The jet red light of Neville's stupefy flew right over the Death Eater's shoulder and hit the glass fronted cabinet containing variously shaped hour-glasses - Time Turners. Hermione jumped out of the way just as the cabinet fell to the floor and the Time Turners shattered, sending sand all over the room. Hermione used her arms to shield her eyes, and coughed as she took a breath full of sand. She didn't see the blue light of the Death Eater's curse speeding towards her, and when Harry cried out to warn her it was already too late.
The first thing to register in Hermione's disoriented mind was that nothing in the room was broken and that was wrong.
The second was that she was alone.
With rising panic she grabbed a tight hold on her wand and listened. She couldn't hear the Death Eaters call out to each other and the peace and serenity of the place made her skin crawl. Ever so slowly she opened the door to the Hall of Prophecies, ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Despite being a Gryffindor, she had never prided herself on her courage.
The room was cold and every glass orb was intact and placed neatly on the shelves, just like when they entered the Department of Mysteries.
She started breathing a little bit faster and rougher, verging on a panic attack. Something was wrong, horribly wrong - she could feel it like a punch in the gut. Where had Harry and Neville disappeared to? Why was everything so neat and clean, like they hadn't even been there?
She managed to calm herself down as she remembered the broken Time Turners. Of course! She must have gone back a few hours in time.
Her relief didn't last long, as she was struck by another thought. The Death Eaters had already been in the Department of Mysteries when they arrived, so they could enter any second! It wouldn't do for her to be a sitting duck.
Set on getting out of the Department of Mysteries, she went back through the room containing Time Turners and entered the large black circular room with twelve doors. She cast 'Flagrate' on the door before closing it, and closed her eyes as the room blurred around her. When the room had stopped spinning she opened the door to the right of the one she'd closed. Wrong door, she thought as she noted the tanks full of brains. She cast another 'Flagrate' and repeated this sequence until she saw the corridor they had entered by. At the end of it she opened the plain black door and pressed for the lift. It scrambled into a halt and she pressed the level eight button, labelled 'Atrium'.
Hermione's heart almost stopped when the lift suddenly stopped and several witches and wizards crammed their way in. She was pushed into a corner and the gates closed before she could get out. As the lift started moving again Hermione released the tight grip she had on her wand. She had been so intent on getting out of the Department of Mysteries that she'd forgotten there would be people working.
A few minutes later she was back on level eight and this time she managed to stumble her way off. She smoothed out her robes and glanced up. For a moment she just stopped and stared. Hermione had never been to the Ministry before today, and seeing the Atrium bustling with activity was a magnificent view. The busy people scurrying about, the sense that there were important things going on and decisions being made - it all appealed to Hermione more than she ever could have imagined. Something in her heart clicked into place and she felt that this, this, was the right place for her. This would be her destination, her goal in life.
Yet something seemed wrong. Out of place. She just couldn't figure out what. She scowled at the Fountain of Magical Brethren. She was already planning on changing it to something more tasteful.
She glanced up at a large clock hanging on one of the walls. One o'clock. One more hour until the History of Magic OWL exam would take place. OWLs she'd already taken. Accustomed though she was with Time Turners, it still confused her to think of the past as the future.
She wanted to stay a bit longer, but realised she couldn't. As she made her way to the Visitors' Entrance she cast one more glance over her shoulder. Something didn't feel quite right, but she shrugged it off and left the Ministry.
She stepped out of the telephone box and did a double take - debris was everywhere she looked. Along both sides of the street stood skeletal remains of what had once been buildings - shops, restaurants and homes. A few boys were playing among the wreckage, trying to not touch the ground in an outdoor version of 'the floor is lava'. The boys were dirty, and wore ragged clothes. They almost seemed to belong in a silent film, she thought to herself, and then promptly started to panic. Just how far back in time had she been sent? She tried to ignore the answer that was glaring back at her. Don't think about it, she told herself. Let's not jump to conclusions.
Everything she knew about time travelling said that it was impossible to go further back than a few hours. Impossible! The books had told her that it couldn't be done. She tried to convince herself that they were just shooting a movie set during the Second World War.
For the first time in her life she cursed her own brain for not being so gullible.
Let's not panic.
The adjacent street had less rubble, so she thought she should go there. She swore when her robes snagged on a rusty spike and the boys behind her seemed shocked at her foul language. Her cheeks burned. She tried to ignore them and continued moving toward the cleaner street.
She had to find out when she was.
She saw a newsstand and paused. She both wanted and didn't want to know. With her heart beating hard in her chest, she approached the news stand and picked up a paper. She scanned the front page for a date.
August 5, 1942.
As her suspicions were confirmed her jaw went slack, her knees gave away and she promptly sat down on her arse.
The thoughts speeding around in Hermione's brain couldn't match the speed with which her emotions shifted. In those short seconds she went through every stage and nuance of shock; from fright, to panic, to sorrow and back again. How did she - how would she get back - this was impossible - would Harry be alright - what was she going to do?
"Miss! Are you going to pay for that?"
The voice sounded irritated. Her hands held a tight grasp on the newspaper. Trying to smooth out the crinkles, she said, "Sorry, I was just... The war - it's just terrible..."
She handed it back to the vendor. His eyes had softened. "Yes. But we can take it. Tough lot, we are!" And he smiled.
She returned the smile, even though her insides were twisting and struggling, and her heart was racing. Once again she felt like someone had punched her in the gut. She said goodbye to the man and started walking aimlessly.
What was she going to do? She was an underage witch, in London during World War 2, without a home. She couldn't return to Hogwarts. She couldn't use her money since they hadn't been made yet. Come to think of it, she didn't even know if the wizarding currency looked the same. She couldn't use magic because of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. She wouldn't turn seventeen until September 19.
For a slight moment she toyed with the idea of going to professor Dumbledore. He would help her. But, no. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell anyone. What if she messed everything up? What if she prevented Harry or Ron from being born? Or herself? No, the risks were too great. She would have to come up with some other plan.
Tears were forming at the corner of her eyes. She calmed herself down by doing a mental list of priorities. Logic was her forte, after all. Number one was a roof over her head and food to eat. That directly meant she would need money. And that meant either stealing, or working. She didn't fancy stealing at all, but she wasn't sure how to get a job without being asked questions she couldn't answer.
She heard giggling behind her back, and saw girls pointing at her. She swiftly added a new number one priority - her alias. She would need to create a new Hermione and she desperatly needed clothes that blended in. She knew nothing of 1940's fashion.
She needed to change her entire appearance.
She reprimanded herself the entire time, telling herself how mean and wrong she was to do this - and then she swiftly grabbed some clothes hanging on a clothes line and ran. Step one had been completed. She had nicked a long skirt and a blue blouse. Now she just had to change into the clothes, without exposing herself to anyone.
Finding a private place that wasn't in a dark alley was harder than she'd thought. In the end she struggled into a large rhododendron bush and changed clothes as quietly and discreetly as she could. When finished, she was posed with a new dilemma - what should she do with her old clothes (or should she call them modern clothes? She was a little confused.)? She didn't have a bag to hide them in, and she couldn't just leave them on the ground. Maybe she could burn them, or bury them (although that would make her dirty). Burning seemed like the safest choice, but where could one do that?
She hated not being allowed to use magic!
She shoved her wand into the front of her skirt - she knew that Mad-Eye had told them not to, but this was an emergency! - and wandered around, with her old clothes in her arms.
She walked for an hour, searching, but she couldn't find a suitable place for burning her clothes. So, instead she managed to stuff them down into the sewer system, and hoped that they wouldn't be found right away.
Feeling a little bit lighter, she decided it was time to do something about her appearance. She wanted to enter the wizarding world, but she didn't want to risk being remembered by anyone in the future. So, for the second time that day, Hermione took something that didn't belong to her.
Two hours later she looked at her own reflection through a window. Bushy brown hair had become brittle bleach blonde hair. She shuddered. Never in her life would she have considered going blonde, but desperate times... And she definitely didn't resemble Hermione Granger from the future. She would have to cut it shorter though, but she would leave that to the professionals. Instead, she just pinned it up in a tight knot.
She had almost forgotten to bleach her eyebrows. That would have looked quite ridiculous.
Giving herself one last appraising eye, she thought it was time to enter Diagon Alley.
The magical world felt like home. The slow thrumming of magic enveloped her as she appraised Diagon Alley. The street was as bustling with activity as she was used to, but there were quite a few shops and boutiques which she did not recognize. Gone were both Madam Malkins and The Magical Mengerie.
She wandered about for quite some time. Sometimes she spotted people with resemblance to classmates, and figured they had to be relatives.
Her stomach growled.
Entering a bookstore, she revelled in the smell of old and new books, and promptly went to the store manager and asked for a job. He laughed, but decided to indulge her. She supposed she should have thought it through a little better, and when he asked her for credentials she had no idea what to answer. Humiliated and resigned she exited the bookstore, vowing to never set foot in there again. Maybe she was being petty, but being laughed at usually does that to a person, and Hermione was particularly unaccustomed to such embarrassment.
As much as she'd rather pull a blanket over her head and call it a night, she really needed a job. That was how she found herself turned down a second, third and fourth time. It stung her self esteem.
At the far end of Diagon Alley she found a small and cosy cafe, with plumt armchairs and a roaring fire, despite it being in the middle of summer. As she stepped inside, she realised that this was a place she could really be comfortable working at. Instead of being herself, she decided to try to adopt a somewhat aloof personality. If being honest and eager didn't work, it was time to change the strategy.
"Would you like to order, Miss...?" said the man behind the counter. He raised an eyebrow and she realised she'd been staring.
"Oh, ehm..." The question caught her off guard, so she blushed and lowered her head. "I don't have enough money..."
He was quiet, waiting for her to explain what she was doing in his cafe without money.
She took a moment to gather courage and arrange her thoughts. "I recently arrived here in London. Today, as a matter of fact. I was wondering, Mr..." she trailed off.
"Carpenter."
"I was wondering, Mr. Carpenter, whether you would be in need of some assistance in this cafe." She looked right at him, almost unblinking, like she had been taught was a sign of confidence. She blushed a little as he pointedly looked around the cafe and its empty chairs before raising an eyebrow and returning her gaze in full.
"I'm a very skilled waitress," she lied, "and I know just how to make this place better frequented." She straightened her back.
"Do you, now?" Mr. Carpenter asked, his voice a strange mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Do tell."
Hermione tried to still her nerves as she took a gamble. "Hire me first, then I'll tell."
The following minute was spent in silence; Mr. Carpenter contemplating her offer and appraising her, and Hermione doing her best not to fidget under his piercing gaze. Suddenly, Mr. Carpenter turned his back and went into the staff room behind the counter. Hermione hardly breathed until he reappeared with a piece of parchment in his hand.
"Miss...?" he asked.
"Miss Smith. Hedwig Smith," she replied. She had always loved Harry's owl. It also seemed appropriate to use the snow white owls name now that she had turned blonde.
"Sign here, Miss Smith," he said and pointed at the parchment.
Hermione nodded but proceeded to read the terms of the contract before signing it. She wasn't stupid. Agreeing to the terms, she signed and handed it back to Mr. Carpenter, who made the contract disappear into thin air.
"You start tomorrow, at five o'clock, Miss Smith."
"I'll see you then, Mr. Carpenter," she said, feigning an air of indifference, but her smile threatened to burst out at any moment. Exiting the cafe, her next step would be to find a place to sleep.