Hermione regained consciousness all at once, her hand gripping her wand tightly in an instant. The fetid air was overwhelming and she quickly cast an invisible Bubble-Head Charm. It was only then that she sat up and looked around; what she saw put her ill at ease.

She was sitting in a heap of rubbish in front of a row of houses with cross-marked doors.

Her eyes slid shut again as she tried to piece together what had happened. Yes, she'd been in the Time Room. They were working on a Time-Turner that would allow for both forward and backward movement in time and– she'd shattered it. How could she have been so foolish? It had slipped out of her grasp and in her fumbling for it she'd knocked it harder towards the marble floor. She couldn't remember it making contact, but the thin glass wouldn't have stood a chance.

This had always been a possibility, however remote, with the experimental devices they were working with. She had been warned. Hermione steeled herself, blinking away tears. She could mourn later.

She stood slowly, her muscles aching from her presumable collapse. She wasn't sure how long she'd been unconscious or exactly when she was.

A cart passed by and her stomach churned. Bodies. Bodies with gangrenous hands and feet.

She'd arrived during a plague, clearly. But which?

She would've arrived in the same place she'd left from, and obviously Hermione was not in the Department of Mysteries or even the Ministry at all. Ulick Gamp, the first Minister, had begun his time in office in spring of 1707 in the same building she had worked in. She must have traveled quite a long time away.

The streets were cobblestone, but from her understanding that had been the case since the first century AD. The structures around her hinted at a much later year. The buildings around her were constructed from wood, almost certainly placing her before the Great Fire of London. She was earlier than fall of 1666.

Realization dawned that the Great Fire was before the implementation of the Statute of Secrecy. She could practice magic here, albeit at risk of Muggles harming her.

She focused on narrowing her timeframe. A plague. She wasn't well-versed enough in architecture to make a guess based on it, but she had a marvelous memory for the years famous buildings were constructed.

After a quick glance around to ensure she was alone, she Apparated to where Kensington Palace would be built in 1689, ready to Obliviate anyone who saw her arrive.

Mercifully, no one did. The palace had not yet been built of course, only the two-story home that she knew came before it. She scraped the recesses of her mind for the year this precursor was built… ah, yes, 1605.

The information organized itself in her mind. She knew of only one plague in London between 1605 and 1666: the Great Plague. It began in 1665 and was largely over by the summer of 1666. It was the last of the bubonic plague outbreaks in the city, but the worst since the Black Death.

It was clearly summertime judging by the heat beginning to wear on her, but which year? She Apparated back to her original rubbish pile and allowed herself to wander the streets, taking in the city around her. There was a feeling of desperation, of illness. Another cart of bodies passed her by and she looked away.

This plague did not seem nearly over. She was in 1665.

Hermione's posture straightened and she raised her chin. She would heal and soothe as many people as she could, confident in the Bubble-Head and sanitizing charms' ability to keep her safe from disease. There was no Statute of Secrecy. She would find a plague doctor, she decided. It should be easy enough with their elaborate costumes.

She followed a small cluster of people to a main street and took a post near a closed-up shop, watching the loose crowd for the tell-tale mask and wide-brimmed hat. It didn't take long for a doctor to appear.

She watched his gait closely for any sign of unsteadiness that would betray illness, but there was none. He moved smoothly down the street and she found herself rushing to catch up to him. He was faster than she expected, but she was able to keep him in her sight and watched from afar as he entered a two-story building with a red cross painted on the door.

Then, a sudden realization.

Hermione ducked into an alleyway and began to transform her clothes into something more period-appropriate. A linen dress would do and she did her best to create the appropriate bodice and stays. Her robes provided her extra fabric to work with as she morphed her winter clothing into light grey cloth. On a whim, she summoned red ribbons to place in her hair in the Scottish way of this time. She could tell some truth: she was a born Londoner who had lived in Scotland for six years.

As she approached, she took a deep breath. The stench of the city was undetectable, her charm still in place. She knocked on the door of the building the doctor had entered. "Come in," the man called, his voice muffled by the mask.

She couldn't help but look around the place as she entered. It wasn't particularly decorated, though the pile of books on the table pushed against the back wall did tempt her. Her eyes fell on the doctor, who lingered by the table. He didn't move, waiting for her to speak. "I would like to offer my services as an assistant, doctor."

He remained perfectly still. "You don't fear falling ill?"

Hermione swallowed. "I have a hearty constitution."

The man seemed to consider her words. They stood in silence for long enough that she began to fight back worry, but eventually he spoke. "What are your qualifications?"

Had they yet progressed from Early Modern English to Modern? "I worked under a wise woman," she lied. "When word reached us that there was plague in London, I had to return. I grew up here."

His head fell forward. "You're likely better-equipped than I, in that case." She looked at him curiously. "I am not yet a doctor. The man I was studying under passed away only four months into my apprenticeship. He became ill helping those too poor to pay for treatment. I aim to carry on his work." He paused. "What is your name, miss?"

"Hermione." There was little point in lying about that.

"For A Winter's Tale or Greek myth?"

She smiled. "Both." She didn't offer a surname and he didn't pry. "What is your name, sir?"

He removed his hat, revealing golden blond waves, and eased off his mask. She bit back a gasp when she saw his face – the pale marble skin, unearthly beautiful visage, golden eyes. The power he exuded. "I am Carlisle." Even his voice was attractive once it wasn't muffled by the birdlike mask. This was a vampire who only fed on animals. Was she looking at stregoni benefici? She blinked away the surprise. It didn't matter.

"The woman I worked under…" Was this a good idea? Yes, he would discover her magic use eventually with his preternatural senses. She drew her wand, casting Muffliato and shielding their conversation from eavesdroppers. "I know of your kind." Carlisle's eyes widened almost comically, though from this revelation or her magic she didn't know. "I know from your eyes that you will not hurt me. Yours are golden; those who drink human blood have red," she explained at his confusion. "I am not a wise woman's assistant. I am a witch."

He seemed to be in a state of shock. It was almost funny.

"A vampire who's never met a witch?" she questioned, head tilted to one side. "Whatever will I see next?"

"I am still new to this life, forgive me." His voice was hoarse.

Yes, she had gathered that he was young. "How long has it been?"

"A little more than two years." She was amazed by his control over his bloodlust so soon and told him so. Shock seemed to make way for pride, then curiosity. "Are you also resistant to disease?"

"I can be kept safe with certain spells."

Carlisle nodded. "Nonetheless, I will acquire a mask for you so as to maintain the illusion."

"There's no need." She summoned a mask from thin air and fought a laugh at his astonishment. "I'll ask you for herbs, though. I'm not very good at creating plants," she explained with a frown. "I never seem to get the smell quite right."

He laughed, seeming to not know what else to do. It was a lovely sound and she found herself watching him intently as he crossed the room and took a small bunch of lavender out of a vase. He paused for a moment before grabbing a small sponge and dousing it in an unknown liquid.

He approached her with outstretched hands and she took his offerings. "Thank you," she said quietly. Her hands would have brushed his if not for the gloves between them and she found herself resenting the leather objects. She squashed the thought as quickly as it had cropped up. It was now obvious that the sponge was soaked in vinegar and she hurried to squish it into her mask between sprigs of lavender.

"I only have a single patient. He stays in the back room, away from anyone who might drop in to visit." She wondered how many visitors Carlisle really entertained. "Would you like to meet him?"

This was what she had come to him for. She nodded and slid her wand into a deep pocket through the slit in her outer skirt. Carlisle walked slowly behind her and offered to tie her mask. She nodded and raised the large-beaked black mask to her face. He softly took the ties in hand and pulled them taut, clearly taking care not to hurt her. In under a second the mask was secured. The vinegar was pungent, too close to her nose for the Bubble-Head Charm to work its magic.

He led her to the back room and she laid eyes on her first patient.