Molly won’t take lightly to us being late.”

Harry lined himself up behind Hermes and leaned forward on his broomstick. His Firebolt responded to his lightest touch and he had to lean back a bit so that he did not overtake the owl.

And so, across the morning sky the three wizards flew. Talking was difficult as they raced through the sky leaving the suburbs far behind till nothing but country fields and hedgerows were all that could be seen from horizon to horizon. Finally, just after Harry had lost track of time and was beginning to tire of the unchanging scenery and following Hermes, the Burrow was in view. It’s patched roof and impossibly crooked walls and floors and wild garden with its infestation of gnomes brought wonderfully happy memories to Harry and he was delighted at the prospect of spending two weeks here before going back to Hogwarts.

Leaning forward on his broom he accelerated toward the ground, his angle increasing till he was nearly pointed down at the ground. Earth rushed up to meet him and he almost let out a whoop of delight as he pulled back sharply, his feet barely inches from the grass and throwing up little tandem clouds of dust, before rocketing around the house, angling up and around the chimneys and back down to land before the kitchen door.

As soon as he removed his cloak and took a deep breath of the homely air, all the foreboding of the evil he had been feeling weighing down on him all summer nearly vanished.

Nearly, but not quite.



Hermione woke with stifled yell. Sweat was dripping down her face in cold rivulets and her t-shirt was plastered to her back. Swiping a hand across her face to brush away the hair that clung there getting into her eyes she discovered that sweat was not the only dampness on her face. Tears had left tracks down her cheeks and her whole body was shaking like a leaf while white knuckled hands gripped the edge of the desk she had fallen asleep at.

Hesitantly, Hermione wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and leaned back, resting her head against the wall and taking relief in the silence that permeated the room.

For all her apparent fear, she couldn’t remember the dream she had had. Only a fading memory of the faint glow of a bright green light could be found within the depths of her mind. The light reminded her of something, but the harder she tried to remember what, the faster the thought seemed to slip away. Not that she was overly concerned. She remembered everything eventually so she was sure the thought would come to her in time.

Shivering, she drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin in valley they made. It was a bit of a balancing act on her chair, but still possible. Above the desk, she could see the clock on the wall telling her it was one o’clock in the afternoon. Right now Harry should be at the Burrow if all went to plan. Indeed, in about two hours she would be joining them, and for another year, they would be together learning the arts of magic at Hogwarts.

Slipping out of the chair, she strolled into the bathroom and took a warm shower to help her wake up and calm down from whatever had started her.

Stepping from the on-suite bathroom with a towel wrapped around her, she padded over to her wardrobe, pulled open the door and stood looking into it. Her mind was not really on clothes but just wondering in her own thoughts. For a full minute, she just allowed her mind to contemplate its own depths before she realised that she was wasting precious time in triple checking that she had packed everything.

So, pulling out a simple skirt and t-shirt, she got dressed and spent the next hour and a half re-packing her trunk in an orderly manner before heading down to lunch with her parents.

“Morning honey,” called her father absently from the study where he was putting the finishing touches on a presentation for the national dentists conference in four weeks time.

“Morning,” Hermione replied as she entered the kitchen. The room was a combination between modern convenience (with stainless steel appliances) and décor with dark granite countertops sitting atop cherry wood cabinets, all softly spot lit with hidden lights. It was not very homely, missing as it was, that lived in feel. But she spent most of her time at Hogwarts, and when she was home, her parents were either working or taking her on holiday to various places like France or Spain.

As she pulled out a stool on the island counter she watched her mother pulling some bread from the breadbin (immediately wiping up the crumbs she spilt) and placing the four slices now on a plate before her daughter. “Morning honey,” she said as she went back to wiping down the countertop which looked clean enough to eat off already. “All ready for the off?”

Hermione nodded absently and prodded her bread and absently looked at the selection of sandwich spreads laid out for her to choose from.

Her mother continued to clean the already clean kitchen for a few moments before she notice her daughter sitting staring at nothing in particular and not moving. “Honey?” she asked softly, “what’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Hermione?” her mother asked more seriously, putting down her cloth and moving to stand next to her daughter, concern beginning to show.

“Huh?” Hermione replied looking up from the counter. She was unaware that she had been staring into space doing nothing, but now as she frowned in concentration she realised that she’d had a thought about her dream. She had recalled Harry telling her of seeing bright green light for some reason. Which meant that her dream was connected to magic somehow.

Wasn’t it?

“What’s wrong?” her mother asked now looking worried.

Hermione wondered briefly if she could talk to her mother seriously about her dream. Her parents were not like Harry’ relatives (all but ignoring him in daily life and acting horribly to him with the mention of magic), her parents understood her very well… except for the magic part. They were proud of her without a doubt, but they simply couldn’t talk about magic (though it was not for want of trying). They simply had no frame of reference to start from.

“Nothing,” she lied trying to force a smile. “I was just up late reading and I guess I’m a little tired.”

Her mother smiled and nodded. “I know you work hard for your grades, and your father and I are so proud of you getting the highest scores on record for, oh which subject was it?”

“Transfiguration,” replied Hermione absently.

“That’s the one,” her mother continued, “but your father and I don’t want you to burn yourself out. If you can’t handle it, take things easy for the next two weeks before heading back to school. That way you can go back refreshed for the new term.”

Hermione felt a muscle in her cheek twitch at the mention of the words ‘can’t handle it’. But she nodded, forcing a smile that she did not feel, and made a move to start on her sandwich. Her mother smiled and walked out of the kitchen.

As soon as she was out of sight, Hermione dumped the bread in the bin, put away the selection of sandwich fillers and went back to her room where she threw herself down on the bed fighting back the urge to cry. How could her mother tell her she couldn’t handle it? She fumed silently as she wiled away the remaining time till Mr Weasley picked her up to take her to the burrow.

Over the course of the next hour her mood did not improve. Mr Weasley was late in arriving only to Apparate in the living room, making her father think that there was an intruder in the house and going for the phone before he realised who it was.

But soon, and not quickly enough for her dark mood, she was twisting through the Floo network. It was only the second time she had travelled like this. Last time was last summer when she had gone to the Burrow before heading off to the Quidditch world cup.

This time was no better than the last and she was grateful that she hadn’t had any lunch.

She stumbled out the other end of the trip and into the kitchen of the Burrow. She would have fallen over and landed face first on the edge of the table if Fred and George hadn’t been there to catch her.

Muttering thanks under her breath she moved quickly out of the way as her trunk came flying out of the fireplace. “Wingardium leviosar!” cried out a familiar voice. The trunk came to a stop in the middle of the air upside down and Hermione turned to see Mrs Weasley with her wand out. Even as she started to smile for the first time that day, Mrs Weasley was using her wand to manoeuvre the trunk onto the table.

“How are you dear?” she asked when the trunk finally settled to the table.

“Fine,” Hermione lied as she sat in a chair offered to her by Fred.

“Would you like some lunch?” she asked kindly as she moved into the kitchen, staring at the fire with a slight frown.

“No thank you,” she replied.

“Did Mr Weasley say he would be following you dear?” she asked.

Hermione nodded, and with a slight smile added, “He’s probably talking to mum and dad about the Television.”

Mrs Weasley made a noise under her breath that sounded very much like an ‘hmm’ with a couple of mutterings about muggle objects and trouble thrown in.

Suddenly, stepping from the fire and brushing down his robes was Mr Weasley. “Afternoon boys,” he said jovially as he noticed his wife frowning at him. “I got talking to Mr and Mrs Granger about… erm… Hogwarts supplies,” he finally said.

Mrs Weasley’s frown deepened and she approached Mr Weasley with a look that said ‘I don’t believe you and I’m about to nag the truth out of you’.
“Come on,” said George by Hermione’s elbow, “time to get lost.” Silently, the three of them moved out of the kitchen and into the hall where the rickety staircase led to the bedrooms upstairs.

“Where’s Ron?” she asked looking down the hall to the front door that led out into the unkempt yard where chickens roamed relatively freely, only confined to the area by a charm.

“Upstairs with Harry helping him unpack,” replied Fred. “Don’t worry about your trunk, we will take it to Ginny’s room as soon as the kitchen clears.”

Hermione thanked them again for stopping her from falling out of the fire and began to climb the stairs up to the top where Ron had his room. Halfway up, she passed Ginny’s room, and looking through the open door saw the youngest Weasley (and the only girl) lying on her bed looking through a slightly ragged looking copy of ‘The Standard Book of Spells Grade 4’.

Up the next flight and she came to a stop outside Ron’s room where she hesitated. They knew that she was going to be coming today, yet it was Fred and George who had greeted her. Harry and Ron had stayed up in the room, likely talking about Quidditch or something. She frowned inwardly. What was with her mood today? She hadn’t felt right since… what? She racked her brains to try to remember what it was that had started off her day so bad and she couldn’t. But just as she found rising panic in being unable to remember what had happened that morning, she lost her train of thought and ended up staring around herself to find she was standing on the landing outside Ron’s room.

Shrugging at nothing, she knocked on the door and Ron’s face appeared before her. “Hermione!” he called out with a smile, opening the door fully to let her in. Harry was sitting on the foot of Ron’s bed and smiled at her as she walked in. Ron closed the door behind him and sat down on a pile of books just inside the door. “We were just talking about You-know-who,” said Ron conspiratorially.

Harry nodded. “I had another dream about Voldemort last night.”

Hermione smoothed down the back of her skirt and sat next to Harry on the bed. Now why, she thought, did Harry mentioning a dream about Voldemort prompt a distant feeling memory in her mind? “And?” she asked as the thought eluded her. Once again she did not worry. The memory would surface some time today, and unlike her transfiguration or potions homework, it was unlikely to be important.

Harry shook his head. “Remember last year when I had that dream about that old man getting killed?”

Hermione nodded. “The one who You-know-who really did kill.”

Harry nodded back, “Well, if this one is true, then Karkoff is dead.”

Hermione frowned, concern beginning to work its way into her thoughts. “Have you written to Professor Dumbledore yet?”

Looking a little guilty, Harry shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Are you going to?” Hermione asked. “It could be important.”

Harry looked between Ron and Hermione. Ron looked smug. “That’s what I told him,” he said. “I also told him that you’d say the same.”

“What do you want, a medal or something?” she snapped back at Ron.

Ron looked totally taken aback and Harry looked shocked too.

Hermione saw the reactions of her friends and shook her head in dismay. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I guess I’m just cranky.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t worry about it. That outburst was nothing like the one Dudley threw last week…” As Harry recounted the tale of Dudley not getting a new airgun (he had sat on the first one, and the newer one he had gotten at the start of the summer got sat on too, but not before he had shot at several birds) and the subsequent rampage as he threw things about his room in protest, all thoughts of Voldemort and nightmares left Hermione’s mind and she felt happy again.

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