The Return
The first thing she felt was the cold.
Not the blistering, all-consuming cold of time unravelling, of magic tearing through her like a raging current, but something softer—something real. The smooth chill of stone beneath her trembling fingertips, the faint draft that whispered through the cavernous room, raising goosebumps along her skin. The cold wrapped around her like a second layer of flesh, grounding her in the tangible world in a way that felt both foreign and familiar. She inhaled sharply, and the air that filled her lungs was crisp, cool—nothing like the stifling, ancient warmth of the past she had left behind.
The second thing she felt was pain.
It was not sharp, not immediate, but deep and all-encompassing, settling into her bones like a sickness. Her muscles ached as if she had been pulled apart and sewn back together, but the seams did not quite match. Every part of her trembled with exhaustion, her limbs weak beneath her own weight, her body unsure of itself. A dull, insistent pressure throbbed behind her temples, pressing against the inside of her skull, an unwelcome reminder of what she had just endured. And beneath it all, humming at the edge of her consciousness, was her magic—erratic, unstable, wrong. It flickered through her like an unfamiliar pulse, no longer the steady, comforting presence she had always known. Instead, it recoiled from her touch, as though she had become a stranger to herself.
The third thing she felt was alone.
Hermione forced herself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. A measured rhythm. A lifeline in the storm of disorientation. She needed to focus, to take stock of where she was—when she was. She had returned. She had made it back. She was home.
The thought should have brought relief. Instead, unease curled in her stomach like a living thing, coiling around her ribs with slow, insidious certainty. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
Her fingers pressed into the stone floor as she blinked against the disorientation, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim glow that surrounded her. Candlelight flickered high above, their golden flames dancing in unseen drafts, casting shifting shadows against towering walls of smooth, ancient stone. The air smelled of parchment and dust, thick with the weight of old magic.
Shelves stretched endlessly before her, packed with books, orbs, and arcane objects—rows upon rows of secrets locked away in a place untouched by time. The vast, empty space loomed in silence, impossibly still, save for the faint hum of magic that pulsed through the walls.
She knew this place.
The Department of Mysteries.
The realization sent a jolt through her, sharp as lightning.
This was where it had started. Where her research had turned from theory into obsession, where the fine line between curiosity and recklessness had blurred. This was where she had taken her first steps toward the impossible, where she had defied the laws of magic itself. This was where she had made the mistake that had cost her everything.
But the ritual had worked.
She had done it.
She had escaped.
She had left him behind.
Tom.
The name sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold.
Her breath came faster now, shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm. The air in the vast chamber felt heavier, pressing in against her lungs as she tried to steady herself. She had done it. She had escaped. She had broken free of him—severed the thread that bound them together, unravelled every careful knot of obsession, possession, and inevitability.
He was in the past.
Where he belonged.
She repeated the words like a mantra, forcing them through her mind as if sheer belief could make them true. He could not follow her. He could not touch her. No longer would she feel the weight of his gaze tracing her every movement, unravelling her thoughts before she even spoke them aloud. No longer would she feel the suffocating presence of his mind pressing against hers, his voice curling around her name like a whispered promise.
And yet—
The knowledge settled in her chest like a lead weight. The air around her was still, silent, undisturbed. But beneath the surface, beneath the reassuring logic of her success, a sickening sense of unease coiled in her stomach. Something was wrong.
The thought was sudden, unbidden, but absolute in its certainty.
Hermione inhaled sharply and pushed herself upright, her limbs stiff and aching as if she had been thrown through time rather than pulled. Her legs wobbled beneath her as she fought to find balance, and for a moment, the chamber seemed to tilt, a dizzying shift of perception that made her vision blur.
Then, without warning—
A jolt of magic surged through her, sharp and electric, crackling through her veins like fire.
She gasped, her fingers curling against her ribs as the force of it rattled her to her core. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt—wild, unpredictable, different. It burned under her skin, not in pain but in something far worse: recognition.
Her magic had always been a part of her, a steady, familiar current running through her very being. But this? This was something else. It pulsed inside her with a volatile energy, a raw and unsteady force that did not belong.
Panic flared in her chest.
She clenched her trembling hands into fists, forcing herself to focus, to reach inward and grasp onto the magic she had always known, to make sense of the change. But the moment she did, it recoiled from her touch like something alive, twisting and shifting as if it no longer recognized her.
Or worse—as if she no longer recognized it.
A shudder ran through her as she pressed a hand to her sternum, trying to anchor herself, to push through the disorientation. She had expected exhaustion, weakness—even pain. But this was something deeper. This was a fracture in the very foundation of herself.
Time has left its mark on me.
The thought was cold, creeping through her like a shadow. What have I done to myself?
A flicker of movement.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
The air shifted, the faintest whisper of something just behind her, something that had not been there before. The shadows along the stone walls stretched unnaturally, dark tendrils reaching outward, curling at the edges of the candlelight.
She spun, her heart hammering—
Nothing.
Only the empty chamber.
The bookshelves stood undisturbed, rows of ancient tomes locked away in their endless vigil. The towering shelves of prophecies gleamed dully in the dim glow of the flickering sconces, their glassy surfaces unbroken. No one was here.
No one but her.
Hermione exhaled shakily, pressing her palm against the cool stone wall for support. The contact was grounding, the solidity of it real beneath her fingertips. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, forcing herself to push past the panic.
It’s just the disorientation. The ritual was more powerful than I anticipated. It took too much.
That had to be it.
Her body needed time to adjust, to recover from the strain of being unmade and reassembled. Her magic—whatever had happened to it—was still hers. It had to be.
She needed rest.
She needed to regain her strength.
And yet, as she stood there in the silence of the Department of Mysteries, she could not shake the feeling that the shadows had never stretched like that before.
That the air had never quite felt so watched.