Chapter Text
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The air reeked of cinder and smoke.
The Smoke clung to her palate, metallic and sharp. Breathing was a struggle, her chest rattled with a confused cough, and her temples throbbed. Her consciousness groped sluggishly for reality, desperately seeking the source of the stench and the noise that pressed in relentlessly.
Hermione vaguely recalled the Ministry: the frantic escape from its guarded halls, Yaxley hot on her heels, shaken off only with effort. Harry had slipped her the locket in the dungeons after they’d overpowered Dolores Umbridge together. Out of necessity, the trinket had ended up around her neck, not in her enchanted bag—she couldn’t remember why.
Everything blurred: sprinting through marble corridors, Harry’s Patronus flaring against swooping Dementors, Yaxley’s furious shouts echoing in the Atrium, determined to seize her at any cost. Then, a tug at her throat, like a noose tightening, threatening to choke her. Perhaps the locket’s chain had twisted while she shielded Harry from Yaxley. Jewelry often tangled, didn’t it?
A dazed groan escaped Hermione’s lips.
“Oi! You there, miss!” a gruff voice boomed in her ear, jarring her eardrum. Someone shook her—gently at first, then more insistently—until her eyelids fluttered, pulling her back to the present.
“Harry?” she whispered, her mouth dry as dust.
An iron tang coated her tongue, as if she’d bitten it. Wild hair fell into her face; her limbs responded only sluggishly. Aching muscles hinted at a cramp—Apparition could end messily, with splintered body parts.
Suddenly, Hermione snapped awake. How could she lose control? Over the escape, the plan, her own abilities? Foolish Hermione!
“No Harry here. Name’s Collin, missy,” said an older man with gray stubble and a toothless grin, helping her sit up. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes. Collin’s tattered clothes and torn gloves made him look poor, perhaps homeless. “Got yourself quite a fright.” He kindly brushed the dust off her; she still wore Mafalda Hopkirk’s costume.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to trouble you.” Collin waved it off, saying he had no plans at this hour. His reply briefly puzzled her, but worry for Harry and Ron—and the nagging voice in her head that something was wrong—overwhelmed her thoughts.
She was certain she’d botched the Apparition—frustrating, but fixable. Once she figured out where she was, she could rejoin her friends. They must be safe by now, looking for her. Her mind refused to entertain any other possibility.
“You sure you’re alright? You look pale,” Collin said, his gaze sharpening. Still, he pulled her to her feet without hesitation, steadying her until her balance returned, then shoved his hands into the grimy pockets of his trousers.
His appearance screamed rogue.
Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, forcing a smile, ready to say she’d only stumbled, that his concern was unnecessary.
It would be fine.
She ignored that her clothes were as crumpled and filthy as his. She had to be near the Ministry still. But before she could muster an excuse or slip away from the Muggle, a low wail of sirens cut through the air.
The howling gave way to a roar of engines, rumbling strangely in her ears, approaching with the force of a hurricane. Hermione tilted her head, alarmed, as a squadron of planes cast a dark shadow over the city. Goosebumps prickled her skin; panic seeped into her daze.
Her thoughts raced, and for a moment, darkness clouded her vision. Collin grabbed her, trying to soothe her, grumbling about the chaos plaguing London—she barely registered his words.
Was she still dreaming?
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Collin knew this part of London.
He seized Hermione’s hand, dragging her in stumbling haste as fast as his crooked legs could navigate the rubble. He cursed nonstop, railing against the Germans, the war, their hopeless plight.
Not long now, he panted, before the Germans would regret this war. Hermione wanted to agree, to signal she shared his view. But what she saw, smelled, what seared her retinas through her narrowed eyelids, was too horrific for more than a dull nod.
Was she awake?
The city’s main streets were unrecognizable, reduced to ruins. At a lamppost, King George smiled from faded paper, offering courage in wartime. The date beneath confirmed the surreal truth: 1944.
1944.
The Second World War. Four years after the Blitz, the bombs on London, the countless dead, the state of emergency. Hermione’s memory unspooled every detail—she cursed her inability to stop it. Why?
“Thank God the city center’s buildings aren’t too badly hit. Shame about London, though, real shame,” Collin cut in, concerned, his hand gripping hers tightly.
“This way, there’s a shelter up ahead. They’ll sound the all-clear soon.” He paused. “Didn’t quite catch your name, missy.” His clear blue eyes reminded Hermione faintly of someone.
The unlikely pair crossed a street, clambered over debris, and ducked into a niche between two alleys. Above the brickwork hung a sign for a jazz club.
“I haven’t told you my name,” Hermione said.
Collin flashed a gap-toothed, warm smile. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, a counterpoint to the planes overhead. “You’re a sharp one, I’ll give you that. Looking for someone? Not a great time to be wandering about, you know.”
Hermione shook her head; the pressure at her temples grew sharper. She wanted to go home.
“My name’s Hermione,” she said cautiously. “I’m alone.”
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The cellar was low, more a musty vault. The round wooden tables looked pitiful. A dark-skinned man sat at a piano as Collin led Hermione through a steel door, which he barred with a wooden beam.
The pianist glanced up briefly, waved, then resumed his stoic, mournful melody, deepening Hermione’s unease.
She was in shock.
1944.
Collin muttered something to the pianist that sounded like an insult, then guided Hermione to a table, easing her into a chair before shuffling to the bar, where a young woman with blonde curls waited. Despite the shadows under her eyes and the exhaustion in her gaunt features, she might have been considered beautiful.
Collin greeted her, diving into hushed conversation that Hermione tuned out. She was too consumed with making sense of her situation, her acute problem—a problem that defied all logic as heavy tanks rumbled above.
A problem growing more tangible, yet impossible.
Her fingers brushed the weight at her neck, feeling the cold silver of the locket. How could a Horcrux bend space and time, hurling her into an unreachable past? Why now? What did this mean for her time, her friends, her present? What had she done? How would she return? She tore the chain off, tossing it onto the table as if it had burned her.
The clink of glass on wood snapped her from her spiraling thoughts.
Hermione flinched. Her eyes met the blonde woman’s, whose lips curved in a kind smile. “Here. Looks like you could use a drink. On the house.” She sat across from Hermione, propping her head on her hand. Her curiosity was palpable, but she held back questions Hermione couldn’t answer.
Instead, she reached for the locket.
“Don’t touch it!” Hermione barked.
She lunged for the chain, stuffing the supposed Horcrux into her bag. The blonde raised her hands in apology and fell silent until Hermione sighed, apologized, and asked, “I need to get to Charing Cross Road. Is it far?”
Surprisingly, the pianist answered, pausing his melancholic tune. He turned, his white eyes gleaming in the dimness. “Three-quarters of an hour on foot, miss. Wait out the alarm, head out at sunrise. Looters roam at night—not safe for a woman. I’ll walk you if you like. Name’s Frank.”
Hermione nodded gratefully, eyeing the golden liquid in the glass. She grabbed it, downing it in one go. The bourbon burned her dusty throat, spreading a false warmth through her stomach.
Its vile taste confirmed: the time for dreaming was over.