In the end, everyone ends up alone
Losin' her, the only one who's ever known
Who I am, who I'm not, and who I wanna be
No way to know how long she will be next to me- You Found Me by The Fray
March 1979(Hermione)
There was warmth.
She could feel it against her skin, soft and unfamiliar, like sunlight through a window. The air smelled clean, tinged with something earthy—soap, maybe? A hint of parchment. Not damp, not blood-soaked, not—
Her breath hitched.
No. No, don't think about that.
Her fingers twitched against the fabric, something too soft to be stone. A bed? She was on a bed. The room around her felt distant, blurred at the edges like ink bleeding into parchment. She opened her eyes, but the light was too bright, sharp against the throbbing behind her temples.
There were voices.
Low, urgent murmurs. Familiar? She wasn't sure. The voices pressed against her mind like they were trying to find the cracks in her memory, trying to get in.
She flinched, curling into herself before she even realized she was moving.
"Whoa, Kitten. It's okay."
Kitten.
The word wrapped around her like a whispered spell.
Kitten. She didn't know why that name mattered, but it did. The voice that spoke it; deep, warm, teasing at the edges, it shouldn't feel safe, but something inside her uncoiled at the sound of it.
She lifted her head. The room was still too bright, and everything felt too sharp the ache in her bones, the dryness in her throat. Her vision swam as she blinked at the person crouched before her.
Dark hair. Grey eyes. Concern etched into sharp features.
A name hovered on the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach.
She lifted her head to look at him, and… oh.
Dark eyes. Black hair.
Her body reacted before her mind did, recoiling instinctively, heart hammering in her chest. The blood in her ears roared so loudly she almost didn't hear her own ragged breathing.
She knew this face. No. Not this face—her face.
Sirius froze, hands up, palms out. "It's okay," he whispered. "You know me."
Do I?
Her body seemed to think so. There was a pull in her chest, a sense of safety despite the panic clawing at her ribs. She wanted to trust him. But something awful lurked at the edges of her mind—something with dark hair, cruel laughter, and a wand pressing into her skin…
Mudblood.
She shuddered violently.
Sirius frowned, concern deepening the sharp angles of his face. "What's wrong?"
Everything.
"I—I don't—" She swallowed, her throat raw, voice brittle. "You look like her."
She forced herself to clear her throat. "Like the one who did this."
She gestured to her wounded arm.
Sirius' expression darkened before softening again. Understanding flickered across his face.
"Bellatrix?" he asked, quiet, careful.
She nodded, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. The urge to apologize bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.
Sirius hesitated for half a breath before shaking his head. "She's not me, Kitten. I promise you that."
Somewhere deep in her bones, she already knew that.
But knowing and believing were two very different things.
"…Sirius?" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.
His face shifted in surprise. "Yeah, that's me, love."
She knew him. She didn't know how, but she did.
Her breath hitched as her gaze flickered past him.
A woman stood nearby, watching her with cautious kindness. She was small—delicate, but strong—with hair the color of autumn and—
Green.
Hermione's heart lurched violently in her chest.
Those eyes. Green like fresh leaves after the rain, like—
Harry.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, sharp and sudden. The air felt too thick, pressing in on her lungs as her mind scrambled to grasp the thought. It slipped through her fingers like smoke, elusive and taunting. No. That wasn't right. It couldn't be right.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her temples as pain lanced through her skull. Flashes of something—someone—flickered in the darkness behind her eyelids. A broken pair of glasses. Blood. Screaming. A hand clutching hers, too cold, too still—
"Love?"
The voice was gentle, cautious.
Hermione's eyes snapped open.
The woman—Lily—was kneeling in front of her now. There was something so heartbreakingly familiar about the way she tilted her head, about the quiet concern in her voice.
Harry.
No. Not Harry. But—
Hermione gasped, jerking back so suddenly that her shoulder collided with the wall behind her. Her breath came too fast, too shallow, and she didn't know why.
"Hey, easy." Sirius' voice was low, steady. His hands were still up, palms open like he was trying to soothe a frightened animal. "You're safe, Kitten. You're safe."
Safe.
She wanted to believe him.
But nothing about this felt safe.
Her eyes darted past him again, landing on the man standing just behind Lily.
Tall. Dark hair. Glasses. Hazel eyes.
Harry.
No. Not Harry.
James.
Her stomach twisted violently. Her pulse pounded at her temples, erratic and unrelenting.
This wasn't possible. This wasn't possible.
Her mind tried to grasp at the facts, at logic, at anything that could make this make sense. But none of it fit. None of it could fit.
They were dead.
They were supposed to be dead.
Halloween. Godric's Hollow. 1981.
Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into her knees.
What is happening?
Her thoughts skittered wildly, grasping at the impossible. A dream? No, too vivid. A trick? No, that didn't feel right either.
Her gaze snapped back to Lily. Those green eyes, so familiar and so wrong all at once, watching her with concern.
Harry's eyes.
But Harry was—
No.
She wasn't ready for that thought.
Her hands trembled.
"Kitten," Sirius murmured, stepping closer.
She flinched. Just slightly. But he saw.
His expression flickered, something breaking in his gaze, but he didn't move again.
Lily reached out, hesitant but steady, her fingers stopping just short of Hermione's.
"It's okay," she said softly.
Hermione's breath shuddered out of her.
Nothing is okay.
She clenched her hands into fists, willing herself to breathe. In. Out.
She needed to think.
She needed to understand.
But all she could hear was the echo of Harry's voice in the back of her mind—
"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."
A choked noise clawed its way out of her throat, and her stomach twisted violently. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of her ruined jumper, gripping it tight as flashes of something wrong surged through her mind—
Stone walls. A woman's laughter, sharp and cruel. Cold hands gripping her hair. Hot slices on her skin. Whispered promises of something worse. A wand raised. A voice screaming—
"Crucio!"
Her body remembered even if her mind refused to.
She shuddered violently, gasping as she came back to the present. Someone was touching her, light pressure on her arm, grounding. Lily.
"Hermione," Lily said gently.
The name sent a fresh ripple of confusion through her.
Was that her name?
Yes.
Yes. She thought it was.
"Hermione," she repeated, voice barely audible.
Sirius made a soft, pleased sound, like something clicking into place. "That's you, then? Hermione?"
She nodded once, but it didn't feel solid. It felt like saying something familiar just to stop the questions.
James shifted, still hovering near the door, gaze flickering over her cautiously. She couldn't stop staring at him, the resemblance to Harry was too much, too overwhelming. It was too painful, but she couldn't stop. Her head was pounding.
"Do I—" Her throat was raw, her voice hoarse. "Do I know you?"
Sirius' expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he covered it with a grin. "I'd certainly hope so, considering you fell out of the bloody sky and landed in my bed."
She flinched, her hands tightening into fists.
No. No, that wasn't right. She hadn't fallen.
She'd been somewhere else before this.
Somewhere bad.
Stone walls. Stone floor. Torture. Screams. A cursed blade…
Her body tensed, every muscle seizing with the ghost of remembered pain, and she recoiled against the bed, arms wrapped tight around her, as if trying to keep herself whole.
The scars. Her mind clung to them like anchors, tracing the shape of each one, the memory of every burn, every mark that wouldn't fade.
Sirius' grin faded, his brow furrowing with concern as he stepped closer. Lily's gentle touch rested on her arm, squeezing it lightly. "It's alright, love. We'll figure it out."
But Hermione wasn't sure.
Her thoughts fractured as she tried to piece them together, but the more she reached, the more her mind recoiled, as though something was fighting her, keeping her from understanding what had happened.
An elf, a knife, a spell.
A part of her recognized them. Trusted them.
But another part whispered to her, "Something is missing. Something is wrong."
And the scars—their raw, aching presence—felt like the only thing that connected her to the past, to something worse.
She didn't know what it was, but every instinct screamed that it was all tied together. She had to know. Had to remember. But for now, all she could do was hold onto the sickening certainty that something had gone horribly wrong.
Hermione's eyes flickered over the three people around her—three people she knew to be dead. She didn't know how she'd ended up here. She didn't know where here was. She didn't know anything anymore.
"What year is it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if the words might shatter the fragile thread that was holding her together.
James, Sirius, and Lily exchanged bewildered glances before Lily spoke up. "It's 1979, love."
Hermione shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut, the overwhelming weight of it all pressing in on her. She rocked herself gently, the familiar comfort of the tattered jumper she wore grounding her. She didn't know where it came from or who it belonged to, but it felt like hers. The one constant in this whirlpool of confusion.
Her fingers traced a scar on her sternum, older than the ones that marred her hands, arms, and legs. This one was deep, the kind that took years to heal. It had come from the Department of Mysteries. It should have been long gone by now, but when she felt it, it was wrong. The sensation was off. The scar seemed to pulse, as if someone had tried to reopen it.
Her thoughts wavered. She looked at the three of them—Sirius, James, Lily—and fought to hold onto their names. Fought hard not to flinch when Sirius met her gaze. Fought hard not to cry when she saw Lily's green eyes, so painfully familiar. Fought hard not to hurl when she looked at James's face.
When she saw his face, she didn't see James. She saw Harry. Broken glasses. Blood. Tragedy. Harry. Her best friend, her brother, the reason she had been locked away in that hellhole. She couldn't shake the image of his blood staining the ground, the tortured screams echoing in her mind.
No, she told herself. You don't get to be mad at him. It's not his fault.
"It's his fault," she muttered, her voice hollow.
"What's that now, 'Mione?" James asked, his tone laced with concern.
That name. That name. It hit her like a wrecking ball, and the world tilted on its axis. A ripping sound filled the room, jagged and broken as if something—someone—was being torn apart. It took her a moment to realize the sound was coming from her.
"What did you call me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with panic.
"I'm sorry," James stammered, his eyes wide with apology. "It's just… well…" He chuckled, but it sounded strained. "Your name's a bit of a mouthful. It just slipped out."
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt as though the room itself was closing in on her. The scar on her chest, the faces around her, everything was too much. She pressed her hands to her head, trying to fight the rising tide of panic.
Hermione's heart hammered in her chest as the room seemed to pulse around her. There was too much. Too many faces she didn't quite know. Too many questions that were slipping through her grasp. The more she tried to focus, the more fragments of her past, her present, and… her future collided in a violent rush.
Sirius stepped closer, his eyes dark with something she couldn't place—concern, yes, but something deeper. He reached out a hand, hesitating for just a moment before gently placing it on her arm. The touch sent a jolt of awareness through her, and she felt a strange mix of safety and uncertainty. Her skin prickled beneath his touch. Kitten.
That name. The warmth it carried, the way his voice softened when he spoke it—it felt like it belonged to her. And yet it felt wrong. Wasn't it too soon?
Sirius's gaze flickered to Lily and James, who stood quietly by, the tension thickening. They both seemed to understand that words weren't enough right now. Hermione wasn't ready.
And maybe she never would be.
As Lily knelt beside her once more, squeezing her hand in silent solidarity, Hermione felt the weight of everything pressing on her—her scarred past, her twisted present, and the eerie feeling that something else was waiting. The magic that had sent her here—it had to mean something. She had to fix it. She had to stop it.
But the more she tried to piece things together, the more she felt like she was chasing a shadow. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not like this. Not with them.
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, not sure who she was apologizing to. "I don't know what's real anymore."
James gave her a small smile, his features softening with understanding. "It'll come back to you, kid. It always does."
Hermione nodded, though the doubt still gnawed at her. What if it didn't?
As the room grew silent, her gaze flickered back to the scar on her chest, the one that still burned as if someone had just tried to reopen it. Her thoughts were tangled, confused. Everything felt like a puzzle missing pieces, but the more she stared at the scar, the more it became a reminder. She had to go back. She had to fix whatever had happened to Harry.
The thought hung heavy in her mind—Harry—and in the quiet, her eyes found Lily's once more. Those green eyes. No. She couldn't lose him. She wouldn't.
Sirius's voice broke through the haze. "We'll figure this out, Kitten," he murmured again. "Together."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him. But everything was broken, shattered—more pieces of her life she couldn't grasp. The weight of their deaths, of the war, of the devastation she couldn't even fully remember—it was all there, lurking beneath the surface. And something inside her whispered that fixing it wasn't going to be easy.
With a deep breath, Hermione looked toward the door. There was more to do. More to uncover. And she couldn't stay here much longer.
Her hand clenched at her side, a bitter, gnawing certainty building in her chest. She had to find the truth. She had to go back.