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He hit the cobblestones.
Harry Potter's knees and palms struck the ground at the same time, gravel embedding itself between his fingers. The air around him smelled of sulfur and beer, and a roar of cheers surged from every direction as someone somewhere above him struck up an accordion.
He knelt there, ears ringing, stomach churning with the vertigo of crossing time. This was the worst part. The jump itself lasted only an instant—like something being pulled out of his spine. But in the seconds after landing, while the world still spun, he already had to figure out where he was and when he was. Again.
He looked up. British flags hung from every window along the street, and people leaned out to toss colored paper strips into the air. A man in a sailor's uniform ran past him, hoisting a woman in a floral dress off her feet. Everyone was laughing.
The war was over. Which one?
Then he heard the voice.
"Get up. You're in the way."
Harry blinked. A pair of brown leather shoes stopped in front of him—mud-spotted, laces tied tight. His gaze traveled upward, past gray trousers and a dark blue overcoat, and finally landed on a face he knew.
Hermione Granger stood on a London street on May 8, 1945. Her hair was longer than the last time he'd seen her, loosely tucked behind her ears. She held a black umbrella, though it wasn't raining.
She looked exactly the same as before. Twenty-five, twenty-six—brown eyes, lips pressed together just slightly.
Of course.
She always looked the same.
"Which war?" he asked, voice hoarse, pushing himself up off the ground. His knees ached fiercely.
"The second. It's Victory in Europe Day." Hermione reached out and steadied him by the elbow. Her hand was firm. "You've been gone eleven years, Harry."
Eleven years to her. To him... the last time he'd seen Hermione was on a rainy dock, she in a beige trench coat, the two of them having just finished fish and chips. That was four hours ago.
Four hours and eleven years.
He steadied himself and rubbed the back of his head. Hermione released his arm and took a half-step back to look at him.
"You haven't changed," she said.
"Neither have you."
She took him to a pub, tucked him into a corner of the celebrating crowd, and pressed a pint of dark ale and a copy of that day's newspaper into his hands. Harry looked down at the date. May 8, 1945. His last stop had been 1934.
"Eleven years," he said again, as if needing confirmation.
Hermione sat across from him, both hands wrapped around her own glass. She was drinking ginger ale—she never drank alcohol, hadn't for centuries.
"I moved twice." She didn't respond directly to his remark, instead launching into a rapid monologue. "My flat on Marchmont Street was bombed in '41. I had to find somewhere else. Then that one got hit in '44 as well. I'm in Bloomsbury now."
Her flat had been bombed. And bombed again. And she'd moved.
She'd lived through the entire war. Alone.
The churning in Harry's stomach returned, but this time it wasn't a side effect of time travel. He set down his glass, the base tapping softly against the tabletop.
"I'm sorry."
Hermione looked at him, tilting her head slightly. "For what?"
Harry didn't know how to answer that. For not being able to stay? For the fact that she'd waited eleven years while it had felt like only four hours to him? For her two flats and the bombs over London?
He couldn't say any of it, so he just picked up his ale and took another sip. Hermione didn't press; instead, she launched into an explanation of rationing and current prices.
This was what she did. Every time, no matter where he landed or when he landed, Hermione Granger would appear, pull him up, give him something to drink, and help him figure out how the world worked now.
She was his anchor.
Time had never meant anything to Harry because he could never hold on to it. It slipped through his fingers like sand, dropping him randomly into some corner of history. But Hermione waited in every corner.
---
The next time he landed, it was in a lane paved with blue-gray bricks, the air thick with the smells of horse manure and coal smoke. Someone nearby was hawking newspapers.
Earlier than last time. He could tell by the smell.
Harry got his bearings, taking about ten seconds to orient himself. The buildings were Victorian—tall, narrow windows, cast-iron railings caked with grime. A horse-drawn carriage splashed past the mouth of the lane, spraying muddy water.
He walked out of the lane and saw her before he even reached the corner.
Hermione was leaning against the doorframe of a bookshop, dressed in the fashion of the era—a dark long skirt, a white blouse buttoned high to her chin. Her hair was pinned up, though a few strands had already escaped and clung to her temples.
She had a book in her hand and was turning a page, looking nothing like someone waiting. But Harry knew she was waiting.
"How long?" he asked, walking over to stand before her.
Something flickered in Hermione's eyes, just for an instant. Then she closed the book.
"From V-E Day? Thirty-seven years. You?"
"About six minutes."
Right.
"1882. It's 1882 now." She tucked the book into her skirt pocket. "Come on. I'll take you to my place. You need to change."
Harry looked down at himself—still in his 1934 clothes, a plaid shirt and work trousers that stuck out like a sore thumb in 1882 London.
He followed her. Hermione's pace was unhurried; she led him around two corners, across a small square, and stopped at a brick terraced house.
"This is mine." She pulled out a key and unlocked the door. "I've run a little bookshop for the past twelve years. I'm 'Miss Granger, the spinster bookseller.' Very respectable."
She said "very respectable" with dry irony.
Thirty-seven years.
Harry stood in the foyer, watching Hermione light the gas lamps inside. The place wasn't large, and books were everywhere—piled on tables, chairs, the floor. A teacup sat on the mantelpiece next to a small brass alarm clock.
She'd lived here for thirty-seven years.
She'd been living her own life. Running a bookshop. Reading. Surviving. She just... also waited for him.
He stayed in 1882 for three days.
Over those three days, Hermione taught him how to be inconspicuous in Victorian London: walk slowly, wear a hat, nod at people, don't stare at women, don't put your hands in your pockets. She lent him an old suit left by her previous tenant; the sleeves were a bit short.
On the third evening, he sat in her sitting room drinking tea while Hermione sewed a petticoat across from him.
Then Harry felt it—the pull, starting deep in his spine.
"I have to go," he said, setting down his teacup.
Hermione looked up. Her needle stopped.
Her eyes. Always that look.
"Goodbye," she said.
And then he was gone.
---
He landed somewhere very high.
The wind was so strong he couldn't open his eyes.
Metal beneath his feet, not stone. He fumbled for a railing, grabbed hold, and blinked hard.
The city spread out below him like an enormous glowing circuit board. The shapes of the buildings were unfamiliar; some floated in midair, their edges glowing blue. The sky was a deep purple, with two moons.
No. Just one moon and its reflection. A glass dome.
"2217."
Hermione's voice came from behind him. He turned.
She was sitting on the edge of the rooftop terrace, legs dangling over the void. She wore a silver jacket, her hair cut short, just brushing her jaw. In her hand was a device he didn't recognize.
"How long?" he asked. The question had become ritual.
"Three hundred and thirty-five years."
Harry walked over and sat down beside her. The wind was biting cold at this height, cutting through his old Victorian suit. Hermione turned to look at him; her face was exactly as it had been six minutes ago, exactly as it had been thirty-seven years ago, exactly as it had been three hundred and thirty-five years ago.
"You cut your hair," he said.
"I've actually cut it several thousand times."
He laughed. Up here, in 2217, wearing a Victorian-era suit, he laughed. Hermione laughed too, tucking her device into her pocket, bracing her hands behind her, tilting her head back to look at the blue-lit artificial dome above.
"Are you tired?" Harry asked.
Hermione didn't answer right away. The wind blew her short hair across her face, and she reached up to hold it back.
"Sometimes," she said. "Not right now."
Harry reached out and touched the back of her hand. Hermione's fingers twitched slightly, then turned over and clasped his.
They spent an afternoon in 2217. Hermione showed him the new city, explaining the principles behind the floating structures, the changes in currency, how people communicated now. Her voice sounded a little different—slower, more measured. People accustomed to solitude needed to adjust their breathing when speaking with others again.
"Have you been alone the whole time?" he asked.
They were walking along an aerial pathway, transparent railings on both sides, hundreds of meters of empty air below. Hermione's steps remained steady.
"I've had friends. Colleagues. I had a cat once—she lived twenty-three years." She kept her gaze forward, not turning. "But everyone dies, Harry. Except me."
His stomach churned again.
"And you've been waiting for me."
"I've been living," Hermione corrected him. "You just happen to appear."
Happen.
Every thirty years, fifty years, three hundred years.
Happen.
The pull came. Harry's spine went cold, the edges of his vision beginning to blur. He grabbed Hermione's wrist.
"Hermione."
She looked down at his hand, then at his face. There was no panic in her expression, no grief.
"I'll be here," she said.
---
He landed on grass.
Soft grass, smelling of dew. The sky was gray-white, and birds were singing. The air was cool—early morning.
England. Spring.
Harry lay face-down in the grass, his cheek pressed into the earth, breathing deeply. This fall had been more violent than any before. His whole body was trembling, fingertips numb, as if he'd been electrocuted.
This time was different.
He tried to move his fingers. They worked. He tried to push himself up. His arms were weak, but they held. He knelt in the grass, raised his head, and saw open fields around him, low stone walls and a cottage in the distance. Smoke rose from its chimney.
Footsteps.
Hermione was walking toward him from the cottage, wearing an old jumper and jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She came and crouched in front of him, holding a teacup to his lips.
Too sweet. She knew he didn't like it this sweet, but she always added an extra spoonful of sugar right after he landed.
"What year?" he asked.
"2024."
He nodded. 2024. Modern. What most people in this world called modern.
"From the last time—"
"Two years," Hermione said. She sat down on the grass in front of him, crossing her legs. "Only two years this time."
Only two years.
He looked at her. She still looked the same. Always the same. But he noticed the cuffs of her jumper were a little frayed, that lavender grew by the cottage door, and a pot of sunflowers sat on the windowsill. She'd been here a while.
"This is yours?" He tilted his head toward the cottage.
"Bought it six years ago. After you left 2217."
Six years. Six years to her. Eight minutes ago to me.
He set the teacup on the grass, sat up straight, hands still trembling slightly. He looked at Hermione's face, into those brown eyes.
"Something's different," Hermione said. She was staring at his hands.
"I think it stopped."
Hermione's expression didn't change. One second. Two. Three.
"What do you mean?" she asked, very quietly.
"That pulling feeling. It's gone. I can't feel it anymore."
Hermione's eyes slowly reddened, but no tears fell.
"You're staying."
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I think I am."
Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Her breath came warm and uneven against his collarbone.
Harry raised his hand and placed it on the back of her head. Her hair was soft between his fingers.
How long had she waited?
From the first time to now. All the years added up. Seven hundred. Eight hundred. Maybe more.
He didn't know. He wouldn't ask.
He just sat there, in the early morning of some open field in England, his hand in Hermione Granger's hair. She leaned against his shoulder, saying nothing. In the distance, the cottage chimney still smoked, the tea had gone cold, and the grass had soaked through his trousers.
None of it mattered.
"I'll make you another cup," Hermione said after a long time, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Less sugar this time. You're not freshly frightened anymore."
"Okay."