A Creaky Manor and Other Bad Decisions
Adrenaline flooded Hermione’s veins as she backed into the shadows, every instinct screaming at her to blend in with the wallpaper. Which, honestly, wasn’t much of a strategy. Malfoy Manor didn’t do wallpaper. The manor felt... older somehow. Older and creepier, which was saying a lot for a house that already came with a built-in creepy vibe.
She edged toward the far end of the hallway, moving with the caution of someone trying to sneak a biscuit from Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen. Every step seemed to echo like a gong, her breathing uneven as she tried (and failed) to convince herself she was calm. Calm? Ha. Sure, and Bellatrix Lestrange was secretly knitting tea cozies in her spare time.
As Hermione crept through the main hall, the creaking above her got louder. New noises sprang to life with every waking second. The footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether.
Was she being hunted twice in one day? Probably. That sounded about right for her luck.
The air buzzed faintly with the wards' magic, and she sighed quietly. Of course, the Malfoys wouldn’t settle for normal wards. No, their security system practically screamed, Look at us, we’re rich, paranoid, and better than you. She’d felt this quiet hum of magic before, and the familiarity was almost comforting, well, as comforting as being hunted in a haunted mansion could be.
Now, Hermione has three options in a situation like this. Option one: figure out where the footsteps were coming from and confront whatever horrifying thing was lurking upstairs. Brave, sure, but also stupid. She wasn’t Harry, thank you very much. Option two: sneak around the house, pray the wards didn’t tattle on her, and find a way out before someone decided to Avada her into next week. Option three: just stay here against the wall and hope to eventually blend into the architecture.
Tempting. But no.
She chose wisely to go with option two. Just as the decision was made, the creaking above her mimicked Hermione’s steps, as she moved, they moved, and as she stopped, they stopped.
After an agonizing moment of silence, the footsteps resumed. Hermione released the breath she’d been holding and carefully edged her way toward the corridor she hoped would lead to the gardens.
The door she was aiming for loomed at the far end of the hall, its heavy wood and iron hinges. She decided to bolt for the door in a burst of bravery. As she reached the door, she carefully pushed it open. To her immense relief, it creaked softly but didn’t yell, bark, or spontaneously combust. Progress.
The cool night air spilled in, carrying with it the faint, damp scent of the gardens. Hermione inhaled sharply, the smell of freshly rained dirt instantly grounding her in a way little else could. It was a smell tied to memories of simpler times. Hagrid’s pumpkins in the autumn, the greenhouse during Herbology, Her father’s vegetable garden. Hermione would do anything to be warm in her childhood home. Instead, she is trying not to get caught by her new mysterious upstairs neighbor, who imitates a weeping angel.
Hermione continued her tiptoeing out into the garden.
Okay, Granger, she thought. Quiet as a shadow. Light as air.
Of course, her inner voice sounded a lot like McGonagall, and it wasn’t particularly encouraging. If anything, it seemed mildly disappointed that she hadn’t been caught yet.
The faint shimmer of the wards caught her eye in the distance. Relief flickered through her, but she didn’t dare speed up.
Just as Hermione reached the edge of the property, a sharp burst of yelling rang out from behind her. She froze, her heart plummeting straight into her stomach.
She ran. She ran until her legs gave out, and when they gave out she apparated.
~
The familiar, suffocating sensation of Apparition enveloped her, and for a heart-stopping moment, she feared the wards would prevent her escape. But then, with a resounding pop, she was gone, leaving the chaos of Malfoy Manor behind.
Despite her mind being a whirlwind of panic and lacking a clear destination, Hermione managed to Apparate without Splinching herself.
Hermione wasted no time in looking around herself. She had managed to apparate into Godric’s Hollow. The village was almost eerily quiet. No perceivable sound could be heard, besides Hermione’s awfully loud footsteps. The quaint cottages and cobblestone streets were bathed in the soft glow of gas lamps, casting long shadows that danced with her every move. The stillness of the night pressed in on her, amplifying the sound of her own breathing. Hermione continued down the street. Hermione continued on, pressing close to the walls of the cottages and storefronts to cover all sides of herself.
When Hermione finally stopped, she looked toward a particular cottage. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized it instantly. This was the house. The very same cottage she and Harry had visited just months ago, the one that was now a charred ruin in her present time. The one that had once held so many memories.
This time, the house stood tall and whole. Its roof was intact, not a single hole or patch of scorched wood in sight. The stone walls, though weathered, were not crumbling but sturdy, solid against the harsh winds of time. In fact, the house looked full of life. So much so, Hermione had momentarily forgotten about the war.
It was as if time itself had paused here, preserving the house in a state of untainted peace. The windows sparkled under the soft light of the gas lamps lining the cobblestone streets. The front door, made of thick oak, looked as though it had just been polished. The garden, once overgrown and wild in her memory, now bloomed with flowers she had never seen before, their bright colors vivid in the moonlight.
For a fleeting moment, she almost wished she could stay here, lost in the illusion that everything was as it should be, that this world was free from the looming shadow of Voldemort and the fight they were all facing. But that wish was short-lived. Reality clawed its way back into her mind, dragging her thoughts from the peaceful scene before her to the much harsher truth she had to face: she was not supposed to be here. This wasn’t her timeline. The Potters were still alive, their lives still untouched by the tragedy she knew all too well.
Although Hermione had been warned time and time again about the dangers of time travel and interacting with people in past timelines, Hermione did something very out of character while watching the house. She stepped forward.
Inching closer and closer to the wooden gate at the retaining wall. She pushed through the gate and walked towards the house. It felt as though the air around her pushed her closer and closer to the entrance. Her brain went blank and all warnings were ignored.
Hermione’s heart pounded as she raised her hand to knock. The wood of the door felt solid beneath her knuckles, and as her hand made contact, it sent a shiver down her spine. Three quiet knocks, the sound of her hesitation hanging in the air like a quiet warning.