Work Text:
A watch that allowed you to jump backwards in time ten minutes to see the carnage from a perfectly planned prank was a genius idea in theory. The execution had proved trickier than George had hoped. Sourcing time sand for one had been... challenging. Some would say morally questionable. Others might even say illegal. George didn’t appreciate that sort of negativity. Fred was on board that was all that mattered.
Though Fred wasn’t really involved in the actual construction of the watch. They each tended to work on their own products nowadays, more tailored to their individual strengths and interests. He was sure Fred would jump in at the marketing phase with some sort of snappy alliterative name. Until then he was mostly on his own. Which was fine.
George was in the workshop, a floor below the bustling activity of a Wheezes work day. He had a pair of Earworms stuffed in his ears as he worked, adding grains of time sand into the chamber of the watch. Earworms were a relatively new Wheezes product. And one of their bestsellers. They took the old extendable ear logic and twisted it, instead of listening in to conversations they listened in to your radio, playing the music through the Earworms and directly into your ears. They were based on muggle headphones but there were no wires needed. Plus they blended pretty seamlessly with your actual ear, meaning students or bored office workers could listen to music to their heart's content instead of paying attention. Well, you could just wear one, which apparently actually helped concentration in some people. The more you know, he guessed.
Point being, he had Metallica blasting directly into his brain and didn’t hear the workshop door open. Didn’t hear the footsteps across the room or his name being called. It was only when a hand tapped his shoulder that he realised anyone was there at all. The girlish squeal he let out would have been embarrassing but bearable. The same went for the fact his arms went flailing in surprise, knees hitting the underside of the desk as he jumped. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
No, that’d be the container of time sand spilling out as he jumped. Hundreds of Galleons worth falling into the cracks of the floor, skittering away into crevices. And, more importantly, into the chamber of the watch. George span to face the culprit, eyes widening as he came face to face with Hermione Granger.
Her eyebrows were drawn close, a frown darkening her usually radiant features, as though she was the one cross with him. Laughable when he’d likely just ruined all his progress on the watch. Just as he was about to open his mouth to ask what she was even doing here a light began to emanate from the chamber of the watch in his hand. Hazy orange light seeping out fast until both him and Hermione were enveloped in its glow. The hands of the watch began to spin, which was the intention, but instead of moving back ten minutes – with the chamber filled with ten grains of sand – the hands rotated faster and faster. One hour, two, a full day. George watched in horror as they continued to spin, faster and faster, so fast he lost count of the rotations. How many grains of sand were inside? A week's worth? A year? Hermione’s hand on his wrist shook him out of his spiralling thoughts. Her fingers clamped down hard as the hands finally stopped moving, the orange glow burned brighter, so bright George had to squeeze his eyes shut. Then there was a pulling in his stomach. Like portkey travel but not. He held the watch tightly as the pulling got stronger, realising what was going to happen the second before it did.
“Oh sh—”
His words cut off as he poofed out of existence. Falling backwards in time.
Falling was a good word for it.
Off balance, surrounded by nothingness, plummeting. The only things he could feel were the watch in one hand, and Hermione’s grasp on his wrist. Deathly tight. He wanted to grab her in return but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His eyes wouldn’t open. Though the world around him felt simultaneously blinding white and the darkest black. It made no sense and yet it was all George knew for what felt like an eternity.
The moment it stopped all the air left his lungs, his body pitching forwards, knees hitting the ground hard. The watch fell from his grip as he tried to catch himself, not that it worked. His eyes just about managed to open in time to see the watch smash on the ground seconds before his own face.
The world was spinning, the room dark, as George tried to comprehend what had happened. He ached from head to toe, though his knees and skull felt it the worst from their collision with the floor. It took a moment for his brain to catch up, for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did they caught on the form beside him.
Hermione.
“Shit,” George murmured, taking in her unconscious body.
She must have let go of him when they fell.
He forced himself to sit, fighting the aching and the nausea to move towards her. She was dressed in her Ministry robes. Hair pulled back in a fancy clip, though most of her hair had come loose during the fall. Why had she been there in the workshop? Why had she come to see him? His heart jumped pitifully. It wasn’t like that. No matter how much he wanted it to be. She hadn’t just woken up one day and decided she returned his feelings.
Miracles didn’t strike the same person twice. George reached up and touched the missing part of his ear. He’d already had his miracle. Surviving the bloody war had been most people’s miracle.
Besides, Hermione didn’t even know there were feelings to be returned.
George brushed a curl away from her face, wincing at how painful the movement was. Hermione shifted under his touch, her skin soft beneath his fingers, her light groan sending a thrill through him. Her eyelids fluttered then opened wide, terrified orbs tugging on his soul. She bolted upright, one hand pressing against the side of her head as she looked around frantically.
“Where are we?” she demanded before her eyes caught on the smashed watch. His gaze followed hers, he winced again at the sight of the watch in tiny pieces, not a grain of sand to be seen. “When are we?” she clarified, voice full of as much fear as it was anger.
George looked around properly for the first time, taking in the room. He could actually answer both of those questions, though he knew she wouldn’t like the answer. He didn’t very much like the answer.
It was the same room they were in back in 2005. Only, it wasn’t a workshop. It wasn’t anything. The walls were bare, no furniture to speak of unless you counted broken bits of wood and cobwebs. It was a mess. But it was a familiar mess. A mess George remembered well from when him and Fred had toured 93 Diagon Alley over winter break of 1995, eventually opening in the April of 1996. Which gave him a pretty good estimate of when they were too.
They hadn’t gone back ten minutes, they’d gone back ten years.
Landing right slap bang in the middle of the war.
Well, that could’ve gone better.
Their predicament must have shown on his face because Hermione sat up even straighter, her eyes widening impossibly.
“George?” she prompted.
He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the urge to sneeze as dust tickled his nose.
“Err... 1995,” he answered tentatively.
Hermione let out a breath, shock and fear and disbelief all coiled in a single exhale.
“Ten years...”
“Yep.”
“And we’re in the shop? Before you owned it.”
“Yep.”
“Great,” she said sarcastically, getting to her feet.
George followed, ignoring how much he hurt. “Hermione...”
“It’s fine,” she stressed, not looking fine at all.
“It was an accident—”
“I know, it’s fine,” she said again, cutting him off.
His heart clenched knowing it wasn’t fine at all. Also knowing he had no idea how to fix it. They were stuck in 1995.