Hermione shuts and locks the bathroom door behind her, leaning against it, head resting on a damp towel. She’s too panicked to even care that—
How? All she did after dinner and drinks was go to bed, and now she’s back in…1994. The day of the Quidditch World Cup. But— but that’s not even the strangest thing. The strangest thing is…she’s herself.
She looks in the mirror. Yep. Herself. Twenty-five-year-old body. Definitely not fifteen, as she’s supposed to be.
Or will be in a few weeks. It’s not September yet.
The rules of time travel are very clear. Don’t change anything. Don’t show yourself. And whatever you do, don’t see your past self. It will drive you mad.
Her old self isn’t here. She’s replaced herself. And not just her mind. Her body. A ten-year growth spurt overnight.
Oh, this is not good.
All Hermione wanted this Halloween was to spend a cosy night in by the fire. No night out, no party with screaming children underfoot, just a night to herself. Well, and Crookshanks, of course.
Hermione laughs. What the— “Seriously? You want me to sit here and 'continue my evening' with three unconscious witches in the house, and one bleeding out in my armchair? Just— and two that were dead!"
These witches are mad!
And of course they are. She shouldn't expect anything less than unhinged chaos from the House of Black.
The kissing, though, that's a new one.
Draco has been given a task by the Dark Lord. A task he can't refuse. Either kill Dumbledore...or he and his family will be killed.
Well. Narcissa Malfoy shan't let her son become a killer. Not for her, not for anything. She'll do anything for her son. Give her life for her son.
Become a killer for her son. Take his place at Hogwarts...and do the deed herself.
Although she had not anticipated being a teenage boy being quite so difficult.
When Dobby comes to the rescue at Malfoy Manor, Hermione and Luna are left behind. No escape. Hermione has lost count of how many days have passed.
And she's not the only one who's bored. Restless. Trapped in the house.
Or maybe not trapped. Because apparently Bellatrix told Luna...that there's a way out.
There's a test. They can leave. If Hermione passes the test.
And when does Hermione Granger fail a test?
Narcissa would never dare to call herself an artist. She does not paint or draw or sketch, although the temptation has often come to her. Left an itch in her fingertips.
She only observes.
She counts the trees. Watches the clouds. The way the sunlight hits. How the shadows fall over the fields. How…
How someone is walking up the hill towards her.
Bushy hair. Muggle clothes. Book under her arm, water bottle in hand.
Narcissa stands up. Brushes down her robes and wipes at her eyes, just in case.
Hermione Granger crests the top of the hill and stops. Smiles at her awkwardly. “Hello. I didn’t mean to…Well it seems like our…walking routes cross a little bit...”