Hello Folks! I do realize that I'm still behind on a 'short story' that I wanted to publish 'real quick' but this popped up - actually just a Trial, but I like the way it turned out... and I'm probably going to leave it at that... probably (nothing is ever certain with me, ey?)

So enjoy!

.

She always was a curious thing, that Miss Granger. So complex and still full of mystery.

When I first met her, she smiled at me from underneath her wet locks, plastered partly to her face and partly sticking out into every direction.

"Did you know that the scent of rain falling on dry ground is called petrichor?"

Petrichor – I thought and smiled sadly – for the girl who's tired of waiting. Was she, I wondered? Was she tired of waiting? Spinning in the heavy, Scottish rain, her curls flying. But I didn't dare ask, for surely the answer had to be yes – nobody liked waiting (I least of all).

The second time I met her was before that even. Rose was gone – gone and alone in a world she didn't want to be in and I had no means of saving her. It was not raining, yet the skies were heavy with the clouds, rolling over the heads of people like pregnant… Corgis (with their itty-bitty feet). I am a mad man – indeed. Mad as a hatter – is the human proverb.

Rose… she loved Alice. Stupid Alice who followed a rabbit to a place that was beyond her comprehension.

"I'll have you know Alice is a metaphor – as is the rabbit and the whole… Queendom so to speak, since it hasn't a king." A voice said from my side; snotty, proud… brilliant to my ears and my tired mind.

I barely turned my lowered head. "What for?"

The unknown voice smirked… or smiled perhaps; there was a short pause in which I started to doubt myself, ask if I was hearing other voices than my own in my head now.

"Children, muggles… Mankind, really."

Yes, yes… so logical, so clear, so brilliant. I looked up and saw a child looking at me – barely sixteen; if even… but her eyes… so old. How old was she truly – was her mind? What had she seen?

"Truly?"

She shrugged and turned. "Counter it."

But I didn't – and she walked away.

.

I met her that day – in the rain as she danced and twirled, and really, what a beauty she was. Her spread fingers, her open hands, her wide eyes and flying curls – and her lips so far apart from their counter-piece, drinking the drops.

No matter that in 600 years the rain on earth would be toxic and sour from their C.R.U.S.T.-plants for another 50 years (before I would come… if it had ever truly happened… time was… wibbly-wobbly like that) she did not know either way.

I had not noticed I'd stopped; stood to watch her – only when she, too, stopped, did I become aware.

I'd have faked a smile on any other day; pushed the rain-clouds out of my mind and tapped on my more jovial side but… today was not just any other day.

Curious… that Rose and River should both part with me on the same day… Curious and bloody well painful.

"I have a friend, you know," she said, "who would tell you that… you have Nargles all around you." She stopped herself for a second, cocking her head. "I've never really seen one, for sure, but maybe they do exist, because what do I know of the world? There might be creatures I've no idea of whizzing past me in this moment." I wondered if I should stop her, but her voice was soothing, her presence was soothing – someone talking to me was… strangely comforting.

"You look like you have a story…" she said then and for a second I froze up, anxious whether she would ask the dreaded question, but her eyes – so old (familiar… a voice whispered in my mind) – kept me rooted where I stood instead of fleeing. "But so does everyone, I suppose. I, too, have a story and I couldn't expect of any one to understand."

Then there was silence… short, interrupted by the falling rain, the prattling against the concrete before she shook her hair out of her face. "It might not seem like the best time but: tea?"

I almost smiled at that.

Tea – the English panacea for everything. …I should test the veracity of that statement.

"I think it might be the right time for it."

.

When she'd first seen the Sorcerer's Stone, she'd been so enraptured by its beauty – and, most certainly, its scientific value – that she hadn't been able to resist picking up the splintered stone.

Harry was still unconscious next to her, his breathing evened out, Voldemort long gone – fled. The stone was cracked neatly in half, leaving no splinters, cracks or uneven edges. She wondered why that was so but, knowing too that she'd have to act quickly pocketed only one half of it (the larger one) and wrapped the other half in her scarf, before she picked Harry up, heaving him over her back like she'd seen her uncle do with a deer and beginning her trip back.

Once out of the room she knew she'd have to think of something, because as lithe and small as Harry was, putting Ron on top of him and carrying both of them up again was not truly an option.

She thought she startled the professors up the trap-door a little when she flung it open to emit music and then cautiously climb up, scouting the perimeters.

"Miss Granger-" Her head of house started, but Hermione knew that whatever she really wanted to say, she wouldn't – because Dumbledore had already caught her eyes and his had that twinkle that told her everything would be dealt with so Hermione drowned her out; instead completing her task of floating Harry first and the Ronald up into the room.

Silence reigned then and she realized that McGonagall had gone to fetch Madame Pomfrey – or had been sent rather – by a headmaster whose smile was wide… and a little frightening, creepy almost. She gave it very little thought (she was eleven for Circe's sake, how could she have known how manipulative that bastard truly would turn out to be).

"Miss Granger." He started again, not moving from his spot. "Am I correct in the assumption that you are in possession of something… of great value?"

"Oh yes." She whispered hurriedly, filching out her part of the stone – the larger half – from underneath her robes, handing it to the man. "The stone, sir."

He was silent for a moment and she wondered if he knew just how big it originally had been and if he'd notice that it was only half the size – but rationally the stone had had to be hidden for ages and what good of a memory could the man truly have? Hmmm… Dumbledore's memory had to be good if he remembered every student's name, but then… he had magic for that, too, so…

"Yes, yes." He finally said. "Indeed the stone." He looked up at her. "It was very courageous of you, Miss Granger, to run towards Harry instead of hurrying away from him… from Danger."

The nick-name Granger-Danger flashed in her mind and for the first time she managed to internally smile at it knowingly, for truly, she had run towards danger rather than trying to evade it.

"I am not sorry, sir."

He shook his head. "And you have no reason to be, my dear girl. I fear… that with Voldemort about Harry will need someone like you at his side."

She wondered back then what he could mean, but McGonagall arrived with Madame Pomfrey and their solitude was broken.

.

"Do you like the rain?" I asked her – uncertain on how to begin, where to start and what to say.

She shrugged (familiar… again that whisper) and lowered her tea-cup. "I do and I don't – I like the fact that it seems to wash everything away, that it cleanses the streets, washes away the dirt, and how I can cuddle up inside with a book when the raindrops knock against my window, but I dislike the way it makes my hair frizzy, or sticks it to my skin, and if I am able I avoid getting my feet wet; I hate wet feet… and wet socks."

"Oh I do agree." I said, sipping on my tea. "Wet feet socks are horrible, they're clingy and stinky…"

"…and they will not ever dry…"

"…and when they finally do they are stiff and uncomfortable…"

"…and probably washed out…"

"…because the rest of the colour sticks to your feet…" I paused. "Yes, wet socks are quite a horrible abomination."

I looked up at her and frowned. "But then, why were you out in the rain?"

Her old eyes lowered and for a second it was as if I could see her without her mask, crinkles on her young skin, a scar on her cheek, another one dissecting her brow – and then she looked up again, the vision gone. "Sometimes… exposing yourself to the things you dislike makes you aware that you do, in fact, still feel."

Yes… yes that made sense.

.

She never used it.

During her time at Hogwarts, she assumed it would be stupid to make usage of such a valuable item – especially if it was right under the nose of the very man she'd 'lent' it from. Certainly the term 'lent' was very liberally applied, seeing as she had no intention at all to deliver it back to him. Or perhaps she would… one day, or maybe not. After all nobody knew she had it, right? And who'd think a muggle would have the Sorcerer's Stone?

Exactly – no pure blood would even think of it. So it was safe from Voldemort.

That wasn't to say that she didn't inspect it.

Her summers were full of experiments – trying to split the stone again in order to not ruin it wholly with her intended projects such as to see how it would react to certain chemicals or potions, but while she tinkered away in her first three years, trying to figure out the puzzle of the Sorcerer's Stone, she finally realized, in her fourth year, that people could find out about the whereabouts of the Stone.

She'd stumbled upon a book on Cursed and Magical Objects and realized – as she should have earlier, she scolded herself – that a magical item had an Aura; a magical Aura that was distinguished from its surroundings; especially muggle surroundings.

But she'd been right in the assumption that, until now, no pure blooded disciple of the Dark Lord had ever made the connection of searching for the Stone in a muggle environment and hence the Stone was relatively safe.

Even though, knowing Voldemort, she'd feel better knowing that she'd done everything in her power to hide the item rather than being a stupid child and not doing a thing.

And hence her fourth summer was spent preparing for the ritual of her life – a ritual, she knew, that would bind her in a certain way and liberate her; because she had the perfect hiding place for the Stone… though she knew she'd have to pay a price for it.

.

I 'stuck around' as you people say.

Hermione, as she told me her name was, was a truly intriguing young woman – bold, lively, sad, soft-spoken, tender with children, careless when it came to her own safety – and, as it always was, danger followed my every footstep.

For some time now I wondered whether I had an internal magnet of sorts that would draw me towards precarious situations or whether the universe just followed the Doctor by law, hoping to either gain help and healing from him or to entrap and exterminate him (ouh, bad choice of words, Doctor… bad choice of words…).

At first I went off without her – just stopped seeing her at the park one day to drag away whatever it was that was following, gobbling up children on the way, away from her.

It ended up rather badly considering that I had to blow up a whole space-ship along with citizens of the 53rd galaxy to the right of Planet Pluto (because yes, whether you humans acknowledged it or not, Pluto is a planet) of the Star-System Quellgor. A pity, truly, because they take the most adorable shape of Cocker spaniels – if I could have I'd have ruffled their ears all the time, but well, they're a dignified species, and they are not ever ruffled between the ears (at least not by a human… or a humanoid alien).

When I went in search of her the next day, I found her nowhere.

Hermione had gone… left the park where we usually met up and gone somewhere else. And that would have been a good thing – except for the void in my heart that tore open again, the void where sat memories of Rory and Amy, of Martha, of Rose, Donna, hell even Jack. And where Hermione had carefully been placed strategically as band-aid – but now she was gone… had left as well, and what now remained was a gaping hole.

.

Covered in runes and dirt as she was, she remembered nothing clearly from the ritual she had just lived through, the ritual she had guided (herself, all alone, and still alive!) but from the way she glowed the same orange as the Stone did, she could tell that her performance had paid off.

No matter who'd ever find the stone – if they'd ever find it through all the layers of protections she'd cast upon it tonight – they would, too, find that it would not ever work for them, would be as useless as any other pretty stone or gem.

For only in combination with her presence and her voluntarily given blood would the stone unfold its' true power.

As far as she knew such rituals were highly forbidden to anyone who was not at least an Auror, but this was a matter of emergency and so, bending the rules was a little more acceptable than it usually would be (plus she could tell that being friends with Ron and Harry had left a mark on her in those regards). Truly consequences could be dire, because if anyone found out about her little foray into the magic of rituals, she'd have a lot of people to answer to (most scariest were her parents) but she was positive that no one would ever notice (especially since she was legally an adult in the magical world, having, biologically, just passed her seventeenth birthday what with the time-turner).

Pushing herself up from the ground, she shakily made her way towards the stone – now nestled amongst thousands of other quartzes in the deep dungeons of the Museum of Natural History in Vienna.

Hell, Austria was so small no one would probably even look at it twice. There was nothing to get here after all, no surplus money, no high-ranking politicians, no world-changing Nobel-prize winners; nothing. But still, it was partly her home, considering that her mother was from here – and more importantly a descendant of the Habsburg family – and she'd grown to love the range of mountains that would never end if you took a look at it, or the twinkling lakes in between, or even the wine. (Oh the wine was something else – she had to admit that.)

And the Museum of Natural History… well, where else hide a stone? Nowhere as perfectly as amongst stones.

Content with her achievements, she quickly cleared her circle of the opals she had used for her ritual, the incense she'd lit and the small bowl with her blood that she had offered and, still in her ceremonial black garb, turned to look back at the Stone one more time, before she apparated away.

Voldemort would not ever be able to find it.

And he didn't.

.

Curiously enough, she appeared next to me when I was just about to walk out of the park.

"Quickly." She whispered. "Hide."

Why I should do so was beyond me, but her grip was strong, and so was her conviction that I had to. Instead of arguing, I allowed her to pull me into an open Café door, where she steered us towards the back exit, no questions asked by the staff or the owner – she just waltzed through and exited the pub in a slightly dank street, ushering me on, always clinging to my arm, flexing her hand around it.

It was only five minutes later that we sat in an entirely different Café than we usually did, her hair hidden beneath a large, knitted, teal rasta-cap and my head underneath a cricket cap (cool thing actually) that she'd pulled out of her mangy-looking purse.

I was rather happy that we seemed to blend in perfectly what with our strange head-accessories, considering that everyone in the Café seemed to wear some sort of extravagant coverage.

"Where are we?" I smiled – oh this was just too good to pass up.

"At the 'Mad Hatter'" she answered, smiling at the waitress who'd just arrived. "Tea for two if you'd please."

"Scones?" the woman droned – easily bored as it would seem.

"That would be lovely, yes."

I admired her ability to stay calm and composed and to, obviously, play it all for the waitress – one of the few witnesses that would have seen us. When the woman was, again, on her way, she looked around at first, content with her choice of seating right at the back but with an excellent view on the windows. We would probably not be noticed by…

"What actually?" I asked aloud.

The woman in front of me turned from observing her surroundings and gave me a guilty smile. "I'm very sorry I dragged you into this, and after today I suggest you move away very quickly to wherever you want to go. I'll even give you money if you want to, just… leave the country."

Oh, this was going to be good!

"I'm not precisely… normal." She began, placing her purse on the table and starting to loosen the strings. "What you'll see now is not an illusion, it is not a picture, yes I could take out any item you'd name that you just would've seen and yes, yes also a human fits inside."

Intrigued I leant forward, and peeked into the opened purse.

.

That Snape, of all people, had discovered her little treachery should not have come as a surprise to her.

After all, that man was a master-spy and not just for shits and giggles either – he had a nose when it came to strange things (no pun intended) and a sharp wit that helped him along on finding what he meant to find.

Had he been any older, she'd have guessed that he had been the idol professor of young Mister Doyle who'd made him a monument with his 'Sherlock Holmes' – not that anyone would have made Snape a monument, truly, but then, why not. He was clever and dedicated and bloody well good with his hunches.

"I should tell the headmaster." Were his first words when he'd finally found out. "Bloody hell, who cares about Dumbledore, I should tell the ministry!"

And he probably, too, would have if it weren't for her admirable acting skills (and my did she love her mother for forcing her into taking them!). They'd been playing this game for months now and until now her masks had held steadfast even in the eye of the storm that Severus Snape represented. "Professor, whatever you mean to know about me, please leave it be, lest it become a waste of your time."

She'd played the nice girl and the unknowing for too long now, to make it look real, she needed annoyed and ignorant now – just the way he usually would have liked for her to be.

Barely had she turned back to her book that he moved in on her, the book shoved away from her eye-sight and her professor bent over her – his head so close to her ear and his front so close to her back that she could feel his warmth (and now was really not the time to have hormonal tingles down her spine, truly!).

"How about splitting the Sorcerer's stone and keeping one part of it hidden away?" he whispered headily into her ear – he was angry, she could tell, but whether it was because of what she'd done or because he now knew, she couldn't say.

Staring blankly ahead, she said nothing at first, before she rose slightly in her seat, making him edge away, just slightly, but not enough for he needed her to feel physically cornered to be psychologically cornered and give away her secret – a good tactic, except…

"Sir, with all due respect, but our momentary proximity could be mistaken by anyone waltzing in through those doors at any moment." She started, feeling him tense (he didn't want to give up his position, but he knew she was right) and smiled when he did so – going for her kill. "Might I suggest you move away lest I might feel… uncomfortable…"

A small kill, but a victory nonetheless when he moved away. Giving her space.

For a second she sat there, palms flat on the wooden surface of the table, racing through possible outcomes of this game and deciding that, given what she'd done for the ritual, considering her specific conditions, she was relatively sure she could take Snape. If her magic wouldn't protect herself from him, then it also wouldn't be able to face the wrath of the likes of the 'Dark Lord' himself.

Turning around, she fixated her dour professor with a cold stare.

"Yes, yes you should. But then what would happen?" she stood from her seat in the library, allowing her core-shielding to slightly slip, to slightly drop her mask – only a little, and only for him – and abandoned the book she'd just been bent over. "The Ministry is in his hands and he'd find out in the span of three seconds," she snapped her fingers, sparks at her tips, "while the public would never even gain knowledge about it. Flamel, while under Dumbledore's protection is no longer as young as he used to be, nor youthful, or say… helpful."

Moving in for another, a bigger, kill, she stalked towards the man, revelling in the relieved magic that floated about her, shimmered in the air like a heat-wave and coated her in the raw power she needed to keep locked up save for once a month – coincidentally her monthlies – in which she could let loose, blaming it on her time of the moon.

"Can you truly, after having seen what he's done and what he can do and will do, because you know that while he's not precisely a man of his word, he will eradicate all and everything that stands in his way of a perfect world. And with the Stone all he'd need to do would be to amass an army and send them into death until he's conquered the world."

"But wait." She cocked her head. "He already has an army."

.

I'd never thought I'd be the one saying it – but… "It's bigger on the inside!"

How beautiful! How crafty! My, my! I stuck my head back in, uncaring whether or not people would be watching – they wouldn't, I knew, because people rarely did – and inspected the master-piece from the inner side.

"How is it done?" I re-surfaced, grinning at her worried face. She was holding a small wooden stick.

"An undetectable extension charm." She muttered, fingering the wood still – it was a beautiful piece, artful and well looked after with a feather-relief rising gently out of it and a bronze decoration at the blunter end of it.

"A charm?" I repeated. "Never heard of that, how does it work?"

The tea arrived and for a minute, I saw horror passing over her face, as she quickly hid the stick, thanking the waitress with a perfectly polite smile and wording yet. It wasn't until we were left alone again that the stick resurfaced.

"This is a wand." She said carefully. "And I am a witch."

.

Pure horror across his face.

It was as she'd expected – Severus Snape, despite all his facades and charades wanted the Dark Lord no more on the throne than anyone on the concurring side.

"Stupid girl." He finally snarled, regaining his composure. "Have you no idea-"

He was grabbing her and she knew what would happen, because it happened a lot during her monthlies; still she did nothing to prevent the sudden flare of magic around her, the small sparks that erupted where he touched her and instead welcomed the feeling. Flinching he drew back, inspecting his reddened hands, as did she – she'd burned him; the magic had burned him. Carefully re-masking her core and stepping towards him she placed a now harmless hand to his.

"I have every idea what I've done, Sir. I am fully aware that I am, in many ways, very ignorant, but do not, under any circumstances, underestimate me, and least of all my willpower. I have shitloads of it and will bloody well use it when I need it – as I do in this very specific instance."

She looked at him, really looked at him then and noticed the crinkles around his eyes, tired brown orbs that had seen too much and really just wanted to give way to nothingness – to bliss. No one would ever be able to give it to him, probably, for he'd anchored his existence to a ghost and ghosts could not consort with the living. A strange phenomenon that man – very much a living mystery.

"I should erase these last minutes from your mind, but I will not. Mostly for your sake than for mine and before you protest, I shall explain to you why." She halted his response, knowing fully well it would be scathing. "Your… darker master may very well find out about me. But you know nothing of the whereabouts of the Stone and neither shall I tell you, or him, under any circumstance. Should he find out nevertheless, he should know that there are conditions for the usage of the stone, such as he would never be able to appease. And therefore, all he would know is the existence of another foe, one stronger than many he might see in his day to day business, but still, only one of them. For who am I, other than a student? I cannot be Potter's secret weapon, now can I? Because if I were Dumbledore would have never let me see the daylight starting the year I'd become an adult."

He saw reason in that – and, so she believed, he saw her for the first time. Or perhaps he finally allowed himself to drop the charade he'd put up in her case and simply stood to look at her before he shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest and neatly hiding his face with his hair (she liked to believe that he allowed himself to smile that moment, just a little, just so she wouldn't see).

When he looked up he was the same man as before: pale, dour, snarky – but there was new life in his eyes and she enjoyed it.

"I believe, Miss Granger, that you should get back to your studies there might be a lot more to prepare for than… slight burns."

.

She saw him again on the eve of battle – bend her body over his when he choked on his blood and lost the glimmer in his eyes, when he looked into Harry's green orbs and gurgled his last few words she allowed him to softly slip into the bliss he'd always hoped for.

A part of her would have hoped for some acknowledgment or a word for herself, but she knew that part to be nothing but greed and the necessity to prove herself to others – and him especially, so she let it pass, just as she let him pass.

However, when her friends, that evening, sat down in the Great Hall to solemnly celebrate victory and drink to the fallen, she was the one to bandage his body with the balmy gauze, as he had wished for in his Will. And as curiosity would have it, he'd left it to her, along with his house – ruined as it is, he'd described it, but filled to the brim with knowledge that I might not know in any better hands than yours. And on the first New Moon after the Battle of Hogwarts, she was the one to burn his body in the same stone-circle he'd been born in, deep in the Forbidden Forest.

Once she'd read in a book that: A child of the Forest, must, and always will, return to the Forest – where it had been conceived, where it had been born and where it had flourished. And therefore, where it shall retreat to the other world.

She'd thought that she would be the only one in attendance of her funeral but found, strangely, that, not far from her vantage point, Draco Malfoy stood rooted, his eyes glittering. And next to him appeared Narcissa, too, wet-eyed.

Face after face appeared out of the darkness, giving a last salute to a very mysterious man, who'd helped a lot of people out of a suffering like his – an eternal suffering – and none of them spoke, and none of them wept.

And not one of them came close to the strange woman who glowed as brightly as the fire, brimming with energy, paying her last respects as the rest of them.

.

"Not an alien, for Christ's sake." She spat again, furious now that I'd dragged her out of the Café – without paying – and had sonic-ed her thrice, at least.

"But then how can you say you're a witch?!"

The only witches I knew where Carrionites – and they were… well, not as beautiful as she was, for one… though there were exceptions in the younger ones, but they could certainly not trick the sonic! Bloody thing!

Abruptly stopping I looked at her, furious, I imagine, while she was still making sure we were not being followed.

"Then why the hell was I supposed to leave after you told me you were a witch?!" I demanded to know.

Hermione was furious now, wet – like we'd already ascertained we didn't like to be – and angry and to my fascination, she turned into a strangely intriguing being when angry. "Because, you dolt, there was a war and I am being followed by people you certainly don't want to get to know, and I don't want them to get their bloody hands on you!"

.

We ended up in her flat.

"Only for the time being." She told me as she opened the door, wet and annoyed, but too exhausted to really care. "I switch them every few months so they don't get a hold of me."

I looked nice though, homey and filled with books.

"It looks like my library." I finally admitted. "Although my library has a pool."

She smirked, warily, but still as she shrugged out of her coat that danced over to the central heating and relaxed onto it. "Well… my bathroom, too, is filled with books, so you could say that I have a pool in my library."

"Magic is a strange thing."

Hermione shook her head. "Not as strange as you might think – considering we, too, can travel through time."

"You can?"

I'd never heard of humanity being able to do that. Hermione though, gave me a conspirational smile and tapped a book-spine, unfazed when it shimmered away to reveal a small object, dangling in space, it seemed, an hour-glass with tiny wheels attached to a golden chain. She plucked it out of thin air and gracefully pulled it over her head.

"We call it a time-turner – colloquially speaking. The correct terminus would be Time And Relative-"

"-Dimension In Space." I finished. Fascinating – brilliant! "A Tardis." I smiled. I just met the Tardis in its first stage! My good lord! Oh it was beautiful! Carefully caressing the extended gadget I beamed – oh it nearly broke my face! But so beautiful!

"How come you know the name?"

I smiled at her. "Alien, remember? I travel through time. With a space ship… that can control and manipulate the time vortex."

Hermione smiled back. "You seem to be such a complex thing, but when it comes down to it all you really do have that differs you from us humans is your extra heart and the loads of lives you've lived."

"And can remember." I smiled.

"Tea?" she asked. Oh she was perfect.

"Yes, please."

There we are! And now to upload another chapter of the Blueberry Muffin Girl ;)