Chapter Two

January, 1900.

"Bloody hell!" Hermione growled as she swiped her arm across the work bench in sudden anger, tossing all her research unceremoniously to the wooden floor.

Almost three months had passed in a blur while Hermione had been busy studying every text she could get her hands on in Paris' magical community. She'd found no text that explained the effects lightning had on a magical being or how it could possibly send someone back a century. Hermione hadn't found a shred of experimentation or theory that shed light on her situation. As truly remarkable as it was for her to have survived the electric shock, the lightning didn't seem to be the cause of her getting sent back in time.

Following that thought, Hermione had poured over ancient tomes, essays and had even dipped into muggle science to look for any hint of information. She'd developed many theories, only to find each one lacking. Just one theory she'd come across had sounded remotely possible. But although it was a solid hypothesis, it wasn't as if she could test it.

Ley Lines.

It had to be.

She'd began organizing her thoughts and delved further into research right away. Her hypothesis was that the electrical current had somehow affected a ley line, creating some sort of portal that sent her back in time. Of course, evidence was dubious and only existing theories on ley lines wouldn't be voiced until the twenties, if she remembered correctly, and those contained nothing of being pushed through time.

Unless, of course, there was information out there she was unaware of—research that hadn't been done yet.

Hermione's legs buckled, sending her crashing to the floor. Her body quaked as sorrow gripped her, the pain over everyone she'd lost surging into her chest. She curled in on herself, as the unrelenting tightness made her feel as though she was dying, causing her to hyperventilate.

At this rate she may never find a way home.

"Pull yourself together, Granger," she told herself, but made no move to get off the floor or dry her eyes.

It would be for naught anyways.

July, 1901.

Hermione Granger woke to the sound of a rooster's high croaking from right outside her second story window. Sighing irritably, she opened her eyes, surprised to have slept in until dawn.

Hermione threw the covers back and stumbled over to the basin to wash her face. She'd been staying at an inn just off the English Channel in Normandy since the day she had arrived in France, going by an unassuming name and keeping to herself. She acted like an orphan of a well-off family from southern France. The cover story she'd constructed for herself was simple; her parents thought it best for her to get some northern air. The innkeeper didn't believe it for a moment, but for the right price he'd agreed to keep quiet, allowing her to stay as long as she was no trouble and made sure her payment was made on the first of every month.

It had been a long year and a half, but Hermione was getting through it with little struggle. Exchanging her galleons for muggle currency in Paris had been easy enough.

"Mademoiselle?" a voice called from the opposite side of her bedroom door.

"Oui?"

She heard the small voice of the girl on the other side ask her in French if she would like to help making bread this morning. Smiling, Hermione told her that she would be out momentarily.

Hermione and Cecile, the innkeeper's daughter, had hit it off the moment she'd arrived and she'd assisted her every morning since the very first day. During the day, they walked the village together, collecting items for dinner and running errands for Cecile's mother. Hermione found it was a simple way to spend her day, the routine relaxing her and for the first time since the war she felt a sort of peace settle over her. And after dinner, Hermione would excuse herself from Cecile's company and remove herself to her room to study whatever materials she'd found. Once every two weeks she apparated into the French wizarding quarter near Paris and searched for books on time travel, ley lines, and other natural phenomena.

After a year she had come to the conclusion that, with the lack of proper research materials, she was stuck in the past.

That discovery had been awful and Hermione had sunk into a depression that lasted the span of the winter of 1900 into the spring months of 1901. 1900 wasn't at all like her original timeline, learning to assimilate into French culture and the period had been a challenge. Although she spoke French fluently, learning the customs of this era had been a trying feat for Hermione, and often she found herself biting the inside of her cheek to cut off the flow of some scathing retort. Men were blatantly sexist, child abuse was rampant, and many other issues she was having trouble dealing with.

Realizing she might not see Harry and Ron ever again was heartbreaking. Out of everything she'd endured while adjusting to this time, understanding she had lost them forever tore her apart. Despite what she had discovered the night she'd been struck, Hermione still loved Ron. Now, she would never have a chance to confront him or gain closure. Harry, he was her brother—an extension of herself, without him she felt broken, as though trying to complete a puzzle without having all the pieces. She didn't know what to do with herself, so instead she'd focused on filling the void with more books. And hope.

By springtime, Hermione was ready to work on casting her depression aside and blend in completely. It was a slow process, dealing with her grief. One couldn't simply brush depression aside like it wasn't a real issue, because it was and she needed help. Without the proper resources, however, she realized she would have to deal with it on her own. She squared her shoulders and decided there was no use in wallowing. Careful but determined, Hermione decided she would move forward as best as she could, and continue to research.

She was under no illusions about just how long and strenuous the process was sure to be.

August, 1903.

Hermione pulled her hood over her head and stalked quietly down the streets of Paris, intent on staying out of view but steadily making her way into the heart of the city where the wizarding section lay hidden. She was out of books on the indigenous foliage of France, for both magical and non-magical uses, and she'd read through all her other tomes in her leisure time, so she needed new material.

After her decision to move forward, Hermione had decided to look for an inn that would give her room and board for the exchange of labor—as the inn she'd stayed at previously hadn't offered that to her and she decided wasting her galleons would be a disservice to herself. She'd quickly found somewhere less favorable and lived there for the past few years. Some days, she missed Cecile dearly, but never seeing the girl again was for the best. Instead, she researched.

Moving through the streets, Hermione came to the door of an old, used bookstore in muggle Paris and stepped inside, nodding to the attendant when she locked eyes with him. He nodded in return, his face an impassive mask as she walked past him to the back of the stacks and into the ladies' room.

Once inside, Hermione ensured the two wooden privacy stalls were empty before focusing on the rectangular painting adorning the wall. She strode forward, taking in the piece the way she had the first time she'd ever seen it; winged skeletal humans, standing over what Hermione could only interpret as gravestones resting upon rich earth. It seemed to her as though they were offering a sort of sanctuary to the fallen ones. The work was out of place in the peachy, immaculately decorated, lavatory.

Pulling her wand from its place stitched into her right sleeve, Hermione proceeded to tap the skull of the largest winged human. It's eyes glowed a brilliant emerald and the wooden floor started to shift where it met the wall. A few seconds passed before the boards revealed a dark hole with stone steps leading down into its seemingly fathomless depths.

"Lumos," Hermione whispered, descending the stairs with practiced ease. She didn't flinch as the hole sealed shut above her with a resounding snap. Cold, stale air enveloped her as she continued downwards. The sounds of her footsteps echoed in the emptiness. Hermione cast a quick warming charm as a faint glow appeared just below her, the light growing larger as she drew nearer until she'd reached the bottom.

Extinguishing her wand light, Hermione strode confidently through the torch-lit chamber, ignoring the chill that swept down her spine as she kept her eyes focused on the tunnel. It wasn't her first time in the catacombs of Paris, but seeing the dead stacked against the walls as if made of plaster never failed to make her shudder.

The further she went. the colder the catacombs seemed to become, until finally the murmuring sound of a distant ground could be heard resonating through the chamber. Hermione slowed her steps when she felt the tingle of magic sweep across her senses. As she came face to face with a dead end an infinite sea of eye sockets started to glow in the same emerald color of the painting in the bathroom. She shuddered as the bones began to realign, shifting away from the center and inward. The tunnel was suddenly illuminated by sunlight as the structure split, causing Hermione to flinch and shield her eyes.

The streets were rather packed, since September was only days away; students and parents were bustling around from shop to shop buying necessary items for their children to attend Beauxbatons. Hermione couldn't help but smile fondly at the memories brought to the forefront of her mind as she watched the excited children running to and fro.

She quickly dipped into a building to avoid the throng of what looked to be ten older students racing down the street, smiling softly as she smelt freshly baked bread and wandered farther inside.

The shop was practically deserted, save for a prickly looking middle-aged man that gave her a once over and a stink eye the moment she walked in. His face was set in a cantankerous expression, as if the mere sight of her had rubbed him the wrong way. His scowl deepened when she raised an eyebrow in silent challenge and turned away from him. She walked up to the counter without wasting another thought on the guy.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle," the shopkeeper greeted as she stepped up to the counter. "Puis-je vous aider?"

"Oui, un s'il vous plaît."

The shopkeeper grinned at the sale and fetched a fresh baguette, packaging it with the finesse of someone who'd been doing business for years.

"Merci Monsieur," she said as he handed her the wrapped bread in exchange for her money.

"De rien Madame!"

Hermione opened the package and tore a piece off the baguette, popping it into her mouth before she'd reached the door of the shop. The flavor was so delicious she nearly turned back around to purchase another for later. Catching a glimpse of the scowling man that occupied the shop and hadn't once let her out of his sight or changed his angry look, she stepped back out onto the busy streets, deciding not to dawdle. Looking both ways, she was content to continue her journey, now that the racing children were out of the street.

It didn't take long for Hermione to enter the bookstore. She greeted the shop owner with a smile, stopping a moment to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly printed books. Hermione sauntered over to the Potions' section, intent on finding more complex potions that focus on healing. She was of the mindset that if she were to suffer the loneliness of being back in time without a single person she'd once known then she could at least make something of herself while at it.

She could learn to heal, perhaps even go so far as to become a medi witch. Her career as an activist had been effectively squashed by the jump through time. If she were being honest with herself, Hermione no longer felt that her life from her own timeline was what she wanted for herself anymore. All she'd ever wanted was to do good in the world, and she'd only now realized that she could achieve that without going into politics.

"Madame, parlez-vous anglais?" A gruff voice from her left inquired, jarring her from her thoughts as she perused the old wooden stacks.

Startled, she turned to face the man who'd spoken, wondering who could possibly be asking her if she spoke English here in Paris. Her eyebrow arched when she realized it was the man who'd observed her earlier. "Yes?"

"Good. My French gets worse the older I get, but I've long since decided not to return to Britain," he responded as he shook her hand. "Name's Casius, Casius Wright. I noticed your books earlier, are you an apprentice?"

Instead of responding right away, she gave the man a once-over. He seemed to be no more than fifty, which wasn't old by wizarding standards. Gone was the scowl, in its place rested a tired half-smile. He held himself with languor, as if he'd not had a moment to himself in days and he was liable to fall over any given moment. She wondered why he could possibly want to know that, but decided to indulge him.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wright. I'm Vanessa Dubois. And to answer your question, sir: no, I'm merely curious about the subject," she responded.

He smiled then, revealing somewhat yellowing teeth. She thought one might have been decaying but his smile vanished before she could be certain.

"Curious to learn, perhaps?"

Hermione fought to keep from pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance, hoping he would have gotten to the point without the added pleasantries. The more time she spent speaking to someone in the past, the more likely she would be recognized in the future. Her mind briefly flashed to the theory of the butterfly effect." I apologize, sir, I have a busy schedule this afternoon; what can I do for you?"

The man straightened, and looked her in the eye as if understanding she was growing weary of speaking with a stranger. "If you're curious to learn the art of Potion making, I know of a master in need of a student."

Now he had Hermione's full attention. The thought of being accepted as an apprentice weighed heavily on her mind. It was an opportunity that could launch a career, and if she played her cards right, there were a plethora of options for a Potions Master. She was certain that Professor Snape could have disappeared for decades, conducting business from his home by way of owl if he'd wanted to. She nodded once, encouraging Mr. Wright to continue.

"My father," he began, "is a bitter, encrusted, and ancient man. He's brilliant at what he does and keeps to himself. I've been working with him for the past two decades, helping him run his apothecary and being his 'partner' of sorts. However, I have a family to attend to and my own vocation." Hermione was still waiting for the catch, and it came a few moments later. "I've finally convinced him to take an apprentice, though he's denied every single student I brought to meet him from Beauxbatons."

"But you're under the impression he may accept me, should I decide to speak with him? Why?" she questioned.

He shrugged. "I'm not, really, I simply noticed your books and thought I would extend the offer." Mr. Wright pulled a slip of parchment from his breast pocket and handed it over to her. "Come to this address at noon tomorrow, if you decide to chance the interview. The worst he could say is no, Miss Dubois."

Later that night, Hermione was unable to concentrate on her books, and found her eyes wandering over to the small slip of parchment on her night table.

For the sake of alleviating her boredom with the life she was living, and a chance at a Mastery, she knew she was going to at least try.

September, 1908.

"Miss Dubois, get the bloody beaker of murtlap off the burner and bring it to the study immediately!" an angry, grating voice demanded, making the paper-thin walls rattle.

Hermione instantly did as was asked of her. Hard work and persistence had won her an apprenticeship with the most reclusive and angry Potions Master in France; Casius Wright's father, Claudius Wright. He had been harsh when she'd come to him, and misogynistic. Having been a student of the Professor Severus Snape had taught her how to handle this man's attitude. She'd begun wondering whether being in a perpetually foul mood was something all great potions masters had in common. He'd been a hard man to please, and he'd taken her on as a 'trial' apprentice after she had proven herself by brewing the most complex potion that had been developed in the last decade.

He'd agreed to teach her, albeit reluctantly.

Hermione had to keep her glamour up at all times. The one Casius had seen that first day in Paris to ensure that no one would recognize her when she left France and to stay under the radar as much as 'd made her hair blonde; a color that had taken some time to get used to. It made her complexion look washed out and she didn't like the effect it had on her face but she'd had no choice. Vanity had never been a problem for Hermione Granger in the past, but the older she got, the more she seemed to care that she'd yet to outgrow certain features.

Her cheeks, while they had lost most of their baby fat over the years, still had a bit of a round quality to them. She couldn't help her bushy mop, evidently that would never go away, but mercifully she could tame it somewhat with a brew she'd devised that was stronger than the Sleakeazy potion from her time. Hermione wasn't prone to be vain, she never had been, but this period called for hair to be styled in certain ways. It had just been another check on the list she had devised for her assimilation process.

Hermione's appearance was still very youthful, which made her wonder. She was meant to be twenty-eight, but she looked exactly the same as the day she'd discovered she'd been thrown into the past. She had been observing these small things about herself quite often, especially in the past few months. Pushing the thoughts from her mind to mull over later, Hermione focused on her task of chopping more murtlap for Mr. Wright.

She had now been studying under Master Wright for five years. In fact, she'd already earned her Mastery over a year ago and was now simply working for him out of comfort and habit. She knew his ways, knew how he worked and moved. She received room and board for her labors and was content to remain here. He'd often asked why she stayed, considering how easy it would be for her to become a Professor or go into research with any wizarding company of her choosing.

She told him it was because she'd miss his sunny disposition.

Hermione heard shuffling and didn't bother to look up from what she was doing, knowing it was the senior Master Wright even before she heard his rough voice sounding over her left shoulder. "Good. Now fetch a handful of elderberries from the garden."

She nodded and dropped what she was doing immediately. She'd learned in the first month to do as he said and only ever question him if she thought it was a matter of safety.

Walking out into the garden, Hermione was swallowed by a feeling of serenity. She often spent time sitting amongst the foliage; it had always managed to soothe her mental upheaval whenever she began to think about her past that was the future. As she grabbed the berries, Hermione considered, not for the first time, leaving the comfort of this quiet home in the French countryside. She knew she wouldn't be able to stay much longer.

September, 1909.

"I saw your research the other day, girl, the stuff you've been hiding in your room that you've been pouring over ever since you got here all those years ago," Mr. Wright stated, shuffling into the small kitchen area of his home, observing her reaction with dark eyes. She looked up from the newspaper and eyed him carefully.

"You went through my things?" she asked calmly, though panic began to rush through her. Her right hand clenched on the edge of the wooden table as she realized the consequences of Mr. Wright's knowledge of her research. Dozens of possibilities floated to the forefront of her mind as she waited for him to continue, her hand slowly reaching for her wand without alerting him.

He shook his head, salt and pepper hair that had become rather long swayed slightly at the movement. "No, you dropped some on your way to the floo yesterday." He pulled a folded parchment from his shirt pocket. "Seems you're having trouble with something called 'ley lines.' I should tell you, never heard of ley lines before but from what I read on this parchment, you're looking for Chinese dragon lines. Seems to me it's the same concept."

Hermione drummed her fingers against the wooden table she'd grabbed and bit the inside of her cheeks. Her brows snapped together and she turned on her heel, practically marching into her room. Chinese dragon lines, she hadn't thought of referencing another culture! Mentally berating herself, Hermione summoned parchment and ink, and hunched over her desk making a note to begin research on this new lead.

The door to her room creaked open and Master Wright stopped on the threshold, glaring across the room at the small woman in the corner. Hermione hadn't registered the change in the room until he said, "Happy Birthday. Anyways, I wanted to let you know I'll be traveling to Belgium next week for a conference. You're welcome to come."

Hermione froze, her hand stopping mid stroke as her body tensed.

It was her thirtieth birthday today. For a decade she'd been stuck in the past, a decade since she'd been burdened with this delapitating hole in her chest, the hole that could only be filled by Harry and Ron. Her eyes slid closed. "Thank you, Master Wright," she said quietly. When the door clicked shut, Hermione released a shaky breath and a tear slid down her cheek, landing on the parchment.

She couldn't picture Harry's face anymore. When she conjured the image of him in her mind, he was a blur of dark hair, bottle-green eyes, and a scar. Ron was a blur of red hair and freckles in her mind's eye. Neither had defined features. It was as though she'd only ever known the two of them in passing. She still felt the pain of their loss, still curled into herself at night to cry over the crippling feelings of loneliness that threatened to choke her, wrapping her in cold, dispassionate darkness.

Hermione looked up, and then to the right of her where her vanity was located, observing herself. Eyes puffy and bloodshot from the tears that flooded them, cheeks flushed, hair a mess of curls - those were mere passing qualities. The issue, one that had been a creeping realization over the past few years, was that she looked the same today as she had in 1999. Not a single change to her appearance; no laugh lines, wrinkles, no changes to her body shape, her face was structured the same exact way it had been ten years ago, her skin bright and vibrant. She looked twenty years old.

Hermione closed her eyes again, finally admitting the unthinkable to herself: she wasn't ageing.

December, 1911.

New York City was incredibly beautiful in the winter. The snow falling between the buildings, the rush of the people surrounding her on Broadway. Although she missed winters curled up by the fire in England, reading a book in the same room as her mother and father, Hermione loved everything about this city. She smiled to herself as she trudged down the street in her uniform.

"Adeline!" Hermione heard someone call over the roar of the crowd, she strained to look around for whomever called her name and smiled when she met the eyes of one of her classmates, Louisa.

"Good Morning, Louisa!" Hermione greeted her acquaintance once the blonde had caught up with her. "Are you ready for today?"

The blonde looked as though she were going to be sick. "I'm not sure, Addie, I've never seen a surgery before—what if I can't handle it?"

After realizing she wasn't ageing, well, having what she felt was confirmation based on her own observations, Hermione had taken a boat from France to America. She'd been hoping to take part in American's advancing muggle medical prowess before heading to China to research ley lines. She needed time to learn Chinese, anyways. She'd sailed for Ellis Island with transfigured travel papers in hand and precious little muggle currency.

After weeks on the ship, as the technology of her era had yet to be developed to make the trip less than a week, New York had been a sight to behold. As the ship drew close enough to view the Statue of Liberty, the energy of the people on the ship manifested like an entity of its own. Men and Women were crying tears of joy, many were coming to America either to escape the rule of their country's political regime or earn enough money to return home and buy land. Hermione found herself crying along with them and hoping they achieved their dreams.

The processing on Ellis Island was tedious, medical testing afterwards was horrible and somewhat demeaning. After that she was finally allowed to step off the island and venture into New York City for the first time.

It had been love at first sight.

She'd decided to hide out in the muggle world when she'd passed through processing. The MCUSA was known for having backwards and strict laws, and Hermione knew from her own research that she wasn't supposed to converse with muggles as a magical being, and she should have applied for entry to the country instead of just showing up. So, Hermione did her best to stay far away from other witches and wizards. Now, two years later, she had acquired a small loft in Brooklyn and was studying to become a nurse. It had been easy to falsify documentation that 'proved' she'd attended at least one year of high school and other prerequisites to be accepted into the school. Hers was a small class of thirteen women under a harsh middle aged Registered Nurse called Lucille Eberhart, and a young Doctor by the name of Silas Moore.

"Just remember that what Dr. Moore is doing is meant to save the patient or make the patient's life more comfortable."

Louisa groaned, the unladylike sound turning a couple heads that passed them by on the street. Hermione sent those who'd stared a testy glare and they'd continued on their way. Honestly, she still had trouble adjusting to this era.

"Easy for you to say, you're a natural. I've never known someone who actually attended these classes to make a career of it until you came along," Louisa stated, kind russet eyes looking up at Hermione in adoration. "It helps that Nurse Eberhart seems to be fond of you, she hates the rest of us."

Nurse Eberhart was a stern woman, she allowed for no 'funny business' among the ladies. Most of the women were young, over half of them thinking this to be a job that could help them find a doctor for a husband and well over half of them had dropped the classes once they'd realized it would be a demanding profession. Another handful had dropped out just weeks in after their advances on Doctor Moore hadn't led to anything meaningful.

Doctor Moore was a quiet man of only twenty-nine years. His sandy blonde hair made him look unassuming at first glance, but it was his eyes that told his story. Deep set and dark blue like glittering sapphires that spoke of dark promises. He caused her insides to tighten and her heart to clench when he was near, a reaction that she found she surprisingly didn't entirely dislike. Hermione had caught herself enraptured in his gaze more often than she'd care to admit, herself. But Hermione was a responsible woman. She was here to acquire this era's muggle medical knowledge, not have a relationship or even so much as a fling with a man she couldn't possibly have any kind of future with.

Hermione was content as Adeline Dubois, a second-generation French immigrant, and challenged by her peers in her medical classes. Of course, she was a step ahead of most of them, having come from the future where there had been nearly a century of medical advances and the knowledge gained from the many texts on muggle medicine she'd read in her own time due to her inquisitiveness.

If her situation were different, she decided, she would have pursued a career in medicinal research.

Unfortunately, life wasn't going to work out that way for her. If she wasn't ageing, it stood to reason that she would live longer than she was meant to.

That thought was terrifying.