"Davies, Abbott, out."
She heard a third voice when she woke, seemingly more stern, and curt. A man's face came into focus, similarly covered in dirt and relatively unshaven, but full of sharp angles and deep lines.
"Lieutenant Carr. Pleasure to meet you." He held out his hand, which she took in her own as she breathed in deeply, rising from her cot once again. She looked down at his hand, then at her own self, and noticed she was wearing a rather starchy, oversized brown uniform, presumably borrowed from the smallest of their peers. She felt like she was drowning in its fabric, but relished in the warmth of the uniform, and of the blanket that lay atop her small form. And yet.
One part of her felt cold; or rather, felt like it was not her own. Her chest. The mark. Mangled, scarred flesh, devoid of nerves, devoid of feeling. Foreign. Cold.
"And you are?"
She startled, realizing she was still holding his hand without having said a word. "Hermione—" she said impulsively, then caught herself, realizing that every word, every person she met, every action she took had the potential to derail the future—or rather the past—as she knew it. "—Graham," she finished, assured that the surname was common enough, and her elementary school teacher obscure enough, to not warrant suspicion.
"Miss Graham." He pulled his hand away and stood, the combination of his height and elegant profile giving him an immediate air of authority. "I spoke to Lance Corporal Davies and Abbott. I know how they found you. I know this has been overwhelming for you. I don't know where you came from, but it's clear to me that this war hasn't been easy for you. It hasn't been easy for any of us, don't get me wrong," he paused, meeting her gaze, "but I can't imagine what position you were in that allowed for that—that mark on your chest to happen."
Hermione swallowed hard and looked at the ground. What did happen? What happened to bring you to this place, to this time? Why? She suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, and isolation; she knew no one, she was alone, and she had to keep it that way to prevent any impact on the timeline. Is that even how it works? She felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
"Miss Graham, my platoon is on a mission to get our men back home. The war is over. We're the cleanup crew. We have hospitals and camps in France we need to visit to get our men back, to take them back to their families. I don't have much to offer you," he said as he took a deep breath, "but I can get you home."
She looked up at him. "Home?" she echoed hollowly.
"England. We can get you back to England."
She closed her eyes as silent tears wet her cheeks. "I would like that, I think."
The next few months passed rather uneventfully. Hermione was placed in the kitchen, tasked with helping prepare food for the men every morning, noon and night. The kitchen crew was boisterous, vulgar, but just entertaining enough to allow her to forget, during the days, how utterly alone she truly was. The night was a reservoir for her tears.
She rarely interacted with the cooks or the soldiers; she was unassuming, quiet, shy. She was the opposite of everything she remembered. She knew nothing, she said nothing, she asked nothing. She hadn't even dreamed about using her magic, for anything. Men were wheeled into the barracks before her, pale, missing limbs, dying. She couldn't help them. They were meant to pass in this time.
Since the day she became cognizant of the date, of her slippage through time, Hermione Granger assumed she could impact anything, and everything, by just being alive. Some days, as she chopped onions or washed the dishes, she felt resigned to her fate, of living out the rest of her life in this world, in this time, dying alone, but preserving the timeline for the future. Other days, especially as the platoon neared the Port of Calais overlooking the Strait of Dover, and the cold ocean air played with her curls and wet her face, she imagined finding her way back, back to her true home, back to her time. Back to Harry, she thought with a sinking feeling of regret in her heart.
Harry woke to a thin stream of sunlight warming his face. His bright green eyes slowly opened, taking in the world before him. His room was small, but comfortable; his sheets were a deep crimson, his duvet a cream white. She had chosen the colors, when they lived together, here, in this room. He tried to picture her face, what she looked like lying there next to him, her small, soft back with its perfectly aligned vertebrae curled toward him. Her hair. It consumed her face those mornings. He smiled.
As he rose from his bed, he absentmindedly rubbed his forehead, and walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He realized, he only ever remembered her hair these days. What did she look like, he thought, it had been so long. Since she left for CERN, she promised to visit on holidays but never did. And then she vanished. It had been months. He spit the frothy toothpaste out and rinsed his mouth. Mint lingered on his tongue. Her face. He rubbed his forehead again, and looked in the mirror to comb his hair. Harry paused, then pulled the comb through his wild black strands. He left the bathroom to get dressed for work. As an afterthought, he wondered why his scar seemed to be getting lighter only now, after all these years, only now, years after the Dark Lord's death, months after her disappearance, days after he realized that he couldn't quite remember her face.
She was greeted in Dover by a dense, grey fog and choppy seas; as they neared the docks she felt waves of nausea overcome her. She edged out of the cabin and rushed up the stairs to the deck, pushed the oversized grey wool coat off her shoulders and wretched into the wind.
"Easy there, Graham." The gruff voice of her Lieutenant was quickly recognizable. "Too close to have you get sick on us now. You'd think it would've hit you earlier when we were scrounging for scraps in Reims."
"We still found onions," she managed to choke out, "for some reason there were always onions." She heaved again.
She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, holding her securely, the other wrapped around her still wild and extraordinarily long hair, preventing it from getting tangled in her vomitus. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes heavy. She collapsed against the hard, wet planks, her body limp in his arms. She heard him breathe out and pull her closer.
"You know, Graham, we've been on the move for four months, and I can't say I know you any better now than the night we first met."
She smiled and leaned against him. "There's not much to know."
"I have a daughter who's roughly your age, you know," he said in a voice she hadn't heard before, soft, quiet. "Haven't seen her in three years." The wind seemed to quiet down; the silence was thick. She felt his chest rise. "They kept asking me to get sent home, for the holidays, to switch out for a bit, but… I didn't really know how to go back. I didn't – I don't – know how to talk about where I've been, what I've seen, who I've lost."
Hermione turned to look up at him, the gentle wind playing wildly with her hair.
"I don't know if you have a home to get back to, love." He met her gaze with knowing brown eyes. "I'm starting to think you probably don't. In some ways, I'm actually jealous. No one to talk to about what you've been through. No one to look at you strangely when you scream in the night. No one to pretend for."
She looked ahead at the approaching docks and closed her eyes. Tears edged out from under her dark eyelashes. She wasn't accountable to anyone here. There was no one to smile for, to lie to. In her time, after the war, they all returned to normality so quickly. They all picked up right where they left off. She tried to too, surrounded by so much love, so much support. But when she couldn't, she had to be "fixed". But I didn't want to be fixed.
She felt, in that moment, and for the first time in a long time, that she was not alone.
"Graham, you're always welcome in our home. You and Annie would get along right away, though she's quite a talker – but I guess you're a good listener anyway." He stood as the men filed out from the lower decks to help dock the ship. "But if you want to be on your own, we're going to need to settle your wages."
"Wages?" she turned to him suddenly, her brows raised in surprise. "What wages? I worked in the kitchen, and you brought me home."
"Jesus Graham, we don't run slave labor here, this is Her Majesty's Army!" He let out a soft chuckle, "They're waiting to process us when we dock in Dover. We're going to need a place to send your cheque. Four months of labor in the army ain't much, but it will certainly help you find your footing. That is, assuming you want to find it." He winked, and disappeared to the front of the ship. She felt a small, folded piece of paper in her hand.
Donovan Carr
23 East Hayes Ln
Fakenham, ENG
She held it to her chest. She was not alone.
In his gunmetal grey coat, Tom Riddle appeared to be an extension of his bleak surroundings, his face buried in the wool of his collar as he trudged along the sidewalk in the rain. It was unusually cold, wet and windy; the winds only seemed to gather force as the minutes passed. The sidewalks were sleek with mud and rubble, remnants of the bombings; a few disheveled appearing children played in the puddles that formed spontaneously in the alleys and around the storm drains. He glanced at them with disgust.
On days like this, Tom Riddle longed for the future. He longed for the time that this world would come to an end, and his reign would fix the weaknesses in humanity. They didn't deserve this world. They didn't deserve its beauty, its magic. They proved themselves capable of destruction, and little else. When I ascend, there will be no muggle children to play in the stormdrains, he thought.
His worldview had appeal; he had several fervent followers, but was apprehensive about growing his support just yet. He wanted to nourish his skills, further his studies, emerge stronger than ever before under their noses. He had split his soul twice already and none were the wiser. And I'll split it again, and again he thought to himself. Until I achieve true immortality.
He rounded the corner of the Leaky Cauldron and entered Diagon Alley. It was eerily quiet; the wind had forced the shops to close their doors, and the few patrons working at that hour had scattered for shelter against the storm. He quickly ascended the large, white staircase of Gringott's Bank, taking care not to slip on the untarnished, alabaster marble.
"You're late."
He looked directly at his goblin supervisor upon entry of the bank, the warm air a welcome reprieve from the storm outside.
"I apologize," he said evenly. "The weather outside was…less than ideal." He forced a smile. This was goblin territory. There had been few wizard apprentices allowed to work in the bank, and fewer still with access to the vaults. Deference was paramount.
"Yes well. The weather has been a little unusual. Not expecting many patrons today, but just in case, you'll be at the front, dealing with exchanges, deposits and withdrawals," the elderly goblin said with a sigh. He turned slowly as he shuffled down the pristine marble hallway. "Hurry along now," he said, turning his head back to reveal a look of annoyance.
"Yes, sir," Tom said under his breath. He hadn't yet figured what he would do with the goblins when he ruled. He considered a purge, but thought better of it later. They are good with money, he admitted to himself. He removed his coat and strode down the hallway, admiring the marble statues, and his elegant reflection in the mirrored walls. Today a peon. Tomorrow a King.
The winds only seemed to get stronger as they docked on the shore; she could already see several large canvas tents erected just up the beach, with lines of soldiers beginning to form, some carrying the injured, some hobbling into formation alone. She pulled her wool coat tightly against her chest and trudged forward, taking care not to slip on the wet stones.
She didn't know what to expect, or what she would say. She had time to think of a story, a convincing one, but ultimately she didn't exist in this time, and she worried that someone would eventually discover this truth. She felt fortunate that she had come at a time of war, where hopefully many others were stuck in a position like her own – lost, with no papers, no ID, nothing to come home to. Or no home at all, she thought to herself.
A portly blonde woman in a snug uniform greeted her from behind an unsteady wooden table. Her eyes were bright blue, and clumps of mascara stained the bags beneath her eyes. There was a hint of red lipstick on her front left tooth.
"Name, National Identity Card, birth date," she said gruffly, not bothering to look up at the petite, shivering girl before her.
"I… my name is Hermione Graham," she said softly. "I lost my identity card. I was… abroad, in France, and…captured." She looked hesitantly at the woman before her, almost holding her breath.
The woman looked at her sharply. "No card? What were you doing in France?"
"I was with the Resistance," Hermione lifted her chin and spoke confidently.
The woman looked up at her again. "Resistance? You?" She smiled. The lipstick was still on her tooth. "Glad to see you doing your part, Ms. Graham. Good thing you made it out of there alive, too." She sighed and looked down at her papers again, some of which were threatening to blow away in the wind. "Date of birth then? We'll have to start the process to get you a new National ID card. Can't well pay wages without an identity."
She released her breath. "Yes, of course – September 19, 1924." She had practiced saying the date a thousand times in her head.
"Where will you be staying, Ms. Graham? To send the cheques." The woman poised her pen above an official appearing document.
Hermione had prepared for this, but wasn't sure her explanation would be accepted. "I…I—I don't have a place to stay. My parents, and our home, were destroyed during the bombings."
The woman looked up at her again, her face softening. "Any… friends? Your husband? Siblings?"
"All passed," she said quietly, summoning thoughts of her real friends to bring more emotion to her countenance.
The woman shook her head. "Ms. Graham…my name is Doris. Doris Baker. My niece is managing a building for me in London." She sighed. "It's small and there are only a few flats but… if you need a place to stay, I can give you the address and a letter to give to Nancy."
Hermione's eyes welled with tears. "That would be incredible of you, thank you." She reached out to grab the woman's hand but found herself in an uncomfortable embrace across the shoddy wood table. She closed her eyes and let tears fall on Doris' brown overcoat.
"I'll deduct the first month from your wages," she said as she wrote the address and a note to her niece. "After that it will be 20 pounds a month. You may need to get a job soon, but your war wages should suffice for the time being. I can give you one cheque in advance."
"How can I repay you," she asked, her cheeks still wet with tears. "How can I repay this kindness?"
"It's war, my dear. Favors are scarce. Kindness is all but disappeared. Pay it forward."
Her eyes glistened. "I will."
As the bus trudged along Brick Lane, the wind and rain seemed to grow even stronger. Hermione was exhausted. She exited at her stop and walked quickly down Hanbury Street. The buildings appeared quaint, and somewhat unremarkable. Every few blocks would reveal a scene of devastation, rubble. It was approaching midnight, and she was exhausted.
Doris' building appeared small but cozy; red brick rose among vines of ivy and rhododendron. She approached the entrance cautiously and tapped against the door, then window, then after several minutes of no answer, the door again, this time a little more forcefully.
A fatigued appearing red headed young woman in long cotton button down pajamas answered the door.
"I'm terribly sorry, my name is Hermione Graham, and I met your Aunt Doris and—"
"You saw Aunt Doris?!" Her face brightened and the girl practically pulled Hermione into the warmth of the home. "How is she? I haven't seen her in ages!"
Hermione pulled the letter out of her coat and gave it immediately to the girl, hoping it would spare her any sort of explanation of who she was or where she came from. She looked enviously at the large brown leather couch that sat in front of the fireplace, longing to fall asleep on something that wasn't a thin cot.
"Oh Aunt Doris, I'm so glad she's doing well," the girl smiled. Her bright green eyes looked up her guest. "So Hermione then – nice to meet you, I'm Nancy."
Hermione smiled and weakly shook her hand. The girl's eyes were large and sincere, and Hermione couldn't help but thing of Harry when she saw their emerald hue in the firelight.
"You must be exhausted! Months abroad in the barracks – come, let me show you your room. I wasn't really expecting another tenant so it's a bit small on the ground floor, but you'll be close to the kitchen, and the fireplace too. Are your things outside?"
"Things?" Hermione said blankly. "Oh. No, I, er, lost a lot of my belongings during the war." She saw a pitied reaction forming on the girl's face. "You know, it's just so much easier to get around with the troops when you're not packing much. I gave so much of it away," she smiled.
This response seemed more acceptable to her host, and she led her through a small corridor and into her room. The walls were a peeling pattern of peach with scattered decorative roses; her bed was small, but snug. There was a lamp on the bedstand, a mid-century gaudy piece with gold starfish on a background of faded turquoise paint.
"This is perfect. Thank you Nancy." She took a deep breath. Her eyes felt heavy.
"Any plans for the morning then?" Nancy opened the closet and dropped a few extra blankets onto the bed, all brown and slightly dusty appearing.
Hermione glanced at her suddenly. Plans. Plans for the morning. Yes, I have plans, she thought, of course I have plans. I'm going to take what's left of my earnings to the bank. I will convert it to galleons, buy a wand, apparate to the school grounds at Hogwarts, carefully explain half-truths about my situation to Dumbledore, who will help me solve this and get home. She blinked. Four months in this place, and it was honestly the best plan she could come up with. There was no Large Hadron Collider here. Oppenheimer lived in this time, and so did Einstein, but how would it ever be possible to get in touch with them, and what could they even do? They had predicted this possibility, but they weren't the engineers. They couldn't recreate it. And it could hardly be explained anyway with their knowledge anyway. She'd been thinking about what happened every day since she came to this time, and there was something about the timing of it, the warped magnetic fields infused with energy combined with her magic. How had the energy not annihilated her? Torn her apart? Her eyes widened. It didn't. It didn't tear me apart. It tore the space around me apart. A hole. In space.
"Hermione?" Nancy squinted at her in the sallow light of the room.
A hole that might still be open.
"Oh," she refocused her gaze suddenly, "Yes. Tomorrow. Well, I suppose I should start looking for a job, and probably need to get some clothes and a few toiletries." She smiled.
"That sounds perfect. I think I saw an opening for a waitress position at the diner just a few blocks from here. It's called Harrington's; they're always busy but the food isn't so great if you ask me." She turned to the door, then looked back at Hermione. "One more thing…"
"Yes?"
"We've got to do something about your hair tomorrow."
Hermione chuckled, and nodded. "Goodnight, Nancy."
"'Night."
A/N: Slow updates, I know. Probably best to read in its entirety, sometime in the future when it's done…
