In the Beginning

Hermione Granger's eyes snapped open as she fumbled for the wand under her pillow. Casting a quick Lumos, she just managed to stumble to the adjacent bathroom before retching into the sink. Shuddering, she brought a hand to her forehead, pushing back the curls that clung to her sweat-soaked skin. It had been that damned nightmare again, the one with all the horrid snakes, slithering around her, choking her. Taking a shaky breath, she rinsed her mouth and cupped her hands, using the cool water to soothe her feverish face and neck.

Sighing, she walked back into her smallish bedroom, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Crookshanks, lying at the end of the bed, gave her a disdainful look, clearly stating that he had had quite enough of that, thank you. Chuckling a little, she stroked his squashed head and got a reluctant purr before he closed his eyes and drifted off to dreams of fish, cream, and that delightful Mrs. Norris.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she weighed her options. There was just enough time to sneak in a few more minutes of rest, but she was not confident that it would be reptile-free or restful. Reluctantly, she pulled her cotton sheets smooth and slunk back into the bathroom to prepare for the day ahead.

As Hermione Flooed into the Leaky Cauldron, she smoothed invisible creases and very visible dust from her robes. She yawned again, running a hand over her errant hair. Deciding that, stuff it, if she was not up to her usual grooming standards, her lack of sleep excused her, she walked out into the alley, tapping impatiently on the bricks. As Diagon Alley was revealed, she noted that it was starting to snow. Grumbling, she pulled the hood of her winter cloak tightly over her head. She had never been a fan of the cold.

Walking quickly over to Flourish and Blott's, she fumbled with the wards before opening the door, noting that she was a good fifteen minutes early. The smell of freshly made tea greeted her, and she smiled as her co-worker, Jillian Blott, raised a cup in greeting. "Morning, Hermione. Gods above, you look like shit."

"Thank you ever so much, Jillian," Hermione responded, smirking a little. Jillian really did have a way of getting straight to the point. "It was that dream again," she explained, hanging her cloak on the rack and tying a neat blue apron around her front.

"Ahh," said Jillian. "The snaky one? Never could stand the scaly buggers m'self, always hissing and slithering. Nothing like dragons. They're straight-forward. Stay away from 'em when they're angry and you won't get cooked." Jillian had been raised on a dragon preserve somewhere in the northeast of Romania. She still couldn't get enough of the beasts.

Hermione chuckled at the appraisal and nodded. She poured herself a cup of tea, absentmindedly adding three cubes of sugar and a good splash of cream. Sipping at the restorative brew, she sighed contentedly and set the cup down. "Aren't we due for a shipment today?"

Jillian nodded, swallowing a mouthful of cake before responding. "Three boxes, should be Flooed in by around ten. I'll need you out front today. Michael can take inventory. Don't forget, I'm skipping out at around eleven. St. Mungo's. We find out the sex today," she said, a huge grin splitting her face as she patted her slightly swollen belly.

Hermione grinned in turn. "Jillian, that's wonderful. And how is Geoffrey taking all of this?" Geoffrey Blott, nephew to half of the store's namesake, was a quiet man. Appropriately, he was an Unspeakable at the Ministry, and hopelessly devoted to his wife.

Jillian chuckled. "He about passed out at our last appointment. He's really taking it well though. We're picking out nursery designs as soon as we move into the new house next week."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at this. Knowing Jillian, she would choose something dragon-themed, regardless of the baby's gender. "Have anything in mind?" she asked, taking another slow sip.

"I was thinking of doing a border of Hungarian Horntails, with some sort of camp at the bottom. Geoff is giving me complete freedom, not that he has much of a choice." Jillian, it went without saying, was a very strong-willed woman, not that Geoff seemed to mind. They reminded Hermione greatly of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Both women turned as the door opened, causing a small bell to chime. Waving in greeting, Michael Summers shook off his thick black cloak before tying on his apron. "Morning, ladies. It sure is coming down out there." His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled with his perfect mouth. Hermione was sure Jillian had hired him for his good looks. He certainly seemed to draw more customers to his side of the shop.

"Morning, Michael," Hermione responded as Jillian nodded and waved, mouth again full of cake. "How's your mum? I heard she was in hospital. Is everything alright?"

Michael nodded. He wasn't surprised that she had heard. Magical London was a very tightly knit community. "She's fine now. Took a spill from her broom. She should be home within the next day or so."

"I'm sure she'll be back to terrorizing the neighbours in no time," Hermione teased. She patted Michael's arm reassuringly as she smiled at the thought of Agnes Summers. She was a no-nonsense witch, and fiercely independent. She had a sharp tongue and an almost-visible sense of energy that crackled around her. Agnes was single mother with three grown boys, and Hermione admired her immensely.

Following the two petite women into the back of the shop, Michael ran his hand through his dark, wind-ruffled hair. Admittedly, working in close quarters with one of the Golden Trio had been almost intimidating in the beginning. He'd been in his fourth year when she entered Hogwarts, and recalled very little of her before the events of the past few years. Hermione Granger's status in the magical community as a key player in Voldemort's demise, during her seventh year at Hogwarts no less, was something very few, if any, could hope to live up to. Over the past few months, Michael had been relieved to discover that she was a normal enough witch, albeit with a staggering intellect and a fierce sense of loyalty. He truly felt himself growing fonder of her by the day.

The day passed by in a flurry of customers. The latest bestseller was picked clean from the displays within a matter of hours, and Hermione had a hard time keeping up with operating the till as well as fielding questions from curious customers. She enjoyed it. After so many years of researching late into the night, conspiring with Harry and Ron about how to save the Wizarding world, it was a comfort to know that things could be normal again.

After the Final Battle in her seventh year, Hermione had wondered if things would ever be the same. So many had been lost, but the Wizarding world had gained more. Their freedom. For several months following the skirmish at Hogwarts, the entire magical community had seemed to be trapped in a hazy fog. There were victory celebrations and medals awarded, but most just wanted to move on with their lives. The name Voldemort was still not freely used, but it no longer caused gasps when spoken aloud.

Eventually, the community as a whole began to function normally again. Hogwarts was repaired, as well as receiving a large white memorial beside the lake, honoring the fallen. In Hermione's opinion, too many names were etched along its side. She had traced the names of classmates and fellow Order members, feeling numb. Tonks, Fred Weasley, Hagrid, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott. The names went on and on, but Hermione had turned away before she could read the most distressing. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. His death had been the biggest blow of all.

Hermione groaned as the last group of customers walked out of the shop. Stretching, she yawned. Pushing a few stray curls out of her face, she patrolled, straightening the shelves and adjusting a few displays. Michael was at the till, adding up the day's profits. Hermione's gasp rose from the row of books on Herbology. Curious, Michael rose from behind the counter. Rounding the corner, he couldn't keep his eyebrows from attempting to reach his hairline. On the floor was a basket, from which various unpleasant hissing noises were being emitted. Both witch and wizard drew their wands, staring down at the innocuous wicker basket. As the pair watched, the basket lurched, causing the lid to fly open.

AN: Oh, it's very odd to be back in the writing saddle again. I hope that I'm not too rusty and that my story has piqued your interest. Thank you to my beta froggiebecky for helping me polish the story. As with all authors, my plea is that you review, review, review.