Hermione followed herself down the hall, disapproving of the way the girl in front of her walked around in a large shirt hanging off one shoulder, the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra quite obvious.

"Have you still got your knickers in a twist over my cereal bowl?" George asked as she stepped around him delicately to make a cup of tea. This must have been what he laughed about the other day, about him leaving bowls with little puddles of milk at the bottom under his side of the bed. Hermione felt her cheeks heat under the realization that George Weasley had actually seen her walking around her apartment like this before – half naked - and had been recalling perhaps this very moment when he had been looking at her in front of him, and to him those two people were the same.

"What knickers?" This Hermione winked at George with a look that made her gasp. She would never say that! Never out loud, anyway… It was so forward. If she had said that now, she would have instantly been red as a tomato and –

This Hermione continued to look at George up through the ends of her lashes. A moment stretched between the two in front of her before George made a lithe little lunge in her direction. He hooked her hastily retreating form by the waist.

"Not so fast."

In a move that made her heart quicken in her chest, George had walked her back a few steps with his body and pinned her to the other side of the galley kitchen.

Pinned her. Pinned.

How ludicrous was this.

This Hermione wasn't objecting in the least.

George had her caged there possessively, and Hermione rolled her hips against her captor's. His hands immediately snapped up to still her.

"I asked you a question," he stated calmly. "Are you still mad?"

"And I said 'what kickers?'" she challenged.

Hermione watched her head tip back, her hair falling in messy waves to brush the counter top behind her. Her other self hissed sharply a moment later when one of George's hands disappeared into the space between them. Hermione didn't have a clear view of it but she could make a few suppositions.

"It's a good thing you aren't lying," George announced, sounding very pleased with himself.

"What if I was?" she challenged.

"I'd have to teach you a lesson, probably," he laughed.

This Hermione burst out laughing and she was confused.

"Don't laugh at me, wench!" George declared, leaning in and peppering her cheeks with pecks. The mood had dissolved and Hermione didn't have the faintest idea of what was going on between the two she was watching.

"I love you, you know?" she laughed as George's body loosened up into his usual self and she reached up to kiss him deeply.

Hermione's eyes widened. She felt heavy and frozen in place as she watched an obviously private moment between herself and George. She felt suddenly as if she shouldn't be watching, though she had no idea where how she had gotten here.

It must be a dream. She must be dreaming. This was insane.

"Thank you," she whispered tenderly.

"Yeah, yeah," his voice muffled from her neck as he leaned down over her. "But I am going to fuck you against the counter now, just so you know," he continued, informing her other self.

Hermione felt her blood boil, hot and languid. Ron had never made her feel like this. Ron had never had this much… gusto. He had never been so enthralled with Hermione in such a way that he would do anything she ever asked of him. They had never had this much spark.

This Hermione's throaty mewl filled the space between them and in a second, her hands were at his belt buckle. And he was flush with her again, and both of Hermione's mouths hung open - for very different reasons.

She had never been this wanton in her life.

She ached and her blood raced and she felt faint as she watched him lift her bottom onto the counter and her legs curl over his hips.

Was this real?

Had this happened?

The groan that slid from George's throat a moment later sounded as if it was equal parts pain and pleasure he was experiencing and Hermione finally cracked under pressure. She slapped her hands to her face to cover her eyes and the moment they made contact –

She woke up.

She was lying in bed - hot, too hot – and she threw off the covers.

It was a dream.

Just a dream.

She lay there, hand pressed to her forehead for another few minutes, unsure of what to do with herself. The room was barely light out, the sun probably getting ready to peek out over the horizon for the day. The faded gray outlines of the room around her waved in and out of focus in the half-light.

It had been a dream that was presented to her just like a memory she might watch in the pensieve.

She had to take a break from those.

It was clearly getting to her, seeing her former self from other people's eyes.

She had never had a dream feel quite so real though, and even as she rose and reached for her dressing gown, she still wasn't completely convinced it had all been a dream.

She needed a cold shower, and the acknowledgement of that fact felt simultaneously discordant and harmonious in her bones.

Day to day living was sometimes hard, and sometimes easy. Grief over losing parts of herself came in waves, as expected, but those waves started to be become farther apart, and less intense.

As time passed, slow but inevitable, Hermione miraculously found herself feeling ever so slightly more at home in her own skin. People always said time heals all wounds, but she hadn't had enough life experience up until this point to see the true magic of it firsthand.

She might as well get used to this life if she was here.

Her living room was still full of crystal phials of memories and every once and while she would delve into them; usually those from people on the outskirts of her life - acquaintances.

Dennis Creevey showed her his memory of taking her portrait picture for the Daily Prophet after she had begun her climb in the Ministry. That was a Hermione she knew quite well.

Charlie Weasley had shown her a few bits and pieces of her official visit to his Dragon Sanctuary in Romania after she had started taking on creature rights and living conditions. This was also a Hermione she knew well.

Pansy Parkinson's memory was one she revisited often, curiosity at what had motivated the Slytherin to smuggle muggleborns of other houses into the Room of Requirement to keep them safe. Hermione still wasn't sure how to reconcile the two versions of the girl in her head, and she hadn't had an opportunity to speak to her personally about it, though Daphne maintained that Pansy was happy to elaborate and explain how she and the old Hermione had come to, in the very least, a mutual understanding. Hermione, however, was hesitant. It had little to do with the fact that Pansy was Pansy and more to do with the fact that she hardly met with people after viewing their gifted memories to discuss the contents. It was somewhat awkward to think about, and people generally didn't know what to say to her, at a loss. In order to avoid it all together, she never pursued further inquiry, taking the memories at face value as most of them were little memories of the old Hermione, her own Hermione, ones that reassured her she was real and alive and not nearly so foreign as she perceived at times.

Kingsley's memory had been accompanied by a note that read:

'Hermione-

I hold you in the very fondest of memories and I hope these may provide you with something you might be looking for.

-Kingsley'

And weeks later she had received another short note:

'Hermione-

Should you ever find yourself wanting to come back to the Ministry and resume your efforts in politics, please do not hesitate to ask. We would gladly have you and your mind and your drive for fairness and freedom and equality back in the shake of a Hippogriff tail.

-Kingsley'

His memory of been her just after the War – literally later that day, covered in rock dust and blood and sweat and tears – as she had helped tend to the wounded house elves, wrapping them in tea cloths and healing their scrapes. She had cried, sobbed even, as she had watched her former self go about caring for the small creatures without pausing to blink, so full of compassion.

The next day she had written Kingsley back, asking for a meeting.

That was how she found herself making her first trip to Diagon Alley that would last more than five minutes. The press had found out about her accident and splashed in all over the gossip news columns and magazines. Hermione did her very best to avoid any interaction with the media.

In the gentle heat of an abating September, Hermione walked with purpose through the cobblestone streets until she was nearly at the Leaky Cauldron, where the Minister had secured them a private room for lunch and a meeting. Her low pumps clacked on the stone as she held her head high and made her way past the shops that had by and large remained the same in her absence, of sorts.

As she was passing Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, a stray Decoy Detonator came running and ticking happily out of the open shop door and a ginger man was just a beat behind it.

"Oi!" he called, "come back here, you menace!"

The little invention hopped delicately between her walking ankles and George bumped into her in his mission to catch it.

"Whoops, sorry, one of them got away from a little kid and – Hermione! Hi," he finished breathlessly.

"Hello, George," she responded, both of them grabbing onto one another to keep from tangling their legs and falling. George seemed to forget about the Decoy and Hermione watched it run gleefully away behind him, multiplying as it went.

"Hi," he said again, running a hand through his hair. "What are you – what are you doing here?"

"Just on my way to see – shouldn't we stop it from getting too far…?" she motioned after it, craning her neck over his shoulder, confused.

"Ah, nah, everyone here is used to bits like him getting out and causing mischief…" he laughed.

A moment later, the commotion started and George winced. In the kerfuffle, a baby started crying, an elderly man dropped a jar of newts eyes in front of the Apothecary after being startled, and the owls down the way started hooting uncontrollably and rattling their cages.

"Oh dear…" Hermione continued looking over his shoulder, the smoke from the Decoys drifting belated over the Alley.

"On second thought, I'd better…"

George took a step back and Hermione was suddenly against aware of her personal space, flushing deeply. The last time she had seen his face was in the dream, the one where –

"Yes, probably," she responded with. "I'm going to be late anyway."

"Right, I'll just -"

"Yes, good luck -"

"See you -"

And they separated awkwardly. Hermione heaved a sigh of relief when she was on her way to the pub again, hurried steps carrying her towards uncertainty.

"Oh, Hermione -" he called after her, and she turned automatically. "Happy birthday."

A/N: Thank you thank you thank you for your continued support on this. My heart goes out to everyone. Thank you for all the feedback on the last short chapter, you guys managed to motivate me to keep it going and here we are with another update in a relatively short amount of time. Magic!

Don't forget to leave me a note and let me know how it's going.

Much love.