The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and stone. Spells flew through the Great Hall, colliding in bursts of light and sound, each one more desperate than the last. Hermione Granger ducked as a flash of green light seared past her shoulder, narrowly missing her. She could barely think through the noise—the screams, the curses, the walls shaking under the force of the battle raging around her.
She pressed her back against a crumbling pillar, panting, her wand clenched tightly in her hand. Ron and Harry were somewhere nearby, but in the chaos, it was impossible to see them. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling as a section of the enchanted sky flickered, revealing not stars, but jagged stone. Her ears were ringing, but she could still make out the cries of spells and the distant shouts of her friends.
"Protego!" she shouted, deflecting a curse that sent a shiver of cold up her arm. There was no time to think, no time to process. Just survive. Survive and keep fighting.
A sudden explosion rocked the hall, far louder and closer than any before. Hermione felt the ground lurch beneath her feet as a chunk of the castle wall gave way, crumbling inward. She stumbled backward, trying to shield herself from the shower of rock and rubble, but the force of the blast knocked her off balance. She hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body, and her wand slipped from her grasp, skittering out of reach.
For a second, Hermione lay dazed, staring up at the swirling dust above her, her mind struggling to catch up. She reached out blindly, fingertips brushing stone and debris as she searched for her wand. Panic fluttered in her chest, but it was muted, distant, like she was watching everything from behind a veil.
Then she felt it—a strange, almost electric tingle that prickled at her skin, raising the hairs on her arms. It was a sensation she couldn't quite place, unlike any magic she'd ever felt before. It was wrong, somehow; a mix of conflicting forces—dark magic colliding with something ancient and wild. The air around her shimmered faintly, charged with energy, like the space between two duelling spells, just before they clashed.
Hermione forced herself up onto her elbows, her vision swimming. She blinked, trying to clear her head, but the world around her seemed to warp and shift, the edges blurring as if she were underwater. She could see the vague shapes of people—friends, foes, all moving in frantic motion—but their forms were distorted, flickering in and out of focus.
"Hermione!" a voice called, faint and echoing. She couldn't tell where it came from or who it belonged to. It was like a ghost of sound, lost in the storm of magic that surrounded her.
Suddenly, there was a sharp, pulling sensation, like being yanked forward by an invisible rope. Hermione gasped, her body jerking involuntarily as the world around her seemed to stretch and twist. She reached out, trying to anchor herself, but her fingers grasped at empty air. The noise of the battle faded to a distant hum, replaced by a rushing sound, like wind roaring in her ears.
She was spinning—no, falling. Down, up, sideways. There was no sense of direction, no up or down, just an endless, disorienting spiral that pulled her deeper and deeper. The light around her warped, flashes of colour and darkness blending together in a dizzying dance. Hermione tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed up, lost in the strange void that enveloped her.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Hermione hit the ground with a thud, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. She lay still, the world around her eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. The air was cool and smelled of fresh grass, a sharp contrast to the smoke and dust she'd just escaped.
She opened her eyes slowly, wincing at the sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees above her. The Great Hall was gone. The battle, the noise, the chaos—all vanished. Hermione pushed herself up, her heart pounding as she looked around. She was in a forest, the Forbidden Forest perhaps, though it was not anywhere she readily recognized. It was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't belong to a place at war.
Her hands were trembling as she fumbled for her wand, relief flooding her when her fingers finally closed around the familiar wood. She stood, unsteady, and took a few steps forward, her mind racing. She turned in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings, and that's when she saw it—a narrow path leading out of the woods, winding towards the silhouette of a castle in the distance.
Hogwarts.
But not as she knew it. The towers stood pristine, untouched by the scars of battle. There were no signs of damage, no evidence of the war she'd just been fighting. Everything was too bright, too clean, too... unfamiliar.
Hermione's stomach twisted as realisation began to creep in. This wasn't the Hogwarts she had just left. This was a different time altogether, the grounds had never looked like that in her seven years of attending school.
With shaky hands, Hermione raised her wand, her voice barely a whisper as she cast the spell. "Tempus."
A soft, glowing clock face appeared in the air, numbers and letters swirling into focus. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she read the date displayed in bright, unmistakable script:
August 31, 1977. 10:32 AM
Hermione's head spun as she stared at the date floating in the air, the numbers burning themselves into her mind. August 31, 1977 . The implications hit her like a tidal wave, each realisation crashing into the next, leaving her breathless. She was more than twenty years in the past, stranded in a time where everything was different and everyone she knew was younger, untouched by the tragedies she was so familiar with, or non-existent at all.
How did this happen? She tried to piece it together—the explosion, the strange clash of magic, the sharp, tugging sensation that had pulled her out of her own time. The castle had always been a place of ancient magic, layers of spells and protections woven into its very foundation. It was entirely possible that the surge of magic during the battle had triggered something buried deep within the stone walls. A time anomaly, an old ward gone haywire… but none of that mattered now. What mattered was that she was stuck. For the time being for sure.
Panic threatened to take hold, but Hermione forced it down. She had to think clearly, had to figure out what to do next. She couldn't afford to make mistakes. The rules of time travel were clear—do not be seen, do not interact, do not alter the course of history. But that was impossible in her current situation. She was standing on the grounds of Hogwarts, dressed in torn, dirty clothes, muggle clothes , and clearly out of place. Hiding indefinitely was not an option, and there was no guarantee she'd find a way back anytime soon.
Hermione knew she needed a plan. A plausible cover story to explain her sudden presence that wouldn't raise suspicion or lead back to her real identity. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, forcing herself to focus. She was good at thinking on her feet—years of danger and problem-solving had taught her that much. She could do this. She had to do this.
First, she needed to blend in. Her clothes were a problem; they were distinctly out of place, and she'd need proper robes to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb. Second, she needed a believable backstory, something that would explain who she was without tying her to her own future self. She knew she couldn't use her real name; it would be too easy to trace later on. She'd have to be someone else entirely.
Hermione's mind raced through the possibilities, considering and discarding options in rapid succession. She couldn't claim to be a relative of any existing students or staff—it was too risky, and someone might try to verify her story. She needed to be an outsider, someone with a reason to be at Hogwarts but no ties to anyone who would recognize her.
The idea struck her like a bolt of lightning. A transfer student. It was perfect—she could explain away any gaps in her knowledge of current events or people, and she could easily stay under the radar. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, the French wizarding school, would provide the perfect cover. It was well-known, respected, and the cultural differences would explain any peculiarities about her behaviour. She even knew French. No one would question a French student's unfamiliarity with Hogwarts' specific traditions.
But how would she explain her perfect British accent? Hermione chewed on her lip, thinking. A bilingual household—maybe a French father and an English mother, who was a Muggleborn witch. Yes, that made sense. Her mother had passed away when she was young, leaving her with a lingering connection to Britain. Not being a pureblood also helped maintain her anonymity—no one would pry too deeply into a family with no significant ties to the British wizarding aristocracy. It was simple, believable, and she could handle it.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing mind. One step at a time. To her great relief, her trusty beaded bag was still wrapped around her hips, its comforting weight grounding her. Hermione sat down on a nearby rock and began to sort through her belongings, taking stock of what she had that could help her survive in this strange, misplaced time.
Potions. A small stash of emergency brews that she had packed for the Battle of Hogwarts. They were still intact—thank Merlin—and included essentials like healing draughts, a few vials of Polyjuice Potion, and even a small bottle of Felix Felicis. She tucked those aside carefully, knowing how valuable they might become.
Books. Her beloved copies of "Hogwarts: A History," "Advanced Potion-Making," and a handful of spell books she had collected over the years. Hermione smiled ruefully at the sight of the worn covers. Well-used indeed. Then looking into them she knew she had to keep these hidden at all costs: the publishing dates for most of these editions were well into the future.
Clothes. The beaded bag contained a few spare outfits, but they were all from her own time: casual muggle clothes and a set of Hogwarts robes from before they went on the run. None of these would work here. Her gaze lingered on the robes, her heart twisting with memories she couldn't afford to dwell on.
Money. Hermione let out a sigh of relief when she found her small pouch of coins, filled with a mix of galleons, sickles, and knuts. Many of them were old enough that they wouldn't look out of place in 1977. This was something she could work with. She could buy a few items that would help her blend in better—robes, quills, maybe even a new satchel that didn't scream "out of time."
Satisfied with her assessment, Hermione got to work. She raised her wand and muttered, "Scourgify," cleaning herself up as best as she could. The grime of the battle vanished, and she felt a little more like herself. Next, she pointed her wand at her muggle clothes. A flick and a swish, and her torn jeans and hoodie transformed into something more appropriate: light blue dress robes with delicate silver embroidery along the cuffs and hem, paired with a simple, matching cloak—perfect for a supposed Beauxbatons student.
Hermione took a moment to examine her transfigured outfit with a critical eye. The dress and cloak she had conjured were passable, but she couldn't be sure they were quite right. The French wizarding fashion of the 1970s was a vague concept in her mind, blurred by the distance of time and culture. Beauxbatons' official robes were distinct and recognizable, but Hermione didn't want to draw attention to herself by perfectly mirroring them. Instead, she aimed for something that suggested French elegance without being too specific—a blend of what she imagined would be appropriate and her own best guesses.
She caught her reflection in a small, handheld mirror from her bag. Her hair was still wild and curly, but she managed to tame it into a loose braid, one that looked deliberate rather than bedraggled. With a flick of her wand, she softened her features just slightly, making her look a little less like Hermione Granger that people might recognize in old photos someday and wonder about the strange anachronism.
With her appearance settled, Hermione turned her attention to her next move. She needed to look the part, but also act the part. She practised speaking aloud, softening her natural English intonation into something that sounded more continental, just in case she needed to speak. The English accent was fine, thanks to her backstory, but a hint of something French would sell it better—just a touch, like an echo of another language hanging in her voice.
"Allô, monsieur, je m'appelle Mina Delacour… I am here from Beauxbatons to complete my studies… Merci, Headmaster Dumbledore…" Hermione murmured, practising her lines with a careful cadence. It felt odd, rehearsing her own identity like it was some kind of role, but she knew that every detail mattered. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, letting her new persona sink in. She would be poised, polite, and just aloof enough that no one would pry too much.
Next, she needed to handle the most critical part of her plan: contacting Dumbledore. She knew she couldn't just waltz into the castle and hope to explain herself without suspicion. She needed to craft her introduction carefully. Hermione found a piece of parchment and a quill in her bag, setting them down on the grass in front of her. The wind rustled gently through the trees, and she could almost imagine she was back in her own time, working on a homework assignment. But this was far from the comfortable routine she was used to.
She started writing, her hand steady despite the rapid beat of her heart:
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,
My name is Mina Delacour, a seventh-year student from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding my father's recent relocation to Britain for academic research, I am in urgent need of a transfer to Hogwarts to complete my studies. I have received high recommendations from my professors at Beauxbatons, and they have assured me that my request would be considered favourably given the abrupt nature of my move.
I am currently staying in Hogsmeade and would greatly appreciate your swift response so that I may begin my term promptly.
Thank you for your understanding.
Yours sincerely,
Mina Delacour
Hermione stared at the letter, scrutinising every word. It was vague enough to avoid immediate questions, yet formal and convincing. The Delacour name lent credibility without being too direct a link to the family she knew existed in France. Satisfied, she folded the parchment neatly and slipped it into an envelope. Now, she just needed to send it.
Hermione hoisted the beaded bag back onto her shoulder and made her way toward Hogsmeade, the quaint wizarding village visible just beyond the edge of the forest. The path was familiar, but every step felt surreal. She was walking through history, surrounded by students who hadn't yet faced the war that would define her generation. It was all so ordinary on the surface, yet profoundly different beneath.
The village itself looked much like it did in her time, though there were subtle differences: shop signs painted in brighter colours, a few storefronts she didn't recognize, and the absence of certain modern touches. She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact as she moved through the cobblestone streets. The occasional glance or curious stare made her feel conspicuous, but she pressed on, determined to blend in.
Finally, she reached the post office, a quaint building with owls of every size and colour perched on ledges, ready to deliver messages across the country. She chose a large, regal-looking tawny owl that seemed up to the task. Hermione carefully attached the letter to the owl's leg, whispering instructions. "Take this to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts. It's urgent."
The owl hooted softly, then took off, its wings beating steadily as it soared toward the castle in the distance. Hermione watched it go, her stomach twisting with nerves. This was it—the beginning of her new role, her new story. There was no turning back now.
With the letter sent, Hermione made her way to the Three Broomsticks, slipping inside the warm, bustling inn. She would need to wait for Dumbledore's response, and she couldn't do it out in the open. She took a seat in a quiet corner, ordering a simple tea to calm her nerves. She sipped slowly, feeling the warmth seep through her, grounding her amidst the whirlwind of her thoughts.
Her mind raced with all the possibilities, the risks, and the tiny threads of hope. She knew Dumbledore—he would be curious, but also discreet. If anyone could help her without prying too deeply into the secrets she needed to keep, it was him. And if her plan worked, she would soon be stepping into Hogwarts not as Hermione Granger, war heroine and time traveller, but as Mina Delacour, the French student whose biggest concern was finding her way around a new school.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't safe. But it was the best she could do. For now, all she could do was wait.
Mina Delacour's letter must have reached Dumbledore quickly because, just an hour after sending it, an owl swooped into the Three Broomsticks where she was seated quietly, a steaming cup of tea in front of her. The tawny bird landed gracefully on the edge of her table, dropping a neatly folded piece of parchment in front of her before flying off again, barely making a sound.
Hermione's heart pounded as she picked up the letter, breaking the Hogwarts seal with trembling fingers. The ink was a deep, familiar shade of blue, written in Dumbledore's distinctive, elegant handwriting.
Dear Miss Delacour,
Thank you for your letter. I am pleased to hear of your interest in completing your studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and would be happy to discuss your transfer in person. Please come directly to my office at your earliest convenience. You will find the entrance behind the stone gargoyle on the seventh floor.
Please tell my guards that I enjoy Fizzing Whizbees.
I look forward to meeting you.
Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The note was brief but welcoming, and it brought a mix of relief and anxiety. Dumbledore's curiosity was boundless, and Hermione knew that he was not easily fooled. She would need to be careful, to present herself as the reserved French student she had crafted so meticulously. She couldn't afford any slip-ups.
Hermione quickly finished her tea, paid the bartender, and made her way out of the Three Broomsticks. The path to Hogwarts was familiar yet tinged with the surreal, the castle looming ahead like a grand, untouched monument. She walked steadily, each step taking her closer to the daunting reality of her situation. The great wooden doors of the castle stood tall, welcoming her back but under very different circumstances.
Once inside, she navigated the corridors of Hogwarts, her shoes tapping softly on the stone floors. She kept her head slightly bowed, trying to avoid eye contact with the students she passed, most of whom were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice her. Still, every glance felt like a potential threat, every whisper a possible exposure. The path to Dumbledore's office was familiar, but the castle felt different—brighter, livelier, untouched by the battles she remembered.
Finally, she reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office. Remembering the hint in Dumbledore's letter, Hermione cleared her throat and said, "Fizzing Whizbees."
The gargoyle shifted aside, revealing the staircase that spiralled upward to the office. A small smile tugged at her lips—Dumbledore's playful way of ensuring she found her way without directly giving the password had worked. She stepped onto the moving staircase, her heart racing as she ascended. It was hard not to think about the countless times she'd been here in her own time—seeking advice, receiving guidance, or preparing for battle. But today was different. Today, she wasn't Hermione Granger. She was Mina Delacour, and she had to believe that.
The door at the top opened of its own accord, and Hermione stepped into the circular office, where a soft golden light illuminated shelves filled with curious objects that hummed and whirred gently. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, and a welcoming, knowing smile on his face.
This was Dumbledore as she remembered him—kind, wise, and always with that hint of mischief in his eyes. But he was younger, still untouched by the darker times that lay ahead.
"Miss Delacour," he greeted, standing up and extending a hand. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
Hermione nodded, her practised smile in place. "Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
Dumbledore gestured for her to sit, and she did, smoothing her cloak as she perched on the edge of the chair. His piercing blue eyes studied her with a curiosity that made her heart skip a beat, but his expression remained kind and open.
"It is not every day that we receive a student from Beauxbatons so unexpectedly, especially so close to the start of term," Dumbledore said, his tone light but probing. "I understand you've had a rather sudden relocation."
"Oui," Hermione replied, keeping her voice steady and her accent faintly French. "My father's work brought us to Britain quite recently, and Beauxbatons recommended that I transfer here to finish my studies. It was all quite sudden, but I am eager to continue my education."
Dumbledore nodded, his gaze flicking over her robes, noting every detail. "It must be quite an adjustment, being so far from home and joining us just before the school year begins."
"It is," Hermione agreed, leaning into her cover story. "But I've always wanted to visit Britain. My mother—she was English, a Muggleborn. She passed away when I was little, but she spoke so fondly of Hogwarts. It feels… close to her, in a way."
She watched Dumbledore's expression carefully, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of the deeper truth hidden in her words. His eyes softened.
"Your mother must have been a remarkable woman," he said kindly. "And I am certain you will find Hogwarts a welcoming place. It is, after all, a school built on the magic of many cultures, much like Beauxbatons."
Hermione nodded, her confidence growing. "Thank you, Headmaster. I'm very grateful for the opportunity."
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his gaze still intent but warm. "I must say, Miss Delacour, your English is impeccable. A testament, I imagine, to your upbringing?"
Hermione smiled, keeping her nerves under tight control, but so pleased with herself that she had anticipated this turn. Much harder to come up with these on the fly. "My mother taught me both languages. She wanted me to be able to speak English as well as she did."
Dumbledore nodded, seeming satisfied. "Very well. I see no reason why we cannot accommodate your transfer. I will make the necessary arrangements, and you may begin attending classes the day after tomorrow. However, I believe it would be best to sort you into your house now rather than during the welcoming feast tomorrow. It would avoid any undue attention."
Hermione's relief was palpable; the thought of being sorted with the first years had been weighing on her mind. "Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate that. I promise I will do my best to live up to Hogwarts' standards."
Dumbledore smiled again, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. "I have no doubt that you will, Miss Delacour. The Sorting Hat is quite used to handling unusual circumstances, and I'm sure it will find you a suitable place. I'll summon it now."
With a graceful wave of his wand, Dumbledore called for the Sorting Hat, which sat proudly on a high shelf behind him. The ancient hat floated down, settling itself on the desk with a faint rustle, its folds shifting as if it were stretching after a long nap.
"Ah, a new mind to sort!" the hat said, its voice echoing softly in the room. "Always a pleasure, even if it's not the usual time."
Dumbledore gestured to the hat and looked at Hermione encouragingly. "Go ahead, Miss Delacour. It won't take but a moment."
Hermione took a deep breath and sat forward, placing the Sorting Hat gently on her head. She felt a familiar tug at her thoughts, the hat's magic probing her mind, sifting through her memories and intentions. It was strange to feel it again after all these years, but she reminded herself that she was Mina Delacour now, not Hermione Granger.
"Hmm," the hat mused quietly, speaking into her mind alone. "You're a complicated one, aren't you? Courage, intelligence, a fierce sense of loyalty… and a heart that's been tested by fire. You're not quite who you seem, are you?"
Hermione's breath caught, her mind racing. She focused on her new identity, willing the hat to see her as she needed to be seen. The Sorting Hat chuckled softly, as though sensing her internal struggle.
"No need to worry. I see what you're made of, Miss Delacour, and you'll fit right in. There's bravery in you—boldness and a willingness to take risks for what you believe is right."
Hermione braced herself, and the hat's voice rose in a decisive tone: "Gryffindor!"
Hermione's heart jolted. Gryffindor. Her old house, the one she knew better than any other. She had hoped for something different, a new start, but there was also a strange comfort in returning to the house she had always considered home. This time, she would just have to navigate it as someone else.
Dumbledore clapped his hands together, clearly pleased. "Ah, Gryffindor—a fine choice indeed. I trust you will find it both familiar and inspiring, Miss Delacour. The Gryffindor common room is in the tower—you'll have a stunning view of the castle grounds and, of course, the companionship of some of our most spirited students."
Hermione nodded, managing a smile despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "Thank you, Headmaster. I'm honoured to be placed in Gryffindor."
Dumbledore's expression was warm and approving. "I'm sure you will do the house proud. You will be among good company—Gryffindor has always attracted those with a strong sense of courage and purpose."
He continued, "I'll have my deputy send over the supply list of the seventh-years this afternoon so you might complete your shopping by the time the Hogwarts Express arrives in the evening. I'm sure you'll find most of what you need in Hogsmeade, but if not, you can put in an owl order to Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. Those should arrive over the weekend as well."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze softening. "You're also welcome to stay in the Gryffindor Tower tonight. The house elves have prepared a bed for you in the seventh-year girls' dormitory, so you can settle in and get comfortable before the rest of the students arrive tomorrow."
Hermione felt a wave of gratitude. Staying in the dormitory would allow her to blend in more seamlessly, and it would be easier to start the next day without feeling like an outsider. "Thank you, Headmaster. That's very kind."
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. "It is no trouble at all, Miss Delacour. I want you to feel at home here, and I'm sure you'll find the seventh-year girls to be welcoming. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
With a final nod, Hermione stood, carefully setting the Sorting Hat back on the desk. She thanked Dumbledore once more, feeling the weight of her new—and yet familiar—house settle around her. She was Mina Delacour, a Gryffindor once again, but this time with secrets and a mission that no one could know.
As she made her way to the Gryffindor Tower, the castle felt strangely welcoming, filled with memories she could never speak of. Reaching the portrait of the Fat Lady, Hermione spoke the password given to her by Dumbledore and stepped inside. The common room was empty, bathed in the warm glow of the evening sun filtering through the windows.
Hermione climbed the stairs to the seventh-year girls' dormitory, feeling the familiar creak of the steps beneath her feet. She pushed open the door and found the room much as she remembered: cosy, inviting, and lined with four-poster beds draped in rich red and gold. One bed near the window had been freshly made, its scarlet covers neat and inviting.
She set her bag down, taking a moment to breathe in the comforting scent of wood and old parchment. It was both different and the same, a place she knew so well, even if now it would be filled with faces she had never met.
As she lay down on the bed, Hermione allowed herself a rare moment of peace. Tomorrow, she would meet her housemates, and the journey of being Mina Delacour would truly begin. But tonight, she was back in Gryffindor Tower, a place that still felt like home, even after all this time.
A/N: I love comments, I really do. But if one more person comments or pms me solely to try to get me to commission them for artwork, I'm going to implode. I cannot tell you the emotional roller coaster it send me on when I see the notification email regarding the interaction with my story, only to realise they want me to spend money I don't have, on something I don't really need. If you love the story, great. If you want to create something for it, because it inspires you, great. That's your hobby, business or whatever, you have my permission to do it. But I'm not gonna buy it. I just cannot get behind this door-to-door salesman scheme. Please stop.
