Tangled in Time

Hermione stepped through the Floo, the familiar rush of ash and swirling flames giving way to the cold, polished floors of the Ministry’s atrium. The familiar sensation of stepping from the chaos of the Floo network into solid ground was almost a comfort, but it didn’t last long. Her mind was still clouded with the remnants of last night's whispers, the unnerving feeling of being followed, hunted by a voice that was supposed to be buried in the past. Every word from it lingered in her mind like an aftertaste, sharp and unwelcome. She had hoped that coming back into the bustle of the Ministry would clear her thoughts, ground her in something solid. She needed that reassurance—needed the feeling of being surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of a place she once knew inside and out.

But as soon as she stepped into the atrium, that hope evaporated. The Ministry was wrong.

It wasn’t immediately obvious—there were no flashing alarms, no screams or desperate cries that would indicate catastrophe—but something in the very air felt different. It was subtle, like the feeling of something out of alignment, a place just slightly askew in a world that was supposed to be stable. The usual buzz of conversation, the chatter and laughter of Ministry employees drifting through the air, was gone. Instead, the atrium felt like a cavern—empty and hollow. It was quiet. Too quiet. The polished floors reflected more than just the light—they reflected the absence of life, of energy. The usual hum of activity had been replaced by something thicker, something more suffocating, as though the Ministry itself had been stretched and reformed, but not in a way that felt natural. As though the very fabric of the building had been twisted, reshaped into something that no longer quite fit.

Subtle things were wrong. The air was heavier, pressing against her chest as she moved forward. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the absence. The kind that echoed louder than any noise could. There was something unsettling about it, as though everyone was going through the motions, but no one was truly present. The usual footfalls, the light-hearted remarks and casual exchanges between coworkers—gone. The people she passed hardly spared her a glance.

As she moved deeper into the atrium, her senses heightened. She caught sight of the security witch at the front desk—someone she’d worked alongside for years, exchanging brief smiles and polite pleasantries. Today, however, the witch didn’t even look up as Hermione approached. Her gaze remained fixed on the parchment before her, her face blank, expressionless. A familiar face, but it was hollow now—lacking the warmth it once carried. Hermione’s throat tightened. She hadn’t expected an elaborate greeting, but the absence of any recognition, even the slightest nod, sent a chill creeping through her. It was as though the witch didn’t even see her anymore.

Fighting the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest, Hermione forced herself to walk faster. Each step took her deeper into the Ministry, but the oppressive sense of something wrong only intensified. The feeling of unease pressed against her, dragging at her thoughts like a weight she couldn’t shake. She was in the same building, surrounded by the same stone walls and grand architecture—but this place felt foreign to her now, as though she had stepped into an alternate version of her world.

The change was in the details—the small things that gnawed at her from the corners of her mind. The newly installed security protocols, marked by unfamiliar signs and symbols. The fresh coat of paint on the walls, a pristine white that stood out against the dull gray of the building like it was trying to cover something up. Even the walls themselves felt unfamiliar, more imposing. The old signs, the ones she used to pass every day, had been replaced with new ones—ones she didn’t recognize. The arrows pointing toward different departments seemed to be directing her to places she didn’t know, as though the Ministry had been reshaped into a place she no longer understood.

And there were the people—where were they? People she had known for years—friends, colleagues, the faces that made the Ministry feel like home—were missing. Gone, as though they had vanished overnight. She caught the faintest glimpses of faces she didn’t recognize, but they were just as hurried, just as disconnected as the rest. Were they reassigned? Were they on holiday? No. Hermione knew better. They were simply gone.

A dull ache settled in the pit of her stomach, but she ignored it as best as she could. She couldn’t dwell on it—not now, not here. She had a job to do. She had to get to her office, to her work, and somehow find a way to push past this sense of displacement, of wrongness. She had to convince herself that the world around her was simply going through some sort of transition—that everything would be fine if she just focused.

But it was harder than she thought. The deeper she went into the Ministry, the more suffocating the atmosphere became. The usual chatter that filled the halls of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was nowhere to be found. The sounds of hurried footsteps, the quiet murmurs of casual conversations, the ringing of cups and saucers from the break rooms—everything had been replaced by an eerie silence. It wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t calm. It was unnerving.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Hermione pushed forward, trying to focus on the familiar steps that would take her to her office. The lift was just ahead, its polished silver doors standing open. She had been in this Ministry countless times before—she knew the way. But the feeling that she didn’t belong here anymore, that this was a place changed beyond recognition, gnawed at her.

The lift doors closed with a quiet, metallic hiss as Hermione stepped inside, the soft click of the mechanism sounding oddly loud in the stillness. She stood there, hands pressed lightly against the cool metal wall, her mind spinning in a haze of disjointed thoughts. Her fingers twitched, restless, and her eyes were drawn to the glass wall of the lift in front of her. She gazed at her reflection as it appeared in the polished surface, searching for something familiar.

The Hermione Granger that stared back at her was the same one she’d known all her life—her features, her hair, her clothes. But there was something wrong with her eyes. A dullness in them that hadn’t been there before. The spark of determination, the fire that had always guided her, was dimmer now. The reflection seemed more tired, more worn, and as if it was seeing something deeper in her than she was willing to admit. There was a wariness there, a fatigue that she couldn't hide, that she hadn’t known how to shake off.

She stared harder, blinking away the fatigue, but it wouldn’t disappear. No matter how much she tried to reassure herself, the truth was beginning to sink in. This woman—this version of her—wasn’t the same one who had entered the Ministry years ago, full of resolve and ambition. That Hermione Granger had known the Ministry like the back of her hand, confident in her place, certain of where she stood. But now? She was lost, adrift in a place that didn’t feel like home anymore. A stranger in the building she had once helped shape, and the weight of it was crushing her.

No, something had shifted. She could feel it.

The lift lurched upwards, its grinding motion pulling her out of her thoughts. She pressed her hands against her thighs to steady herself, but the unease still pulsed in her chest. She couldn’t shake it. When the doors slid open with a soft, sighing thud, she stepped out, moving into the hallway with quick, purposeful steps, trying to put the discomfort behind her.

She walked past faces she didn’t recognize—colleagues she had never seen before. Their expressions were cold, distant, and their hurried pace felt at odds with the Ministry’s usual rhythm. She couldn’t help but glance sideways, trying to make eye contact with someone—anyone—but they only glanced at her in passing, their gazes fleeting and uninterested. She felt invisible, like a ghost among the living. But no time to linger on that. She focused on the path ahead, forcing herself to walk forward.

As she approached the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, a cold shiver crawled down her spine. The door loomed before her, a stark reminder of the changes that had taken root. She hesitated just for a moment, as if the weight of the threshold before her would somehow stop her from going any further. But she couldn’t turn back. She had to face this.

It’s nothing, she told herself firmly. It’s just the stress. Just nerves. It will be fine. But her thoughts betrayed her, flashing back to what she had once been—what she had once wanted. She had never sought power, never craved recognition. She had been content working behind the scenes, just another Unspeakable among many. But now, as she placed her hand on the cold, polished lift button, she was faced with the reality that she was no longer just an Unspeakable.

She was the Head of the Department of Mysteries.

The thought should have been a relief, a mark of success. But it wasn’t. The weight of the title felt suffocating on her shoulders. She hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t worked for it—not in the world she had come from, not in the life she had led. She couldn’t remember ever being appointed to this position. How had she earned it? She hadn’t. She wasn’t even sure when she’d become it. But here she was, standing on the precipice of a future that wasn’t hers, a future she hadn’t chosen and couldn’t fathom.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the door. She had left the world behind. But somehow, it had found her. Somehow, this warped version of her life had dragged her into a place she didn’t recognize—didn’t want.

The familiar scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the dust of forgotten tomes and arcane artifacts, filled her senses as she stepped into her office. It should have been a comfort, but instead, it felt like a betrayal. The room was just as she remembered it: shelves lined with ancient texts, strange instruments strewn across her desk, and the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls. It looked exactly the same, yet it didn’t. It wasn’t hers anymore.

A cold sweat broke out along her spine as she stepped further inside. The quiet was deeper here, more intense than before. The silence was not peaceful; it was loaded, pressing in on her, reminding her of the absence that seemed to echo through the entire building.

Her gaze shifted around the room, and that’s when the full weight of the changes hit her. The faces that had once been her colleagues, her partners in this realm of forgotten magic, were gone. In their place were strangers. Unfamiliar faces—those she didn’t recognize or know—moving swiftly through the halls, their footsteps light but purposeful. No one stopped to greet her. No one even noticed her presence. There were no warm smiles, no hurried exchanges of knowledge and camaraderie. Only strangers, moving in and out of her space as if it were their own. Her office, her domain, now felt like an alien place.

The plaque on the door caught her eye. Head of the Department of Mysteries. It felt foreign to her, the engraving as though it had been etched into her memory, but not her reality. The name there was hers, but the title was a lie. She hadn’t earned it. It didn’t belong to her.

But here, in this twisted version of her world, it was hers. And as she stood in the centre of the room, looking around, she could feel it settling on her shoulders—the heavy weight of power and responsibility that wasn’t hers to bear.

How? How had she become the Head of the Department of Mysteries? She could feel the confusion and dread pooling in her stomach, but it was buried beneath a deeper sense of wrongness. She didn’t belong here. She shouldn’t have come back to this.

The world had changed in subtle ways—small, insidious changes that burrowed deep under her skin. Faces gone. Laws rewritten. Protocols altered. New positions, new titles, new hierarchies, but no one seemed to care who had once been there, or who had once belonged. The Ministry had reshaped itself. The Department of Mysteries had reshaped itself. And she had been forced into a role she hadn’t earned, a world she hadn’t chosen.

The future she had returned to was no longer hers.

The weight of the unknown gnawed at her, pulling at the edges of her mind. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew that this wasn’t just about the strange new title, the unfamiliar faces. No, there was something darker, something waiting in the shadows. Something that had been hidden beneath the surface of this new world, and Hermione could feel its presence, thick and suffocating, pushing in from all sides.

Her future, her past—it was all slipping through her fingers, and she didn’t know how to stop it.