Author Note: A reader who enjoyed "In an Alternate Universe" a story of a role-reversed world, where Hermione was the snarky, older Slytherin Potions mistress, and Snape was the younger, randy Gryffindor wanted to know more about the reversed world I came up with. In the story I had Hermione in love with James Potter, and Lily being the leader of the Velvet Mauraders, and the reader said she wanted to know more about James/Hermione. I became curious as to how it would be if I wrote the scene with James telling Hermione she was a witch, since in the story Snape is a contemporary of Harry and born many years later. Since I couldn't sleep, I took JKR's meeting in the park verbatim, and rewrote it slightly so it was James who leapt out of the bushes to inform Hermione she was a witch. There were some challenges. First, I didn't have Petunia. Second, the point of view would have to be from Hermione rather than James. In the book, the point of view was from Severus. I hope this isn't confusing you. Anyway, this isn't an exercise in creativity, because I used JKR's text as much as possible. It's more of an exploration or twisting someone else's work. Here's what I came up with. I plan to do the entire Pensieve scene eventually. The story starts off with Harry viewing Hermione's memories.

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Granger's Tale

Harry glanced hopelessly at Dumbledore's deserted frame, which hung directly behind the headmaster's chair, then turned his back on it. The stone Pensieve lay in the cabinet where it had always been. Harry heaved it onto the desk and poured Granger's memories into the wide basin with its runic markings around the edge. To escape into someone else's head would be a blessed relief. . .Nothing that even Granger had left him could be worse than his own thoughts. The memories swirled, silver white and strange, and without hesitating, with a feeling of reckless abandonment, as though this would assuage his torturing grief, Harry dived.

He fell headlong into sunlight, and his feet found warm ground. When he straightened up, he saw that he was in a nearly deserted playground. A single huge chimney dominated the distant skyline.

A girl was swinging backward and forward. Her brown hair was bushy and dry, and her clothing so mismatched that it looked deliberate: a too long skirt, a shabby overlarge sweater that might have belonged to a grown woman, an odd smock-like blouse.

Harry moved closer to the girl. Granger looked no more than nine or ten years old, slightly tanned, small, skinny. There was an undisguised sour look on her thin face as
swung higher and higher.

"Hermione, don't do it!" Granger's father's voice warned in her mind.

But the girl let go of the swing at the very height of its arc and flew into the air, quite literally flew, launching herself skyward with a cackle of laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly.

"Your father told you not to!" her conscience hissed.

"But I'm fine," said Granger out loud, frowning. "And there's other things I can do."

Granger glanced around. The playground was deserted apart from herself. She picked up a fallen flower from a bush and held it in her palm. The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster.

"Stop it!" her conscience demanded.

"It's not hurting anyone," murmured Granger, but she closed her hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground.

Her brown eyes followed the flower's flight to the ground and lingered upon it.

"How do I do it?" she asked herself softly.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

James Potter jumped out from behind the bushes. Granger, though clearly startled, remained where she was as the messy-hair boy wearing glasses looked her over.

Hermione seemed to regret her appearance. A dull flush of color mounted her cheeks as she looked at James.

"What's obvious?" asked Granger.

James had an air of nervous excitement. "I know what you are."

"What do you mean?"

"You're. . . you're a witch," whispered James.

She looked affronted.

"That's not a very nice thing to say to somebody!"

She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward the swings, her long skirt dragging along the ground. She was highly colored now, and Harry wondered why she did not take off the ridiculously large sweater, unless it was because she did not want to reveal the blouse beneath it.

James hurried after the girl.

"No," he said.

Granger considered him in disapproval, holding on to one of the swing poles, as though it was the safe place in tag.

"You are," said James to Granger. "You are a witch. I've been watching you for a while. But there's nothing wrong with that. My mum and dad are magical, and I'm a wizard."

Granger's laugh was like cold water.

"Wizard!" she shrieked, her courage returned now that she had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance.

James nodded.

"And I know who you are. You're that Granger girl. You live down Spinner's End by the river," he told Granger. It was evident from his tone that he was sympathetic. The address was a poor recommendation.

"Why have you been spying on me?"

"Haven't been spying," said James uncomfortably, feeling awkward in the bright sunlight. "I wouldn't spy on you. I was just—here is all."

"I'm leaving!" Granger said shrilly, and she marched away through the playground gate, glaring at James as she left.

The scene dissolved, and before Harry knew it, reformed around him. He was now in a small thicket of trees. He could see a sunlit river glittering through their trunks. The shadows cast by the trees made a basin of cool green shade. Two children sat facing each other, cross-legged on the ground.

Hermione had removed her sweater now; her odd blouse looked less peculiar in the half light as she listened to James.

". . . and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic outside school, you get
letters."

"But I have done magic outside school!"

"We're all right. We haven't got wands yet. They let you off when you're a kid and you can't help it. But once you're eleven," he nodded importantly, "and they start training you, then you've got to go careful."

There was a little silence. Granger had picked up a fallen twig and twirled it in the air, and Harry knew that she was imagining sparks trailing from it. Then she dropped the twig, leaned in toward the boy, and said, "It is real, isn't it? It's not a joke? You're not lying to me. There is a Hogwarts. It is real, isn't it?"

"It's real for us," said James. "We'll get the letter, you and me."

"Really?" whispered Granger.

"Definitely," said James, sprawled in front of her, brimful of confidence in his destiny.

"And will it really come by owl?" Granger whispered.

"Normally," said James. "But you're Muggle-born, so someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents."

"Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?"

James hesitated. His brown eyes moved over her face, the bushy brown hair.

"No," he said. "It doesn't make any difference."

"Good," said Granger, relaxing. It was clear that she had been worrying.

"You've got loads of magic," said James. "I saw that. All the time I was watching you. . . "

Hermione turned red as she stretched out on the leafy ground and looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead.

"How are things at your house?" James asked.

A little crease appeared between her eyes.

"Fine," she said.

"They're not arguing anymore?"

"Oh yes, they're arguing," said Granger said. She sat up and picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what she was doing. "But it won't be that long and I'll be gone."

There was a pregnant pause.

"James?"

"Yeah, Hermione?"

A little smile twisted Granger's mouth when he said her name.

"Tell me about the Dementors again."

"What d'you want to know about them for?"

"If I use magic outside school—"

"They wouldn't give you to the Dementors for that! Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You're not going to end up in Azkaban, you're too—too good a witch."

Granger turned red again and shredded more leaves. Then a small rustling noise behind Harry made him turn: Someone, hiding behind a tree, had lost his footing.

"Sirius!" said James, surprise and welcome in his voice, but Granger had jumped to her feet.

"Why are you spying?" she shouted. "What d'you want?"

Sirius frowned at Granger. It was clear to see he didn't understand what James saw in her that was so interesting. She was ugly, bucktoothed and her hair looked like a bottlebrush. If she were pretty, he could see it. Harry could see him struggling for something hurtful to say.

"What is that you're wearing, anyway?" he said, pointing at Granger's chest.

"Your mum's blouse?"

There was a crack. A branch over Sirius' head had fallen. James let out a shout as the branch caught Sirius on the shoulder, and he staggered backward.

"Sirius!"

But Sirius was stalking away, angry. James rounded on Granger.

"Did you make that happen?"

"No." She looked both defiant and scared.

"You did!" He was backing away from her. "You did! You hurt him on purpose!"

"No—no, I didn't!"

But the lie did not convince James. After one last burning look, he ran from the little thicket, off after his friend, and Granger looked miserable and confused. . .