Chapter Text
May 19th, 1977
Hermione had been in the 1970s for three days now, each day presenting its own set of tasks and challenges. Even something as simple as breakfast at the Burrow felt unfamiliar. She was accustomed to the comically large table that seated the entire Weasley family along with any strays they had taken in. The atmosphere was always loud and lively in her time, but now, it was the exact opposite. Sharing meals with the Weasleys was bittersweet—she cherished their presence but missed the people she knew and loved.
To avoid the pangs of nostalgia and homesickness, Hermione had secluded herself in her room for the past few days, immersing herself in research using every resource at her disposal.
Despite her efforts, she had found no new information on time magic since finishing her books the night before. She had sent a missive to Professor McGonagall, hoping she might have additional texts on the subject.
Hermione’s only conclusion was that she must be here for a reason. Perhaps she was meant to fix the timeline somehow? Unfortunately, there were few people she could consult about her situation. Dumbledore would likely have more knowledge than McGonagall, but she couldn’t risk him finding out—it would be disastrous. She had considered asking McGonagall for access to the Hogwarts library over the summer, but with the castle currently empty, she would have to wait until term began.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Molly’s voice calling from downstairs.
“Hermione, dear, could you come down, please?”
Setting her books aside, Hermione made her way downstairs. In the living room, Bill, Charlie, and Percy were scattered around, each occupied with something. Charlie was chasing a charmed dragon around the room, Bill sat quietly reading, and baby Percy lay on his tummy, babbling softly. Molly, seated in her oversized chair, was knitting.
“I’ve finally received word from my Aunt Muriel,” Molly announced. “She’s requested our presence tomorrow at Prewett Point. This will serve as your introduction to the family, and if Muriel grants her approval for the adoption, we’ll test your compatibility with our family ward stone.”
Hermione tilted her head in thought, curiosity swirling through her mind. She had so many questions about the family ward stone and what the adoption process would entail.
“I can’t express how grateful I am that your family has taken me in,” Hermione said softly. “I may know all of you well, but you don’t know me at all. I’m nervous about the adoption and have so many questions.”
Molly pursed her lips, her expression contemplative. “I can answer a few questions, though you’ll get more thorough explanations tomorrow from the family. I’ve never witnessed a live familial blood adoption before,” she admitted. “The ward stone is set at the back boundary near the cliffs at Prewett Point. It’s made of moonstone—my several-times-great-grandmother, Lucretia, brought a piece of the Black family’s stone when she married my several-times-great-grandfather, Ignatius Prewett. It’s been in our family ever since, sustaining the blood wards on the property. Every Prewett marriage is bound at the ward stone, each couple adding their magic to preserve the power for future generations. It’s imperative that the ward stone accepts you,” Molly finished, her gaze intense.
Hermione’s hands trembled at the thought of what tomorrow might bring. “Do you have any clothes I could borrow? All my clothes are from the 1990s, and they’re not suitable for a formal dinner.”
Molly’s face lit up with a Cheshire grin as she took Hermione’s hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom. She opened her closet and sifted through the garments before pulling out a powder-blue, cap-sleeved dress. Handing it to Hermione, she said, “This was the dress I wore on my first date with Arthur. It no longer fits me, but I think the color would look beautiful on you. Try it on, and we’ll see if it needs tailoring.”
Hermione ran her hands over the soft silk fabric, admiring the delicate buttons along the bust and the ribbon tied at the waist. “Molly, this dress is beautiful. Are you sure you’re okay with me wearing it?”
Waving a dismissive hand, Molly replied, “Absolutely! I don’t have a daughter to share it with yet, and you’re in need. Now, put it on so we can make adjustments.”
Stepping aside, Hermione undressed and slipped the gown over her head, pulling it down into place. She fastened the buttons and tied the ribbon before glancing in the mirror, awestruck by her reflection. The dress fit almost perfectly, falling just below her knees, though the waist needed a slight adjustment. With a wave of her wand, Molly resized the dress to fit Hermione flawlessly, then guided her to a full-length mirror.
Hermione stared at herself, captivated. The silk draped over her curves as though it had been made for her. She ran a hand over the buttons, feeling a lump form in her throat when she noticed Molly’s loving gaze in the reflection.
Molly approached and wrapped her arms around Hermione’s shoulders. “You know you’re not alone, right?” she whispered gently before giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and leaving the room.
May 20, 1977
The day began with Hermione forcing herself through the motions, determined to adjust to this unfamiliar time. Homesickness still clung to her, an ache she couldn’t quite shake, but she knew wallowing wouldn’t help. So, she pushed herself to come downstairs and join the family for breakfast, reminding herself that these moments mattered. The boys, blissfully unaware of the weight she carried, eagerly fought for her attention. Their laughter was a welcome distraction, and Hermione resolved to soak in every second she could with them—anything to ground herself in this strange new reality.
After lunch, when the boys were finally down for their nap, Molly gave her a warm nod. It was time to start getting ready for the evening ahead.
Hermione hurried upstairs, tapping her wand against the clawfoot tub, watching as it filled with fragrant oils and bubbles. She sank into the warmth, hoping to soak away the lingering worry. Once her bath was finished, she dried her hair, frowning at the frizz that refused to cooperate. With a resigned sigh, she swept her curls into a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face. A light touch of makeup and a bold red lip completed her look. She slipped into her dress, grabbed the kitten heels Molly had lent her, and made her way downstairs.
The Weasleys were already waiting by the Floo.
“Bill, don’t you look handsome,” Hermione teased, smiling at the young boy dressed in knee-length trousers, suspenders, and a bow tie. She ruffled his hair affectionately. “Probably the most handsome little man I’ve ever seen.”
Bill beamed. “Thank you, Miney. You look very pretty.”
Molly turned to her. “Alright, Hermione, you’ll need to enter with one of us since you’re not keyed into the wards. Arthur will take Bill and Charlie, and I’ll bring you and Percy.”
Hermione nodded. Arthur gathered Charlie into his arms and took Bill’s hand. With a handful of Floo powder, Bill called out, “Prewett Point!” Green flames engulfed them, and they vanished. Molly motioned for Hermione to step into the fireplace, and in an instant, she was spiraling through the Floo network.
They landed in a grand receiving room, and Hermione would have stumbled if not for a pair of strong arms catching her.
“See, Gideon? I told you birds always fall for me,” a playful voice quipped.
Hermione quickly pulled away, cheeks flushed. She glanced up at her rescuer and froze. He looked exactly like George. And beside him stood another man—a spitting image of Fred.
“Molly, who’s this beautiful woman you’ve brought along?” the man asked, his grin mischievous.
“This is Hermione Granger, a friend of the family,” Molly replied. “Hermione, these are my brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewett.”
Fabian took her hand, spun her into a quick hug, and passed her into Gideon’s arms with a dramatic flourish.
“Looks like the whole family is just as lively as the ones I’ve already met,” Hermione chuckled through the bone-crushing hug.
Gideon released her, and she quickly stepped back, seeking the safety of the Weasleys. “Hello, Fabian, Gideon. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, giving a polite nod.
“‘Hermione Granger’—never heard those names before. Muggle-born, I presume?” Gideon asked casually.
“Yes, I am. Is that a problem?” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t fought in a war just to be judged for her blood status. She refused to let this prejudice intimidate her.
“Absolutely not! House Prewett is full of blood traitors, didn’t you know?” Fabian declared proudly, pumping his fist in the air. “Blood traitors!” he chanted with glee.
“Come on, you two, stop it before you scare her off,” Molly scolded gently. “Hermione, this way to the dining room.”
As they walked, Hermione finally took in her surroundings. The receiving room was vast and opulent, adorned in rich reds and golds. High ceilings loomed above, and the décor practically screamed Gryffindor pride. Turning a corner, she found herself at the entrance of an elegant dining room—the most stunning she had ever seen.
At the head of the table sat a man and woman. The man stood, smiling warmly. “Welcome, my children—and Miss Granger. Please, have a seat.”
Molly guided Hermione to a chair midway down the table. Hermione kept her gaze low, her hands folded in her lap. She knew her manners—her parents had raised her to be able to exist in the upper societal circles that they ran in. But to sit at a table with a group of people you only knew to be dead was jarring to say the least.
She drifted in and out of the conversation, lost in thought, until she heard her name. Snapping to attention, she looked up, searching for whoever had addressed her.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked softly.
“Aunt Muriel will be down in just a few minutes,” the man replied. “She needed to finish some paperwork regarding your situation.”
He offered a polite smile. “While we wait, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Horatio Prewett, and this is my lovely wife, Winifred.”
Winifred, with her striking red hair so reminiscent of her daughter’s, smiled gently. Unlike Molly’s warm brown eyes, Winifred’s were an arresting shade of blue. She inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment.
“These are my sons, Gideon and Fabian,” Horatio continued, gesturing to the twin men flanking him. “And of course, you already know Molly and Arthur.”
When the introductions concluded, Hermione stood.
“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” she began, her voice steady and clear. “I know the circumstances of my arrival have left many wary, but I am deeply grateful to be here. Your family has shown me nothing but kindness, and I hold each of you dear.”
A sharp, icy voice interrupted from the doorway.
“I’m not sure why you feel the need to plead your case to my brother and his family,” it said coolly. “I am the heir to House Prewett, and I will be making the decisions here.”
Hermione turned to see Muriel Prewett standing at the door. Though the last time Hermione had seen her was 20 years in the future, the woman looked exactly the same—short, stocky, and adorned with the same fiery red hair that ran through the family line.
Muriel’s reputation preceded her. Known for her cutting remarks and unforgiving nature, she had been a menace even at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Hermione still remembered the sting of Muriel’s scathing critique of her so-called “chicken legs and malnourished frame.”
But this time would be different. Hermione would not allow herself to be bullied.
Clearing her throat, she squared her shoulders and met Muriel’s sharp gaze with unwavering resolve.
“As I hope to become part of House Prewett,” Hermione said firmly, “I introduce myself out of respect.”
She stepped away from the table and approached Muriel, their eyes locked in silent challenge. With a graceful bow, Hermione offered a deep curtsy.
“Hello, Ms. Prewett,” she said evenly. “I am Hermione Granger.”
The room fell utterly silent.
Hermione’s heart pounded. What if Muriel refused her? What would happen to her then, stranded in this time?
Just as panic began to set in, a frail but firm hand grasped Hermione’s arm, pulling her upright. Muriel’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
“I need to know more about your situation before I make any final decisions,” she said, eyes still locked on Hermione’s. “However, it is nice to meet you, Miss Granger.”
With that, Muriel strode to the head of the table, pausing only long enough for one of the twins to pull out her chair. She settled into her seat, casting a sharp glance around the room.
“Glad to see at least two people in this room have manners,” she quipped. “Unlike the rest of you leeches.”
She snapped her fingers, and in an instant, the table filled with a magnificent feast that rivaled any Hogwarts banquet.
Hermione returned to her seat beside Molly, feeling the weight of Muriel’s presence pressing down on her. She silently spooned roast onto her plate, but before she could take a bite, Muriel’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Alright,” Muriel announced, her tone brisk. “I want the full story. No omissions, no secrets. If you are to be part of this family, honesty is non-negotiable.”
Hermione’s courage faltered. The Gryffindor bravery that had carried her this far was quickly slipping away.
With a deep breath, she raised her wand. Whispering the incantation for a witch’s oath, she sealed her promise with magic.
“As you can see,” Hermione said, her voice steady but soft, “I have sworn on my magic. Everything I am about to say is the truth. But if it’s not enough, I am willing to take Veritaserum.”
Lowering her wand, she met the gaze of every person in the room. Then, slowly and methodically, she recounted her unbelievable tale of time travel.
She hadn’t even realized she was crying until she reached the end, her voice breaking under the weight of it all.
This is madness, she thought. Who would have believed that Hermione Granger—Muggle-born, war hero—would find herself lost, without a clue of what to do next?
A sob escaped her, raw and unrelenting. It felt like the very earth had shattered beneath her feet.
A hand rested gently on her shoulder. Hermione turned, blinking through her tears, and found Muriel standing beside her.
“Alright,” Muriel said with a sigh, though her eyes held something almost akin to approval. “Stop being so dramatic. Let’s see if the stone accepts your magic.”
A rare, faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Welcome to House Prewett, Miss Granger.”