Christmas Wish
The lobby hummed with the buzz of hundreds of voices and the rustle of hundreds of cloaks. Sitting at one of the small and round tables at the Pumpkin Bar, Hermione Granger watched as the figures of wizards rose within the stone fireplaces, taking shape before emerging in a swirl of robes. On Christmas Eve, few wizards had taken their day off. She swallowed the last sip of her carnation cocktail and raised her eyes to the big pendulum clock adorned with thick gilded tinsel. It was a quarter past one in the afternoon.
Ron was supposed to join her at noon.
It was no use waiting any longer—he wasn’t coming. Hermione felt her eyes sting and swallowed hard; crying wouldn’t help either. She had better spare herself the indiscreet questions coming from the office gossips. Sharps tongue—probably from Slytherin all of them.
Hermione chastised herself at the thought; Slytherins had suffered enough from the aftermath of the War for people to keep flogging a dead Thestral.
She had to face the facts: either Ron had forgotten about meeting with her, or he hadn’t bothered to warn her he wasn’t coming anymore. Ever since Mrs. Weasley had been hospitalized, Hermione felt as though he was trying to avoid her. They were supposed to move in together in a studio in central London in January, but Ron had a change of heart a week before. Hermione had accepted it. They were supposed to spend the day after Christmas with Hermione’s parents, but Ron had canceled. Hermione had accepted that too.
Ron claimed he was going to see his mother every evening. She complained, felt bored, and cried often. Mr. Weasley had sent her to Saint Mungo’s Hospital, where she had been diagnosed with severe emotional distress, most likely linked to the death of her son. It was the insistence of an exhausted husband that had convinced the doctors to keep her under observation for a few weeks. The previous evening, Hermione had tried to visit Mrs. Weasley but she was told that the patient went to bed early and now refused all visits after seven-thirty.
Ron had been careful not to tell her that he’d been staying at home for several evenings in a row.
Hermione had known Ron since their first year at Hogwarts. She knew he had loved her once, just as surely as she felt him pulling away from her now. Ron wasn’t the steady presence she had always dreamt of. In their relationship, Hermione had always been the one to offer support. She had ultimately come to terms with it, but what would happen if Ron rejected Hermione’s support?
In a sudden burst of anger, she picked up her glass and slammed it on the counter along with six sickles for the bill. Wasn’t he supposed to have matured in two years? Was she dating a man or a boy?
The tang of brine and pumpkin soup hung in the wintery air. The roof of the Burrow and the surrounding hills were blanketed with a shining white layer, and when Hermione apparated, her feet sank into slush. She cursed under her breath before carefully making her way along the icy path winding to the front door. The Weasleys had hung up a Christmas wreath adorned with fat cherubs that tracked Hermione with their eyes until she knocked thrice near the handle.
A faint click of the lock echoed behind the door, which opened to reveal Ginny standing there.
“Hermione,” she said, taking her in. “How are you?”
“I’d be better if I could sort a few things with your brother,” Hermione answered in the most amicable tone she could manage after having spent the entire day stewing in anger.
Ginny lowered her gaze, her fingers nervously clutching the handle.
“Listen, Ron’s been overly sensitive lately,” she murmured. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but please try to understand him. You know how he is.”
“I can understand certain things, Ginny,” Hermione retorted. “I can cancel invitations for him, I can pay for expenses we were supposed to share, but what I absolutely can’t stand is disrespect! We were supposed to meet at noon—I even extended my break for him—and he didn’t show. What does that make me?”
“Maybe he’s getting even on you for refusing to see him these past few days.”
“What?” Hermione gasped.
“Ginny?” Ron’s voice called from upstairs. “Who’s there?”
Frowning, Ginny stepped aside to let her guest in.
“It’s Hermione,” she called up to her brother, glancing toward the upper floors. “You should come down.”
Silence.
“Ron?” Ginny repeated, more insistently.
“Coming!” he shouted back.
Footsteps echoed on the staircase. Hermione clenched her teeth. Third floor. Second floor. Ron’s bedroom was near the attic, and Hermione had always liked it for being the quietest room in the house—if you ignored the ghoul. Today, however, she wished it were closer to the ground floor so Ron could get there faster. First floor. His red hair came into view at the top of the stairs. Hermione felt her eyes sting with unshed tears but forced them back.
Ron bounced down the stairs, taking them four at a time, a forced smile on his lips. But when his gaze met Hermione’s, the smile vanished.
“I’m sorry about lunch, Hermi-pie,” Ron began. “Georges needed me at the shop. One of his employees botched the Pusbombs spell, and since there isn’t an antidote yet, he had to go to St. Mungo's.”
“I waited for over an hour,” Hermione replied. “You couldn’t have let me know?”
“How did you expect me to let you know?” Ron asked with sympathy.
On another day, his little act might have worked, Hermione thought.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she shot back sarcastically. “Maybe by sending me an owl. Or even a message via Patronus—you know, the spell I taught you? You were doing fine with it not too long ago. But you’re right, I should have guessed you’d forget it just as quickly.”
Ron’s ears flushed a deep red. “Don’t start acting like—”
“Like I’m better than everyone?” She cut him off, her voice rising. “Even if you didn’t know how to contact me, you could’ve come to my place to apologize! But no, I’m the one who has to come here, only to find out from Ginny that you’ve been spreading nonsense about me behind my back!”
“What are you talk—”
“You told Ginny—” she interrupted him, “—that I refused to see you, when I’ve been trying to move mountains just to spend a single hour with you! Ginny,” she continued, spinning to face her, “It’s Ron who canceled Christmas with my parents, and it’s Ron who doesn’t want to live together anymore. He hasn’t been telling you otherwise, has he?”
Ginny, who had been gaping since the beginning of the confrontation, closed her mouth abruptly.
“Mom's sick!” Ron snapped, his voice rising. “You’re supposed to understand that!”
“Stop hiding behind your mother, Ron!” Hermione yelled. “Yes, she’s sick, but I don’t see how that justifies you pretending I’ve been avoiding you when it’s the other way around! And even if it were true, it’s up to your father and the doctors to take care of her. What can you do that they can’t? Stop hiding behind excuses!”
“You don’t get to judge me,” Ron shot back. “I’d be a lot better if you weren’t constantly on my case! Maybe you should take a good look at yourself, Miss-Know-It-All-Who-Knows-Nothing-At-All!”
Hermione exhaled sharply. She wanted to hit him, to hurl the contents of her bag at his face—even her precious books.
“You have a serious, serious problem,” she said with finality. “And as far as I’m concerned, the wackos, I flee them.”
She spun on her heel, yanked the door open, and was greeted by the sting of the icy breeze blowing outside. As she walked away, the crunch of footsteps on snow echoed behind her. It was Ginny.
“Hermione, wait!” she called out. “Ron’s being an idiot, but it’ll pass! He’s even been preventing Harry from coming into the house lately! I have to go outside just to see him—and he’s his best friend, can you believe that? He’ll regret all this, and he’ll come back to you!”
“I think you don’t understand,” Hermione replied. She stopped, turned to face Ginny, and was surprised to see real resentment etched into her friend’s expression. “I don’t want him to come back, Ginny. I don’t want to be with him anymore. It hurts too much. Don’t you see? Ron refuses to take a hard look at himself. This isn’t for him—I’m doing this for me.”
Ginny seemed about to respond but thought better of it. She shivered in the cold.
“You should go inside,” Hermione murmured softly.
Turning her back on Ginny again, she walked past the gate and disapparated. The sadness she’d held back all day finally broke free, and tears blurred Hermione’s vision, obscuring the two white eyes that had opened in the shadows as she passed…
Hogsmeade.
Hermione sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She was standing under the porch of a house adjoining the Post office, directly across from Honeydukes. Snow swirled in the central avenue, but the streets were still bustling with wizards stopping to admire the shop windows every now and then. Some emerged from the shops, their arms laden with packages. Hermione’s gaze lingered on three students dressed in a Hogwarts uniform—two boys with laughing eyes and a brown-haired girl who oddly looked like her younger self. This place reminded her too much of Ron. She disapparated.
Paddington Station.
Hermione apparated in the middle of utter chaos, jostled repeatedly before she managed to find shelter against a wall. Muggles swarmed the platforms, lugging trolley cases that screeched across the floor. To her right, a waitress bustled beneath a neon store sign that read 'Hamburger Restaurant'. It was the same snack bar where she had eaten before taking the Hogwarts Express for the very first time. She remembered seeing Hagrid buy Harry a hamburger and his stature had frightened her then. And later that day, she had met Ron…
Charing Cross Road.
This was the Muggle street to which the Leaky Cauldron led. Harry had stayed there before the start of their third year at Hogwarts. The day before going back to school, she had bought Crookshanks. Ron had grumbled…
Loch Ness. Quidditch Team. Ron.
Cobourg, France. Holidays with Ron.
Wigtown Bay, Scotland. A conversation with Ron.
Apparating so quickly wasn’t safe, and Hermione knew it. She remembered the three Ds rule. But why bother respecting it now? Her discipline and good grades hadn’t taught her how to keep the love of her life. It wasn’t the first time she’d fought with Ron, so why had she decided to leave him now? Admittedly, she had felt this desire to draw away from him from the start, but she’d never understood why and had fought against it. For two years, she had questioned herself and suffered.
And now… she was hurting even more. Part of her wanted to go back to the Burrow and beg Ron for forgiveness. Another part of her wanted to get as far away from the Burrow as possible and never see that childish moron who had caused her so much pain again.
Hermione had been confident when she started at Hogwarts. Now, she felt fragile as she sobbed, shivering like a leaf. She missed him. She refused to go back to her place. Apparition. Apparition. Apparition.
Suddenly, Hermione bit her lip to stifle a whimper. Her knees had scraped against the stony ground, splitting open, and her pants were soaked with blood. It wasn’t a mere scratch. Even a witch as skilled as herself couldn’t keep Apparating endlessly without risking splinching sooner or later. Her wounds were superficial but could become dangerous if she didn’t stop the bleeding quickly. She grabbed her wand, but recalling the right spell felt like a colossal effort.
Had Ron robbed her of her wits too?
The thought drew a sigh from her. Recovering from her fall, Hermione got up slowly and turned in a circle. A deep forest surrounded her. Had she meant to apparate in a forest? The strong scent of conifers filled her nose, and their needles scratched her hands. There wasn’t a sound, not even from a lost insect. The soil was damp, but it hadn’t snowed there. It was also far less cold than it had been in London. Hermione’s breath steadied slightly. Where had she landed? Could you apparate to a place you didn’t know?
Hermione moved forward, her wand outstretched. She pushed her way through the dense fir trees, so tightly packed they should have suffocated. There was no doubt this was a magic forest—but what sort of magic kept all life away? Hermione searched desperately for a cobweb between the branches above her, an ant colony on a trunk, or the outline of a sett among the tangled roots. Her unease grew with every step.
Suddenly, she felt the ground harden beneath her feet and looked down at an emerging path of grey stones.
The trees finally began to thin, and Hermione breathed more freely, her near-clock of claustrophobia easing. Objects started appearing along the edges of the path: first, a coffee table holding several vases and porcelain dishes. Then, partially hidden among the pines, the shell of a car, seemingly from the 1950s. There was also a damaged teddy bear, boxes filled with photographs—all depicting the same women—and finally, a coffin.
“Welcome, Hermione Jean Granger.”
Hermione jumped and turned back swiftly, her wand outstretched toward the source of the voice. She didn’t see anyone at first. Then, looking down, she locked eyes with a scrawny, hairless creature with grey skin, dressed in a green toga and a thick gold necklace. The witch stepped back abruptly. It looked like a hybrid of a wizard and a house elf, except for its eerie white eyes—unlike anything seen in either species. Yet, that empty gaze was unmistakably fixed on her.
“Where am I?” she asked cautiously. “Who are you?”
“You are in the Lost Forest, and I am its only inhabitant,” the creature whispered. “This land is my domain. Here, I invite those who seek to be my guests and make a bargain. Three wishes for a one-time payment.”
Hermione shook her head. “I never meant to come here, I’m sorry. I just want to leave.”
“You cannot leave the Lost Forest without striking a deal.” The creature’s voice sharpened. “And if your wish is to leave, then it is a desire that requires payment.
Hermione backed away further, fear creeping in. Her gaze flickered between the teddy bear, the boxes full of photographs, and—the coffin.
“Tell me who you are!”
“I am the genie of this place, and everything here belongs to me,” the creature said. “Three wishes for one payment. Do not fret, Hermione Jean Granger; I have never killed anyone. I cannot acquire, murder, or resurrect a free soul. The coffin you see here belonged to a young man who died the day before his wedding. His fiancée traded it to me for the chance of being happy again.”
Happy again…
“How could you grant her that?” she asked, skeptically.
“My powers differ greatly from those of wizards, Hermione Jean Granger,” the genie replied. “I fulfill wishes in exchange for something valuable. That coffin held a great sentimental value for the young woman, and it’s in this value that I drew the magic needed to grant her wish.
“You came here, Hermione Jean Granger, because you are lost. Offer me something valuable, and I will help you find your way again.”
Hearing her full name repeated in every sentence grated on Hermione’s nerves.
“I’ve never read about anything like that in any books,” she argued stubbornly.
“Not all the world’s knowledge resides in books, Hermione Jean Granger,” the genie hissed. “You, of all people, who read so much, should know that better than anyone.”
Ron’s face flashed into her mind. She had started doubting herself the very day she had kissed him for the first time. For years, she had fantasized about their first kiss, and yet, as her fantasy was finally within reach, an overwhelming urge to flee had gripped her. Indeed, no books had prepared her for that. And eventually, Hermione had yielded to her anxiety—she had left him.
Now, the longing she had felt for him before their relationship began had returned. She had to find him. Perhaps, with the help of this genie, their story wasn’t over yet.
If Fred hadn’t died that night, Mrs. Weasley would never have been hospitalized. Then, Ron wouldn’t have gotten off the rails. True, Ron had always been emotionally fragile—but altering that part of him would account for changing who Ron was entirely. If she couldn’t change him, maybe she could use the genie’s power to go back to the root of their troubles.
“Fine, I’ll make a deal with you,” Hermione murmured.
“Sorry?” the genie whispered, triumph gleaming in his expression.
“I said I—I’ll make a deal. With you,” she repeated, more firmly this time.
A chintz-upholstered armchair materialized behind her. The genie gestured for her to sit as he climbed into another armchair opposite her. The pine trees around them morphed into painted walls, and the trophies of the master of the forest disappeared behind them.
“What is your wish, Hermione Jean Granger?” the genie asked.
According to the genie, Hermione had no choice but to make a wish to leave the place. And she could ask for anything. Hoping the price wouldn’t cost her too much, she made her first wish.
“I want to know the truth about you.”
The genie grimaced. “Very well, Hermione Jean Granger.”
One.
The genie was born in Northern Scotland. He had never been a child; he had come into the world fully formed in his current body. He had no parents—just a shattered egg and strange magic swirling around him. For hundreds of years, he wandered, seeking a place to inhabit, for genies couldn’t settle just anywhere. Their very nature seemed to force them into a peculiar existence. One day, the genie who had occupied the Lost Forest for many centuries died, and the genie Hermione had met took its place.
Other memories washed over Hermione’s mind: a young girl exchanging her fiancé’s coffin for the chance to find another man like him—a teenager sadly trading her old teddy bear for a friend—a man giving up all the photographs of his late wife in exchange for his son’s forgiveness. The genie extracted powerful magic from these tokens, savoring the process with a vicious glee. Hermione saw him caressing the pictures with the tips of his long nails and guarding them fiercely from another genie who tried to steal them.
One day, a visitor to the Lost Forest had rebelled. He had tried to hex the genie. Hermione watched as the spell hissed through the air and struck the genie in full force in an explosion of red sparks. When the light dimmed, the genie was still standing, furious but unharmed by the hex. He announced to his guest that—as did all members of his species—he was perfectly immune to witchcraft. Immune!
A shrill noise suddenly echoed in Hermione’s ears, the guest raised his hands to his head, screaming, and… everything turned pitch black.
The man hadn’t died, but he had suffered. The genie had forced him to make a wish, giving up his fertility in payment. The very thought of losing the ability to have children made Hermione shudder. For the man, it must have been a far greater tragedy, as he took his own life a week after visiting the Lost Forest. Though he had attacked the genie, he hadn’t deserved such a fate. Fear and indignation pooled in Hermione’s chest. Using the genie’s power might help her return to Ron, but at what cost?
“I fulfilled your first wish, Hermione Granger. You have two more left.”
She was back in the room with its chintz-upholstered armchairs.
“You are immune to magic?” she asked the genie.
“To witchcraft,” he corrected her. “True immunity to all forms of magic would prevent me from practicing my art.”
“I see,” she replied thoughtfully.
“Do you have a second wish, Hermione Jean Granger?”
She locked eyes with the genie’s white gaze.
“I have one, but first, I want to ask you something,” she said. “Am I—do I have to make all my wishes today? Or can I save one for later?”
The genie’s face tightened with irritation. “Nothing stops you from making just two wishes.”
“I don’t want to ask for only two; I want to save the third for later,” Hermione insisted. “If I make things worse, I want to be able to undo the harm I’ve caused. Do you understand? I want a way to go back.”
“I don’t believe so, Hermione Jean Granger.”
“You said I could have three wishes. If you only let me make two, that’s theft!” she hammered, her voice steely.
The creature grimaced—she’d cornered him. “Deal, Hermione Jean Granger.”
“In that case, I wish for a way to save Fred Weasley, Ronald’s Weasley’s brother,” she declared.
A twisted smile spread across the genie’s grey face. “I can give you that, Hermione Jean Granger, in exchange for something of great value. I want something you truly cherish.”
She thought of Ron, Harry, her parents, Crookshanks—
“I am not speaking of living, free beings, but of something that belongs to you,” the genie interrupted, as though reading her mind. “Think back—remember all the happy moments in your life…”
When Hermione cast the Patronus charm, she always thought of the day Professor McGonagall had knocked on her parent’s door nine years ago. That was the day Hermione learned she was a witch. The following day, she’d seen Diagon Alley and its whimsical shops for the first time. She’d walked into Ollivanders, the wandmaker, to choose her wand. And when she found it, she instantly knew it was the right fit—she had felt magic flowing in her veins down her arm like warm water.
“That is what I want.”
The genie’s voice echoed in her mind, but she couldn’t see him anymore. Dread gripped her when she thought she understood: he wanted her wand. But Hermione was wrong.
“I want your magic. I want to wield and feel the magic of wizardkind.”
She couldn’t give up her magic! How could she save Fred if she lost all means to defend herself? Would Ron even want her back if she no longer belonged in the wizarding world anymore?
“There are other ways of finding one’s place in the world. Magic is a means, not an end. This is my price, Hermione Jean Granger.
He wouldn’t relent—she could see that. Her throat dry and her heart heavy, she whispered, “I accept.”
The moment the words left her lips, an icy wave swept over her, as though a bucket of freezing water had been poured over her head. She felt a part of her slip away, retreating further and further…
“I will help you gain entry. After that, you will have to manage on your own. Good luck, Hermione Jean Granger.”
Two.
The deal was sealed. The Lost Forest vanished, and Hermione was hurled through time and space. Later, she would realize that her despair had driven her to a reckless act of madness—one that could have cost the Wizarding world far more than the lives of innocents. But for now, it was a magic-deprived yet resolute Hermione hurtling into the past, fingers crossed that her journey would succeed. Pale eyes followed her as she left the present year, her era, and even her century behind…
Landing.
Hermione fell flat on her stomach onto the hard snow, her chin crashing into the ground. She bit her tongue, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Blast. She slowly got back on her feet and easily recognized the scenery despite the darkness: Hogsmeade. A large bourgeois house with its windows lit up stood before her, almost resembling a renovated Shrieking Shack. The taste of blood intensified, and Hermione instinctively reached for her wand to cast a healing spell.
Nothing.
She no longer felt her magic. She had truly lost it. How was it possible? How could someone steal her magical abilities? The day Professor McGonagall had come to tell her she was a witch, Hermione had been so terrified it might be a joke that she had initially refused to believe her. Then, when she held her wand for the first time, she realized that all her dreams had come true. She had understood she was gifted with magic, and that she could accomplish remarkable feats.
Hermione twirled her wand between her fingers.
It might be nothing more than a simple piece of wood now, but she would keep it anyway. If she succeeded in her mission, she would ask the genie to make her a witch again. It wouldn’t affect her payment, and perhaps her powers wouldn’t be as strong as the ones she had been born with and learned to wield—but that didn’t matter. The idea of giving up her magic forever was unbearable. The genie had stolen the source of her Patronus. She refused to lose the power and strength that memory held.
What was she supposed to do now? If the genie had indeed sent her to Hogsmeade, then it was likely the best place for her to begin her mission. But Voldemort was still around, and she, along with Harry and Ron, were on the run. Numerous Death Eaters were probably lurking about; prudence would be her best ally.
She looked up at the starry sky. It was night, and she couldn’t possibly steal food, as she would have done when she was still a witch. She couldn’t even change her appearance.
Then, an idea hit her. There was a pub in Hogsmeade where she was sure to find allies. Under the moonlight, it would be harder for someone to recognize her—if she hurried, everything would be fine. Hermione tucked her hair into the collar of her coat, lowered her head, and headed to the Hog’s Head.
As soon she stepped into the lively streets of Hogsmeade, Hermione spotted several clues that made her suspicious.
Large beeswax candles replaced the usual magical lanterns. On Christmas Eve, passers-by strolled merrily, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of encountering a Death Eater. They were dressed in outdated clothes, as if straight out of an old family picture. Some houses were dilapidated, while others looked in better condition than Hermione remembered. Where Honeydukes should have been, there was a restaurant, with its terrace tables covered in snow. A sign indicated that the owner was away for the holidays.
“Might I tempt the pretty lady with some dragon liver toast?”
Hermione jumped. The toothless vendor, next to whom she had just passed, was holding a shabby stall emitting a dubious smell. His lack of discretion surprised her—selling dragon liver had been illegal since dragons were classified as endangered species during the 1951 Congress at the Vienna Ministry. Did he understand the risk he was taking by selling dragon liver to a passer-by? A fine of a thousand Galleons and two years in Azkaban.
Hermione shuddered. What if it wasn’t illegal yet? Could she have arrived before 1951? But what year was it, then? The seller wore a beret of the same fashion as Hermione’s grandfather! She had thought the genie would send her two years back, a few weeks before Fred’s tragic death. Slowly, she realized that she had traveled much further back in time. Had Fred’s death been destined from the very start of the war? Was she supposed to kill his killer? Or prevent him from being born at all? Something like that?
When had this ass of a genie sent her?
“Dragon liver?”
“No, thank you,” Hermione replied. “But I’ll give you a Galleon if you tell me today’s full date.”
“For a Galleon, Murdoch will give the pretty lady the Daily Prophet!” the vendor grinned, a dense look on his face. “Murdoch can’t read anyway! And if the pretty lady wants some dragon liver, Murdoch will even offer her some—yes, he will! Pity the pretty lady doesn’t seem to like dragon liver…”
Hermione placed a Galleon on the counter—realizing only then that she had just over a dozen left—and the man handed her the paper that read, ‘DAILY PROPHET—Thursday, 24th December 1942.’
“No…,” Hermione whispered, horrified.
On the front page, a man with a sharp shin glared at her disdainfully. ‘Grindelwald in England: Rumors Confirmed!’ The headline was followed by a lengthy article in which the words Aurors and Ministry appeared repeatedly. Hermione had indeed landed in an era ravaged by war, but not one the one against Voldemort. Back then, Grindelwald was terrorizing the Wizarding world. He would be defeated in 1945, in two and a half years.
Merlin’s beard, what was she doing here? Was she supposed to go so far back in time to save Fred? Voldemort didn’t even exist yet.
“Th—thanks,” she muttered to the vendor. “I need to go… I have to go. Thank you.”
Hermione wandered through Hogsmeade for several hours. The streets gradually emptied as passers-by gave her surprised and curious glances. Now, she told herself, their choice of clothing made sense—she was the one who looked out of place. Christmas 1942! The newspaper the vendor had given her could have been an antique, but the closing signs on the shop windows confirmed the date. She had traveled not two years into the past, but fifty-seven.
The advantage was that she didn’t have to worry about running into her past self—she hadn’t been born yet. Her parents hadn’t been born either, and her grandparents were still in nappies.
Her steps took her to the entrance of the Hog’s Head. She wouldn’t have recognized the pub if it were located elsewhere. In her time, long cracks ran down the dirty, old, grey shutters. Now, they were a bright, fresh red. Everything was in better condition, from the building to the wooden sign with the famous head drawn on it. Even the usual goat smell was missing.
Hermione sighed. She missed her magic more than ever. In another situation, she would have enjoyed discovering Hogsmeade this way. But at that moment, she was cold, and was mentally calculating how many days she could survive with just ten Galleons in her pocket. Whether she was meant to complete her mission here or not, whether the genie was an imposter or not—it didn’t matter anymore. Hermione needed to pull herself together, find a solution, and figure out what she was doing in 1942.
No, the genie probably hadn’t been lying—she would understand the reason for her jump into the past later. Her magic had never been her only resource; her deep knowledge of history would help her. She would manage. Wouldn’t she?
The door suddenly opened, revealing a tall waitress with red lips.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “If you’re looking for the menu, we’ve brought it inside. The snow kept washing the slate clean every time Mr. Jocelin rewrote the list of drinks. Enough to tear one’s hair out, if you ask me. I can’t believe there are spells to make your nails grow but none to prevent this kind of trouble.”
“Have you tried a stasis charm?” Hermione suggested.
The waitress frowned, thinking.
“I never thought of that,” she admitted. ‘I’ll mention it to Mr. Jocelin. Are you American? You’re dressed a bit like my aunt who lives in New York. Sorry, I should let you go inside,” she added, stepping aside. “My boss says I’m too chatty. I think it runs in the family; my mom’s the same, and my aunt—my mother’s sister—is even worse than me. Rumor has it that her neighbors in New York avoid her because she talks so much. Maybe it’s just something my cousin made up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.”
The floor creaked as Hermione stepped in. She noticed that the inside was still as small and the tables still tightly packed, but there wasn’t much dust on the windows and the floor. The wooden cash register behind the counter stood out less than in the future and the staircase appeared to be in better condition. The large dandelion bouquets on the tables surprised her more than the two masked men sitting at the back of the room.
The current owner wasn’t yet Abelforth, which explained the relative cleanliness, but the clientele remained the same. In some ways, she was glad that Abelforth wasn’t the owner yet—a small price for a well-kept pub. Sleeping in a room crawling with bedbugs didn’t enchant her much.
“Bonnie!” a voice boomed from the stairs. “Go clean Mel’s room! This nuthead buttered everything!”
“Coming!” the waitress called back, before turning to Hermione, “Take a seat, Mr. Jocelin will take care of you. Well, I suppose he will.”
She walked behind the counter, quickly wiped her hands on a rag, and then headed up the stairs. Hermione glanced at the slate. The prices at the Hog’s Head were quite low, so she could afford to stay one night, maybe two, and have a few light meals before her money ran.
Her main priority now was to find a job. Perhaps it would be wise to request a meeting with Dumbledore and offer her services at the school? If he agreed, Hermione would have room and board, plus protection. She was well-educated and didn’t expect a high salary. She could convince him.
A man with a long, pale face came down the stairs and locked dark eyes with her. A swollen scar ran across his face. Hermione guessed that he was the owner of the pub, Mr. Jocelin. Maybe she preferred Abelforth after all.
“Looking to stay the night?” he asked in a gruff tone.
She definitely preferred Abelforth.
“Yes, I need a room,” she replied. “The smallest you have. I don’t have much money.
“If you don’t mind sleeping in a room buttered like a French toast, it’ll be free,” he grumbled.
“Thanks, but I’d rather pay,” Hermione reconsidered.
He opened a drawer behind the counter and pulled out an old key with the number ‘2’ stamped on it.
“First room on your left at the top of the stairs,” he said gravely.
“How much do I owe you?”
He didn’t answer, instead pointing to a piece of paper hung to a beam by a rusty nail. It listed the room rates and the various services available to guests. A night cost two Galleons and six Nuts.
Hermione placed the money on the counter, took the key, and slipped it into her pocket.
“Excuse me,” she said, as Mr. Jocelin put the money in the cash register. “I’d also like to schedule an appointment with the headmaster of Hogwarts. Could you pass the word along to him?”
Mr. Jocelin grunted. Hermione only needed a bit of luck—if he agreed to contact the headmaster and if the headmaster came, she’d have her chance.
The man suddenly froze.
“You’re here for the job?” he asked, his tone more affable.
A job opening at Hogwarts? It seemed too good to be true!”
“Yes, exactly,” Hermione replied, her excitement rising.
But what if applying for the position required magic?
“Maybe,” she added hastily. “I have some conditions, of course…”
“Tell him about it,” Mr. Jocelin interrupted, any semblance of warmth gone.
Rude.
“Professor Dippet will be here tomorrow at ten,” he said flatly. “After he leaves, you can spend Christmas here. We’re serving a plate of boar with mushroom puree and pumpkin juice for the hol’s, and we offer a discount for those staying in a room.”
“Thank you.”
Of course. Dumbledore became headmaster only after Grindelwald’s arrest. At this time, Armando Dippet was still in charge. Hermione felt a brief moment of disappointment, but then relief washed over her. It would be easier to hide her origins from Dippet than from a skilled Legilimens like Dumbledore. She nodded, her frown deepening as something seemed to be nagging at her—something related to Professor Dippet, something Harry had told her. Well, it wasn’t important now. She’d figure it out later.
“Boss!” Bonnie shouted from the upstairs. “There’s a tied-up Korrigan under Mel’s bed!”
“I’m coming…” Mr. Jocelin sighed.
Without another word to his guest, he turned on his heels and headed up the stairs.
Hermione glanced at the masked man talking at the back of the room. One of them turned his head toward her and raised his mug as if to greet her, before returning to his discussion.
She walked around the counter and climbed the stairs. First door on the left. She inserted the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and closed it behind her. The room was small, with a double bed pressed against a window that overlooked the courtyard. Her Galleons would be running out quickly…
She let herself fall onto the bed. It was less comfortable than beds at Hogwarts, but certainly better than the cobblestones of the streets near the main alley in Hogsmeade.
The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that her arrival in 1942, when Dippet was looking for staff, was no coincidence. “I will help you gain entry,” the genie had said. He must have meant Hogwarts. He hadn’t sent her here on this specific day by mistake. Yes, she was sure of it. She needed to secure that vacant position at Hogwarts.
Exhausted, Hermione quickly undressed and slipped under the sheets. They were worn and scratchy against her bare skin, but her tiredness made her undemanding. She hoped her journey would lead her to save Fred, no matter what it took. She hoped her meeting with Professor Dippet the next day would be successful. She hoped that applying for the job wouldn’t require her to use magic. And with all these thoughts, these hopes, she drifted into a deep sleep.
Hermione slept soundly that night.
She slept soundly because she had no idea what kind of job she had just applied for.