Title: Apples of Youth

Summary: A different Hermione starts at Hogwarts under an unusual set of circumstances. AU!SS/PS, pre-femslash, girl!Harry.

Word Length: 2,556

Note: This will not eventually be girl!Harry/Hermione, which I know is a disappointment to some of you. The furthest they will go is a close friendship.

Prologue

Hermione had realized she was different from the rest of her family when she and Sander were three, and their parents had taken the children with them to Sweden for a business trip. They were staying in a hotel at the coast, and she and Lysander were playing in the sand, their Papa nearby. Everyone had learned some Swedish to prepare for the trip, even them, and so the children babbled, hopping between the languages when they bothered to remember. Their Papa could not keep up with them, verbally, mentally, or physically, and was lying on a towel, reading a book. Mama was in a convention, they knew, and so they built a castle for her.

Sander slapped the sand by Papa, declaring proudly, "GA-GA! Mama's got a fästning." He always said "ga-ga" instead of "ta da."

He looked up and smiled, "Wow, that's brilliant. Moat could be a little deeper, yeah?"

Hermione was digging out the moat, fingers dipping into small pockets of water left behind by the late tide, when her eyes widened. Something small and seemingly composed entirely of light flittered upwards from the water, dripping white light throughout the tiny hole. It was a warm light, a happy light, and she found herself giggling, insanely pleased with whatever this was. It nipped at her index finger, and was trying to tunnel down when she grasped it with chubby, childish hands and brought it close to her face. She was too rough with it, though, whatever it was, and the little thing was crushed in between her index and thumb. Something hot and sticky covered the two digits and the lack of light was so startling, she burst into tears. Papa tried to console her, but she could not be helped and Lysander burst into tears along with her. By the time they were calmed, the tide had washed away their castle, they were browner from the sun, and their faces were smeared with ice cream.

Hermione would not learn she had killed a fairy until she was older, almost old, almost nine, when she walked to her school bus stop one day and a woman who looked very much like the witches in the tales sniffed as she passed by, looking at her watch to see that it was exactly 8:11 A.M., and hissed, "The scent of death is upon you, girl. Sadness will follow you everywhere you go."

Having lived in Hackney for most of her life, Hermione said casually, still walking, "Bugger off, old bag, you're sloshed."

"You've killed," She continued, voice croaking, her cloak making an audible sound as she turned around, and her feet were soundless on the concrete. Hermione continued to walk, projecting arrogance and disinterest, and so the woman grabbed her arm, whirred her around, and looked down at her now scared face with cold, intent eyes, darker than anything Hermione had ever seen.

"Do not test me, child," The crone said. Her teeth were spaced apart and yellow, crooked like rocks at the bottom of a cliff. "I hold more power than you can imagine. I am old, child, old enough to have seen the rise of power, to have tasted it in the air, to have seen this city turn from trees to concrete, watched as your kind drove mine underground, and I am old enough to see danger for what it is. And you, girl-child, are dangerous."

Hermione squirmed in her grasp, but her fingers simply tightened in response.

"You are dangerous, powerful, and for your power you will become more dangerous."

Hermione had been dragged close enough that she could see the woman's wrinkles with clarity, could see each sorrow and heartache and somehow, it made her seem real enough that her struggling was less pronounced. No one with that had lived through so much would kill her on a whim.

"M'not dangerous," Hermione protested, but her voice was small, weak. She was lying. Somehow, she was always lying. She'd done dangerous things, already, found herself pushed against the wall of her patience and amazing and great and terrible things had happened. It was nothing that anyone could play off as a freak occurrence, something innocent, either.

A boy had bothered her and had found his sweater on fire, a cold, burning fire. A girl had pushed her, had ostracized her, had called her names and bullied her, and found that the rock she was going to throw had become a snake and the snake had bit her. When she screamed, the snake was a rock again, leaving only the bite mark and poison. A tree branch had broken under Lysander's feet and he'd fallen backwards, like Icarus, like Lucifer, and the tree had withered up, had turned to blackness and gnarled, dead limbs even as he floated downwards, slowly, like he had wings.

Her laughter slithered out, cold and amused, "Oh, girl, you were dangerous from the moment you were born, from the instant you were conceived, really. But no, there is fairy blood on your hands, fairy blood you have taken unwillingly. They will haunt you, and with them, the fates, and with the fates, sadness and destiny are never so far behind. They will find you and haunt you and by the end of your days, your hair will be white with grief and your mouth will be a scream."

She didn't want to, but Hermione was trembling, was shaking. She'd missed the bus, she was sure of it, and after a moment, found that this was scarier than any punishment her parents could give her.

"What do I do?" She whispered. "How do I become," Hermione struggled for the words, could not find one, and instead said, "not terrible?"

The woman smiled, and it was like watching the night swoop in and consume everything, "A life for a life."

She pushed Hermione away and the child stumbled back, tripped over her feet, and landed on her ass. When she looked up, the woman was gone, and a teenager dressed in all black, piercings everywhere, face blank, hauled her back to her feet.

"Wotcher," They said, and turned away.

Hermione continued to her bus stop, not willing to go home, not with the knowledge that had found her, and found that just about everyone was still at the bus stop. She looked at her watch, frowning. It was 8:09.

"Stupid piece of shite," She mumbled to save face, but swallowed.

Michael looked up and asked, "Oy, where's Sander?"

"Sick," She replied. She was shaken but didn't change her face from its blankness.

Dove scoffed, "'E's always sick, the big faker. Bet 'e just watches the telly."

Lysander did just watch the telly when he was sick, or pretending to be sick, but Hermione replied, instead, rather coldly, "Shut up."

Dove's mouth clacked shut. They all knew that Hermione could be fun, but she was scary more often than not, and anyone that could do all the maths in their head and read the whole book in one night and answer all the science questions was not to be messed with.

Hermione turned away and searched the dozen or so students for Blaise or Theo, and found them both lurking at the edge. She thought about telling them what the old woman had said to her, about how time had gone back, but didn't say a word about that.

"Did you know," She said instead, "That a pig can have a thirty minute orgasm?"

Theo frowned, "What's an orgasm?"

They went to Blaise's house after school, a short block further than Hermione's home. Lysander was sick at home with Papa and would be coughing and sneezing everywhere, but Theo's mom was worse. There was something wrong with her insides, something malignant and spreading, and she spent all day spitting into a little half moon bowl, pale and balding. Theo was not embarrassed because he probably did not know what embarrassment was, but Blaise and Hermione were for him, because they knew what Mrs. Nott was like, and it was not sick, weak, or unhappy, let alone all three. Seeing her in such a state distressed them, so they did not go to his house. Blaise's mom had brought them cookies and milk, and they ate their snack before doing their homework. Hermione was done first and put the dishes in the sink for later. She was still too small to wash them without standing on either a stool or the tips of her toes. She and Lysander sometimes helped whichever parent was washing the dishes, but he hated drying so her hands were always the soapy ones.

Rather than bother the boys as they did their homework, she went to see what Felicia was doing. Felicia was Blaise's mom's name and they called her that because she had been married twice since they'd met her. Felicia smiled when she saw her, "Done already?"

Hermione nodded, and without preamble, Felicia picked her up and rubbed her back. Felicia was more comfortable with her female children, and had taken a shine to Hermione especially.

"How was your day, lovely?" Felicia asked her, settling her on Felicia's lap, and sitting back in a comfortable chair, her cloud of hair proving some cushion.

She would not tell her the mundane details of her day, knowing instinctively that Felicia wanted to know if something unusual had happened. And something unusual had happened.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, trying to find the words to convey her morning, then said, "An old woman talked to me on the way to school today."

"Oh?"

Hermione's eyes half closed as Felicia began to stroke the nape of her neck and the soft curls, nails lulling her into something that was almost a sleep, "Mmm. She told me I was dangerous."

Felicia hummed, then said, "All women are dangerous, little one, or succumb to danger. It is the way of the world."

"She told me I was cursed," Hermione continued, voice quieter, and the sharp nails dug into her skin briefly, a type of assurance, but Felicia was silent.

"Told me I had killed, told me I was marked," Hermione continued, with her captive audience of one. "That I am powerful and because I am powerful, I am more dangerous." And then, quietest of all, "She told me I am followed by destiny."

Felicia was silent, then said, fingers slowing, "Hermione, m'love?"

"Yes?" She asked.

"I need to get up and check something. Mind bothering Acacius?"

Hermione grinned, her sleepy, somber mood vanishing. Acacius was Blaise's second eldest sister; Catherine was at university and didn't stay in town, and there were only the three of them. Acacius was the most beautiful girl Hermione had ever seen and "bothering" her was right up her alley.

The girl leapt off of Felicia's lap and raced down the hall towards Acacius's room. She burst into the room, "Acacius!" She stopped, blinking, and stared at the two girls on the bed. Acacius was between Denise's legs, and Denise was only in her underwear. "Oh," She said quietly, taking in the details with wide eyes. Acacius' hair was mussed and her normally flat hair was tossed every which way. Denise's skin was darker on her chest and face, and both of them had swollen mouths, red from use.

Acacius hurriedly sat up, and Denise pulled the sheets up to her chin. "Hermione, get out," Acacius hissed. "And don't tell Mum."

Hermione backed out, biting her bottom lip, closed the door, and wandered into their library. This had been their last stepfather's study, but he'd died from something – food poisoning or just a poisoning, she didn't know the details – and they'd set the library back up before he'd even been buried. She sat in one of the huge arm chairs and breathed in the scent of books and old bindings and cracking leather. She reached out, still puzzled over what they had been doing, and pulled down one of the nearest books. Ah, French history. She opened the book up and settled to read cozily, the details forced out of her mind.

Acacius found her almost an hour later, and sat in the chair next to her. Hermione knew she was there, but she was currently in the middle of a riot and didn't look up.

"You can't tell anyone," The teenager blurted.

Hermione blinked hard at her, jarred suddenly out of the recount. "What?"

"You can't tell anyone about me and Denise," Acacius replied. "We're – her parents would go nuts, you can't tell anyone."

Hermione shrugged, "Okay." No skin off her nose.

Acacius paused, and then asked, slowly, "Do you even know what we were doing?"

She was honest. "No."

Acacius was undecided, then said, "I'm queer."

"You're a what?"

"Queer," She repeated.

Hermione frowned, "You're weird?"

"No," Acacius shook her head. "No, it means I'm not straight."

Hermione's furrow deepened, "Well, no one's straight. We've all got bumps and curves and –"

Acacius chuckled, which interrupted Hermione's rant, and ran her fingers through her thick hair. Hermione watched her, fascinated as always at every little movement of Acacius' body.

"When I say I'm not straight," She clarified. "It means I'm not into boys or men or the male sex exclusively. I like boys but I like girls too, and I think I like girls more."

Hermione understood the basics of biology in the human form. A man and a woman were needed for a baby but sometimes women didn't need men because they went somewhere and a man's DNA was implanted to give them babies, and men could adopt children, although there were some stigmas, which Hermione really didn't understand because babies were terrible little creatures and they should give them out to whoever wanted them. There were people who did not fit into either box and that was also perfectly fine – some physically different, some mentally. Her parents had yet to get to sexuality because, for the most part, they didn't know how to address it. They weren't against anything, being bisexuals in a polyamorous relationship, and had been for years; they weren't up to discussing any of that with a nine-year-old whose main prerogative was in reading tomes.

"Alright then," Hermione said, and went back to her book. They were just getting to a really good part.

"You're the only one that knows about us," Acacius said, and grinned when she saw Hermione's exasperated little sigh.

"Am I?" She asked, flipping a page.

"Yes. I'll tell her later you won't say anything, she was really worried."

"Wonderful," Hermione muttered, and hunched herself further down in the chair.

Acacius watched her for a little while, then shook her head and left.

Hermione hadn't made it but three more pages when Felicia sat in the same chair.

"You're a witch," The mother said

"That's lovely," Hermione replied, not listening.

"We'll put you in the same classes Blaise goes through, along with Theo and Daphne. You've met Daphne, we took you to Pansy's birthday party, she was there. The dark-haired girl, the very pretty one you danced with."

"Uh-huh."

Felicia smiled a little, stood up, bent and kissed the crown of Hermione's head, and left.

She was at the door when she heard Hermione drop the book and say, "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit."