Chapter Text
Part One
March 1945
Day 2
Hermione's knees smarted and her palms stung, the sensitive skin burning against the cold, rough stone of the dungeon hallway. She kept her head low and closed her eyes, the whispering and sniggering from the other students ringing in her ears. She had only been here two days—two days!— and already she was questioning the prudence of this decision.
She knew travelling back in time over half a century would pose significant challenges. She had gone over them ad nauseum with the boys, constantly reminding herself what a challenge it would be to go back in hopes of securing information about Voldemort's Horcruxes, while also trying not to ruin the timeline they were from. She had even thought of all the little details— how hair and robe styles would be slightly different from modern times, how dialect and even etiquette would vary from what they were used to.
Of course they had decided it would be Hermione who would travel back in time. Harry was too close to Voldemort—they were afraid a young Tom Riddle would somehow sense the connection between them. Ron, with his distinctive red hair was too recognisable as a Weasley to travel to the past and hope to remain anonymous. Hermione had revised her third year notes on time travel in order to prepare as best she could for what a 1940s Hogwarts would have in store for her.
Unfortunately what she hadn't counted on was the reception from the other students. She had assumed she'd keep a relatively low profile, attending classes during the day and quietly researching Horcruxes and watching Tom Riddle in the evening. In reality, a new seventh year, mid-term transfer student stuck out worse than a niffler in a jewelry shop. From the moment she had stepped into the Great Hall yesterday with the Ravenclaw prefect after a quick sorting in Headmaster Dippet's office, all eyes had been on her.
The whispering had followed her throughout the day, the sidelong glances alerting her to their topic of gossip. Now she was sprawled on the floor, cheeks pink with embarrassment, not knowing whose foot, exactly, it was she had tripped over but knowing it was done purposefully. None of her classmates stepped forward to help her, not even her house prefect who had been standing there with a group of girlfriends seconds before Hermione hit the ground.
Hermione waited just a moment longer, collecting her composure before she attempted to stand. She would need to visit the infirmary before bed tonight and get some bruise salve for her knees, but other than that, she didn't think any permanent damage had occurred. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened her eyes, surprised to see a pair of heavy brown boots directly in front of her.
They were old, the soles almost worn completely flat, but obviously well cared for. The chestnut leather gleamed under a fresh coat of shoe polish. She slowly raised her eyes, following the boots up to long legs encased in black traditional wizarding trousers. A hand was outstretched before her, silently offering assistance.
She clasped it without thinking, a small shiver running down her back as his skin touched hers. She released his hand but stood silently for a moment next to him, wiping the dust off her hands on the fabric of her skirt, flattening the hem against the tops of her thighs nervously.
"Thank you." Hermione finally raised her head, surprised to see a young man around her age standing before her. She had assumed her good Samaritan was a professor since none of the other students seemed predisposed to be of help, but this wizard before her looked much too young to be teaching.
He wore a simple button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to just below his elbows, displaying wiry forearms. The white of the fabric stood out brightly against all the black student robes of those congregated in the dungeon. His face was still, warm brown eyes never leaving hers as he inclined his head silently towards her, acknowledging her thanks. His hair was slightly mussed, a lock of brown hair fell over his forehead as though he had just run his hands through it.
Hermione opened her mouth to ask him something, perhaps his name or just to find someone to talk to for the two weeks she would be here. Before a word could come out, he had turned on his heel and walked away, boots heavy against the stone steps of the dungeon as he made his way towards the stairs.
His exit seemed to launch the others into motion. In the next moment, the hallway was full of the sounds of students working their way toward their next class. Hermione cast a discreet tempus and cursed to herself. If she didn't hurry, she'd be late for Transfiguration.
She saw him again in both of her afternoon classes; each time slinking into the classroom well after the bell had rung, not garnering admonishments from Professor Dumbledore nor Professor DeWitt for his tardiness. He was fascinating to her, his lack of school robe and house tie posing a mystery that she just itched to solve.
Who was this young man who sat in the back of every class eschewing start times and the strict Hogwarts dress code while simultaneously paying rapt attention to the lectures? No matter how much effort she put into listening to the lectures herself, she couldn't stop her eyes from drifting to the figure in the back corner, watching as his quill moved quickly across the parchment in front of him.
Halfway through Charms, her last class of the day, Hermione looked at him for the third time in as many minutes. This time, instead of merely seeing the top of his head as he studiously wrote down everything Professor DeWitt said, she turned to see him looking directly at her, eyes trained on her face as a small smile raised the left corner of his lips.
She hastily spun back around, grasping for the forgotten quill on the desktop in front of her. She tried to concentrate on the advanced charmwork that was being taught. She should be taking advantage of any schooling she could in this time instead of ogling another student and potential mystery. Priorities, Hermione.
It was useless. She had gotten his attention, apparently. Her cheeks flushed as she tried to focus on the teacher, all the while feeling the heat of his gaze on her back for the rest of the class period.
Day 4
Hermione knew she needed to focus. She was running out of time. Four of her fourteen days were already lost and she was no closer to figuring out Tom Riddle. The spell was very specific with its time frame. Mission completed or not, she would be whisked back to her own time exactly fourteen days from the moment she intoned the spell. When she, Harry, and Ron found the time travel ritual hidden in the depths of the Black library, they had discussed all the ways it could be used to help them. They couldn't kill Voldemort outright—no, that would change too many things in the past. But a mission to find out information they needed in the future? It could be what they needed to determine the locations of the remaining horcrux.
The plan was simple. Hermione would recite the spell, go back to Tom Riddle's final year at Hogwarts, and either befriend him or learn enough about him that locating the final horcrux would be child's play. Easy.
Except.
Tom Riddle wasn't that easy to get to know.
Hermione looked over the top of her book, watching Riddle as he sat with a group of Slytherins at the round table in the middle of the library floor. Not much had changed in the Hogwarts library in 50 years; that large center table was still the place for the more popular students to lounge, ostensibly studying but, in reality, soaking in the attention that being well-liked afforded them.
Of course Riddle studied there. He was every teacher's dream student and every girl's dream boyfriend, but he gave her the creeps. There was something about his eyes. They were cold and lifeless and seemed to bite through her soul when he turned them in her direction. She shivered now just thinking about it.
She knew she should go over there. Should collect her things and go settle in the empty chair at the popular table and pretend to be another adoring fan of the young Tom Riddle. The other students may give her a hard time, but she was the mysterious new girl who appeared halfway through seventh year, and one thing she knew about the young future Dark Lord was that he hated not knowing something.
As she observed him, his gaze suddenly turned in her direction, his dark eyes boring into her as though trying to read her mind. She slammed up her admittedly weak Occlumency shields that she'd taught herself in hopes of helping Harry and tore her gaze from his. Merlin, he gave her the creeps. There was something so menacing about him that she wondered why his companions didn’t feel it also.
Now more loathe than ever to speak with him, Hermione let her gaze wander to the small, two-person table hidden down the aisle next to her. Through an empty space on the shelf she could just barely make out the broad shoulders of its single occupant. Her heart sped up at the sight of the boy without school colours sitting there. Maybe this was her opportunity to finally have a proper conversation with someone from this time.
Before she could overthink it, she shoved her books and parchment into her bag and slung it over her shoulder, determinedly making her way to his shadowed table.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" She tossed her bookbag to the floor and settled herself in the available wooden chair, not waiting for his answer. "Is that the Runes essay? I thought it was due this morning."
His eyes flickered over to hers quickly over the top of his open book before returning quickly to the pages in front of him. "I know you're new here, but surely by now you've picked up on the fact that you should not be seen talking to me."
Hermione's mind turned over his words, confused. Why shouldn’t she speak to him, when he appeared just as solitary as she was? Despite her reason for traveling half a century into the past, she hadn't really spoken much to anyone: Headmaster Dippet when she provided her cobbled together story for her midterm arrival, the Ravenclaw prefect who showed her to her dorm, and her professors when called upon. She desperately avoided the twinkling gaze of Albus Dumbledore, too afraid of totally bollocksing up the future to call attention to herself.
She truly didn't know much about this young man. She knew he had been kind to her when she needed a helping hand, but everything else was just suppositions and impressions.
What she did know was that there was something about him. Something that she couldn't name, something that she couldn't pinpoint, something that inexorably drew her to him.
She mentally shrugged and held out her hand, determined to ignore his standoffishness.
"I'm Hermione."
He placed his book open on the table, spine side up. He stared at her hand a moment before finally meeting her gaze and extending his own hand.
When his skin touched hers, she couldn't help the goosebumps that ran up the length of her arm. It was just like the first time he had grasped her hand in his.
"Gus."
Day 6
"Gus!" Hermione jogged through the doorway, tugging on the strap of her slipping bookbag and looking around the Trophy Room in confusion. "What are you doing in here? You missed the animagus lesson in Transfiguration this morning!"
He shrugged, dropping to the floor the rag he had been using. "Pringle made me shine the trophies. I would have liked to be there, but my chores come first."
"Chores?"
"Yes. The duties I have to perform as assistant caretaker?" He tilted his head, looking at her questioningly.
"Oh, yes. Of course."
Not of course. Hermione really had no idea what he was talking about. If he was Pringle's assistant, she wondered if it was due to lack of funds. Maybe Hogwarts couldn't provide full scholarships to everyone who needed one in this time? Or maybe it was like an apprenticeship, and Gus wanted to one day take over for Pringle?
Hermione didn't know what else to say, and Gus didn't seem to mind her silence, so she followed behind him when he bade her to. He led the way towards the Caretaker's office, holding open the door so she could step inside in front of him.
"Give me just a minute. I need to put this stuff away and grab my bag; then we can head up to the library."
"Take your time," Hermione said, looking around the office, observing all the differences from the last time she'd seen it, fifty years in the future. In her time, chains and manacles hung from the walls and the ceilings were lit by a single oil lamp. This office though, while stark and utilitarian, resembled any other large cleaning cupboard one might find in the Muggle world. A large wooden desk sat in the very center surrounded by filing cabinets. On the far wall, cleaning supplies were stored on open shelving, sorted alphabetically.
As Gus replaced his supplies, Hermione was drawn to the pile of parchments rolled and stacked on the desk, remembering the story of the twins finding the Marauder's Map. She ran her fingers along the scrolls, accidentally dislodging one and causing an avalanche of paper. As she began to replace them, she couldn’t help but read the titles.
Double Meanings in Runic Language
The Properties of Dragon Blood and its Uses
Charting the Night Sky, 26 Feb 1945
Hermione's forehead wrinkled in confusion. These were all essays. Gus's essays. All ungraded.
"Gus?" she called, still sorting through the parchments. "Why do you have a pile of ungraded essays on your desk?"
"Hmmm?" he replied, his back still toward her as he finished with his supplies. "What did you say?"
"The essays. Why do you still have them?"
Gus turned around and looked at her finally, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, what else should I do with them?"
"Turn them in? Get a grade?" Hermione didn't understand why that wouldn't be the obvious course of action.
"What use would a Squib have for Hogwarts grades?" He walked over to where she was standing, pulling the parchment from her hands and tossing it into the rubbish bin on the side of the desk. He proceeded to take each of the other parchments in turn, sending them all to the bin.
When Hermione finally recovered from her shock, she scrabbled for the essay in his hand, tearing it from him before he could dispose of it as well.
"Squib?"
"Yes. Squib. I'm a Squib, Hermione, I thought you knew. It's no secret; everyone knows. It's why they all avoid me."
"But you go to classes! And study! And write essays!"
"Yes, Headmaster Dippet and the other professors are all very accommodating as long as I remain circumspect and don't neglect my duties."
"But why? Why do you do all the work if it won't be graded?"
"Because I want to learn. I don't want to be a bloody caretaker here! I want to be an archeologist. Travel the world and discover new ones. I may not have magic but I'm still worth something. I'm worth more than a dead-end job cleaning up after students who are too lazy to flick their own wands and do it themselves!"
Hermione just stared at him, words once again failing her. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, internally yelling at herself to say something, anything, dammit.
She was saved finally from having to reply when Caretaker Pringle waddled into the office.
"Mr Filch. You know this office is off limits to students."
"I'm sorry, Mr Pringle, I didn't mean to intrude. I'll just be—" Hermione spoke automatically, her innate response to authority taking over before her brain could process everything he just said.
Wait.
Filch? Filch?!
Gus was Gus Filch , a Squib?
Was Gus— Argus Filch?
Her brain shut down, and she couldn't complete her sentence. She turned on her heel and left the room, maintaining a sedate pace until she reached the main hall. When she finally stepped into the moving staircase, she started running, not stopping until she reached her four-poster bed at the very top of Ravenclaw tower.