erased

June 6th, 2003

Five years have passed since Voldemort was defeated, and all seemed well. The gold trio had returned to Hogwarts to complete their seventh year after the rebuilding of the school under the new headmistress, Minera McGonagall.

After completing their NEWTs, they all moved on to live out their adult lives the best they could after all of the trauma and suffering they faced. Hermione had graduated from Hogwarts with top marks, as everyone had expected. She was fortunate enough to bring SPEW to the public and continue promoting better treatment of house elves within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

At twenty-three years old, Hermione should have felt accomplished, but she didn’t. The war was won, but at what cost to herself and those around her?

This feeling truly sunk in when she had sat at her desk in her office, unfolded her morning copy of the Daily Prophet, and read the boldly printed title page: “DRACO MALFOY FOUND DEAD IN MALFOY MANOR AFTER APPARENT SUICIDE.”

“Early in the morning of June 5th, 2003, Draco Malfoy, age 23, was found dead in the Malfoy Manor by his mother, Narcissa Malfoy. She reportedly found his unconscious body in the manor library with his left wrist slashed. Originally thought to only be unconscious after the self-mutilation, she anxiously called for emergency healers to aid her son. After many attempts at reviving the young Malfoy, St Mungo’s healers discovered and informed the Malfoy family that he had overdosed on a combination of Draught of Living Death and alcohol. Sources close to the victim report that the young Mr. Malfoy had been battling with alcoholism and a dependence on similar potions such as the Sleeping Draughts, which was being used to self-medicate for insomnia and depression.

Before his untimely suicide, Draco Malfoy had been sentenced to house arrest in Malfoy Manor for two years after the Battle of Hogwarts in 1998, where the Chosen One, Harry Potter, defeated the Dark Wizard, Tom Riddle, known previously as Lord Voldemort. Malfoy had been a known Death Eater alongside his father, Lucious Malfoy, who was sentenced to five years of house arrest with his wife, previously mentioned Narcissa Malfoy. His lighter sentence was all due to Potter’s character witness defending him, advocating that the young Malfoy had been threatened and coerced into joining the dark side for the sake of not only his own life but for his family and friends as well. Despite the moving character witness where Potter humanized the young man as a boy who was simply blinded by prejudice and taught to hate, others were hesitant to believe this story.

Despite the distrust in the local British wizarding society between the once renowned Malfoy family, previously well known for the Malfoy’s philanthropy, including generous donations to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and those affected by the takeover of the Death Eater’s led by Lord Voldemort. After finishing his sentence, Draco Malfoy attempted to live a normal life by completing his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, then continued his family philanthropy by donating heavy sums to victim relief funds and the rebuilding of Hogwarts castle, which had been mainly destroyed during the battle in 1998. Seemingly, the past continued to haunt the young man as he attempted to slash through his dark mark, a branded symbol and calling card for Death Eaters, and drink away his troubles.

The Malfoy family has declined to comment on the death of their one and only son but has announced that his funeral service will be held this Sunday, June 8th, 2003, at noon. He is set to be buried at the Malfoy Manor in the family's private cemetery.”

The words on the page blurred, Hermione hadn’t even noticed the tears running down her cheeks as she slowly placed the Daily Prophet back down on her tidy desk after clutching it so tight that it crinkled beneath her fingers. Draco Malfoy was dead.

Hermione couldn’t stop the memories from surging forward, unbidden and vivid. Memories of Draco sneering at her in the hallways of Hogwarts, his cruel words cutting deep. The way his grey eyes always gleamed with malice. Or was it something else, something she'd been too angry to notice at the time?

The scarred word ‘mudblood’ burned her upper forearm with phantom pain as she stared blankly at the discarded newsprint. Despite massaging the scar, the stinging refused to fade.

Anger churned inside her chest, molten and overwhelming. After everything—after Harry had risked his reputation to defend Draco, after all the chances he’d been given—he’d thrown it away.

“You ungrateful bastard,” she hissed under her breath, the words tearing from her throat. But even as they left her lips, guilt clawed at her.

Hermione knew deep down it wasn’t that simple.

Her office was suffocating now. The walls, once a comforting shade of warm beige, seemed to close in, the soft hum of the Ministry’s magical lifts and fluttering of interdepartmental memos grated on her nerves. Hermione stared at the crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet; her eyes fixated on the words as if they would change if she glared hard enough.

She shoved her chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a sharp screech that made her flinch. The handful of coworkers nearby cast curious glances her way, but Hermione didn’t care. Clutching the paper to her chest, she bolted from the office, muttering a quick excuse about needing air.

Using one of the fireplace grates, she was transported to Diagon Alley. Hermione wasn’t sure why she chose to travel to the busy alley, but her feet carried her without thought. She passed Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, its grand display window showcasing mannequins with regal dress robes. The familiar shop was too much. Her mind was a tempest, every memory of Draco crashing into her like waves.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 

Flashback to before the Sixth Year - Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, Diagon Alley.

As the trio walked into the seamstress shop, the silhouette of a teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a well-tailored set of dark green robes.

Despite his cold appearance, the robes highlighted his handsome features.

“If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy with his usually cool and cocky sneer.

Madame Malkin quipped at his blatant prejudiced language as both Harry and Ron drew their wands, pointing them at Malfoy, as she stood behind her two best friends she whispered, “No, don’t, honestly, it’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,” sneered Malfoy. “Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.”

Hermione became hyperaware of the bruise around her right eye, all thanks to the Weasley twins and their boxing telescope. Her hand unconsciously went to brush her finger across the bruising, but she willed herself not to and kept her face blank of emotion.

The scene continues to unravel before her as tension rises between Harry, Malfoy, and Malfoy’s mother, Narcissa. Hermione anxiously grabbed Harry’s arm, attempting to push his wand arm down by his side again, begging him to stop and think.

Madame Malkin attempted to continue her alterations on Malfoy’s left sleeve before he bellowed “Ouch!”, slapping her hand away.

“Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman! Mother — I don’t think I want these anymore.” Malfoy continued as he pulled the unfinished robes off.

With that Hermione watched the mother and son stride out of the shop, Malfoy made sure to bang into Ron as he did so.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

Back in the present, Hermione stumbled, nearly tripping over a loose cobblestone as the memory faded.

She found herself standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron, the inn bustling with life. She ducked inside, weaving through the crowd until she reached the far corner table, tucked away in the shadows. It was the table they had sat at, she realized, months after the war—when Harry and Ron had dragged her along to celebrate their victory and attempt to return to normalcy, Draco had been sitting alone, nursing a fire whisky, and avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Hermione dropped into the chair, letting her head fall into her hands.

If only she had believed Harry sooner. Perhaps they could have helped Draco earlier, preventing him from attempting to kill Albus Dumbledore, from being further caught up with the Death Eaters.

‘There’s nothing I can do now.’ Hermione thought to herself.

Or was there?

As Hermione sat there, her thoughts spiraling, the air around her seemed to shift. It was subtle at first, a faint tingling at the base of her neck. Then, the world around her blurred slightly, like looking through a rain-streaked window.

She blinked, her breath catching. The bartender’s hand, mid-reach for a glass, paused unnaturally. A wizard near the fireplace, laughing heartily, froze mid-gesture. The room was suspended in time, and Hermione felt an eerie calm settle over her.

And then, just as quickly as it started, the moment passed. Time resumed, and Hermione gasped as if surfacing from water.

Hermione glanced down at her trembling hands, the faint remnants of the tingling still lingering at her fingertips. Her mind raced. Had she imagined it?

She looked around the Leaky Cauldron. Everything seemed normal. Wizards and witches chatted animatedly, the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter blending into the usual din. But the strange sensation wouldn’t leave her. It wasn’t déjà vu—it was something deeper, something she couldn’t explain.

Her fingers brushed against the scar on her forearm again, the word etched there forever. For years, she’d thought of it as a symbol of everything she’d survived. But now, it felt like a reminder of what she hadn’t done.

She hadn’t helped him.

Hermione stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She ignored the curious glances sent her way as she strode toward the door, her mind spinning. The past was the past, wasn’t it? Nothing could change that.

But as she stepped back into Diagon Alley, a sudden, sharp pain shot through her temple. She staggered, clutching her head, her vision blurring. Images flickered before her eyes—snapshots of moments she didn’t recognize.

Draco, laughing at something she couldn’t hear.

Draco, his grey eyes softer, his expression unguarded.

Draco, standing in the middle of a library, holding out a hand as if pleading with her.

The images disappeared as quickly as they had come, leaving her gasping for air. Her knees buckled, and she reached out to steady herself against the wall of Flourish and Blotts.

Hermione closed her eyes, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. When she opened them again, she whispered, barely audible over the chatter of the alley: “What if I can go back?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility.

As Hermione steadied herself against the wall of Flourish and Blotts, the buzzing noise of the alley faded into the background, drowned by the storm inside her mind. The images of Draco lingered like ghosts in her periphery. What did they mean? Were they fragments of her imagination, a product of guilt and grief, or something else entirely?

She pushed off the wall, her steps faltering as she navigated the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Every familiar sight blurred as her mind replayed the visions. Her fingers tightened around the scar on her arm. She had been so consumed by her hatred for Draco back then that she had failed to see the cracks in his façade. The cracks that Harry had noticed, that Harry had defended.

She thought of the vision again—the library, Draco’s hand reaching out. A pang shot through her chest. “It doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself, her voice drowned out by the bustling crowd. But if her life so far had taught her anything, it was that things in the magical world didn’t always have to make sense.

Without realizing where she was going, Hermione found herself in front of a shop she hadn’t visited since her days at Hogwarts, Timepiece Emporium. The faded golden lettering on the window was barely legible now, and the shop looked as though it had been forgotten by time itself.

Hermione mindlessly pressed her hand on the wooden door, now flaking emerald-colored paint, and pushed the door open.

Inside, the smell of aged parchment and clock oil overwhelmed her senses. Hermione had always been fascinated by the delicate mechanisms of magical timepieces, even before she’d held a time-turner herself. The instruments here were far more intricate than any ordinary watch. Many of them hummed faintly, their hands spinning in unpredictable patterns.

The elderly wizard behind the counter squinted at her over the rim of his gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Looking for something specific, Miss?” His voice was scratchy like a quill dragged too hard over parchment.

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. “I—” she started, then stopped. Her hand drifted to the Daily Prophet still clutched in her arm. She forced herself to fold it neatly, the words “DRACO MALFOY FOUND DEAD” hidden from view.

“I’m curious about time,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she’d intended.

The wizard’s expression shifted slightly, the faintest hint of intrigue lighting his eyes. “Ah, time. A fickle mistress, isn’t it? Always slipping away, always leaving us wondering what could have been.”

He shuffled closer to the counter, his long, spindly fingers brushing the edge. “But meddling with time—now that’s another matter entirely. Dangerous business.”

“I know,” Hermione said sharply, before softening her tone. “I’ve worked with a time-turner before.”

The wizard raised an eyebrow, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. “Ah, you’d be from the generation that lived through the war, then.”

Hermione nodded, unwilling to elaborate.

“Still,” he said, studying her carefully, “you’re here for a reason. Nobody comes asking about time without something on their mind.”

Hermione hesitated the weight of the Daily Prophet pressing against her side. She considered lying, but something in the wizard’s gaze stopped her. Instead, she exhaled and said, “I… I don’t think it’s normal. What I’m experiencing.” She described the strange sensation, the visions, and the inexplicable pull she felt toward the past.

When she finished, the wizard tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Sounds to me like time isn’t waiting for you to ask.”

“What do you mean?”

“Time,” he said slowly, “has a way of calling to those it finds worthy—or desperate. Perhaps it’s already started weaving its threads around you.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s impossible. You’re saying time can… choose someone?”

The wizard shrugged. “I’m saying that magic and time are intertwined in ways most people will never understand. You, Miss…?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.”

“Ah, yes. You, Miss Granger, have meddled with time before. Perhaps it remembers you.”

The cryptic response only deepened Hermione’s unease.

“Be that as it may.” the wizard said, his voice low, “This ability… it’s not about turning back the hours like your standard time turner. It’s about rewriting them.”

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. “Rewriting?”

The wizard nodded solemnly. “It doesn’t just take you back. It allows you to step into the past, change it, and see the ripples in real-time.”

Her heart raced. “With this ability,” she started slowly, “what happens if you change too much?”

He gave her a long, steady look. “The consequences depend on what you’re willing to risk.”

Hermione’s hand hovered over the glass. She could feel the faint pull in her gut, as though it were calling to her, just as the wizard had said.

Could she risk it? Could she go back, find Draco, and stop him from spiraling? The question wasn’t if she could. It was if she should.

Hermione's fingers trembled by her side. She clenched the copy of the daily prophet tightly in her hand to stabilize herself.

“What’s the cost?” she asked softly, barely above a whisper, as she attempted to meet the older wizard’s gaze.

He regarded her for a moment before replying, “The cost depends on what you’re trying to change. Magic like this doesn’t come without consequences. The larger the ripple, the greater the price you’ll pay.”

“And if the change is small? A single life?” 

The wizard leaned forward; his wrinkled face illuminated by the faint glow of the shop. “A single life is no small thing. It is a thread in the tapestry of time, connected to countless others. Even a small adjustment can unravel more than you intend.”

Hermione swallowed hard, biting the inside of her right cheek. “But it’s possible.”

He nodded slowly. “Possible, yes. But tread carefully, Miss Granger. If you aren’t prepared for the consequences, you could lose more than you bargain for.”

Her thoughts churned, the weight of his warning sinking in. Could she truly risk altering the past for the sake of Draco Malfoy? For someone who had caused so much pain and destruction, even if he had been coerced and manipulated into it?

But the visions haunted her. Draco’s pleading gaze. His extended hand. The subtle cracks in his armor that no one—not even she—had acknowledged until it was too late.

Hermione’s logical mind waged war with her heart. She had always been practical, meticulous, and unwilling to act on impulse. Yet now, she felt that cold, familiar logic slipping through her fingers.

“I need time to think,” she said finally, stepping back from the case and the older man who stood behind it.

The wizard gave her a curt nod. “That’s wise. Few people take the time to understand what they’re asking for.”

Hermione turned and left the shop, the bell above the door jingling softly as she stepped into the bustling alley. The noise hit her like a wave, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were consumed by the possibilities, the risks, and the implications of what she had just learned.

Her feet carried her to a quieter part of Diagon Alley, where she leaned against the cool stone wall of an apothecary. She closed her eyes, letting the noise of the world fade into the background.

The idea of rewriting time both terrified and tempted her. She thought of Harry and Ron—what would they say? Ron would call her mad, she was sure of it. Harry… Harry might understand. He’d seen something in Draco that no one else had. Maybe he’d even support her.

But then there was the matter of how. Even if she could use this ability, she’d need to know when to go back. She couldn’t simply drop into Draco’s life at any random moment and hope for the best.

The visions came back to her—the library, the pleading hand. That was her answer. Whatever moment that vision represented, it was calling to her for a reason.

She opened her eyes, determination settling in her chest. She couldn't ignore if the universe—or time itself—was giving her this chance. Not when she had the power to save a life, possibly even more one potentially.

Her path was set, though she knew it wouldn’t be easy. First, she would need to research the magic behind this ability, its origins, and how to use it without causing irreparable harm.

And then… she’d need to face the past. To confront not just Draco, but herself—the girl who had hated him, the girl who had refused to see him as anything but an enemy.

With a deep breath, Hermione pushed off the wall and made her way back to the Leaky Cauldron. She needed time to plan, to prepare. This wasn’t a decision she could take lightly.

But one thing was certain.

If she was going to do this, she couldn’t fail.

Hermione sat at her kitchen table late that night, stacks of books and parchment surrounding her. A single candle flickered at her elbow, casting long shadows across the walls of her modest flat. She had spent the entire evening combing through everything she could find about time-altering magic.

The books were heavy with warnings—accounts of witches and wizards who had meddled with time and paid devastating prices. Stories of those who became trapped in endless loops, of people who changed history only to find it twisted into something unrecognizable.

But none of that deterred her. If anything, it strengthened her resolve. Hermione Granger had never been one to back down from a challenge.

She paused to sip her tea, her gaze drifting to the scar on her forearm. The word “mudblood” stood out against her pale skin, a constant reminder of the past. Of Draco Malfoy.

How had it come to this? She wondered. How had she gone from despising him to mourning him? To contemplating breaking the fabric of time itself to save him?

Her thoughts wandered back to Hogwarts—to the countless times they had clashed, his cruel words cutting deeper than she had ever admitted. And yet, there had always been something about him, something she couldn’t quite define. A flicker of vulnerability behind those cold, grey eyes.

Had she been too proud to see it? Too stubborn to care?

She shook her head, forcing herself back to the task at hand. Regret wouldn’t help her now. What mattered was the present—and the future she might be able to alter.

Hermione reached for another book, this one ancient and bound in cracked leather. She flipped through its brittle pages, her fingers careful not to tear the delicate parchment.

Finally, she found what she was looking for: a chapter on temporal artifacts, items that could trigger the ancient magic of the ability referred to simply as revival.

“Revival magic is among the most delicate and perilous branches of the magical arts,” the text read. “It is a rare gift, one that manifests in only a handful of witches and wizards every few generations. Those who possess it often experience inexplicable moments of déjà vu, vivid dreams of alternate outcomes, or fleeting visions of what could have been—fragments of a timeline not yet written or one that has been lost.”

Hermione paused so far, this minuscule paragraph had already aligned with the feeling of déjà vu that she has had since she was thirteen years old, something that developed as she used the time turner during her third year at Hogwarts. She shuttered and continued to read.

“The ability is said to awaken during times of profound emotional turmoil or guilt when the soul aches to mend what has been broken. Those touched by revival magic may find themselves haunted by small but meaningful signs: the flutter of butterflies where there should be none, a sudden shift in time’s flow, or a strange stillness in the air before the world moves again.

Such magic draws upon the thin boundary between life and death, weaving threads of existence back into place. While it holds the power to restore what has been lost, it risks unraveling the natural order. Use of this magic must be attempted only in the direst circumstances and with unwavering caution, for to defy death is to tamper with forces beyond comprehension. The butterfly effect—the ripple of seemingly small changes magnified into catastrophic consequences—is not merely a theory but an inevitability.”

Beneath the warning was a list of spells and rituals required to stabilize time travel. Hermione read them carefully, her mind already beginning to piece together a plan.

She would need supplies—rare ingredients for the ritual, a wand with exceptional precision, and a controlled environment where the magic wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.

More than that, she would need courage.

The clock on the wall chimed midnight, its soft notes echoing in the quiet room. Hermione leaned back in her chair, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. But her mind was still racing, unwilling to rest.

As she stared at the flickering candle, a thought occurred to her: she couldn’t do this alone.

Her first instinct was to go to Harry. He would understand, wouldn’t he? But she hesitated. Harry had been through so much already. Could she really ask him to support her in this, knowing the risks involved?

Then there was Ron. Sweet, loyal Ron. But Hermione knew how he would react. His temper would flare, and he would try to talk her out of it.

No, she couldn’t burden them with this.

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. She would figure it out on her own. She always did.

The candle sputtered, its flame shrinking to a dim glow. Hermione took it as a sign. Gathering up her notes and books, she stacked them neatly on the table before retreating to her bedroom.

As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the image of Draco’s outstretched hand filled her mind once more.

“I’m going to fix this,” she whispered into the darkness.

And for the first time in days, Hermione felt a spark of hope.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

The next morning, Hermione woke with a newfound determination.

She went about her day methodically, her every action driven by the plan forming in her mind. After a quick breakfast, she apparated to Knockturn Alley—a place she loathed but knew was necessary for what she was about to attempt.

The narrow, shadowy street was just as she remembered it—claustrophobic and teeming with an air of malice. Wizards and witches in dark robes slinked through the alleys, their eyes darting suspiciously. Hermione kept her head down, her wand concealed but ready in case of trouble.

Her destination was a small, crumbling shop tucked between Borgin and Burkes and a shuttered apothecary.

Passing Borgin and Burke caused a pain in her heart, it was the place that started Draco’s mission given to him by Lord Voldemort to kill Dumbledore. Where he acquired the twin vanishing cabinet.

Hermione remembered going in after him, trying to figure out what it was that Malfoy had purchased from the shop. Pretending that she was his friend simply shopping for a birthday present for him.

The faded sign above the door read Arcana Obscura. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of aged parchment and a faint metallic tang that Hermione guessed came from the magical artifacts displayed on the shelves.

The shopkeeper, a wiry old wizard with piercing green eyes, looked up as she entered. “What are you after?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

Hermione stepped forward, her gaze steady. “I’m looking for ritual components—rare ones. And information about time-related artifacts or abilities tied to... revival.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Revival, eh? Dangerous business, that. People don’t come asking about such things unless they’re desperate.”

“I’m not here for a lecture,” Hermione replied, her tone firm. “Do you have what I need or not?”

The shopkeeper smirked. “Bold one, aren’t you? Fine. Let’s see what I can do.”

He shuffled to the back of the shop, rummaging through stacks of books and crates of odd trinkets. Hermione waited, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

After a few minutes, he returned, carrying a small box and a worn tome. He set them on the counter with a thud. “This here is a stabilizing crystal,” he said, pointing to the box. “You’ll need it if you’re planning on messing with time. Keeps the magic from fracturing and causing... unintended consequences.”

Hermione nodded, her heart racing. She reached for the tome next, flipping through its pages. The text was dense, written in an ancient script, but she could make out enough to know it was exactly what she needed.

“How much for both?” she asked.

The shopkeeper named a price that made her stomach drop, but she didn’t flinch. Pulling out her coin pouch, she counted out the gold and handed it over.

As she tucked the items into her bag, the shopkeeper leaned closer, his expression serious. “Be careful, girl. Time magic doesn’t just alter the past—it changes you. And not always for the better.”

Hermione met his gaze, her resolve unshaken. “I’ll take my chances.”

She left the shop quickly, eager to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of Knockturn Alley. Back in Diagon Alley, the sunlight felt almost blinding in contrast, but Hermione barely noticed. Her next stop was the apothecary, where she gathered the rare ingredients needed for the ritual. Most were difficult to find, but Hermione had always been resourceful. By the time she returned to her flat, her bag was heavy with supplies, and her mind was buzzing with anticipation.

Hermione spread everything out on her kitchen table, her fingers brushing over the pages of the tome and the smooth surface of the stabilizing crystal. She had everything she needed now.

Except one thing: the courage to take the final step.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Hermione stood in front of the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and determined.

“This is for him,” she whispered. “And for me.”

With trembling hands, she began to prepare the ritual.

The room filled with the scent of herbs and the faint hum of magic as Hermione arranged the ingredients in a precise pattern. She placed the stabilizing crystal at the center, its surface glowing faintly in the candlelight.

As the first words of the incantation left her lips, the air around her shifted. A strange stillness descended, broken only by the soft fluttering sound that seemed to come from nowhere. Startled, Hermione glanced up to see a butterfly—a delicate, pale-blue creature—hovering just above the crystal.

Her breath caught in her throat. There hadn’t been a butterfly in her flat moments ago. She knew this wasn’t a coincidence; it was a manifestation of the revival magic she was invoking.

The words continued to flow from her lips, the rhythm steady and unwavering, even as the butterfly flitted through the room. Its wings shimmered faintly, as though they carried fragments of time itself.

The stabilizing crystal began to pulse, its light growing brighter with each word. The energy in the room built into an almost unbearable crescendo, wrapping around Hermione like a tangible force.

As she chanted the final phrase, the butterfly landed gently on the crystal’s surface. For a fleeting moment, the creature glowed with an inner light before dissolving into a shower of tiny, golden sparks.

With a sudden flash, the room plunged into silence.

Hermione opened her eyes, her breath hitching. Everything looked the same—her table, her books, the faint flicker of the candles. Yet something had shifted. She could feel it in her bones, a sensation that whispered of a world that was both familiar and foreign.

She glanced at the crystal, now dull and lifeless, and then at her trembling hands. The ritual had worked. She was certain of it.

But where—or when—had it taken her?

A chill ran through her as the world around her blurred. Colors and shapes swirled together, folding in on themselves like a collapsing kaleidoscope. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as the sensation of falling overtook her.

When she opened them again, her surroundings were completely different. She was standing in the bustling and crowded corridor of the Hogwarts Express. Outside, rolling hills and patches of forest zipped past, bathed in sunlight.

Hermione gasped and quickly fleeted into the first empty compartment she could find. Sitting back in the plush seat, her hands flying to her chest. She looked down and froze. Her hands were smaller, her fingernails neatly trimmed and devoid of the slight imperfections that had come with years of writing and work. She tugged at her sleeve—Hogwarts robes, brand new and freshly pressed.

It was gone. The hideous scar she bore for five miserable years was gone, nowhere to be seen on her rejuvenated, youthful pale upper forearm.

Her heart raced as she took in the polished wood paneling of the train compartment, the hum of the train’s wheels on the track, and the faint chatter of voices in the corridor outside.

The Hogwarts Express.

She suddenly became aware of the weight in her left hand and glanced at the heavy book she had been grasping, Hogwarts: A History, its cover pristine.

Hermione’s pulse quickened. She was back. Not just back at Hogwarts, but back on the first day. The very first day.

As she stared at her reflection in the window, the face that stared back at her was younger—framed by bushy brown hair and lit with a wide-eyed innocence she hadn’t seen in years. She smiled meekly at her glass reflection and was met with her old smile; the front teeth had returned to their large size, their original size, before she had tricked the Hogwarts matron, Madam Pomfrey, into shrinking them to a more appropriate size after being hit by an enlargement hex that caused her already large front to grow abnormally large by nonother than Draco Malfoy.

This wasn’t just a fresh start. It was a return to where it had all begun.

The door to her compartment slid open suddenly, jolting her from her thoughts. A boy stood there, short, plump, and dark haired with a rather round face. Anxiety was written all over the younger boy’s face as he was on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I seem to have lost my toad, Trevor.” said the young boy, already known to her as Neville Longbottom, as he looked at her with both self-pity and hope. Her heart jumped in her now small chest at already being met with such a familiar person.

She was back, right before she’d met Harry and Ron for the first time. The butterfly’s wings had carried her here, to the start of everything.

This time, she thought as her hand curled into a fist on her lap, she wouldn’t let the past play out the same way.

She looked up, meeting Neville’s expectant gaze. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him,” she said, her youthful voice steady despite the storm inside her, “but I can help you look.”

The young Neville looked at her with gratitude as he thanked her sheepishly, “Thank you so much! I’m Neville, by the way, Neville Longbottom.”

“I—” Hermione began to say but her voice faltered for a second as she had to stop herself quickly as she was about to say, ‘I know.’

“I’m Hermione Granger.” She told him, extending her right hand out to shake his, her voice firm as she mentally scolded herself for already almost slipping up.

The two exited the compartment, and the pair began entering compartments and asking stragglers in the corridor if they had seen the missing toad. That was until they reached a compartment towards the middle of the when Hermione braced herself. The butterfly’s work was done. In the compartment was a young boy with blond hair and a pale, pointed face.

There he was. Draco Malfoy, the man she was here to save, was alive, surrounded by a group of people she knew to be a part of his Slytherin gang. With her breath hitched in her throat she entered the compartment.

What happened next was up to her.