Chapter 52: Rewind and Shine

As we made our way to Transfiguration, I wondered if this was a good time to use the turner. I felt the weight of the time turner pressing lightly against my chest, hidden beneath my vest. My fingers brushed over it absently, anticipation bubbling in my stomach. Would now be a good time to use it?

I deliberately slowed my steps, allowing Ron to walk ahead of me. Then, when the coast was clear, I pivoted on my heel and took quick, deliberate steps in the opposite direction.

Once I reached the nearest bathroom, I pushed the door open and peered inside. Empty. Perfect.

I pulled the time turner from under my vest and studied it carefully, my heart beating just a little faster. One full turn equaled an hour, and a half-turn equaled thirty minutes. I needed to go back an hour and a half to make it to Arithmancy.

I took a deep breath and caught my own gaze in the mirror, giving myself a small, determined nod. You can do this. Then, gripping the chain tightly, I twisted the tiny hourglass—one full turn, then a half.

The air around me shimmered and blurred, the room spinning like I had been sucked into a whirlwind. I caught glimpses of students moving backward, moments unspooling in reverse, laughter rewinding into silence, steps retracing themselves. My stomach flipped unpleasantly, but before I could register it fully, everything snapped into place.

The bathroom looked exactly the same, but as I stumbled forward slightly, I nearly collided with a startled fifth-year Ravenclaw, who jumped back in alarm.

"Oh! Sorry—sorry!" I stammered, bolting out of the bathroom before she could ask any questions.

I looked down at my watch. 8:50. I had done it. I had actually traveled through time.

Shaking off the rush of excitement, I turned and hurried toward the classroom where Arithmancy was held, my shoes tapping quickly against the stone floor as I navigated the corridors. When I finally reached the classroom, I was met by a lively, strikingly tall woman standing at the front of the room.

Her robes were a deep, elegant red, standing out against her dark complexion. Her jet black hair was swept into an intricate bun beneath a pointed hat that matched her robes perfectly. There was an energy about her—light but commanding, like someone who knew the weight of their knowledge but carried it with grace.

She looked up just as I stepped in. "Hermione Granger, I presume?"

"Yes, Professor Vector, that's my name," I said, breathless but eager. "I hope I'm on time."

"Nothing but a minute late," she said with a knowing smile. "But given the circumstances, I can understand."

Oh. So the teachers all knew about the time turner. At least that meant I wouldn't have to awkwardly explain my way out of anything.

I nodded and quickly made my way to an empty seat next to Susan Bones. She gave me a kind smile as I sat down.

Susan was a freckled face Hufflepuff with thick auburn hair neatly tied back, and a quiet strength that made her seem unshakable. She was steady, dependable, and thoughtful, never one to seek attention. We weren't close friends, but I respected her. She worked hard, never sought trouble, and had an easy warmth about her that made her trustworthy.

I barely had time to settle my things before Professor Vector clapped her hands together, immediately drawing the class's attention.

"Welcome to Arithmancy," she said, her voice both crisp and enthusiastic. "For those of you unfamiliar with the subject, Arithmancy is the magical study of numbers, their properties, and their influence on the world around us. It is one of the oldest branches of magic, dating back to the ancient wizards of Egypt and Greece. Unlike Divination, which some of you may be taking, Arithmancy is not about vague predictions or cloudy interpretations—it is about logic, precision, and patterns. It is, quite simply, magic in its most structured form."

I leaned forward slightly, already captivated. This was exactly the kind of class I had been looking forward to—practical, intellectual, something that required actual thinking rather than blind guesses and vague predictions.

"To begin," Professor Vector continued, "we will be studying the magical properties of numbers and how they relate to an individual's character and magical potential. Each of you will be calculating your own Arithmantic chart using Pythagorean numerology."

She flicked her wand, and numbers appeared on the board behind her, aligning themselves in a neat table.

"Each letter of the alphabet corresponds to a number. By assigning numerical values to your names, we can analyze personality traits, magical strengths, and even future aptitudes."

I could feel my excitement growing as I pulled out my parchment and ink.

Professor Vector continued, walking through an example with us, demonstrating how to convert letters into numbers and sum them to reveal core traits. Then, she turned to us.

"Now, let's see what we can learn about ourselves," she said, smiling. "Begin by writing out your full name and converting it into numbers. Then, calculate your core numbers and compare them to the Arithmantic chart in your textbook."

I eagerly set to work, quill scratching against the parchment as I mapped out the calculations, excited to analyze the results. Susan, beside me, was working methodically, her handwriting neat and measured.

"This is actually quite interesting," she murmured as she compared her numbers to the chart.

I nodded, barely looking up. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Numbers don't lie."

Professor Vector moved around the room, peering over shoulders and occasionally offering insights. She paused at my desk.

"Ah, Miss Granger," she said, nodding approvingly. "I expect you'll do well in this class. You have a sharp mind for logical magic."

"Thank you, Professor," I said, beaming.

Before I knew it, the class had come to an end, and I reluctantly set my quill down, feeling like the lesson had flown by far too quickly.

As soon as I was dismissed, I hurried out of the classroom, checking my watch again. 11: 20. Time for the next part of my day.

I ducked into a quiet corridor, making sure I was out of sight before reaching for the time turner once more. Carefully, I turned the tiny hourglass forward this time, one and a half turns.

The world around me spun again, shifting and blurring until everything snapped back into place.

Now, it was just past 8:50 once again. Time for Muggle Studies.

I had barely settled into my seat when Professor Burbage swept into the room, her short brown hair bobbing as she moved with an energetic sort of enthusiasm. She had a warmth about her that reminded me of a primary school teacher. The kind who made learning fun without trying too hard. The classroom itself was cozy, with large enchanted posters covering the walls—images of Muggle inventions like televisions, airplanes, and traffic lights blinking brightly. There was even a telephone sitting on the professor's desk, which I found oddly amusing.

"Welcome, everyone!" Professor Burbage said cheerfully, clapping her hands together. "Now, I imagine some of you took this class because you are absolutely fascinated by the Muggle world, while others simply wanted a break from more intensive magic-based subjects."

A few students chuckled, and I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.

"And then," she continued, eyes twinkling, "there are those of you who, like Miss Granger here, already know quite a bit about Muggles and are simply looking for a new perspective."

Several heads turned toward me, and I felt my face heat up. I ducked my head slightly, scribbling nothing in particular on my parchment.

"I do hope you'll all find something useful in this class," she went on, completely unbothered. "Because the thing about Muggles is—despite their lack of magic, they are brilliant innovators. Today, we're going to discuss just how they manage without wands."

With a flick of her wand, Professor Burbage sent an electric kettle zooming onto her desk. It landed with a soft clink, and I nearly laughed out loud.

"This," she announced grandly, "is a Muggle contraption used for heating water. A common household item, especially in Britain. Now, any guesses as to how it works?"

A boy from Ravenclaw I recognized as Terry Boot raised his hand. "Some sort of… self-heating charm?"

"A fair guess!" Professor Burbage said. "But no, Muggles don't use charms. They use electricity—a fascinating energy source that powers nearly everything they own."

I watched as the class leaned in with varying degrees of curiosity. A few students, particularly the purebloods and the half bloods that grew up strictly in the wizarding world with no muggle interaction looked utterly mystified.

Professor Burbage turned toward me. "Miss Granger, would you like to explain?"

I hesitated. I could already feel some of the students expecting me to drone on like I always did, but this time, I decided to keep it brief. "It's powered by electricity, which is generated in power plants and then carried through wires into homes. When the kettle is plugged in and switched on, the electricity heats a metal coil inside, which boils the water."

A Slytherin girl by the name of Tracey Davis raised a skeptical brow. "So… no spells at all?"

"None," I said, barely concealing my amusement at their reactions.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, shaking her head. "How do you muggleborns survive?"

Professor Burbage beamed. "Marvelous explanation, Miss Granger. 10 points to Gryffindor! Now Muggles may not have magic, but their ingenuity is a kind of magic all its own."

I found myself nodding in agreement. It was amusing, watching students that grew up in the wizarding world only, gape at something as mundane as an electric kettle. But I kept my amusement to myself. I wanted to take this class seriously, and I intended to learn everything I could, even if most of it was already second nature to me. It was fun, however, seeing it in a wizard's perspective.

As the bell rang, I packed up my things quickly, giving Professor Burbage a polite nod before slipping out the door. Muggle Studies had been, well, amusing, to say the least. I looked down at my watch

10: 35...perfect.

I took a deep breath and carefully stepped out of the alcove. Now came the tricky part—getting back to Ron and Harry without looking suspicious.

I walked purposefully through the corridor, turning a corner just as I heard my own footsteps approaching from behind me. I froze.

There I was, the past me, hurriedly walking toward the bathroom where I had first turned back time. My stomach twisted into knots as I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing.

The past version of me rushed by, completely unaware that just moments ahead, I had already gone to Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and traveled forward again. My heart pounded as I watched myself disappear down the hall.

Once the coast was clear, I let out a shaky breath and quickly merged back into my original path, stepping out just far enough that when Ron came walking up ahead, it would look like I had been right behind him the entire time.

By the time we reached Transfiguration, the atmosphere in the room felt heavy, as if the weight of Trelawney's ridiculous prophecy had followed us. Harry chose a seat at the very back of the room, his expression unreadable. Ron and I sat a couple rows ahead, giving him space, though I couldn't help but glance back at him occasionally.

The classroom was filled with the usual scratch of quills, shifting of books, and low murmurs, but there was something… off. No one seemed to be paying attention to Professor McGonagall as she explained Animagi—wizards who could transform into animals at will. Which, honestly, was fascinating.

I rested my chin on my hand, imagining what it would be like to transform. A bird, maybe—something graceful and quick. Or a tiger, something powerful and commanding. The ability to shift between forms, to possess that kind of control over one's own body and magic… It was thrilling to think about.

Then, Professor McGonagall performed her usual transformation—seamlessly shifting into her elegant tabby cat form, landing lightly on the desk before morphing back into herself. Normally, this would have drawn awed gasps or polite applause, but today, there was nothing. Just blank stares and an unsettling silence.

Professor McGonagall's lips thinned.

"Really, what has got into you all today?" she said, eyes narrowing as she scanned the room. "Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation has not received applause from a class."

I felt a pang of guilt. I admired McGonagall more than almost any other professor, and here we were, acting like ungrateful, inattentive students. But before I could say anything, everyone's heads turned toward Harry. It was as if they were waiting for him to explain—waiting for the boy who had just been given a death sentence in a cup of tea leaves to respond.

The silence dragged on, so I raised my hand.

"Please, Professor," I said quickly. "We've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and—"

McGonagall's expression immediately darkened in understanding. She let out a slow sigh, her mouth pressing into an even thinner line.

"Ah, of course," she said dryly. "There is no need to say any more, Miss Granger." Then she straightened her glasses and turned a sharp gaze to the class. "Tell me, which of you will be dying this year?"

A few people shifted uncomfortably, but no one answered.

Then, in a flat, resigned voice, Harry raised his hand.

"Me."

McGonagall barely batted an eye. "I see." Her voice was calm but edged with something I couldn't quite place—was it amusement? Annoyance? A mix of both?

"Then you should know, Potter, that Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her favorite way of greeting a new class."

I wanted to groan in frustration. Of course she had a pattern. Of course, this wasn't some grand prophecy, just another one of Trelawney's tired theatrics.

McGonagall paused for a fraction of a second, then continued briskly, "Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and Professor Trelawney..."

She stopped abruptly, as if she were biting back the rest of her sentence. A small, wicked part of me wished she wouldn't. Just this once, I wanted to hear her properly tear Trelawney apart.

Instead, she simply folded her arms and assessed Harry critically. "You look in excellent health to me, Potter, so you will excuse me if I don't let you off homework today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand it in."

I burst out laughing, unable to help myself. Even Ron snorted into his sleeve.

For the first time since their antics in Divination, before the upset, Harry cracked a small, tired smile. The tension that had settled over us since Divination loosened just a little, and for that, I silently thanked Professor McGonagall for it.

The moment Transfiguration ended, we were swept into the thundering crowd making its way toward the Great Hall. The corridors were loud with the usual chatter, the sounds of laughter and scraping footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. But Ron wasn't talking much.

Instead, he kept throwing dreary, concerned glances at Harry, his brows furrowed like he was mentally preparing for a funeral. It was honestly irritating.

Did he not hear what Professor McGonagall said?

As we sat down at the Gryffindor table, I grabbed the nearest dish of stew and shoved it toward him.

"Ron, cheer up." I said, filling my own plate. "You heard what Professor McGonagall said."

Ron spooned some stew onto his plate, but he just poked at it with his fork, his appetite clearly gone.

Then, in a low, serious voice, he turned to Harry.

"Harry, you haven't seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?"

"Yeah, I have."

The words hit me like a Bludger. My fork clattered against my plate as I whipped my head toward Harry.

"I saw one the night I left the Dursleys'."

Oh, for Merlin's sake.

"Probably a stray," I said, forcing myself to sound calm as I took a slow sip of pumpkin juice.

Ron looked at me as though I'd just told him the moon was made of cheese.

"Hermione, if Harry's seen a Grim, that's bad!" he exclaimed, his voice rising enough to turn a few heads at the table. "My uncle Bilius saw one, and he died twenty-four hours later!"

I nearly rolled my eyes out of my head.

"Coincidence." I said firmly, cutting my stew into small, precise bites.

Ron gaped at me like I was the one talking nonsense. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he argued, pushing his plate away. "Grims scare the living daylights out of most wizards!"

"There you are, then," I said, waving my hand as if this should be obvious. "They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim's not an omen, it's the cause of death! And Harry's still with us because he's not stupid enough to see one and think, right, well, I'd better kick the bucket then!"

Ron muttered something under his breath, scowling into his stew. I ignored him entirely, pulling my bag onto the bench beside me and propping up my Arithmancy book against the pumpkin juice jug.

"I think Divination seems very woolly," I said, flipping through my notes from earlier. "A lot of guesswork, if you ask me."

Ron snapped his head up. "There was nothing woolly about the Grim in that cup!" he shot back.

I arched a brow, calmly turning a page. "You didn't seem quite so confident when you were telling Harry it was a sheep."

Ron's ears went pink.

"Professor Trelawney said you didn't have the right aura! You just don't like being bad at something for a change!" he said, crossing his arms with a smug look that made my blood boil.

How dare he!

I could handle being bad at flying. I could accept that I'd never be the best at chess. But lessons? Academics?

I was never bad at those.

BANG.

I slammed my Arithmancy book onto the table so hard that bits of meat and carrot flew onto Ron's robes. A few nearby Gryffindors jumped.

"If being good at Divination means I have to pretend to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves," I said coldly, "then I'm not sure I'll be studying it much longer!" I huffed, my fists clenched at my sides. "That lesson was absolute rubbish compared to my Arithmancy class!"

Without waiting for Ron's inevitable comeback, I snatched up my bag and stormed away from the table, my footsteps snapping sharply against the stone floor.

I was furious. How could he say that? As if Divination was anything other than Trelawney's dramatics wrapped in perfumed scarves and cheap fortune-telling tricks?

I made my way to Ancient Runes. I really didn't mind if I was early. I was in a right foul mood.