A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER TEN

Page count: 15

The Burrow – Monday 14th December 1981

The group Apparated just outside the Burrow's wards, landing softly on the powdery layer of early winter snow. Hermione inhaled the familiar scent of woodsmoke and herbs carried on the breeze—the Burrow always smelled like a home that loved the people inside it. Even now, decades before she'd first entered this house as an awkward twelve-year-old, she could feel that same magic humming beneath her skin.

They walked toward the crooked, hulking house, boots crunching softly. Hermione raised her hand, knocked once, and barely lowered it before the door flew open.

"Oh, come in, come in!" Molly Weasley ushered them all inside with practised fussing, shooing them away from the cold. She gave the Marauders quick, warm hugs—then reached Hermione.

The older witch wrapped her up so tightly Hermione thought her ribs creaked. She held on longer than she had with anyone else, arms firm, trembling faintly.

"It's good to see you again, dear," Molly whispered.

The Marauders exchanged a look, understood, and quietly slipped into the living room, leaving the two women alone.

Hermione swallowed, the familiar ache swelling in her chest.

"It's good to be back here," she managed. "Back to safety."

Molly pulled back, eyes swimming, studying her with the kind of maternal understanding Hermione had only ever received from this woman—her Molly—even if this version hadn't yet lived those years with her.

"I can feel it," Molly said quietly.

Hermione blinked. "Feel what?"

"Your magic, dear." Molly's voice softened. "The Burrow is saturated with old magic—family magic. I can feel yours... mixing with it. As if it recognises you. As if you've been here a thousand times before." A watery smile. "As if this is your home."

Hermione hadn't meant to cry. She really hadn't.

But the words hit her like a tidal wave, shattering a fear she'd been carrying quietly since the night she arrived—that the Weasleys might not love her in this time. That she might always feel like an outsider.

Tears fell freely, fat and warm down her cheeks, and Molly pulled her close again, rubbing circles on her back in the comforting, grounding way Hermione remembered so painfully well.

"I have no way to repay you," Molly whispered, voice breaking. "For what you've done for my family—in your timeline and this one. Fabian and Gideon told me... what happened to you. How you protected my family despite capture."

Hermione shook her head fiercely. "That's why I'm here. I'm going to protect everyone."

Molly cupped her cheek gently.

"But who protects you?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Hermione didn't answer. Couldn't.

Instead, she wiped her tears, inhaled shakily, and stepped into the living room—into familiar chaos.

Percy sat rigidly in an armchair, clutching a book and stroking a small white rat. Fred and George—only three, all red hair and mischief—were trying to provoke him into abandoning his reading. Arthur held baby Ginny, who gurgled happily while James and Remus talked Quidditch with him. Ron and Harry—both toddling boys—sat on the floor making stuffed dragons roar at each other.

Charlie, recently turned nine, was enthusiastically wrestling Sirius, who was pretending to lose in dramatic fashion. Eleven-year-old Bill, lanky and already handsome in that annoyingly self-assured Weasley way, spotted her first.