Chapter Text
Part 1: The Causes and Their Effect
a boy snapped my wand in half;
a man devoured my stone;
a woman in black tore my cloak;
and i left them all, alone.
It didn't hurt.
Hermione had braced herself for it, in the hollow, burnt-out remains of the old Shrieking Shack. Teeth clenched, muscles tense, ready for whatever pain would rend at her for daring to cheat the laws of time.
But it was barely a breeze.
A light trickle through her shoulders, another across the line of her chest, as her magic responded to the threads encircling the room around her—A web of woven magic stolen, sundered, and reknit for a desperate purpose—And then, she was swept away like a dandelion on a windy hilltop, gently flowing wherever fate decided to take her, to sprout green and maybe make something new.
One breath in, and she was in that blackened husk of a house; one breath out, and she was in a dusty but roofed entryway.
Dull parquet floors, flowery wallpaper peeled slightly at the edges, and an ornate chair unloved and abandoned when its original owners left. Dust motes, disturbed by her sudden appearance, danced through a shard of light shining out of now not boarded-up windows. A chandelier down the hall thoughtfully crafted when the house was first built, but now forgotten the same as everything else in it. The house smelled empty, not the empty of Death just that of abandonment, and a feeling of hope so sharp it was almost painful welled up in her chest until it was suffocating.
Hermione laughed.
She laughed! It was a manic thing and probably concerning if she was being objective, but she couldn't be because who cares?
Who cares!
She had done it.
She was not splinched through space-time. She was not scattered to the four winds. She was in the not-Shrieking Shack seemingly fifty years in the past.
There was spellcraft experimentation and then there was intentionally weaving the right runic formula to travel through the folds of space-time. She was the so-called brightest witch of her age, and finally, finally, she had done something that mattered. The hardest part was done, wasn’t it? She had practically already succeeded in saving the world.
For a moment, it was bliss. Giggles bubbled out of her, buoyantly effortless, making her almost lightheaded with the joy of it.
She laughed.
She laughed until tears streamed down her face.
Until her breath hitched and her hands started to shake. Until thoughts whirled through her head too fast to catch and hold, running through her like a hare too quick for a snare.
Was she about to break down? That would be a bit of a time-waster, though it would be better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.
Wait, no, it would be better later. When she knew it was safe. This was an unknown time with unknown dangers; she needed vigilance.
Hermione took a breath, deep enough to make her ribs ache, and held it.
Stone. Cloak. Wand.
There was a goal.
A plan.
She needed to think. Clearly.
She grappled her thoughts back into working order and slowly relaxed her breath.
Right. First things first, scout the location.
Hermione craned her neck and looked at the not yet destroyed and therefore comparatively immaculate house. There were a pair of dingy glass windows framing the door, and, off to one side, an archway leading to another room. The other side had a scuffed-up staircase that crept up to the second floor. There was a single hallway in the back that she supposed led to a kitche—
Vacuous hunger, deep and mindless, clawed through her bones and brought Hermione to her knees.
She doubled over and grabbed at her stomach with one hand, trying to keep her head as wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, green bile at the back of her throat.
Wha-? What was…?
Her thoughts were spongy-soft, unable to solidify.
Hunger dug into her further.
She grasped in the bag slung across her body and pulled out her wand with shaking fingers. Her magic was strung-out and brittle, traveling like that left her catatonically weak, but she had enough for an emergency spell or five. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a fight today.
Saturo
Her magic chafed as she formed it, but the spell still worked.
Hermione lay down on the cool floor for a moment trying to get her breath back. Her hands still shook and it took a second for vision to focus and damn she was hungry; but, she was no longer incapacitated. She had forgotten what it was like for hunger to debilitate her like that. When was the last time she’d eaten?
She would need food here, wouldn’t she?
She sighed on the floor, blowing silvery dust up into the air. Maintaining her body shouldn't affect plans too much. Food was plentiful here, even in rationing Britain.
Though, this starvation shifted immediate priorities.
The satiation spell would last about an hour, and then she would regress to cannibalizing her own organs.
Aberforth first then? He offered food at his pub, right? She would be able to pick up era-appropriate clothes in town after she had eaten. After that, she would write the letter and get started ward—
Her stomach growled.
Right, focus. Food.
She placed her bag in the room off the entryway—small, empty, with a large and dusty bay window—and pulled out her smaller hand purse. She didn't want to carry around something so modern in a sleepy little wizarding village. Not to mention the more illicit cargo that it held. A single ward on the bag was all the magic she could force, and she was out the front door.
And stuttered to a halt.
Instead of greeting the verdant greens of a Scottish high summer, the small town of Hogsmeade was covered in the burnt reds of fall.
Well, shit.
How far off was she? It was supposed to be August. What was the date?
She needed a Prophet.
What had happened? Which rune was off? Or was there interference from the landing spot. Luna had hypothesized that there could be noise in the weave of magic if she was going to a place dense with magical conflict. Which mid-war Britain certainly qualified for. Hermione had argued that magic had a consistent density and only people in conflict. But was Luna right? Did the magic at the endpo—
Her stomach growled louder.
She audibly sighed, cast a notice-me-not charm on herself—her dirty robe was tattered and slightly stained, but she still winced at the magic—and began the short trudge down the path to Hogsmeade.
It was near mid-afternoon.
Clouds bright above and red leaves crinkling underfoot, Hermione glanced around surreptitiously as she entered the village. There were a handful of adults out shopping, and, down near the post office, a couple of older witches (wearing unnecessary extravagant hats) were chatting outside. She didn't see anyone in starch white shirts and ties. Hopefully, that meant it was a weekday, and she wouldn’t accidentally bump into any students looking like an emaciated werewolf.
She turned down to the first crossroads, and the Hog’s Head came into view. The shingles looked a bit newer, and the wood wasn't as rotted; but it was still an unmistakably disheveled place.
Despite herself, a genuine smile crept onto Hermione’s face. Comfort can be found in the familiar regardless of its pleasantness. The two steps up front creaked in the same place they would over half a century from now; she controlled her smile and opened the door.
The inside was dusty, choking in a way the abandoned house wasn’t—There must have been some charms on the house then. She’ll have to check once she didn’t have to ration her casting—The pub was unclean, not unused. There were some scattered, worn tables holding mismatched wooden chairs, and a dirty bar off in the back with a menagerie of uneven stools.
There was a single patron off to the right, sitting in the darkest part of the pub, and doing his level best to sleep the day away. He was slightly rounded, wearing heavily-patched dark robes and a pointed hat.
There was a Prophet in front of him.
Hermione crept up quietly. She wouldn’t waste magic on this. Her shoes were soft, and she had spent enough time here to know where the creaky boards were. She still had time on the notice-me-not; it would be just a simple matter of deft hands.
Besides, she was just borrowing it for a moment.
Her stomach growled obscenely.
The man’s eyes shot opened and caught hers; the notice-me-not charm snapped under the weight of being noticed.
She blushed, thrown despite herself. Whether it was from the embarrassment of her loud stomach, annoyance at being caught, pain of the spell rebound, or fear of actually having to interact with another person she couldn’t tell. She should be fine though, right? She's dealt with worse than just, like… a guy.
“You hungry there, lass?” he looked at her up and down, taking in her torn clothes and thin features.
“Er… yes. Do you know who runs the pub?” she asked, voice cracked rough. When was the last time she talked to another person? Neville, right? When he found out what she’d done and tried to kill her? She was shocked that her tongue remembered how to form words. She cleared her throat and glanced to the back near the bar, “There doesn't seem to be anyone there.”
“Ol’ Abby’s upstairs,” he said as he got up. Hermione moved out of the way as he walked past, meandered over to the stairs.
He shouted up them. A quick bark of: “Abby!” Something he’d probably done a thousand times in his life.
And her entire body tensed to kill him. His back was turned to her; it would be as quick as a wink. Her finger twitched on her wand, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stop her brain from completing the spell.
He was being nice, trying to get her help.
She was safe.
She didn't need to freak out at him for being so loud.
She was safe.
She didn’t need to worry about attracting notice. There was no danger here.
She.
Was.
Safe.
“Got a half-starved wee down here. Bring her some soup, will ye?” He slunk back from the stairs to his seat, looking not at all bashful for shouting the house down, and motioned for her to sit in the chair next to him. She hoped her eyes weren’t panicked. She swallowed hard.
“What? What are you blathering about Sam?” A jolt went through Hermione, at the voice from upstairs, snapping her out of whatever spiral she was caught in. It was recognizably Aberforth’s. Not as gruff perhaps, but the same tenor was there.
Hermione sat.
If this Sam was close to Aberforth, she could use a friendship with him to foster trust with Aberforth. It would make everything so much easier if he actually trusted her.
“Is this how you usually are? Shouting at each other from different floors?” She tried for light, but it came out a bit strangled. She tasted blood. And immediately swallowed it down, not wanting to scare her first contact.
“Only during operating hours,” He didn't seem to notice. Or, was being very polite about it. “I’m a mediator. Keep the more rowdy patrons in check,” He snapped the Prophet open. It was the midsection. She couldn’t see a date. “If I were to leave the place unattended, he would stop paying me.”
“I don't pay you anyway. You can leave at any time,” a voice drifted down the stairs along with a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered with unkempt hair, wearing a simple grey vest and shirt, narrowing his eyes at her, “Good afternoon. What are you doing here.”
“Abb-y,” Sam whined out the second syllable.
“Don't call me that,” Aberforth snapped.
“She’s just hungry. Spot her some food.”
“I can pay,” she interjected. It wouldn't be good to start building her reputation with Aberforth as a grifter. She dug around her purse for some sickles.
“I meant,” he bit out the words, glaring at her. Hermione didn’t roll her eyes. “What is a girl, half-starved and looking fresh out of a Ministry raid, doing in my pub when the Three Broomsticks is just down the road and a much nicer place.”
Ah. Aberforth was a founding member of the Order, wasn’t he? You don’t start a secret society without healthy paranoia. Wonder what snuffed out that inquisitiveness.
“Just looking for some food,” It wasn’t a lie.
“Are you now? The Broomsticks is right out of the station. Why did you come all the way to the other side of town?”
“I’m staying at a house up the hill. This place is closer, actually,” she said. Hermione looked down at her clothes and winced, “And… um... I thought that showing up at the Broomsticks looking like this,” she gestured to her tattered cloaks, “might give me a reputation I didn’t want. Small town gossip and all that.”
“I see, and why exactly are you looking like that?”
“I haven't had time to change yet,” she snapped a little too hard. Hermione knew she was being flippant, but she was tired and hungry and not good at this part. God, she missed Ron and his easy affability.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she could blurt out the truth upon first meeting. Aberforth would either assume she was lying and kill her for being a Grindelwald spy, or believe her and kill her for trying to capture the Hallows. She needed to court him like a feral cat: slowly, subtly, and with lots of treats.
She couldn’t wait for him to mellow out in a few decades.
He harrumphed and stared her down, “Keep an eye on her, Sam.” And turned to walk back upstairs.
“I thought I could leave at any time?” Sam called to his back. Aberforth glared at him and kept going.
Her stomach growled violently.
Both men stared at her for a moment before Aberforth sighed, snapped his fingers, and a bowl of steaming hot soup landed in front of her. He disappeared up the stairs.
The clatter, again, made her body tense sharply, but the smell of hot food made her relax just as quickly. Merlin, she was starved. She couldn’t even think to say thank you; she just started eating.
It tasted like onions, potatoes, and salt.
It was the best thing she had ever eaten.
It was possible the best thing anyone had ever eaten.
She should ask Aberforth for the recipe. He couldn’t say no, right? She was complimenting his cooking after all. And then she could make it herself. Holy shit, she could make food herself! When was the last time she had access to fresh potatoes? That she could eat?
Fuck, she could eat potatoes!
“No need to cry, lass. Soup can’t be that bad,” Sam said softly, eyes worrying over her.
“Er…,” she wiped at her cheeks. Her hands came away wet. Damn. She didn't need to have her breakdown here. She was trying to impress how competent she was onto Aberforth. It would be bad to have his friend see her shatter like a teacup because of delicious, delicious soup. She took in a shaky breath and wound back up her fraying mind, “Oh. Oh no, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He looked skeptical but continued on, “Don’t mind Ol’ Abby. He’s just worried about the war’s all. He knows some people on the front. Worried about them.”
“Of course. Any news?” Hermione pointed to the paper in his hands.
He handed her the paper, “Have a look for yourself.”
Finally. She flipped to the front page.
Monday, OCT 4, 1943
Well, hell. She was off by a couple of months, but at least she didn't miss her window entirely. It looked like calculating the precise magic necessary to thread two moments of time together—one of which had volatile magic at the best of times, the other completely unknown and also in the middle of a war—was a task that seemed to outmatch her. She had a wild thought to take some measurements, go back, and shoot for August. Errors weren't just risky, they could be disastrous.
The thought of returning and having to remake herself again… No, she could stay and make October work. But, she would have to be better. Perfection was mandatory.
She read the headline.
Grindelwald Strikes Again!! The Continent in Terror!! Spencer-Moon Floundering When Asked to Comment.
Hilariously, the feeling of warm comfort and familiarity returned. This time slightly tinged with a bitter nostalgia. At least the Prophet was a rag in every time.
She ate her soup as she browsed through the paper, more the hunger for reading than actual interest in the articles. Oh, one of the Greengrasses had a party but did not invite an old friend because of a spilled drink at a wedding two years ago? How scandalous. Look, Honeydukes debuted a new sweet, charmed to make you forget your most embarrassing memory. How novel!
She smiled into the paper, and her entire body relaxed like dirty silks slipping into warm water. There was no greater comfort than worrying over the minutiae of everyday life. Never in her life had Hermione thought she would be giddy hearing heartless gossip. But, after having every day be a tossup whether she would live to see the next, the pettiness was a welcome reprieve.
“Good news for you, then?” Sam asked.
Hermione glanced up, “Any news is good news.”
Sam looked a bit confused and opened his mouth to say something else when she handed him back the paper and the handful of sickles she had pulled from her purse.
“Thank you for the reading and the soup,” she said. Hermione was still hungry but doubted that she would be able to get another bowl from Aberforth right now. Initial contact had been made; it just needed to be developed. A month or two and she could win Aberforth’s trust. She got up from the table and started toward the door, “I’ll be heading out, have some errands to run. Be seeing you!”
“Anytime, lass,” Sam called back with a wave.
Hermione had made a bit of a sour impression on Aberforth but knew it could be salvaged if she presented herself correctly. Maybe a lost orphan eager to get revenge on Grindelwald for destroying her home? To pull at his heartstring while remaining a quarter truth. Or would a savvy ex-fighter willing to use any means necessary make her more appealing to work with. She would mull it over. Mulling would occur.
Using Aberforth to get information on Grindelwald was actually his own idea. They had spoken once things had truly fallen apart. Apparently, in the 40s he had coordinated his own private search effort and would be able to provide her with information. Well, however much she could pry out of him. The only trouble was getting him to trust her. Her Aberforth had said to be honest without oversharing.
Well, they only managed to exchange three sentences. So, she got the last part right.
Step two: Clothes. There was a shop that catered to students who needed extra clothes and a shop more frequented by the residents of Hogsmeade. Hermione went to the latter. Even if it was a weekday and the likelihood of running into a student was low, she didn't want to take the chance.
Hermione walked toward the main road, head down, and cast another notice-me-not on herself. She stuttered slightly afterward, still exhausted from the time travel. But she was dressed in strange and tattered clothes and it wouldn't do to cause a scene in the middle of a calm October day. Gossips were nostalgic but still an inconvenience.
She slipped in and out of the clothier, Gladrags, with a couple of dark nondescript robes, five collared dresses, and a week's worth of 1940s underwear. That was all she needed but there were more women wearing hats than not, so she added a simple maroon hat to the pile. A pile of galleons set on the counter, and she left without a word.
Leaving the shop, Hermione donned a simple black robe and the maroon hat and stuffed the rest into her bag. She just needed to blend in enough for the last errand and the notice-me-not would snap as soon as she greeted someone.
Four buildings down was the post-office.
She took a deep breath. Her first conversation with Sam hadn’t gone terribly. Talking with Aberforth had been awkward, but not unsalvageable. This would go smoothly.
A loud bell chimed as she walked in.
It set her teeth on edge.
The Hogsmeade post-office was much the same as any other post-office. A hundred owls fluttering about like confetti at a parade, hundreds of cubbies built all the way up to the rafters, half housing birds, the others mail. The only way anyone could find anything was by magic. A tall woman in a green robe sat behind a counter near the front sorting mail. There was a plaque that read Sterling Buttons in front of her.
There were two small writing desks to the right. She sat down and began her letter.
Dear Headmaster Armando Dippet,
You do not know me, but I hope this letter finds you well.
I have posted to ask if I would be able to attend your school this year. There has been increasing trouble on the continent, as I am sure you are aware, and it is no longer safe for a muggleborn in south France.
My coven has managed to smuggle me out, with the intention of having me spend my sixth and seventh year of schooling at Hogwarts. The only proof of my claim is my wand, which you will find enclosed, and a recommendation letter from the Head of my coven, Millicent Carrel, also enclosed. I understand that she was a graduate of Hogwarts herself and her name may still carry enough recognition to garner some weight to my request.
I hope this is sufficient proof of my providence as I do not have many magical connections this side of the Channel. I have the funds to pay for any tuition costs and supplies needed and would be happy to discuss academic testing or other practical assessments needed to attend classes at your esteemed institution.
If not, I would appreciate my wand back.
Sincerely,
Hermione J. Granger
God, it was so much easier to lie in a letter.
The recommendation letter forgery had been easy enough. Officially, Carrel was an archivist with an independent coven and as such had left copious amounts of paperwork behind. Hermione had practiced her handwriting for hours in an empty townhouse in Paris.
Handwriting charms could be found with even the simplest detecting spell.
More pertinently, she was a French Ministry spy whose last contact had been August 27th, 1943 when she was sent scouting in Austria. No one to validate Hermione's story, but also no one to call it into question. She was banking on the mess of the war to at least buy her a month or two in the castle.
A minute alone with Voldemort and part one would be done.
Hermione placed her wand and the recommendation letter inside. A small wandless anti-tamper charm sealed the envelope ensuring that only its intended recipient would be able to open the letter. A spell well spent, but she needed a damn nap.
Adjusting her hat to cover a bit more of her face—she still looked like shit—she went up to the counter.
“Miss Buttons? I am here to post a letter,” she held out said letter and smiled through the bite of the notice-me-not blowback, “Do you have owls available?” She inwardly cringed. Of course, there were owls. There were literally hundreds. She really needed to practice talking with people.
“Err. Yes, of course,” Buttons turned to her, brushed her fingers through her hair, and put on a smile, “And who are you sending to?”
“Armando Dippet. Headmaster at Hogwarts.”
“Right,” she looked confused for a moment, probably because she thought Hermione was a student and could easily contact him. She looked young enough for it.
Buttons whistled a two-tone and called out, “Jubilee,” A brown owl the size of a robin came down from one of the rafter cubbies. She secured the envelope on its leg with the tie of a ribbon, “And your name?”
“Hermione Granger,” There was no point in picking a fake name. It was obvious she was muggleborn. Her cover story was simple but thin, and whatever scrutiny adding a pureblood name brought would tear it to shreds. Besides, she wouldn’t be at Hogwarts long enough for it to matter.
And she just didn't want to. That was her name.
Buttons stared at her a moment, her smile tightening, clearly waiting for something. Hermione stared back, people skills too rusty to understand.
“And return address?” asked Buttons after a moment.
“Erm...” Damn. Did the house have a number on it? “I’m not sure exactly. I just moved into the old house up the road. On the hill.”
“Miss Flock’s old house? Upon the hill? Are you family?”
Fuck.
Years of preparation, months of researching people in the forties, and it never occurred to Hermione that this not-Shrieking Shack would have had a previous owner. Which was stupid, because of course it did. It was a normal house.
“No... ,” God, she was such a terrible liar, “I... I just... I had bought it from an auction,” that’s the lie she’s going with? “Estate sale, I mean! There was an auction for her estate. I... my family bought it,” Shut. Up. “You know the continent is dangerous and it seemed like a good idea to have a backup in case things went to shit,” she babbled.
Buttons looked aghast. Hermione blushed. Oh, it was the 40s, not polite to swear.
“I mean if things went poorly, with the increased attacks you know?”
Buttons nodded frantically, trying to get the uncouth swearing witch out of her post office, “Right! Novella’s house. I'll send over the owl as soon as the reply comes through. Yes. Thank you!”
Hermione dashed out of the shop red-faced, cursing herself. She should have researched the Shrieking Shack’s origins before Lupin. She should have at least come up with a convincing lie to cover why she was staying there.
She shouldn’t have sworn in front of a stranger.
This is 1943, she needed to be better at blending in. It wouldn't do to attract undue attention and being a carelessly swearing witch would definitely stick out. If perfection was impossible she could at least try for competency.
She stopped by the grocers on the way back to the house and picked up staples and a treat of seasonal pomegranates. It wouldn't take long to refurbish the kitchen. And as much as she needed to cultivate her relationship with Aberforth to get him to trust her, she didn't want to spend every meal in the Hog's Head. Depending on how long it would take to get into Hogwarts—potentially a year if she wasn't accepted mid-term—it would do to set up the house as best she could.
And it had been a dreadfully long time since she got to stay in one place for more than the time it took her to sleep.
Hermione observed the house as she walked back up to it. It was quite indefensible. Alone on the top of a hill, it stood out harshly against the soft grey sky. The short fence and small gate didn’t offer much protection. It could easily be surrounded by anti-disapparation charms and routed. If this was to become her hideaway for a time it would need some heavy wards.
As well as a kitchen.
She hauled her groceries in, pulled a spare wand from her bag in the side room, and began a makeshift icebox. She could do the wards tomorrow, but the milk would spoil tonight.
The spell felt like ripping out a bloody tooth. It was worth it.
The next morning, an owl flew through the spare bedroom window as Hermione dusted. It landed clumsily on the floor and stuck its leg out waiting to be relieved of its burden.
It was a small letter.
She picked it up and read.
Dear Miss Hermione Granger
Well, you certainly have caught my attention. It is a bit reckless to send your wand through the post is it not? There is a war going on, and I would hate to leave you defenseless.
My office will be open for floo at 3pm this afternoon, if you would care for some tea.
Sincerely,
Headmaster Armando Dippet
There was no wand attached.