*Authors Note:

This is my first published fiction intended to be more than a one shot. I am also in the market for a few beta readers if anyone has an interest. Please read and review, and thank you for your patience if you decide to continue with the story (It's going to be a long one :) ).

A Wrinkle in Time

Classes were over, she had no more exams to study for, and once again Hermione was disappointed. It was time to go home. She felt more than a twinge of guilt. What kind of daughter was she, that she never wanted to leave Hogwarts once the school year was over? She loved her mother and father, and she always enjoyed her holidays, but there was always something...missing.

Absently, her hand slid up and down the surface of the polished wand in her robe pocket. The world just wasn't the same without magic, and it angered her that the ministry imposed such harsh restrictions for the holidays. Restrictions that only the muggle borns were really subject too. Even a bit of wandless magic was detectable by the trace that monitored the area surrounding it, but somehow not restricted to the magic of the student themselves. She knew that any magic performed in a magical household was disregarded. How else would Fred and George carry out their summer experiments?

Hermione sighed, and abruptly let go of her wand, taking her hand out of her pocket. It was no use to wallow, she told herself firmly as she made her way down to the great hall. It was only the summer, and then the next two summers after that. Then, her wand was really hers.

She was due for a break from magic anyway, she scolded herself. Hadn't she had enough excitement, rescuing an innocent convict and misunderstood hippogriff? Not to mention living about a quarter of a year over again with the time turner. She stopped mid step.

Reluctantly, she turned about and made towards McGonagall's office. A time turner she should return about now actually, since she no longer needed it for class. She hummed lightly under her breath as she walked slowly towards the Deputy Headmistress's abode. It was rather curious actually, that Professor's quarters and offices were put together, she mused. Though it would be more convenient than having students get confused in an emergency about where the professors could be found. She blinked, her eyes widening. Oh! Why on earth didn't they have emergency alarms? Accidents were frequent enough.

A minute later she smiled to herself. Well of course, they had the portraits. They were everywhere weren't they? She scowled. Though some portraits had more sense than others. She wondered if that was determined by the character of the original subject, or by the talent of the artist? Who painted the paintings anyway? She had never heard of any famous wizarding artists.

Her thoughts thuswise occupied, Hermione Granger made her way towards the transfiguration classroom on autopilot, her feet following the route known by heart. She came here often enough aside from class. Professor McGonagall was by far her favourite Professor, though Vector ran a guilty second. Hermione supposed she oughtn't feel too bad. Professors had their favourite students just as students had their favourite Professors. Only, she was certain that she was Vector's favourite, even if only in her year. McGonagall had always had a way of making her feel more adult, however. It was the feeling of respect that she enjoyed so much from the usually stern woman. If she didn't have the Professor's utmost trust, would she have ever been given the power to change time, even in such a small way?

Idly, Hermione turned the time device in her hand, fighting no small longing. It was such a wonderful piece of magic. The sand inside glittered, shifting as she tilted it. Hermione wondered with longing if she'd ever get to use the device she had come to treasure again. With it she had accomplished so much. Not her grades, but what she had done for Harry, for Sirius. Harry had always been the brother she looked up to, the hero. But this time Hermione had helped him accomplish something more than just a trick with a potion, a mirror around a corner. She had saved them all. The smile faded from her face, and her feet stalled. The device would not be hers again next year. McGonagall had told her so, that she would have to narrow down her course selections by one. Luckily, fourth year was more heavily oriented to research than class time. Hermione would manage. A soft sound, just a slight scuffle, made her look up sharply. She enclosed the time device in her hand, letting the long sleeves of her school robe cover her hand (though she put it slightly behind her for good measure. "Who's there?" she asked, her voice sharper than she had intended.

The sound faded, and it was quiet. Too quiet. The hair on the back of Hermione's neck rose, and she plucked her wand from her pocket, taking an inching step forward. Suddenly, there was a loud bang, and Peeves came tearing around the corner, cackling madly. Hermione tried to stumble out of the way but he bowled past, knocking her over. Hermione was then staring dazedly at the stone ceiling, and she raised her hand to her forehead to still her suddenly throbbing headache. She heard the crunch of glass and realized her hand stung. She raised it to her face, and saw a small amount of blood, several small pieces of glass embedded in her hand. Grains of gold sand glittered against her skin.

Hermione sat upright abruptly. "No! No no no no no no!" She yelped, staring at the remains of the time turner in horror, gaze flicking to the sand scattered on the floor. "I'm dead," she moaned, "Merlin!" Her hand clenched and she winced, remembering the glass. Gingerly, she turned over onto her hand and knees, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head. She opened her hand and stared at the now deep cuts. As she watched, several drops of blood dripped from her hand onto the sand covered stone. "Ouch!" she muttered. "Episkey!" There was a spark as the glass shards yanked themselves from her hand, and Hermione felt heat around her knees. She looked down and saw that her knees were slowly sinking into the stone. A prank of Peeves? She wriggled, placing her healed but bloody hand into the stone to try and pull herself up. Her hand sank through the stone, and she realized that the glittering sand was shifting. Before her eyes it began to glow, and her eyes opened wide.

Hermione struggled, but the stone shifted, drawing her deeper and melting around her knees and hands. "Help!" she screamed down the hall. "Someone help me! Professor!" her voice rose to a shrill shriek. "Anyone!" Tears of panic rose in her eyes as she sunk deeper and deeper, but no answer came. Hermione continued to shout, until she felt pressure drop out from under her and she was sucked into a great vacuum. The heat was gone, and all that remained was terrible, terrifying cold.

She couldn't breath; her lungs worked desperately but gained no purchase. She was dying! She was- A monstrous pressure leached all thought from Hermione's brain as she succumbed to nauseating pain.

She was gasping and retching as she sucked in breaths of life giving air. She crammed her eyes closed against blinding light, not knowing anything but pain for several long moments. Tears leaked from her eyes, and it was the salt on her tongue that finally brought her to her senses. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes a sliver, then closed them again against the harsh sun. Drawing in several deep breaths, she tried again, blinking rapidly while trying to ignore the roiling of her stomach. She was lying on her back on the ground, the distant bells and whistles of traffic a harsh cocaugheny on her ringing ears.

She choked back a wretched sob and tried to calm her rapid breathing. She wasn't dead. She wasn't- traffic? Still blinking back tears, Hermione gingerly sat up. Deliberately engaging in some breathing exercises, Hermione assessed her surroundings. She was not at Hogwarts. She was not even in Scotland. She knew this park, though the trees she knew had been trimmed back. There were several new shrubs. The worn path had been redone. She was in London. London. Hermione buried her face in her hands in relief. She had been apparated. That was all. Just apparated. She didn't know how, but she was only in London. She wasn't dead. Sucking in a final deep breath, Hermione stood, brushing the dirt off of the back of her slightly torn skirt. Her robe was nowhere to be seen, but she found a few sickles in her loafers. Her wand- her wand! Hermione looked about wildly, leaning down and patting the ground, then groaned. Her wand had been left behind. It must have been knocked from her hand when Peeves ran her over. She had thought she could call the bus to take her home, but if she didn't have her wand… she sighed, hoping they would send her trunk home on the train. She still had a day to owl the school and let them know where she was. She could make it home in time, and have her mother drive her to Diagon Alley...On second thought, the Leaky Cauldron was closer than home. She could send an owl, then call her parents and have them pick her up.

With a sigh and a wince for her abused body, she started down the park path. It was going to be a fairly long walk. She rounded the bend near the park entrance and passed a lady with a stroller, who gave her an odd look. Hermione pouted once she was out of sight. So she was a little dirty. She wasn't the one wearing a dress that looked straight out of the forties with that antique stroller.

Hermione sniffed, trying not to be miffed. She supposed she did kind of look like a ragamuffin. She patted her hair, making sure it wasn't too messy. To her dismay, she found a twig or two. "Wonderful," she muttered as she exited the park gate, which looked newly shined.

She stopped, frowning as she gazed down the street, taking stock of the new stonework. Well it was nice that they had redone the road. The sound of a carborator rattled from the right, and Hermione blinked, astounded, as a long automobile rounded the corner towards her. She stared as it drove past, her mouth hanging open until it was at least 30 feet down the road. Had that been...a Brougham?

What? Slowly, Hermione closed her mouth, shaking her head. Those were so out of date her grandfather would have been almost too young for one! Another car passed, just as old, and honked at her, making her jump. Hermione grinned. There must be a convention of some sort going on. Her father would likely be right in the thick of things.

She walked several blocks, seeing more old fashioned cars, and even a few people on antique bicycles! Dressed to the nines in the fashions of the late thirties. She couldn't believe that her parents hadn't written to tell her that this kind of thing was happening. It must have taken months to plan and they knew she loved historical events! 'Maybe,' a thought chimed in, 'they wanted it to be a surprise.'

Hermione was giddy, practically bouncing down the street. Whatever had happened to cause her abrupt departure from Hogwarts, it clearly hadn't turned out so badly. She would have a full extra two days to participate! She wondered if her mum had any old clothes tucked away that would fit?

Beaming, she spotted the Reference Library up the road, and snagged a paper from the outdoor stand, skimming it for news about the historical event they were putting on. This building had a fresh coat of paint too!

She read the contents eagerly at first, and then with a progressive frown. This paper was all wrong. The layout, the font. The date on in the corner read August 26, 1940. August...That wasn't right. This was June! June! There wasn't anything about a historical events. Surely, whatever was happening wouldn't be so detailed to change the newspapers too? Trembling, Hermione looked down the street. A street she had walked down at least once or twice before. Everything looked newer. Not just the road. Sucking in a deep breath, Hermione ducked into the library, and the ring of the bell startled her.

A sharp faced, bespectacled man in a waistcoat popped up behind the and. "Can I help you?" He asked sharply, looking her up and down with a stern from.

Hermione swallowed. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but could you please remind me of the date today? Is this today's paper?" she held it up.

He glanced at it with a puzzled frown. "I put those out this morning yes. Today's the twenty-sixth." Sceptically, he looked her up and down. "What happened to your clothes miss…?"

"Granger." Hermione replied thoughtlessly, feeling numb. "Please excuse me," she exited with haste, bolting as soon as she was out the door and darting into a narrow but clean alley.

Shaking, she sank to the ground, staring at the paper clenched tightly in her hands. Hermione Jean Granger had never been the type of girl to ignore the blatent truth, no matter how inconvenient.

She didn't understand how or why it had happened, but she had to accept the truth for what it was.

Hermione Jean Granger was fourteen, wandless, and alone in 1940.