Work Text:
Hermione had gotten herself into tricky situations before. The troll, for instance, immediately came to mind. Getting petrified by a basilisk in her second year. Really, anything involving Harry, since he was pretty much a chaos magnet.
It must be a Potter thing, Hermione thought somewhat disdainfully as she eyed the smirking form of James Potter. Who was currently sprawled beneath her. Because time travel, apparently.
(One minute, she’d been running through the ministry, tossing every offensive hex she knew over her shoulder. And then there’d been an explosion to her right—the time room, she’d realized, hastily forming a shield. But of course, by then it was too late, and the world was dark, her stomach dropping as the all-too-familiar feeing of traveling with a time-turner enveloped her.)
She really couldn’t catch a break, could she?
“Wow,” he breathed, glasses knocked askew to reveal bright, hazel eyes. “I think I just fell for you.”
No. No, she couldn’t.
James Potter, Hermione had discovered over the course of the month that she’d been stuck in 1976, was really nothing like Harry. For all the Professor Snape—and how fucking weird was that, to see him as a grumpy, anti-social teenager—had always said Harry couldn’t be more like his father, Hermione didn’t see it.
They shared the same hair, the same basic facial features, but James was far more cocksure. He was loud and had no perception of personal space. He was a braggart and a show-off and a flirt and utterly shameless.
Most importantly, he was a pain in Hermione’s ass.
“Come with me to Slughorn’s party,” he said, cornering her in the library.
She’d been returning a book on the multi-verse theory—mere conjecture, and useless at that, but she’d been hoping for a hint of an idea on how to get back home—when she’d suddenly found herself backed up against a bookcase. James was a good head taller, and he leaned over her, one arm propped against the shelf, the other hand dangerously close to her waist. He probably thought the pose made him look confident, sexy, but it mostly just left him wide open to getting kneed in the groin.
“I’m not interested,” Hermione said brusquely, ducking easily under his arm and returning to her table. James continued to smile gamely as he trailed after her.
“Oh, me neither. I’m sure it’ll be terribly dull. But—” and here he paused, leaning far too close for comfort to whisper in her ear “—I thought perhaps we could entertain each other.”
Hermione reared back, startled. She was sure her face was turning an alarming shade of red if the heat in her cheeks was anything to go by. “You—”
“Shh.” He had the audacity to place his finger to her lips and wink. “It is the library after all.”
Within a second, the end of her wand was pressed firmly against his sternum, the hand that had been lingering at her mouth shoved to the side. “Don’t be so presumptuous,” she snapped, voice low.
James only looked amused, his eyes intent. “It’s only a matter of time until you admit you want me, Hermione.”
She felt like ripping her hair out in frustration. Talking with him—reasoning with him—was impossible. “It’ll be a cold day in hell, Potter.”
She jerked away from him, gathered her bag, and stormed for the exit with more force than necessary.
“I’ll take that as a maybe,” he called after her, earning himself a scolding from Madam Pince.
Breathing exercises, she told herself as she wound through the hallways. In for four, hold, out for four. Again.
She missed her own, much less annoying Potter. Hermione would take near death experiences and reckless adventuring any day.
It’s just a little longer. I’ll figure out how to get home soon.
By the three-month mark, no closer to finding answers, her hope was fading. By the fourth, she was running out of relevant books to read in the library. When winter holiday rolled around, Dumbledore met her in his office for a cup of tea.
“Perhaps you should think of this as a more…permanent situation,” he said with as little tact as she’d come to expect from him. In the past-future (which was confusing at the best of times, so Hermione tried not to think too hard about it), she hadn’t dealt with the headmaster much directly—that was always Harry. Since landing in the past, she’d been increasingly irritated with Dumbledore’s non-answers and maybe-it’s-meant-to-be attitude.
“But the timeline—”
“It is possible that the future you know is already gone.” The headmaster sighed wearily. “Or there has been a divergence and the act of traveling as far back as you did created an alternate reality in itself. We shall likely never know.”
Right. Because moving forward in time was still an unknown, an improbability. Because Hermione might never get back home to her parents, to Harry and Ron and—
People who might never exist because of her presence here. Because James was supposed to be chasing Lily Evans, and instead he was wasting his time with Hermione.
“I would hate to see you waste your considerable talent, Miss Granger, for the sake of a future that may no longer happen,” Dumbledore said, much more gently. “I find it best not to linger on what might have been, and instead treat the life we are living as if it is the only one we have.”
The first day of term after winter break found Hermione locked inside a broom cupboard and without her wand. But not alone. No. Of course not.
With James Potter.
“This is Black’s doing, isn’t it?”
James had the decency to look a bit sheepish. “Ah, well—”
Hermione leveled him with a glare.
“He says the, uh, the sexual tension is a volcano, or something. Explosions were involved, I think. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t really following the metaphor but—”
She held up a hand to stop him, and for once, he was mercifully silent.
“What on earth did he think was going to happen?” she muttered to herself, already turning most of her attention to the locking mechanism. Her wandless magic was nothing impressive—she’d only barely started to get a grasp on it during the DA meetings—but a simple alohamora should be doable. “As if I’d shag anybody in a broom closet. Honestly.”
“So is it the location that’s objectionable? Because let me tell you, I’ve got a nice bed—”
This time, Hermione’s cutting look alone was enough for James to stop himself.
Without another word, she flicked her fingers, letting the magic travel through them as it might a wand, and smiled in satisfaction as the lock clicked. James’ eyes went wide, but Hermione barely paid him any mind as she pushed the door open, her own gaze locking on Sirius Black where he stood across the hallway.
“A word, Black,” she drawled, perhaps enjoying a bit too much how his head snapped up, how a flicker of genuine fear dashed across his face.
“Ah, Granger,” he tried for cheery and missed by a mile. “You see—”
“If you think my lack of a wand will save you, you are even more of an idiot than I thought.”
Black squeaked, and then bolted. Hermione made no move to chase after him.
“Aren’t you worried he’ll escape justice?” James teased.
“He can delay it as long as he’d like,” Hermione said blandly, a smile pulling at the edge of her mouth. “It won’t change the outcome. I can be patient when I have to.”
And then she strolled off, already thinking of the top five hiding spots Sirius might run to. The Marauders might have created the map of the school, but Hermione would bet she knew Hogwarts better. Besides, Sirius was predictable. She’d catch him in no time.
(James watched her go. Oh, he thought. Is this love?)
“Hermione Granger, seeking out little old me.” James gave an exaggerated gasp, grinning. “To what do I owe the honor?”
She was already regretting this. She knew she would continue to do so. But…her options were limited. Despite having been in the 70s for nearly six months now, she’d not managed to make many close connections. The girls in her dorm were friendly, but they’d known each other for years and Hermione was an interloper. She got on well enough with Evans due to their mutual understanding of how irritating James could be, but they were both competitive with academics, and they were more friendly rivals than actual friends.
Hermione was a bit of a loner as a result of personality and behavior rather than out of want. She preferred to read quietly than to play games or gossip. She was studious and often serious, and that put her at odds with many people her age, let alone those in her house. Perhaps that was why she was in this situation now.
“I need your help,” she ground out. It was embarrassing to even have to ask—this was something she should have been able to handle on her own. But then, she’d never been the best with people.
And really, she’d been so desperate to get out of the situation that she’d spoken before she’d really thought things through.
James looked delighted. “Oh?”
He’s going to lord this over me forever. But that was a consequence of her own mistake, and she could live with it. Besides, there wasn’t anyone else she could reasonably ask. At least she could be grateful that she’d caught James when he was alone.
There was no use putting it off any longer.
“There’s a 7th year Ravenclaw, Cassius Jones, who’s been…I suppose there’s no other way to put it than hounding me for a date. And with Valentine’s Day falling on Hogsmeade weekend, he’s been particularly insistent.”
A little furrow appeared between James’ brow. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to have trouble telling people no when you’re not interested.”
Which, you know, fair. Especially considering how many times she’d turned James down.
“If it was just that, then it’d be fine, I’d deal with it, but—” She took a deep breath. She’d faced Death Eaters before. This shouldn’t have bothered her so much. It was just one stupid boy. “—he’s been hovering outside of my classes before I get there. He stares at me the entire time during meals. He keeps showing up at the library right after I do, and he always sits at my table. And yesterday, I noticed him following me around after dinner, and he waited until we were alone in a hallway to…to corner me and…and the things he said—well, I kind of told him I was already seeing someone to get him to back off.”
It wasn’t the sort of thing she liked to do, partially because it felt cheap to say that she was off limits because of another guy. A simple “no” should have been enough. But there was something about the look in his eye in the hallway last night that had made her feel unsafe. That had made her feel like “no” wouldn’t be well-received. That had made her feel like she needed an excuse.
Steadily throughout her entire explanation, James’s eyebrows rose. “How long has he been stalking you?”
“I…it’s not—”
“It very much is,” he said seriously.
“It’s only in public spaces,” Hermione defended half-heartedly. “It’s not like he’s broken into the dorms or taken my things—”
“That you know of.”
That was a concerning thought that Hermione didn’t have the emotional capacity to process right now. “We’re getting off track.”
James’s mouth pinched, and Hermione knew that even if she changed to subject, he wouldn’t be letting it go. At least the next bit should be a good distraction for him.
“You’re the only person I could ask to be my fake boyfriend.”
There was a pause, and then a slow grin crept over his face. “I knew you’d fall for me eventually. It’s because I’m so attractive, isn’t it?”
Ah. There was the regret she knew she’d be feeling. “I say this—and I cannot stress this enough—I find you completely repulsive.”
James’s smile softened into something more genuine. “No, you don’t.”
No, I don’t. No matter how hard she’d tried.
But she’d sooner spit up slugs than admit to it.
It didn’t seem to matter. It was like he already knew.
“I suppose I don’t mind playing your fake boyfriend,” he conceded easily. “But we’ve got to make it realistic. Though I doubt you’re the sort to go for Madam Puddifoot’s—”
“Absolutely not.”
“As I thought. Then here’s my offer: I will greet you with flowers—not roses, they’re too cliché—and walk you to Hogsmeade. We’ll have lunch at the Three Broomsticks, and then spend the afternoon at the bookshop where I will attempt to engage you in a discussion on transfiguration theory and you will undoubtedly tear apart my opinions and soundly thrash me in debate. I’ll probably slip up and tell you I love you, and you will scorn me again. This will not deter me in the slightest. Afterwards, I’ll walk you back to the castle, and if all goes to plan, we’ll share a passionate kiss in front of the Hospital Wing.”
Hermione blinked. “Why would we kiss in front of the Hospital Wing?”
“Because that’s where Cassius Jones is going to be, and I’ll want to make him jealous.”
“Why would Jones be—” The realization hit her suddenly. “James! Do not put him in the hospital. Are you mad?”
He smiled agreeably in a way that Hermione was learning not to trust in the slightest. “Fine. But the kiss is acceptable? I thought for sure that’s what you’d protest first.”
Hermione huffed, ducking her head to hide her growing blush. “We’ll see.”
“I might as well push my luck while I’m ahead. Any chance of making it a real date instead of a fake one?”
She spluttered for a moment, but…well, it was just James, wasn’t it? Somehow, he’d become something of a friend, if an irritating one.
Maybe even her closest friend in this time.
(And really, he wasn’t half as irritating as she’d been trying to pretend.)
“I don’t know,” she answered, and then she smiled, just a bit wickedly. “I suppose that will depend on the quality of your transfiguration theories, won’t it?”
(It was a real date, in the end. One that James properly studied for. One that Hermione enjoyed far more than she’d thought she would.)
(And if Cassius Jones had a rather violent stomach virus on Valentine’s day that required a trip to Madam Pomfrey, it may well have been because he ate too many chocolates. Some people have delicate constitutions, after all.)