"Sod it." She huffed and crossed her arms. Her situation was getting more and more hopeless. Two weeks had passed and the Unspeakables still hadn't returned any of her owls. She was still no closer to returning to her own time than she was when she first arrived. Her days were spent alone, mostly in the library, avoiding the prodding eyes of Dumbledore, her housemates, and Gryffindors. She couldn't keep going through the same routine. She didn't do well doing nothing.
Hermione stomped out of the library and ran hard into what she felt like was a column of books.
"Aargh!"
"Shit. No, the books—"
It was a column of books. Well, propped up in the hands of a person. She had run straight into another student and sent the pile he was carrying out of his arms, each book plopping off the precarious pile one by one onto the floor.
Hermione winced at the first thud and tried and failed to catch the next book before it hit the ground, accidentally smacking the student's arm instead.
"Gods! I thought someone coming from the library at this hour would have more respect for books."
"I do! I just—"
He groaned as he bent down to pick up the books scattered across the floor. "Your first casualty." He gestured to a copy of Quidditch Maneuvers of the Decade on the floor with a big crease across the front cover.
"You honestly can't blame that on me." Hermione felt affronted at the accusation. "You were the one running around a blind corner!"
"Hardly." His voice was dry. "I set a leisurely pace."
She huffed at that and followed him to the ground, gingerly picking up the book nearest to her. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
A Muggle book. Interesting.
As he reassembled the stack of books in his hands and looked at her, she realized that he was the Slytherin from earlier in the library. His black hair was wavy but it fell almost rigid around his face today, not a hair out of place. That combination with his grey-blue eyes was familiar, but Hermione still hadn't figured out where she knew him from. She was fairly certain, though, that he wasn't a Death Eater she knew from the future.
"You're the transfer."
Hermione wondered what version of the rumors about her had made its way to the other side of the Great Hall. "Five points to Slytherin," she said. "For your powers of observation."
He cocked his head at her, almost like he was amused at her snipe, though his face didn't give anything away. "This is my personal copy of Quidditch Maneuvers of the Decade. Personal. Not just some tired old library copy."
Hermione didn't take the hint. In fact, she swatted it away. "The decade's not yet over so I'm guessing it's about the last decade." Crossing her arms, she smiled at him, all saccharine and snark. "You might want to update your reading material to something more current."
He blinked. "Any recommendations?"
Hermione almost snorted. "Can't help you there, I'm afraid." She gave him a parting nod and proceeded back down the corridor.
"Wait."
She stopped. The Slytherin glanced at her hands.
"You still have my book."
"Oh." Her hands had been gripping the Muggle book hard, like it was a lifeline to her parents. She walked back and delicately placed it at the top of the Slytherin's stack.
Standing there in front of him, Hermione felt compelled to offer a goodbye of sorts. "It's a great book."
"I know." There was a pause and then the faintest glimpse of a smirk. "It's a personal copy."
Hermione raised her eyebrows at that remark but she didn't pry. A Slytherin with a Muggle book was a curious thing but the distance she kept from the other students at Hogwarts was for all of their benefits.
"Got it."
"You can borrow it, if you'd like." The Slytherin shifted the stack in his arms, his eyes on hers.
Hermione felt herself hesitate. "I'm good."
"Alright." His tone was neutral. If he was disappointed, Hermione couldn't tell. If he had only said that to be polite—well, she couldn't tell that either.
"Okay." This was probably one of the longest conversations she's ever had with a Slytherin student that didn't end with an insult. "I'll be going then."
"Try not to maim any books on your way out."
Nevermind.
She paused her retreat. "You seem to do enough damage on your own."
He just raised his eyebrows in response and Hermione turned back to head down the corridor.
Frankenstein was one of her favorite Muggle books. She really hoped he wouldn't turn out to be a Death Eater.
The lack of news from the Unspeakables had not stopped the headmaster from trying to learn more about her life and Hermione had finally avoided enough missives from him that it warranted an appearance from a Hogwarts house elf.
With a sudden crack the house elf popped in to the right of her canopy bed.
"Excuse me, miss."
"Oh, hello." Hermione gave a small, pained smile at the elf, taking in the sight of the Hogwarts crest on the elf's tea-towel toga. "How can I help you?"
"Miss, Professor Dumbledore would like to see you in his office."
"What did you say your name was? I'm Hermione."
"I'm Betsy, miss."
"Nice to meet you, Betsy. I'm afraid I can't meet with Professor Dumbledore. It's just that I'm so busy—"
"Please, miss." Betsy squeaked. "It's just that Professor Dumbledore is insisting and lunch is soon and Betsy has to get back—"
"No problem—Betsy, thank you. I'll go over there straight away." She gave the elf a smile and moved to put away her book.
"Thank you, miss." The elf bowed and disappeared with a crack.
As Hermione made her way to Professor Dumbledore's office, she thought about the headmaster. For most of their time at Hogwarts, she felt that his life had been shrouded in mystery. Dumbledore had been this almost mythical presence in their lives—there to answer all of their burning questions at the end of every year until he suddenly wasn't.
Then came the flood of revelations. Only in his death did Dumbledore shed his fabled visage to become an actual person.
How many secrets could a person keep until the truth drowned them from the inside out?
This time Hermione was the one with all the secrets.
"Miss Granger, these jumps in time—they can be accidents or they can be deliberately done." Professor Dumbledore gave her a concerned look as he paced around his study. It looked exactly as she remembered it twenty years in the future. "By someone or to someone."
Hermione dug her fingernails into her clasped hands. "You think someone may have done this to me?"
"It is the more likely scenario. Can you think of any specific reason why they would send you to this year?"
It was an understatement to say that the years to come would be eventful. But Hermione knew better to share any news of it with Professor Dumbledore. There was no telling of the magnitude of consequences she would conjure up if she interfered with the coming events in the timeline. Eloise Mintumble accidentally erased twenty-five people from time when she went back, Hermione thought. What damage would I be doing?
"No, I can't think of any reason." Hermione paused. "I live a pretty boring life, actually. I read a good amount." Smoothing down the front of her skirt, she continued. "I'm very focused on my studies and I want to work for the Ministry when I graduate. My N.E.W.T.S. are my highest priority."
Professor Dumbledore peered at her over his spectacles. While she hadn't been all that forthcoming, Hermione hadn't given him any reason to think she was lying either.
She gave him an apologetic smile. "So I'm really having difficulty coming up with any reason as to why I would be sent back here by anyone. Also, I'm Muggleborn so I don't have any family connections to this time and place."
"I see," Dumbledore nodded. "The Unspeakables are still working on your case and have no answers for us yet. But please do come to me if anything comes to mind."
He continued. "You could think of some small thing as inconsequential, but it could be essential to cracking the mystery surrounding your appearance. It would be best if you offered up a memory or two from your last year to examine, but I understand you already declined to do that. Would you reconsider?"
Hermione shook her head. "Respectfully, no, sir. I've read enough about time travel to understand how dangerous that would be."
"Yes, you're right. We most certainly don't need to go down that path yet." He smiled at her.
She tried to smile back.
Dumbledore had no knowledge of how truly devastating the next few years would be. It would not be a fun glimpse into the future. No—knowledge of what was to come would be a burden she wouldn't wish on anyone.
"Please let me know if I can do anything to make this easier for you."
"Of course, professor. Thank you."
Hermione wandered out of Dumbledore's office, mulling over her conversation with him. It would've felt so easy to rely on the headmaster. He had his secrets, but he also always seemed to have answers.
She sighed.
The weight of her self-isolation felt heavier now. The scar of her forearm had bled every morning since her first DADA class. The last time it had consistently bled like this was in the weeks following the final battle. She had tried wrapping it in bandages to keep herself from scratching at it during the night but she always found them loosened or unraveled among her bedsheets in the morning.
What's the alternative?
Only utter and total chaos in time.
She missed her friends.
Maybe there is some sort of time-release spell, or—
Hermione paused and thought about who was there to greet her every year without fail.
Of course! The Fat Lady.
It was certain that in September of 1998 the portrait of the Fat Lady, Gryffindor gatekeeper and operatic talent, would be there for the returning seventh years. If the portrait could pass along her message, Hermione could get word to Ginny or Neville about her situation. At the very least, she could let them know she was safe.
Hermione took the familiar path up to the Gryffindor tower and placed herself in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady.
"Hello."
"Hello dear. Password?" The Fat Lady smiled at her.
"I'm a Ravenclaw."
"Well you're at the wrong door, dearie. Can't let you in without a password."
"I actually wanted to talk to you."
"Oh, I have a fan! What can I help you with?"
The words flew out of her mouth. "I was wondering if you could pass along a message. It's...it's for the future? September 2nd, 1998 should be good. I—I don't think I'll be there to give it myself. I know it's such an unusual request but I swear it's super important and I would be so grateful if you could do it."
The Fat Lady peered at her. "You want me to pass along a message twenty one years from now?"
"Yes."
"Remember a message for twenty one years? And remember when I'm to deliver it?"
"Yes, I know it's an odd request—"
"Oh dear, I'm not sure I could do that—"
"Please." Hermione tried to take a steadying breath. "Please, I know it's a lot to ask but it's really important. It's hard to explain but there are people twenty one years in the future that I need to leave a message for."
The Fat Lady seemed to pick up on her desperation. Either that or she knew this was the quickest way she would be left alone. "Oh alright. I'll do my best."
Hermione felt like she could almost cry with relief. She was finally doing something.
September 1998
The Fat Lady always looked forward to the start of the school year at Hogwarts. The return of students meant the return of an eager audience. She had been working on a few new arias over the summer and was excited to showcase what she thought was an expansion in her vocal range.
It took only a few days into the new term, however, for the Fat Lady to register the decreased amount of enthusiasm for her performances compared to previous years. She observed that the events of the last year had certainly put a damper on spirits, not least on the group of seventh year Gryffindors, who seemed a great deal more dour than the other years.
The red-haired Head Girl would always mumble the password, either bleary-eyed or furious. The round-faced boy—when he could remember the password—spoke in an almost forlorn manner. The tall dark haired boy—the one who liked to draw—had stopped chatting up the portrait of the painter next to her for drawing tips and would just bustle straight through to the common room.
The Fat Lady connected the tidbits of conversations she had overheard and attributed the low mood to the whispers about a Gryffindor student who was supposed to come back for their last year but had gone missing.
How terribly sad, she thought. The students have already lost so many of their friends.
Few portraits had great memories. Most of them were memories themselves of people long gone.
The Fat Lady was no exception.
And so the message from the brown-eyed, bushy haired girl all those years ago remained lost to time.