Chapter Six

Geralt was quiet as he sat across the table from her, a mug of watered wine held before his lips, hiding his expression. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that people were watching them as she paused in eating every now and then to take a generous gulp of her cider. And, every now and then, she made a peculiar expression, muttered something to herself—possibly a disparaging comment of some sort, given her tone—and went back to her meal.

If anyone were paying close enough attention, they might think her mad.

"What is it you keep saying to yourself?" he eventually asked, one brow arched as he set down his mug.

Her gaze darted up to meet his for only a brief second—she didn't seem to like maintaining eye-contact with him for very long. He wondered if that was due to some trait of her own or if he unsettled her the way witchers unsettled most people.

Hermione shook her head, her eyes on her plate. "Just . . . the cider is a bit richer, pulpier, I suppose, than I'm used to, and the food, well, not exactly accustomed to fish so early in the day, is all." Yet, dried fish fillets and a damn hunk of bread was all the tavern'd had readily available at this time of day and her growling stomach wouldn't wait. "The way everything tastes here is a bit new to me, and it's a strange little shock of reality with every bite or sip."

Almost as if trying to prove her word, she took a sip of cider and did it again.

A half-grin curved his mouth and he gave a small head shake of his own. "Could've had the wine. Or the mead. You seem too . . . highborn to appreciate ale. Nevertheless, you are the one who chose the cider."

Her gaze shot back to his again, her chestnut eyes wide. This time, she did not immediately look away. "Highborn, me?" She sounded slightly aghast. Oh, if the pure-bloods back home could hear anyone call Hermione Granger highborn they'd be rolling. "Why d'you say that?"

Pursing his lips, the pale-haired man straightened his posture and then sat back a bit. He merely returned her stare for a few moments before answering. She clearly grasped the term, and now—after the trip to a very confused Seamstress who seemed to forget the encounter entirely after the witch had given her wand an odd, twisting wave—she was clad in a dress of burgundy and mauve, all velvet and satin, that she moved in comfortably, giving the impression she was not unaccustomed to such flowing garments. There was a clear difference in how she maneuvered herself in the sweeping folds of fabric and the way a commoner moved in something of lesser quality—sturdy, and not nearly as fine, designed to stand up to many washings for how inexpensive they were in comparison.

Of course, he had suggested a more sensible dress, but they were her ducats, and she had been quite clear that she did not take fashion advice from anyone, especially not men.

Which had also led to her purchasing several gowns, the number split evenly between the sort of hearty material he had suggested and the finer garments she actually seemed to enjoy wearing. Just in case he was right, she said, as he was the one who knew better what they might encounter in the ashlands, and she would not permit herself to be viewed as hard-headed or unnecessarily stubborn.

Apparently, that was something of a problem where she came from.

"Well, eating so early in the day, for starters. That's usually a habit born of having means." He shrugged, lifting his mug again. "And that," he said, waving his free hand to indicate her change in attire, "suits you a bit too well."

Hermione looked down at herself. Yes, she supposed one bizarre and unintended outcome of spending so much time in Wizarding society—years of school wearing robes, Ministry functions in dress robes, every now and again even wearing her favorite pair of comfy jeans felt a bit foreign to her—was that she was not unfamiliar with dressing like this. Even if she refused to believe herself comfortable in it.

"Well, I'm not," she said, frowning at the bit of bread she'd torn from the hunk. He noticed how delicate her fingers were as she picked at it; she may deny it, but she did have the breeding, and hands that had clearly never seen a day of hard labor. "I . . . where I'm from, it's not really highborn and lowborn. There are a lot of tiers to wealth and station that simply don't exist here. I'd be more . . . middleborn, I suppose, if there even is such a thing."

That arched silver brow of his settled. "So, a bit of both worlds, then?"

Casting her gaze toward the ceiling in thought, she nodded. That really was the best way to explain herself under the circumstances.

As she returned her attention to him, she spotted a few heads turned toward them among the staff and what few other patrons had the freedom to be in a tavern at this hour of the day. Almost immediately she dropped her head, seeming to focus on her food.

"Why are people staring?" she asked, her voice so low he had to lean toward her over the table a bit to hear her clearly.

A pensive scowl coloring his features, let out a gruff sigh. "We make an odd pair."

Her brows crept upward as she lifted her face to meet his eyes. "You mean a witcher with a highborn lady?"

"Precisely. They probably think you're hiring me to handle some sort of creature infestation in your family estate."

He shrugged and gave a short nod before tacking on as he once more lifted his mug for another swig, "And some have never seen my kind before, only heard tell of us. They can't help but stare."

Hermione dropped the bit of bread and pushed aside her unfinished plate. There was a pit in her stomach as she read between the lines on that. She couldn't imagine other witchers were as easy to spot on sight as Geralt of Rivia given his own explanation of his stark appearance, unless they were deliberately wearing their big, shiny School medallion visibly. Perhaps she could stand to be a bit kinder to him, herself. She might be determined to not be stuck in his world very long, but she knew what it was to be judged for circumstances over which one had no control.

"You mean they can't help but stare at the Butcher of Blaviken," she said, her hushed voice sympathetic.

His expression went carefully blank. She thought for a moment she'd accidentally pushed him into shutting down. But then his mouth pinched at the corners, not quite an expression, but no longer entirely unreadable, and he nodded.

Guarded. Stubborn. Sarcastic. Judged by their societies over extraneous factors that had no bearing on the sort of person they actually were. She inhaled and exhaled, feeling the air moving in her lungs as she held his gaze. Perhaps Geralt of Rivia and Hermione of London were not that different.

Mione of London.

The misspoken name whispered through her mind and she grinned mirthlessly. Taking one last sip of her too-rich, too-pulpy cider, she offered, "I think we should be on our way, now." They had already made all their necessary supply purchases—Geralt had watched the process of her minimizing everything to store it in her pack with perhaps surprisingly subdued shock—and lingering here longer than needed only added to how much longer it would be before she returned home.

She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that pestered and insisted that she was being ridiculous to weigh minutes given her circumstances, but concentrating on eventually getting home—and hexing Lucius Malfoy within an inch of his miserable life—helped to keep her from panicking. Helped to keep her from wondering about things she didn't want to, like how Geralt's journal looked exactly like the book in the Malfoy family archives. She still hadn't accepted that her initials appearing beside his in that book was anything more than a coincidence.

She stood up from the table, ready to step away from her chair and froze where she stood. Wait . . . . GR and ML were recorded to have lived in the 13th century. This might seem like a different past than she'd ever learned about, but there could be any number of explanations for that.

What if she were not simply in some alternate reality or even some obscure pocket of the past, as she'd considered, but a combination of the two? An alternate past? If Lucius Malfoy had somehow imbued time magic into the portkey, then it was possible. But how he could create a portkey for a different reality was a question that would have to wait, though would eventually have to be tackled if she were to ever get home.

Yet, now that she'd let herself think it, she couldn't help wondering. Maybe because the portkey had been woven into an item from said alternate reality?

A—she took a deep, steadying breath—a reality hopping time artefact. It would take a lot of power to create even with the proper materials, which could explain the magic draining from the medallion after transporting her. Somehow that . . . made sense, but also felt like it made things worse, because if it were the truth . . . .

His brows shot up at the way she'd paused. "Hermione?"

The witch swallowed hard, her mouth dry as cotton despite the quenching effect of the cider. She didn't want to ask. "What is the year?"

"1275."

Her eyes widened, welling instantly and her throat constricted.

Painfully cognizant of what her reaction indicated, he started, "Why would you—?" He cut himself off, mindful suddenly that he wasn't at all sure what he wanted to ask. There had been something to the strange manner in which she spoke on wherever it was she called home. She came from a people of magic, unlike that which he had ever seen in his many travels over all these decades.

Looking about, he saw that the other patrons and staff had finally decided themselves bored of the unusual couple and were going about their own business. Slipping out from his seat at the table at last, he wrapped a hand around her upper arm in a firm but purposefully gentle grip and pulled her outside.

Under normal circumstances, Hermione'd have fought such an aggressive tactic, but this was not normal. Even for her notably bizarre life. She was in too much of a daze to really process anything just now, her brain scrambling to accept the thought she'd let trail off only heartbeats prior.

Because if it were the truth . . . .

Once outside of the tavern, he darted a glance about the immediate area. If anyone found out what she was making him suspect about her, she could be in danger. Any mage might well be willing to kill to get their hands on the magic of someone from a different time. Any nobleman might well be willing to kill to own a curiosity like her. Any alchemist might well be willing to kill for a chance to experiment on her.

Spying a cramped alley beside the tavern, he tugged her around the building. Once in the shadowed passageway, he relinquished his hold on her, but turned, blocking her from the street. Or, perhaps, blocking the street from her was a better way to think of it.

Because if it were the truth . . . .

This time when he spoke, he was certain of the question he wanted to ask. "Why don't you know the year, Hermione?" His already too-deep voice tumbled from his lips in a low, gravelly pitch that sounded like water dashing against stone. "When is it where you're from?"

Because if it were the truth . . . .

She didn't want to answer him. Yet, she understood quite distinctly that he had realized the reason behind her inquiry. If they were traveling together—provided he didn't see this as cause to abandon her to solve her problems on her own—it was only fair he know the truth, even if it sounded completely mad.

It wasn't any attempt to subvert the reality of her situation, it was that speaking on it, acknowledging it felt so final. So damning.

Because if it were the truth . . . .

Her heart clenched, icy and painful, in her chest and the tears that had welled, locking in her eyes, broke free to fall down her cheeks. She was scared, she was angry, and she was desperately hoping he wasn't going to leave her alone to this strange history she knew nothing about.

Running the tip of her tongue across her parched lips, Hermione willed the words to tumble free, even as the weight of speaking them made everything more real than it'd been before, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone that burned all it touched.

"2004. I . . . I was born in the year 1979. Eleven years later, I found out I was a witch. Seven years after that, I fought in a war. Six years later, I was working on some historical documents that led me to this copy of your medallion, which had been enchanted—without my knowledge—and brought me here. I still have no idea how," she finished in a whisper, her words garbled by her tears.

It was as concise a summation as she could provide while still telling him exactly as much as he could possibly need to know.

Those gold eyes of his had gotten wider by increments as he listened.

He didn't bother asking how. Of course, she'd already said she didn't know, but it was the first natural question people always asked when the impossible happened even when they were told the how was unknown.

Instead, he took her by the arm again and started escorting her back to where he'd tied off their horse. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, "You tell no one else what you've just told me, and you do not go anywhere without me."

Because if it were the truth . . . .

She could tell easily from his response that her revelation had been a shock, but now she worried for whatever it was that had him so defensive on her behalf. Surely it wasn't because she sounded mad, because he'd not for one second acted as though he believed her insane.

When she didn't respond, he halted, using his hand on her arm to turn her to face him. "You do not leave my side. Is that clear, Hermione?"

He was scared for her. The realization settled over her like the air itself had weight suddenly. The intensity of those gold eyes on hers stole her ability to breathe for a moment.

"Clear," she answered, her voice quiet, a little shaky.

Geralt nodded. He turned and started walking them toward their horse—she'd come up with a name for it, eventually.

As he seated himself and pulled her up into the saddle in front of him, the thought she'd been fighting finally completed.

Because if it were the truth that the medallion had been turned into some sort of magical amalgam artefact, blending a portkey and a time turner, there was no reversing one effect only the other. She could possibly magically reverse engineer the portkey portion and return to her reality, if she figured out how Lucius had done it, but the time turner portion?

She felt strangely weightless as Geralt kicked the horse to a gallop, Hermione was only half aware of her head lolling back against his chest as her brain tripped and stumbled over the thought.

Even if she got back to her reality, time magic did not propel one forward, only backward. Even if she got back, there would be no way to move forward. She would be in her reality in the later part of the 13th century.

Just like GR and ML.

My world is gone. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and a fresh wash of tears spilled from her eyes.