What great thing would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?
Robert H. Schuller
The Wizard Gatsby… he owned something that allowed him to perform magic in front of Muggles without them noticing. It's a dangerous artefact – imagine if it fell into the wrong hands.
The Unspeakables had been clear on what the mission was.
They'd even tried to explain why me?
[You've proved yourself trustworthy with Time Travel. You're experienced. The equations indicated you were the best choice.
You have a family to return to.]
(It wasn't like she was going to say no anyway not really – not for that opportunity. It was the twenties for god's sake. In New York).
Her cropped hair was carefully parted on one side and curled up to brush her chin at the front and her lips were red red red. She had a trunk with a week's wardrobe (and gods the clothes were amazing). She had her wand, detailed instructions of where to go, Muggle and Magical money of the right age, directions to a hotel, several bottles of gin and champagne shrunk down, a cover story [an English heiress, just in town for the week on her way down to Savannah]. She'd spent three weeks reading magazines and books and letters and diaries and listening to records and immersing herself in the culture.
She was going on a holiday to the nineteen twenties to steal from Jay Gatsby and she was so excited.
Even if she had to smoke while she was there. [Everybody did, you have to blend in.]
She'd been practising. Hermione was nothing if not thorough.
She hadn't told Ron and Harry that, or anything else – after all only moments would pass in her time before she returned, and Time missions were top top top top top secret, Unbreakable Vow level secret – and she definitely hadn't told her parents.
Being a witch had been enough of a shock. Telling them she was just popping back in time was probably not their dream words from their only daughter.
.
"The portalkey is ready, Granger," Unspeakable Number 28 said.
She'd been waiting in an office – apparently the department of Mysteries wasn't all rooms filled with weird stuff. They had to do paperwork like everyone else, she supposed.
A lot of paperwork actually.
She would take a portalkey (and hadn't that been an exciting discovery!) to the American Ministry of Magic, 1924. She had the correct Time Travel Documentation, and an assurance that the American records showed her safe arrival and a completed mission.
It was quite nice going into something knowing you had already been able to do it, even if the exact how wasn't wholly clear.
She followed the Unspeakable to the Time Room.
There were five more Unspeakables gathered by a table, with a beautiful gold cigarette case on it. That was her portalkey.
"Three minutes, Miss Granger."
Her trunk was shrunk down to fit in the bag dangling from one arm, and she held her hat in the other. Suddenly, she realised she was just as terrified as she was excited.
"I – this is going to be alright, isn't it?" she asked them.
They nodded, silently, and she shuddered. It was creepy enough not being able to see their faces but their reluctance to speak was surely unnecessary.
They waited in silence as she held the cigarette case, and it was only as it began to glow that one said a cursory good luck.
And then she felt herself wrenched away and she was staggering and –
A dark room, a very surprised face.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
American accent.
She'd made it.
.
.
.
"The documentation appears to be in order, Miss Granger. May I call you a taxi?"
"Thank you. I'll be staying at the Waldorf."
So glamorous.
"We'll see you in a week. Best of luck."
.
.
Her suite was ravishing, like something out of a film. The building would be torn down in five years time, to be replaced with the Empire State Building.
It was every history nerd's dream, all marbled corridors, bowing bell boys, chandeliers, elaborate cornicing and champagne.
The maid was unpacking her clothes, which made Hermione rather uncomfortable.
"My own maid has been delayed. Is there someone who can do hair?" she asked the girl, a line she'd been instructed to say. "Just for the week."
"I'll enquire. Is there anything else I can bring you?"
"No thank you. I am going out soon."
"Will you be dining here this evening?"
She would not. She would be going to the opening night of Peter Pan at the Knickerbocker Theatre, because Jay Gatsby had tickets and she needed to meet him.
"I have theatre reservations. I'll be back at five o'clock to dress."
Which gave her six hours to er convince the theatre staff to give her the box next to his.
Hermione picked up her hat, and pulled her fur coat over the navy tea-length dress (the only small mercy being it was magically created and the poor mink hadn't had to die for her to be able to blend into history).
She rang down to the front desk and ordered a taxi.
Time to start.
.
.
It was easy, really. She had full disclosure to use Magic here – even on Muggles, and diplomatic immunity to use the Imperius for the mission.
She had a whole box, right next to Gatsby's. She'd paid them, of course – it would have been wrong to just take the box – and whoever had booked it was flat out of luck.
Hermione wandered through the streets of New York, drinking in the past, the myriad signs that this was not her time, even more excited that she'd been the first time she'd gone to Diagon Alley.
Because magic hadn't been such a shock, she'd sort of already worked out she was a witch, she wasn't stupid, but this – this! This was something quite removed.
.
.
"How's that, Miss?" the girl asked and Hermione eyed her reflection.
"Yes," she said. "Yes that will do. Thank you Linda."
The girl curtseyed and left, and Hermione gazed.
Red lips and gold circlet round her dark bobbed waves, and glittering diamonds and a champagne silk dress. Like a film star, or Velma Kelly.
"Show time," she whispered.
.
.
She was late, of course. It was supposed to be chic, and she needed to be chicer than chic. She showed up halfway through the first Act, thanking Merlin and all the stars that the box next to her was full, and made a show of popping open her illicit champagne, and when the lights came up she looked across, into the box next door and –
He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. He was laughing at something a blonde woman in a silver dress was saying but as he turned he met her eye and gods above, they just didn't make them like that any more.
She flashed a flirtatious smile, and dragged her eyes away, because however beautiful he was he wasn't Jay Gatsby (she'd scoured the pictures they had of him, of course) but no – he wasn't there!
The box was full, but no Gatsby.
She turned back to the handsome man, who'd walked over to the dividing line between the boxes.
"All alone?" he asked, unmistakeably, unequivocally English.
"I just got to town," she replied. "Thought I'd come and see the show. Would you like a drink?"
He smiled, and she was lost, his freckles and sandy hair and sea green eyes and that mouth, oh my god. And then he climbed over the balustrade.
"Newt Scamander," he said, holding out a hand.
She stared for a moment, because this had definitely not been in the script. One of her absolute heroes, the first man who'd actually bothered to account for the all the magical creatures in the world – a man whose work she referenced on a daily fucking basis and why had she imagined him as old and weathered…
"Hermione Granger," she replied, shakily.
"I know my name's a bit odd…" he said, those beautiful eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Unlike Hermione," she said pointedly. "Besides, I've met people with stranger names. Star names, for example," she added.
It was his turn to look taken aback.
"Say, are you…" he paused.
She winked.
"A bit odd? Tendency towards Potion making and wearing dragonhide?"
He looked absolutely delighted.
"Fantastic! You must come and meet everyone, Hermione. Don't – you know – be odd, they're Muggles, but come on."
And he hopped back over the barrier, glass in hand and then seemed to realise that she was in a dress and she just thought, Fuck it, and handed him the bottle of Taittinger, and climbed right over after him.
He laughed, glorious, free, and grabbed her hand. Daisy, he said, and Frank and Mabel and Lana and…
.
.
The second half was good, although she was largely distracted by the energy and presence of the man sitting next to her.
"Where are you staying?" he asked, afterwards. "I've got a car, I'll drive you."
"The Waldorf," she told him. "Do you mind?"
He did not.
When they got to the door, he said, "There's a party at a friend of mine's house tomorrow – he's odd, too, but most people won't be. Would you like to come?"
"I don't know," she said, teasingly and quite drunk – on him as much as she was on the champagne. "Who's the friend?"
"Chap called Gatsby. He throws the best parties in America. I'll pick you up at six, we can have dinner."
She laughed.
"You're terribly assuming."
"Perhaps you're just terribly beautiful. Will you come?"
"Yes. Good night."
"Wait!" he said and took her hand, brushing those damn lips against her cheek and sending her heart racing like a drum tattoo, so loud she thought he must be able to hear it.
She bit her lip, gazing up at him as coquettish a look as she'd ever pulled off, and whispered, "See you tomorrow."
.
.
THERE IS REALLY NO EXCUSE FOR ANY OF THIS, I'M SORRY. LIKE WHY IS GATSBY A WIZARD BUT ALSO WHY NOT? THIS SHOULD PROBABLY BE A CROSSOVER IDK.
And like no one will probably ever read it but I had to write it it's been eating my head for weeks.
It was supposed to be a one-shot? But it's not! Like. Whatever. EDDIE REDMAYNE.
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