Chapter 3: Uncharted Trust
Hermione jerked awake at the soft but insistent bustle of Mrs. Weasley sweeping into her room.
"Up you get, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a warm smile, hanging up a set of garments that looked altogether foreign to Hermione. With a swish of her wand, a tub appeared by the window, filling with steamy, fragrant water. Mrs. Weasley handed her a cup of hot tea as Hermione sat up, blinking herself awake.
"Breakfast will be ready in half an hour," Mrs. Weasley continued. "Best get you dressed in something a bit more…" She paused, eyeing Hermione's rumpled white shirt and knee-length skirt, clearly searching for the right words. "Well, something a bit more fitting."
Hermione took a sip of tea, feeling the warmth spread through her. As she began to unbutton her shirt, she noticed Mrs. Weasley's curious gaze fixed on her chest. Hermione suddenly realized that her bra—a completely normal garment to her—must have seemed strange to someone from the 1700s.
"What sort of garment is that?" Mrs. Weasley asked, eyebrows raised, her tone curious and baffled.
Hermione felt her cheeks flush. "It's a brassiere… from France." She explained, hoping this would satisfy the question.
At the mention of France, Mrs. Weasley's expression softened with understanding. "Ah, French. That explains it." She gave a slight chuckle. "Now, into the tub with you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, but I can manage to bathe myself," Hermione said, feeling a bit self-conscious.
"Nonsense, dear. No need to be shy. You don't have anything I haven't seen before," Mrs. Weasley replied with a reassuring smile.
Hermione finished undressing and sank into the warm tub. The floral scent of the soap Mrs. Weasley handed her was soothing, calming her nerves and clearing her mind. She lathered the soap over her skin, savouring the rare comfort and solitude.
Once she was done, Mrs. Weasley helped her into an array of garments—far more intricate than she was used to. First came a soft cotton chemise, followed by a stiff bodice that felt almost like a corset. There was a petticoat, a long dress with flowing sleeves, and a shawl. Stockings, ribbons, and delicate shoes completed the outfit. Hermione couldn't help but marvel at the sheer amount of layers. Dressing in the 1700s was clearly a task in itself, and definitely not designed with practicality in mind.
Mrs. Weasley then styled her hair, arranging it with careful precision before offering a lacy bonnet. Hermione shook her head, politely declining.
Once Hermione was fully dressed, Mrs. Weasley stood back with a proud, appreciative smile. "Beautiful. Now, I must get back to the kitchen to finish preparing breakfast. Go straight to the dining hall, dear."
As Mrs. Weasley bustled out, Hermione took a moment to study her reflection in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. She looked like one of the women from the old portraits at Hogwarts. Taking a steadying breath, she turned and headed downstairs, mentally preparing herself. She would need the Order's help to return to her own time, but she couldn't risk revealing too much. Instead, she resolved to tell them only what was necessary, as close to the truth as possible without giving everything away.
When she entered the dining hall, the room fell silent, and all eyes turned toward her. To her surprise, the men stood in a polite, gentlemanly gesture. Blushing slightly, Hermione took a seat across from Harry. Beside him sat a young woman with vibrant red hair she hadn't noticed last night—one of the Weasleys, she assumed.
"Good morning, Miss McLaggen. I hope you had a restful night," Dumbledore greeted her with a warm smile.
"Yes, I did, thank you," Hermione replied, returning his smile. As she glanced down at her plate, it magically filled with eggs, cured meats, cheese, and fresh bread. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until that moment and couldn't help but dig in.
As she ate, Mad-Eye Moody cleared his throat, his sharp gaze fixed on her. "Why don't you tell us your real name now, lass?" he said gruffly, wasting no time.
Dumbledore raised a hand to calm him. "Now, Alastor, let her enjoy her breakfast first."
But Moody was undeterred. "We can't take any chances. Dark times, these are. We need to know we're not letting in a spy for You-Know-Who."
Hermione set her fork down and looked steadily at them. "I'm not a spy. As I mentioned, I was traveling but got lost, and I'm not really a McLaggen. My real name is Hermione Granger. I'm a Muggle-born."
"Where were you traveling to, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired, his tone gentle but probing.
Hermione hesitated briefly before answering. "I was on my way to a port to France. I needed to escape." She paused, glancing around the room, measuring their reactions. "As you all know, Muggle-borns are… treated poorly these days. Someone was helping me, but we got separated. That's when I encountered Mr. Malfoy, and then Sirius found me."
Her words hung in the air, and Hermione could see that her mention of escape resonated with them. They knew the dangers Muggle-borns faced in this era.
Moody's eyes narrowed. "And where did you get your wand?"
"It was part of the arrangement with the person who was helping me," Hermione explained. "I wouldn't have stood a chance without it."
Sirius spoke up, his gaze curious but sympathetic. "I saw you undo the charm Draco put on you. How did you learn to do that?"
Hermione's stomach clenched, but she kept her composure. "I've always been a quick learner, sir. I read… a lot." She hoped that would be explanation enough without raising suspicion. Thankfully, her love of learning was no lie.
The Order members exchanged glances, still wary but seemingly appeased for now.
"Forgive us for questioning you so thoroughly, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said kindly. "These are troubled times, and we are the Order of the Phoenix—the resistance against Lord Voldemort. We have to ensure our security."
Hermione nodded, understanding their need for caution. "I only wanted to escape, sir, but I believe I may need your help to do that."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "And we shall help you. However, it will require caution. The ports are heavily monitored, and Portkeys are strictly regulated by the Ministry, which is… now under Voldemort's influence. For now, you may stay here, and we'll see what arrangements can be made."
"Thank you," Hermione said earnestly, relieved to have their tentative trust.
And so, Hermione's life at Grimmauld Place began. She was given small tasks around the house and, upon Madam Pomfrey's insistence, was asked to assist in medical rounds. Her knowledge of modern healing methods quickly impressed the mediwitch, who marveled at Hermione's skills. Hermione, in turn, relished the opportunity to help, grateful to contribute in a meaningful way.
Unaware of the full extent of her magical abilities, the Order soon began teaching her defensive spells to protect herself. Sirius and Harry took it upon themselves to train her, sparring with her in the duelling room. Hermione threw herself into her lessons, grateful for the chance to improve her skills. As they practiced, she could sense the growing respect from her new companions.
Still, Hermione's mind remained fixed on her ultimate goal: finding a way back to her own time.
The Order's missions, Hermione soon discovered, were not just covert rescues but also daring raids and dangerous infiltrations into Dark forces' strongholds. One evening, the entire household had an edge to it. Dumbledore and several Order members had gone on one of these missions, leaving Hermione alone with Madam Pomfrey in the dimly lit healing room, anxiously preparing for possible injuries. Mrs. Weasley and her youngest, Ginny, were somewhere else in the manor, possibly readying food or supplies, each contributing in their own way.
The quiet was suddenly shattered by footsteps and urgent voices echoing through the halls. A group burst through the door—Ron with a swollen black eye, Sirius limping from a sprained ankle, Remus sporting bruises and scratches. But it was Harry who made Hermione's heart lurch; he staggered into the room, clutching his right side, where a deep, angry gash was bleeding profusely.
They hurried him to the bed, where Madam Pomfrey was already ready, her face taut with worry. She immediately began cleaning Harry's wound with a Tergeo charm, but as she applied Essence of Dittany to close it, the gash remained stubbornly open, oozing blood.
"What curse was used on Mr. Potter?" Madam Pomfrey demanded, her voice sharp.
"Sectumsempra," Sirius answered, his voice laced with anger.
"Oh, Merlin… Dittany won't close that," Madam Pomfrey whispered, visibly alarmed. "This is beyond standard healing charms. He needs to be taken to St. Mungo's."
"We can't take him there!" Ron protested, his voice edged with panic. "Might as well hand him over to You-Know-Who!"
Hermione, watching the scene unfold, suddenly remembered her Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. She knew Sectumsempra was an extremely dangerous curse invented during this time, so the Order wouldn't have the counter-curse yet. But in her time, a counter-curse existed—and she knew it.
"Bloody hell, Harry!" Sirius shouted, his frustration and fear spilling over. "Why did you have to go after that rat?"
Harry winced but held Sirius's gaze, determination burning in his eyes. "I had to... he has to pay for what he's done," he whispered through clenched teeth.
Sirius's face softened, his anger fading into a look of sorrow and understanding. "I know, Harry. And he will pay. But you have to be careful," he murmured. "You know they can't capture you."
He looked around, his desperation clear. "I'll send for Dumbledore. He might know a way to help."
Hermione took a steadying breath, then stepped forward and cleared her throat. "I… I might be able to help," she said, her voice tentative but resolute.
Sirius turned to her, eyes wide with a glimmer of hope. "Another Muggle remedy?" he asked, grasping at straws.
"No," Hermione said with conviction, "it's a spell this time."
"There's no counter-curse for this," Madam Pomfrey protested, casting her a doubtful glance.
Hermione held her ground. "I know one," she insisted softly, her voice firm despite her nerves.
Madam Pomfrey looked ready to argue, but Sirius intervened, his voice a low, urgent command. "Let her try. We're running out of time."
Hermione approached Harry, who looked up at her with a tired but grateful smile. "You must be so tired of patching me up," he managed to joke, his voice strained.
She smiled back, her expression softening. "Maybe, but you seem determined to keep getting hurt," she teased lightly. "Now, hush. Let me help you."
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Hermione raised her wand over Harry's wound and began the counter-curse, her voice strong and unwavering as she intoned, "Vulnera Sanentur."
A warm, golden light enveloped the gash on Harry's side. He felt a gentle but insistent pull as the muscles under the wound began to knit together. The others looked on in awe as the deep cut mended itself, the flesh slowly sealing until only a faint scar remained where there had once been a vicious wound.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then, all at once, everyone burst into relieved cheers and thanks. Sirius clapped Hermione on the back, his voice hoarse with gratitude. "Thank you… thank you, Hermione. You've no idea what you've done for him."
Ron's astonished voice cut through the noise. "Bloody hell!" he muttered, looking at Hermione with newfound respect.
Hermione blushed under the sudden attention but smiled, a surge of pride mixed with relief filling her as she looked down at Harry, who was now peacefully resting. She had a feeling that this was only the beginning, that her skills would be tested time and time again—but tonight, she had saved a life. And that, she knew, was all that mattered.
The rest of the Order returned, gathering slowly in the drawing room with the weight of the night still heavy on their shoulders. Their faces bore fresh cuts, bruises, and shadows that spoke of close calls and fierce battles. They were drinking firewhisky in silence, each sip warming the chill of the night's violence but not erasing it. The room buzzed with low murmurs and the smell of healing salves as they nursed their wounds. Every now and then, a voice would rise—a quiet laugh, a grumble of frustration—but the underlying tension remained thick, as if something unsaid hung over them all.
Dumbledore's sharp voice broke through, summoning Hermione to join them. Her heart raced as she walked into the room, conscious of the gazes that followed her. Sirius had evidently informed Dumbledore of her unexpected success with Harry's injury.
"Ms. Granger," Dumbledore greeted her, his eyes twinkling with an unreadable depth. "It seems we owe you yet another debt of gratitude. You've saved Mr. Potter… again."
She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet Dumbledore's piercing gaze. "I'm glad I could be of help, sir," she replied earnestly. "It's… it's the least I can do to repay your kindness."
Just then, she felt the weight of Mad-Eye's intense, scrutinizing gaze on her. He had been watching her with suspicion for days now, and tonight, it seemed he couldn't hold back any longer. His voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Tell us, Ms. Granger," he drawled, his magical eye fixed unblinkingly on her while the other gleamed with suspicion, "how exactly did you come to know the counter-curse for a spell created by one of the Dark Lord's lieutenants?"
Hermione's mind raced, her palms turning clammy as she searched for an answer that wouldn't deepen his suspicions. "I… I've heard someone use it before," she managed, but her voice was faint, lacking its usual confidence.
Mad-Eye's expression darkened, and he leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as if he were peering right into her soul. "What are you hiding from us, lass?"
Her heart pounded, and she could feel herself starting to tremble under his penetrating gaze. "I promise… I'm not a spy!" she said, her voice cracking with desperation. "I only want to go back!" The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Mad-Eye's eyes narrowed even further. "Back?" he echoed slowly, each word heavy with suspicion. "Back where? I thought you said you were escaping?"
Hermione's face flushed. She scrambled to cover her slip, the silence in the room pressing down on her as every eye stayed fixed on her. "I-I meant… I have to go back to my plan of escaping," she stammered, her mind racing for a way to turn the conversation. "I need to leave, sir. I don't belong here. And… I'm in danger here. You all know what they do to Muggle-borns."
The room fell deathly silent, her words hanging in the air, and Mad-Eye's hard expression faltered, just for a moment. His gaze softened slightly, but it was a fleeting moment of sympathy.
"I don't mean to frighten you, lass," he said in a low, gruff tone. "But Muggle-borns aren't allowed wands—or magic." He paused, his voice laden with warning. "And yet, we've seen you do things you shouldn't have known. Things that raise questions."
Hermione felt her throat tighten, her words caught in a tangle of fear and frustration. She was painfully aware that the truth, if it came out, would only make her position more precarious. She could feel the weight of their doubts pressing on her, suffocating and unrelenting. She took a shaky breath, steeling herself to speak again, knowing that every word would have to be chosen with care if she were to survive another day in their uncertain trust.
Hermione's voice trembled as she spoke to the members of the Order. "I-I know you don't trust me," she admitted, her words barely above a whisper. "But I can only promise that I don't mean any of you harm. I… I need help myself." Her voice wavered, carrying a vulnerability she usually kept guarded.
Sirius stepped forward, his gaze softened with understanding. "We know that, Ms. Granger," he said, his tone firm yet gentle. "You patching up our Harry is proof enough of that." He shot Mad-Eye a warning glare. "And we will be helping you."
Relieved yet still feeling exposed, Hermione nodded. She managed to thank them, but her voice felt distant, her mind whirling with doubts and fears. She excused herself, her legs weak as she walked back toward her room. Her heart weighed heavy; this journey was far more daunting than she could have anticipated. She still didn't know how to return to her own time, and every day the hope of finding a way seemed slimmer. Her only option, as far as she could see, was to reach Hogwarts and find the Room of Requirement. But that felt impossible. Hogwarts was under constant surveillance, guarded by dementors and Death Eaters, each one a threat lurking in shadow.
As Hermione reached the staircase, she noticed a sliver of light spilling from the slightly open door of the healing room. Curiosity piqued, she peered inside and saw Ginny sitting beside Harry's bed, holding his hand as they talked in low, intimate tones. A pang of longing twisted in Hermione's chest. The sight of them together, so close, reminded her of Aries—her heart ached at the thought of him, imagining how frantic he must be now, not knowing where she'd gone. Her parents, too, would be beside themselves with worry. Her resolve to return only grew stronger, but the road ahead felt impossibly dark.
Instead of going straight to her room, Hermione diverted to the Black family library. She spent hours combing through every text, skimming book after book in the hopes of finding anything about time travel that might be of help. She encountered several pages about time-turners, but those were for short jumps—just hours, never years. With a frustrated sigh, she closed yet another book, realizing the answer she sought wasn't here.
Resigned, she gathered her things, illuminating her path with her wand's soft light as she returned to her room. Passing the healing room again, she noticed the door was still ajar, and, unable to resist, she glanced inside. Harry lay there, alone now, his head resting against the pillow, his face peaceful in sleep. She stepped quietly into the room, drawn to him by some unseen force, and sat beside his bed, watching him with a mixture of awe and sadness.
This young man, she realized, was the one who would one day stand as the symbol of resistance, the face of the war against Voldemort. He was the hero she'd read about, the boy destined to defeat the Dark Lord. Yet, looking at him now, he seemed so… ordinary. Messy-haired and warm-eyed, a young man carrying a burden no one should ever bear, especially someone so young. Her heart clenched at the thought of all he'd face in the years to come—and the haunting uncertainty of whether he'd survive it.
Lost in thought, Hermione didn't notice Harry's eyes slowly opening until his soft voice startled her.
"Hey…" he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Do I need another patching up?"
Hermione smiled, feeling her cheeks warm. "No," she said, her tone light and teasing. "Just making sure you're healing properly."
Harry's gaze softened as he looked at her. "I'm doing fine now," he assured her, though his eyes sparkled with something unspoken.
Hermione arched an eyebrow playfully. "Miss Weasley's visit seemed to lift your spirits," she teased, trying to keep the mood light.
Harry's cheeks reddened, and he looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "No… it's not like that," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. "I'm not exactly in the right place to be… well, to be courting anyone."
She tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile. "Well, Ginny doesn't seem to mind."
Harry's eyes flicked back to hers, a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "She's… she's a nice girl. But she's still so… free of all this darkness." His voice grew quieter. "And I… I don't know if I could ever offer someone that kind of freedom."
Hermione reached out instinctively, taking his hand in hers. "You're carrying too much on your shoulders, Harry," she said softly. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her touch a silent comfort, grounding him in a way words couldn't.
He seemed to let down his walls, his gaze meeting hers with a vulnerability he rarely showed. "I… I lost my parents when I was just a baby," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Voldemort killed them, and he tried to kill me. I don't know how I survived; his curse rebounded somehow, leaving him weak. I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle… but they treated me horribly. Hogwarts was the first place that felt like home."
Hermione felt her heart swell with a bittersweet ache. She remembered the thrill of her own Hogwarts letter and how much it had changed her life. She squeezed his hand again, silently urging him to continue.
"On my third year, Sirius was… he was finally cleared of all the things he was accused of, and he took me in," Harry continued, a faint smile crossing his face. "But then, in my fourth year… Voldemort came back." His face darkened. "A Death Eater took me and used my blood to restore his body. No one was prepared for him to come back… and before anyone could react, he took control of the Ministry. He's been hunting me ever since."
Hermione felt tears prick her eyes, and she had to swallow hard to keep her voice steady. She knew, though she couldn't tell him, that he was hunted because of a prophecy—one that marked him as Voldemort's only equal, the only one who could end him.
Harry's voice took on a hardened edge, a look of fierce determination in his eyes. "But I'll make sure he pays," he whispered. "He took my parents. He destroyed everything good in my life. I'll see him fall."
Without thinking, Hermione brought his hand to her heart, holding it there as if her touch could shield him from every danger he faced. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Harry," she whispered, her voice full of sincerity.
He looked at her, a mix of surprise and gratitude on his face. "I… I don't know why, but I trust you, Hermione. Somehow… I just know I can."
A wave of guilt washed over her, knowing that she couldn't tell him the whole truth—not about her own future or about the darkness that still lay ahead for him. She felt a profound sadness that she couldn't warn him of what was coming. Instead, she could only hold his hand, offering him silent comfort, and hope that somehow, her presence here could help.
Was this the reason she was transported to this time? To support him through this battle? To be the friend he needed?
As she met Harry's gaze, a flicker of warmth sparked between them—a glimmer of something deeper, something that went beyond mere companionship. She didn't know where this connection would lead, but at that moment, she didn't care. She was here, and while she was here, she would help him in any way she can.