SUMMARY
Nothing is as it once was. Hermione finds herself entangled in the past with perplexing dreams. The life she once knew has been mercilessly swept away, shedding the identity of Hermione Granger. In a compelling and intense shift, she emerges as Hermione Cipher—a descendant of a long-lost, ancient family.
Her past and present seem only a blur. Will these elusive dreams and newfound identity disrupt her quest to conquer a young Tom Riddle and regain the family torn away from her? Will love conquer all, or will an ancient curse, born out of jealousy, destroy everything?
TO THE PAST
The tumultuous symphony of battle had ceased, leaving behind haunting echoes that reverberated through Hermione's senses. As Harry collided with the unforgiving ground, a deafening silence enveloped the battlefield, a ghostly darkness settled like a heavy mist. From her chest, an overwhelming grief echoed the brutal definiteness of it all. She closed her eyes to the intimate dance of mortality amid the radiant, emerald gaze of death as the weight of it all overwhelmed her.
In her distraction, she failed to notice the radiant blue spell hurtling towards her. Its luminosity painted the air with a celestial glow, casting a fleeting brilliance in the dim battlefield. Within seconds, she was enveloped by a blur, sensing herself being drawn elsewhere—a delicate tether binding her like a fragile wisp caught in a tempest's embrace. Agony resonated throughout her being, her heart searing, and her mind throbbing in tandem. Amidst excruciating pain, her body seemed to disintegrate repeatedly, pulled in countless directions yet anchored to an enigmatic force. Encased in a veil of darkness, her mind lingered in contemplation, questioning if the culmination of the battle was but an illusion born from a desperate yearning. The significance of all the relentless fighting now sought solace, anticipating some revelation in the finality of it all. Yet, emptiness echoed in the aftermath; there was nothing.
She surged up, coughing up blood, and quickly looked around, only to be met with obscurity. As she scanned her surroundings, she spotted a glowing light gradually getting closer. A cold calm settled deep within her as the light became brighter, and she realized that she was precisely where she was when she was enraptured by the hazy blue blur. A cascade of questions flooded her mind as she tried to stand, wincing in pain. Her arm had been broken, and there was a gaping cut down her thigh, tearing open her pants.
"Hello...?" she ventured, her voice uncertain and hoarse, seeking answers in the luminous solitude.
A profound silence hung in the air as the stranger gazed into her clouded eyes. After a momentary pause, he inquired about her name. A voice, strangely familiar yet tinged with curiosity and scepticism, echoed in her ears. It slowly dawned upon her that the person standing before her was, a professor from Hogwarts, seemingly untouched by the ravages of war. Overwhelmed by the weight of the obscure, she felt her legs give way, and she collapsed.
The professor scrutinized the girl carefully, taking note of the dried blood on her chin, lacerations carved across her face, and the telltale swelling on her jaw. It became evident that she required immediate medical attention. As he gently levitated her, he caught sight of a word scratched into her arm, and then his attention was drawn to the blood dripping down one of her legs, leaving the scar unread. Quickly, he rushed to the infirmary with her in tow.
Unbeknownst to the professor, a young man lingered nearby, hidden by a disillusionment charm. He followed them to the infirmary, his gaze drifting as he absorbed the untouched beauty of Hogwarts. For the first time, he realized the calming solace that simply wandering the school's halls provided. Upon reaching the infirmary, he slipped inside still unseen, observing the professor's conversation with the nurse as they settled the girl in.
Once the professor exited the infirmary, he beckoned the young man to follow. In the blink of an eye, the boy found himself in a small, cozy office, bathed in warm brown tones. A magnificently carved desk occupied the centre of the room, encircled by towering bookshelves filled with an abundance of knowledge. Nearby, an empty golden cage hung by an open window. His musings on the inviting room were interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. The professor had taken a seat and gestured for the boy to do the same.
"Now, young man," the professor began, "I must confess that I hadn't realized you were following me until we reached the infirmary. Quite a display of magic, I must say."
He regarded the boy through his silver rimmed glasses as the veil of disillusionment gently lifted. A boy, no more than eleven years old, materialized before him, donned in black robes. Dishevelled platinum-blond locks adorned his countenance, framing it with an artistry only nature could paint. Moonlight, streaming through the ajar window, choreographed shadows upon his face, tracing the contours of his jaw and chin, and revealing a mosaic of bruises on his exposed skin. In the muted luminescence, the boy gazed back with eyes of molten silver, a silent challenge that beckoned him to unravel the mysteries of Form
"What is your name?" The man inquired,
Furrowing his brows, a contemplative expression crossed the boy's face. Eventually, in a silvery voice, he replied, "To be frank, sir, I'm not quite sure I can inform you of that information. I don't yet know your name or your intentions. You've done nothing to warrant suspicion, but my friend and I have barely escaped with our lives. If it's okay with you, I'd like to ask you some questions and return the favour when I feel I know enough about my situation."
The old man's eyes twinkled with curiosity and a touch of humour at the unexpected response. After a moment's contemplation, he decided to indulge the boy.
"Where am I?" the boy continued.
Raising an eyebrow, the professor answered, "You are currently in Hogwarts."
"Who are you?"
"I am Professor Dumbledore, Head of Gryffindor and professor of Transfiguration." The boy's lack of confusion surprised Dumbledore, adding a layer of suspicion.
"Do you have any Daily Prophets that I could read?" the boy growing paler by the moment. From this question, the professor concluded that he was already familiar with the wizarding world. Despite his suspicions, Dumbledore retrieved a rolled-up newspaper from a drawer, handing it over. He watched as the boy skimmed through the pages of the Daily Prophet with increasing unease.
Finally realizing the reality of his situation, the young man started to panic internally, unsure of how to navigate the conversation with the all-knowing Dumbledore. His name couldn't be revealed, but what was he supposed to do? He had been sent back to 1938. At the whisper of wings slicing through the air, he glanced up, catching his reflection in the man's glasses. Before he could dwell on it, a tawny owl gracefully dropped a letter adorned with the Malfoy insignia. Despite Dumbledore's attempt to dismiss it, the persistent bird perched on the desk, nudging and hooting, compelling the old man to open the letter. Reluctantly, Dumbledore broke the seal, unfolding the missive, and his face became inscrutable, as if a veil had descended upon him. Draco's stomach churned with anxiety, pondering what the letter contained to evoke such a profound shift in Dumbledore's mood.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed as he continued to read the letter. The demand for the young wizard to be sent home raised an alarm in his mind. A sense of scepticism crept into the room, casting a shadow over the trust Dumbledore had initially extended to the boy in front of him.
"Young man," Dumbledore spoke, his tone now tinged with caution, "Your presence has been demanded by the Malfoys. It provides no further explanation," Dumbledore then looked over the rim of his glasses to appraise the boy "this abrupt summons raises more questions than it answers, you understand?"
Draco, feeling the weight of Dumbledore's scrutiny and the realisation that his ancestral family now knew about him as well, struggled to find the right words. "I... I don't understand, Professor. I did not realise my family knew of my arrival to Hogwarts as I myself was surprised to find myself here along with the girl you took to the infirmary. Obedience is expected without question, but I am afraid I cannot go anywhere without the girl."
Dumbledore sighed, a deep well of concern evident in his eyes. "Trust is a delicate thing, and the circumstances surrounding this letter have cast a shadow on our previous understanding. I am less inclined to believe that this family's intentions are purely for your safety." He paused as if contemplating something "So I advise you, Hogwarts is a place of refuge," and that was it.
As the gravity of Dumbledore's words settled in the room, the young man's internal turmoil deepened. The unconscious girl in the infirmary, added another layer of complexity to an already intricate situation. Perched upon a shelf, the owl observed with its piercing azure eyes, a silent witness to the unravelling of secrets and the fraying of trust.
Dumbledore, his expression reflecting a blend of curiosity and suspicion, recognized the necessity of involving Headmaster Dippet. The unfolding events required the headmasters attention so that he himself may be able to understand the mysterious children and the Malfoys involvement in their appearance.
The professor then gestured towards the door. "For now, you may return to the infirmary. Madam Parish will ensure you receive the care you require. We shall reconvene once more answers come to light."
The young wizard nodded, acknowledging Dumbledore's decision, and made his way to the infirmary, leaving the professor deep in thought as he pondered the intricate web of secrets that surrounded these peculiar children and the Malfoy family.
Hermione awoke in a drowsy state, disoriented and unsure of her surroundings. Lying still, she let her breath move in deliberate, rhythmic swells, like a gentle lullaby to her awakening consciousness. Slowly, with determined effort, she coaxed her heavy eyelids apart, eager to unravel the mysteries concealed in her tranquillity. As her vision adjusted, a surreal revelation unfolded: she had returned to Hogwarts, untouched by the ceaseless passage of time. The enigma of her reappearance lingered, a puzzle yet to be solved.
The circumstances of her return remained elusive, akin to a faint murmur on the outskirts of comprehension. In the distance, a figure emerged—a woman with raven-black hair elegantly wound into a tight bun atop her head. Gracefully, she floated a tray toward the girl.
The woman, noticed the young girl's stirring and, made her way swiftly towards her bedside. Her footsteps were ethereal, a gentle breeze, as she approached. Dark eyes exuding a comforting warmth.
The girl, still grappling with the fog of her recent slumber, looked up at the woman's almost familiar face and willed a faint smile onto her lips. Slowly, she took a longer look around the room, noticing that there was a boy in the bed adjacent to hers. A sense of familiarity hit her; however, his dishevelled appearance clouded any recognition she may have had for him. As she pondered about the boy, the woman spoke with a soothing cadence, "You've been through quite an ordeal, my dear. Rest assured; you are safe now. My name is Madam Parish. Can you tell me how you ended up here?"
The girl shifted her focus to the lady now standing in front of her, and the memories of the previous night flooded back to her like a rush of icy wind. Her heart sank at the memory of Harry falling in defeat amongst her friends amidst the chaos of war. Blinking away tears, she noticed that the boy had woken and was watching her. She realized then, with a sharp breath, that it was Malfoy, although he looked as if he were his eleven-year-old self again he seemed different. Or maybe she was just going insane.
"We're still unaware of how we found ourselves in Hogwarts, Madam Parish. My family seems to have figured out my location before me, though my friend has yet to be informed of our full situation. If you wouldn't mind, I would like to speak to her first, so that she may answer further questions without having her own." The boy she thought was Malfoy spoke so eloquently it couldn't possibly have been him, although his words did hold a certain haughtiness, as if to say Madam Parish, a lady she was yet to fully know, had no choice but to let him speak to me. She watched as the lady's lips curved slightly at the corner, finding the boy amusing, and nodded her head in agreement. He stood from his bed and walked towards her as Madam Parish walked away. She felt herself begin to panic as her situation became more unclear.
"Don't come any closer, Malfoy," she hissed, not trusting whoever it was approaching her. However, he paid no attention, closing the curtains around them and casting a Muffliato.
"Quiet, Granger. We're in 1938. I don't know how or why, but the Malfoy family knows I'm here. They summoned me home while I spoke with Dumbledore last night." He stopped talking and watched her as she registered what he had just said.
"What are you up to, Malfoy?" She was confused, tired, and lost in time apparently. Malfoy had not been fighting on her side, and it seemed as though he had won the war. What was he trying to do by explaining the situation to her and what had he spoken to Dumbledore about?
"I'm not up to anything. If you don't want any help, then fine, stay lost." He was about to open the curtain before she said, "Wait." He turned around slowly with his brow raised. "Do you swear you're telling the truth?" She swore she was going mental; trusting Malfoy was not something she was completely willing to do, though it seemed the safest option until she had more information. Malfoy took a long, exaggerated breath before holding his hand up. "I swear I'm telling the truth, Granger." She felt a click in her magic, as if he had just made an unconscious vow.
"Fine, say you are telling the truth. What are you going to do now that you've been summoned by your family, and what am I supposed to do, seeing as I'm a Muggle-born witch and have somehow found my way into Hogwarts with you, a Malfoy of all people?"
The air in the room thickened with unspoken tension as Malfoy carefully chose his words. Granger's frustration mirrored the turmoil within him, and for a moment, the veneer of indifference he usually wore slipped. He sighed, his eyes reflecting a mixture of uncertainty and something she couldn't quite place.
He found himself at a loss for words; the strategy he devised wouldn't sit well with her and conveying the intricacies of their situation without sounding callous eluded him. 'Granger,' he bit out, the familiar sharpness in his tone slicing through the heavy silence. "I do have a strategy in mind, but let's dispense with the pleasantries – working alongside you isn't my ideal scenario. And, judging by your expressions, I'd venture to say you're not thrilled about our collaboration either."
Her response was sharp, a disdainful glance meeting his. "Don't get any notions that I'm thrilled about being tethered to you, Malfoy," she retorted. "But if it's the only way to navigate this chaos, then fine, tell me this plan."
Draco's eyes bore into hers with unwavering determination, a sliver of hostility seeping into his tone. "We can't hide; too many people already know about us. So," a brief pause punctuated his words, "we—me and you—have to go to my family home. That way, we both know what the other is doing. What's that Muggle saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."
Though shocked by his use of Muggle terminology, her scepticism lingered. She crossed her arms, a touch of defiance in her stance. "And why would I willingly walk into the snake's lair with you? What assurances do I have that this isn't some ploy of yours?"
Draco sighed, irritation flickering across his features as he tried to navigate her resistance. "Look, Granger, I'm not thrilled about this either, but we're in this together whether we like it or not. The Malfoys know something, and we need answers. Besides, it's the safest option. We keep an eye on each other, and we find out what they know. Alone, we're vulnerable."
She eyed him warily, her suspicion evident. "And why should I trust you, Malfoy?"
Draco's tone softened, a deceptive veneer of kindness masking the underlying tension. "Because, Granger, if there's one thing we can agree on, it's that neither of us know what's happening. We're vulnerable, have no plan of attack. We need to get back to our time. I mean, look at us – we're bloody back in our eleven-year-old bodies." He watched as she opened her mouth to protest, but he shoved a mirror into her hand from the bedside table. "Trust me or don't, but it's the best shot we've got."
Taking the mirror, doubt lingered in her eyes as she regarded Malfoy. However, when she caught sight of herself, her breath hitched. Before her reflected who she once was, except the innocence she once possessed had eroded away, leaving nothing behind in its wake. How could this have happened? Why did it happen? A wave of exhaustion overtook her body, and her heart broke once more at the thought of everyone she loved being dead.
Instead of a simple agreement, she turned to Malfoy with a pained expression, her voice carrying the weight of grief. "What if I don't want to go back?" Stumped, he hadn't anticipated her to be like this, but his resolve hardened.
"We can't stay here. We can't hide from the pain," he said it so coldly that she shivered. Lost in her thoughts, she anticipated Malfoy speaking again, trying to convince her. She couldn't help but think he was right; this was the safest option, rather than letting everyone know what had happened to them, risking being taken advantage of for their knowledge of the future.
Then, the realization hit her—they had been sent back to 1938, the same time and place as Voldemort. Her blood ran cold, and fear etched itself onto her face. Malfoy noticed and was about to speak before they heard someone clearing their throat outside of their curtain. They both looked at each other, worried that opening the curtain would mean the end of their safe space, the barrier from the unknown world they were thrust into, would cease to exist.
However, Malfoy solidified his stance and opened the curtains, revealing a younger Dumbledore, another old man, and Madam Parish. They all stood there in silence, taking in the children before them; their mysterious appearance in Hogwarts baffled all of them. The old man next to Dumbledore spoke first with a somewhat cheery voice, though it was laced with uncertainty.
"Hello, children. I am Headmaster Dippet," he said. "Madam Parish has reported that you had been severely injured, almost as though you had just been fighting a war. Professor Dumbledore explained that he found you in the courtyard and that he had spoken with you, young man." Headmaster Dippets eyes lingered on Malfoy. "And that the Malfoy family expects you home by the end of today, or else they will retrieve you themselves." He then turned his gaze on the girl. "However, no one has sent notice of retrieval for you, young lady."
He was cut off by Malfoy. "That is because she will be coming with me, sir." The man raised his brow in curiosity. "Is that what you wish to do, young lady?" Hermione looked from the man to Dumbledore and then to Malfoy. She couldn't trust this man she didn't know him, and the Dumbledore from her time had been so secretive that it had cost her friends' lives. A feeling of resentment settled in the bottom of her stomach for the man. Then there was Malfoy. He couldn't be trusted, but he was the only one who knew who she was, and she did need to keep an eye on him unless he decided to blindside her, even if it seemed as though he wanted to find a way back to his precious Dark Lord.
Hermione steeled herself, straightening her back, and looked over to the three adults in front of her. "Yes, I would like to go with him to the Malfoy Manor."
"Alright then, children, you'll let us know your names so we can refer to you as such. I will organize the floo for you two, Madam Parish will finish up with you, and Dumbledore will further explain what will happen from here, alright?" They both nodded their heads and watched the headmaster of this time exit the infirmary, turning their attention to Madam Parish and Professor Dumbledore, bracing themselves.
"Children, I will just prepare the balms I need. As I did a lot of the healing while you were sleeping, I was able to heal majority of your wounds, except for the severe bruising and scarring. While I do this, I'm sure Dumbledore will fill you in on everything," she said, looking at the older man with somewhat of a forlorn look, walking away from the three of them.
"So, what are your names, please?" Dumbledore asked for the second time. Before Granger could answer, Malfoy spoke up, "I am Draco, and this is Hermione, sir." He didn't bother with her last name, she noticed, as did Dumbledore. However, it seemed Malfoy had it under control. "Well, now that we know who you are, you've arrived a bit early. However, in a day's time, the beginning of term will start for all students. You will arrive with everyone else and be sorted into your houses. I'm sure you know about this. Although, here are the required books for this year and necessary uniforms needed." Dumbledore said passing them both two sheets of parchment.
And just like that, everything happened in a blur. Madam Parish cleared their wounds, although she noticed that both of them declined her access to their left arms and only allowed her to help them apply the salves to their backs. She had to hold back tears when looking at all the scars that jutted from their skin.
From there, they were rushed to Headmaster Dippets office, the familiar gargoyle entrance greeting both of them. They stood in front of the floo, receiving instructions on how to properly use it, although both of them were well aware of everything. They stayed quiet, only catching a few words here and there. Suddenly, they were enraptured by green flames and greeted by a beautiful lady waiting in the foyer of the room.