Chapter Two

The Birth of Hermione Genevieve Guerin

"So, Professor Dumbledore tells me you were attending Ivermorny before the accident?"

Hermione forced a small, sad smile as she strolled along the street of Diagon Alley beside Professor McGonagall. "Um, yes." Since Hermione was not supposed to know her way around and didn't know anyone, part of establishing her new identity was to have a teacher show her about and help her collect her school supplies. Dumbledore had followed his gut instinct about how well Hermione would get on with Minerva McGonagall and tasked her with helping the new student.

Thus far, they'd handled most of the shopping whilst making benign chit chat, so Hermione supposed it was about time Minerva wheeled around to the subject she'd been so very obviously trying not to broach.

The elder witch's normally stern features were softened by a contrite expression as she rested her hand on the girl's shoulder, causing her to halt. When Hermione looked up at her, the professor gave a tiny smile of her own, clearly sympathetic. "I want you to know how sorry the school staff is to about your loss. We are happy to have you with us, of course, but the circumstances are simply . . . so tragic."

"As a rule, we do not generally associate much with our . . . American cousins, if you will. Too many differences in rules, you understand." Dumbledore steepled his fingers before his mouth taking a moment as she looked over the list he'd written out. "I do, however, have some colleagues in the Ilvermorny school who owe me a favor or two. They did not ask questions when I requested that they create and send along documentation backing up our story."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she lifted her attention from the scroll to meet his gaze. She knew he'd already been working on a story—that he'd already told something to the staff to clear the way for her having early access to the Gryffindor dormitories, and indeed being in Hogwarts ahead of the rest of the student body, at all. Since that was her second home for six years, he thought there was little point in taking away what few comforts she might find in the familiarity of particular places.

She'd been delighted to see that the Gryffindor Tower she knew had not been different at all twenty years prior. Winky had brought her dinner in the common room and she'd eaten in front of the fireplace as she watched the sky darkened through the windows. But she never made it off the couch. Instead, alone, with no one to witness her misery, Hermione had cried herself to sleep where she sat.

When she awoke the next morning, she wanted to tell herself her sobbing the night before had been cleansing, that it was necessary. That she was mourning her old life and her crying was the natural first step toward accepting that it was gone.

She dressed in clothes the elves had thoughtfully supplied, doing away with the need to explain the style of her attire, which was common place for Muggles of the late 1990s, not so much for the mid-70s. Like any school, some students had simply left things behind, and she found she now 'owned' quite a lovely selection. As it was summer, she eventually settled on brown leather cork platform sandals and a paisley boho dress with bell sleeves and a dramatic v-neck to wear today, all the while breathing a sigh of relief that the fashion of this decade actually played to her wild hair rather than working against it. They'd gone so far as to only give her things left by students who'd graduated, so there was less chance anyone would raise a fuss about seeing their shirt, shoes, dress, what-have-you, on the so-called mysterious new student.

As Hermione inspected her image in the mirror of the Gryffindor 7th year girls' dormitory, she insisted to herself that she felt refreshed and renewed. It was a bit frivolous, but she suddenly had a desire for one of those big, gaudy necklaces to hang between her breasts . . . and perhaps a pair of over-sized sunglasses. Maybe one of those silver rings that covered most of your finger? Ooh, perhaps a mood ring! The attempt to distract herself only half-worked and she found her mind once more going over how relieved she was supposed to feel. Weeping for so long you lose track of time was supposed to have that effect, after all.

But she knew there would be many more nights of crying herself to sleep ahead before she really felt at terms with her grief.

While she made her way to the Headmaster's office that morning, she went back to considering the lighter and much less painful subject of fashion. Were toe rings in style now? What about anklets? She had no idea. She did still have her beaded bag—which strangely went with her ensemble perfectly—but since War's End, it only contained absolute necessities, like an umbrella, feminine hygiene products, and of course books, and she kept plenty of Wizarding money stashed away. Perhaps she should exchange some for Muggle currency and treat herself to a shopping spree before the 1st of September rolled around. After all, these outer clothes were quite pretty, but none of it was actually hers, and she didn't have any . . . under . . . things.

Maybe a hat? One of those beachy, wide-brimmed ones.

She marshaled her focus. This matter of who she was supposed to be now took priority over any calming frivolities. "And what is our story, exactly?"

He pursed his lips and nodded expectantly. "I find that . . . well, let us call a spade a spade, lies are easier to remember if they are close to the truth. You have lost your family, after a fashion, and that is where our story begins. With that truth. Your given name will remain the same; there are not many Hermiones running about, but it is not a wholly uncommon name, either, and will simply make the transition easier on you. Your middle and last names are French in origin, if I'm not mistaken?"

She nodded. "Yes. Um, my father's family comes from France. He was born there, but they moved to London when he was young."

"That is good. Your new names should at least begin with the same sound as the real ones, and the ones I have selected for you are in keeping with that origin. You are Hermione Genevieve Guerin."

The witch's face pinched. "Guerin?" That soured expression quickly enough gave away to a thoughtful frown. "Though I have always quite liked the name Genevieve." She imagined telling people that in her family, they used their middle names—that was a custom for some families, after all—but just as quickly she dismissed the idea. Trying to assimilate was going to be difficult enough with responding to Miss Guerin, she couldn't imagine how much more issue she'd have if people attempting to get her attention by calling her middle name found themselves constantly ignored.

Rolling her eyes, she gave a reluctant nod. "Hermione Genevieve Guerin. Can I keep my birthday? The date, I mean, obviously the year has to change. It's 19th of September. Oh, but um, I'm actually going to be nineteen this year, so I suppose we'll be lying about that, too?"

Albus waved a hand and shrugged. "What's one more? All right, so your new birthday is 19th of September, 1959. This year, you will turn eighteen. You were born in London, you are a Muggle-born, but shortly after you discovered your magic, just when you had received your Hogwarts letter and began studying our ways and learning our terms, your father was transferred to an office overseas in America, leaving you little choice but to attend school there."

Her expression clouded over. "My parents are dentists."

His brows pinched upward in question.

At the look on his face, she remembered the blank stares of her pure-blood classmates when she'd mentioned this during that Slug Club dinner. "Oh, um, a dentist is a sort of healer who looks after people's teeth. It's not exactly a position in which one gets transferred places."

"Ah." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps your parents had the opportunity to open a larger . . . what would be the proper term for a dentist's place of business?"

"A practice. And yes, I suppose that would work. A chance to open a larger practice presented itself in the States, and so we moved and I attended Ilvermorny." God, she hated that name. There was no rolling-off-the-tongue quality to it, whatsoever. "Got it all so far. Go on."

"Your House was Thunderbird—given what you've told me of your life thus far, it seems the best fit. You will, of course, be privately re-Sorted here—that you need not keep secret—unless you feel Gryffindor is still the proper place for you."

This was too much. Different Houses, even? Why, dear God, why? "Sure, re-Sorting. No big deal. Just restructuring my entire past, but by all means, keep piling on."

Albus' mouth plucked up in one corner in a way that let her know he didn't very much appreciate her sass.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but this is all a bit much, isn't it?"

"Better to have as many details as possible to maintain this ruse, Miss Guerin."

Hermione sighed, her shoulders sloping as she nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry. Go on."

"Your studies would have been varied and tailored to your abilities, so whatever subjects and knowledges you've already acquired during your time as a Hogwarts student needn't be supplemented in any way. Your childhood here will explain your lack of American accent as well as any familiarity you might have with Muggle London, and your preparation to attend Hogwarts addresses your reluctance to embrace American Wizarding terms, as you'd always planned on returning to Wizarding Britain upon graduation."

He paused and she immediately felt her stomach ice over. She knew what was coming next.

His voice was gentle and he spoke slow as he continued, "You are the only survivor of a car crash. Your parents and your familiar were lost. Your memory surrounding the accident is fuzzy, and you wish not to be pressed about any details."

"A car crash?" she echoed. Wasn't that the story Harry said the Dursleys had fed him about his parents' demise before Hagrid had erupted onto the scene and told him the truth? Oh, Hagrid! She was going to have to be careful she didn't slip and say anything suspicious around Hagrid if she befriended him, which would be hard as the lovable half-giant had a disarming quality about him.

Hermione gave herself a sobering shake. That was merely a coincidence, as Dumbledore hadn't instructed the Dursleys to say that or Hagrid would've been warned, and car crashes were the simplest explanation for sudden deaths of Muggles, even Wizards knew that. It was a strange comfort, however, that this story provided a valid reason for her to seem depressed, or give in to the occasional bout of spontaneous crying. She could mourn the loss of the life she remembered without having to hide it.

"Upon your recuperation, you expressed the desire to return earlier than initially planned in an attempt to move past your tragedy. And so, my colleagues at Ilvermorny reached out to me, and I pulled some strings to get you here before the start of the new school year so you have time to get settled."

She nodded, wondering briefly just what exactly he'd done for those American colleagues that they'd outright lie for him and not ask questions. Then again, this was Albus Dumbledore, and with everything Hermione knew about the man—and how very much she understood that no one knew about him—she felt perhaps that was a question best left unasked.

"There is one last matter."

"My memory?" They hadn't discussed it, but it was logical. It was precisely a road she'd consider were she in his shoes faced with a situation like, well, like her.

Dumbledore nodded. "After you've shared your intel with me about the Dark Lord's plots, you have the option to forget your past."

"I know. I've thought about that. I mean . . . ." She averted her suddenly watery eyes, dropping her gaze to her fingers. "It would be nice, I suppose, easier to just . . . believe the life we're constructing here is real, that it's mine. But . . . no. I can't forget my parents. And I won't forget my friends. I may never see them again, but they're still part of me and I refuse to be separated from them."

Albus Dumbledore nodded, a warm smile curving his mouth as he reached out, patting a comforting hand atop hers. "And your wish will be respected."

"Thank you, Professor, I appreciate the kindness."

"Oh, my dear, it's the least we can do after what you've been through. Now . . . ." Minerva paused, going over the list. They'd just come from Flourish and Blotts, Obscurus Books before that, Madam Malkin's had been the first stop. The girl had blanched at the mention of getting a broom, but eventually relented when she was reminded that while it was suggested all students have one, that did not mean they were required to use them, but better to have it and not need it than the other way around. "Books, quills, robes, broom, all taken care of. Next we have . . . oh."

Hermione's brows pinched together. Lifting her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright afternoon sun—definitely oversized sunglasses and a floppy, beachy hat—she looked over at the other witch. "What's wrong, Professor?"

"Hmm?" Minerva met the girl's gaze and then returned her attention to the list in her hand. "It's only, well, the final thing on the list is to . . . get you a new familiar, but I thought perhaps it might feel too soon for you to bond with another animal after the loss of your last one."

The young woman felt her throat close. She hadn't considered having to replace Crookshanks. Earlier when she'd looked over that very same list in Dumbledore's office, she hadn't really seen the words. It had been a mix of being distracted and of thinking she already knew what the list said. Typically, only first years were reminded to bring a familiar, but she was a new student, so she supposed the same reminders would apply.

Poor Crooks. He was going to give Harry such a hard time without her there. God, Harry! She snapped her eyes shut and pressed a fist beneath her nose, stifling a cry. No, no, they were alive. They were okay. They simply were not here. And Harry would take care of Crooks, because he was the only human save for Hermione that the kneazle-cat would let anywhere near him.

"I'm so sorry, my dear. We don't have to do this today!"

Hermione felt terrible that she was somewhat relieved at Professor McGonagall's misunderstanding of her reaction. She forced her eyes open and shook her head. "No, no, it's um, it's okay. I would very much like to, even if just to see what animals might be there. But perhaps we could take a break, first?"

"Of course, Miss Guerin." Minerva rested her hand on Hermione's shoulder once more as she looked around. "I have an idea. What say you to . . . ice cream?"

A laugh bubbled out of Hermione and she felt a little of the tension she hadn't even realized she'd been holding flood out of her. "Oh my Lord, that sounds amazing, Professor. Thank you."

"So, I said to the boy 'are you mad?' And he looks me square in the eye, announces proudly to the entire classroom ' No, Professor, I'm drunk. If that will be all?' and simply turns around to storm off."

Hermione sputtered a laugh into her chocolate sundae before managing to cover the sound with a crooked wrist. "I'm almost sorry I asked." She couldn't help but express curiosity about what she might have to look forward from her classmates—after braving the Weasleys and Draco Malfoy, Hermione was pretty sure she could handle anything. She also knew she could not ask directly about any of the students she was really curious to hear about without revealing that she knew more than she was supposed to, and so she listened to the antics of some random mystery boy.

"Oh, that's not nearly the worst part." Minerva shrugged, struggling to keep her features schooled. "He took three steps, stumbled over his own feet, fell forward and drifted off to sleep right there on the floor."

Bracing an elbow on the table, Hermione rested a hand against her forehead. Her shoulders shook in a chuckle as she shook her head. "What happened then?"

"Filch hoisted him up onto his shoulder and brought him into the school hospital. He didn't stir even once. Managed to sleep for ten straight hours, woke up seeming to think he'd dreamed the whole thing."

"Dear Lord, and I thought my classmates were bad."

"Oh, damn," the Professor muttered under her breath, setting down her spoon. "Speak of the Devil."

Hermione's face fell in confusion as she sat up straight. Sooner than she could ask about Minerva's sudden change in demeanor, or turn to follow the older woman's gaze, a voice called out, "Professor!"

The voice was familiar, but by the time Hermione had placed it, there was someone standing beside their table. Someone dressed in Muggle attire. Black jeans, a black leather jacket, a matched t-shirt underneath . . . .

Tipping her head, she followed the line of dark attire—as different from the light, summery look she'd chosen as night was from day—to the face. Her breath caught in her throat as she met a familiar pair of blue-grey eyes.

He was so much younger than the man she knew. Her own age. His beard not more than an exaggerated five o'clock shadow, his hair just long enough to brush his jaw.

And the way his attention dropped from her eyes to move over her before those thin but perfect lips of his curved in a smirk brought to her mind his room in Grimmauld Place. Those posters of motorcycles and cars and . . . bikini-clad Muggle girls he'd stuck to the walls with a charm so that even years after he'd left the house his parents couldn't remove them.

Perhaps then it should be considered fortunate he'd never set his sights on Lily Evans, because it was clear this particular pure-blood wizard fancied Muggle girls and Hermione looked very much the epitome of a Muggle girl right now.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Professor?"

Minerva gave a pained grin. "Of course, where are my manners? This is Hermione Guerin a recent transfer student."

"Ooh, a transfer? We don't get many of those. Pretty much ever." He held out his hand and Hermione reminded herself to breath as she slid her fingers into his.

The younger witch thought she could already feel a hint of exasperation ebbing off the professor. The elder witch might as well have the words 'damn teenagers and their hormones' stamped across her forehead.

"Miss Guerin, this is Sirius Black. One of your classmates . . . and the boy who showed up to my class drunk."

Sirius crinkled the bridge of his nose as his smirk broadened into a grin. "She always remembers the good things," he said with a wink.