Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any part of its wonderful universe.
If finding a job had proved to be a little more challenging than she'd thought, finding a place to stay without having any money proved to be twice as difficult. No one wanted to take in a poor girl, even for a night, without getting paid up front. She grumbled as she walked down Diagon Alley the sixth time that evening. And then her stomach grumbled in agreement, making her cheeks burn with embarrassment. How in the world had her life come to this?
As time went by, however, her anxiety over not having a place to sleep was overridden by her fear of screwing up at her new job. She had claimed to be very skilled, though in actuality she had no such experience. She hated when she screwed up. She hated being laughed at. She sat down at the steps leading up to Gringotts and comforted herself. She'd just excuse herself by saying she used to work in a muggle café if anything went wrong. It would fit her background story quite nicely.
Hermione sighed. She really wanted this job. She neededit.
As the sun set and the air became chilly she pulled her cloak closer. Her stomach grumbled one last time, before resigning and realising that there would be no food tonight. She leaned back against one of the many pillars holding up the large Gringotts complex, her figure a dark spot against the ivory white of the building. Nestling even further into her cloak, she slumbered off.
At five o'clock in the morning, Hermione found herself in front of the café, waiting for Mr. Carpenter to open up. She hadn't managed much sleep. Frazzled thoughts and emotions – mostly different kinds of anxiety – ran through her. What if she fucked up at her job? Would she starve to death then? What if she changed the future? What if she already had changed the future? What if she could never go back?
She had never felt more alone.
Hedwig Smith, Hedwig Smith, Hedwig Smith.
She had started to worry that Mr. Carpenter had played her for a fool, having her sign a faux contract, when, at last, he opened the door. "Inside, Miss Smith."
He almost sounded like Professor Snape. She was struck by a sudden wave of homesickness, which swiftly abated when she realized how ridiculous it was to feel homesick because of Snape. She smiled.
Mr. Carpenter handed over her new work clothes and showed her to the small bathroom in the back where she could change into them. If he noticed her dishevelled state and the bags under her eyes, he didn't comment on it.
Hermione took the opportunity to freshen up and made the most of it. She thoroughly washed every reachable body part, she removed the slight smudges of mascara under her eyes and she pondered whether she should leave her hair down. Though, on second thought she figured that, as a waitress, it would be beneficial to have her hair pulled into a tight bun. She was extremely unaccustomed with the new blonde hair, but she really couldn't see any resemblance to the bushy-haired Hermione Granger. It was a good thing. She smiled again.
Hedwig Smith.
Finally she left the bathroom, hoping she hadn't taken too long to get ready. Mr. Carpenter was in the small kitchen area in which he apparently made everything found in the café's glass displays.
Hermione was nervous. "Mr. Carpenter? Where would you like me to start?"
"Make sure everything is in order, that all tables and chairs are clean, and polish the glass display." He waved his hand dismissively at her, so she did as he asked.
Awhile later he came out of the kitchen and froze. For a short while he watched her clean the tables by hand before giving her a disbelieving look. "Are you even seventeen?" he exclaimed.
Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair. She felt like a squib posing as a witch; an impostor. Stop that, she thought, and forced the blush away. Confidence. "No. I turn seventeen next month, on September 19th. I hope you can wait that long. Let's call this a trial period, until I'm allowed to perform magic freely." She continued cleaning where she'd left off, feeling Mr. Carpenter's eyes on her back the entire time, but pretending not to notice.
"Pray tell, how long were you planning on working here, Miss Smith?" he asked in a silky voice.
Hermione straightened her back. "I was hoping to have a job until next autumn, at least," she answered, meeting his eyes.
"Miss Smith, if you are not seventeen, then you have neither taken your NEWTs nor graduated yet." Mr. Carpenter was leaning against the door in a casual way, but his voice could cut diamonds. Hermione swallowed hard.
"I haven't even taken my OWLs," she said quietly and glanced away. Technically it wasn't a lie.
"Why in Merlin's name not?" Mr. Carpenter exclaimed. He opened his mouth to continue, but Hermione cut him off.
"I'm not stupid and I'm not skipping school, if that's what you're thinking." She finished a bit quieter, "In fact, I used to be home schooled."
Mr. Carpenter narrowed his eyes. "Used to be?"
"Yes," she simply answered and got back to work. Eventually, so did Mr. Carpenter, even though he seemed to have more things to say. Hermione sensed that he was just as reluctant to ask deeper questions as she was to answer them.
Throughout the day Hermione sneaked away small amounts of leftover cookies and cakes to eat at a later time. She couldn't believe how some people didn't even take a single bite out of what they'd ordered! It was a scandal – an outrage! – and a complete waste of resources, time and money.
Customers seemed to like Hermione though, and she neither knew nor cared whether it was because of her looks or because of her (almost non-existent) waitressing skills. They had tipped her enough that she would be able to afford a very cheap room in one of the taverns in the shadier part of Diagon Alley. She was not yet desperate enough to enter Knockturn Alley, and, at least as it seemed right now, she would never need to get that desperate.
She was sure Mr. Carpenter would have given her some of her salary early if she'd asked him, but she didn't want him to know how badly she was off. She needed to keep at least that much of her dignity intact.
At times when there were few customers in the café and Mr. Carpenter didn't need her assistance, she would sit behind the counter thinking about her future. Realistically, she would need to create a real life for herself in this time, to survive as she tried to find a way to get back home. In order to create a real life, she would need to graduate from Hogwarts. How she was going to solve this problem was still to be seen, but she would start by sending the current Headmaster of Hogwarts a letter. Headmaster Dippet.
And Tom Marvolo Riddle, she thought darkly. Had he killed yet? She couldn't remember. She would have to draw a time table at a later time. It was surprisingly hard to remember stray facts when she couldn't double check the correct answer.
Would Hogwarts be able to accept a new student, whose name was not written in the admissions book? Would home schooling be an acceptable excuse or would she have to come up with something else? Home schooled in another country, perhaps. She recalled that the magical quill of Hogwarts detected every birth of a magical child and wrote his or her name down in a large parchment book. But would it detect magical children born in another country? Maybe she could claim to have been raised in another country for the first few years of her life, and then being home schooled somewhere in the United Kingdom. The more she thought about it, the more confident she grew.
This might actually work.
She smiled at a customer waving her down, being polite and charming like never before, while hoping for more tips. Maybe she could take a bath tonight. Her smile grew wider.
The rest of the day passed relatively quickly, and she didn't know whether to be delighted or insulted that she was doing a good job. Honestly, a waitress.
When the working day was over and they were done preparing for the next day, Hermione grabbed her clothes and headed for the door. "Same time tomorrow, Mr. Carpenter?" she asked over her shoulder.
He came out of the kitchen to stand by the door, opening it for her. "Same time tomorrow."
As Hermione stepped outside, he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, "Oh, I almost forgot!" He paused and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "I'll let you in on a secret about underage magic, little Miss Smith." Hermione wrinkled her nose at his condescending tone, but said nothing. "Although the Ministry can detect the use of magic in the presence of an underage witch, they are unable to determine the source."
And he shut the door in her face.
Two words came to mind when Hermione inspected her room for the night: Hotel hell. She knew that she couldn't afford to be picky, but that didn't stop her from walking around on the tips of her toes. And did she really want to sleep in that bed?! She'd need to take double baths, just to get the filth off her body in the morning.
The room was small and shabby, but had everything she needed; a bed, a desk with a rickety chair, a small armchair by the window and a bathroom. She cautiously sat down in the armchair with her clothes in her lap. She should change out of her work clothes.
Her feet hurt and she felt a headache developing at her temples; her punishment for having forced a smile onto her face the entire day. She wasn't one of those girls who could feign emotions at the drop of a hat; she had to struggle for it. But maybe she'd get used to it. Maybe she would become like one of those girls; like Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil. They drove her insane with their giggling and whispering about boys and divination and gossip about other girls.
She missed them.
She needed to use the bathroom. She brought her clothes – her stolen clothes – with her. The door had no functioning lock. She jumped at the sight of her own reflection in the mirror, before remembering that this was what she looked like now. The mirror had a large crack in it, distorting her features. Maybe she should start applying ridiculous amounts of makeup, to make sure no one would ever connect Hedwig Smith of the past to Hermione Granger of the future. She laughed.
It wasn't funny.
After a quick bath, she contemplated whether or not to use one of the taverns towels, but she decided that would be counterproductive, so she walked about her room, naked and uncomfortable, instead. At least she had a room at the top floor.
She looked at the bed in disgust. What if Mr. Carpenter was right? Should she risk using a little bit magic, just to clean the sheets? But what if he was wrong? Would the Ministry try to send her a letter of reprimand only to realise they didn't know her name; that she shouldn't exist in this world? What would happen to her then?
She couldn't do it if there was even a microscopic chance that Mr. Carpenter was wrong.
Tomorrow, she would have to buy a quill, ink and some parchment, so that she could form a letter to Headmaster Dippet. She had no idea what she was going to write but she knew that her first contact had to be perfect. There was no room for error or loose ends. If she knew herself, she would need at least four days to finish that letter. Being a perfectionist was exhausting.
Night fell.
Wrinkling her nose in distaste and breathing through her mouth, she slid between the sheets. They smelled like Neville's Mimbulus Mimbletonia. She whimpered.
Hermione sat at the desk after a long day of work. Candles showered her in light and created lines over her face.
"Dear Headmaster Dippet," she read out loud. "I have a request to make. My name is Hedwig Smith, and…" she trailed off, sighing, before crumpling the parchment, tossing it into the bin and starting over. "Dear Headmaster Dippet. I'm Hedwig Smith and I wonder if there's any possibility for me to be accepted into Hogwarts next year." Oh god, could she sound any more like an eight-year-old?
She tapped her quill against the table. A nervous habit. "Dear Headmaster Dippet. Until this year I have been fortunate enough to receive home schooling, but due to a recent conflict with my family I would very much like to take up studies at your prestigious school. Would Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry accept me? If I'm not entirely wrong I would be in your sixth year. Sincerely, Hedwig Smith."
There. That sounded much better. With a few changes and rephrasings she could owl that letter as soon as the Owl Post Office opened the next morning.
Early in the morning of August 8th, 1942, a grey owl dropped a letter onto Tom Riddle's head. The owl didn't bother staying, for every owl in Hogwarts knew that Tom Riddle never had anything to feed them. Nevertheless, for the first time in almost two months, Tom Riddle was happy.
With hands somewhat shaking in anticipation – even though he knew what the letter contained – he opened it. A shiny badge fell out of the envelope. It was green and silver, with a large P in the middle and a snake slithering around the edges of the badge. Tom Riddle's face alighted with satisfaction. Some would claim that happiness didn't suit him.
But happy he was. He was happy because he made prefect. He was happy because of the opportunities and the authority that brought. This year he would have power over the other students. This year he could begin to set his plans in motion. This year the Chamber of Secrets would be opened.
A/N: I mean no offense to waitresses – I personally consider myself too much of a ditz to ever pull off waitressing. You have my respect!
I have used the movie version of the Prefect badges. They are shinier.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter!