Chapter Text
The cool, almost musty air of the library wrapped around Hermione like a protective cloak, shielding her from the bustling corridors of Hogwarts beyond. She perched on the edge of a narrow wooden bench tucked deep within a shadowed alcove, her knees bent close to her chest as she carefully balanced an ancient, leather-bound tome on her lap. The book—Foundations of Temporal Theory and Practical Applications—was a rare relic from Professor McGonagall’s private collection, its pages yellowed and brittle, edged with tiny, curling tears that whispered of centuries of use.
Flickering candlelight from nearby sconces cast long, restless shadows that danced across the cramped shelves packed with dusty volumes and forgotten scrolls. The library’s familiar scent—old parchment mingled with a faint trace of melted wax and the faint, sharp tang of magical residue—filled her nostrils, calming her frayed nerves. But Hermione barely noticed. Her sharp eyes were glued to the dense script, scanning complex diagrams of spiraling hourglasses and interwoven timelines, her mind locked tight on the intricacies of time magic.
Every line, every formula felt like a key—if she could master it, perhaps she could unlock time itself and bend it to her will. Not to change the past, never that—but to stay on top of her impossible schedule. To give herself more hours in the day. To balance the heavy load of classes, homework, and now, secret lessons with Professor Snape.
Her pulse quickened as she glanced at the tall clock hanging on the far wall, the heavy pendulum swinging with measured certainty. The hour hand inched closer to curfew—an invisible deadline pressing down on her chest like a weight. She could almost hear the footsteps of professors patrolling the halls, the distant echo of students making their way to dormitories, and the ever-present urgency humming in her veins.
The delicate gold chain of her Time Turner rested heavily against her throat, the tiny hourglass shimmering faintly with suspended sand. Twice already today she had twisted it, each turn sending her spiraling backward or forward through the hours to cover multiple classes at once, to attend simultaneous lessons she could never otherwise juggle. Each jump was taxing, demanding a fierce concentration and an iron grip on control.
But today felt different.
More fragile.
Like the tiniest misstep might shatter the fragile web she was weaving.
She bit her lip, heart hammering against her ribs.
One more jump. Just one more.
She closed the heavy book with a soft snap, setting it carefully on the bench beside her. The faint scratch of her robes echoed in the stillness. With a deep breath, she lifted the Time Turner and whispered the incantation beneath her breath, her voice barely audible even in the quiet alcove.
“Tempus revolvo.”
The air around her seemed to ripple, bending and twisting like the surface of a disturbed pond. The candle flames flickered wildly, shadows stretching and fracturing as if reality itself was warping. The scent of old parchment and melted wax folded in on itself, curling into strange, unfamiliar shapes.
Her stomach lurched violently, as if the world itself had turned inside out. The familiar sensation of twisting through time—the one she had grown cautiously accustomed to—was gone, replaced by a dizzying vertigo that stole her breath and blurred her vision. When the swirling colors finally settled, the sight that greeted her was nothing like the orderly rows of bookshelves and flickering candles she had expected. Instead, towering trees loomed around her, their gnarled branches entwined like skeletal fingers against a silver-tinged sky. Pale moonlight sifted through the thick canopy, casting eerie patterns on the cold, damp earth beneath her trembling hands.
A sharp, searing sting radiated from her left arm where she must have hit the ground during the fall. She winced, pressing her fingers gently to the sting, feeling the faint warmth of fresh blood trickling between her palm and the rough bark of a nearby tree. Panic bubbled up in her chest, quick and hot, pricking at her skin like a swarm of invisible needles. She scrambled shakily to her feet, every muscle tense and alert, clutching at her side as if that might steady her. Her wide, searching eyes flicked through the darkness, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
The Forbidden Forest.
How had she ended up here? When? Questions raced through her mind in a chaotic jumble. She should have been safely nestled in the castle, no more than hours away from the present she knew. Yet this—this place—was different. Ancient. Wild. Dangerous.
Her fingers immediately went to her neck, instinctively searching for the reassuring weight of the Time Turner. But it wasn’t there. Cold dread settled in her gut. She must have dropped it during the fall. Without it, she was trapped—unable to return, unable to control her fate.
Her breath quickened, shallow and uneven. She fumbled at her robes, fingers brushing where her wand should have been. It was gone too. A wave of vulnerability crashed over her. Wandless, without her Time Turner, alone in the heart of the Forbidden Forest—there was no defense against whatever dangers lurked in the shadows.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed nearby—the unmistakable snap of a twig underfoot. She froze, every nerve alight with tension. From somewhere in the darkness, soft footsteps drew closer, deliberate and measured. Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper, barely more than a breath.
“Who’s there?”
No answer came, only silence thick and heavy, broken by the sound of her own pounding heartbeat. The feeling of being watched pressed in from all sides, a suffocating presence that made her skin crawl. Without thinking, she darted between the trees, brushing past low-hanging branches that tore at her robes and scratched her face. The forest seemed alive, watching her, shifting just beyond the edges of her vision.
The cold air bit into her skin with a sharper edge than she remembered from any of her previous visits to the forest. It was no longer the familiar, slightly damp chill that hovered near the castle grounds—it was a penetrating, almost raw cold that seeped into her bones. Every breath she took tasted different too, heavier somehow, as if the very atmosphere had shifted. The scent carried on the wind was a strange, unsettling mixture: the rich, loamy dampness of earth freshly turned after rain, tangled with something metallic and sharp, like iron or old blood. It set her nerves jangling, each inhalation prickling the hairs at the back of her neck with a warning she couldn’t quite place.
Inside her mind, a storm of memories clashed and overlapped. Professor Lupin’s voice echoed, calm but grave, a warning she’d heard so many times yet never fully appreciated until now. “The Time Turner is a dangerous tool, Hermione. Every use risks unraveling the fragile fabric of time itself. There are things even magic cannot mend.” She remembered the whispered stories passed down among the older witches and wizards—tales of disastrous paradoxes, broken timelines, and the catastrophic consequences of disturbing time’s delicate balance.
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as the weight of those warnings pressed down on her chest like a physical force. A creeping fear began to rise, cold and insidious, curling through her veins: Had she shattered the rules that were never meant to be broken? Had her reckless use of the Time Turner torn a rift, a hole in the timeline that should have remained sealed? Was she now trapped in a fractured past she could never undo—an aberration that threatened to unravel not only her own future but the fate of everyone she loved?
She crouched low behind a wide oak trunk, straining her ears as the footsteps approached once more. They paused nearby, then retreated, swallowed by the thick shadows. She exhaled slowly, trying to calm her ragged breathing, but the tremor in her limbs refused to subside.
Her thoughts raced uncontrollably. She couldn’t stay here—she needed help. She needed answers. But how? Where? When? And most terrifyingly, how to survive long enough to find out?
With no plan but raw desperation driving her, Hermione rose cautiously and slipped forward, every step calculated to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. The forest stretched endlessly around her, a labyrinth of shifting shadows and whispering branches that seemed to close in with every heartbeat.
Her fingers brushed again against the cold dirt where she had fallen, and this time she noticed the small trickle of blood staining the earth beneath her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—tears born not just of pain but of a crushing loneliness. She blinked them back fiercely. She was alone. Completely and utterly lost.
The silence of the forest wrapped around her like a shroud, and for the first time since the fall, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of her isolation.