ooc; So, pretty much this is going to take place ten years after DH ends, before the ep. I want you each to pick out a character. I am going to play Hermione.
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Wouldn’t it be wonderful being back at Hogwarts, the sounds of apprentices rushing back to their first class of the school term. Others would be laughing at the fun they had over the previous summer, just before the term started. Some had even waited to come back and show their friends the new stuff they've received over the summer. Ron and Harry had always been two she would confide in; sharing dangerous secrets, whispers, endeavors— How she managed to end up with those two had been one secret itself. However, Hermione knew quite well how it began.
Ever since her encounter with Harry and Ron on the Hogwarts Express, helping Neville find his toad, she had been known quite bossy to the two boys', mind. In fact, she hadn't attend to be their friend in the first place, when Ron had revolted from Hermione's help of trying to get Ron say "Wingardium Leviosa" the proper way (Wingardium Leviosa!) After that lesson, Ron had mentioned that Hermione hadn’t a single companion. Harry had mentioned that Hermione heard quite clearly, which she had, but Ron continued on how "So what if she heard me? It's true!" Yet one adventure got the lot to get along with each other, a bit.
During the night of Halloween, a troll had managed to get into the Hogwarts castle, and sure enough later throughout the year Harry had found that it was really the former Professor Quirrel trying to kill Harry, and it was up to the two boys to save Hermione when the troll had attempted to harm her in the Girls Bathroom. In the end, Ron managed to knock the troll out, quite impressively Hermione had thought, and ended up earning just only five points for Gryffindor. After that moment, in the Gryffindor common room, while muttering a mere "thanks" to each other, Hermione officially became their friend.
That didn't stop her later from wanting to just abide by the rules, and keep that standard in Hogwarts. In fact, Hermione's trying hard to become Prefect in her next year, fifth year, for Hogwarts. Yet, there's only one thing preventing that from happening. If she were to get into any more spot of trouble, Hermione would simply have to wave goodbye to that shiny Prefects' badge she once saw on Percy Weasley. (Now, he's Head Boy in fact.)
There's more to add to the mind of Hermione Granger. Just after her little meal in the Great Hall after the sortings for the Grand feast, Sir Nicholas De Mimsy Porpington (Nearly Headless Nick.) had mentioned about the enslavement of House Elves down in the kitchens. Immediately, Hermione hadn't want to finish the rest of her meal, or any meal to follow throughout the next few days, as she couldn't accept the fact that this was all House Elf labor. While she had sat here in the Library, Hermione had created a notebook to begin all her information she gathered about House Elves during the past few days.
S.P.E.W. And, no, it's not spew. This was the "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare." A new organization Hermione had created, wanting to protect the rights of House Elves, and help them get what they really do deserve; sick pensions, pay, vacations, et cetera. And nothing was going to stop her from wanting to end this little group she created. Now, the only hard part is to find those who can join in the club. And, perfectly enough, she knew just who to go to. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.
The battle, the wounds, the scars had never fully healed. And although gorgeous, prettily tainted, she was left mentally scarred. Her pains and horrors of seeing death had been long put aside, or attempted to, in this new found life with her lover, so close, he was always there. Never in years of young age, when mommy brought cookies and milk after a monster-engaged dream, did her childish self imagine the years of dangerous endeavors. Yet now, her bulging tummy had been her future, her bright one in which she would bring cookies and hope, just desperately hope he didn’t encounter such nonsense; like for little, darling Rose Mione prepared even the most fear of losing her. Something bad could always happen. Oh, the woman had never denied bravery or faith, yet the opalescent, quite faint line across her neck brought terror with every glance in the mirror. Death could always lurk.
She had encountered many daring events in her lifetime and wished none of it to harm her children. Therefore, she kept a stunning guard on her daughter, always in sight—horrid, worried mother, oh, she could hit her head on the table and pass out, Ronald! and always in an argument, ended with a fierce kiss. At last, the liner had always been a struggle, a twisted expression: oh, all right, sweetie. But just be careful! And so on. Thus, brining her motherly stage to caring, afraid, near almost too over protective. Hopefully Rose would never resent it.
But a small part of her saddened even when she looked down at her stomach. Flat, excusing a small lump at her bellybutton. Three months, two weeks, and three days.. She was getting a little bigger. For the first time, her mood wing seemed to drown to an all-time low. No value stood certain, her brain seemed to not comprehend reasons behind it. “What a miracle,” and it’s all she could breathe, tracing a lean palm atop unborn Hugo. “I just keep… Remembering, Hun. With you in there.” She seemed to laugh, “it’s like, you’re giving me flash backs. Oh, dear.” As for a moment she gazed up at the trinkets dazzled on shelf upon self, a few boxes of those wretched, awful desserts, which cause illness: skiving snack boxes. Had learned in her lifetime to not accept anything from the twins—the twin, from George. Even being in the shop brought down a depression so deep, Hermione could not bear dig herself out of. A cause for a moment, a cinnamon eye let a drop down, and with that bold, utter bravery she wanted so badly, Hermione brushed it away with a scrape of her engagement ring. The diamond caught between salt water and sunlight, though the window. Even her parents: Monica and, who? Windell Wilkins, in Australia, were gone to her. Memories cleared of a daughter, thus not even a grandchild. Her heart ached. Yet that tear did not have one to follow; Weasley was brave, strong. Pregnancy had her will to carry on and not let what depressed her: drag her to the deepest crevest of poisoned reminisce. And letting it be, she tied her hair back with a swift flick of her wrist, slipping band between her fingers and chocolate curl. Her stomach gave a turn and she touched it once again. An actual child had been growing inside, for a second time, it seemed difficult to believe.
Pressing her lips together, she forged her happiness and stood. Waddling, with her fingers grasped around her stomach, to a small child who had come across a single pack of puking pastels. “Oh, dear,” she managed, bending over and smiling. She eyed the counter. Losing business for the twins, the twin, George, would be cruel. Nonetheless, feeding a little one a concoction of Merlin knows what until vomit had beaten. “You might want to check out Honeydukes if you crave—“ always the perfect word for a pregnant femme, “something sweet.” The child had shook his head, with a foolish.
“Oh, no, lady. I want to make my sister throw up!”
“Oh. Well, darling, if that’s truly what you want. That’s not very nice but it’s your—“
“She bit me.”
“Your sister bit you?”
“With a book.”
“Oh.” And it was just like that, the memory of her third year and that feisty
Monster Book of Monsters. Hilarious much? Treasure-like memories. Her lips twisted slightly into a grin and she nodded. “Well, make sure you give her the half to cure—“
The child laughed. “Yeah right!” And ran off.
Hermione gave a small laugh, the breath escaping her lips ever so lightly, a pale wisp of singsong tone. Something her husband would surely do, or one of her brother-in-laws: George, perhaps. She moved quietly to the counter, leaning against it as the child paid. “Be careful,” she muttered, while the little one skipped off with a sly grin. Hermione shook her head. Just like Ronald.
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