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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Before She Falls

It was the morning of September 5th, and Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were engaging in what was already a becoming a very tired argument at the Gryffindor breakfast table. This, despite the fact that it was only the fourth day of their third year term.

"I just don't understand why you hate my cat!" Hermione was saying for what must have been the umpteenth time that morning alone. Or so it seemed to Harry Potter, who was sitting next to the arguing pair, and doing his level best to stay out of the crossfire and simply focus on his toast.

"Well first off, it's unbelievably ugly-"

"Ron!" Hermione gasped in outrage, aghast on behalf of her new familiar. "He is not!"

"AND," Ron continued loudly, cutting Hermione off, "it's got it in for Scabbers!"

He said this in a triumphant tone, as if Crookshanks' dislike of his pet rat settled the matter of the feline's character once and for all.

Hermione scoffed. "Crookshanks is a cat, Ronald, they aren't exactly known for their natural affinity for rats! You can't blame him for acting on instinct! And I'd appreciate it if you would stop referring to my cat as an 'it'. Crookshanks is a boy, and very handsome one."

"You're deluded," Ron said flatly. Harry, who privately agreed with Ron that Crookshanks was indeed, very ugly, quickly shoved a bit of toast in his mouth in order to keep from laughing.

Hermione, on the other hand, was far from amused. "If you think that it's anything but normal behavior for a cat to chase after a rat, then you are the one who's deluded Ronald," she said, folding her arms across her chest defensively.

"I think that beast has got it particularly in for Scabbers!"

"Well!" Hermione said huffily. "Maybe there's just something particularly nasty about Scabbers, did you ever think of that?"

Ron's mouth dropped open in a rather unflattering expression of stupefied outrage. "You've got some nerve, Hermione!"

"You're the one who-"

"If you two are quite done, I think we had better get a move on to Herbology," Harry interjected quietly.

Hermione promptly closed her mouth, and with a considerable air of righteous indignation, began to pack up her things.

A few minutes later, it was in a rather tense fashion that the trio made their way across the Hogwarts lawn to the greenhouses for their first Herbology class of the year.

Hermione was exhausted. It was only the second week of term, and already she felt like she needed a calming draught. Professor McGonagall had warned her that using the time turner would be an adjustment, and Hermione was finding that it certainly was. Quite aside from the bizarre and disorienting effect of traveling back and forth through time, and frequently being in two places at once, Hermione found that the most disconcerting aspect of the whole thing was having to hide it from her friends. She hated lying to Harry and Ron so much. Every time they questioned her, it felt as if the time turner was an albatross around her neck, dragging her down and burning a hole in her chest where it was hidden beneath her sweater. Obviously, she appreciated the tremendous opportunity she had been given; she felt incredibly lucky to be able to attend all the extra classes she otherwise wouldn't have been able to. But she wouldn't pretend that it wasn't difficult at times. And it wasn't just the time turner that was sending her stress level skyrocketing either; there was also the matter of Sirius Black.

It felt like Black was a specter casting a pall over the entirety of the Hogwarts, and Hermione found that her usual start of term excitement had been dampened a bit by the aura of fear and paranoia which currently permeated the castle. It had been frightening enough over the summer to find out that there was a terrifying mass murderer on the loose in wizarding Britain, but when they had found out that he was after Harry, it had all become so much worse. Sirius Black wasn't just an abstract threat, he was after one of her best friends. And Harry attracted trouble the way the Weasley twins attracted detentions; with worrying frequency. Hermione was scared for him.

That absolute nonsense with Trelawney predicting his death in their first Divination lesson certainly hadn't helped matters. There was a course she actually wouldn't mind dropping. What a load of utter nonsense! It was only serving to make everyone even more paranoid, and that was something they most definitely didn't need at the moment. She just hoped Harry wasn't taking it too seriously. He was so introspective about his own emotions that sometimes she couldn't tell. She and Ron were so often close to the surface; 'emotionally expressive', as her mother would say, but Harry tended to burry things.

And that was another thing! Ron was making a right arse out of himself over her cat. She simply didn't understand how he could be so irrational about the entire matter. In her most shamefully vindictive moments, Hermione couldn't help but hope that Scabbers would just die already so they could put the matter to rest. After all, she reasoned, twelve years was an exceptionally long time for a common garden rat like Scabbers to live; death had to be coming soon. It was actually quite strange that Scabbers was still alive, Hermione thought curiously. Maybe he was under some sort of spell? Of course, if Scabbers actually were to die, Ron would probably claim that it was brought on by stress and unfairly blame Crookshanks. The whole situation was a frightful mess.

On top of everything else, Hagrid's first Care of Magical Creatures class had been an unmitigated disaster, thanks to Malfoy and his unprecedented depths of both stupidity and arrogance. She, Harry and Ron had wanted so badly for Hagrid to do well, and now Malfoy had gone and mucked it all up. Hagrid had pivoted drastically from the excitement of his first lesson, and was now glumly teaching them how to care for such mundane creatures as flobberworms. It was hardly what she imagined Hagrid wanted to be doing (what any of them wanted to be doing), but the giant of a man had been understandably cowed by the experience with Malfoy and the hippogriff. An inquiry was now underway, driven by Lucius Malfoy's position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and it all just seemed hopelessly unfair. So all in all, Hermione had a litany of reasons for which to be stressed out this year; the time turner being just one of them.

Despite her stress and exhaustion, Hermione found that she was greatly enjoying her classes so far, with the notable exceptions of Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, now that they were stuck with flobberworms and a moping Hagrid. On the bright side, it seemed they finally had a competent Defense against the Dark Arts teacher in Professor Lupin. In retrospect, Hermione could now admit that Lockhart had been a talentless hack, and she was embarrassed that she had been even momentarily blinded to his inadequacies by a childish crush. From their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express, when he had acted so decisively with the dementor, Hermione found that she could respect Professor Lupin. It was a pleasant deviation from their previous DADA teachers. She highly doubted Lupin would turn out to be either a murderous stooge for the Dark Lord or a fraudulent coward. So things were looking up on that front.

The man was a bit strange though, Hermione mused. He seemed quite as exhausted as she was, which, frankly, was something of an achievement, albeit a dubious one. And a few times she thought she had caught Professor Lupin looking at her in rather a strange manner; almost a puzzled sadness. It was quite unnerving. But perhaps, Hermione reasoned, she was imagining it. Even though it was just the beginning of term, she was already under quite a bit of stress, what with all her extra classes and the commensurate homework load. Her sleep schedule had suffered considerably, and the time turner was disorienting all on its own. It was only reasonable to think that her perceptions might be a little off at the moment, while she was still adjusting to everything. And after all, what possible reason could Professor Lupin have to look at her in such a way?

"My birthday is in a week," Hermione said aloud, as she, Harry and Ron navigated a particularly drafty corridor on their way to charms one September morning.

Ron raised a ginger eyebrow. "Is that a hint, Hermione?" he asked playfully.

"No," she said with a mild eye roll for her friend. "Only I've just realized."

Ron stared. "You forgot about your own birthday? Even I remembered, and I'm rubbish at those sorts of things. I even got you something!"

"Because I reminded you," Harry put in wryly.

Hermione grinned at them both, touched that they had remembered her birthday, even if Ron had had a little help. "That's very sweet boys, I appreciate it. And I didn't forget," she said primly. "It simply snuck up on me. I've been quite busy with all my classes, and the start of term is always hectic."

"I suppose," Ron mumbled, as though he were skeptical that these were proper excuses for forgetting one's own birthday.

While she didn't acknowledge it aloud, Hermione was a bit surprised that she had only remembered her birthday just now. The time turner was messing with her sense of time more than she had expected. But in any case, she would be fourteen in a week, and that was something to look forward to. A bright spot in the bleakness that had so far characterized this term.

It was four days before her fourteenth birthday when Hermione had what could only be termed an unfortunate encounter with Professor Trelawney in the seventh floor girls' toilet. Little did she know how fateful said encounter would turn out to be.

Hermione was just exiting one of the stalls, when she found herself confronted with an overwhelming smell of mothballs, tinged with a bit of what she thought might be sherry. Professor Trelawney had just swished into the bathroom in all her malodorous glory, the bangles on her wrists clinking in what Hermione thought was a highly irritating manner. When she caught sight of Hermione, Trelawney stopped abruptly, swaying slightly on her feet, before pinning the girl with a disconcertingly shrewd look.

"It's you," she said, which Hermione thought was quite a rude way to greet a student. She set about quickly washing her hands, desperate to escape her Divination Professor's presence as quickly as possible. She hardly liked or respected the woman, much less her supposed area of expertise, and she had the feeling her Professor had similarly negative feelings about her.

Undeterred by Hermione's clear desire to get away from her, Professor Trelawney continued to address her. "The fates have informed me we will not be seeing you very much longer, my dear."

Hermione turned to face her. "Excuse me?" she queried. Was Professor Trelawney insinuating that she was going to drop her class? Well, Hermione, wouldn't lie, she had been considering it. She had enough on her plate without the load of rubbish that was Divination. She highly doubted, however, that the so called 'fates' had informed Trelawney of any such plans of hers.

"It will not be long now." Trelawney was telling her.

Hermione scoffed, flicking water off her hands in a rather more aggressive manner than normal "We'll see," she said tightly.

"Indeed," Professor Trelawney responded, widening her bug like eyes as though she had just made some kind of significant pronouncement.

"You are positively inane!" Hermione declared, shutting off the tap angrily and striding toward the bathroom door. Normally she would never dream of being so disrespectful towards a teacher, but Professor Trelawney was simply beyond the pale.

"She's mad!" Hermione muttered to herself as she hurried down the corridor, drawing the stares of several portrait subjects. "Absolutely mad!"

Well, she had made up her mind now, Hermione decided as she began to descend the seventh floor staircase; she was dropping Divination, and she didn't care if that made Professor Trelawney's supposed 'prediction' accurate. That class was a detriment to her mental health. She could scarcely believe how Trelawney had just accosted her. In the loo, of all places! It occurred to Hermione that she was now three for three on traumatic experiences in girls' bathrooms at Hogwarts. First year there had been the incident with the troll, second year the Chamber of Secrets (not to mention accidently turning herself into a cat), and now this! It was becoming something of a worrying pattern, she thought darkly.

So consumed was Hermione by her torrent of righteous anger toward her batty Divination Professor, that she didn't notice when the staircase began to move. Suddenly, just as Hermione was thinking that perhaps she ought to just avoid bathrooms altogether, the normally smooth trajectory of the staircases' movement was altered and it gave a great lurch. With a choked gasp, Hermione lost her balance, and when the stairway jerked once more, she found herself tumbling backwards over the edge of it. Air rushed up all around her as she hurtled downward, her body flipping this way and that like a dolls, and she found that she could not distinguish between the rushing sound of the air and her own screams. It was either an eternity or seconds later that Hermione hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch. The sound of her body hitting the floor covered the sound of breaking glass as her time turner shattered; shards of glass embedding themselves in her chest like a million sharp needles, and the sands of time mixing with her blood. Hermione registered none of this, for her world had gone black.

Padma Patil was screaming hysterically. She had been on her way to dinner, when she had stumbled upon the body of her fellow third year. She had been screaming hysterically ever since, and she was still screaming when she was happened upon by Professor McGonagall.

Before she could reprimand the child and instruct her to cease her infernal wailing, Professor McGonagall caught sight of the body. The normally composed witches' face crumbled, and all the color drained from her visage as if she had suddenly been set upon by a vampire.

She rushed toward Hermione, turning the child's body over to face upward. Professor McGonagall gasped at the sight of her student's blood soaked chest, eyeing the unusual wound with great worry. Wandlessly, she conjured a patronus. "Fetch Madam Pomfrey." She ordered it hoarsely. "And the Headmaster! Fetch the Headmaster!"

"I am here, Minerva." Dumbledore said, appearing just as Professor McGonagall's spectral cat vanished around the corner. His voice was exceptionally grave.

Reaching for Hermione's wrist, Minerva McGonagall felt for a pulse. She could find none. "Gracious, Albus," she said, turning hopelessly to the Headmaster. "I believe she's dead."

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: An Ominous Arrival

There was a bird cawing shrilly. Not an owl, as would be quite typical at Hogwarts, but something else. A crow perhaps. Or a raven, Hermione mused vaguely. Whatever it was though, the repeated noise of its' call was making her head ache fiercely. Absently, she raised a hand in order to probe the pain, only to find that her normally bushy hair was wet and flattened on one side of her head; matted down with something sticky. That was strange, Hermione thought blurrily; her normally quick mind struggling to make sense of the information. Her ears were buzzing, and everything felt muddled. It was as though her head had been filled with cotton on the inside. The outside of her head, meanwhile, felt as though it had been whacked upside rather harshly with a beaters bat. And the pounding in her skull was being made particularly unbearable by the continuous cawing of that bothersome bird of as of yet indeterminate species.

Her back was wet as well, Hermione realized. Was she outside? How did that happen, she wondered, dragging her fingers through what felt like grass wet with dew. She had been inside, hadn't she? Yes. She remembered. She had been arguing with Professor Trelawney. Hermione's nose wrinkled; such an odious woman. She had decided once and for all to drop Divination. But how had she gotten outside?

With a disconcerting amount of effort, Hermione slowly managed to drag open her eyes. It was an effort she quickly came to regret when she was confronted with an unforgivingly, blinding sun which did no favours at all for her aching skull. Definitely outside then, she determined. In an effort to escape the glare of the sun, Hermione gingerly turned her head to the side. The move set off a wave of dizziness, and Hermione roiled at the onslaught of unpleasant, disorienting sensation, closing her eyes once more in an effort to abate it. All of this, simply from the small action of turning her head. Something, Hermione was realizing, was terribly wrong. However she had gotten outside, it had clearly not been a pleasant journey. Indeed, she was developing a sickening suspicion that the mysterious, sticky, substance matting down her normally buoyant hair was blood.

Panting, she opened her eyes once more. Squinting against the light, she was able to make out an expanse of what looked like large, orange orbs in the distance. Hermione had never needed glasses. In point of fact, she had impeccable vision. Only something seemed to be wrong with it at the moment, and everything was blurry. Orange orbs, orange orbs; Hermione's mind was spinning, trying to determine what the nonsensical objects were and what possible clue they could provide as to her location.

Pumpkins! They were pumpkins, she realized suddenly. And beyond the pumpkins, when she strained her eyes, Hermione could just make out a small, hodgepodge of a cottage. Hagrid. She was near Hagrid's! Hermione could have laughed out loud with incredulous relief if there hadn't been such a painful stitch in her chest. Now she just had to get to Hagrid's door somehow, and desperately hope that her kind friend of unusual size happened to be home. But Hermione was about to discover that making her way to Hagrid's would not be such an easy task. The monumental difficulty of her objective was driven home as soon as she tried to sit up. Upon her attempt, Hermione was immediately overcome with another wave of dizziness, compounded by intensified pounding in her head. She needed to think about this strategically. Perhaps, she reasoned, the best thing to do would be to roll over onto her stomach, and then push herself up. Her arms, at least, didn't seem to be injured. She might as well try to put them to use. It certainly didn't hurt to try a new approach.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, Hermione rolled over onto her chest. The action led to an excruciating new advent of pain, and she gave a sharp cry as what felt like a million little shards glass were further ground into her chest. As her shock receded, and she lay there panting and labored on the ground, it gradually became clear to Hermione that her initial assessment of this new pain was more than just an apt metaphor. There were actual shards of glass digging into her chest. Shards of glass from her shattered time turner, which she could now clearly remember having been wearing when she was talking to Professor Trelawney, but whose critical existence she had forgotten until this moment. It must have broken when…whatever happened to her happened. She had been rushing down the east seventh floor stairs, Hermione remembered, fuming from her encounter with Trelawney, and desperate to get away from the woman as quickly as possible. Could she have fallen off the stairs, she wondered? But then how on earth did she get outside?

Tears leaking from eyes which were squeezed tightly shut, either against the pain or as a device with which to attempt to block out her new reality, Hermione was forced to confront the horrifying possibility that she had traveled through time. In fact, she realized with a ragged sob, it was the only explanation that even remotely made sense. How else could she have gone from inside to outside? And she was sure that she had been inside. Her time turner was broken. She could feel the remnants of it sticking in her chest; sharp pieces of glass, along with a profoundly painful itchiness which she thought must be the sands of time mixing with, and irritating, the open wound caused by the glass.

If she had traveled through time, which she was now almost certain that she had, Hermione's circumstances were even direr than she had previously assessed.

She was almost certain though, that she was at Hogwarts. That little cottage she could just see in the distance looked exactly as she had known Hagrid's to. And the pumpkins suggested it was still some time around late summer or autumn. Was it possible she had only traveled a few hours back in time? Could she hope for that? If she had fallen from the seventh floor staircase, how many times would her body flip in the air? Drawing in a rattling breath, Hermione was reminded once again of the great amount of pain with which her body was currently racked. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, now was not the moment to ponder logistical questions, however important they may be in the greater scheme of things. She needed to get to Hagrid's, and damn all the rules Professor McGonagall had drilled into her about not allowing herself to be seen in the past. She needed to get help.

Bracing her arms on the ground, Hermione managed to push herself up to a kneeling position. It was a painfully belabored effort, but an ultimately successful one. Breathing harshly, she then attempted to stand, but overwhelmed with dizziness, the gravely injured girl found herself falling back down to her knees. The impact of the fall reverberated through her body in a way that made her head rattle. Standing seemed an insurmountable feat, and in the end, Hermione decided that her best option would be to crawl. And so she began the painful process of forcing her broken body in the direction of what she thought to be Hagrid's hut.

One of her ankles seemed to be twisted to the point of uselessness, and as a consequence, Hermione found herself relying heavily on her uninjured arms; dragging herself across the grounds it what was almost a bastardized approximation of an army crawl. Finally, after what seemed an interminably long journey, Hermione collapsed triumphantly on the threshold of the Gamekeeper's cottage. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she proceeded to pound as forcibly as she could on the door of the hut, crying for help as she did so.

The Hogwarts Gamekeeper had just been relaxing into a nice cuppa by the fire, when he was roused from his relaxation by a furious banging on his cottage door. The sudden onslaught provoked a shout of alarm from the (half) giant of a man, and he was so startled that he dropped his teacup.

"Hold yer hippogriffs, I'm comin', I'm comin'," Hagrid cried, hastily throwing down a towel to try and stem the flow of hot tea now seeping across his floorboards.

Still rather preoccupied with his upended cuppa as he hauled open the door, all thoughts of spilt earl grey were immediately vanished from his mind when he caught sight of the horrifying spectacle which awaited him on the other side of his door. A girl, a young girl, lay collapsed on his doorstep in a crumpled, bloody heap.

The poor creature must have heard him open the door, because before he could gather himself or think what to do, she looked up at him, seemingly with great effort. Her action revealed a deathly pale face, and a head which looked as though it had been bludgeoned fiercely on one side by the whomping willow. The Gamekeeper's eyes widened in fear and dismay as he began to assess the full range of the lass's injuries; that nasty, fearful looking head wound being just the start of them.

"Hagrid," choked the girl, shocking the man from his appraisal. He hadn't expected her to speak; and indeed, it seemed she struggled to, her voice a jagged rasp of a whisper. It did not occur to Hagrid in that moment to wonder how the strange, terribly injured girl knew his name.

"What year is it?" she demanded, her eyes wild and frantic, her voice rough.

Hagrid's large brow furrowed in confusion at the odd question. Did the lass have a concussion of some sort? With the looks of that head wound, he wouldn't be surprised if she did

"1973, o' course," he supplied. "Lass, how hard did yeh hit yer head now?"

His answer seemed to distress the girl for some reason, and she gave a great, pitiful moan, similar to that of a creature looking to be put out of its' misery. After throwing Hagrid one wrenchingly, agonized look, the girl's eyes rolled up in the back of her head and she passed clean out.

Not knowing what to make of this sudden flight of consciousness, other than to surmise that the shock and severity of the girl's injuries had finally caught up with her, Hagrid gathered up her limp body in his large, capable arms and proceeded to carry her up to the Castle; delivering her into the hands of those who could provide her with the medical and magical help she so desperately needed.

Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman. She had toiled in the bloody and baffling wards of St. Mungo's Hospital for years before eventually deciding to lend her considerably in demand services, and particular brand of unflappability, to Hogwarts. And for those who thought the school was a soft option, they clearly underestimated the destructive capability of a large group of adolescents in a confined space. Adolescents who were not only just coming into and developing the full range of their magical powers, but who were also inundated with hormones. Not to mention the faction of them who gleefully engaged in a highly dangerous and violent sport; namely quidditch, the bane of her existence. She was far more than a simple distributor of pepper up potions to hoards of students exhausted by exams. The formidable Hospital Matron dealt with injuries varied and gruesome day in and day out at the castle, some of them life threatening. All this to say that Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman.

And her reputation for stoicism held true that late August morning. When she turned away from reorganizing her medicinal potions cupboard to find the Hogwarts Gamekeeper stood in her doorway, holding the bleeding body of an unconscious child, she reacted with perfectly calm and precise efficiency. After, that is, she let out a small scream and dropped the bottle of skelegrow she had been holding. It skittered jarringly across the floor, ending up in far corner of the ward under one of the many beds, where it would lay forgotten for months, the only evidence of Poppy Pomfrey having momentarily been startled. In her defense, the sight of such a large man cradling such a small and frail looking body would be enough to give anyone a fright. To her credit, the Hospital Matron recovered almost immediately, instructing Hagrid to gently lay the child down on a bed and then quickly fetch her a blood replenishing potion from the cupboard she had just abandoned.

Some twenty minutes later, blood spattered and a little worse for wear, Madam Pomfrey let out a tired but satisfied sigh, tucking a sweaty tendril of hair behind her ear. With the help of Hagrid, she had managed to stabilize the girl, leaving the child in a magically induced sleep while her body recovered. It was only then, in the wake of the frantic medical maneuvers she had performed in order to save the girls life, that it occurred to Madam Pomfrey that she had better send Hagrid off for the Headmaster. Dumbledore would no doubt have questions as to the girl's sudden and strange appearance at Hogwarts, not to mention how she had obtained such severe, life threatening injuries.

Poppy had some questions herself, now that she wasn't immediately consumed with stabilizing the girl. The child was wearing what looked to be a Gryffindor House tie, but she wasn't a student as far as Madame Pomfrey recognized. She may not have treated all of them, but Hogwarts's was a fairly small school, and Poppy was confident in her ability to recognize most of the students past the second half of their first year. This girl, despite her petite stature, looked to be at least a second or third year. So why didn't Poppy know her, if indeed she was a Hogwarts student? And why was she here at the castle, in her school uniform, a fortnight before term was even set to begin? It didn't seem as though any of the girl's injuries were the result of any type of magic, dark or otherwise; besides, that is, the peculiar wound on her chest. It more seemed to Poppy that she had had a particularly bad fall from a great height. But from where had she fallen, and how had she come to end up at Hogwarts? Those were the questions that gave Madam Pomfrey particular pause. The circumstances of the whole matter were deeply unsettling to the mediwitch. Frankly, she didn't know what to make of any of it. The Headmaster, hopefully, would have greater insight, although whether or not he would choose to share such insight with her was anyone's guess. The man could be infuriatingly opaque when it suited him, and it usually seemed to.

As though she had summoned him with her thoughts, the Headmaster himself glided into the Hospital Wing at just that moment, Dumbledore's presence announced with a delicate swishing of his midnight blue robes and a soft throat clearing. Hagrid, who judging by his huffing, had run at full tilt in order to retrieve the Headmaster, asserted his own reappearance in a considerably less delicate way, shuffling noisily into the room and proceeding to peer anxiously at the still unconscious girl.

"Poppy, what is the situation?" Dumbledore inquired, surveying her young patient with an expression of great concern.

Madam Pomfrey sucked in a deep breath. "Well, Headmaster, the child is stable. I'm keeping her in a magically induced sleep for the time being in order to let her body heal. She suffered a grievous head wound, and she lost quite a bit of blood. I've replenished all I can, but she's still quite weak. From what Hagrid told me, and given the severity of her head injury, it is likely she suffered a concussion as well. I did my best to reduce any swelling on her brain. Her right ankle was also badly mangled, but I fixed that up very quickly. Bones are easier to mend than brains."

Madam Pomfrey paused before relaying the last of the child's major injuries, for it had been the most perplexing to her. "Additionally, Headmaster, there was a deep wound on her chest. I believe she was wearing a necklace of some sort, made of glass. It shattered, presumably when she fell, and pieces of glass became deeply embedded in her chest. Dirt, or possibly sand of some sort, somehow made its way under her sweater to contaminate the wound. I vanished the contaminants and mended the cut to the best of my ability, but it's proven particularly stubborn to even my most advanced healing spells. I suspect the necklace may have been magical in nature, to create such a wound. The girl will undoubtedly bare a scar. For the rest of her life, I'd wager."

Dumbledore's face was inscrutable. "Indeed, magical wounds can create very lasting scars," he observed. "I bare a few myself."

He strode toward the bed, coming to a stop beside its head and reaching out to allow one slender hand to hover over the chest of the motionless girl who was its occupant. "May I?" he inquired, turning once more to Madam Pomfrey.

"Of course, Headmaster," she demurred, gesturing for Dumbledore to proceed.

Taking a seat on a stool beside the bed, Dumbledore reached out, delicately moving aside the neck of the girl's gray sweater in order to reveal what was beneath. His gaze lingered briefly on her Gryffindor tie, before coming to rest with deep intention on the unusual wound which he had just uncovered. A scattering of long, thin cuts stood out starkly against the paleness of the girl's chest, their harsh, red lines forming what almost looked like a star burst.

"That is a most unusual scar," Dumbledore mused softly. "I suspect you are right, Madam Pomfrey, in thinking that she will have that for life. It's quite vivid, and I'd be very surprised if it faded." He eyed the scar for a bit longer, and then moved the girl's sweater back into place; covering her wound once more. He continued to gaze contemplatively at the unconscious child for a while longer, eventually reaching out to finger the delicate gold chain which still encircled her neck.

"This, I presume, is the remnants of the necklace you believe she was wearing, Poppy?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

Dumbledore examined the chain for a few moments longer, sliding its delicate links between his long, thin fingers, before letting it come to rest once more against the girl's chest. Then, sweeping his penetrating gaze over the mysterious figure of the girl one final time, he pushed back his stool and stood.

"A most unusual situation," he declared, straightening his robes. "In any case, I thank you for your efforts Poppy, and you as well, Hagrid," he nodded in acknowledgment towards the Gamekeeper. "It is due to the quick action of the pair of you that this child's life was saved. As ever, you prove yourselves invaluable assets to this castle, and I thank you."

Hagrid beamed with pride, seeming to almost brim over with emotion, while Madam Pomfrey simply nodded in solemn acknowledgment.

"Please inform me when the child wakes, Poppy," Dumbledore requested, "And let me know when she is sufficiently recovered enough that I may talk to her. There is a great deal we will have to discuss, I should think. Hagrid, I am sure, would like to be kept abreast of her recovery as well."

"I would, indeed, Headmaster; Madam Pomfrey," the Gamekeeper said quickly. "I'd like to know the lass is alright."

"I'll keep both of you informed," the mediwitch assured them.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said briskly. "Hagrid and I will be on our way, Poppy, leaving the child in your sublime care to rest and recover."

The Hospital Matron nodded, turning to face her patient once more as the two men exited the Hospital Wing. The girl slumbered on in her magically induced sleep. She was almost eerily still, and this, coupled with her pallor, would have been quite alarming, if not for the slight rise and fall of her chest which indicated that she lived. What had happened to the child, and how she had come to be here at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey did not know. Dumbledore would ferret it out, if anyone could.

Regardless of the mysterious and troubling circumstances of her arrival, the girl was here now, and she would recover fully; of that Madam Pomfrey was sure. The Hospital Matron should have been feeling proud and satisfied with the work she had done that day in bringing the girl back from the brink; reveling in the due accolades which she had received from the Headmaster in recognition of her skills. But something was nagging at her, a persistent distraction that the mediwitch could not dispel from the back of her mind, try as she might. Despite herself, Madam Pomfrey just could not be rid of the unshakable sense that the child was out of place here; that somehow, in some vital but indiscoverable way, she did not quite belong.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Choking on New Realities

Hermione was in the midst of a rather unsettling dream. Professor Trelawney had shoved her off one of Hogwarts' many changing staircases, and she had fallen face down into an endlessly deep pit of broken glass. Abruptly, the glass vanished, and she was falling again, only to be swallowed up by a rising tide of sand. She was drowning; choking on blood, glass and sand. And then Hagrid was there, lifting her up from the rubble and carrying her, but to where she didn't know. Her eyes had been cut by the glass, and then blinded by the sand. They were burning and she couldn't see. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't, for her mouth was still overflowing with blood, glass and sand. Hermione was surrounded by darkness and utterly lost. Gradually though, the vision behind her eyes was lightening, and there was a sudden, sharp, acerbic scent in the air which was growing overwhelmingly stronger.

"I need you to drink this," someone was saying, as Hermione struggled to open heavy eyes. "I know you'll be feeling quite groggy at the moment, child, but I need you to drink this."

Blinking against the bright, mid-morning light, Hermione found herself confronted with a vial of potent smelling tonic which had been shoved underneath her nose. The smell of the brew was quite strong, and it seemed to have a reviving effect on Hermione; able to tear her from her strange nightmare and usher her into wakefulness. Rather than being suffocated by a combination of glass, blood and sand, Hermione now found herself lying in a hospital bed. Madam Pomfrey loomed above her, badgering Hermione, however kindly, to drink one of her foul smelling potions.

Perhaps it was the remnants of her disturbing dream, but something about Madam Pomfrey seemed not quite right to the newly awoken teen. The Hospital Matron's face, framed by the light which was streaming in from the expansive windows of the Hospital Wing, looked peculiarly young to Hermione. This was an altered version of the Madam Pomfrey she was used to; unmistakably Madam Pomfrey, but unmistakably different. As she squinted into the unlined face of the relatively young looking woman above her, Hermione was overwhelmed by a sudden and violent rush of recent memories. She had been on the stairs with Trelawney, and she had fallen; that wasn't just a dream. She had fallen off the seventh floor staircase only to find herself outside in 1973 with a slew of grievous injuries and a shattered time turner. Hermione had awoken from an unsettling dream to find herself in an unsettling reality.

The young witch let out a long, low groan, sinking as deeply as she could into the stiff hospital pillows.

"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore, "she said hoarsely.

Madam Pomfrey arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. "You need to drink this, before you do anything."

Hermione suppressed an irritated sigh. "Very well," she said, taking the proffered potion and downing it in one gulp. The liquid burned her throat fiercely, and she struggled not to sputter too much and spit any of it out. The vile brew tasted almost as bad as polyjuice! She had no doubt, though, that acquiescing to Madam Pomfrey's requests would facilitate quicker access to the Headmaster, and Hermione was desperate to see him.

"Thank you," Madam Pomfrey said when Hermione had finished coughing, snatching the potion bottle from her hand and promptly replacing it with another one. Alarmingly, this one was an unnaturally vivid shade of purple and seemed to be steaming. "Drink this please," chirped the young Madam Pomfrey, with a smile that Hermione could not help but judge as just slightly sadistic.

After choking down three more nasty concoctions, her throat thoroughly on fire by the end of this ordeal, it finally seemed that Madam Pomfrey was done torturing her. For the moment at least.

"Now," the Hospital Matron said, clearing away the empty potions bottles. "I shall, of course, inform the Headmaster that you are awake, and I am sure that he will wish to speak with you in due time, Miss…" Madam Pomfrey trailed off here, in a clear attempt to illicit a name from her mysterious patient. Hermione chose to remain stubbornly mute.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Very well, mysterious girl. I trust you shall be more forthcoming with the Headmaster, given your eagerness to speak with him."

Hermione nodded once.

"As you may or may not remember, you were brought here by Hagrid, the Hogwarts's Gamekeeper. You had a severe head wound, a broken ankle, and a deep wound in your chest, as well as a series of minor abrasions covering your body. I replenished your blood supply, and healed the rest of your injuries fully, although a scar remains on your chest. That wound was magical in origin, and I suspect you will have that scar for life."

Instinctually, Hermione drew a hand to her chest, covering it protectively. She was curious as to what this scar looked like, but she did not want to peek at it in front of Madam Pomfrey. She noticed she was still wearing her school tie and sweater, although any tears the garment had suffered had been mended, and all blood removed from it.

"I do not know the origin of your injuries, and I suspect that if you do, you will not share such information with me," Madam Pomfrey continued.

Hermione nodded once again. She certainly could not impugn the perceptiveness of the mediwitch, and frankly, that's what worried her. She could see the way that Madam Pomfrey's eyes stopped repeatedly on her Gryffindor tie.

"If you will not tell me anything else," Madam Pomfrey said, somewhat ruefully. "I suggest that you rest while you wait for the Headmaster." And with that, she turned as though to leave.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione ventured, stopping her retreat. "How long have I been here? In the Hospital Wing, I mean?"

"Five days," supplied the Hospital Matron. "I've kept you in a magically unconscious state until now so that your body could recover more easily. I deemed you healthy enough to bring you out of it this morning, and you awakened naturally shortly thereafter."

"I see," Hermione said quietly. "And what is today's date then?

"August 22nd, 1973."

Hermione absorbed this information numbly.

"Now," Madam Pomfrey was saying, "I will go inform the Headmaster that you are awake. I suspect he is as eager to talk to you as you are to him, young lady. In the meantime, try to get some rest."

Despite Madam Pomfrey's directive that she, 'get some rest', Hermione found that she was too anxious to even attempt such a thing. She reasoned that she had had enough rest in the last five days, magically induced though it may have been. Instead, Hermione took the opportunity of Madam Pomfrey's absence to tug aside her sweater and peek at her new scar the moment she was left alone. The young witch frowned at the series of oxblood red lines which now crisscrossed her chest in a small, almost star like configuration; demarcating the place where her time turner had broken and embedded itself in her chest. Cuts from broken glass; it should have been a superficial wound, one that Madam Pomfrey would easily be able to heal. But she hadn't been able to heal it, and if the Hospital Matron was right, Hermione's chest would be marred with this small, chaotic looking star burst for the rest of her life. It seemed the time turner had left a lasting mark on her; physically as well as temporally.

Hermione was not a girl with many scars. Up until she had come to Hogwarts, she'd led a relatively sheltered life with her dentist parents in a quiet suburb. She was hardly the type of child to be mucking about outdoors too much, preferring to stay inside and read. And she'd never been one for sports. The opportunity for injury simply hadn't presented itself much in her childhood, the odd incidents that were inevitable when you were a budding witch notwithstanding.

Reaching down, Hermione ran her fingers curiously over the varied, intersecting lines of the vivid scar she now bore. The lines weren't raised, she found, and she could only see them, not feel them. Her skin was marked, but still smooth. The scar sat towards the top of the valley between her breasts, just where she had worn her time turner. Granted, this was not as highly visible a place as where Harry's scar was, but it would still be quite on display if she wore anything relatively low cut. Not to mention it would surely draw undue attention to her breasts, which had spent the last couple of years gradually expanding, necessitating many tedious bra shopping trips with her mother in order to accommodate their growth. At the recollection of these memories, Hermione blanched. Who was going to take her bra shopping now, trapped as she was in 1973? Certainly not her mother.

She was broken from these melancholy thoughts by the arrival of Professor Dumbledore, and the reappearance of Madam Pomfrey. Hermione raised her head to take in the Headmaster, noting that he looked much the same as the Dumbledore from her own time, although his beard was a little shorter, and his face a little less lined. His nose was as comfortingly crooked as ever though, and the spectacles which were perched atop it were not distinguishable in any noticeable way from the ones he had worn in the 1990's. In further confirmation that his fashion sense had not changed much at all in twenty years, he was wearing a pair of flamboyant fuchsia robes adorned with metallic shooting stars.

"Hello, my dear," Dumbledore greeted her, eyes warm, but assessing. "I am glad to say you appear a great deal better than you did when I last saw you. No doubt this is due to the fine efforts of Madam Pomfrey," he indicated the Hospital Matron with a sweep of his hand. "She has just informed me she has started you on a harrowing potions regiment, and while surely they are all most foul," he shot Hermione a roguish wink, "I trust they will only further aid in your recovery."

"Now," he continued, "Down to business. I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witch Craft and Wizardry, which I gather from Madam Pomfrey you already know, but I see that as no reason not to formally introduce myself."

He reached forward for Hermione's hand, and she took it tentatively, expecting a handshake. Instead, Dumbledore grasped her hand warmly with both of his, giving it a squeeze in an attempt to reassure the skittish witch.

"Now that you know my name," he said. "I hope that you would do me the great favor of divulging yours to me in turn, my child. For it seems you know something about me, while I know very little about you."

Hermione opened her mouth. "I -," she started, and then promptly cut herself off, shooting a worried look at Madam Pomfrey. "I would like to do that very much, Headmaster," she finished, returning her gaze to Dumbledore and looking at him intently.

"Ahh," Dumbledore said perceptively, giving her hand a squeeze once more. "Well then, if you are feeling well enough, my child, I would suggest that you accompany me up to my office so that we may speak in privacy. That is, if Madam Pomfrey will allow it."

"I'll allow it," the mediwitch said wryly. "But please try not to exhaust the child with your questioning, Albus, and keep her no longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore agreed quickly, waving away the Hospital Matron's concerns. "Then," he said, turning his twinkling eyes back on Hermione, "When you are ready, my dear, I shall accompany you to my office."

Taking a breath, Hermione cast aside the blanket which had been covering her. Scooting to the edge of the hospital bed, she slid from it gingerly, coming to stand on somewhat shaky legs. Once more, Dumbledore extended his hand to her, and she reached for it gratefully, feeling slightly unsteady on her feet after five days spent unconscious and confined to a bed.

"This is where we leave you, Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said, smiling at the Hospital Matron while gently guiding Hermione in the direction of the Hospital Wing doors.

"Just as long as you return her in one piece, Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey instructed, arching an eyebrow at Dumbledore in warning.

"You have my word, Poppy," the Headmaster assured her, bowing his head solemnly. Then, still gripping Hermione's hand, he proceeded to whisk the young witch from the Hospital Wing and out into the corridor, leading her onward to his office.

As they traversed the halls of the castle, making their way to the third floor in companionable silence, Hermione marveled at how unchanged everything seemed from her own time. The same portraits she recognized from the 1990's peered curiously down on the pair from their perches, whispering amongst themselves as Hermione and Dumbledore passed by. All the doors and staircases were right where she expected them to be, and even the suits of armor seemed to be in the same places she remembered. It felt like the same Hogwarts she had occupied in her own time; the unique and unmistakable aura which the castle had always seemed to her to possess was very much present. The only thing missing was her fellow students, and Hermione couldn't deny that Hogwarts felt oddly hollow without them; less potently magical somehow, although of course centuries of magic were imbued into the castle's very walls. She didn't have long to dwell on such things though, because before she knew it, they had come to a stop in front of an extremely ugly stone gargoyle. Just as in her own time, the unfortunate looking statue guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office, demanding a password as the price of admittance.

"Ginger newt," Dumbledore supplied cheerfully, and the statue obliging moved aside, revealing a stone staircase hidden behind the wall.

Dumbledore drew Hermione onto the bottom most stair, and to her shock, the stairs began to move on their own, propelling her and Dumbledore upwards automatically. The ascending spiral staircase behaved almost like a muggle escalator, eliminating any worry Hermione had had about climbing such a steep set of her stairs on her still weak legs. Eventually, the stairs brought them to a stop in front of a large, wooden door. Dumbledore reached for the handle, opening the entrance to his office and ushering Hermione in ahead of him.

Hermione had never actually been in Dumbledore's office in her own time. That was not such an unusual thing, as it was quite rare for current Hogwarts students to be admitted. Unless, of course, they were Harry, with his propensity for saving the school and narrowly escaping death every year. She had no idea what the office had (or rather, would) look like in the 1990's, but in its current 1970's iteration it was quite fascinating. Various mysterious, magical instruments were scattered about the room, including some that were emitting smoke. Hermione caught sight of the sorting hat on one of the shelves which ringed the circular office tower, nestled in next to a stone dish which looked as though it was filled with an opaque fog. She couldn't help but feel that the hat, venerable magical object though it was, looked a bit innocuous amongst the array of impressive and excessively shiny treasures which filled Dumbledore's office.

The available wall space in the room was almost completely taken up by portraits of previous headmasters, most of whom appeared to be sleeping at the moment, although Hermione noticed one black haired witch sipping a glass of red wine. Unquestionably, what dominated the space of the office was Dumbledore's massive claw foot desk, behind which there was an equally massive bookshelf stuffed to the brim with tomes both ancient looking and modern. Hermione would have absolutely loved to have been able to dive into it, though it appeared that many of the books it shelved were in other languages, or contained runes that were beyond her current capabilities. She'd barely even had a chance to begin her study of ancient runes, after all. It had scarcely been three weeks into her third year term when she had vanished from the 1990's. Although the bookshelf was undoubtedly impressive, the most stunning thing in the room would have to have been the brilliantly beautiful bird which sat perched on a stand atop Dumbledore's desk. The creature was truly magnificent; his yellow, red and orange feathers gleaming with unparalleled sheen and blending seamlessly into a gorgeous, fiery plume.

"You must be Fawkes," Hermione whispered, staring in awe at the phoenix.

"You know, Fawkes?" Dumbledore inquired, seeming surprised but delighted by this revelation.

"I've never met him, Sir, but I've heard about him. He's beautiful."

"Yes, I rather think so," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, and Fawkes seemed to puff out his chest slightly in pride. "At least at the moment. Fortunately, you've caught him at the peak of his cycle; he looks a great sight worse on a burning day, but such is the order of things."

"Yes, Sir, I suppose," Hermione said softly.

Over the course of their conversation about Fawkes, Dumbledore had made his way behind his desk to take a seat in the high backed, but cozy looking chair which awaited him there, gesturing for Hermione to do the same in the considerably less ostentatious one which sat in front of his desk. The young witch did so, self-consciously straightening her skirt, and biting her lip nervously.

Professor Dumbledore leveled her with a serious look. "I gather, my dear, that you have a great deal you wish to tell me; I would encourage you to start with your name."

Hermione took a deep breath. "My name is Hermione Granger, Sir."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "I don't mean to be uncouth, but I will get straight to the point. Are you able to shed any light on how you received such grievous injuries, or how you came to be with us here at Hogwarts?"

Hermione drew a hand to her chest, pressing it tightly against the place where, hidden beneath her sweater, she now bore an unusual, star shaped scar.

"I fear you may find my tale quite unbelievable, Sir," Hermione whispered, still studying the pleats in her skirt.

"I assure you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said seriously, "that I will listen to what you say with the utmost earnestness and sincerity."

Hermione looked up, meeting the Headmaster's eyes for the first time since entering his office. She took a deep breath.

"My name is Hermione Granger, Sir, and I am, I was," she corrected hastily, "in the beginning of my third year term at Hogwarts. I had signed on to take an unusual amount of classes, and Professor McGonagall entrusted me with a time turner so that I would be able to accommodate my schedule," Professor Dumbledore said nothing, but his bushy, white eyebrows had risen so high that they had vanished beneath the brim of his pointed hat.

"I'd been successfully using it in order to get to my classes for a few weeks," Hermione continued, "when I believe that I," she hesitated, her voice stuttering. "I believe that I fell off one of the staircases. That's the last thing I remember Sir," the displaced witch explained, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice beginning to choke.

"When I woke up, I was outside, and I realized that my time turner was broken. I wasn't sure how far back in time I had possibly traveled. Time turners are only supposed to be able to transport you back a few hours at most, but I didn't know where I was, or how I had gotten outside. When I was able to get to Hagrid's, and he told me that I was in 1973, I think that I-I passed out from the shock of it all. The next time I awoke I was in the hospital wing, and it was still 1973. It is still 1973," she finished despondently.

Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments following the conclusion of Hermione's tale, appearing to need time some to process the girl's words.

"I hope you do not consider this a terribly rude question, Miss Granger," he said finally, "but may I inquire as to your blood status?"

"I'm muggleborn, Sir," Hermione blurted out, perplexed that that this seemingly random question was Dumbledore's first reaction to her story.

"Well, I daresay that makes things considerably less complicated, my dear," the Headmaster pronounced, bestowing a rueful smile on the young witch.

"Er, excuse me, Sir, but how is that, exactly?" Hermione asked, feeling exceedingly puzzled as to how anything regarding her situation could possibly be perceived as less than complicated.

"No messy family history to go along with your name," Dumbledore explained pragmatically. "If you had, for instance, been from an old pure blood family, I do feel that it may have been necessary, however unfortunately so, to falsify your name and blood status while you remained here in this time. The fact that you are a muggle born, my child, infers upon you a certain degree of beneficial anonymity."

"I suppose it does," Hermione said slowly, for she had hardly had time to give thought to such things. Dumbledore, it seemed, was already leagues ahead of her. "You believe me then, Professor?"

"Oh yes, child," Dumbledore said, peering seriously at her from under his glinting, half-moon spectacles. "I have no reason not to. Your explanation explains both your unexpected presence here, and that unusual scar on your chest," he nodded in the direction of her sweater. "Further, you display familiarity with both myself and Madam Pomfrey, as well as the layout of the castle; all of which would be in line with the knowledge of a Hogwarts student, and yet we do not recognize you. It seems that despite the fact that you are unknown to us, we are known to you. Your explanation serves to explain all of these unusual circumstances most satisfactorily, and I can think of no reason why you would relate to me such a woeful and outlandish tale other than the fact that it must be true. What we must determine now, is where we go from here."

"I'd like to home, Sir," Hermione said plaintively. She was gratified that Dumbledore had accepted her admittedly unbelievable story so readily, but his belief hardly did much to alleviate the harsh reality of her current situation.

"I am sure that you would, my dear child," the Headmaster said soberly. "Unfortunately, I fear that that will not possible, at least not immediately, and mayhap not at all." He shook his head sadly. "Infinite though my wisdom is rumored to be, this situation is entirely novel to me. Time turners, until now, and seemingly in the future as well, if your own understanding is correct, have been thought to be capable only of transporting their users a few hours backward in time. Your presence here upsets that proposition, proving that, clearly, there are certain circumstances under which a time turner can transport a user much further back in time. How you came to embody or activate such unique circumstances I cannot fathom at this moment, though I shall try my best to figure it out. In the meantime, Miss Granger, I think it is imperative that we develop a credible backstory for you to have at your disposal for however long you remain here in this time."

"That does seem wise," Hermione agreed haltingly, feeling somewhat shell-shocked in the aftermath of the Headmaster's monologue. "What would you suggest, Sir?"

"I do not know your personal familial history, Miss Granger," Dumbledore began slowly, "other than the fact that you are muggleborn, which you have so graciously chosen to share with me. I will not ask you to divulge more to me at this time, understanding that it may be painful for you, and wishing to respect your privacy as much as I can. I will say that in this matter I believe the wisest course of action is to adhere as closely as possible to the reality of your personal history as we can without reveling your true origins. I would suggest that, whenever possible, you do not alter the details and major events of your childhood; for instance, your home town. Optimally, you will retain the personal substance of your history, while leaving out the cultural context surrounding it."

Hermione nodded, absorbing the Headmaster's instruction on tenterhooks, and trying desperately not to become overwhelmed. She found that it helped to try and frame all of this in terms of an academic problem; a challenging and yet fascinating quandary, one that she could pretend she was distant from. Unfortunately, whatever illusion of academic distance she had managed to tentatively erect was about to be shaken considerably by the Headmaster's next words.

"There is one alteration which I am afraid remains unavoidable though," he intoned soberly. "I am so sorry, my child, but we will have to maintain that the entirety of your family is dead."

Although she had known in the back of her mind that such a directive was coming; that such a directive was inevitable, Hermione found herself recoiling from Dumbledore at the pain his blunt statement brought to the surface. She nodded tearfully, unable to respond verbally at the moment, but eager to move on. Hermione forced herself to shove back her emotions, determined that she would process her pain later, in private, not here in front of the Headmaster, sitting in an uncomfortable, stiff backed chair.

"What about my magical schooling?" she inquired softly, her eyes still slightly tearful despite her best efforts. "I completed two years at Hogwarts, but obviously there is no record or memory of that in this time," she pointed out practically.

"Indeed," Dumbledore observed with a slight smile, seemingly impressed that the young witch had spotted the potential problem. "I think it is best that we say you completed the beginning of your magical education at a small, alternative institution. There are a number of them around the United Kingdom, none as prestigious as Hogwarts, but enrollment can be justified by the reasoning that your parents wanted to keep you closer to home. Records at such places are easy enough to falsify, should anyone choose to delve into your story. We will simply select the school closest to where you grew up, and doctor the records accordingly. The reason for your transfer to Hogwarts can naturally be explained by the death of your family," he finished, letting the heavy silence which followed his statements linger in the room briefly, out of deference to Hermione's understandable emotion.

"My transfer to Hogwarts, Sir?" Hermione asked eventually, once she had fully processed all of the Headmaster's words. "You would have me stay here?" she asked, startled. "At Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled familiarly from within a face that was just not quite as aged as she was used to.

"Naturally, my dear child," he said. "Where else? After all, we mustn't allow your education to stall or suffer simply because you have been hurled through time."

"Of course, Sir," Hermione agreed faintly, distantly horrified at the prospect of being forced to suspend her studies. She'd scarcely yet given thought to where she would stay in this time, much less how she would continue her magical education. She certainly hadn't expected that Dumbledore would allow her to remain at Hogwarts, having disregarded such an option right away as being far too dangerous.

"I'll be seen!" Hermione protested. With everything she had been told about time travel by Professor McGonagall, she knew that it was absolutely paramount that she not be seen by anyone in the past who might know her in the future. She could irrevocably damage the course of history, and that was no small thing.

Dumbledore's gaze was level. "My dear, you have already been seen. By me, by Madam Pomfrey, and by my very concerned Gamekeeper. All of whom, if I am not mistaken in your reactions, which I suspect that I am not, you are familiar with from your own time."

Hermione nodded. "So it's too late," she whispered, feeling a sense of despair beginning to overcome her.

"Don't lose hope just yet, child." Dumbledore counseled. "Time is a very mysterious force, and wizards, witches and muggles alike have been trying to make sense of it for millennia without very much headway at all. We should not be so arrogant as to assume that we know even a fraction of its secrets."

"Will I ever be able to get back, Sir?" Hermione asked, looking up at the Headmaster, her eyes shining with fear and a renewed batch of unshed tears. She found that her continued determination to push back her emotions was beginning to erode, despite her best efforts. The situation was simply too overwhelming for the thirteen year old witch.

"I do not know, my dear, if you will ever be able to return to your own time," Dumbledore said gravely. "I can assure you that I will do my best to investigate this occurrence and resolve it to the best of my ability if I am able. But that is all I can promise. In the meantime, as I said, you must stay here at Hogwarts," he repeated this assertion once more, as though it was the only feasible option.

Hermione nodded, gulping back her tears, which Dumbledore pointedly did not comment on, suddenly very interested in selecting a lemon drop for himself.

"Now," he said, unsticking two of the muggle candies and popping one of them into his mouth, proffering the other to Hermione, who shook her head in refusal of the sweet.

"I see from your attire that you are a member of Gryffindor House," Dumbledore observed, blue eyes glinting off Hermione's red and gold striped tie, and lingering briefly on the Gryffindor House Crest that adorned her sweater. "May I assume that you would like to rejoin Gryffindor for the duration of your stay here at Hogwarts in this time? Of course, if you would prefer, you can be re-sorted."

Hermione had opened her mouth to vehemently assert that of course she wished to remain in Gryffindor House, when she stopped suddenly. Did she want to be a Gryffindor in this time?

Rather than Harry, Ron and the rest of her comfortingly familiar housemates, the Gryffindor of 1973 would be populated with ghosts. Painful ones. Could she handle the young versions of Harry's parents being in constant proximity, knowing they'd be dead in just ten years' time? How would she face them? How would she face Harry if she ever got back to him? And Sirius Black had been a Gryffindor as well, Hermione recalled with horror, contrary to Ron's misguided notion that all bad wizards came out of Slytherin. How would she cope with being around him of all people? Then there was Peter Pettigrew, who Black would later murder in such a ghastly manner, along with twelve muggles. Gryffindors in this time, all of them.

Hermione swallowed. Would she even be able to exist among them all without suffering a mental breakdown of some sort? Would she be running off to Madam Pomfrey for a calming draught every day? Maybe she'd be better off among an anonymous set of Ravenclaws, Hermione mused. But even the thought sat wrong with the young witch. She was a Gryffindor, and the house had always been her home at Hogwarts. She was going to be so alone here, and, perhaps selfishly, she wasn't sure if she wanted to give up the comfort and familiarity of Gryffindor tower, even if it meant dealing with the painful realities that dwelled within its walls right now.

Truthfully she couldn't imagine being anything else, even a Ravenclaw, a house which she had great respect for, and which Ron often joked she should have been in anyway. But she wasn't a Ravenclaw, Hermione thought stubbornly, she just wasn't. The witch was a Gryffindor through and through. She may have had a penchant for obsessive studying (Harry and Ron's words), but that didn't make her any less of a lion. And perhaps it was her Gryffindor nature which gave Hermione the bravery to make the choice to remain in her original house. To face the ghosts that awaited her there in this time head on, rather than fruitlessly attempting to hide away from them.

"I don't need to be re-sorted," Hermione said decisively, with a surprising amount of ferocity for a thirteen year old witch. "I'm a Gryffindor."

Dumbledore smiled at her declaration, having seen the turmoil on the young girls face as she considered the question of her house. Given that she had chosen to make a difficult decision head on, rather than cast off the responsibility of it on either himself or the Sorting Hat, the wizened wizard felt that she had made the right choice for herself. Gryffindor House was definitely the place for Hermione Granger, in 1993 and in 1973 as well.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Gryffindor it will be. This allows us to avoid the messy spectacle of a public re-sorting anyway, most convenient." Hermione's nose twitched, horrified at the prospect such a thing. As she contemplated the thought of a public re-sorting with mortification, Dumbledore continued to talk logistics. "You may tell your housemates that you were sorted privately for just such reasons of convenience when you join them at the Welcoming Feast next week.

No doubt they will be curious about your unexpected presence, and you may tell them however much, or little, of your back story as you wish. What you would divulge in regards to that matter is at your discretion. But Miss Granger," the Headmaster turned suddenly serious blue eyes on her. "It is very prudent you stick to the backstory, and not reveal any information about your real past. Or future, as it were," He paused to chuckle, indulging in a brief moment of levity. "Time truly is a funny thing, isn't it?"

Hermione stared, and perhaps sensing that the girl did not think this was the moment for levity, Dumbledore reverted to a more serious tone before continuing "As I've said, you must stick to your back story. Any details regarding where you have truly come from could potentially be very dangerous if you were to reveal them. Understand that Miss Granger, for it is very important. You must never reveal the truth about your origins. That is paramount."

"I understand, Sir," Hermione said solemnly. Professor McGonagall had given her similar warnings at the start of her third year term, though in far less dire circumstances. Indeed, using a time turner to travel a few hours back and forth to extra classes seemed an almost benign endeavor now. She would have to figure out a new class schedule before her new 1973 term, Hermione realized distantly. The fact that she only had a week in which to do so was somewhat alarming to the young witch. Hermione was the opposite of a procrastinator, and usually had such matters settled well in advance of when they needed to be. A week was hardly any time, she thought, panic beginning to overtake her. Third year was critical at Hogwarts! The classes she took this year would determine her academic path for the rest of her school career!

She supposed she would have to drop some of the classes she had chosen in 1993; that was inevitable. Her prodigiously stacked schedule would be impossible to adhere to without the aid of a time turner, and that was surely out of the question now. Divination would be easy to let go of at least. Even her minimal experience of it from her own time told it was a class she surely wouldn't miss, and she had planned on dropping it in her own time anyway. Ironically, she might be perceived as having quite the talent for it now, should she chose to take it up. But of course she wasn't going to. The discipline was almost entirely nonsense as far as she could tell, and Hermione had no intention of making a dangerous spectacle of herself in this time by pretending to be some kind of seer. Muggle studies actually was quite fascinating whatever Harry and Ron thought, but she supposed it was something of a soft option for her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, breaking a wild eyed Hermione from her academic musings. "Now that we have determined your house placement, and therefore where you will be staying whilst at Hogwarts during the school year, perhaps we should discuss where you will be staying when school is not in session," he suggested kindly.

Hermione started. So suddenly consumed had she been with thoughts of her class schedule, that for a moment she had quite forgotten the presence of the venerable Headmaster. Foolishly, she had assumed she would simply be staying in Gryffindor Tower, but of course that was out of the question. She knew from 'Hogwarts, A History' that the castle didn't have summer residents. It wouldn't do to have Dumbledore draw unnecessary attention to her presence by making an exception and having her stay at the castle during the holiday. Besides, she imagined it might be quite lonely. Even with the ghosts about. But then where would she stay? For however long her sojourn in the past lasted?

"What did you have in mind, Sir?" Hermione asked quietly, bleak visions of becoming some kind of ward of the state dancing through her head. After all, she was effectively an orphan now.

"I think I have determined a wonderful and most convenient solution" Dumbledore pronounced, the sudden twinkle in his light blue eyes providing a stark contrast to the sadness in Hermione's own downcast brown ones. "Should you be amenable to it, Miss Granger."

He paused here deliberately, as though to let the suspense of his announcement build. Hermione simply waited.

"You will stay with Hagrid!" Dumbledore declared finally.

Hermione looked up at him, eyes wide with shock. "Hagrid?" she asked, with frank astonishment.

"Yes," Dumbledore said decisively. "There is no one with whom you would be safer, I am sure. I would trust Hagrid with my life, and I would entrust him with yours as well, my dear child, should you and he agree to the arrangement. The fact that he is so close to Hogwarts would only serve to further ensure your protection."

Hermione was speechless. Stay with Hagrid? She adored Hagrid, but she wasn't sure if he was the best candidate for living with and potentially raising a teenage girl. However, she also knew that, in her own time, Hagrid would have protected her, Harry or Ron with his own life without a thought. Indeed, Hermione suspected he would do so for anyone at Hogwarts. As Gamekeeper he seemed to feel he had a unique responsibility to protect the students and staff of the school, particularly the students. He was an exceedingly caring man. Not to mention, she knew that Hagrid would do anything for Dumbledore, to whom he was extremely loyal. There was no doubt he would say yes to taking Hermione in, given that it was a request of the Headmaster's.

"Stay with Hagrid," she said faintly to herself, continuing to mull it over. She supposed it was something of an ideal solution. Hagrid was someone she knew and trusted from her own time; someone she was comfortable with. Hopefully they would be able to develop a similarly close relationship in this time. And, as Dumbledore pointed out, the fact that Hagrid lived on the grounds of Hogwarts was exceedingly convenient. The living arrangement might get a bit awkward at times, but that was true living with anyone. Surely they could make it work. Except-

"Hagrid's cottage is quite small, Sir." Hermione pointed out practically. "I'm not sure if there's room for me."

Dumbledore smiled benignly at her. "Naturally, we can expand his cottage in order to give you your own space. I'm sure that with a little magical remodeling we can ensure ample room and privacy for the both of you," he said, solution at the ready.

"What will I eat?" Hermione blurted suddenly, thinking grimly of the offerings Hagrid usually provided her, Harry and Ron when they visited him for tea. She simply couldn't live on hard, inedible rock cakes and stoat sandwiches.

Dumbledore, it seemed, was familiar with Hagrid's cooking as well because he coughed indelicately into the sleeve of his robe in a manner that Hermione suspected was designed to hide a chortle.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said when he had finally emerged from his sleeve. "I think we can arrange something with the Hogwarts kitchens. We shall keep you well fed and watered my dear, don't you worry."

Hermione nodded, her concerns, at least in regards to food, assuaged for the moment.

"We are decided then," Dumbledore pronounced excitedly. "I will relay the bare bones of your cover story to Hagrid, leaving you to fill in the rest later as you see fit, and I am sure he will be delighted to take up your guardianship and to house you when you are not at school. He has been very concerned over you, my dear child."

Hermione lowered her eyes. Hagrid would be taking up her guardianship. And she was in need of guardianship because in this time, she had no parents. Or rather, her parents existed in this time, but they weren't hers. She was, for the time being at least, an orphan. The cover story Dumbledore had come up with for her about her dead family wasn't so far from the truth. After all, her family had been taken from her. Taken by time, rather than death, but at that moment the loss felt just as permanent to Hermione. She was all alone. Once again, she felt tears come to her eyes. It was quite possible she would never see her parents again.

Dumbledore was quiet, letting Hermione experience her grief. The child was entitled after all. Indeed, her manner was remarkably composed given her circumstances, despite her obvious upset. When she seemed to have collected herself, he addressed her once more.

"Perhaps you would like to return to the Hospital Wing while I get things settled with Hagrid," the Headmaster suggested gently. "That is, if you are willing to endure Poppy's fussing in the interim." His eyes sparkled in mild amusement. "You may even be able to get some much needed rest, if you are lucky."

"That sounds alright, Sir," Hermione said softy. She was profoundly exhausted, and she found herself thinking longingly the beds which populated the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, sterile and vaguely uncomfortable though they were. "I'd like to rest."

Dumbledore escorted an understandably dazed Hermione back to the Hospital Wing, leaving the girl in the very capable hands of Madam Pomfrey once more. Despite the tumult of anxious thoughts rushing around inside her mind, Hermione found herself falling into a restless sleep almost the second her head hit the stiff, white pillow of the hospital bed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Discombobulation

Diagon Alley-August 27th, 1973

The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley less than a week before the beginning of a new Hogwarts term was as frenetic as ever. Some things, Hermione thought with a smile, were timeless. Witches and wizards swarmed around shop windows and entrances, shoving and elbowing each other out of the way without regard as they clamored for better access to goods. Vendors shouted to be heard over one another as children gleefully ran about underfoot, working to evade their parents; animals adding their shrieks and cries to the cacophony of noise which filled the alley. Hermione was finding that despite the overwhelming swell of the crowd Hagrid managed to cut a path quite easily, his bulk handily dispersing the crush of people and leaving a clear path for her to tread in his wake. She hurried along behind him as he led the way toward Twilfitt and Tattings, struggling slightly to keep up with the large man's stride.

When they finally managed to reach the clothing store, Hagrid lingered at the window, peering bemusedly at clothing on display.

"I'll, er, leave you to it, shall I, Hermione?" he suggested, shuffling his feet. "Fashion isn't really my thing, if yeh get my meaning." He gestured illustratively towards his large moleskin overcoat, which, if Hermione was correct, was the same one he would still be wearing in twenty years' time. Its condition, as she remembered it, would be even more battered than the state it was in now. "Probably best left to the likes of you," Hagrid was saying. "I'd wager you'll know better what to get for yerself than I ever could."

Hermione nodded absently. She hardly felt qualified to be unleashed into the likes of Twilfitt and Tattings by herself, but she supposed Hagrid was right. If she was going to be forced to endure bra shopping in 1973, she hardly needed Hagrid looming over her the whole time acting as an awkward chaperone.

"Besides which, I got a couple of things ter pick up anyway. I'll come back and meet yeh in about an hour, alright lass?"

"Alright, Hagrid, thanks," Hermione replied, giving the Gamekeeper a grateful smile and a little wave. She watched her new guardian amble away down the street, his overcoat weighed down with a multitude of packages containing everything from potions ingredients and scales, to a set of third year books which was slightly altered from that which Hermione had purchased only a couple of weeks ago (to her mind) in the 1990's. It may not have been fashionable, but the upside of Hagrid's coat was that he could easily carry the entirety of her new set of school supplies, leaving her unburdened to shop for clothes. As unenthused as Hermione may have been about the prospect, it had to be done. For the last week she'd been alternating between wearing her mended 1990's era school uniform, and a series of questionable articles of clothing appropriated from the Hogwart's lost and found.

Steeling herself, she turned once more to Twilfitt and Tattings, pushing open the door to the upscale clothing shop. Her action triggered the cheerful tinkling of a small bell, announcing her presence to the sales staff. Hermione grimaced as she found herself suddenly pinned under the stares of a flock of young, posh looking, sales witches, all of whom appeared desperate to obtain a commission from her. Hermione really would have preferred to do all her clothes shopping at Madam Malkin's, but although they had 'robes for all occasions', they didn't have much in the way of anything else and, unfortunately, Hermione needed more than just robes. In point of fact, she needed a whole new wardrobe, as hers had been so inconveniently left behind in 1993 along with everything else. So Twilfitt and Tattings it was.

Forty-five minutes after entering the establishment, and Hermione was laden down with multiple shopping bags stuffed to brim with robes, sweaters, slacks and underthings. She found that wizarding fashions were not all that different from those that she was familiar with from the 1990's. It seemed that in contrast to muggle fashion, wizarding styles didn't evolve at a very rapid pace, which was absolutely fine with Hermione. The apparent steadfastness of wizarding fashion suited her purposes very well. She already felt out of place here, she certainly didn't want to feel as if she was wearing a costume all of the time as well. All the pieces she had purchased were very basic, or classic, as her mother may have said. Hermione was just glad that she would have clothes of her own again. Though she wasn't one to be overly invested in clothing or her own appearance, she had to admit that it would be nice to be able to wear something other than her school uniform again. Hermione had never been put in a position to realize it before, but it was quite terrible not to have access to underwear of one's own.

Her new 1970's wardrobe, along with her school supplies, had been purchased using the stipend which Dumbledore had set up to provide for her care and living expenses. She would receive a yearly allowance, and the amount was more than generous. Hermione couldn't' help but feel somewhat uncomfortable accepting the money, even if it was necessary and largely for the purpose of furthering her education. In her past life, her parents had always been able to provide Hermione with everything she might need, though they had never conceded to letting her get braces, much to her consternation. The fact that she was now dependent on a stipend from Dumbledore to survive served as a harsh reminder that, for all intents and purposes, she was entirely without family in the 1970's. She did have Hagrid though, and they had spent the past few days getting used to each other's presence as Dumbledore finalized the updates to the man's cottage necessary for Hermione to move in. Of course, until today, Hermione had possessed precious little to move in with, which is why she and Hagrid now found themselves in Diagon Alley on the most exhausting, extensive shopping trip of Hermione's young life.

It seemed the only thing she hadn't needed was a new wand, having somehow fortunately retained her own original one over the course of her trip through time. 1973 was already proving to be enough of an adjustment all on its own, and Hermione didn't know if she could handle a temperamental new wand on top of everything else. She curled her fingers around her the familiar vine wood of her precious magical instrument, the tool fitting comfortably in her slight hand. Idly, she wondered if there was a duplicate of her wand sitting in Olivander's shop right at this very moment, as of yet unsold. Maybe now, it never would be. She squeezed her wand tighter, as if to assure herself that it was real, that it was there, and that it was hers. Potions kits and ingredients could easily be replaced, but a person shared a real bond with their wand, and Hermione was exceedingly glad that she hadn't lost hers.

Hobbling awkwardly under the bulk of her many shopping bags, Hermione made her way to a nearby bench just outside Twilfitt and Tattings, plopping down and relinquishing her bags with relief as she settled in to wait for Hagrid. Only five minutes later, she spotted the Gamekeeper off in the distance but heading in her direction. The man wasn't exactly inconspicuous, large as he was, and carrying such a vast amount of packages. On top of everything else, it now looked to Hermione as if Hagrid was attempting to conceal something quite large beneath his overcoat, though this was made difficult by the fact that whatever it was kept moving. As he approached more closely, his mysterious new package continued to make itself known via extensive wriggling, drawing quite the amount of stares as Hagrid did his best to contain it. Hermione frowned speculatively, eyeing Hagrid's moving overcoat with apprehensive skepticism. She just hoped that whatever Hagrid was concealing, it wasn't some kind of frightening new type of spider he had happened upon and would try to convince everyone would make a delightful pet. While she hardly had as much of a problem with the many legged creatures as Ron, she certainly didn't want to live with one.

Hagrid came to a stop before Hermione's bench, smiling hugely at her despite the fact that he was still preoccupied with wrangling whatever lay beneath his coat. It seemed to be admitting high pitched shrieks now, which hopefully eliminated the possibility of it being any type of arachnid.

"Er, Hagird," Hermione ventured tentatively. "What's that you've got beneath your coat?"

"Well lass, I got yeh a bit of a surprise," Hagrid revealed. "Sort of a housewarming gift, ter be honest with yeh. I hope yeh like it!"

And with that, he threw aside his coat to reveal a cage containing a very haughty looking, sleek, black bird. The fact that the bird appeared profoundly irritated, ruffling its feathers and craning its neck proudly, only further added to its distinct air of nobility.

"Hagrid, is that a hawk?" Hermione asked in astonishment, staring at the creature in awe.

"Well spotted, Hermione!" Hagrid beamed at her, the future Care of Magical Creature's professor seemingly delighted at her ability to correctly identify the bird. "I almost got yeh an owl," he confessed, "but then I spotted this beauty in the corner o' the shop, lookin' down on everyone real proud like and such. Thought she might be a bit more exciting than an owl! She can still deliver letters an' all, just gotta be a bit more careful in yer handlin' o' her."

Hagrid paused to readjust the hawk's cage, eying Hermione worriedly as he did so. "Do yeh like her, lass?"

Hermione's eyes were brimming over with tears. She was unbelievably touched by Hagrid's gesture. Overcome with emotion, she launched herself into the Gamekeeper's side, hugging him fiercely.

"I love her, Hagrid," Hermione said, her voice choked with emotion and somewhat muffled due to her face being buried in Hagrid's side, but the giant of a man heard and understood her nevertheless. "It means so much. Thank you."

When Hermione finally withdrew from Hagrid's side, her eyes considerably less dry than they had been a few minutes previously. Herr new guardian was smiling gently at her, his eyes soft.

"I'm glad yeh like her, Hermione," he said earnestly. "What'll yeh name her?"

Hermione eyed the bird, who was still engaged in ruffling her feathers haughtily and periodically letting out indignant shrieks. Hermione cocked her head contemplatively. "I think I'll get to know her a little bit first before I settle on a name," she decided eventually, smiling at Hagrid.

He tipped his head at her. "Not a bad idea, lass."

"Now," Hagrid gestured at the virtual mountain of shopping bags which Hermione had left forgotten on her abandoned bench. "I think we've done quite enough shopping for one day, don't you, best to be getting' on home, I should think."

Hermione nodded, gathering up the last of her bags while Hagrid busied himself with the hawk, cooing at the animal lovingly as he hitched her cage higher up on his hip. It did, at least, seem easier to manage now that he wasn't trying to hide it beneath his overcoat. Then, everything settled and accounted for, Hermione placed her small hand in Hagrid's much larger one, and together, they headed towards home.

Several days later, after a considerable degree of observation and consideration, Hermione had decided on a name for her new familiar; Lady Macbeth, or Lady, for short. If drawing on Shakespearean works of literature for inspiration when choosing a name had been good enough for her parents, it was certainly good enough for Hermione. Besides which, the name really did seem fitting. Lady, as Hermione had discovered over the course of the last few days, had quite the dark, haughty aura about her, and she was undeniably proud. Slowly but surely though, Hermione felt that they were developing a good relationship based on mutual respect. And Lady certainly did demand respect. Hermione couldn't help but like that about her. She'd always been drawn to highly intelligent animals with complex personalities. She missed Crookshanks something awful, of course, but perhaps, in time, they would be reunited. And already, she was falling in love with Lady, too. Hermione was terribly touched that Hagrid had gotten her such a thoughtful gift. He really was a sweetheart of a man, and he was doing his best to make her feel welcome here, despite the difficulty of her situation and the suddenness with which she had been thrust upon him and entrusted into his care.

"How'd yeh decide on that?" Hagrid asked curiously when Hermione informed of the name she had selected for her new familiar.

"It's after a character from a muggle play," Hermione explained, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "She's quite diabolical; a murderess actually. Or, at least, responsible for orchestrating one."

"Your bird has a lot to live up to then, doesn't she lass?" Hagrid said, raising eyebrows at her from across the breakfast table and smiling into his teacup.

"I suppose so," Hermione laughed, reaching for her toast and spreading some peach preserves on it before taking a nibble. If she was honest though, she didn't actually have much of an appetite. It was the morning of August 31st, and she and Hagrid were sharing a companionable breakfast in preparation for what was sure to be a busy day. As unbelievable as it seemed to Hermione, the 1973 Hogwarts term was set to begin the next evening, and Hagrid, as Hogwarts Gamekeeper, had much to prepare for before the legions of students arrived. Just the same as in the 1990's, when Hermione had made the journey herself as an unsure eleven year old filled with false bravado, Hagrid was charged with guiding the first years across the Black Lake, ushering them toward their first sight of Hogwarts. It was a duty Hermione could see that Hagrid delighted in, able to witness the young student's reactions as they finally caught sight of the castle for the first time and were inevitably awed by its majesty.

In the lead up to the arrival of the students though, there was much to be done. Hogwarts was a positive flurry of activity at the moment. There was a veritable mass of things needing to be finalized, and a seemingly endless amount of little adjustments to be made around the castle and across the grounds, all of which fell under the purview of Hagrid's gamekeeping duties. Hermione, for her part, wasn't without obligations of her own. For one thing, she had to pack, as ridiculous as that seemed given that she would only be relocating just the short distance from Hagrid's cottage up to the castle. The Hogwarts grounds were vast, but her trip this year would hardly necessitate taking an hour's long train ride across the country, and it certainly wouldn't occupy the majority of her day, as the journey from platform 9 and ¾'s to Hogwarts usually did.

With a start, Hermione realized that now that she lived with Hagrid, so close to the school, she would perhaps never have need to take the Hogwarts Express again. The thought saddened her, and she forcefully shoved it out of her mind before she could become too preoccupied with melancholy. She had quite enough to fret over already without adding any new additional concerns. Tomorrow she would be making her way once more to Hogwarts, as she had done only a few weeks previously. Or at least, that's what it felt like to Hermione. In reality, the trips would be decades apart, but to the displaced witch they were separated only by a short and very strange interlude.

Later, sitting in her newly appointed bedroom surrounded by an array of possessions that didn't quite feel like hers yet, in a space that didn't quite feel like hers yet either, and Hermione was struggling not to become overwhelmed with anxiety. She lay curled up on the bed, another thing that didn't yet feel like hers, hugging her knees to her chest and staring blankly at her brand new school trunk. Brand new and newly packed. It seemed quite silly now to have bought all new things, and to have spent time setting them up in her new room, only to pack them all away again just a few days later. But Hermione supposed she was going through the motions of it all. She didn't quite know what else to do, discombobulated as she was. At times she almost felt as if she was adjusting, beginning to feel at least somewhat normal again, but these were mere moments; brief flashes of time where for a millisecond she forgot where -when- she was, and that her existence was now very far from normal. Perhaps, Hermione thought darkly, flashes of normality were all she would have now. Perhaps she would never truly feel normal again; never at peace, never at home. Just there, stuck in the wrong time. An anachronism in human form.

Hermione sighed heavily, curling her body more tightly into itself. She was allowing herself to get despondent again, and while she knew rationally that such feelings weren't productive, she just couldn't seem to help her emotions. The hectic activity which had filled the last few days, including moving into Hagrid's cottage, and her excursion with him to Diagon Alley, had managed to distract her for a while from the bleak reality of her situation. But such distractions were only temporary, and now, here alone in her new room, Hermione could focus on nothing but how hopelessly adrift she felt in the 1970's. For the first time in her life, she was dreading the start of school the next day, when it was something she had always reveled in previously. Even in 1993, when the beginning of the school term had been marred by her worry over Sirius Black, she had still been excited to get back to Hogwarts. Now, repeating the process under vastly different circumstances, all Hermione felt was an increasingly all-consuming sense of dread.

This dread was spurred in now small amount by the fact that she would be sharing classes and a common room with a young Sirius Black, a man whom she knew would later become Death Eater and mass murderer. It seemed his presence was a dark shadow hanging over both 1993 and 1973, despite the decades between the years. Hermione knew there would be other future Death Eaters residing in the castle as well, lurking ominously in the wings of the Hogwarts of this time. Lucius Malfoy, to name one of the particularly dangerous. She would have to be exceedingly careful here. Dumbledore was right, if anyone were to find out her true origins, it would be utterly catastrophic. If Hermione had thought hiding a time turner was an albatross around her neck dragging her down, it was nothing compared to the weight of the secret which she now needed to keep. And she was almost entirely alone in her bearing of it. She hadn't even shared everything she knew with Dumbledore. In actuality, she had shared very little with the Headmaster, relating things only in the broadest of terms, and on a purely need to know basis. The two of them were each fully aware of the dangers of her being more specific. Even if she had told him everything, Dumbledore was hardly the type of person she would be able to confide in regularly in order to obtain relief. The man was exorbitantly busy, and any unusual amount of attention she received from him was sure to garner suspicion.

No. Hermione was all alone here. Just her, Sirius Black and a cadre of future Death Eaters. The young witch did realize, of course, that the Hogwarts of the 1970's wasn't populated solely with malevolent figures. There were also benign ones, she knew, but Hermione feared that they could be just as dangerous to her. Quite separate from Sirius Black, on the opposite end of the spectrum of her anxieties, Hermione would be sharing a common room with Harry's parents, and even more intimately, a dorm with Lily. She could scarcely fathom how her interactions with the Potters would play out, but she vowed that she would catalogue and remember every detail of Harry's parents for him that she could, just in case she ever managed to get back to her friend. Dumbledore hadn't managed to impart much hope to her on that front, but Hermione had to hang on to the possibility of returning to her original time, however slim that possibility might have been. It may have been an unrealistic delusion, but it was one that Hermione needed. Without it, she feared that she may go completely insane, and she already felt far too close to going off the rails. The amount of pressure she was under was almost too much for one thirteen year old witch to handle on her own. Or was she fourteen now, Hermione wondered idly? Everything was so tangled and confusing right now, she didn't even know how old she was. In the face of such complicated realities, it was hard not to succumb to hopelessness.

Despite all her worries about the next day, Hermione could at least look forward to the coming familiarity of the Gryffindor common room. As she fell into a fitful, anxious sleep, she tried to take comfort from visions of cozy, red arm chairs and warm, crackling fires.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: A Series of Revelations

Waiting for the arrival of something which you are dreading considerably is truly an awful thing. This was the first of many unfortunate conclusions which Hermione Granger would come to on the day of September 1st, 1973. From the moment she woke that morning from a fretful sleep, feeling far from rested, Hermione knew it was going to be a long day. Despite her tepid appetite, she forced herself to eat a bit of breakfast, managing to choke down some boiled eggs along with her morning tea. Never before had she experienced such a high degree of anxiety pertaining to school, not even when it came to final exams, which always sent her stress levels skyrocketing, and could admittedly make her a little crazy. But this time, the source of her stress wasn't academic in nature. That was a source of stress with which Hermione was familiar; one that she knew how to manage and handle quite well. Indeed, she had always excelled at using academic stressors to spur her on, able to convert them into strong academic results of which she could be proud. Embarking to Hogwarts for the new school year in 1973, on the other hand, was not something that the academically inclined witch was not emotionally or mentally prepared for in any way.

For once, Hermione was hardly worried about her classes. Inevitably, she'd had to sacrifice a few of the subjects which she'd signed on for in her original third year term. For this second go round in 1973, she'd made some necessary cuts in service of a more realistic schedule, one that didn't necessitate the use of a time turner in order to manage it. Ultimately, Hermione had been forced to let go of Divination and Muggle Studies. Care of Magical Creatures she had kept as something of a nostalgic concession to Hagrid, knowing it would please her new guardian that she was taking the class, even if it didn't seem quite as vital to her as some of her other courses. Dropping Muggle Studies had been a particularly agonizing decision for her, but in the end she had decided that, on the grounds of practicality, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes took priority over the other discipline. The result of her careful deliberations was a schedule that, although somewhat scaled back, Hermione thought would suit her well in 1973.

It was not academic dilemmas that concerned Hermione that morning, but rather dilemmas of a more personal and social nature. Due to the fact that she was currently located immediately adjacent to Hogwarts, thereby eliminating any need to spend the majority of her day occupied with traveling to the school, Hermione had an unfortunately ample amount of time to fret about her coming interactions with the 1970's population of Hogwarts. It was only half past ten in the morning, and Hermione was already finding the wait for the start of term feast that evening excruciating.

In an effort to distract herself, she settled in to peruse her new, 1970's set of text and spell books, curious to see what, if any, differences existed between them and what she had been familiar with from the 1990's. Not much had changed in twenty years' time, she found, although updates were warranted here and there throughout many of her new (or rather, old) texts. Flipping through her potions book, Hermione was reminded that the wolfsbane potion had not yet been invented in this time. She had forgotten the vital and complex brew was such a relatively recent development. Naturally, the events of the war with Voldemort were omitted from her History of Magic text, due to the fact that they had yet to occur. Otherwise though, the content of the books was much the same as what she had seen in her previous 90's editions.

A seemingly interminable amount of time later, although, disappointingly, just a mere hour had past, and Hermione had thoroughly exhausted the diversionary capacity of her set of new school books. Atypically for the witch, the texts had been utterly unable to hold her interest. Such was Hermione's level of anxiety that she couldn't even manage to find comfort from books, her oldest and most familiar of refuges. She sighed heavily, falling back on her new bed with a heavy thump. Blowing her bangs off of her face, Hermione contemplated an attempt at a nap. After all, she had slept very badly the previous night, and she could certainly use the recharging effects of a decent rest. Vexingly though, she found that it wasn't any easier for her to fall asleep in the daylight than it had been for her the night before. In an unhappy realization, Hermione was forced to accept that it seemed the only way her body would let itself succumb to slumber would be with the benefit of a nice sleeping draught.

With the thought of this potential solution in mind, Hermione peeled herself from her new bed and dragged her exhausted self to Hagrid's undersized bathroom. Her own newly made bathroom in the cottage had yet to be populated with anything more useful or exiting than shampoo and toothpaste. Rummaging through Hagrid's medicine cabinet, Hermione was somewhat alarmed and perplexed at the array of bottles, vials, tools and otherwise unusual items she found there. Why was Hagrid keeping slug pellets in his bathroom, she wondered with a faint sense of alarm? And what on earth was tongue tonic? The young witch wrinkled her nose at the potential prospective uses of that one.

Moving aside various mysterious items as she poked about the cupboard looking for a dreamless sleep potion, Hermione was very careful not to tip anything over and spill unknown chemicals on herself. She nearly choked when, in the process of her search, she came across of bottle of Sleakeazy's Smoothing Hair Potion. If Hagrid was using it on himself, it clearly wasn't working. Hermione was pretty sure combs and brushes alike had been known to spontaneously combust out of pure fear when confronted with the man's notoriously wild mane. Her own hair was fairly chaotic, she could admit that, she'd certainly received enough hurtful comments about it over the years, but she didn't think even her bushy locks could hold a candle to Hagrid's.

Maybe she should appropriate the Sleakeazy's for herself, Hermione thought with a frown; try a new look in the 1970's. Her fingers lingered unsurely over the bottle. The potion didn't seem to be doing Hagrid any good. Surely her new guardian wouldn't miss it. But no, Hermione decided with a small, decisive shake of her head. Her mother always said she should embrace her curls as part of her own 'unique form of beauty', and however sappy and cliché that may have been, Hermione was still inclined to follow her advice. She smiled wryly; that was mothers for you. But, as her father said, her mother wasn't often wrong, and quite often she was right. It would do no good to give in to her insecurities here in the 1970's anymore than it would have done in the 1990's. She didn't need Sleakeazy's. Besides, who knew if the tonic would even work? It was probably a scam, like one of those made for television products that were so prolific in the muggle world, which promised you could magically lose weight or regain your hair with a pill. Pure silliness and stupidity, Hermione dismissed, shoving the Sleakeazy's aside.

Just a few minutes later, she finally managed to locate a bottle of standard sleeping draught. With a triumphant cry, Hermione seized joyously upon the potion. Contained within the small, turquoise, vial were relief and some much needed sleep. Or at least, that was the idea. Hastily uncorking the bottle, Hermione tossed back the contents of it without hesitation. Making her way back down the hall to her new room, Hermione climbed eagerly back into bed, not even bothering to get undressed. After all, she would be changing into her school uniform later anyway, so there was no need to be concerned with wrinkling anything. Tucking her covers around herself and burrowing happily into the cozy nest of blankets she had constructed, Hermione settled in for what she hoped would be a good, long nap. A short time thereafter, with the aid of the sleeping draught, the exhausted witch promptly fell into a blessedly, deep sleep, the kind of which had so eluded her the night before.

Along with its obvious restorative properties, one of the wonderful, curious things about sleep is that it has ability of seeming to compress time. When Hermione awoke later from her much needed nap, feeling considerably more well rested than she had earlier, but still significantly anxious, it felt to her as though only minutes had passed since she had taken the sleeping draught. Mercifully, it had, in fact, been hours, and it was now almost half past five in the afternoon. Night was rapidly approaching and the time when she would head up to the school along with the rest of the students was drawing nearer.

Now that the welcoming feast was only a few hours away, Hermione could feasibly occupy herself with getting ready for it. She had always loved getting dressed in her Hogwarts uniform. There was something almost magical about the experience for the young witch, if you would forgive her the use of such a hackneyed phrase. Just the ordinary act putting on her gray sweater, marked with the small Hogwart's insignia, usually had the ability to immediately transport her into an academic frame of mind, exciting her for the coming school year. This year, perhaps inevitably, the magic felt somewhat lacking. Though Hermione had already gotten dressed in her school things, she found that the act hadn't managed to engender any of the usual excitement in her. She felt less like she was preparing for the start of term, and more like she was preparing for battle. Here in the 1970's though she supposed the two things nearly amounted to one in the same.

Straightening her Gryffindor house tie, Hermione frowned at her mirrored reflection. Although she had used the stipend she had been granted by Dumbledore to purchase additional necessary uniforms and uniform components, along with a couple of sets of new robes, Hermione found herself drawn to the uniform she had brought with her from the 1990's. The damage which it had suffered as a result of her inadvertent trip through time had been mended upon her arrival in the 1970's, although by whom she wasn't sure. Whatever the case, with all conspicuous blood stains having since been properly removed, the uniform was once again completely wearable. Indeed, Hermione was wearing it now. It was one of the only physical remainders that she possessed from her original time, and on this night, when she would enter the full fray of the 1970's for the first time, she clung desperately to that remainder, donning it like secret armor.

When the time which she had been so anxiously anticipating all day, stewing for hours in a combination of dread and resignation, finally did arrive, it was partly due to her secretly 90's accoutrements that Hermione found herself feeling so mentally prepared for the evening to come. Shockingly, she was calmer than she had been all day. As she prepared to head up to the castle that evening, escorted by Hagrid (the larger than life man had already delivered the first years into the stern keeping of Professor McGonagall) Hermione reflected on her oddly poised state. Her nerves, which had been such a frenzied state all day, were remarkably steady now that night had fallen, and it was time for her to make her way at long last up to the castle for the sorting and the Welcoming Feast. Perhaps it was true what they said about the waiting being the worst bit of things, Hermione thought as she traversed the worn path from Hagrid's hut up to Hogwarts, familiar to her even in the darkness, unchanged as it was from her time.

She was unsure of what exactly would happen at the feast. Of course there would be the sorting, and the usual start of term announcements to make, but Dumbledore would have an additional announcement this year. He would have to make a statement regarding her, explaining her unexpected presence. Random thirteen year old girls simply didn't pop up Hogwarts already sorted, unnoticed and unremarked upon. People would be curious, and small school that it was, Hermione was sure to attract her fair share of attention for a while, until her novelty was sufficiently worn off. That was inevitable, unwanted though it may have been. Dumbledore would surely try to make his statement about her as brief and innocuous as possible, not wanting to draw any more attention to Hermione than precisely necessary. But a statement nevertheless he would have to make. To not make one would only draw more attention to her. If people weren't provided a plausible explanation of something, then they would speculate, and in Hermione's case, given her unusual origins, that could only lead to unfortunate discoveries.

Hermione had seen Hogwart's ability to be overtaken by such things illustrated very clearly in her second year there, when all the business with the Chamber of Secrets had been going on. Wild theories about possible Heirs of Slytherin had run rampant in the corridors, including with her, Harry and Ron, and among the staff as well as the students. Rumor and speculation could be very powerful forces, and very damaging too. Hermione was sure that Dumbledore would make his introduction of her as mundane as he possibly could, in an effort to guard against such manias. For her part, Hermione was determined that she would do nothing here in the 1970's to attract suspicion, undue attention, or to spur any wild rumors on the off chance that they might veer inadvertently into some version of something approaching the truth. It would be a very delicate business, she was sure, but Hermione had always been good at toeing the line and following the rules. Until she had met Harry and Ron, that is. But they weren't here, were they, Hermione thought hollowly, the realization accompanied by a painful thud in her chest. She was on her own now.

The trek up to the castle was relatively short, or it certainly felt that way to Hermione, and soon enough she had arrived with Hagrid before the large double door which marked the front entrance to Hogwarts.

After a few moments of heavy silence in which they simply stared at the door, which seemed rather more ominous and intimidating to Hermione than it ever had previously, Hagrid turned to face her. The look of concern on her new guardians face was frankly apparent, even couched as it was in his impressively bushy beard.

"Ready?" Hagrid asked, extending a hand towards the doors.

"As I'll ever be, I suspect," Hermione said, a kind of grim determination having over taken her.

Hagrid nodded, seeming almost equally grim as his charge, before reaching forward to haul open the doors and usher Hermione inside the castle.

The entrance hall was empty, the first years who had so recently occupied it having been directed into the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall to be sorted. Dumbledore had determined that he would make his statement regarding Hermione immediately after the regular sorting had concluded, and that she should make her way into the hall in the wake of said explanatory pronouncement. In the meantime though, Hermione found she was able to listen to the remainder of the sorting, the sound of which was projecting itself quite clearly into the entrance hall where she and Hagrid were waiting. Indeed, not only could she hear everything that was going on in the main hall at the feast, if she positioned herself directly in front of the doors to the Great Hall, Hermione realized she could peek in and see as well. She did so, to the apparent indulgent amusement of Hagrid, who let out a little chuckle at her display of curiosity. Peering in through the crack in the door Hermione had quite a clear view of the stage where the first years were stood, and she was able to spy a scraggly line of largely pale and timid looking young people, many of whom were shifting nervously. She couldn't imagine that she would interacting directly with very many of the new first years, besides the prospective Gryffindors that is, but it couldn't hurt to listen and hear if she recognized any of the surnames. It was an interesting diversion at any rate, if nothing else. It seemed that she hadn't missed all that much of the sorting, as the hat appeared only to be on the 'B's. A Melinda Becker had just been sorted into Hufflepuff.

"Black, Regulus," the hat called next, and Hermione choked slightly, turning quite as pale as the slight, black haired boy who stepped forward in response to the hat's summons. Regulus Black was Sirius Black's little brother, Hermione recalled through her shock, though she hadn't been aware until just now of his exact age. Eleven in 1973, apparently. As soon as Sirius Black had escaped, and especially after she'd found out he was after Harry, Hermione had set to researching everything about Black and his family that she could get her hands on. There had been quite a lot of material for her to work with, the Black's being one of the so called 'sacred 28', which comprised the oldest and most well established pureblood families in Britain. Not to mention that, due to an apparent familial affinity for dark magic and generally unsavory conduct, there were quite a lot of arrest records and court cases dealing with members of the Black family throughout the years. Mentions of the misdeeds of various Black's stretched all throughout the public record of the families long and prominent history within the Wizarding World.

Hermione had already heard of Bellatrix Black, of course, even before she'd begun the research spurred by Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban. Based on reputation alone, Bellatrix was someone whom Hermione dearly wished to avoid encountering in the 1970's. She knew that Bellatrix was a cousin of Sirius', as well as a high ranking and particularly vicious Death Eater, but Hermione wasn't sure if she would have still been at Hogwarts in 1973. Hermione knew far less about Sirius' brother Regulus than she did about his infamous cousin Bellatrix though. Despite her considerably extensive research in the 1990's, all she'd managed to learn back then about Regulus Black was that he was Sirius Black's little brother, and that he had died near the end of war in service to the Dark Lord. He would have been quite young, Hermione realized. Not too much older than he was now. Regulus Black hardly looked threatening as an eleven year old, but that didn't mean he would remain so innocuous forever. Whatever Regulus had gotten up to later in life as a Death Eater though, it hadn't been anything notorious enough to earn him any infamy, at least not the likes of which other members of his family would manage to attain, namely Sirius and Bellatrix. Whatever he had done had been obscured and overshadowed by the more famous family members of his generation.

The hat was taking quite a while with him, Hermione noted. Not a hat stall quite yet, but getting there. As time dragged on and people began to whisper, Regulus clutched at the sorting hat with white knuckled hands, his face screwed up in a distinctly pained expression. Actually, he appeared to be arguing with the hat, if Hermione wasn't mistaken, and rather desperately too.

"Slytherin!" the hat announced finally, prompting an obvious sigh of relief from Regulus Black, and an outbreak of applause from what was presumably the Slytherin house table, although this wasn't visible from Hermione's vantage point at the crack in the door.

Harry had had a bit of an argument with the sorting hat as well, Hermione recalled as she watched Regulus trot off the stage to take his place among his new housemates, although the result had been very different for her friend. Harry had argued desperately to avoid Slytherin. Regulus, it seemed, had wanted the opposite. So what, Hermione wondered, or rather which House, had he been trying to avoid? She supposed it was inconsequential in the end. Belonging to the Black family, it was hardly surprising that Regulus had fought so hard to get into Slytherin, regardless of where the hat may have been inclined to place him. Given what she knew of the politics of the Blacks, it would have practically been a requirement that Regulus obtain a place in Slytherin House. Anything else would have been considered something of a disappointment, and in all probability would have dealt a blow to the family's pride and reputation in English pureblood circles. Curious, then, that Sirius Black had ended up in Gryffindor.

In the midst of her contemplation of Regulus and pureblood politics, the hat had made its way through the rest of the 'B's' and gone on to sort Meghan Cooper and Reginald Dottington, sending them to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw respectively. After Regulus' sorting, the rest of the start of term event proceeded as innocuously as ever. Here and there Hermione would recognize the surname of one of the new students, but that was only to be expected. The wizarding community in Britain was quite small, and many of the families which made it up had been sending their children to Hogwarts for generations now. The same crop of old names did tend to repeat itself, with muggle borns and half bloods filling out the rest of each class and adding a little color to the mix, so to speak. It didn't take long for the sorting hat to make its way through the line of new students, and scarcely before Hermione knew it, only one remained, an unusually confident looking blonde girl. Monica Yaxley was declared for Slytherin nearly the moment the sorting hat touched her head, and with that, the sorting ceremony of 1973 was officially complete.

The moment of the evening concerning her, the moment which she had so been dreading these past days, had very nearly arrived. Dumbledore was about to make his announcement regarding her, and then it would be time for her to make her entrance. In preparation, Hermione retreated from the crack in the Great Hall doors in order to needlessly straighten her Gryffindor tie and nervously attempt to smooth her unsmooth-able hair. At least, she reflected gratefully, Dumbledore wasn't making her enter onto the stage as the poor first years had done. Hermione wasn't sure if she would've been able to bare such a thing, and besides, she had already endured that humiliation in her own first year. Quite aside from that, this whole thing felt like enough of a spectacle already, it hardly needed any unnecessary dramatic flourishes. As it was, Hermione would enter through the main, Great Hall doors, as she had done countless times before, albeit in a whole other decade.

"Just like I'm headed to any other dinner," she muttered to herself, forcefully attempting to ignore the fact that this was hardly the case, given that it was 1973 rather than 1993, and Harry and Ron were conspicuously not there walking in on either side of her. She did have Hagrid though, Hermione thought, sparing a strained smile for the giant of a man. She could be very glad of that at least.

"Now," Dumbledore was saying from inside the Hall. "I have one last announcement this evening, just one more before we eat, I promise you!"

Although she wasn't watching, Hermione found she could envision the Headmaster's indulgent smile and raised hand against the traditional outcry that always accompanied delays of the feast.

"We have one additional new student this year, and the more the merrier as I always say, a Miss Hermione Granger!" There was a smattering of scattered applause and an outbreak of shocked whispers.

Once quiet had settled once more over the hall, Dumbledore continued, having adopted a more somber tone. "Miss Granger is transferring to us from the institution of Walsingham in Chislehurst, due to unforeseen and very grave circumstances." Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "I urge you all to respect her privacy at this very difficult time. Miss Granger has already been sorted, and will be joining our Gryffindor third years. Let us have a very warm welcome for Hermione Granger!"

There was another outbreak of scattered applause, and, taking her cue, Hermione approached the double doors to the Great Hall, preparing to make her entrance. She paused before them, glancing back one last time at Hagrid in an effort to draw courage from the man, before finally pushing open the doors. She was met with a sea of curious faces attached to craning necks, and the effect was almost staggeringly overwhelming. Hermione had never been on the receiving end of such undivided attention at Hogwarts, she wasn't Harry, for Godric's sake, and she found herself bowled over in the face of it. There was a brief moment when, unable to will her legs to move, she simply stood frozen in the doorway like a frightened deer faced with an entire hunting party bent on her destruction. Luckily, she had Hagrid at her back to break the spell and give her the push she needed. Literally, as it turned out.

"Alright, lass, this is where I leave yeh," he said gruffly. "Go on then!" Placing his large hands on Hermione's shoulders, he gave the girl an encouraging shove towards the Gryffindor table, perhaps a tad more forcefully than he meant to or realized. Hermione stumbled a bit.

"And don't forget to come visit me now!" Hagrid called after her as she was regaining her equilibrium. Not exactly the most elegant or inconspicuous entrance she could have made, but what was a girl to do. She shot Hagrid a little wave and an assuring smile. Despite the odd pair they made, and the unorthodoxy of their relationship, Hermione had a feeling that she and Hagrid were going to be even closer in the 1970's than they had been in the 1990's.

People were still applauding, and Hermione desperately wished that they would stop. Quickly taking a seat at the end of the Gryffindor table, she commenced with trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Given that she was scarcely 5'2 and usually accompanied by the famous Harry Potter and a rather loud Weasley, it usually wasn't much of an effort for Hermione to disappear into the background at Hogwarts, but she was finding it rather unfortunately difficult at this moment in time. Just when it was becoming quite unbearable, Dumbledore announced that it was finally time for the much awaited feast, which would hopefully go some way towards redirecting people's interest away from Hermione and towards the large quantities of delicious food which had suddenly appeared.

In all honesty, Hermione herself didn't have much of an appetite, but she dove eagerly into plating up some dinner for herself nevertheless, grateful for anything to occupy her that wasn't awkwardly attempting to ignore the curious stares of her new 1970's housemates. Besides, she'd hardly had anything to eat all day, and, rationally, Hermione knew that she could probably use some sustenance. She was just reaching for some garlic potatoes that had managed to stir her interest, if only just a bit, when she was diverted from her task by the small, hesitant clearing of a throat.

Looking up, Hermione was confronted by the sight of a slight, red headed girl with startlingly green eyes. Startling, in that the girl's eyes were an exact match to Harry Potter's, from the color down to shape. Lily's eyes though, and this girl had to be Lily, Hermione may not have ever seen pictures of her at this age, but there was no mistaking the girl before her as anything but Harry's mum, were unobscured by glasses, and her eyelashes were slightly lighter colored than Harry's. Hermione found herself dazed with shock, utterly bowled over by the sight of her best friend's mother in the form of a thirteen year old girl. Mentally, Hermione had tried to prepare for this eventuality; she had known it would be coming, and she had known it would be difficult. Lily, as well as certain other figures whose futures Hermione knew far too much about, were the reason she had hesitated, if only for a brief moment, over rejoining Gryffindor. Nearly Headless Nick wasn't the only ghost lurking about the confines of Gryffindor tower during the 1970's. Perhaps Hermione had chosen to focus so intently on food at the onset of the feast in an effort to delay difficult interactions with any such ghosts, despite knowing their inevitability. Defense mechanisms were truly a wondrous thing, but in her case they hadn't succeeded in staving off the inevitable for very long.

Staring at Lily with what was surely a frightfully stupid look on her face, it was rapidly becoming clear to Hermione that any attempt at mental preparation which she had made for this type of encounter was hopelessly insufficient in the face of the actual experience.

"Er, hi," said Lily eventually, giving Hermione a little wave. "I'm Lily Evans, and this is Dorcas Meadows and Mary McDonald," she gestured at two other girls stood on either side of her, neither of whom Hermione had noticed before that moment, so consumed had she been with staring at Lily. "We're third year Gryffindors as well. Thought we'd come over and introduce ourselves, given that we'll be sharing a dorm and all," Lily finished, laughing slightly and smiling at Hermione. Her new dorm mates should have, in any other circumstance, made quite the welcoming trio. Unfortunately, Hermione was burdened with the unpleasant knowledge that all three of the girls in front of her, not just Lily, would die in the war in just a few years' time. She found that had quite the dampening effect on her, despite the girls' reassuring smiles.

"Hermione Granger," she managed finally, after an awkward period of overly long silence. Her own introduction was somewhat needless in the wake of Dumbledore's announcement about her, but she had to say something. Besides, observance of social ritual had a way of making people feel more comfortable, Hermione had found, so it wasn't entirely pointless.

"You mind if we sit?" Lily asked, motioning at the empty expanse of bench directly across from Hermione, and proceeding to plonk herself down there with a smile before the other witch had a chance to respond. Dorcas and Mary took seats next to red head, smiling as well, though not quite as brightly as Lily seemed prone to. Of the three girls, Hermione thought that it was Lily who seemed to have the most confidence. At any rate, she'd done most of the talking so far, and it had clearly been Lily's idea for her, Mary and Dorcas to come over and introduce themselves. She was almost aggressively friendly, Hermione observed. But in a nice way.

"Yes, of course, sit," Hermione said belatedly, stilling feeling somewhat dazed in the face of this onslaught of friendship from her best friend's dead mum.

"Thanks," Lily chirped, bestowing yet another smile on Hermione. "Do you have your schedule yet? Are you very excited about your classes? What are you-"

"Lily!" Dorcas interrupted her friend, elbowing her in the side. "Don't bore the poor girl with talk of academics straight away, you'll put her off. Besides, we have much more important things to tell her."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Dorcas clearly hadn't taken the proper measure of her if she thought Hermione was one to be bored by talk of academics.

The blonde witch leaned in towards Hermione, her long hair swishing across the table as she moved. "I don't know how much you know about it," she said in a conspiratorially low voice, "but I just want to inform that you're very lucky to have made Gryffindor. All the other houses are crap."

"Dorcas!" Lily admonished, looking scandalized. "That's not true at all!" she protested earnestly, turning to Hermione. "There are nice people in all the houses, and there are crap people in all of them too. Gryffindor's not immune to that."

Lily paused here to shoot a rather nasty look at a group of boys about half way down the table from them who were being quite loud. Hermione judged them to be about their age and noted, with a punch to the gut, that one of them was sporting glasses and a familiar looking heap of messy black hair. That had to be James Potter. Hermione was sure of it, just as she had been sure of Lily.

"Those are the Gryffindor third year boys," Lily provided with a scowl, following the direction of Hermione's now fixed gaze. "And a more obnoxious bunch of tossers you will never meet, that I can tell you."

Hermione coughed, having choked slightly on her potatoes.

Nearly Headless Nick, who happened to be passing behind her just at that moment, attempted, in a gentlemanly fit that was likely the result of manners which had been ingrained in him at Elizabethan court, to help by patting her on the back. While it may have been well meaning on the ghost's part, the gesture was entirely useless, considering his spectral hand passed right through her, and rather more unpleasant than he may have realized.

"Are you alright, Miss?" the ghost of Gryffindor tower inquired politely when she had finally stopped sputtering.

"Yes, yes, quite alright, thanks Nick," Hermione said hoarsely, conjuring up a wan smile for him and her now gaping dorm mates. "Wrong tube, that's all."

Having been assured of her relative wellbeing, Sir Nick gave Hermione one somber nod, before floating away to concern himself with other matters, joining up with the Bloody Baron up near the staff table.

In the frenzy of it all, no one, including Hermione herself, had so much as made anything of the fact that she had known to call the noble ghost by his name, despite the fact that Nick hadn't had the time or opportunity to introduce himself to her.

"Sorry about that, sorry," Hermione said when she had fully recovered, cheeks pinking slightly in embarrassment. She really was making quite the spectacle of herself tonight, it was all honestly quite tragic. "What were you saying just now about our year mates?"

"Right, 'the Marauders'," Lily said scathingly, gesturing once more at the boys and rolling her eyes theatrically, her voice practically dripping with disdain.

"I'm sorry, the what? Are they pirates or something?" Hermione asked, confused as to the relevance of the epithet.

Lily laughed, but it had a harsh edge. "Not pirates, no, but they do certainly think they're bad arse. Arse holes, more like" she said, folding her arms across her chest and looking decidedly annoyed. "They go around playing malicious pranks on everyone, especially the Slytherins, that's the house in green, down at the other end of the hall. They call themselves 'the Marauders' and think it gives them license to go around terrorizing everyone. It's quite childish really."

Hermione let out a thoughtful, distressed hum, not really sure what to make of all of this. If Lily was telling the truth, Harry's dad and his mates were a bunch of bullies. It was an unsettling prospect.

"Oh come on now, Lily," Dorcas interjected. "The Marauders can be a bit annoying, sure, but they're not quite as bad as your making them out to be. And I know you have a soft spot for a certain Slytherin," Hermione eyes widened considerably, "but sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time, the snakes get what they deserve."

It seemed the traditional house rivalries were as alive and well as ever in this time, Hermione noted. But who, she wondered, was this Slytherin friend of Lily's? She'd be shocked if inter-house friendships between Gryffindor's and Slytherins were any more common in the 1970's than they would be in the 1990's, so if Lily was friends with a Slytherin it had to be something of an unusual relationship.

Dorcas, though, was still talking. "Remus is a nice enough bloke, you have to admit that," the blonde was saying, and Lily nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "And Peter is just a bit of an idiot, he can't help that." Lily snorted, and then appeared somewhat guilty for having done so.

"Which ones are they?" Hermione asked, studying the group of boys curiously as they talked and laughed together.

"Peter Pettigrew is the dumpy looking blonde, and Remus Lupin is the sandy haired one," Dorcas pointed out helpfully.

"Remus Lupin?" Hermione almost choked again, but, thankfully managed to reign in her reaction to the degree that her eyes only bugged out with shock in a highly unflattering manner; a moderate improvement.

Her extremely tired, extremely competent Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had been friends with Harry's father. The shocking revelations she was gleaning from this evening just continued to pile up. Perhaps, Hermione realized suddenly, she hadn't imagined all the weird looks Lupin had been giving her in the 1990's. It seemed her Professor had had a reason after all, though of course Hermione hadn't been able to conceive of it at the time.

"Weird name, yeah," Dorcas said offhandedly in response to Hermione's face, which was a bit rich coming from someone named Dorcas, but Hermione supposed she could allow it. Her own name wasn't exactly run of the mill.

Peter Pettigrew, there was yet another name Hermione recognized, and yet another person from this time who would meet a horribly nasty end. Hermione observed the blonde boy sadly, watching as he laughed nervously with his friends. He looked a bit out of place among them, and he looked as if he knew it too, seeming quite self-conscious and unsure of himself.

"Who's that next to Remus," Hermione asked finally, referring to the last of the group who was unknown to her, a tall boy with gray eyes and black hair, sandwiched in between Remus and James. His hair was the same dark, black as Harry and James', but considerably smoother than either Potter's. Actually, Hermione thought, he was quite good looking. So who was this last of the Marauders then?

"That's Sirius Black," Lily supplied, and Hermione blanched, suddenly overcome with horror and revulsion as she watched the four boys talking and laughing together, their interaction instantly transformed into a horrific, macabre, tableau.

That was Sirius Black? The future Death Eater and mass murderer? Over there laughing and palling it up with Peter Pettigrew, his future murder victim, her future (or was it former?) Professor, and her best friend's father? It was utterly horrifying. She'd known Black had been a Gryffindor, which was bad enough, but she certainly hadn't expected this. She should have, of course, Hermione berated herself, for it was entirely obvious in retrospect. She had known Black, Peter Pettigrew and James Potter were all third year Gryffindor's, and, it followed, dorm mates as well. It only made sense that they were friends. Hermione supposed that the prospect had just been so horrific and anathema to her that, stupidly, it hadn't even occurred to her despite the logic of it.

She observed the boys with new eyes now, Black in particular. In contrary to the wanted posters of him which had been plastered all over the wizarding world in 1993, she found this younger version of Black hardly looked deranged. Far from it, in fact, though he did seem to regress into a state of apparent melancholy when his friends weren't looking, and he was briefly left to himself. It didn't appear to Hermione that Black was merely pasting on a mask of happiness for the benefit of his friends, he seemed genuinely joyful and invigorated when he was interacting with James Potter and the others, but he fell into a kind of sad listlessness when he wasn't engaging with them. Black almost had an air of needing to be distracted from something, but whatever that might be Hermione couldn't fathom. His behavior was very curious, she thought with a frown. She really needed to stop staring at him though, before anyone, Godric forbid Black himself, noticed. But Hermione couldn't help but find the last Marauder fascinating, now that she knew who he was.

"You're staring at Black," Lily observed from across the table, arching a thin, judgmental, eyebrow at Hermione and bringing the other witches worries to fruition.

"I'd warn you to be careful with that one," the red head continued. "He may be good looking, but he's a right prat. Him and Potter both, that's the other black haired one next to him, with the glasses." Lily pointed James out to Hermione, quite needlessly, given that he was the spitting image of Harry. Or rather, Hermione supposed, Harry was the spitting image of him. Regardless, she would have known him anywhere as Harry's father, just as she had known Lily immediately for who she was just by her eyes, which, as everyone said, were indeed an exact match for Harry's.

The future Mrs. Potter had crossed her arms over her chest, and was currently engaged in staring disdainfully at the Marauders, the pair of Potter and Black in particular, an air of righteous condemnation clinging to her petite frame. "I've never met two people so self-absorbed and arrogant in my entire life!" she spat, becoming rather worked up, Hermione could see. "They think they're just so funny and clever, but they're actually not. Dorcas is right, Remus and Peter can be okay sometimes," Lily allowed, "but Black and Potter are irredeemable."

"Quite fit though," Mary McDonald volunteered softly, speaking for the first time since her, Lily and Dorcas had arrived. In all honesty, Hermione had almost forgotten she was there. "Lily is just mad because Potter is in love with her, although I don't know why anyone would be mad about that."

Lily sighed heavily. "He's not in love with me Mary, he's merely obsessed. Potter's not sincere, he only flirts with me because he knows it bothers me. That's not a redeeming quality. And you know that's not the only reason I dislike him, it's the pranks as well, as I've said. He's just a mean, small minded, nasty person-"

"So you really don't like Potter, then?" Hermione ventured, cutting Lily's burgeoning rant off at the head.

Lily scoffed, "Hardly!" she said, looking disgusted at the very prospect. "Potter's by far the worst of the Marauders, he's their little ringleader. He's even worse than Black! Honestly though, they're both horrible. If you want my advice, you'd do best to steer well clear of both of them."

"I'll take that into consideration," Hermione said faintly, feeling somewhat stunned at the revelation that not only were Harry's parents not together yet in this time, but that Lily actually seemed to actively dislike James. Strongly. In fact, Hermione thought, dislike many not have been quite a strong enough term for the red head's feelings toward James, given the venomous way in which Lily was presently glaring at her would be husband. Loathing, Hermione decided, might be a much more appropriate label, as disconcerting as that may have been. It was hard for her to reconcile that Harry's parents had ever been anything but utterly in love with each other. But then, she supposed that most people didn't fall madly in love at the age of thirteen. Unless they were Romeo and Juliette, that is, and everyone knew how well that had turned out. Which is to say, not very well at all. Not that Lily and James would meet a much better end than the iconic, doomed, young lovers, Hermione reflected sadly. Maybe that was part of why she was so unnerved by the feelings of animosity that Lily so clearly held for James right now. In just eight years' time both of Harry's parents would be dead. It seemed tragic that the couple should spend any of the short amount of time they had left at odds with each other.

"Do we have to keep talking about Potter and the rest of them though?" Lily griped, tearing Hermione from her melancholy thoughts and bringing her back to the present. So to speak anyway. "It's spoiling my appetite, and I'm sure there are a variety of much more pleasant topics we could discuss."

"Like classes?" Dorcas suggested archly, with an eye roll that Lily either didn't see or chose to ignore.

"Yes exactly," Lily said, smiling good naturedly in the face of her friends ribbing. "What electives are you taking Hermione?"

"Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy," Hermione supplied promptly, exceedingly grateful for the subject change. As ever, the witch was eager to talk of academics with anyone who was genuinely interested in such things, which Lily clearly was, much to Hermione's delight. She could stew about the various troubling friendship conglomerations and enmity's of her fellow third year Gryffindor's later, when she wasn't surrounded by them.

"Ooooh, I'm in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy as well," Lily squealed excitedly, "and you'll have Dorcas and Mary in Care of Magical Creatures! I'm really excited about Runes, I think they're just fascinating, don't you?"

"Oh yes," Hermione agreed, diving enthusiastically into a discussion of the subject with the red headed witch and her fellow muggleborn. Their conversation turned out to be not only a very welcome distraction for Hermione, but also a highly enjoyable affair on its own merits. Over the next three quarters of an hour, Hermione found herself chatting easily with Lily about a whole spectrum of topics, Dorcas, and, less frequently, Mary, inserting themselves into the thread of conversation here and there. There would surely be times when Hermione's knowledge of the future would complicate and cloud her relationship with Lily, but whatever difficulties might arise, it didn't change the fact that by the end of dinner, Hermione was decidedly under the impression that she and Lily made very natural friends. On a night which had been filled with a great many unpleasant revelations for Hermione, that was one of the few nice ones.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Complicated Nature of Friendship

"I heard her whole family got blown up in a magical accident. She was the only survivor."

"Tragic."

"Isn't she staying with that large, scary looking, bloke who's always lurking about on the grounds? The Gamekeeper? Bit weird."

"Maybe they're related. I mean, have you seen her hair?"

"Yeah, she seriously needs to invest in some Sleakeazy's. But I thought her whole family was dead? And isn't she supposed to be muggle born? That's what I heard anyway."

Hermione, who had happened to overhear the entirety of this conversation, mostly due to the fact that it was being conducted in incredibly loud whispers, and because both the participants kept shooting decidedly non-furtive glances in her direction, had had quite enough.

"For the record," she said shrilly, slamming her books down with a loud thump on the adjacent table to the one which the pair of gossipy magpies were occupying, "I am muggleborn, my family is dead, and I was living with Hagrid over the summer. He happens to be a very nice man, and I would thank you not to be rude about him!"

Hermione topped off this righteous tirade by pinning the two offending Ravenclaw girls with a positively glacial stare, causing them to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Er, sorry," one of them said awkwardly. "That was meant to be a private conversation."

"Well then maybe you should have conducted it in private," Lily, who had just slid into the seat next to Hermione, suggested coldly. "Or not at all."

The girls continued to squirm, much to Hermione's vindictive delight, and she and Lily continued to glare.

"Shallow vipers," Lily whispered to her, putting a sympathetic hand on the other witch's shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Just try to ignore them."

It was sound advice from her new friend, Hermione knew, but she had been followed by similarly nasty, speculative whispers all day, and at this point it was getting harder and harder to just ignore them. She'd always felt bad for Harry when he'd been the victim of such things, knowing her friend loathed the attention, but she was gaining a whole new kind of sympathy for him today. As she took notes on autopilot, which she felt license to do because she had heard the exact same lecture, verbatim, from Professor Bins not a month earlier (it seemed the ghostly Professor had neglected to update his lesson plan in any way over the course of twenty years), Hermione found herself idly contemplating if she would be able to make it to dinner that night without snapping. She was just playing out various scenarios in her head, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned slowly in her seat, only to come face to face with one Sirius Black, much to her horror.

He gave her a roguish smile, apparently oblivious to the fact that all the color had suddenly drained from her face.

"I like your hair," he informed her with a wink. "I'm Sirius Black, by the way, if no one's told you yet."

"I didn't ask for your opinion of my hair, Mr. Black," Hermione said tightly, not bothering to introduce herself.

"I volunteered it," Sirius said, seeming shocked and taken aback at Hermione's blatant hostility.

"Well don't!" Hermione snapped, spinning around in her seat to face front once more, leaving a gob smacked Sirius Black, who had never been so roundly rejected by a girl so clearly and immediately before in his life, reeling behind her.

"Well that went well," she heard someone say dryly from behind her, Remus, if she hadn't mistaken him out of the corner of her eye.

"Stuff it, Moony," Sirius said tersely, sounding quite put out. The other boy only laughed in response.

Hermione spent the rest of the lesson taking overly detailed notes and aggressively ignoring the presence of the boy behind her. The was made easier by the fact that she was in solidarity with Lily, who was herself aggressively ignoring James Potter, who was sharing the table over from them with Peter Pettigrew and kept attempting to pass her notes.

"Potter, stop it," Lily hissed finally, after angrily flicking away one too many notes with her wand. The lot of them had accumulated in a rather tragic looking pile on the floor at the foot of James' and Peter's desk.

"The two of you are hopeless," Remus laughed, assumedly referring to James and Sirius and their mutual lack of success that afternoon with Lily and Hermione. When she happened to oh so casually glance back at them as her and Lily were gathering up their things to leave, Hermione noted with some distaste that James was pouting and Sirius looked rather surly. Well, she thought, served the pair of them right. As much as she hated to think at all negatively of one of Harry's parents, James had really behaved quite obnoxiously toward Lily that afternoon, and Hermione could understand why the other girl disliked him. He had been incessant in his pestering of the red head all lesson, utterly undeterred by Lily's clear annoyance with him and his antics. Lily was anything but charmed, and Hermione found herself feeling similarly disenchanted despite herself.

"I told you Potter and Black were totally excruciating," Lily muttered to her as they excited the History of Magic classroom, Dorcas and Mary trailing behind them.

"You really told Black off in there Hermione," Dorcas chimed in as she and Mary caught up alongside Hermione and Lily, "I've never seen him look so confused before, the poor bloke," she said with a laugh, tossing her shimmering blonde hair over one shoulder and exchanging a wicked smile with Mary, who seemed less amused by the whole thing.

"I think Sirius was just trying to be nice when he said that about Hermione's hair," the other girl said quietly, eyes glued to the stone floor of the corridor as they walked along.

Dorcas huffed dismissively in response, rolling her own light blue eyes. "Oh come on Mary, lighten up, would you? Black was trying to flirt with her, and he got stone cold shut down. It was hilarious," the blonde witch declared. "And anyway, if you ask me, Black could use a good dose of humility every once in a while. Something to keep the boy humble. The hordes of desperate slags around here panting after him all the time certainly aren't doing anything to restrain his ego. Really, it's quite lucky we've got Hermione here now to keep him in check," she finished, slinging a companionable arm around Hermione's shoulders, much to the muggle born witches shock.

Quite honestly, she wasn't used to finding such easy acceptance among other girls. Lily and Dorcas' friendliness was a far cry from anything she'd ever experienced with Lavender and Parvati back in the 1990's. Hermione did find herself feeling a bit awkward about Mary though. The quiet, dark haired girl was still studying the ground as they walked, her eyes remaining downcast as they drew closer to the Great Hall. Hermione certainly hadn't meant to upset Mary, or cause any kind of tension between her new dorm mates, but she simply couldn't help her reaction to Black.

"I suppose he might've meant well," Hermione allowed, in a concession that was wholly for Mary's benefit, and had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Sirius and whatever actual intent he'd had when he'd made that comment about her hair. Privately, Hermione suspected that Dorcas was probably right and that Black had been trying to flirt with her, which, if true, was utterly surreal and really quite disturbing. She shuddered at the thought. Her statement though, as insincere as it may have been, had prompted Mary to finally look up from the floor and shoot her a tentative smile, so she supposed it had been worth it.

"Black is, erm, quite popular then?" Hermione asked, thinking back to Dorcas' comment about 'hordes of slags'. Surely that must have been an exaggeration, but it certainly did paint a vivid picture.

Lily snorted derisively. "Godric knows why, but yes."

"I think it's mainly down to his classical bone structure," Dorcas said, nodding sagely.

"Yes, to go along with his classically wretched personality," Lily shot back, and Dorcas laughed. "But there's no accounting for taste here at Hogwarts," the red head explained to Hermione. "At least among most of the female population. So that accounts for Potter and Black's inexplicable popularity."

"It's not inexplicable, both of them are fit," Dorcas said bluntly, prompting a nod of agreement from Mary and an uncomfortable frown from Hermione. "Just because they're annoying, don't pretend you can't see it, Lils."

"Stuff it, Dorcas," Lily said primly, breezing past them all into the Great Hall and seating herself at the Gryffindor table with an air of exaggerated dignity.

Hermione, Mary and Dorcas fell into place around her naturally, and it all felt shockingly normal to Hermione, as though she had done it many times before and it was a formed habit, common place and taken for granted. Much to her surprise, it seemed she was falling unexpectedly and easily into place with these girls. It was only her first day as a student in this 1970's version of Hogwarts, but already she felt startlingly more at home than she ever would have thought, at least among Lily and Dorcas. And, she supposed, Mary as well. In a sense it was comforting, of course it was, but it was also undeniably disconcerting. Could she really leave the 90's behind so readily? Were Harry and Ron so easily replaceable?

Hermione missed the boys fiercely, and she knew that she would as long as she was away from them, trapped here by herself in the 1970's. They were her best friends, and they'd always be in her heart, even if she never got to reunite with them in person. The budding friendships she was developing with her new, 1970's dorm mates, no matter what they might grow into, would never be able to replicate or replace what her friendships with Harry and Ron were. She'd been through so much with those two, and she had such an incredibly deep love for both boys, though of course she never would have said that to either of their faces. Ron would have called her a hopelessly silly girl, and told her not to be so disgustingly mushy, and Harry probably would have just stood there without saying anything and blushed awkwardly. Hermione smiled sadly. They were each so tragically emotionally stunted in their own unique ways, she thought with affection.

"Hermione?" Lily asked cautiously, breaking into the other witches' thoughts. "Are you alright?"

Hermione surfaced from her reminiscences to find Lily, Dorcas and Mary all staring at her with various degrees of concern. Lily's green eyes were scrunched slightly in worry, and Hermione found that suddenly she could scarcely bring herself to look away from them, seeing Harry reflected in them at that moment more strongly than ever.

"I'm fine," Hermione assured everyone, shaking her head slightly to clear it of the fog of memories which had briefly overtaken it. She couldn't make a habit of getting lost like that, she chided herself, no matter how easy or tempting it was to indulge in nostalgia and try to pretend she was still back in 1993 with Harry and Ron. She was here in the 1970's now, and she very much needed to keep her wits about her. Lily and the other Gryffindor girls had all been very nice so far, astoundingly really, but Hermione still needed to be careful with them. It was all well and good that they were making her feel so unexpectedly at home, but she couldn't let that lull her into a false sense of complacency. She could be friends with them, and Hermione desperately did want that, but she would always have to be on guard about how much she revealed, or she'd be putting all of them in incredible danger. Hermione sighed, now feeling quite a bit bleaker than when she had first sat down to dinner. She supposed that she could only ignore the dire reality of her circumstances for so long before the weight of she was baring reasserted itself. Nevertheless, Hermione had to push on, and so she pushed her hair back, pasting on a fragile smile for the benefit of her new friends. "Just disappeared for a bit, that's all," she said lightly. "I'm fine."

Dorcas and Mary both nodded, but Lily, it seemed, wasn't so easily put off. The red head tilted her head thoughtfully, letting out a skeptical hum. Her green eyes were still fixed firmly on Hermione, narrowed slightly in assessment. Unlike Mary and Dorcas, Lily's concern for Hermione seemed not to have been fully vanquished by the other witch's reassurances, which despite her best efforts, were evidently somewhat unconvincing. At least to Lily. Hermione found herself pinned by the worried and penetrating stare of her new green eyed friend, long after Mary and Dorcas had gone back to their food. Eventually, just when Hermione was beginning to feel quite uneasy under her gaze, Lily tore her eyes away, letting out one last thoughtful 'hmm', but apparently willing to let the matter drop.

The conversation began to flow naturally again after that, the girls asking Hermione question after question about her first day; what she had thought of her classes, how she liked the castle so far, and what students from other houses she'd had notable interactions with. For the rest of dinner though, in the background of the conversation, and unnoticed by either Mary or Dorcas, Lily continued to periodically shoot Hermione covertly worried looks. Hermione didn't comment, but made a mental note that she would have to be especially careful with the redhead. In stark contrast to her son, Lily appeared to be highly emotionally attuned to others, and almost frighteningly perceptive.

The next morning, Hermione woke feeling apprehensive and somewhat disoriented. Yesterday, and the events of the Welcoming Feast the evening before, had been such incredibly surreal experiences for her, perhaps even rivaling her first introduction to the wizarding world two years ago. She felt as though she was operating in a bizarre dreamscape in which the world she was inhabiting was quite familiar to her in many ways, but was populated by almost entirely different actors, or younger, altered versions of people she had known before from her own world. She was waking up to find herself in a disconcertingly warped version of reality. Even her dorm room, the exact same one in which she had slept in the 1990's, felt slightly off, and yet simultaneously virtually unchanged. The people with whom she was sharing a dorm were, of course, entirely different in this case, and not just younger versions of familiar faces.

Eyeing her new 1970's dorm mates, all three of which were still peacefully asleep at that moment (it was still quite early, after all, only half past five), Hermione didn't find herself grieving the loss of Lavender and Parvati all that much. Lily, Dorcas and Mary were certainly a marked improvement over those two, she thought. However blunt and uncharitable an assessment that may have been, Hermione couldn't help but believe whole heartedly in the veracity of it. Having lost any hope of reclaiming sleep at this point, Hermione slipped out of bed, making an effort not to rouse her still slumbering dorm mates. No reason to disrupt their sleep just because the thoughts running madly about all through Hermione's mind were too disruptive to allow her any. Rummaging through her newly acquired school trunk as quietly as possible, Hermione grabbed a towel and her bath kit, thinking an early morning shower might go some way towards clearing her head a bit. And even if it didn't, she reasoned, at least she would be clean.

Switching on the hot water tap once in the bathroom, Hermione was greeted to a considerably disheartening display. The shower head gurgled alarmingly, before halfheartedly spurting out a steam of water. It then seemed to give up all together, its flow of water subsiding into a pathetic, lukewarm dribble. Hermione sighed heavily, switching the tap back off and putting the poor thing out of its misery. It seemed that just as in the 1990's, Hogwarts' pipes had an unfortunate tendency to act up sometimes. This was perhaps aggravated by the fact that the Hogwarts pipes also sometimes served as passage for a terrifying, giant, snake monster, Hermione thought wryly. She shuffled across the room, opting to make her attempt at a shower in a different, hopefully more favored, stall.

From what Percy said, this kind of trouble never occurred in the Prefects bathroom, Hermione thought huffily as she tried yet another tap, her third now. She would have never admitted it out loud to anyone, but that legendary bathroom was one of the reasons she wanted to make Prefect in the first place. It wasn't the prime reason, of course, Hermione had a long list of considerably more righteous and practical reasons for wanting to be a Hogwarts Prefect, but it would be a tantalizing bonus of a prestigious and noble post. Privately, Hermione was very interested in the promised luxuries of the famed Prefects Bath. She thought longingly of such things, standing as she currently was under the weak, tepid, spray that, sadly, amounted to the best water pressure and temperature combination she had been able to find that morning.

Although she couldn't quite shampoo her hair on autopilot (dealing with her curls always necessitated at least some degree of care and attention), as she lathered, the majority of Hermione's mind was occupied with fretting over the coming day. The third year Gryffindors were scheduled for Transfiguration first thing that morning, followed immediately by Double Potions; a challenging combination which Hermione would normally be eager to tackle, but which, for the first time, she found herself feeling slightly apprehensive about. This was the 1970's, not the 1990's, and she wasn't quite sure what to expect from any of her classes this time around, much less ones that took place in combination with the Slytherins, as the coming Double Potions lesson would. Any situation where Gryffindors and Slytherins were unwillingly thrown together was a potentially dangerous one, and from what Hermione had seen so far, this axiom was just as true in the 1970's as it had been in the 1990's, perhaps even more so.

Maybe though, Hermione thought hopefully, this Professor Slughorn that Lily had been telling her about would be more adept at minimizing the vicious house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin than Snape had been. If anything, Snape had seemed to almost revel in exploiting the volatile dynamics between members of differing houses, and all the better if he could manipulate the situation in such a way that the outcome favored his own house. Lily had assured her that Slughorn was passably decent, but however fitting his name may have been for a potions Professor, the man was still head of Slytherin House, and in Hermione's experience that came with an inevitable amount of bias towards one's own students. Even McGonagall, as head of Gryffindor, was guilty of that, especially when it came to quidditch. Hermione herself was at an utter loss as to understand why otherwise rational people like Professor McGonagall got so worked up about quidditch, but she supposed her own lack of understanding didn't negate the undeniable passion the sport stirred in others.

It was hardly the time to be contemplating the perplexingly mass appeal of quidditch though, Hermione decided as she rinsed the conditioner from her hair, having left the product in for exactly the requisite amount of time its bottle informed her it needed to take effect. After all, she had much more important things to agonize over at the moment, like whether or not a sharp eyed Professor McGonagall would immediately spot her as an imposter in Transfiguration later that morning, and have her summarily thrown out of the school. Shutting off the tap and bringing an end to what had, on the whole, been a rather disappointing shower, and one which had decidedly failed to clear her head, Hermione sighed. Wrapping her hair up in a towel and glumly donning her robe, it occurred to the young witch that she'd been doing quite a lot of heavy, despondent, sighing since arriving in the 1970's. She'd really better learn to stop, Hermione told herself sternly, or she'd develop a reputation as a kind of living Moaning Myrtle, which was definitely not something she wanted to cultivate, no offense to Myrtle.

Her head may not have been any clearer as a result of her early morning excursion to the bath, but as Hermione made her way back to her dorm, unmet by anyone, she could at least appreciate privacy and quiet this morning had afforded her. Being alone with her thoughts, however uneasy company they may have made, gave her time to at least attempt to organize them, and to strategize about the coming day. Not that Hermione had managed to arrive at any sort of coherent strategy beyond 'keep your head down and just get through it', but she'd generously chosen to award herself points for trying.

She'd made it through the previous day employing just such a strategy, and although her first day of classes had been supremely awful in many respects, she had come out on the other side of it relatively unscathed, and even having learned a few things. For instance, Hermione had made the unfortunate discovery that it was significantly harder to stay focused on academics when one was being gawped at all day like an exotic animal on display in the zoo. Not to mention the frustration which came with being followed by a constant stream of whispers as her fellow students speculated all sorts of nasty and outlandish things about her, none of which were quite as outlandish as the truth, but many of which were shockingly rude. Then there had been her extensive, forced proximity to Sirius Black, the stress of which she was sure was going to eventually give her an ulcer.

Though Hermione hadn't had to endure much direct interaction with Black, beyond replying to that inane comment he had made about her hair, his mere presence in practically all her classes had had her consistently on edge all day. Despite considerable effort on Hermione's part, Black made himself very hard to ignore. He was constantly drawing attention to himself; interjecting his own, what he clearly thought was quite witty, commentary into their Professors' lectures and disrupting everyone by talking and laughing loudly with his friends. He also seemed to be incapable of sitting still for long periods of time, shifting about with positively maddening frequency. Hermione had longed many times throughout the day to be able to turn around in her seat and tell him to shut up so she could concentrate on something, anything else besides Black. Preferably the Professor and their lesson. In the end, she had settled for glaring heatedly at him out of the corner of her eye and huffing every time he did something particularly irritating, much to the amusement of Lily and Dorcas, and the mild consternation of Mary, who seemed to find Black's antics endearing for some reason.

Nudging open the door to the third year Gryffindor girls' dorm, Hermione was greeted by the sight of a sleepy looking Lily. Her new friend was sitting up in bed, yawning and rubbing at a mussed head of hair. Mary and Dorcas were still sleeping, the brunette ensconced in her blankets and curled up in a small, self-contained ball, while the blonde witch was sprawled messily on top of her covers, limbs flung about every which way.

"Hey," Lily said softly, her greeting impressively intelligible for someone who was also engaged in yawning massively. "Have you been up long? What time is it?"

"Just after six," Hermione whispered. "And not long, no. Just had a shower."

Lily squinted at her. "How was the water pressure?" she asked lowly, voice tinged with suspicion.

"Abysmal," Hermione replied flatly, and Lily groaned, falling back onto her pillows with a muted thump.

"Ugh, I knew it!" Lily griped. "It's always shit in the beginning of the year for some reason. Honestly, it's about the worst thing about coming back to school. They'll sort it out eventually though, they always do."

Hermione hummed noncommittally, selecting a sweater for the day and wondering idly if she'd eventually be able to pull it together and sort out her life here, trapped as she was now in the 1970's. At that moment, she was holding out more hope for the water pressure situation.

Transfiguration turned out to be almost the exact opposite of the frightening ordeal which Hermione had so been dreading. The 1970's version of Professor McGonagall was as brisk and no nonsense as ever. Blessedly, the black haired Professor chose not to comment at all on Hermione's presence, treating her like any other student, and addressing her only when she volunteered the answer to a question, rewarding her correct response with a sharp nod and a brief, approving smile. Despite the irrational fears which had been plaguing Hermione, her Transfiguration Professor was not, it happened, endowed with the prescient ability to detect her as an interloper from the future. For Hermione, feeling conspicuously out of place and consistently out of sorts since she had arrived in the 1970's, the familiar strict demeanor of Professor McGonagall was a pleasant bit of constancy stretching across the decades. On the whole, the effect of Transfiguration was quite comforting, and Hermione found she was able to immerse herself fully in the lesson in a way she hadn't been able to in any of the classes she had attended the day before. In the face of the numerous distractions Hermione was battling, Professor McGonagall still had a way of commanding attention.

Even Sirius Black and James Potter were taking diligent notes. They listened with rapt attention as McGonagall expanded on the finer details of animagi transformation, something they'd neglected to do in any of the classes the Gryffindor's had attended yesterday, at least that Hermione had seen. From what she could tell, Remus was by far the most studious of the so called 'Marauders', which made sense given his future occupation as a Professor. Lily confirmed her assessment, though she did admit, begrudgingly, that Black and Potter were usually in the running for top of the class.

"And they hardly study!" Lily complained as they headed to Potions, shaking her head. "It's completely infuriating! They manage to do so well and they expend so little effort!"

Folding her arms across her chest in order to combat the chill of the dungeons, Hermione entered the potions classroom trepidatiously, Lily at her side.

The redhead was craning her neck, looking around for someone, and she smiled when she spotted them, giving a little wave to a pale, moody looking boy wearing Slytherin robes. This must be Lily's Slytherin friend that Hermione had heard about, she thought, eyeing him with interest.

Lily grabbed her hand, tugging her in the direction of the Slytherin, who appeared considerably less enthused to see Lily than Lily was to see him. Though perhaps, Hermione reflected, he was just masking his true emotions; it would have been typically Slytherin of him. And, after all, it certainly wouldn't help his popularity among his own housemates if he were to be seen mixing enthusiastically with a muggle born Gryffindor. The boy's subdued manner in the face of Lily's infectious exuberance may have been merely strategic, Hermione reasoned. But that was a generous interpretation, and it didn't change the fact that, to her mind, he was behaving rudely toward Lily when they were supposed to be friends. Whatever the reason for the boy's attitude, she couldn't help but find it off putting.

"Come on, Hermione, there's someone I really want you to meet!" Lily was saying excitedly, dragging her to a stop before her Slytherin friend, who was eyeing Hermione like a threat which he had not yet had time to properly evaluate.

"Hermione, this is my good friend Severus Snape," Lily announced. "And Sev, this is my new friend Hermione Granger."

Hermione, frozen with disbelief in the wake of such an unexpected revelation, was incapable of saying anything in response to Lily's introduction of her friend as the absolute last person she had expected him to turn out to be. Though looking at him, Hermione could now clearly see the resemblance to an adult Professor Snape in the boy. The lank, greasy hair, the sallow skin, the dark eyes; the general unpleasant demeanor. It all fit. Hermione had known that Snape would be at Hogwarts as a student in this time. She'd calculated that he was about the right age, even if years of bitterness had made him appear a bit older than he was in her time. But she hadn't known he would be in their year, and she certainly hadn't known that he would be friends with Harry's mother. That was something she never could have anticipated. If he had truly been friends with Lily, how was it possible that he had come to hate Harry with such a vengeance, Hermione wondered? She simply didn't know what to make of it. She was stunned. An awkward silence, facilitated by Hermione's shock and Snape's apparent unfriendliness, had begun to drag on uncomfortably. Lily though, was still looking between the two newly introduced teenagers with expectant, hopeful eyes.

"Pleasure," Snape said finally, in a tone that made it clear to Hermione that his sentiments were the exact opposite.

"Er, likewise," Hermione said haltingly. "Nice to meet you Severus."

His name felt weird and inappropriate on her tongue as she formed it, and she could scarcely move it past her lips.

"Severus is something of a Potions prodigy," Lily explained proudly. "This is his best class."

"Lily flatters me," Snape cut in hastily, shooting the redhead a quelling look. Despite the young Snape's protestations though, Hermione had no doubt that what Lily said was true. She could fault the Snape she had known for many things, but the man's potion making ability was not one of them. His teaching methods, on the other hand, were another matter altogether. Hermione, taking a reluctant seat at a table that included both Lily and Snape, was rather curious to see how Slughorn differed from Snape in his instruction method.

A great deal, as it turned out, she discovered over the course of Double Potions that afternoon. Slughorn was an overly large man with a booming voice and smarmy, ingratiating manner. He seemed to care far less about people's house affiliations than he did about their families' social and political connections, Hermione observed. She watched with disdain as he lavished attention on both Black and Potter, while completely ignoring Remus and Peter, the later of whom was having quite a bit of trouble with his potion, and surely could have used correction from Slughorn. Not that the man noticed, gliding right past Peter without so much as a glance to spare for him or the disaster percolating in his cauldron. Instead, he made a beeline for Black and Potter, jumping right into pestering a deeply annoyed looking Sirius with questions about his family. It didn't seem like a topic the Black Heir was very keen to discuss, and he became visibly more annoyed as the conversation progressed, flinging potions ingredients about all too aggressively, and full on glaring at Slughorn by the end of it. It was this vicious glare of Black's, along with the naked hostility he had begun radiating towards their Professor, which seemed to finally get through to Slughorn and put him off. He waddled away, muttering something about lost causes and perhaps having more luck with the younger Black, Sirius' brother.

James Potter had been considerably politer to Slughorn when questioned about his family than Black had been (apparently his parents, Harry's grandparents, were doing quite well and enjoying retirement), but he still seemed happy to see Slughorn go. Once the Potion's Master had moved on from them, Potter slapped Sirius companionably on the back, saying something to him that Hermione couldn't make out, but which prompted Black to nod, and seemed to calm him down somewhat. Slughorn, meanwhile, had inserted himself into a discussion between a pair of Slytherin siblings, a boy and a girl with the last name Carrow, who were a great deal more receptive to his attention than either Black or Potter had been.

Slughorn clearly didn't totally discount people outside of the pureblood set though, Hermione could see. He was quite warm towards both Lily and Snape, each of whom, it was clear from Hermione's vantage point sitting next to them, excelled at potions. Hermione wasn't sure of Snape's blood status, he was at least a half blood, she assumed, but Lily's being a muggle born certainly didn't stop Slughorn from fawning over her. So it seemed that in the absence of familial political and social clout, talent did count for something with her new Potions Professor. He seemed quite pleased with Hermione's execution of the brew they had been assigned for the day, glancing between her and Lily and their potions and proclaiming loudly that, "Talented muggleborns must flock together!" a declaration which Hermione wasn't sure she was quite as flattered by as the man had intended. She exchanged a look with Lily, who shrugged and gave a little eye roll in response to Slughorn's comment.

There were a few eruptions of inter house sniping between various Gryffindors and Slytherins throughout the lesson, but Slughorn, to his credit, tamped down on them all rather quickly and effectively. The resulting environment was one that, while a little tense, was relatively drama free. It was hardly the open war zone between houses which Hermione had feared. Or, if it was a war, it was of the cold variety at the moment. In fact, if one took into account the fact that Lily and Snape were voluntarily sitting together, and that members of both houses were united in their complaints about the smell emanating from Peter Pettigrew's cauldron, it could even be considered a détente, Hermione mused.

The discovery of the friendship between Lily and Severus Snape had been, by far, the most jarring moment of the class for her. She spent the entire rest of the day trying to make sense of this perplexing relationship in the context of what she knew about the 1970's, and given what she knew of the future. Hermione couldn't help but feel that Lily would be incredibly hurt by the way her so called friend would later treat her son. She reasoned that this perhaps had more to do with James Potter, and Harry's uncanny resemblance to him, than it did to do with Lily. Snape, when he hadn't been working on his potion or hunched protectively over his text book scribbling secret notes in the margins, had spent a great deal of the lesson shooting furtive, nasty looks at the table which James and Sirius were sharing. He seemed to hate them even more than Lily did, if such a thing were possible, and Hermione speculated that a mutual dislike of the Marauders, particularly of Black and Potter, may have been a bonding factor for the unusual pair of friends.

In Hermione's opinion, however, Snape's evident dislike of James was absolutely no excuse for the way he had treated Harry in her own time, especially given that she now knew he had been good friends with Lily. And they must have been good friends if Snape was openly sitting and talking with Lily in front of other Slytherins, albeit all with a decidedly unfortunate attitude. Although, judging by how he had acted as an adult, Hermione supposed it was possible Snape's attitude problem had nothing to do with self-consciousness over associating with a muggle born in front of his housemates, and everything to do with his unpleasant, core personality. The muggle born witch left Double Potions feeling quite rattled. For Lily's sake, she had been cordial with Snape for the duration of the lesson, a process she had found to be, frankly, exhausting. It was clear that Lily desperately wanted them to get along though, and Hermione hadn't wanted to hurt her new friend's feelings by being unnecessarily rude right away (not that Snape seemed to have any compunctions about such things), so she had done her best to put aside her negative preconceptions of the Slytherin, at least for a couple of hours.

Exiting Potions, Hermione got the distinct impression that neither Mary nor Dorcas liked Snape very much. She suspected that Lily's mistaken assumption that she had no experience with Hogwart's house politics had instilled some hope in the other girl that she might be more open to the Slytherin than their dorm mates. Little did Lily know that Hermione had more reason to be biased against the man (boy, as he currently was) than anyone did. So now, along with the myriad of other problems Hermione was facing, she was left to wonder how on earth she was going to negotiate her evolving friendship with Lily, while also dealing with the redhead's inexplicable friendship with Severus Snape. So flummoxed was Hermione by this development that it had her contemplating if she had fallen not just back in time, but into some sort of bizarre, alternative universe as well.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Necessity of Compartmentalization

It was truly extraordinary, Hermione reflected, how, simply given some time, humans were capable of adjusting to even the most unusual and unbelievable of circumstances. Her parents, for example, had managed to accept the fact that she was a witch relatively quickly, despite some initial confusion and disbelief upon finding out that their daughter possessed magical powers. After all, looking back at incidents from Hermione's childhood, it had made a funny kind of sense to them, and in the end, her parents had been able to come to terms with what she was. As muggles, they were far from fully integrated in the wizarding society, existing more on the periphery of it, with Hermione serving as their sole connection to a world they didn't quite understand. But over the last few years her mum and dad had slowly grown used to, if not entirely comfortable, with her status as a witch and all that came with it. Hermione pondered that maybe she was meant to have a similar destiny for as long as she remained trapped in the past; able to adjust to things with time, but never fully integrated, never entirely comfortable.

It was now a few weeks into her confusing, whirl-wind of a new life in the 1970's, and the displaced witch was finding that, in spite of her own expectations, she was beginning to acclimate to her new environment. Existing in the Hogwarts of the 1970's as a 90's witch was undoubtedly a potential minefield, but Hermione thought that she'd so far avoided causing any majorly catastrophic incidents. Of course, it was quite possible that she'd inadvertently set something life altering into motion through a seemingly insignificant action or interaction, and that she just wasn't aware of it yet. But if she dwelled on such ominous possibilities, however likely they may have been, Hermione was sure she'd go positively mad. So, in the interest of the preservation of her own sanity, she chose to focus her energies elsewhere. Currently, she was huddled in the cavernous, Hogwarts library with Lily, penning a History of Magic essay.

In a lapse of her normally stringent focus when it came to studying, Hermione found herself uncharacteristically distracted by the nearby presence of Remus Lupin. The young version of her former (future?) Professor was sitting a couple of tables away from her and Lily, bent over a long sheet of parchment and deliberately scratching out an essay of his own. Somewhat unusually for the boy, he was by himself; unaccompanied by either James Potter, Sirius Black or Peter Pettigrew. Since arriving in the 1970's, Hermione had observed that it was very rare to see one of the Marauders in isolation from their cohort. The boys usually traveled together as a riotous foursome, or were at least seen in pairs. James, Sirius and Remus seemed particularly inseparable, if not unhealthily codependent, though Hermione had seen that Pettigrew did sometimes get left behind a bit.

"A Marauder spotted alone in the wild," Lily whispered, following Hermione's line of sight. The red head had adopted a decent approximation of the voice of a typical BBC nature documentary narrator. "An unusual occurrence indeed."

Lily tilted her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should invite the lone wolf to join us, separated from his usual pack as he is?"

Hermione shifted nervously in her seat. She'd yet to really interact much with Remus, as she tended to avoid the Marauders as much as she possibly could, just as a matter of course. She might have been tempted to approach James, but she'd grown quite close to Lily in the short time she'd been in the 1970's, and the other girl's visceral dislike of the boy was something of a deterrent for her. Not to mention, he looked painfully like Harry in such a way that it almost hurt Hermione physically to even look at him sometimes. The greatest deterrent of all when it came to approaching James Potter, of course, for Hermione at least, was the fact that he and Sirius Black were constantly glued to each other's sides. It was unsettling to her how clearly close the two of them were, knowing what she did of the future. They behaved like brothers. It was mystifying.

Through the course of Hermione's careful observation of Black (it was not problematically obsessive, no matter what Lily implied, it was practical, she insisted vehemently to herself), she had yet to see him interact at all with his actual brother, Regulus, whom she had seen sorted into Slytherin a few weeks ago. Of course, being in different years, as well as different houses, the Black boys weren't naturally thrown together much at school. Still, from what Hermione had observed previously, most siblings who weren't in the same house at Hogwarts still made efforts to seek each other out. Parvati and Padma Patil had managed to stay quite close despite their differing houses, much to Lavender Brown's poorly hidden jealousy and frustration any time the twins spent time together, and she was left the odd one out. Lavender may have been Parvati's best friend in Gryffindor, but it seemed it was hard to compete with the bond between a pair of twins.

Sirius and Regulus Black, in contrast to the Patil twins, had made no such efforts to stay close to each other (if they had ever been close in the first place). They spent no time whatsoever together, at least not that Hermione had seen. Indeed, they seemed to studiously avoid each other and seemed quite determined to ignore each other's general existences whenever they possibly could. Even when the Marauders engaged in confrontations with the Slytherins, an all too common occurrence, Sirius ignored Regulus if he happened to be there, and the other Marauders were seemingly content to follow Black's lead when it came to his little brother, leaving Regulus alone as well. The brothers appeared to be united in a mutual, unspoken, agreement to avoid any and all interaction with each other. If Hermione hadn't known what she did about Sirius and the terrible things he would come to do, she would have found the state of the Black brother's relationship quite sad.

She'd never had siblings herself, and with her parents so busy with their budding dental practice when she had been little, her childhood had been lonely at times. In her worst moments, feeling isolated and friendless at primary school, and then later, at the start of her first Hogwart's term, before she'd become friends with Harry and Ron, Hermione had often secretly wished for a sibling. She'd seen the unquestionably deep love the Weasley siblings had for each other, even if they did bicker and fight constantly, and she envied the easy bond between them. It seemed a pity and a waste to her that there were siblings who didn't share such bonds, or if they once had, that those bonds had disintegrated. But she supposed familial relationships were inevitably complicated. Even the Weasley's had their moments, surely. And then, of course, there was Lily and Petunia. Lily didn't talk about her older sister much, but from the little she did say, Hermione got the idea that the relationship between the sisters was already quite fraught.

"Hermione? Hello?" Lily was leaning forward in her seat, waving a hand in front of her face to get her attention. Hermione shook her head, scolding herself inwardly. She'd drifted off from the present again. She hadn't meant to do that.

"Sorry, Lily, what?" she inquired, smiling apologetically over not having heard her friend the first time

"Remus? Should we invite him to join us?" Lily asked her expectantly. "He looks a bit lonely over there," she trailed off, eyeing the lone Marauder speculatively.

"Oh, er, I dunno, Lily," Hermione protested, feeling unsure.

"Come on, Hermione!" Lily cajoled. "Remus is a very nice boy, I assure you. Especially when he's not among certain unpleasant company," she wrinkled her nose cutely, no doubt thinking of James, Sirius and Peter. "And he's quite brainy, so he makes a good study mate. Much better than Dorcas, she always wants to gossip."

"Oh, alright," Hermione relented, with a slight laugh for how easily Lily had won her over. Harry's mother really was a force to be reckoned with. "You've convinced me! But you can be the one to invite him over, I've never even spoken to him I don't think."

Lily winked at her. "Naturally." She hopped up out of her seat with a smile. "I will gladly be the facilitator of this little, impromptu study session. My idea, after all," she said airily, flipping her hair and flouncing off in the direction of Remus' table.

The quietest Marauder remained hunched over his sheet of parchment, but he'd stopped writing, having gone peculiarly still sometime over the course of Lily and Hermione's conversation about him. It was almost as if Remus had been able to hear them, but was attempting to act as though he hadn't. But that was ridiculous, of course, Hermione dismissed out of hand. Her and Lily hadn't been speaking that loudly. In point of fact, they'd been whispering. There was no way Remus would have been able to hear them from where he was sitting; he was practically all the way across the room from their table. Perhaps, Hermione thought practically, Remus had just been able to sense that they had been talking about him. People had a certain way of picking up on it when they were the object of a conversation. It was sort of intuitive.

After a confident march across the room, Lily had arrived at Remus's table; a red head on a mission. She now appeared to be doing her utmost best to convince Remus to join them. At one point, she gestured at Hermione, who did her part to seem at least somewhat encouraging by giving a tentative, little wave when Remus looked her way. Hermione could see that Lily was winning the boy over, and how could she not be, smiling effervescently at him as she was, in that particular dazzling way she had. Hermione suspected that, when it was being deployed strategically, as it undoubtedly was now, that smile of Lily's had the power to convince people to do a great many things which they may have been previously reluctant about. She herself had personal experience with the effects of that smile and she had only known Lily for a few weeks. In any case, it seemed to be working quite efficiently on Remus, who was nodding agreeably at Lily, and had begun gathering up his study materials, stowing them in a considerably overburdened looking book bag. It bore a striking resemblance to the state of Hermione's own book bag, which, although new, had already begun deteriorating from having been pushed to its absolute limit. Looking at the strained seams of the future Professor's book bag, Hermione couldn't help but feel that perhaps Lily was right, and that her and Remus would get along quite handily. But maybe that was what made her so apprehensive to make his acquaintance.

Lily was heading back to their table now, a bemused looking Remus following behind her.

"Hermione, this is Remus. Remus; Hermione," Lily introduced needlessly once they had arrived. Hermione and Remus certainly knew who each other were already, but it was true that they had never had a conservation before, or been formally introduced. At least not in the 1970's . They exchanged a pair of awkward waves.

"Hermione. That's taken from one of Shakespeare's plays, isn't it?" Remus asked, taking the seat across from her and busying himself with arranging his books and papers.

Hermione lit up with delight at his unexpected observation. "Yes!" she said eagerly. "Do you know of him?" There weren't many people in the wizarding world who had heard of the famous muggle author, much less were familiar enough with his work to comment on the origins of her name.

"Of course," Remus said quickly. "He was a brilliant author."

Hermione smiled enthusiastically at Remus, in total agreement with his sentiment. Despite her reservations about potentially forming a friendship with the Marauder, she was undeniably happy to have found someone besides Lily with whom she could discuss muggle literature. Said red headed girl was now looking pointedly satisfied, seemingly quite chuffed with herself for having orchestrated what was proving to be a successful endeavor.

"And your name," Hermione ventured. "That's taken from the Roman legend, correct? About the little boys nursed by the she-wolf, who go on to found Rome? Remus was one of them, wasn't he?"

Remus nodded, grimacing a bit for some reason. "Yes," he confirmed, no longer looking at the girls, but staring instead at the dull, scratched surface of the library table, drumming his fingers on it agitatedly. "Turned out to be a bit of an unhappy coincidence, that, but-" he trailed off suddenly, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Never mind," he finished abruptly, seeming quite out of sorts all of a sudden.

Hermione and Lily shared a perplexed look, turning in unison to frown at Remus with twin moues of puzzled concern. He fidgeted uncomfortably under their stares. Although it wasn't the girls' intention, it was quite intimidating for a young man who felt he may have already said too much. He knew Lily Evans to be whip smart and perceptive, and from what he had gathered so far, the same could also be said of Hermione Granger, their unexpected transfer student with the mysteriously tragic past. It was no wonder her and Lily had become such good friends already, the two of them were scarily alike, though Lily lacked any sort of tragic past, at least as far as Remus knew. He sighed internally, pasting on a strained smile and quickly set about changing the subject from that of unfortunately prophetic names to the much more benignly academic one of their current Charms assignment.

Despite that bit of initial awkwardness, which they managed to brush over relatively quickly, it was quite the pleasant and productive afternoon for Hermione, Lily and Remus. The three of them studied peaceably together for the next few hours, occasionally engaging in conversation and asking each other relevant questions, but mostly content to focus on their work. Hermione actually found it to be remarkably soothing. Studying (almost) always had a calming effect on her, and she was finding that both Lily and Remus were excellent companions for it. Perhaps she had been overly cautious in her reluctance to spend time with this young, 1970's version of her future Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Just as with Lily, she'd never be able to be completely open and at ease with Remus, but that was true of everyone she was inhabiting the past with, she reasoned. Just because she had known him in the future didn't necessarily make Remus any more dangerous to associate with in the past than anyone else. It's not as though she'd even had all that much interaction with him in the 1990's. He'd been her Professor for less than a month. It had been enough time for Hermione to develop an appreciation of him and his teaching methods, which were in stark contrast to her previous, considerably ineffectual instruction in the subject of Defense Against the Dark Arts, but not enough time for her to really get to know him.

Of course, there had been the incident on the train with the dementors. Hermione was aware that the whole business had surely been made much less unpleasant than it could have been due to Professor Lupin's presence. He'd gained her respect and admiration straight away with how he'd handled the situation so deftly. Now that she knew he had been such good friends with James Potter in school, she couldn't imagine how he had felt seeing Harry, who was the spitting image of his father, for the first time in who knows how long, much less in such unusual and dire circumstances. But any emotional turmoil that Lupin had been experiencing had been well hidden. She did wonder why Lupin hadn't seen Harry at all in the intervening years of his childhood. As it was here in the 1970's, James and Remus (and Sirius Black, Hermione was forced to acknowledge, even if it made her uncomfortable) were incredibly close. She couldn't imagine that Lupin wouldn't have wanted to see his friends son and be involved in his life, but perhaps circumstances had prevented him from doing so. For some nagging reason she suspected Dumbledore may have played a role in things, though she wasn't sure why she felt that way. In any case, she could only speculate at this point, and Hermione was quite sure she didn't want to remain in the past long enough to find out for certain.

If she wanted to be friends with Remus, which Hermione now thought that she did, it might be beneficial to try to separate him from the Professor whom she had known so briefly in the 1990's. As much as she possible could anyway. After all, the Remus she had spent the afternoon studying with hadn't yet grown into the man who had (or would—tenses were such complicated business when one had traveled through time) taught her Defense along with Harry and Ron. It would probably do her no good to conflate the two of them, and it would almost certainly result in a headache, she thought. Indeed, it already was. Perhaps she should just allow herself the freedom to simply enjoy spending time with Remus, who happened to like Shakespeare and made an excellent study partner, rather than expending so much energy projecting Lupin onto him. The 1970's were forcing Hermione to become a lot better at compartmentalization, that was for certain. Frankly, it was exhausting. But the alternative of countless introspective speculation and worry was even more exhausting, and would probably drive Hermione quite mad if she continued with it. So it was possible that, with extreme compartmentalization, she had arrived at the best mode of operation for herself and her sanity while she was in the 1970's. What remained to be seen was if she had the self-discipline to put that into practice, and to not let her thoughts and worries about what she knew of the future completely overwhelm her while she was here in the past.

It was later that week, in Potions, that Hermione's newfound compartmentalization abilities were to be severely tested. It was as though fate had sensed her determination and optimism regarding her newly arrived at defense mechanism of choice , and was dead set on smashing her hopes for enacting it effectively. In a misguided attempt at 'mixing things up', Slughorn had decided that, rather than letting his Slytherin and Gryffindor third years arrange themselves into their usual, preferred groupings, he would assign potions partners for the day himself. Upon revealing this news, Slughorn was greeted with a predictable round of groans and eyerolls from his students across both houses, who were considerably less enthused about this idea than he was. He waved away their protest with a small chuckle, a distinct sadistic sparkle emanating from his beady little eyes. Why, Hermione wondered, did teachers always think assigning partners was such a profoundly delightful and original idea? In almost one hundred percent of cases, it was clearly the exact opposite. To Hermione's eye, Professors seemed to do this kind of thing largely for the benefit of their own amusement, which, in her opinion, was not a reason with academic merit behind it.

As Slughorn began pairing people up, and it became clear that he was not assigning partners across house lines, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed Slughorn was smart enough to recognize the forcible pairing up of Gryffindors and Slytherins for the potentially catastrophic endeavor it was. Unfortunately for Hermione, she had been lulled into a false sense of security by this choice on the part of Slughorn. The sigh of relief it had prompted from her, it turned out, had been decidedly premature. She had been prepared for unpleasantness, but nothing could have prepared her for the cataclysmic horror of being assigned to work with Sirius Black. Which is, of course, exactly what ended up happening.

Why did bad things always happen in potions, Hermione thought crossly as she dragged herself across the room towards Black, feeling as though she had lead weights attached to her legs and was wading through a thick syrup towards the embodiment of evil. Well, that was possibly slightly dramatic, she acknowledged to herself, but Black was a future mass murderer. Hermione certainly had no desire to share a table with him. She would have rather sat with Snape! And that was saying something, because even though she loved Lily, and had tried very hard to be respectful of the other girl's friendship with the moody Slytherin, she still found Snape to be deeply unpleasant.

Lily had been paired up with Remus, which seemed desperately unfair to Hermione from the vantage point of her own situation. Still, it was hard to feel any bitterness toward her new friend just for having the benefit of Slughorn's favoritism. In the short time she'd been in the 1970's Hermione had already observed what a mixed blessing that favoritism could be. Interacting with Slughorn as a muggle born involved a lot of grinning and bearing it when the old pureblood inevitably said something unintentionally condescending or offensive to you, something Lily dealt with very well. Hermione certainly couldn't fault the girl for reaping what benefits there were from having managed to stay in the Potion Master's good graces for so long. The red head had screwed up her face in sympathy when Hermione's own partner had been announced, looking horrified on her behalf. Lily knew, at least to some degree, how Hermione felt about Black. It wasn't as if she knew the whole picture, of course, but she'd certainly picked up on the fact that Hermione strongly disliked Black, and had seen that her friend went out of her way to avoid the Marauder at all costs.

So itt was with a great deal of reluctance, and no small amount of muted horror, that Hermione forced herself to take a seat next to Black at his table. Irritatingly, he had spread his papers about all across the surface of their work station in a messy and almost wanton manner, clearing uncaring of the fact that his mess was obviously encroaching on her designated space. With a sniff, Hermione proceeded to edge her chair as far away as possible from Black, moving it none to subtly to the end of the table. This did not go unnoticed by her companion, who was looking considerably affronted by her behavior. But Hermione was utterly uncaring of the fact that she was being very obviously, and incredibly rude. She had no time for politeness when it came to Sirius Black.

For a few minutes they sat in stiff, uncomfortable silence as they read over and reviewed the instructions for their assigned potion. Hermione, in a continuing vein of rudeness, had not even bothered to verbally greet Sirius, and had instead nodded at him in brusque manner. Black had returned her nod shortly, seeming to become visibly more and more frustrated by Hermione's unwarranted (to his knowledge), but undeniable hatred of him the longer he was subjected to it.

"Well," Hermione said when they had both clearly finished with the instructions. "I guess we had better begin. I'll go get the ingredients, you can," she paused to gesture at the mess of Black's belongings, still spread all across the table, "clear all of this up."

"Fine," Sirius grunted, clearly exasperated by her and her attitude toward him.

Hermione trotted off to get the ingredients, thankful to be able to put some much needed distance between her and Black, if only very briefly. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, angrily shoving papers into his bag and appearing quite aggrieved. She huffed in irritation. Black was aggrieved at having been forced to work with her? Thatwas rich! As if he had any reason to be offended by her presence! Well, she was being remarkably unpleasant toward him, Hermione could acknowledge, but she certainly had her reasons! Not that Black could possibly be privy to her reasons at this point, but still. He was a future murder. He deserved her rudeness. Certain in the righteousness of her what she would normally consider totally unacceptable behavior, Hermione finished gathering up the supplies.

Returning to their now clear table, she stiffly resumed her seat, pausing to shoot a nasty glare at Black as she did so. The two of them then began sorting the ingredients, and shortly thereafter her and Black began working on their potion, enveloped in a tension fraught silence. They continued in this manner for the majority of the lesson, communicating as little as possible and scarcely bothering to look at each other. Hermione would have been perfectly happy to have gotten through this whole ordeal without having said more than a few, clipped words to Black, but he, it seemed was not so content with such an arrangement.

"Why do you hate me?" Sirius asked suddenly after about an hour, breaking away from the lacewing flies he had been cutting in order to stare at Hermione in frustrated perplexity.

Startled by this accusation, Hermione nevertheless continued with the seven counterclockwise stirs which were needed at this juncture of the brewing process, lest their potion end in utter disaster. Additionally, there was the added benefit of her careful ministrations providing her with an excuse not to address Sirius, at least for the moment. Hermione found however, that as she stirred she had to try very hard not to be unnerved by the Black heir's unwavering, accusatory gaze. Too quickly, she found herself finished with her stirring and left with nothing to do but to face the boy next to her, still looking upon her with an air of wounded accusation and frustration.

Slowly laying down her wand on their shared potions table, Hermione folded her hands primly in her lap before reluctantly turning to face Sirius.

"I hardly hate you, Black," she said dismissively. "Don't be ludicrous."

Sirius snorted indelicately. "Ludicrous, am I? Is that why you flinch and turn the color of moonstone dust every time I come near you?"

Hermione struggled not to flinch just now. Since arriving in this time, she had done her utter best to avoid this boy version of Sirius Black as much as possible, but given their shared living arrangements and classes it was something of a difficult task. She found herself forced into his presence almost constantly, and apparently she hadn't been as adept at controlling her reaction to him as she had thought. She'd certainly been anything but subtle about her negative feelings towards him today.

"My complexion is quite pale naturally, Black," she said tightly, in an attempt at deflection.

Sirius raised his eyebrows at her skeptically. "Oh is it? Because I thought you looked quite rosy cheeked the other night in the common room talking to Remus!"

Hermione flushed involuntarily. "We were discussing Shakespeare! Literature excites me!"

Sirius just looked at her, gob smacked at that explanation. Hermione wasn't being untruthful though. Since their study session with Lily earlier that week, Hermione and Remus had forged what seemed like the beginnings of a tentative friendship, and had begun chatting somewhat regularly. As she had anticipated, it was quite nice to be able to talk intelligently about muggle literature with someone other than Lily. Harry and Ron had certainly never been interested in such things, but the 1970's was affording her more opportunities than she would have expected for such discussions.

Her current conversation, if one could classify it as such, had lapsed into silence after her outburst, as Sirius continued to stare at her in bewilderment.

"I don't hate you, Black" Hermione reiterated weakly, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive posture.

Sirius snorted again, though this time it sounded more defeated than accusatory. After another drawn out silence, he looked sideways at her.

"It's because of my name, isn't it?" Sirius stated flatly, hardly a question. "Black." he said, biting out his surname with a distinctly unpleasant expression on his face. "You think I'm some sort of muggleborn hating, pureblood maniac, don't you?"

Hermione sucked in a breath, studiously not looking at him. Something along those lines anyway. No matter how innocent he seemed now, this was a boy who would grow up to do monstrous things in the name of blood purity. He would become a mass murderer.

"Haven't you heard?" Sirius whispered harshly, breaking Hermione from her reverie. "I'm a blood traitor now. A disgrace to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black," he continued bitterly, uttering the Black family motto in mocking tones. "They don't even want me home for Christmas."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly. Despite everything, she found herself feeling genuinely bad for Sirius Black in that moment. He just looked so bitter and dejected right then. Unbidden, she was reminded of Harry staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas Holidays, unwanted by his family as well. Immediately following that involuntary thought, Hermione restrained a choked gasp, disgusted with herself for having even momentarily associated Sirius and Harry together. In her own time, Sirius Black had escaped from the most heavily guarded prison in the wizarding world just to come after Harry, in all likelihood to attempt his murder. The very thought vanished any pity she may have briefly felt for the Black heir. Resolutely, she turned away from him.

"Are you almost done with those lacewings? We need to add them in a few minutes." She said woodenly.

Sirius sighed heavily. "Yeah, alright, fine. But Granger?"

"What?" Hermione snapped eventually, when the expectant silence had become too oppressive for her to bear.

"I am nothing like my family," Sirius said fiercely. "You'll see."

Hermione simply continued to stare at the top of the scratched potions table, and eventually, with yet another sigh, Sirius went back to the lacewings.