Chapter Text
The radio hummed its melodious tune as her parents car rumbled along the road, their voices floating back to her from the front seat. Hermione Granger was, and would always be, an ordinary girl. Her parents were dentists, busy with their family company. She was a brilliant student, top of her class. But unremarkable in every other way.
Hermione and her family led a simple life.
They took a yearly holiday away from the hustle and bustle of London, usually a small town in France where they had family. They would leave for one to two weeks, Hermione loading her suitcase with the latest novels to keep her busy for the ride.
Digging into her bag, she withdrew her iPod and headphones. Slipping the earbuds firmly against her ears, she slid the power button and adjusted the volume to her current favorite band.
A silent sigh fell from her lips as the car hit a pothole, nearly tossing the iPod to the ground from where it rest on her thigh. She held the device aloft to prevent it from sailing away, waiting the rivets in the road to cease before setting it back on the empty seat beside her. Once the music resumed playing through her headphones, she returned her attention to the book.
One of her favorites, not necessarily a classic, per say. But a good read, nonetheless. She was currently re-reading book seven of the Harry Potter series, The Deathly Hallows.
It was a comfort series, really.
The magic, the intrigue, the interesting cast of characters, the war.
Ugh.
It was a perfect escape from her mundane life.
Hermione would give anything to be a real witch.
She remembered when she had turned eleven, how she had eagerly waited to receive her Hogwarts letter.
A fool's dream, she knew. But one she still held onto bitterly to this day.
They eventually stopped for petrol and to stretch their legs. Hermione slipped the bookmark between the pages of the book, closing it and setting it aside on the backseat. They had just completed the drive through the Channel Tunnel and arrived in Calais, France. The trip was only several hours, broken up by pit stops and photo opportunities.
Her father filled up the car while she ran inside with her mother to use the restroom. It was just another small petrol station, not even offering the tour maps and guides that some stops had in the doorway.
Soon enough, they were back on the road and heading away from the busy cities into the wilderness. The cities fell away and was soon relaxed by trees and fields, spotted with homes and farms. Between reading and zoning out, Hermione would occasionally look out the window at the landscape as it rolled by.
A few hours into the drive and the sun began to set. The rays cast long shadows through the trees, igniting them in a brilliant orange hue.
As the sun finally sank below the horizon and threw the car into darkness, Hermione settled to tucking her book away into her bag and listening to the quiet tones of her parents conversing back and forth.
Her eyes began to grow heavy, even though she knew they were growing closer to their destination.
The smooth glass of the window was cool against her skin as she leaned her temple against it, her knees drawn up beneath her as she allowed herself to drift to sleep.
Suddenly, her body was thrown hard into the chest strap of her seatbelt as her father slammed on the brakes, the car’s tires screeching as it skidded sideways. Hermione was jolted away as her head struck the window, the wind knocked from her. She had just a moment to look out the windshield as a deer leapt away before the car’s wheels slipped off the pavement and sent the car rolling at speed into the ditch.
It was a whirlwind, the forest just out of the windows becoming a blur of green. The sound of metal against gravel and brush was explosive as the car rolled and rolled on its side, tossing Hermione’s limbs about like a dolls as everything in their car was tossed around. Glass shattered, biting into her face as she struggled to breathe, struggling to remain conscious at the mind numbing velocity.
The car finally came to a halt upside down, the windshield long gone and her mother missing from the front seat. Her head was throbbing, her heartbeat loud in her ears as blood rushed to her head. She could feel the pulse, her adrenaline pumping, as she dangled upside down. Her father was still in his seat, unconscious. His arms, limp against the crumbled roof.
The edges of her vision started to darken to match the world beyond the car, her gaze falling to her bag beneath her. It had been torn open in the accident, its contents discarded along the lining of the ceiling. Her eyes spotted her books, the final chapter of the book just barely visible. The words were fading quickly, her eyelids growing heavy. She struggled to focus on the book, her hand numb as it fumbled for her seatbelt. She needed to remain awake.
Every fiber of her being screamed at her to stay awake.
But the blood that dropped from her temple to stain the ceiling grew steadily as she started to fade.
‘I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.’**
The words swam before her eyes just before they closed, echoing in her mind like an incantation and prayer in one.
~*~
The chill of the night air seemed to fade as she was instead wrapped in a familiar yet distant warmth. It engulfed her, like a warm glow cast from a furnace. Her head was still throbbing with a heart beat of its own, and Hermione tipped her head a little. She was no longer upside down, that much she knew even with her eyes closed.
The seatbelt no longer dug into her skin, nor did her chest and thighs ache from where it had snapped tight during the accident.
Her fingers trembled as they reached up to her temple, but she felt no injury. There was no pain. It felt as if her eyelids were made of great weight, but she forced them to open.
Everything was dark about her except for an ominous dancing orange glow.
Panic gripped her; had the car started on fire?
She sat upright, hoping she had somehow managed to drag herself free from the wreckage. Her gaze fell to the culprit of the adrenaline coursing through her veins; a merry fire roared in a handsome fireplace, crowned with a massive lion tapestry. The flames danced and swayed, waving at her. Mocking her, it seemed.
Confusion quickly replaced her immediate fear.
Where were the trees? Gone, replaced with thick, heavy tapestries and gallant paintings that decorated the stone walls. The sky above had been replaced by a high arching ceiling. The ground the car had rolled across was now stone floor covered in thick rugs, and her arse nestled into a cushion of a handsome couch.
Candles drifted listlessly overhead, suspended in the air as if by magic itself.
Hermione surely had struck her head and was delusional; perhaps this was a state of shock or even a fever dream? Her hands trembled as she ran her hands across the texture of the couch; it was rough beneath the pads of her fingers.
It felt real. Everything about this seemed authentic.
What the bloody hell was going on?
Sure, she had experienced vivid dreams before. Moments of her imagination that almost felt as if they were real. She pinched the tender skin of her arm sharply, her nails biting into her flesh. It stung and hurt. And Hermione remained on the couch.
Not a dream, then.
So, where was she?
Expecting her legs to cave, Hermione braced a hand on the arm of the couch as she rose to her feet. They remained strong and steady, unlike that of what she would have imagined from an accident.
The room she was in was a massive circular chamber and not a simple sitting area one might find in a home. Large, stained glass windows adorned one wall, letting in the starlight from the night sky beyond. The aesthetic of the room was ornate, most of the furniture old and heavy. Rich fabrics that were dyed in shades of burgundy, red and golden hues. Tassels that seemed to flutter in some imaginary breeze or draft. The portraits, on the other hand… They were what really caught Hermione’s attention. From the corner of her eye, she swore they moved . Upon closer inspection, she realized that they indeed were doing just that. The people within the canvas were asleep, their slumbering forms shifting with each breath. It was as if she were looking at a television or even a tablet.
She nearly fell upon her ass when the nearest portrait to her sneezed in his sleep, causing her to leap and her foot catch on the rug.
“Holy shit, what is going on?” Hermione asked aloud, turning frantically as her eyes scanned the room in more detail. Her head throbbed with each turn, her lungs shuddering as she struggled to breathe. “Where am I?”
Could it be all an optical illusion? Had they been rescued and this was just some enormous country home?
“Hermione?” A sleepy voice called from down a darkened hall. A thud followed by something like a door closing and she let out a shriek as a raven haired boy— well, a young man her own age— materialized in front of her very eyes. “What are you still doing awake?”
“How do you know my name?” She hissed as she stumbled backwards.
The man frowned, vivid green eyes seeming to pierce into her through the gloom of the space. He draped the shimmering swath of fabric over his arm, raking a hand through his raven hair to push it away from his face. The motion revealed a jagged mark across his forehead, bisecting the arch of a thick eyebrow.
“Hermione, are you alright?” The man then reached a hand out to her but she swatted it away instinctively, her heart racing and stumbling over itself, “Blimey, I think you need to get to bed. You might be overdoing yourself a bit with all this coursework.” He waved a hand towards the couch, where a book lay open and discarded.
She turned and reached down, plucking the book upright. Closing it, she looked at the cover; Magical Drafts and Potions.
What the hell?
Surely she was dreaming.
Hermione stared at the words before her as her mind quickly processed everything around her, the realization starting to set in. Her frown grew as she looked about the room once more before she turned to settle her gaze on the man who had appeared from thin air. But he hadn’t, not really. He had been merely invisible, slinking about the walls beyond the room.
Candles floated, as if by magic.
A spell book.
A room that haunted her imagination.
A boy with brilliant green eyes, an invisibility cloak and a scar that looked like a true lightning bolt and not a silly drawing.
“Harry?” Her voice wavered with the uncertainty of her question.
Surely, Hermione was not at Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
~*~
The dormitory she was supposed to sleep in was quiet. Her roommates had their draperies drawn shut about their four poster beds, obscuring them from view. The room was as elegant as how she had always imagined it to be. The movies had not done it justice.
Surely, she was unconscious still, hanging upside down from the seat in her parents' overturned vehicle. There was no other explanation for this.
Morning could not come soon enough for Hermione. She had lain awake throughout the night, turning over the events in her mind. Trying to make sense of what was happening to her. She didn’t wait for the others to stir, needing to be alone; because what the bloody hell was she supposed to say or do when she came face to face with Ginny Weasley or Lavender Brown? She was still in shock that she had been standing before the Harry Potter.
Famous not only in this world, but hers.
A hero.
An icon.
Her heart was pounding as she descended the stairs into the common room; it was still early enough that she found herself alone in the hauntingly familiar space, her feet carrying her to the passage that she felt would lead her to the exit; the Portrait of the Fat Lady.
An unfortunate name, really.
The portrait swung outward as she neared, allowing her to exit into the vast corridor. She remembered the Gryffindor common room was located in one of the towers.
Making a hasty decision, she turned left and headed towards the stairs, needing to find the restroom. Downstairs, perhaps? Its location had been mentioned several times throughout the books.
The sheer size of Hogwarts was mind boggling. One could easily become lost amongst the many chambers and halls. Stairs ventured off in different directions, halls that led nowhere, countless doors. The castle was seemingly magically lit, as no hum of electricity met her ears. It was unnaturally quiet but somehow not at the same time. There was a different kind of silence that filled the void; the subtle crackle of flames on torches that lined the walls. Chandeliers and candles. It was never mentioned in the books, so they had to be charmed to burn continuously.
The stunning beauty of the portraits, even alarming as they were that they jostled and moved about, caused Hermione to pause every so often. She turned sideways to admire a particularly active portrait of a knight and his steed, the pair prancing about the canvas with the wild abandon of any renaissance joust and she collided hard into an unmoving object.
Her first thought was she had walked into a wall; it would not surprise her in the least. She had the tendency to disappear into her thoughts and stumble into things with alarming frequency.
But as she caught herself and drew her eyes upright, to her utter horror she realized the immovable object was not a wall.
But a man.
A very real, solid one at that.
Piercing grey eyes met hers, his lips turned down into a sneer as he gripped her upper arms to push her upright and away from him. He shook white blond hair from his face as ringed hands moved to adjust his robes with a jerk.
“Watch where you're going, will you Granger?” Draco Malfoy drawled in a bored and clipped tone.
Straightening herself, Hermione felt her heart skip a beat at the man— the wizard before her.
Oh no, another thing the books had not prepared her for.
He was dastardly handsome, unnervingly so. Tall, a good head on her in height, lean, but undeniably solid. Her run into his chest had been evident of the muscles that hid beneath his fitted Slytherin robes. He had always been described as a slender, pointed face boy but that was far from accurate, as if to give him an unkind appearance as he was meant to be the bully . In no way would she consider this man before her disagreeable. The planes of his face seemed to give him a haughty, aristocratic appearance, accentuated by his alabaster skin and the striking color of his eyes.
“Snake caught your tongue?” Draco asked at her lack of response.
Hermione shook her head in denial; oh indeed, he had stolen every logical thought. She glanced at the badge that glittered upon his chest; he was Slytherin Head Boy.
But of course.
He looked older than she had imagined him to be in the books; when was she in the timeline? He could not have been Head Boy in sixth year, just before the war. He had been all but absent from Hogwarts in seventh year as well. Was this after Voldemort had been defeated? It had to be. There was no book for this year, having just skipped to the epilogue.
Bloody hell.
“I’m just slipping down to use the loo and then…” She drifted off; she had no thoughts of what to do beyond that.
Draco lifted a shoulder in a shrug, “I don’t actually give a shit what you are up to, Granger. How about you use your eyes next time, yeah?”
After casting her one more dark look, he swept by her, his shoes clicking smartly against the stone floor as he disappeared up the stairs in a flurry of his robes. She wondered where he was off to, but then again, what did it matter to her? Perhaps that was book Hermione’s curiosity taking hold of her, but she pushed it aside.
She needed to figure out how to wake up.
A moment passed as the Slytherin’s steps receded and she turned to continue her hasty journey down the tower and to the restroom. She passed other students who were beginning to make their way to the Great Hall, feeling their gazes on her.
Their stares caused her skin to itch and make her anxious. Is that how book Hermione always felt? Eyes, following her every move. Judging her. Questioning. Appraising.
It was horrible.
Hermione couldn’t reach the restroom fast enough; she dashed to the mirror to stare at her reflection. She looked as she always did. Large brown eyes with a delicate ring of gold about the iris, dark brown hair curling about her shoulders. She looked simple and plain.
An ordinary girl.
How was it possible for her to just fall into this world and place so seamlessly and no one seemed to notice?
Turning the faucet on, she splashed cold water on her face.
“Wake up, wake up, wake the fuck up!”
Nothing happened.
She remained standing before the mirror in the girls restroom. In a castle. In Hogwarts , specifically. In a fantasy world that shouldn’t exist.
Either her mind was incredible at creating this reality while she was unconscious, or she had somehow shifted to a different universe.
“What am I supposed to do?” She asked her reflection.
A tinkling laugh sounded from one of the stalls and she whirled around as the ghostly figure of Moaning Myrtle drifted through the door.
“Oh, poor, popular Hermione. Tired, are you?” Myrtle gave her a sad face that was clearly just disguising her amusement, “You could come join me. It’s really not so bad. A bit dull, but not bad.”
Ugh.
Hermione had not taken into account that she would not be alone here, having forgotten about the ghosts that haunted the castle. The books also had not mentioned that Myrtle had such a dark sense of humor, if you could call it that. Then again, that wasn’t a real shocker.
She was dead, after all.
What else would she joke about?
“No thanks,” Hermione said flatly, ignoring the reality that she was conversing with a ghost. A dead witch, specifically. From a book.
The witch shrugged her shoulders as she adjusted the frames upon her pale, ghostly face. “It was just an thought. I’m more than willing to offer advice on how to—“
“Yep. Once again... No thanks. Cya later,” Hermione made for the door quickly.
As she walked, she let her hands check her pockets. She wore her jeans and a sweater, a Gryffindor robe thrown over the top hastily. She hoped perhaps she would still have her own items within her pockets, but found nothing but a torn up piece of paper in one pocket and Hermione’s— her— wand stashed in the pocket of the robes.
She stared at the stick of wood as it rest against her palm, feeling its weight. It felt foreign and familiar at the same time. A pulse, like a subtle jolt of electricity, seemed to travel along her arm.
Interesting.
Could witches and wizards feel their magic? She raked her mind as she tried to remember if it had ever been mentioned in the books. Small details eluded her.
Her legs led her along the corridor and to the Great Hall. The two massive doors that led to the hall were open, and the quiet din of conversation and silverware against china could be heard. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as she edged closer. It felt as if once she crossed the threshold, it was an acknowledgement that this was real . That this was really happening and for some reason, Hermione was not rousing from this dream anytime soon.
While her entrance into the Great Hall was mostly unnoticed, a few eyes did swivel up to glance at her as she hovered awkwardly, trying to make sense of the layout. She knew there were the four tables for each house, but they were unlabeled. She scoffed; because why would they label things in Harry Potter? No. They used house colors. Her eyes scanned the walls, the ceiling, even the tables themselves. Hoping for something. But there was no decoration to help her this time.
Instead, she reverted to looking at the people at the tables; their robes. She didn’t recognize anyone, so that was all she had to rely on. The far left table was Slytherin, beside them Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff was center right and then Gryffindor opposite.
Okay.
She could do this.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
She was Gryffindor.
Well, this Hermione was Gyffindor.
In her reality, she was actually Ravenclaw. According to the silly tests, at least. She turned to the designated table, trying to spot Harry. She didn’t know the bloke but she knew that was where she was expected to go. She spotted two redheads at the table as well; Weasley’s. Undeniable.
Oh, shit.
Ronald Weasley would be here.
According to the books, Hermione and Ron had been in a relationship.
Her stomach turned as she neared the small group; was she in a relationship with the Weasel? She had never been fond of the wizard in the books. Sure, he had been a sometimes-decent-friend, but she had never found there to be a viable connection between the two. Loyal and brave, yes, but not dateable.
His actions when they had been hunting Horcruxes had affirmed that in Hermione’s mind.
But…
This was not her reality, her world.
This was book Hermione’s.
Her friends looked up at her with what she assumed was their usual warmth and genuine happiness to see her.
“Feeling better this morning?” Harry asked as she sat across from him.
She looked at the scattering of trays with food piled upon the plates; the books had , however, prepared her for this. It was a proverbial buffet before her and her stomach rumbled in excitement at the array of options.
Giving a shrug to quiet her own thoughts, she began to heap food upon her plate. “I uh… I just needed to walk this morning and clear my mind.”
“As you do frequently,” Harry agreed as he dug into a pile of pancakes.
Ronald, er Ron, waved a fork in her direction, “Aye, you said you would help me with some Runes homework later. A private study session , remember?”
Her stomach flopped.
No surprise there.
“Uhm… Yeah. Sure.” She of course did not remember that one lick, nor did she wish to follow through on it.
She was spared any further conversation as they tucked into the breakfast, leaving Hermione to quietly observe the two out of the trio. They were oddly similar to the actors that had portrayed them in the movies, and yet… Not. Ron was larger than she had pictured; tall, broad. He reminded her of someone into sports. Did he still play Quidditch? His hair was a darker, shaggier kind of dark red. His pale skin was peppered with freckles and white scars encircled his throat and one ran across his cheek.
War scars? Or perhaps from that incident in the Ministry with that gross scene with the brains?
Now that it was daytime and she was not in full panic-mode, Hermione looked to Harry.
Once again, this was the Harry bloody Potter, too.
The war had clearly aged him, taking a toll on the man. His face seemed tired, perhaps permanently so. Green eyes sparkled like emeralds from behind round framed glasses. His nose was slightly crooked at the bridge; could he not fix that? Or did he not wish to? His raven hair was tousled, as if he had carded his fingers through it continuously. In her world, it would be considered attractive in how careless it appeared. The famous scar above his forehead was also far different than was depicted in the movies; it wasn’t some silly lightning bolt as a child might draw, but an actual bolt of lightning that raked across the sky. Jagged, uneven lines that marred his skin.
Chewing on the prongs of the fork, she let her eyes drift past Harry, looking at each of the tables and trying to pick out characters— people— she might recognize.
It was like a terrible game of Find Waldo and she hated that she was lost. If she were to be here, she needed to find her footing. And fast.
Her eyes reached the Slytherin table, coming to rest on the very recognizable Draco. He was seated between Blaise and a brunette wizard she couldn’t quite pin the name on. As if he felt her gaze, Draco looked up at her.
And she didn’t look away.
A moment of question seemed to cross his face at her sudden attention. His dark brows dipped together over silver eyes. Her breath caught and then he suddenly looked away when one of the others spoke to him and the tension that had begun to grow suddenly disappeared.
Bloody hell, what was that?
She looked down at her plate to draw in a steadying breath.
“Oi, you look a right bit pale there, ‘Mione.” She cringed at that name. It was terrible. Did he always use that? “Maybe you should go up to see Madam Pomfrey?” Ron suddenly said from across the table, a broad hand coming across to cover hers.
She didn’t know what a healer could do to help her situation— ignoring the fact that her heart was suddenly racing in her chest.
“Maybe you’re right. I am feeling unwell…” Hermione admitted.
Unwell or bothered?
One last glance across the Great Hall and Draco and his companions had disappeared. Ron and Harry didn’t seem to mind or notice when she got up to leave the Great Hall. She had no intention of going to the Hospital Wing but to the library, a place she could only hope would offer some insight.