The alchemist's residence turned out to be a dead end. Her arrival at the secret address brought her outside the house, but it remained invisible, plotless, and intangible. How was that possible? Did her becoming a secondary secret keeper not translate across time?
The Fidelius Charm was truly a wonderful but mysterious spell. But she still clearly arrived right outside where the property should be. Must she track down Elias Higgs again? It will be infinitely more difficult as this time she had no leads and no resources.
Days later, a witch with dirty blond waves and long parted bangs stood outside the entrance of a small and inconspicuous bookstore near Knockturn Alley.
Hermione, disguised, was hopeful this time. The third time's the charm, right?
During her time in 2004, she loved this shop and was able to find some rare books on the Dark Arts she couldn't easily procure anywhere else. Today, however, she was not here to shop. She was here to apply for a job.
The bookshops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade have declined her inquiry to work as a shopgirl. They were apparently 'family businesses' and had no need for hired help at this time.
She couldn't give up, however. Really, it was the ideal job for her at this time. She needed to research souls and time travel, and having easy access to books was never a bad idea.
The nature of her work as an Auror had her going undercover as someone else quite frequently. Hermione Granger's face and hair were recognizable everywhere in the wizarding world in 2004. Even though she was now 1966, it was always beneficial to have a disguise, in case she needed to switch identities later.
Human transfiguration was a skill she worked hard at improving, and she's had very good results with it in the past.
Emerald green robes wrapped around her body. She went for Slytherin colors because she frankly needed all the help she could get at this point. She had adapted to the current witches' fashion of the sixties, and she was quite pleased with the transfiguration work she performed on the robes she found in her beaded bag.
No galleons were spent in this little fashion venture, and she was quite proud of it.
She entered and walked up to the middle-aged, lanky wizard behind the counter. He gave her a quick once over and greeted her with a smile, "Welcome to my shop, how can I help you today?"
Hermione smiled prettily. "Good afternoon. My name is Jean Miller, and I was wondering if there are any employment opportunities available here. I am very knowledgeable about books and bookshops in general. I'm a very hard worker and very personable —"
"Miss Miller, I am very sorry. You seem like a very intelligent young lady. I just don't think a small bookshop in Knockturn Alley is suitable for you. Why, you must just be out of school! The kind of clients we get here is of the very rough sort. You don't want to be associated with any of them. Also, do you see the size of this place? I don't believe I'll be needing much help at all."
She cursed internally. She should have just transfigured into an old hag if she knew this was how it was going to go.
"But sir, won't you reconsider? I'm older than I look, and I have no problems interacting with a more sinister crowd—"
"I really must decline, I'm afraid. Why don't you try Borgin and Burkes across the street? I heard that old Burke had stepped back from running the shop's day-to-day activities. They haven't had anyone else working there except Borgin for about a decade, and could probably use the help."
Hermione took a deep breath. Dejectedly, she replied, "That sounds perfect. I'll give it my best. Thank you. Have a wonderful rest of your day."
She left the shop and turned into a dirty alley and leaned against the rough brick wall. Her memories of Borgin and Burkes were all terrible. From her Hogwarts years to her Auror years, she was never able to leave the shop without a sour taste in her mouth.
She absolutely hated dealing with Borgin for her work. He was a creepy, lecherous, and greedy piece of filth, and she did not want to work at his shop.
The shop did have a collection of rare books and was constantly procuring questionable items from even more questionable sources.
Suddenly, a nauseating thought meandered to the forefront of her brain; Tom fucking Riddle worked as a shop boy at Borgin and Burkes. A decade ago.
Her brain must have really been fried by her little jaunt through time because she somehow completely failed to consider that Voldemort was still alive and an active threat in 1966. She was so wrapped up in self-pity, day-to-day basic needs like food and lodging, and getting home to her time in 2004, where Voldemort was a mere memory, that she forgot he existed at all.
She was an Auror for Godric's sake. She dedicated her life to capturing dark wizards. Robards should just fire her if and when she gets back to her own time. She was an embarrassment to her profession.
Harry should just publicly renounce her as his best friend.
As she wallowed in shame, she tried to recall what Voldemort was up to in 1966. Wasn't he touring the world learning dark arts and destroying his body or something equally revolting? He had disappeared for many years, and was set to return to British wizarding society…next year, 1967?
She couldn't recall all the extraneous details now. Harry had told her about Voldemort's past so long ago.
She should just move out of the country. Leave. Go to the United States. Don't they have sex, love, and rock & roll in the 1960s in the muggle world? She could become a revolutionary. Then she'll return after Voldemort was defeated in 1998 and meet her younger self for fun.
A flawless plan.
If only that's how time travel worked. There were so many theories regarding time travel and no one was truly certain of the truth, only that it should be avoided at all costs.
Her time turner use in the third year was child's play compared to traveling decades back in time. Also, who knew what that artifact did to the fabric of time?
Hermione groaned. She grabbed her hair and started tearing at it in frustration. People passing by were starting to ogle her strangely as she continued to agonize over her current predicament.
After several dismal minutes, Hermione was back to her pragmatic self. Filled with resolve, she had developed a new, shiny plan, in just the last few moments. She'll get that job at Borgin and Burkes for the abysmal pay in order to survive, the access to potentially rare books on time travel, and the potential opportunities to learn more about the mysterious Tom Riddle.
Those awful wizards in the shop across the street did work with him for almost a decade, from Riddle's graduation till when he disappeared in 1957. In the likely scenario she will never be able to return home, she will cherish the opportunity to begin destroying him now before he could begin his reign of terror.
Borgin was happy, even eager to hire Hermione. Something about it being the holiday season soon and everyone will be gifting interesting and rare gifts for their loved ones, and he would just appreciate the help so much.
She would have agreed with his reasoning wholeheartedly if his eyes weren't crawling all over her body as he spoke to her.
She didn't even need any references or documents to prove she was who she said she was. All he knew was that she was a half-blood, and he told her that if anyone asked, to lie and say she was a pureblood bastard from a family she is not allowed to name.
Thank Merlin for small mercies because the forged documents she had at the ready were believable only if one was visually impaired.
She never bothered studying how to magically forge important documents because there was a perfectly capable wizard at work who handled all her false identities for her cases.
This was a great opportunity to remind herself to never rely on others. It only crippled you in the long run.
She was now staying in a fairly rundown flat close to Knockturn Alley because the rent was dirt cheap, and she needed to save all she could. She had been working as Borgin and Burkes' shop girl for several weeks and managed to survive the holiday season.
Working retail was never her dream, but she did develop a whole new appreciation for retail workers everywhere over the holiday season, especially if they had to deal with entitled pure-blooded pricks day in and day out.
Borgin praised her organization and exceptional tidying skills. That's Hermione Granger, all right, renowned for her housekeeping spells.
Truly, she completely transformed the dark shop after about a week, because before she arrived, everything appeared rather filthy, and she couldn't stand to work in the shop every day in that environment.
The clients were tolerable only because she wasn't wholly inexperienced in dealing with Slytherin types. What she really wanted to do most of the time was whip out her wand and start tossing hexes like the brash Gryffindor she was, but she had cultivated a particularly Slytherin brand of cunning since she arrived.
Now she allowed insults and unreasonable demands to barrel right past her as she plastered a coy smile on her face and fantasized about ripping their face off with a particularly malicious dark curse she learned a year ago.
To Borgin's dismay, sales were just not Hermione's forte. Borgin was usually the one who would step in to make the difficult and expensive sales and meet with loyal clients.
Hermione cannot, for the life of her, deal with price negotiation and sales tactics. The small percentage of commission she made wasn't enough to motivate her to try any harder.
She was sure Tom Riddle would keep the record for "Most Sales Made in A Day" or whatever other bogus record Borgin threw out to provoke her to be even more personable and accommodating than she already was. She may be competitive, but not that competitive.
She was no saint. Borgin shouldn't ask for things that were simply impossible.
She had already met several distasteful people she presumed were early Death Eaters, or who at least knew Tom Riddle. She was keeping track just in case they purchased something particularly interesting.
They rarely gave their full names to record in the ledger, but she had heard Borgin greet certain people with more enthusiasm than others.
She had met Rodolphus' father R. Lestrange, Theodore Nott Sr., Avery, Cygnus Black, and his wife, Druella, who were purchasing gifts for their children.
She thought painfully of Bellatrix Black and had recommended their worst selection of jewelry.
One day, in her absolute boredom, she realized she was ogling a particularly handsome wizard in what looked like a muggle leather jacket.
A rare sight in these parts, to be sure.
He sauntered up to the counter. "I'm here to pick up something my mother ordered. Why she couldn't come get it herself I'll never know. Something about Knockturn Alley being full of beggars and ugly hags. But I have no idea what she's talking about." He gave her a quick once over and winked.
She blinked rapidly and flushed in embarrassment. She's surely used to this by now, but he was wearing a muggle leather jacket. Blue and green tattoos covered his neck and crawled down into his shirt. He looked like the lead singer or guitarist in a muggle band. She cleared her throat. "Under which name?"
"Irma Black. I'm Alphard Black, by the way."
Hermione stilled and looked up at the wizard who appeared to be in his late twenties. She rapidly took note of the shoulder-length hair, steel grey eyes, and her brain reminded her that Sirius had an uncle he liked who was also blasted off the Black family tapestry later in his life.
She couldn't help herself and blurted, "Do you wear that motorcycle jacket when you visit your mother?"
He grinned. "How did you know this was a motorcycle jacket?" Suspicious eyes raked over her form. "And of course, I wear it especially when I want to drive her mad," he said.
She grabbed the ordered item in question, an enchanted necklace from the 1800s, and rang it up for him.
As she handed it to him, she gave him a sad smile, knowing that he would die in the next ten years from unknown causes.
"Thank you. See you around, pretty witch!" He waved noncommittally as he left.
Hermione waved after him, feeling a bit depressed all of a sudden. It was rare for her to see the good people she heard about from her time.
Alphard Black was just someone Sirius offhandedly mentioned as being an important and influential uncle in his life, but anyone who was disowned or ostracized for a difference of beliefs from the bigoted Black family was a good person in her book.
She hoped he lived the rest of his life to the fullest and wished him the best.
The next few weeks passed with relatively little change. She had read all the books they had in stock on time travel, souls, ancient runes, and magical languages.
She'd lightly encouraged Borgin to procure rare books on time and soul magic whenever he decided to go on a rare book haul. But still had not learned anything new and relevant to her situation.
Mounting frustration caused her work ethic to suffer, and she was always two seconds from quitting completely and finding a job where her boss didn't stare at her when he thought she wasn't looking. Fortunately, Borgin had never placed his hands on her.
Just the other day, she overheard Borgin calling Hermione a 'filthy half-blood' to his business partner, Burke, during the retired wizard's rare visit in the back room. She had never been more pleased to be called a filthy half-blood.
One day in March, while Borgin was mumbling about picking up the next batch of cursed jewelry, Hermione turned to Borgin slowly and cast Legilimens.
She viewed his memories of Tom Riddle. She looked for notable instances. Borgin had always been a very jealous man. It was difficult for his ego, working with Tom Riddle. Female clients came in just to see him and flirt shamelessly.
They spent an exorbitant amount of money just to listen to him talk about the items' supposed virtues, and would then buy them just to help him earn commission.
Tom Riddle didn't even need to try at this job, and he excelled. He was almost always pleasant, charming, and professional. It was maddening. It was like looking at something inhuman.
Something entirely manufactured.
On one hand, Borgin was ecstatic that the galleons in his register piled up quickly every day, but he couldn't stand Riddle's infuriatingly perfect façade. However, there were instances.
Sometimes he would catch glimpses of pure coldness on Riddle's face, the darkening of his brow, and the unsettling flash of red in his eyes when things didn't go exactly his way.
It was chilling.
Borgin was resisting Hermione now. He was fighting to protect this next particular memory. She pushed through it.
There was that whole nasty business with Hepzibah Smith. Tom had visited her a few times to barter certain rare treasures in her vast collection.
Riddle was unusually interested in Slytherin's locket that Hepzibah was in possession of. But then she was suddenly murdered by her house-elf one day. Tom disappeared shortly after her death and hadn't been seen since.
There was no doubt in his heart that Tom Riddle murdered Hepzibah Smith that day, and took Slytherin's locket, and who knows what else, with him.
Hermione pulled out of his mind gently. She quickly obliviated the last few moments and confounded him for good measure.
Borgin blinked, shook his head, and went back to mumbling over the ledger.
It was in line with what she learned about Tom Riddle's murder of Hepzibah Smith and then disappearing with Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket. She didn't exactly learn anything new there.
What she did learn, however, was that Tom Riddle Jr. was indeed an infuriatingly beautiful man. Harry had only ever described the teenage Tom Riddle as handsome and tall.
What an understatement, Harry. It was difficult for her to reconcile that the nose-less monster everyone feared and this charming and handsome wizard in Borgin's memory were the same person.
A month later, Hermione was magically dusting the glass cases behind the counter when the door chimed.
A very tall wizard with a heavy, black cloak and deep hood entered quietly.
Dark irises bled into scarlet as the light scattered under his hood when he looked up and around the shop briefly, noting the changes to the shop she had made.
His ivory skin contrasted sharply with the dark purpling shadows under his unsettling eyes. The sweep of his bold right brow was interrupted by thin scars. Tousled, dark waves fell over his brow on one side.
High cheekbones cast shadows over hollowed-out cheeks. The knife-like cut of his jawline did nothing to soften his appearance. The most subtle magical distortion was slowly playing with his features, like the blurring of a photograph of a moving subject, but you can only see it if you looked very closely and without blinking.
She was staring. She knew who it was underneath the sinister countenance. An older version of the wizard she saw in Borgin's memories. A different version. But this was also a different wizard from the monster she remembered from the final battle. She didn't know which appeared more dangerous. Skeletal and snake-like or more human and striking?
Because even gathered from a murky memory via Legilimency, young Tom Riddle had a dark, alluring beauty that made your heart ache and your body flush.
Thus, even a fraction of that beauty was still devastating. More than a fraction.
Disturbingly, the thought that the wizard in front of her was the most captivating wizard she'd ever laid eyes upon, flashed impulsively through her mind. Even if he was mangled by dark magic, he was beautiful.
Ice trickled through her veins as a burning tension chased it. Her muscles froze. She knew she was breathing erratically, and her heart was pounding out of her chest out of fear and disgust at Voldemort's sudden appearance. She briefly wondered if he could hear it. She swallowed thickly.
He barely spared her disguised face a glance. "Is Borgin still alive? I need to see him." His smooth, deep voice with just a touch of gravel broke the silence and brought a shocking and humiliating pulse of warmth to her abdomen.
Fuck. His voice.
Why would her body respond like that? Was this ever a thing for her? She couldn't recall any instance of anyone's authoritative voice and presence having that kind of effect on her.
Hearing and seeing him in memories were worlds apart from the crushing reality of him.
It must be the dawning horror of having Voldemort suddenly appear in front of her on a relatively peaceful Tuesday afternoon. That was definitely it.
He gazed at her expectantly with cold eyes. His dark brows suddenly twitched and eyes narrowed as he began to stare at her face more carefully.
She started panicking and wondered if he could somehow see the real Hermione through her transfigured features, and averted her eyes quickly. As she was not prepared for him today, she quickly strengthened the shields in her mind.
She was confident in her Occlumency skills and can probably hold them even after a few rounds of the Cruciatus curse.
She was confident because she had trained for it with Harry's very reluctant help finding individuals skilled with both and who were willing to cast them on her. But she had never been tested by one of the most powerful Legilimens in the world, either.
She turned quickly to leave and then turned back to him in embarrassment. What was she going to do? Run to the back in a panic and say, 'Hey boss? Tom Riddle, your old shop boy, is here. I mean, Lord Voldemort is here.' Fuck.
She cleared her throat and plastered a somewhat manic smile on her face. She cheerfully replied in her most professional retail voice, "Yes, of course, sir. Mr. Borgin is available today. Who should I say is asking for him?"
A corner of his surprisingly sensual, sculpted lips curled. "Just tell him an old acquaintance has come back to collect something."
Voldemort left the shop shortly after meeting Borgin in the back room. She had been hiding in the storage room, disillusioned for good measure, pretending to sort through inventory. She was afraid he was going to obliviate her on his way out for being unfortunate enough to lay eyes on him in the first place.
Now that he left, Hermione peeked through the door to the backroom to make sure Borgin was still alive. Not that she really cared about his miserable life, but he still owed her last week's wages.
Hermione returned to the counter and let out a long, stagnant breath she didn't even realize took a toxic turn in her lungs. She was breathing so shallowly before.
The tension left her body and she sagged in relief and almost dropped to the ground like a heavy bag of stones. No one died in this shop today.
Less than two meters from him, she knew she had been trembling with anxiety. She didn't think he would turn up so suddenly, so soon. She wondered if he came to obliviate Borgin of all memories of Tom Riddle and finally erase his past.
Wasn't he to be back later to ask for the DADA post at Hogwarts and hide his Horcrux in the Room of Requirement?
It was April 1967. It seemed a little too early for his return, but she didn't know the exact date. It would make sense for him to ask for it in the summer of 1967 before school started.
She couldn't even process her terror. His reputation as the evilest wizard for the last several hundred years and what he had managed to achieve in her past was just too overwhelming right now. It shouldn't have crippled her like this so much. She was a vital part of the group that had defeated him, once and for all. She destroyed his Horcruxes and watched him die.
She was a war heroine and an accomplished Auror, and had subsequently made a whole career out of dealing with potential dark lords.
But he was also the darkest wizard of her time, and his pure-blood supremacist agenda included torturing, killing, and subjugating muggles and muggle-borns.
Mudbloods. Like her.
She couldn't keep this transfigured appearance up forever. Especially now that he had seen it and suspicion had crept into his eyes briefly. She needed to leave this establishment immediately.
Like, yesterday.
Should she get in contact with Dumbledore now? Now that she knew that Voldemort was back? He was here and planning on commencing his reign of terror soon. She wanted to be involved. She needed to help. She knew too much. She couldn't just sit back during this time and watch it all happen again.
But she didn't want to affect the timeline because at least it was a victory in the very end.
It didn't matter how many lives he had destroyed along the way. That his death was even permanent in her time was a miracle in itself.
Dread twisted in her gut. What if it wasn't permanent? What if her accidental journey into the past was an elaborate backup plan to immortality instigated by Voldemort himself?
What if she was here to unwittingly help him gain a second chance to do it all over? He spent a decade researching god knows what kind of dark magic in all corners of the earth and could have somehow allowed this to happen.
But there was no way. His arrogance should have been satisfied with seven Horcruxes. But she couldn't underestimate his absolute desire for immortality. He tore apart his precious soul over and over again just to ensure it. Who was to say he wouldn't go a step further? But why involve her?
There were better candidates to help him, surely. Like any of his Death Eaters would have been a better, not to mention, willing choice.
There were just too many theories to juggle.
Could she actually change the future? She could save people, but she could also cause people to be 'unborn' in turn. It was a frightening thought.
Was she supposed to be here because it's all happened before? Did it even matter what she did here if it was all the same?
If she couldn't return to her time, did that mean that by September 1979, there will be two Hermiones? Maybe this current version of herself had already died in 2004.
Or perhaps she was in a whole new timeline, an alternate universe, and she may change the events of the future in this universe with no effect on her original one.
It was too bloody much. She needed assistance. All this time working at Borgin and Burkes chasing crumbs on time travel was leading her nowhere and only gave her numerous headaches. She had not learned anything concrete in her research. She needed some guidance.
Her logical mind was folding in on itself trying to figure out time travel theory and paradoxes, and the what-ifs. She didn't think anyone had traveled this far back before. It was unprecedented. It was never recorded, at least.
Maybe now was a good time to just move to a remote country and isolate herself. Learn new magic and absorb knowledge at her leisure.
It sounded so idyllic and so impossible.
Her eyes heated rapidly against her will. Frustrated tears started to leak steadily down her cheeks. She was not a young girl or teenager anymore, but the reality of her situation was just too daunting. She missed her parents, her friends, and the career she worked so hard to excel in. She missed the time when she was relatively safe and Voldemort was dead. She didn't have the energy to fight him all over again, alone.
The weight of it all was crushing her. The knowledge that the fate of the British wizarding world was in her hands was simply too much. Didn't she deserve some measure of peace after all she went through in the war? She sniffed pathetically and cried into her arm some more. She needed something familiar. Comfort.
A piece of home.
She needed to leave this wretched place and go to Hogwarts.
A/N: Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts about this fic so far! :)