Chapter Text
September 1977
Standing among the crowd of first-years was a girl who, though petite, was clearly not eleven. Instead, she looked like she belonged with the sixth or seventh years, though her uniform had no color indicating which house she belonged to. Her large brown eyes were fixed on the front of the Great Hall, despite the stares and whispers from the student population.
“Is it just me or are the first years getting bigger?”
“I heard she’s a transfer from Beauxbatons.”
“I thought she was from Australia?”
“No, mate. She’s English, but homeschooled. Her entire family was killed by Death Eaters.”
“Blimey. Is that true?”
“I heard she was Dumbledore’s great-niece.”
“Wait, really?”
“Or actually, it might’ve been McGonagall’s niece?”
“Shhh—she’s standing right there.”
If the girl could hear the whispers, she didn’t let it show. While the first years around her were fidgeting, nervous and wide-eyed at the splendor of the Great Hall around them, her gaze was steady. Her rigidity was only slightly offset by her large brown curls, which seemed to take breaths of their own, shifting at the slightest of movements.
The Great Hall was filled with murmurs about the new witch. The Ravenclaw table tempered their whispers of excitement with logic, conceding that they really only had a twenty-five percent chance of welcoming the witch to their house. The Slytherin table racked their brains to see if they recognized her from a pureblood society event and the Hufflepuffs offered wide smiles and an occasional wave—all of which were ignored.
At the Gryffindor table, the conversation was no different. James Potter and Sirius Black were taking bets on her house; Lily Evans was rolling her eyes; and Remus Lupin was offering a steady argument for why he thought the witch would be placed in Gryffindor. Peter Pettigrew just nodded along.
Professor McGonagall steadily made her way through the list of names.
“This year, we have a transfer student finishing up her seventh year with us at Hogwarts. Please do your best to welcome her. Hermione Granger!”
The witch strut up to the Sorting hat and sat herself on the stool, an almost bored expression on her face as Professor McGonagall placed the hat over her thick brown curls.
Two minutes past. Then three. It was coming close to being a true hatstall and the Great Hall was tittering with anticipation. Judging from the expression on her face, the girl and the Sorting Hat seemed to be having an intense mental conversation.
“Finally, something interesting is happening at sorting.” Sirius grinned, gazing up to the front of the hall. “I was beginning to think we needed to spice up the event this year.”
Lily scoffed. “What, like when you lot tried to start a food fight fourth year?”
“Ah…good times. Remember how we warded the doors so no teacher could get in for a full fifteen minutes?” James’s tone was wistful. “That was an impressive bit of magic—thanks for that, Remus, by the way.”
Remus tipped his head in response. “Yes, the rest of you were quite pitiful at charms—except Lily, of course.”
“Yes, your skills constantly make us look like idiots.” James elbowed her arm, grinning as she attempted to glower at him.
“James—that’s not a hard thing to do.” The table snickered.
James waved them off. “Let’s plan another food fight this year.”
“Absolutely not. It took me ages to get that pudding you poured over me out of my hair.”
“Lily, that was because you lobbed a carrot at my eye!”
“Well, it didn’t even hit you because I missed—”
“Shhh!” Peter interjected. “I think it’s going to make a decision.”
The Sorting Hat had muttered out a stiff “Fine” and cleared its throat. The Great Hall fell silent.
“Ravenclaw!”
With a small smirk, the girl hopped off the stool and made her way to her new house table. The Ravenclaw table erupted in loud cheers—grateful that something interesting involving a Ravenclaw was finally happening.
“Guess you were wrong, Moony! Time to pay up.” Sirius cackled. “You too, McKinnon! Hey—”
He was cut off by two bread rolls flying at his head.
* * *
The Day Before - 1977
“You’re joking.”
The Muggle she had taken the newspaper from let out a small laugh. “That’s what I thought too. Someone walking the whole length of the English Channel? Like magic? But no, this man actually did it. Tied some contraption on his foot and walked! He’s an inventor of some sort. Smart, they are—always a bit mad, though.”
Hermione offered a half-hearted ‘hmm’ in response while the man prattled on. She tried to steady her breath while her mind whirred through a sequence of thoughts that had exponentially gotten more and more panicked from the moment she had spotted the front page of the newspaper. Etched at the top, in large black letters was the date, which she had read and had been rereading ever since she had first grabbed the newspaper from the Muggle’s hands.
August 31st, 1977
Bloody hell. How did this happen?
Hermione couldn’t pinpoint when the West End had started looking unfamiliar on her walk through Muggle London. There had been a sudden influx of flared corduroys, the hair had gotten shaggier, and the cars—not that Hermione had spent enough time in the Muggle world to develop a deep knowledge of them—but even she noticed that they were a great deal bulkier and more colorful than usual.
The most disturbing thing she had noticed was that there was a glaring gap in her memory. Hermione couldn’t remember what she had been doing before everything had gotten unfamiliar. If it had been August 31st when she had left, she probably would have been in Diagon Alley doing some last minute shopping before returning to Hogwarts for her last year. Or had she done her shopping a couple days early? Then she would have probably been at the Burrow, soaking up the last few moments of summer. It was like the past week had been wiped from her memory.
Why can’t I remember anything? Are Harry or Ron also here? Has someone altered my memory? Where were the existing Time Turners—
“—and it says here that the fellow is planning on walking across the Panama canal too! Imagine that. Might be a whole ocean next.”
Hermione murmured a polite ‘thanks’ and gave the newspaper back, bidding him a quick goodbye. She needed to go someplace private where she could rummage through her purse. It was lucky, she supposed, that she had it practically glued to her side ever since they’d gone on the run last year. That purse and the clothes on her back were the only things she registered on her body at the moment.
Merlin, my wand better be somewhere in there.
She barreled down the West End streets on her way to the Leaky Cauldron, pace and clothing sticking out against the sea of slow-moving corduroy. The pants of the seventies were high-waisted, the sleeves were flowing, and the hair was big. At least that part of her matched the decade.
As Hermione stepped inside the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron, she plunged her whole arm into her purse, audibly exhaling in relief as she felt the familiar vine wood of her wand. Stepping into Diagon Alley, she mused on her next steps.
She was an interloper. She didn’t belong here. If she was stuck here for more than a year, she was doomed to be a sick sort of spectator to the gruesome events that were to come. The smart thing to do would be to hide away in some small village until she could return to her time—not a place like Hogwarts where she risked running into the younger versions of people she already knew.
But—Hermione had nowhere else to go.
She had no wizard family she could hideaway with until she could return to her time. Her Muggle parents—even if they were able to understand the predicament she was in—had barely started dating in 1977. Hogwarts had been her home for so long. It was familiar. It had felt—for the most part—safe.
Hermione was fairly certain it had at least been safe in 1977.
Why not sort all of this out in a place where I can study for my N.E.W.T.S.?
It would probably take more than a day to sort out her return journey. And if she went, she could use two of the greatest resources the wizarding world had to offer—Professor Dumbledore and the Hogwarts library.
* * *
There was almost no question she could honestly answer. Once she finished gaping at the sight of Professor Dumbledore alive in his office and twenty years younger—her mouth remained shut to his prying questions.
Hermione couldn’t blame Professor Dumbldore for his curiosity. He was eager—and appropriately cautious—at the discovery of her situation. He would ask her these open questions, tone airy and light but eyes piercing towards her, ready to gleam onto any clues. She was certain if the Unspeakable from the Ministry hadn’t been there, she would’ve been subject to a more in depth interrogation. No, with the Ministry official there it had been more like an orientation.
“You must not do anything to disturb the timeline. You may be privy to certain events that will happen. Please keep them to yourself. You may run into people you know here in the future at Hogwarts. Do not engage with them more than necessary.”
Hermione grimaced. Best if not at all, she thought.
“Remain forgettable,” the Unspeakable continued. “Granger is a common enough surname in Muggle England. You can keep your name here and your seventh year scores can transfer to your time.”
“How long do you think it will be until I can go home?”
The Unspeakable peered at her over her glasses, a frown forming on her lips. “Best focus on your studies, Miss Granger. We will do our best at the Department of Mysteries. Be prepared to stay a couple months—at least.”
“At least? Can’t I just use a Time Turner to go back?”
“We do not just give our Time Turners to people who stumble through time with no recollection of how they did so in the first place.” The Unspeakable frowned. “We need to determine how you got here. This is a great deal more complicated than you going back a few hours, especially since we are currently unable to determine what happened between the gaps in your memory. My department will work on your case.”
The anxiety that she had stymied out of practicality was dangerously close to the surface as a hundred different situations, each one worse than the next, played out across her mind.
“I—I can’t stay here in 1977.”
“Do not worry, Miss Granger. I can assure you that Muggleborns such as yourself are safe and welcome here at Hogwarts.” Dumbledore had noticed her tense up. “No matter the events that occur outside these walls. In fact, your very existence here gives me hope for the future.”
Hermione gave him a polite smile. They thought she was scared for herself. A Muggleborn witch cast two decades back to a time when blood purity ideals were rising in popularity among a powerful set of wizards. They didn’t know what was to come or how it got worse before it got better. She thought of Dean Thomas and the Muggleborn students who weren’t allowed at Hogwarts the previous year. They had all made plans to go back for their eighth year together.
Her throat tightened. Merlin, she missed them. How long would it be before she would be able to see her friends again? Her parents?
“Thank you, Professor.”
“We can sort you with the first years tomorrow before the feast.”
“Respectfully, sir. That’s hardly a way to remain forgettable.”
“Ah yes, but tradition is tradition. Do not fret, I’m sure some students will pull a spectacle that will take over the conversation the first week. Do watch out for any floating buckets above doorways—they’ve on occasion found their way on the heads of a first year or two.”
Sounds familiar, Hermione thought.
“Not a problem, Professor.”
“And do come round for tea sometime—we can discuss any progress from the Ministry then.”
“Yes, Professor.”