Work Text:
Hermione didn’t know why she was on a broom. It was too cold for this as the autumn winds blasted through her thin jumper. Apparently their stupid pick up game of quidditch was down one singular player so, of course, the begging and pleading of one Harry and one Ron equaled one Hermione on a broom. As a keeper, no less. And now there was a quaffle headed straight at her head, great-
If the brunette witch’s academic brilliance translated at all to athleticism then she could have caught then kicked the quaffle to the halfway line- and in a perfect world she did- but in this universe, that wasn’t ever going to happen.
Instead, she hit the ball with her left hand straight into her chest with an OOMPH and the sound of glass breaking. It took about .5 seconds for Hermione to realize that she had, in her friend-influenced haste, had neglected to take off her time turner. “Shit.”
.5 seconds after Hermione realizes her error
Between the burst of blue light that filled Hermione’s vision and the quaffle that implanted itself into her arms, the brainiac did the unthinkable. She let go of the broom’s handle sending her spiraling quickly to the lush green (and probably painful) pitch below.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yup, it has been decided. The quidditch pitch is, indeed, painful. Hermione groaned, feeling that the throbbing in her head was mostly localized to the back but… nothing seemed broken and- oh, someone was yelling. Must’ve been Ron; can’t he shut up already?
“Hey, space cadet! Where did you even come from?” A posh voice from her left shouted needlessly. Like, seriously. Do these boys ever shut up? Though Hermione didn’t recognise the voice that didn’t mean anything because she was obviously concussed and-
“You okay?” a softer voice asked. Now this voice she recognised. Opening her eyes confirmed the boy in front of her was her favorite bad luck magnet with black unkempt hair, a thin face, hazel eyes- wait-
Hermione shot up like a snitch and took in her surroundings fully. None of her friends were on the pitch, sky, or stands but instead were replaced with the Harry clone, another taller boy with light brown hair, green eyes, and a book in his hand that looked suspiciously like Professor Lupin (many of the same scars and all), a different shorter portly boy with a pointed nose, mousey brown hair, and an anxious disposition, and a fourth boy with lustrous black hair, grey eyes, and a casual elegance about him. The fourth boy must have been the posh voice Hermione had heard before which annoyed her but not as annoyed as she felt by the fact she recognised him from somewhere. Where, though, she couldn’t put her finger on. How frustrating!
“Hey, Sunshine,” the posh voice spoke sarcastically, grating against Hemione’s pounding head while confirming the owner was the fourth boy, “Can you get off the field? We’ve got practice.” He was emphasizing his point by gesturing… everywhere with his broom clad hand.
“Sirius,” the Lupin-cosplayer warned, “She just fell from the sky when you threw James the quaffle far too close to the keeper. It’s your fault she’s likely concussed; do you copy?” The glare on this sandy haired boy in her defense would have made Hermione blush if she wasn’t suddenly very aware of how she recognised this ‘Sirius’ character.
“The Daily Prophet! You were on the front page all summer.” Attempting to stand quickly and pull her wand out at the same time resulted in a stumble that, with some athleticism, she could have recovered from. But she didn’t. So her fall back to the pitch was fast and comfortable, kind of plushy really which the pitch wasn’t so…
“Oh,” Hermione thought sluggishly when she heard a scoff. She had been caught in the arms of one ‘James’ that really did look like Harry but he had to be James because he was wearing quidditch gear like ‘Sirius’ was and no one else was so he had to be ‘James.’
Remembering the scoff abruptly, the curly-haired witch turned to ‘Sirius,’ falling onto her feet in the process and pointing in his direction. “I know what I saw, pretty boy. I couldn’t read about the recent innovations in rune implementation without seeing your face everyday!”
‘Sirius’ smirked smugly, “You think I’m pretty?”
Hermione felt her face flush down to her neck. “I- I just- I,” she stuttered.
The boy took a step forward and barked a laugh, “Don’t be such a bunny! If I was in the Daily Prophet my mother would be fielding even more betrothal contracts once more people saw my beauty.”
Did he seriously just strike a pose? It was hopeless; she was getting nowhere with this headache and with every sweep of her surroundings it was getting more and more obvious that she had no idea where she was. This wasn’t the pitch she knew so well after three years of watching Harry play with the Gryffindor team but the placement in respect to where the castle was appeared to be the same.
Wait. Hermione had an idea swirling in her head as the group before shared looks probably regarding her strange behaviour.
Harry clone?
Lupin cosplayer?
Kind of Sirius that wasn’t in the Daily Prophet for months?
Or… kind of Sirius that wasn’t in the Prophet yet.
It was time to take a seat; this was all too much.
“What year is it,” the witch finally asked slowly.
The boys exchanged a look again but this time James and Peter looked less than convinced that she was serious.
“You ain’t just a woofin’,” Sirius asked, eyes widened.
“Sirius! She’s just buggin’ out,” Professor Lupin scolded. “It’s October 1973,” he shared a small reassuring smile, one that would have worked if the answer to her innocuous question wasn’t so wild.
“WHAT?!” Hermione screeched, jumping up slightly less dizzily than before.
“Moony, she’s clearly out to lunch. Come on, James, Pete, let’s fly!” Sirius jumped back on his broom and flew up two meters.
Remus just rolled his eyes, offering his hand to the scattered bookworm. “Come on, let’s go see Madam Pomfrey. You’re obviously concussed.”
“Uh,” Hermione snuck a glance back toward the boys who were now flying around before hesitantly saying, “That’d be… okay.”
“I’m Remus. Did the fall knock just the year out of your head or your name too?” His small smile returned, sending heat up Hermione’s neck and cheeks.
“Uh, Hermione. It’s, uh, nice to meet you,” the witch tried to hide her face as she stuck her hand out in greeting.
“Shakespeare, huh? Muggleborn or half-blood? Not that it matters, really.” He took her hand, properly reciprocating the greeting warmly.
“Muggleborn but, we might want to keep that just between us for now. The current climate isn’t the best for us muggleborns,” Hermione replied dryly, remembering everything she learned about the first wizarding war. After Harry’s excursion fighting the memory of He Must Not Be Named last year, resident swot Hermione felt anything she could learn about the dark lord and his genocide of her people could help.
The wolfish boy simply nodded in understanding. “Have you met Lily yet? She’s a good friend and-”
The witch was sure Remus kept talking but her head was already spinning.
Lily…
Harry’s mother…
The woman who made the ultimate sacrifice just for her son to be hunted by her murderer twice in two years.
She’s here, alive.
And Hermione can meet her.
Now she really did need Madam Pomfrey.