a/n
hi! thank you so much for reading! just a couple of notes before wE beGin
here are some movie adaptions I have decided to include:
- hermione's mudblood scar
- Hogwarts wardrobe (ties, socks, accessories, etc. indicating a person's house)
- design of the room of requirement in otp
- design of time-turners
and please, ccw! this story is also on ao3, same user :')
Hermione Granger had never been keen on breaking rules without good reason, yet here she was, exploring the dark corridors of Hogwarts past midnight.
Perhaps her sudden change in morale was well within reason—a war that invades every way of life tends to change a person. But Hermione certainly wasn't expecting to feel so exceptionally lonely in a castle she so dearly loved.
After the war, Hermione had decided to return to Hogwarts to properly graduate. Harry and Ron moved straight on to take jobs at the Ministry of Magic, which Hermione completely understood—the three of them had just about more experience than anybody. Hermione was determined, however, to truly complete her time at Hogwarts. Initially, she was excited. But there she was, a week into the beginning of term, absolutely miserable.
Certainly, it had a lot to do with the fact that Harry and Ron weren't there, even though she still had Ginny, Luna, and other friends.
But it's all very different, now, Hermione thought to herself as she held her wand a bit further in front of her, the light softly illuminating the corridors. But maybe it's a good thing Ron isn't here.
Thinking of his name alone brought a painful jab to her heart, and every single time she did she would immediately berate herself. What need was there to be miserable? Nothing happened, nothing terrible, there was no fallout or argument, just people fall grow apart sometimes. It should be expected, really, especially after knowing someone for so long—surely, you would be bored of a person at that point.
Except they experienced the hardships of war together, added Hermione in her head. But still, she shook her head, as if she could shake the idea of Ron Weasley out of her head.
He was part of the reason, but certainly not the entire reason why Hermione felt the need to escape out of her dormitory. Another reason why Hermione decided to get out of bed was the nightmares, the nightmares. They started off slow, at first, and they were mostly fine—just Hermione waking back up in the forest, under the impression she was still looking for Horcruxes.
But then they got worse. When she and Ron were going through, well, issues, it was like the moment she fell asleep she was back at Malfoy Mansion, on the floor while being carved into and all she could hear was her laughter, she laughed in her ear while carving into her skin like she was made of candle-wax, and then she would hear Ron scream for her, startling her awake—
Hermione stopped in her step. Surely, the door should be there now, as she had paced by it three times—and certainly, there it was, the Room of Requirement. She knew from the previous nights that she would have no problem getting the room to appear—these thoughts were always on her mind, now, and the Room always translated these thoughts into thoughts of need.
She looked at the door for a moment, remembering many things—spells, lessons, Umbridge, Harry, escaping, hiding…
Again, she shook her head, pushing past the doors. She wasn't sure why she kept coming back here—she had been returning whenever she couldn't sleep for about two weeks now, and every time she stepped back into the familiar hall, it was exactly how Hermione remembered it—almost as if she were back in her fifth year.
She didn't long for the stress and the incredible tensions, no, of course not—but for her friends, yes, quite a bit. All returning seemed to do was strike her with more grief and longing, but still she would return every other night or so. As sad as it made her, it was a good place to think her thoughts out and reminisce.
Except this time, it was something extraordinarily different. Instead of opening to the same, massive hall, the doors opened to reveal a quaint, cozy bathroom with lovely marbled floors and walls. Twin pristine couches pushed against the opposite walls, large mirrors on the walls above them. In the center of the room was a large bathtub, sunken into the marble floors, jets already on.
Her brow furrowing in confusion, Hermione stepped in slowly and closed the large doors behind her. Perhaps the room, sick of Hermione's mopey mood, called for a change of scenery.
After walking past the tub and checking to see if the cabinet under the marble sink top had towels (it did), Hermione decided that surely, the room knew what Hermione needed better than she.
So, she shed her outerwear, tying her hair into a bun as she sank into the steamy water. Strangely enough, she did feel better—it was something about the warmth. Hermione once read in a Muggle psychology book that people who often draw baths do so in substitution of physical touch, as the water simulated another the warmth of another person's touch. It was a bit sad to think about, but the bath did make her feel better about Ron, and most certainly about her nightmares. It was almost as if the water defrosted the cold memories of the forest and Malfoy Manor.
Hermione emerged from the room an hour later, feeling cozy, calm, and entirely warmed from the bottom up. In fact, she made her way back to the Gryffindor common room with a slight smile on her face, feeling the best she had felt in quite a while.
Maybe it was foolish of her to assume that everything would be alright so soon after the war, Hermione figured as she crawled into bed. Her entire body temperature still heightened from the hot water jets, it was incredibly easy for Hermione to fall into an immediate, deep sleep.
"You're looking awful chipper this morning, Hermione. What've you got in your coffee?" asked Ginny as she took a seat next to Hermione in the Great Hall. Hermione just smiled, setting down her book as Ginny grabbed her cup and took an experimental sip.
"Blegh," muttered Ginny with a look on her face, "No sugar?"
"Having dentists for parents does that to you," hummed Hermione pleasantly. Ginny gave her another look, bemused.
"You finally out of that slump, then?" asked Ginny, grabbing a piece of toast and taking a bite out of it, "That's a relief."
"Oh, please. It was hardly a slump," said Hermione, but she had to admit, she did feel exceptionally better that morning than she had the past week. She was surprised, really, that a simple bath could relieve her of so many negative feelings.
In fact, Hermione's good mood carried on for the the rest of the week. As long as Hermione returned to the Room of Requirement—or rather, Bathroom of Requirement, now—she was able to sleep peacefully with no nightmares, and put Ron and Harry out of her mind. There were a couple of times were Hermione considered if the bathroom, tub, or even the water was fixed with some sort of restorative charm, but when Hermione ran a few checks with her wand, everything seemed to be perfectly normal.
However, as a Muggle-Born, Hermione was perfectly content with this; not every form of healing had to be magical, after all. Self-care was important, Hermione reminded herself.
October had just begun, the leaves on the trees outside beginning to edge with auburn and yellow. The warm air that had marked summer was starting to crisp into a brisk breeze. As the weather grew colder, Hermione found herself appreciating her midnight baths more and more, finding the exchange of a couple hours of a sleep for a warm, relaxing bath easier and easier to make.
Every time she headed towards the seventh floor, she was always a bit worried that the Room of Requirement would change into something else. Indeed, as she made her way to the seventh floor that Friday evening, she found herself biting her bottom lip gently in worry. She had a particularly rough day—not because of her classes, of course, but Ginny had received mail from Ron that morning at breakfast, and seeing his handwriting alone really offset her for the rest of the day. She was so off-put that she had forgotten to change to sleepwear before heading to her bath, still in her school uniform.
Fortunately, the bathroom was there when Hermione opened the doors, jets on as always. She smiled in relief, already feeling better as the warm steam hit her skin.
An hour passed, and Hermione carefully got out of the tub. Having forgotten to get the towel, she awkwardly made her way to the sink, creating large puddles of water on the marbled floor behind her.
As she wrapped herself in a towel, Hermione noticed a small box resting on the sink top. Immediately, Hermione was intrigued—she certainly would have noticed this beforehand, as the sink top had always been bare, even of soap. When she picked it up in her hands, she could see that it was a jewelry box, wrapped in velvet.
In amusement, she thought for a second that maybe the Room of Requirement was giving her a gift. When she opened the box, however, her smile was soon replaced with a look of puzzlement. For rested inside on a scrap of black silk was—
"A time-turner…?" said Hermione out loud curiously. There were precisely two things about this that was very confusing—for one, Hermione knew that all time-turners were ruined beyond repair in their fifth year during the battle at the Ministry.
Perhaps this one was always here, in this room, or the Ministry contacted other embassies and received extra and one made its way to Hogwarts, Hermione attempted to explain in her head.
But what was even more strange than that particular inconsistency was the color of the time-turner—it was black. The time-turner was still gorgeous, however. The matte black metal seemed to quite suit it, in fact, with a matching black chain.
Hermione looked down at the time-turner in the box and considered what she should do. Her immediate decision was to turn it in to Professor McGonagall—but, when Hermione picked it up, she found that the time-turner began to absentmindedly turn on its own, something that it should only have done when prompted.
Normally, that would have ruled it out as even more suspicious to Hermione, but for some reason, Hermione felt… extremely attached to this particular piece, as if it truly belonged to her. She was never all that fond of the color black, but something about the time-turner drew her to it.
So, Hermione got dressed, and looped the time-turner around her neck. It continued to spin on its own, and with that, Hermione decided that it was nothing but an enchanted piece of jewelry.
"A real time-turner wouldn't be black, anyways…" murmured Hermione to herself as she quietly exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She began to take off briskly, as it was Friday evening, and Professors usually lingered around for a bit longer to catch any students past curfew.
She made to the staircase leading to the Fat Lady's portrait when she sensed a rather annoying itch on her stomach. Thoughtlessly, she went to scratch it, only for her fingers to collide with the time-turner.
Hermione looked down, and gasped.
The time-turner was spinning much faster now, much faster than it was just minutes ago. In fact, it was turning so quickly that it was slowly beginning to look like just a black orb, the circular pieces surrounding the hourglass continuously rubbing against Hermione's sweater.
Before she even realized what was happening, the time-turner suddenly stopped. Hermione held her breath, her heart suddenly beating viciously in her chest.
Nothing happened. Hermione let out a breath. She felt a bit ridiculous, as if something that was clearly an imitation piece could have any power—
Suddenly, there was a deafening crack that caused Hermione's knees to buckle—or maybe it was the sudden, sickening feeling of the corridor around her beginning to spin at 360 degrees at sonic speed, all while Hermione stood still—or maybe it was the incredible feeling in Hermione's stomach that made her feel like she was going to be sick forty times over—
Hermione felt herself hit the cold corridor floor, and then, she was gone.
Hermione awoke where she last remembered being, in the same exact spot at the base of the staircase leading to the Gryffindor common room. Slowly, she was able to stand, touching a hand up to her aching head. She looked around to see if anyone had heard the crack, but she didn't see anyone around.
I… Must have fainted, Hermione told herself slowly, still a bit disoriented. That was when she noticed all of the sand on her frontside—the time-turner, still around her neck, had broken.
"Oh, really," muttered Hermione, sweeping all of the sand off and onto the floor, "Sorry, Filch…"
A bit wary of what had just happened, Hermione cautiously made her way up the staircase, tightly gripping the handrail. Maybe the stress had gotten the best of her, causing her to collapse… but the baths really seemed to be helping with how Hermione had been feeling…
"Porcelain pot," said Hermione tiredly as she neared the portrait, rising the Fat Lady from her slumber. However, the portrait didn't swing backwards—instead, the Fat Lady was looking flatly at her through sleepy eyes, her eyes looking at Hermione's clothes, and then back to her face.
"Porcelain pot," repeated Hermione.
"Incorrect," said the Fat Lady, yawning.
Hermione's eyes widened. "No, that can't be. You changed it just this morning, I distinctly remember you telling me when I left for breakfast."
"Well, then you've gotten the wrong portrait, dear. I haven't changed my password for nearly a week," replied the Fat Lady irritably. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I was having a good dream before you interrupted me."
Immediately, there was a terrible, horrible feeling in Hermione's stomach. She glanced back down at the time-turner still looped around her neck, studying it pointlessly. A heavy cloud was beginning to loom of Hermione, one that was casting serious, yet impossible ideas into her mind…
Hermione didn't have much else to go, so she took off down the staircase. Normally, she'd make a beeline for the library—not that she knew what she'd even do there, it was just usually a first good step—but she knew it wouldn't be open for many hours.
She almost just wanted to sit outside the portrait and wait for another Gryffindor to come back and let her in, but something about the castle around her didn't sit right with her. Her instincts were confirmed as she traveled further throughout the castle—had that knight's armor always been there? …That statue should be on the fourth floor, not the sixth… There should be an array of portraits right here, but the wall is blank…
Properly unnerved, Hermione decided that she should head back to the Room of Requirement. There were couches there in the bathroom, she could rest there until daybreak, grab some breakfast with Ginny, and tell her all about the mysterious time-turner… The castle changes all the time, it was nothing special, surely…
She had just made it to the main corridor of the seventh floor when she heard something.
Really, she was amazed that she hadn't been caught yet, so when she turned to look at the noise, she was almost certain that she would be met with a Professor, waves of relief immediately filling her—certainly, seeing McGonagall or Flitwick would calm her nerves—
But there was no one there. But she was certain that she had heard a noise, a noise that sounded very much like someone saying something very quietly.
"… Hello?" asked Hermione tentatively, looking around. Her wand only partially lit the dark corridor, but with what she could see, she didn't see anyone there—until a familiar piece of parchment on the corridor floor caught her eye.
It was the Marauder's Map. From a distance, Hermione could see it was blank, but she was certain that it was it, judging by the way it was folded up. Frankly, Hermione wasn't quite sure if this was good news or not—as far as she was concerned, the map still should be in Harry's possession.
Maybe that means Harry is here? thought Hermione to herself, walking forward to pick it up. He would absolutely zero reason to be here, but in a castle that was growing to be more unfamiliar by the second, Hermione was grasping for any hint of familiarity.
Again, Hermione could have sworn she heard whispers. But when she turned her head in the direction of the sound, nothing.
Hermione really wasn't sure on why the map was just lying there on the ground, but it was extremely fortunate that Hermione had come across it—otherwise, someone else would have surely picked it up and tossed it, believing it to be just an old sheet of parchment paper.
Except it wasn't an old sheet of parchment paper, Hermione realized. No, the parchment smelled of new books, and each of the folds seemed quite crisp. Either this isn't the map, thought Hermione, or this is… a newer version?
Hermione immediately erased the latter idea from her head—there was no way Harry had the time or resources to recreate the map, and why would he, anyways? But at that point Hermione figured there was really only one way to find out.
She took out her wand, pointed it at the map, and whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Immediately, the ink drawings appeared on the parchment. Hermione pursed her lips in confusion, slowly opening the map and searching for her location on the map.
The moment she found her own name, her breath caught in her throat.
Just mere paces behind her were two pairs of footprints slowly approaching her, labeled with their own names. Names that made about zero sense to Hermione even after reading them over and over, names that simply did not process in her head.
Hermione spun around in shock, her hand clamping over her mouth as she expected to be faced by the owners of the footprints. However, there was no one there at all. Hermione glanced down at the map again—they had stopped, but they should have been there directly in front of her—
No, Hermione immediately thought, No.
But, nonetheless, she did the only thing in that moment that made sense.
She reached forward blindly, and as soon as her fingers felt fabric, she closed her fist around it and pulled.
As she pulled off the invisibility cloak, she saw Harry—but no, it wasn't Harry, because his eyes, his eyes were hazel, and the boy next to her looked all too familiar—they were looking at her in absolute bewilderment, frozen just as she was before she glanced down at the map just one more time, just in case the map had malfunctioned before, but no—
James Potter; Sirius Black.
"No," whispered Hermione, looking back up at them, "No, that's not right, this isn't—"
"What, the bloody hell y'mean, no?" asked Harry in complete bafflement—no, not Harry, but with a voice quite similar to Harry's, but a bit deeper, just a bit— "I reckon that we should be the ones confused."
"Who even are you?" said the boy next to him, his voice and face shockingly familiar— "And how about explaining why you've got Gryffindor robes on, we'd be well bloody aware of your existence by now if you were in our house—"
Harry, no, not Harry said something else, and then his friend said another thing, but words weren't quite processing in her head anymore—the words and sounds all got very quiet, her vision edging with black, and soon enough she felt her knees buckle, map and cloak falling out of her hands before promptly fainting.
Hermione awoke in the hospital wing.
Groaning as she rubbed her eyes, she struggled to remember how she even came to be here. She knew that she had regained consciousness seconds after she hit the corridor floor—in fact, she could even remember some of what was being said as she was carried to the hospital wing (she distinctly remembers someone saying, "And now she's gone and fainted! Honestly, the nerve of complete weirdos"). But even then, she could still feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness—from shock, surely, or perhaps an after-effect of her previous incident—
Hermione suddenly remembered just who must have helped carry her.
Her eyes shot open, and she quickly sat up in the hospital bed, only to let out a small yelp at the sight of a familiar face sitting to the left of her bed.
It was Dumbledore, certainly—his beard was a bit shorter, yes, and his usual half-moon spectacles were oval-shaped, but he otherwise looked mostly the same. His expression wasn't exactly a kind one—he was likely very suspicious on how a complete stranger made it into the castle without his knowing—but it didn't matter, because he was there in front of her.
"P-Professor Dumbledore," stammered Hermione, her eyes widening. In that moment in time she had no idea what to say, or even how to formulate words, really, but seeing her old headmaster well and alive—well, she wasn't quite sure how to process it.
"Well," said Dumbledore, the usual twinkle slowly returning to his eyes, "That is certainly most interesting…"
Hermione blinked in confusion, before immediately realizing—Legilimency. Of course.
"Now that I have ensured that you are not, as Mr. Black put it, a 'slithering spy for the Death-Eaters,'" said Dumbledore as he began to stood, "I believe we can carry on this conversation in a more secure location… Given you feel able, of course."
From beyond the curtains blocking the view of Hermione's bed from the outside, Hermione could see a younger Madam Pomfrey speak very sternly to someone just outside the door.
"We've just got to ask her some questions," Hermione heard Sirius—she felt herself feel a faint at the realization of who was speaking alone— "Really, Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would love to hear exactly what happened—"
Hermione bit down on her lip before nodding in agreement.
Speaking didn't come to her any easier when they finally arrived to Dumbledore's office. Hermione walked alongside one of her mentors who she had known to be dead for years now, almost in a trance.
"Now then," Dumbledore began as he was sat at his desk in his office, Hermione sat across from him. As far as Hermione was concerned, Dumbledore's office hadn't changed much from what she remembered. She felt a sense of familiarity, one that she wasn't sure if she should like or not.
"I was wondering if you would like to explain yourself, Miss…"
"Granger, sir. Hermione Granger," she replied weakly. Never did she imagine herself reintroducing herself to Professor Dumbledore, for more than a couple of reasons. "I… I suppose, I should start with the fact that I'm from the year 1998."
Hermione paused to watch Dumbledore's expression. He remained smiling, faintly, unfazed. Hermione figured that he had already learned that fact for himself.
"Please continue, Miss Granger."
And then, it all just fell out—that she was a student from the future and she would still be there if she hadn't sneaked out past curfew. She kept talking and talking until it got to a point where Hermione felt she was almost talking over herself. As she recounted her journey to the current year of—well, she wasn't quite sure which exact year, but sometime the late 70s, for sure—it all finally seemed to settle in slowly. And for the first time since she arrived, well, here, Hermione felt herself feeling more and more trapped, the stone in the pit of her stomach growing heavier and heavier with every word.
Dumbledore watched her carefully, looking puzzled in some moments, amused in others. After about maybe ten minutes of talking, Hermione abruptly stopped, for she had arrived to the present moment in time of her explanation. But she wasn't done, no, far from it.
The War. Voldemort. My friends, Ron, Harry—the Chosen One. Dumbledore's own death. Sirius, James, Remus and Peter and Lily and—but no, you aren't supposed to change much more than your class schedule with a time schedule, much less the course of time, much less something that involves so many things beyond me, beyond this, probably beyond this world—
"Miss Granger," said Dumbledore softly, causing Hermione to snap back to attention, having unintentionally slumped forward in her seat. "That is all… quite extraordinary. In all of my years of living, I have come across many mysterious things… Terrible things, great things… I have seen many instances of incredible power and magic up close, and been subject to dozens more. But I have never heard of something as remarkable, and perhaps, unfortunate as what you have just told me."
"Unfortunate…" repeated Hermione, the weight at the pit of her stomach growing heavier by the moment, "Sir, I… I'm afraid that there's a great deal of information that I have no idea if I should disclose or not."
"I would certainly imagine so," agreed Dumbledore sagely, "In the midst of a war, I can only imagine what tales you have to tell."
Hermione paused to consider this, confused once more as she said slowly, "But… Professor, can't you… Can't you see for yourself? Why, why don't you…" Hermione trailed off, feeling rather gaunt.
"Well, for the same reason why I had you explain your own story, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, a certain look to his blue eyes, "Not only is it relieving to one's own consciousness to speak for themselves, but I also wasn't quite sure myself if I should look too closely into that mind of yours… Especially with what I sensed from your past."
Dumbledore paused, seeing if Hermione would interject with any new information. When she didn't, he continued speaking.
"In the hospital wing, when I looked into your eyes for the first time, I could easily see that you have been marked by war, Miss Granger… a war unlike ours."
Hermione sat there numbly, unable to move, but Dumbledore took her silence as confirmation. Subconsciously, her hand moved to her left forearm, tracing over the letters marking her skin beneath her sleeve.
"Meddling in time is extremely dangerous. To be aware of not only my own future, but also, the future of this school, this world—well, that's information that I feel is most unfortunate that anyone at all has. I can only imagine the sense of responsibility that you feel as if has been placed squarely upon your shoulders, Miss Granger, but I can also assure you that this is information that I won't likely ask of you, at least not for now, for reasons I'm sure you can guess.
"To be frank, I'm at a complete loss as to how you are here, and unharmed," continued Dumbledore, "time-turners have not been known to be gracious to their handlers that go too long in the past."
Hermione merely nodded. For once in her life, she found herself incapable of speaking. For once in her life, words didn't quite formulate well in her head, much less cohesive thoughts. The only thing she was certain of was the feeling of incredible dread that was slowly overwhelming her entire being, encapsulating every other thought she even attempted to have.
Dumbledore stood up, causing Hermione to once more snap out of her haze and look up.
"I'm struggling to process this information myself, Miss Granger, and I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you, experiencing it firsthand. I understand that this conversation would best be followed through with tomorrow, after a good night's rest," said Dumbledore kindly, surely aware of her incredible distress, "Luckily, we have extra chambers that would normally be for professors, and you can rest there safely knowing that no one will cross your path."
For the first time in a couple of hours—or in many years, in a way, Hermione supposed, but she wasn't about to make that distinction clear in her head—she smiled. "Thank you, professor."
Before being escorted to her chamber, Dumbledore told her a couple of things: that she best avoid talking to anyone as of now, and that they would discuss her situation as a student tomorrow—Hermione thought it was ridiculous, just popping back in time and resuming school, but she had no where else to go… No family, no friends, no, she was completely alone in a world that was sickeningly familiar, familiar to a point where it mocked her… Going to school in the past seemed absurd, yes, but if she had to spend the rest of her life here…
Hermione thought, for once in her life, she best not overthink things now.
Hermione was pleased to find that her room was quite cozy, with fluffy carpeted floors, a fireplace, a bed tucked into the corner, a desk across from it, and a dresser next to that. She even had her own personal bathroom.
Now, thought Hermione, I should just try to sleep, goodness know if I'll be able to even sleep tonight—
Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping at her door. Hardly able to imagine Dumbledore rudely knocking at her door right after he had told her to rest, Hermione was immediately wary of who could be at the door.
She remained silent, before the rapping started again.
"I know you're in there!" came Sirius' voice, immediately causing Hermione's stomach to plummet once more.
"No, no, no no no," murmured Hermione quietly to herself as she backed away from the door, sitting on her bed. "Please, please no, Sirius, you have no idea Sirius, please."
There was another moment of silence in which Hermione had thought that Sirius had figured she wasn't in there. Before Hermione could even sigh out in relief, however, she heard the lock on her door twist, the doorknob turn, and suddenly the door opened.
Hermione stared up at Sirius standing in her doorway, wide-eyed and frozen on the bed. And Sirius stared back at her, his face pulled into a look of intense concentration, yet simultaneous uncertainty.
This younger of version of Sirius was very similar to the Sirius that Hermione remembered. His grey eyes were just as piercing as she remembered them to be, his jaw just as sharp. But the lines around his mouth and eyes had been erased, his hair that barely grazed his shoulders much glossier and well-kept than of the Sirius that Hermione knew.
Maybe it was because she was sitting down, but Sirius seemed taller, his shoulders broader—or maybe that was just because Sirius was standing up straighter, with his leather jacket accentuating his shoulders, or maybe it was just because he was in shape—
"Excuse me? Are you just going to stare at me, or are you going to start explaining?" asked Sirius rather rudely, his eyes narrowing. He kept his wand pointed at Hermione, shutting the door behind him before facing Hermione again.
Hermione gawked at him. "You—You're the one in my room, how did you even find me—? Oh," said Hermione, stopping short as she noticed the map sticking out of his pocket.
"Oh, this. Yeah. You know all about this map, yeah?" Sirius pulled it out, holding it in front of her. "You seemed awfully familiar with it, earlier. You mind explaining how you knew how to use this when we have never disclosed that information to anyone else? Or how about you knew about Prong—James' invisibility cloak?"
Hermione moved her hand slowly towards her pocket to feel for her wand—but no, she had left it in her robes pocket, which was currently draped against the back of her desk chair. It seemed that she would have to do this the diplomatic way.
"Professor Dumbledore advised me to not speak to anyone," said Hermione firmly, to which Sirius barked out a laugh in response.
"Yeah? Just because you aren't a Death Eater, doesn't mean you aren't something else. You're at worst a spy, and at best a creep. So how about you just tell me now, and there doesn't have to be any consequences?" threatened Sirius, his eyes now narrowed to slits.
Hermione pursed her lips as she looked at her best friend's future godfather.
She had heard from Harry how his father and his friends used to act when they were younger, but it was quite different seeing it actually happen. This demanding, entitled sort of behavior seemed very unlike Hermione's own version Sirius.
But maybe not, reasoned Hermione in her head, He's always protecting the ones he cares about. He just wants to protect his friends.
So, Hermione huffed, crossing her arms.
"Sirius, if I tell you what you want to hear, will you just leave me alone? For good?" asked Hermione. She could feel the impending onslaught of a migraine already.
"How do you know my name?" asked Sirius angrily, thrusting his wand out further towards her.
There was a pause as Hermione scrambled for an answer before she realized she didn't have to.
"… It was on the map?" responded Hermione, her voice sounding a lot more confident than she felt. But it worked, as Sirius seemed to feel a bit ridiculous when he contemplated this. He lowered his wand, but only slightly.
"I haven't even got my wand on me, so I'm not quite sure what that's all for," added Hermione, looking at the tip of the wand pointed directly at her face.
Sirius looked around the room, wand still aimed at Hermione, walking towards her desk and opening a couple of drawers before spotting her wand in robes pocket. He hastily snatched it, before lowering his wand arm, slipping both wands into the pocket of his leather jacket with his gaze still locked onto Hermione.
"Fine. Now that I know you have no means of defense," said Sirius stiffly, "Now, are you going to explain, or not?"
"There's hardly much to even explain," responded Hermione, frantically searching in her brain for a reasonable excuse. She had hardly processed what had happened, much less thought up a cohesive backstory. "Honestly, I can't tell you much about what happened before I ran into you two. I'm still coming around to that myself, and I really haven't got a clue as to how I got here."
"Likely. Get on with the important part, about the map and cloak," urged Sirius. Hermione wrinkled her nose slightly. She certainly never disliked having a conversation with Sirius as much as she did just then.
"Well, I was walking around, aimlessly, and I found a piece of parchment on the ground." Hermione paused there, and Sirius seemed to pause in his breathing to hear whatever explanation she came up with. "And it told me, on the cover, that.."
Hermione faltered just a second, Sirius' gaze seeming to intensify.
"It just told me what to say to open the map," finished Hermione hastily. Really, what other lie could she come up with?
"Fat chance," replied Sirius quickly, as if he were waiting for an opportunity to jump on Hermione's alibi, "There's no way it would just tell you. One, it would never just give out the words, what's the point in enchanting the damn parchment then? And two, it only gives information to people who are, well—mischievous and fun in nature. You don't exactly look the sort."
"Well," said Hermione, mouth twitching a bit at the last comment, "You don't really know me, do you? And besides, if you claim that's not what happened, then how else was I supposed to know what to say? It's not like it's just a common phrase."
Sirius didn't seem convinced at all, but he also didn't seem like he had a retort for her. "And the cloak, then?" he pressed.
"I read books," replied Hermione, which was really the first truth she told Sirius, "I saw on the map that you two were directly in front of me, but I couldn't see anything. I figured you were invisible somehow, and I guessed you were using a cloak. So I reached for one."
Sirius remained quiet for a couple more seconds, and Hermione could tell that there wasn't anything wrong in Hermione's explanation, or anything that he could debunk. Internally, she exhaled a sigh of relief, congratulating herself on her fast thinking.
"That's bullshit."
Oh, for Pete's sake, thought Hermione.
"That's bullshit," repeated Sirius, furrowing his brow at her, "That's a nice, packaged and convenient answer, isn't it? You think I'm stupid?"
"Well, leaving something that is clearly so important to you right on the corridor floor isn't exactly the brightest of moves," replied Hermione stoutly. This comment only seemed to further infuriate Sirius.
"We dropped it without realizing. We were just about to go back and grab it if you hadn't come by. We just don't think it's a coincidence that a complete stranger who Dumbledore won't even tell us anything about knows two very private details."
"Who is we? You and H—James?" asked Hermione. She already knew the answer, yes, but she was curious why only Sirius was here. "Why are you so convinced that I'm some sort of spy?"
"Because we're in the middle of a bloody war and I'm not taking chances," snapped Sirius, "Pr—James, he trusts people too easily. He figures that if Dumbledore says you're alright then you must be. But I don't buy it."
"Of course you don't…" murmured Hermione quietly. She touched a hand up to her temple, which was gently pulsing. Her headache was getting worse, and Sirius' yelling certainly wasn't helping…
Sirius Black. Sirius Black was in front of her, alive, vibrant, and maybe not the most intelligent now but certainly determined. Sirius Black, who is dead, Sirius Black, who spends thirteen years in Azkaban, wrongfully charged… He'll be sentenced in just a few years, now…
The year. Hermione never asked Dumbledore for the year.
"The year," said Hermione into the silence that had just settled in between them. Sirius was still studying her carefully, arms crossed over his chest. "What—er—what year is it?"
Sirius paused, his face frozen into the same expression of angered suspicious. "What do you mean, what year is it?"
"I mean," Hermione repeated, "I'm still out of it. What year is it?"
Sirius looked at Hermione, and in the short seconds before Sirius responded, she realized a couple of things. Sirius may be needlessly suspicious, but he wasn't stupid, he was clever, and there was no way that he would believe that someone who was so out of it to the point where they didn't know the year would be out of the hospital wing, much less having an intelligible conversation.
But to Hermione's surprise, Sirius just reached back into his pocket, grabbed Hermione's wand and tossed it at her. Hermione caught it in surprise, looking at him with somewhat widened eyes.
"1977," Sirius replied tersely, "I'll admit it's useless questioning someone who is still so, ah, discombobulated." Sirius didn't look any less suspicious of Hermione than he did two minutes ago, even as he said this. "But I'm not done talking to you."
"Well, you are tonight."
Hermione flicked her wand irritably, causing the door to open behind Sirius. He furrowed his brow, looking back at Hermione curiously.
"You're quite good at nonverbal spells. Familiar with advanced magic, are we?" asked Sirius.
"Just because it hasn't crossed your mind that someone can be intelligent without an ego and a hero-complex, doesn't mean it's not possible," replied Hermione tersely, and as Sirius flared up again, Hermione kept talking, "Please. I'm talking to Dumbledore again tomorrow. He knows better than you and if I'm really that awful he'll toss me out without a second thought. Now can you please leave?"
Hermione was not about to use magic against someone who was already ready to jump on her, but she was very tempted to just blast him through the door at this point.
But Sirius, to her surprise and relief, turned to leave—not without sneering a little bit at Hermione. And, of course, he left without shutting the door either. With another flick of her wand, she shut the door, and stared at it for a bit.
She hadn't moved from her spot on the bed for the entire ordeal.
Getting ready for bed was strange. Even a hot, steamy shower wasn't able to help calm Hermione's nerves, and dressed in the sleepwear that was in her dresser, she felt out of place and almost like she was staying at a hotel—familiar, but strangely new.
1977, Hermione thought as she climbed into bed. She stared up at the ceiling for quite a while, thinking it over and over again. 1977.
I'm in the year 1977.
There's likely no way I can ever go back.
These same thoughts swirled around in Hermione's head, writing these words into the walls of her mind over and over, until finally, she could feel herself fall asleep. She had nearly forgotten how exhausting time travel was.