21 June 1981
Isle of the Dead, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Hermione wasn't aware if anything had worked when she had first arrived in the past, all that she knew for certain was that when the world had stopped rushing by, the eldritch egg had cracked open & fallen apart like broken glass and her previously perfectly fitting clothes now hung about her much smaller frame like curtains. No sooner had she dropped the shards of egg and the morningstar to the ground, did they disappear as if they had never even been there to begin with; not that Hermione even noticed. Instead, she was far more occupied with wriggling out of the too big clothes and into something a little more fitting.

Mercifully, her little beaded drawstring bag had made the journey with her (she hadn't been totally sure that it would) and after a few failed attempts, she eventually slipped herself into a change of clothes that she hadn't worn since she was ten years old. Clingy grey sleeves of the thermal clung to her arms beneath the two-toned Potter t-shirt that the twin had been peddling alongside their bets during the Triwizard Tournament, plastering her shoulders in red & gold and dangled low over her thighs, like a dress. Over that went one of her mother's old cardigans and below all of that, sat a singlet that had needed a few freshening charms thanks to being stuck at the bottom of the laundry for years on end. Blue jeans wrapped her legs and her feet had been stuffed into the good sturdy hiking boots she'd gotten in Australia, that one time the Grangers had gone hiking together (shrunken, of course, to fit smaller feet).

Now dressed, the witch spared a few quick moments to check herself over, making sure that she hadn't accidentally splinched herself (she probably should've of done that earlier, but oh well). Only moments ago, she had been a hundred & thirty-five year old woman, bowed in the back with enough wrinkles to make a dinosaur jealous, but now she appeared to be ten years old, once more. Admittedly, she had been hoping that her age would've regressed to something within her teens, making it easier to carry out her plan, but life or magic rarely cared about what you wanted. So, an itsy bitsy ten year old, she now was. Maybe if she stood up taller, she could pass herself off as a first year? Or maybe, one of the siblings of a champion's family? She knew enough French or German to get her by; she could pass herself off as either Fleur's or Viktor's family members. Ah well, that was a problem for future Hermione.

It appeared that the ambiguous sacrifice mentioned throughout the texts pertained to more than just the usual mind-bending issues related to time travel. At the very least, it was a nice change for all the aches & pains that came with old age, to disappear; instead replaced by the full body ache that seemed to pulse through her very soul as bones shrank & weathered skin retracted into a previous stage of youth. Her bones ached just like the texts said they would, although she never thought it would be to this degree. It wouldn't be long now until she passed out, overcome by the excruciating pain that came with both her body & magic reshaping and reforming to fit inside this smaller, weaker frame. The few texts that did talk about this particular event, varied on what they said in regards to the adaptation. Some said it took only moments, whilst others listed sources which stated it took longer. In any case, it would do her no good to pass out here in the backend of Hogwarts, where she couldn't get medical attention or, at the very least, a bed.

"Right" Hermione grunted, brushing herself off as she moved to collect her bag before making her way to the little jetty that still sat there, on the water's edge. Hopping into one of the rickety boats docked there, she plopped down onto the bench and cradled her head in her hands, as it began to trundle across the Great Lake unassisted. If she had been in a better state, she might've of peered over the edge of the rowboat to see if she could spot the Squid just as she had back when she had first arrived at Hogwarts, before her first year; back when Neville had leant out too far and fallen into the lake, only to be fished out by a stretching tentacle.

"Eurgh! My head!" She groaned, cradling her aching skull in her hands as the waves gently lapped at the bow. Accompanied by the full body ache that rattled her bones and the blood rushing through her head, she felt like her entire system was trying to reconstruct themselves beneath her marred skin—which they were, in a sense—but that may have of just been the adrenaline which refused to let her heart settle. "This must've been what Harry had to deal with when Ma'am Pomfrey had to regrow his bones…At this point, think I'd take the Skele-Grow…Ah!"

Soon enough, the little boat docked itself at the opposing shore on the outskirts of Hogwarts, allowing the witch to disembark and make her way towards the castle. She hoped to blend in with the raucous crowds that had surged back towards the castle proper, following the end of the Triwizard Tournament. If all had gone well, then she would have arrived just as Harry had been bundled up to the hospital wing; giving her just enough time to snatch her past self from the masses and switch places, setting things into motion.

But as she trekked through the dense undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest something seemed…off. It may have been late in the evening, but even then, the commotion of the Third Event had kept everyone well up past curfew, the last time around. Friends had cuddled up in beds together, Mrs Weasley had swaddled all of her children (biological, adopted & otherwise) into her arms like a mother hen and the castle had effectively gone on lockdown as aurors stormed the halls in search of the hidden death eaters and ministry officials who were already trying to cover up the return of Voldemort. They should've of known that not even a supposed auror could outdo Riddle's curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching position; but even Hermione couldn't have of expected that year's teacher to go down like that. Still, it made sense, considering what they had been taught, that the auror Mad-Eye Moody had actually been the Death Eater, Barty Crouch Jr.

But there was none of that here now. Standing on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, Hermione stared up at the gleaming castle filled with a cocktail of feelings as her gaze flittered back and forth between the quidditch pitch—which remained unmarred by the large hedge maze once placed there—and the strangely quiet castle. There was no panicked screams, no trampled students, Hagrid wasn't even trying to shove every one of his pets into his shack. And then there was this…feeling in the air, something electric that she would have otherwise brushed off as a slip of accidental magic running through her curls, or the beginnings of a lightning storm on the horizon.

Still, why did this tranquility startle her so? When did she get used to the chaos? Everyone knew of the dangers of delving into the murky waters that were the old magicks, but who could ever have known that this is what would come of it? Who knew delving into old magicks would end like this? Adrenaline pumping in her veins, she disappeared with a sharp crack, not giving a second thought to the fact that you couldn't apparate on Hogwarts and yet she had.

21 June 1981
Granger Residence, Hampstead

First, she went to Hampstead where her childhood home had once stood. Stumbling slightly upon arrival, Hermione clutched at her pounding head as her vision tilted vicariously, making her sway drunkenly amongst the small trail of churchgoers. One of the mother's across the way spared her a disgusted look as she herded her litter of children down the street, towards the church, and away from where the witch was using her mother's beat-up range rover to stay upright. Hermione could only assume she thought she was one of those "drunk hoodlums" that her own mother was always complaining about.

In front of her, the detached brick house that sat amongst others of the same kind in the fairy tale garden suburbs, proudly bore three-storeys just like the last time she'd seen it. Except, unlike last time, there was no "For Sale" sign plastered to the brick wall surrounding the property, and two silhouettes danced behind sheer curtains. Upstairs, where her periwinkle-painted single bed bedroom had once sat, there now looked to be a nursery of some kind. It couldn't be Julian & Romeo's room, they'd been born & raised in Australia, not Britain, and her parents had no other children to speak of; just her and her little twin brothers. Did…did that mean that was her nursery up there?

Panicked, she left just as the porch light came on and the young visage of her father peered out through the curtains.

CRACK!

21 June 1981
4 Privet Dr, Little Whinging

Next was Little Whinging in Surrey, where surely, the Dursleys would be. Number Four Privet Drive was a simple two-storey house with an immaculate lawn out the front and a clean driveway that led to the volkswagen tucked under the carport, just like the rest of the uniformed neighbourhood. These streets were lined with rows upon rows of exactly replicated houses. "Executive houses for executive people" as Mr Dursley liked to say.

Except…there were no bars on Harry's bedroom window, or the remnants from the Weasley boys jailbreak. The front door was bare of any dog scratches (courtesy of Padfoot and Aunt Marge's bulldog, Ripper) and the potted flowers in the windowbox were only just starting to flower with freshly-planted bulbs instead overflowing with the brightly-coloured flowers that wilted in the summer's heat. This…this wasn't the house that Harry had lived in, not yet anyway.

Truthfully, Hermione would've preferred not to seek help from the Dursleys of all people, even with all of the abuse that happened behind closed doors, it was still the place which Harry had called home for most of his life. This was thanks, in part, to Lily's (supposed) blood magic charm and some meddling on the headmaster's part. Whatever Lily had done, meant that sanctuary from blood of her blood was guaranteed, at least until Harry became of age. At least that's what Dumbledore had said, and (mostly) because of that, Hermione did not quite explicitly believe that explanation.

For one, the remnants of the so-called "runic stones" that she'd found when she & Harry had visited Godric's Hollow during the war, didn't exactly add up to any protective equation that she knew of. If anything, it had seemed more like an alarm system to let the caster (Dumbledore) know when death had befallen the house. And with nosy Bathilda Bagshot next door acting as a living nanny cam, it was like Dumbledore had set the Potters up to die; leaving Harry to suffer the atrocities of the Dursleys ever since. Hermione had pretty much loathed the bearded headmaster ever since she had put two and two together.

Shaking those sour thoughts from her head, Hermione turned on her heel and apparated away, leaving behind the prim rows of Little Whinging and the moving truck across the street.

CRACK!

21 June 1981
Grimmauld Place, London

Grimmauld Place seemed as lively as ever after both the Order of the Phoenix and, later, Harry had taken it over & spruced it up. But strangely enough, the Order's password to even get to the front door, didn't work. Of course, the old Black home had yet to be turned into the Order's headquarters (this, she knew logically), but it was still strange to know that the house's original occupants were still inside. Would Sirius be in there? What about his brother—the mysterious R.A.B? Would Walburga's portrait still be glued to the first floor landing, spewing all sorts of pureblood rubbish and would Kreacher still be haunting those halls?

Hermione winced and instinctively grabbed onto her wrist as it began to ache in memory of the estranged witch who had given it to her. Bellatrix had supposedly always been so mad (she had certainly seemed that way when she carved the word "MUDBLOOD" into her arm, leaving behind a wound that would never truly heal) and more than once, Sirius had bemoaned the "blasted Black Maddening Curse" over a flagon of firewhiskey or a tankard of butterbeer. She almost felt sorry for her—almost.

Just standing here, in front of the cursed Black home—the one so similar, yet so different to Malfoy Manor—brought back all of the memories of their horrid time there. Her grip tightened around her bandaged wrist as her thoughts darkened and she grit her teeth against the grating pain. Hermione imagined that the words were being written anew on these new threads; the bloody cursed word carving itself so deep that it went all the way down to her very soul, so she would never forget. Never forget what she was, at least, that's what Bellatrix had cackled when she had played with the younger witch.

She didn't bother sticking around.

CRACK!

21 June 1981
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole

Then Hermione stumbled into the Weasley's yard and bent in half, coughed up chunks in the reeds next to the old oak tree. Under her hand, the old oak creaked and groaned like an old man trying to rise as her magic latched onto the natural energies inside and began to absorb whatever it could get a hold of. Again, this was her body trying to adapt to its new form, she knew, but that didn't make it hurt any less. There was a reason why mages very rarely used eldritch eggs in their purest forms, anymore. Soon enough, the oak wasn't enough to sustain her and as it withered and died under her hand, so too, did the surrounding weeds and the cool pond waters only a stone's throw away, evaporated as if it had never been there to begin with.

When her stomach had finally deemed itself finally—mercifully—empty, Hermione uncoiled and glanced across the withered landscape to find the towering rooves of the Burrow weren't as tall as they once were. There were less attachments at this time; the building less topsy-turvy and more willy-wonky amongst the other estates on this fey land. If Hermione leant up on her tiptoes, she knew she'd be able to see the winding trail that led over the hill to the Longbottom's baron estate just beyond the Burrow, or the sunflower-lain path over there, that led to the Lovegoods.

But from this corner of the garden, she only just see inside the Weasley's windows, the golden glow from inside seeping out to the garden beyond. What she could make out, made her pause. Instead of the usual seven redheads (plus parents) practically spilling from every crack, there were only six little gingers running free. Which was still one, too short of a good time. Sure, Ginny could've been inside somewhere else, but the youngest Weasley had never been far from her brothers; always bugging the others in that fashion that little siblings do. And even if that weren't the case, Molly & Arthur weren't known to leave any of their family members alone for too long; in such a big family, one ginger was always paired with another whether they wanted to be or not (there was a reason Charlie had moved to Romania and Percy had enchanted his office to the teeth).

Familial wards brushed up against her senses and nostalgic memories wrapped her in invisible chains, barring her from going any further. Hermione could've quite easily gone up to their door if she so wished, and asked for help, but the ghosts that lingered amongst those fiery-haired children stopped her from doing so. Or what about the eery laughter she could hear on the wind? Over there, behind the house, on the poor-man's quidditch pitch where Ginny had repeatedly & routinely ground her brothers beneath her broom? And over there—that's where the wedding tent had sat! She could almost taste the wedding cake on the back of her tongue; something that had been so delicious, now tasted sour and wrong. And inside, was that…the Ronald in that high chair? Happy? And healthy? And whole? And tiny? It was almost unbelievable.

Much like the other houses, there was little to none of what she had known present now, and the notion that this was truly the reality she now faced cut her deep. That she was well and truly in the past, only made her ache all the more. When she left, her cheeks were wet and her vision was blurred from more than just dark spots and sweat.

CRACK!

21 June 1981
Potter Cottage, Godric's Hollow

And, short of apparating across the pond to her family's ancestral home in Luxembourg, she made a mad dash to Godric's Hollow where the Potters had once resided. This time, when she landed, black dots danced across her vision and threatened to pull her under. But that still didn't stop her from staring dumbly up at the garden gnome-littered doorstop of Potter Cottage, nor the rain-covered stoop. "That's…that's not right" She blinked dumbly at the fully bright and upright house before her.

The faint tingle of weak wards flittered before her, turning the visage of the previously broken Potter's cottage a little murky. She'd come to Godric's Hollow on nothing more than a whim, something in the back of her mind niggling at her brain when she reappeared and seen the seemingly tranquil grounds of Hogwarts. Darting between her usual haunts of a life long past had only solidified that things had changed, but this? This was concrete proof. Whenever she had landed it was not in 1994, like she had been hoping—planning—for. That…changed things, slightly.