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Chapter Text

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The Burrow — Winter Holiday, Hermione Granger’s Third Year (Age 14)

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The Burrow creaked in the silence of the winter night, wrapped in snow and the soft rhythm of wind brushing against the crooked walls. But inside, something sour stirred beneath the scent of pine needles and molasses.

It no longer felt like home.

Hermione Granger stood at the top of the stairs in her lilac nightgown, her hands clenched at her sides. Her slippers were silent against the old wood as she leaned over the railing, her frizzy curls hanging loose around her face. Beneath the cotton of her nightgown, her Time-Turner pressed into her chest—an almost imperceptible heat, like a warning.

She was fourteen, older than most in her year thanks to her secret use of the Time-Turner, and for the first time in a long while, she felt young. Not in the innocent way, but small. Unseen. Betrayed.

Voices drifted up from the kitchen below.

“…he’s responding exactly as we’d hoped,” said Albus Dumbledore, his calm voice slicing through the floorboards. “Ginny has been steady. Predictable. Gentle. He’s already begun to form a bond.”

“And the boy’s just thirteen,” Molly Weasley said smugly. “Still desperate for love and approval. He’s practically leading himself by the nose into her arms.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Her fingers tightened on the banister.

“Once the bonding is secure,” Molly continued, “Harry’s vaults, his name, his influence—they’ll all be under our guidance. The Ministry is watching. They’ll support the union.”

“We still have a complication,” Dumbledore murmured. “Sirius Black.”

“Ugh.” Molly’s voice sharpened. “That mangy blood-traitor. If he reaches Harry—”

“He’ll destroy everything,” Dumbledore said simply. “We cannot let him. The will must remain sealed.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“You… you sealed the Potters’ will,” Molly confirmed.

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied. “James and Lily, for all their bravery, made foolish choices. Naming Sirius guardian? Giving him full control of Harry’s legacy? No. That would’ve led to chaos. We had to ensure Harry’s loyalty remained with us.”

“And so you gave him to the Dursleys,” Molly said.

A beat of silence.

“I did,” Dumbledore admitted. “He needed to grow up yearning. Craving a family, love, purpose. I made sure he would accept it when we offered it—through the Weasleys. Through me.”

Hermione could take no more.

She stepped down the stairs, trembling with rage. Her voice rang out like a curse.

“You bastards.”

The kitchen went still.

Molly turned, wand in hand. Dumbledore faced her with unreadable calm.

“You knew he was being abused!” Hermione shouted, her voice cracking. “You let him suffer—so he’d be easier to control?!”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dumbledore said.

“You planned this,” she snarled. “You’ve been manipulating him—twisting him into something that suits your plans! And you—” she rounded on Molly, “—you’re selling your daughter like a bloody bride token to access his name and money!”

“You will not speak to me like that in my own house!” Molly snapped, face blotched with fury. “You ungrateful little Mudblood—”

“Say it again,” Hermione growled. “Go on. Say it again while I have a wand in my hand.”

Molly raised hers. Dumbledore stepped between them.

“Enough,” he said softly, dangerously. “You’ve always been clever, Hermione. Too clever. But that cleverness has made you dangerous. You’re interfering where you don’t belong.”

“I belong wherever truth needs a voice,” Hermione said. “I won’t let you do this to Harry.”

“You won’t have a choice,” Molly hissed.

Hermione could hear the house beginning to stir above them—doors creaking open, sleepy footsteps, voices.

“I’ll tell Harry. I’ll find Sirius Black! You won’t get away with this—”

“Stupefy!”

The spell tore into her chest like fire.

Her world snapped sideways. Her knees buckled. Her skull hit the floorboards hard.

Her last breath was a gasp of betrayal as the Time-Turner slipped free from beneath her nightgown and hit the ground with a faint chime.

Then—

Magic surged.

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Through Time, Blood, and Shadows

It didn’t feel like falling. It felt like being ripped apart.

Hermione screamed—but no sound escaped her throat.

She was weightless, formless, broken. Time tore through her like glass. Her skin blistered with heat, her bones screamed, her heart pounded so loud it drowned every thought.

The air around her was not air—it was pressure, force, memory, magic. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

She saw flashes.

Ron, laughing at breakfast.

Harry grinning on his broom.

Books. Firelight. Her parents. Hogwarts.

And then—

Pain.

Not physical. Existential. Her soul aching, as if being rewritten moment by moment. She felt her identity fray, every part of her mind battling to stay.

She didn’t know who she was.

She didn’t know when she was.

And through it all, she held one last thought—

Harry. I’m sorry.

Then—

She hit something hard.

A wooden table. A crack. Screams.

She heard teacups shatter. Voices cry out in shock. Someone yelled for help.

Then the blood—her blood—poured from her temple.

And finally…

Oblivion.

Chapter Text

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The sun poured golden light through the stained-glass windows of Dagworth-Granger Manor’s breakfast room, splintering into rich hues of crimson and gold across the elegant mahogany table. A pot of Earl Grey steamed quietly at the center, flanked by silver trays of flaky pastries, fresh fruit, and buttered toast. Seven voices drifted easily in and out of warm conversation and morning ritual.

Hector Dagworth-Granger, the eldest and sternest of the siblings, sat at the head of the table with his wand resting beside his teacup, his dark skin luminous in the soft morning light. His close-cropped hair showed faint silver at the temples, but the commanding presence in his sharp brown eyes hadn’t dimmed in the least.

To his left sat his wife, Helen Dagworth-Granger, née Crouch. Her warm hazel eyes scanned the morning Prophet with weary interest. She was not born into their bloodline, her skin lighter, her curls a shade between chestnut and bronze, but her bond to the family was forged through fierce loyalty and a love that ran deeper than magic.

“Another poorly-reasoned Ministry initiative,” she sighed, folding the paper. “Honestly, who thought an anti-apparition zone around Diagon Alley was wise?”

“Likely someone with no need to shop for their own lacewing flies,” grumbled Henry, the second eldest, dunking toast in marmalade. His dreadlocks were tied back neatly in a green silk ribbon.

“Well, the alley was a bit chaotic last week,” mused Harold, always the most diplomatic. He adjusted his spectacles, his tea untouched, too absorbed in a potion journal.

Howard, practical and stoic, rolled his eyes and continued buttering a scone while Hugo—forever the joker—was busy charming a strawberry to dance across Hannah’s plate.

“Stop that,” Hannah scolded, swatting his wand with her spoon. The youngest sibling, her hair coiled tightly under a floral kerchief, wore her usual pale green healer’s robes and an expression of fond exasperation. “It’s going to land in my porridge.”

“It’s not a real breakfast until someone transfigures a strawberry,” Hugo said brightly, then raised his brow at Hadrian. “Come on, you’ve been quiet all morning.”

“I’ve been reading,” Hadrian replied, not looking up. “There’s a passage on bloodline tracking that’s relevant to our current archive work.”

Just as Hector opened his mouth to respond, the manor shuddered.

The chandelier rattled.

A snap like thunder cracked through the room—an arc of lightning burst from the center of the ceiling—and before any of them could reach for their wands, a portal bloomed in the air with a violent swirl of gold and deep purple light.

Then came the sound—like glass breaking inside their skulls—and a figure fell through.

A girl.

She tumbled straight through the center of the table, scattering tea, jam, porcelain, and silverware. The crash was immense—plates shattered, chairs overturned. The girl hit the table hard, bounced, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her nightgown, a singed lilac, was scorched and torn. Her skin was scraped and burned, her bare feet blackened as if from fire.

“Merlin’s balls—” gasped Hugo, leaping back.

“Don’t touch her!” Hector snapped, rising to his feet. His voice was all command.

The room stilled except for the faint hiss of lingering magic in the air. The manor itself creaked, groaned—as if thinking. Then, beneath the silence, the soft voice of the house itself stirred.

“She is blood.”

Everyone froze.

Henry knelt beside the unconscious girl, wand at the ready. “She’s breathing,” he said. “Faintly. She’s… she’s been through something. Her magic’s all over the place.”

Helen stepped forward. “Who would dare send a child through time like this?”

“She’s not just any child,” murmured Hannah. She had moved beside Henry, placing her hands gently near the girl’s temples. “She’s hurt, but… her magic is bound. Purposefully.”

Harold paled. “Bound? Who in Merlin’s name would bind the magic of someone so young?”

“Someone dangerous,” said Hector darkly. “Harold. Howard. Lock down the manor. I want every floo sealed, every ward raised. Only blood may pass the perimeter now. No one in, no one out.”

Howard and Harold stood immediately. “Understood.”

“House-elves!” Helen called.

With a series of soft pops, a cluster of elves appeared. They wore delicate crocheted garments in varying shades of green—Sage, Mossie, Fern, Olive, Minty, and Pistachio.

“Yes, Mistress?” came the chorus.

“This girl is now under Dagworth-Granger protection. You are not to speak of her to anyone outside the family. Do you understand?”

The elves nodded, their eyes wide. “We swears it, Mistress Helen.”

“Good,” said Hector. “Hannah, what can we do for her?”

“She needs rest. Magical and physical. I’ll prepare a potion to repair the burns and check for internal damage. But we must find a way to unbind her magic—gently. It may be the only way to heal her completely.”

As they worked, Henry brought out the family’s enchanted ancestral tome.

“If she’s blood, we’ll find it.”

Hector took a drop of her blood—gingerly, from her arm—and placed it onto the surface of the book. The parchment shimmered, names unfolding like roots and vines.

A line appeared, branching out from the distant cousin Celestria Dagworth-Granger, marked “disinherited squib.” The line twined forward and down—and there she was.

Hermione Jean Granger. Child of Wendell Granger, descended from the Dagworth-Granger line, and Jean Black, a squib born from the disowned Black family branch.

“Merlin,” breathed Hugo. “She’s one of us.”

“A child of two squibs,” murmured Harold, eyes scanning the names. “Both exiled from their families. That explains the magical instability—her power must have burst forth untamed.”

“Explains how she passed the wards,” Henry added.

Helen reached out and gently brushed Hermione’s wild, frizzled curls from her face. “She’s family,” she whispered. “Burned and lost in time, but ours nonetheless.”

“She looks no older than fourteen,” Hadrian said quietly. “What in Morgana’s name has she seen?”

“A child should never look so worn,” Hannah whispered. “Someone did this to her.”

“We’ll find out who,” said Hector, voice like granite. “But for now, we heal her.”

And so they did.

Over the next day, the siblings pooled their knowledge—Hannah brewed salves and elixirs while Harold constructed runic wards to stabilize her magical core. Henry and Howard handled diagnostics while Hugo devised clever charms to soothe the residual magical feedback lashing off her unconscious form. Helen sang soft spells under her breath and sat by the bedside when the others took rest.

On the third day, her burns faded. By the fifth, her breathing eased. On the sixth, the binding spell was carefully, cautiously undone—and the magic that poured out was brilliant.

It lit the room in a golden hue. The manor itself gave a low hum of approval.

Hector stood, watching her sleep as the magic around her calmed.

“She’s powerful.”

“She’s wounded,” Helen murmured. “In ways deeper than flesh.”

“And she’s alone,” added Hannah.

“No longer,” said Hector firmly. “No child of ours suffers alone.”

They did not yet speak of blood adoption.

But they would.

And above them, the Manor watched, and waited.