Professor Grizzly
When Hermione woke up, it was still dark outside and everything was silent. A thin beam of light shone under the door, illuminating her shoes left at the foot of the bed. She stretched and turned over, her whole body aching. The thought of meeting Professor Dippet while limping and with dark circles under her eyes caused a brief wave of anxiety. She told herself not to dwell on such things: everything would work out fine!
She remembered feeling the same anxiety when applying for her internship at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—and she got the job anyhow. Still, she tried not to compare the stakes of the two events.
A faint clinking noise came from downstairs. It was probably six or seven in the morning, and Hermione imagined Mr. Jocelin washing the dishes, while the shops of Hogsmeade lay dormant. On Christmas day, everything would likely remain closed.
For Dippet to agree to a job interview on Christmas, he must either be exceptionally brave or… utterly desperate. Hermione leaned toward the latter. During wartime, it was unlikely candidates were lining up to teach at Hogwarts. After all, even Dumbledore had struggled to recruit Slughorn when Voldemort was at large.
A sudden thought struck her: what if the vacancy was for the Potions position? It would be perfect—spell-casting would rarely be necessary, and she was excellent with theory. Harry was the only person who had ever outperformed her in Potions, and the cheater had to thank Snape’s annotated textbook.
Spurred on by the idea, Hermione stretched once more, got out of bed, and headed to the bathroom. Dippet would eventually realize she was no witch, but she was confident she could delay the revelation enough to prove herself an exceptional teacher. Surely, he wouldn’t dismiss someone so capable.
“Stop being so full of yourself,” she muttered, mimicking Ron’s voice.
A brief laughter escaped her lips, easing her nerves. She missed Ron terribly, but she consoled herself with the thought that they would be reunited once her mission was complete.
Entering the bathroom, Hermione’s eyes landed on a green, round thing engraved with the image of a decapitated boar. Despite the unsettling illustration, it smelled good enough. The bottom of the tub, however, was more gray than white. She tried rinsing it out but quickly gave up when the water failed to wash away the color. Convincing herself it was merely wear, she stepped in.
After her shower, Hermione dressed, did her hair as best as she could with her fingers, and sat down at the modest desk near the door. The Daily Prophet lay open, Grindelwald’s cold, disdainful gaze staring back at her from the front page. She flipped to the next page, which featured a moving photograph of Gringotts under a barrage of camera flashes. A failed burglary attempt two days earlier had outraged the Goblins. Hermione couldn’t help but recall her own flight from Gringotts after breaking into Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault, and felt a pang of sympathy for the thieves.
The next article detailed the story of a Grindelwald disciple who had come from a deeply religious Muggle family. The journalist explained the man’s allegiance to the dark wizard stemmed from his family’s violent rejection of him upon learning he was a wizard. Hermione frowned at the sympathy the article seemed to extend to him and quickly turned the page. There had been yet another burglary, this time at the home of the Auror Office’s director.
Hermione jumped when a mechanical boar suddenly sprang from the miniature house mounted above her bed, letting out a shrill, “Breakfast!”.
She was about to close the newspaper when a name caught her eye.
Potter.
After a moment of scanning the article, she found the name. “As the incident occurred on an evening when Charlus Potter, his wife, and their four children were expected to be at home, the Auror Office does not rule out the possibility that this was an attempted attack on its director. Furthermore, Dorea Potter, née Black, spontaneously stated that the only valuable item missing was an old, enchanted cloak her husband had inherited. This claim was immediately dismissed by Charlus Potter, who described the cloak as a ‘trinket, worth little more than nostalgic sentiment’.”
Hermione hadn’t known that one of Harry’s ancestors had been the director of the Auror Office, nor that he had married a Black. But it made sense—Harry’s father had come from a prominent Pureblood family, which explained the substantial inheritance he had left to his son.
What intrigued her most, however, was the mention of the stolen cloak. Dorea Potter seemed to have placed great value on it, while her husband had downplayed it. Could it have been the Invisibility Cloak?
At a time when a powerful dark lord was hunting the Death Hollows, this theft couldn’t be a coincidence. Grindelwald had once possessed the Elder Wand—had he also sought out the Cloak? Could he have intended to kill its previous owner?
Hermione’s mind flashed to the photograph they had found at Bathilda Bagshot’s house: a young, blond, and smiling man—the complete opposite of Voldemort. Grindelwald had stolen the wand from Gregorovitch but had spared his life. He had understood that killing wasn’t a requirement for mastery of the Hollows.
A dark wizard, both deranged and devoid of morality, was at large. Yet, he wasn’t entirely sadistic. The thought was far from comforting.
Hermione closed the newspaper, slipped into her shoes, and headed downstairs for breakfast.
Mr. Jocelin came down into the pub around ten o’clock, his face ghostly pale, with the imprint of his pillow still visible on his right cheek. Hermione overhead him murmuring ‘korrigan’ repeatedly as he nonchalantly poured himself a Butterbeer. The boy who had served her toast appeared to be younger than her and seemed utterly bored. He perked up when a tall, burly man arrived and engaged him in a conversation.
The man, upon meeting Hermione’s gaze, raised his tankard with an oddly graceful gesture. Was this the same person she had encountered the day before? This time, he wasn’t masked. Hermione was about to consider the matter further when the door suddenly swung open, revealing an eerie-looking creature.
The being was tall, with green sagging reminiscent of a toad. Its large emerald eyes roved the room behind a pair of anise-colored glasses. A cascade of glistening hair, held back by numerous tiny clips, fell in thick strands over a veil adorned with golden charms. A woman. She was draped in an array of fabrics, all shades of green—apple green, Irish green, bottle green, and bamboo green.
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and the eyes of the waiter and other patrons widened in response. Mr. Jocelin, ever composed, merely turned his head to glance at the newcomer. When he noticed his flustered waiter frozen in place, he let out a grumble, set down his mug, and stood up.
"I take it you're here for the position," he said curtly.
"I knew you would ask me," the stranger replied with a heavy accent Hermione couldn’t place. “Professor Dippet is running late, but… I sense he’ll arrive shortly. My instincts are rarely wrong."
“So, you are here for the position,” Mr. Jocelin reiterated with finality.
No sooner had he spoken than the pub door opened again, revealing a short man with curly white hair, panting for breath. He immediately addressed the green-clad woman.
"Good morning!" he said in a slightly tremulous voice. "Mrs. Karavan, I presume? Merlin’s beard, I’m thrilled you finally decided to come to Hogsmeade! When I saw you earlier, you should have slowed down—we could have walked here together. I tried to catch up, but, my word, you have such a determined stride!"
The green-skinned woman flushed with shame, casting a mortified glance around the room before retorting indignantly, "I didn’t see you!"
"I thought—"
"You were mistaken!"
"Well, you’re probably right. It’s not important, anyway," the professor conceded quickly before turning to Mr. Jocelin. "Gregory, may we use the lounge?"
"Of course," Mr. Jocelin replied, "but I should let you know—you have another applicant."
Hermione’s thoughts darted between the green-clad woman and Professor Dippet. A nagging doubt crept into her mind. What kind of position could possibly attract such a candidate? What on earth had that idiot genius been thinking? Deep down, she had an inkling of the answer, but her astonishment kept it at bay.
Mr. Jocelin indicated Hermione with a nod of his chin. At once, Professor Dippet’s jovial face lit up with a smile, while the green-clad woman’s expression contorted into one of fury.
"I am outraged!" she shrieked in a piercing voice. "To demand that I travel all the way to England for an interview is shameful enough—a person of my stature and experience shouldn’t have to stoop so low! But to offer the position to someone else and make me compete for it? That is utterly disrespectful!"
She jabbed an accusatory finger at Hermione, who froze in shock.
"I assure you," Professor Dippet replied calmly, "I didn’t specifically request this young woman to come at the same time as you. However, I did state in the job advertisement that I’d be meeting all applicants at the Hog’s Head this morning. She is entitled to present herself, and I’m glad she did." Noticing the woman’s mouth opening for another outburst, he hastily added, "Of course, you’ll be going first."
The woman nodded sharply. "I should hope so," she said, casting a murderous glare at Hermione.
Then the green-clad woman gathered up her robes, raised her chin with authority, and ascended the stairs. After flashing another smile at his new candidate, Professor Dippet followed her.
The bar quickly fell into silence. Hermione struggled to make sense of it all. The position… Could it really be…?
She watched as Mr. Jocelin wiped the counter with a rag while the waiter fussed over the crumpled dandelions in their vases. The other customer began spinning his cup on the table producing a faint screeching sound that—though soft—immediately grated on her nerves.
“My apologies,” he said politely when he noticed Hermione’s despairing look. “You must already be anxious enough without me making it worse.”
He gently withdrew his fingers from the handle of his cup. Hermione took the opportunity to take a closer look at him discreetly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw. His caramel-colored hair fell in soft waves around his broad, pale face. His long, bluish-grey eyes, straight nose, and high cheekbones gave him a strikingly noble appearance. Hermione didn’t find him conventionally handsome, but his movements radiated a certain grace and confidence that made her suspect he was the offspring of a prominent family.
“Alistair Wendelbard,” he introduced himself with a slight bow.
“Hermione Gr—”
She caught herself just in time and mentally chastised her own carelessness. When she returned to her own time, no one should be able to link the Hermione of 1942 to the Hermione of the 21st century. McGonagall had warned her intensively about the perils of time travel back in her third year. The golden rule: never be seen.
Though Hermione wasn’t at risk of encountering her younger self or her family, she couldn’t take any chances with wizards like Dumbledore who lived a long life and kept sharp memories from the past. She needed another surname. As for everything else, she would simply have to improvise and pray for the best.
Picking her brains for inspiration, her thoughts turned to the waitress from the previous evening and her mention of an American aunt.
“Gr—Grizzly,” she blurted.
“American roots? Or Canadian, perhaps?”
“Yes, exactly,” Hermione replied quickly. “Canada.”
“Really?” Wendelbard said, clearly amused. “I was joking around, but I’m pleased I got it right then.”
Hermione flushed with embarrassment.
“So, you aspire to become a professor?” he asked. “It was a dream of mine as a child. I imagined being a teacher would earn me the admiration of my peers. But when I was old enough to pursue higher education, I decided to tutor young wizards for a few Galleons. Unfortunately, I encountered students so retarded that I gave up and swore never to teach again.”
“What do you mean by retarded?” Hermione asked, her tone sharp.
If Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been present, they would undoubtedly have pitied poor Wendelbard, oblivious as he was to the fiery young woman before him. Hermione had always taken sides with the oppressed. In primary school, she had organized fundraisers for disabled children. At Hogwarts, she had taken Neville under her wing, partly because she couldn’t bear to hear anyone call him retarded. She had adopted Crookshanks because no one else would, and her crusade for house-elf rights had begun as soon as she learned of their plight.
“It’s a rather unkind way of saying I often had to repeat myself,” Wendelbard admitted with a sheepish smile. “I once thought patience was my greatest virtue but tutoring proved me wrong. These days, I see myself as more… tenacious than patient.”
Hermione nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“And what draws you to teaching?” he asked politely.
But before Hermione could respond, a loud commotion from upstairs shook the entire pub.
“The aura, sir, we call it the aura!” a shrill voice cried out.
The green toad, Hermione immediately guessed. And she was right: moments later, the woman came barreling down the stairs, her hair in disarray and her eyes wild.
“I refuse to take part in your petty mind games,” she raged. “If you want to hire just anyone, then be my guest!”
“My goodness, I never said such a thing!” Professor Dippet protested, appearing at the bottom of the staircase.
The woman stormed across the pub in a blur of green, stopping at the door. She grabbed the handle, spun around, and declared, “If you don’t want me to leave, sir, you know what you need to say!”
“No, I will not hire you without conducting a full interview,” Professor Dippet insisted firmly.
“Then, goodbye! I give you less than a week before you regret this decision!”
Without so much as a glance at Hermione, Wendelbard, the waiter, or Mr. Jocelin, she swept out of the bar. The door slammed shut behind her, catching a corner of her apple-green robes. The fabric twitched for a moment before disappearing to the other side. If she had intended to make a dignified exit, she had certainly failed.
The four wizards listened to the sharp click of her heels on the cobblestones until the sound faded into the distance. Silence descended—heavy and awkward. Only Wendelbard, seated across from Hermione, seemed faintly amused by the turn of events.
“Well, that was quick,” Mr. Jocelin remarked grimly.
“Yes, yes. My apologies, Gregory,” Professor Dippet said with a sigh. “That candidate wasn’t exactly the most sociable. By Merlin’s beard, she was one of the most serious applicants…”
Then, turning to Hermione, a warm smile spread across his face.
“Still, I must admit I’m almost glad she left now that I see I have another candidate!” he continued. “I never expected anyone to respond to my advertisement—or at least, no one serious. You’re a blessing! I’m Armando Dippet,” he said, extending his hand. “And you are Mrs.—?”
“Miss Grizzly,” Hermione replied, rising to her feet.
“Yes, I thought as much when I came in—you seem quite young,” he observed with a grumble. “I usually hire professors who are at least thirty.”
Hermione winced slightly but said nothing.
“But, my word,” Dippet added, his tone softening, “I’ve been searching for months. I started with advertisements, sought help from the Ministry, reached out to former students, and in the end, I had to rely on rumors to find candidates abroad. And yet not a single one of them could speak or dress like a normal person; they always have to stand out.”
Aura. Perception. Foresight. And all these eccentric applicants…
“You, at least, seem perfectly sane and motivated,” Dippet concluded. “And for a subject like Divination, that’s exactly what the students need!”
Now that Professor Dippet had uttered the cursed word starting with a d, it was as though the sky had fallen on Hermione’s head. She distantly registered Professor Dippet bidding Mr. Jocelin goodbye a second time and then, almost on autopilot, followed him to a small lounge. Two sofas faced each other across a moth-eaten coffee table. A lively fire danced in a stone hearth, while snow swirled in gusts outside the window. It wasn’t until they had both taken their seats that Hermione snapped out of her daze.
Divination. The genie wanted her to teach divination.
And she, Hermione Granger, had to convince Professor Dippet to let her.
“Well,” he began, organizing his papers on the coffee table. “Remind me of your name again, please?”
“Hermione Grizzly,” she replied, fidgeting slightly.
“Where did study, Miss Grizzly?”
“At the Salam Institute, in Massachusetts, in the United States,” she responded without missing a beat.
She knew every magical school on every continent by heart—the origins, founders, traditions, and even their approximate location. That knowledge might come in handy now.
Fred’s face, and then Ron’s, flashed into her mind. She could save Fred and get the love of her life back, but to do so, she had to follow the trail of clues that the genie had left behind. This job was one of them. Hermione had decided: Divination or not, she had to get into Hogwarts.
“With a name like yours, I could have sworn you were Canadian,” he said with a smile, scribbling on his notepad.
“I am from Canada. However, Canadian wizards usually homeschool their children, so there isn’t really a Wizarding school there,” Hermione explained.
Professor Dippet grunted. “I should be ashamed not to have known that; please forgive me.”
“Few people do,” Hermione assured him. “Professor Liam Lachenille opened one in 1795, but it had only eleven students over a hundred years, and ultimately had to close.
“Eleven students? That’s tragic,” Professor Dippet remarked. “Well, have you taught before?”
“No,” Hermione admitted, “but I’m very motivated.”
To teach Divination.
Sometimes, you just had to suck it up.
“That’s good. Not many students signed up for your subject this year, likely because of the absence of a proper teacher. Horace—who teaches Potions—and I have been taking turns trying to teach it—despite knowing nothing about it—and to speak frankly, it’s gotten rather dull.”
He stopped scribbling and looked up at her.
“Well… Why do you want to become a Divination professor? I suppose it was your favorite subject at Salem?”
“Absolutely,” Hermione replied with a tad of irony.
She vividly recalled Trelawney once telling her: “I’m sorry for saying so, my dear, but I don’t perceive a great aura around you. You seem to demonstrate a very limited receptivity to the resonances of the future.”
“My teacher always said I had an impressive aura and a remarkable receptivity to the resonances of the future.”
Trelawney would be turning over in her cradle.
“Aptly,” Professor Dippet said, chuckling slightly. “Mrs. Karavan spent her entire interview—if you can call it that—trying to convince me that you have no aura and are only here because a magic spirit forced you to apply to the position.”
Hermione went pale.
“Some Seers have such overactive imaginations, it’s almost laughable!”
The green toad had proven herself crazy. That she happened to speak the truth about her rival was surely a mere coincidence.
“Well… I always wanted to pass my knowledge on to the future generations,” Hermione said quickly. “I believe that Divination lies at the heart of all traditional forms of magic and while it’s not always an exact science, losing it would be tragic.”
“Undoubtedly,” Professor Dippet answered flatly.
He didn’t seem particularly convinced by her argument about the tragic loss of Divination—even though she’d read it in The Birth of Wizardry by Prius Leduke.
“It’s a challenging subject because it requires students to have a specific set of skills of their own, such as observation, analysis, and the ability to let go—” (Introduction to the Studies of Occult Sciences by Prudence Singfair), “—but I believe that any willing students can learn the basics of Divination,” Hermione concluded. “I am genuinely motivated by the idea of teaching Di—Divination at such an ancient and prestigious school as Hogwarts.”
“And what methods could you teach our students?”
“Uh…” Good question. None? “Cards, star interpretation, dream interpretation… Palmistry, tea leaf reading… And, of course, using crystal balls.”
“Very well… One last question, how old are you?”
Hermione hesitated. Should she lie or not?
“I reached twenty just a few months ago,” she eventually said.
A well-known way to add an extra year.
“You’re very, very young,” Professor Dippet commented. “But you seem motivated, and you’re probably the most serious candidate I’ve encountered for the Divination position in my seventy years of career. I just hope the students won’t give you too much trouble. If they do, don’t hesitate to raise your voice and dock points.
“At Hogwarts, we encourage exemplary behavior among students through a points system devised by Rowena Ravenclaw herself. For instance, if a student answers a question correctly, they earn points; if they break a rule, they lose them. But I’ll leave it to Apollo, our caretaker, to explain everything.”
He gathered his papers and vanished them with a flick of his wand.
“We’re running behind schedule, and I hope you’ll manage to catch up, at least to a certain extent. I don’t have the expertise to test you further, but I believe I can place my trust in you. Miss Grizzly, you’re hired!”
“Thank you, Professor!” Hermione exclaimed, joy and relief washing over her.
She was now a teacher! A Divination teacher. Her smile faltered slightly. But at least she wouldn’t need to use magic… But still, Harry and Ron could never find out.
“Call me Armando,” the headmaster said, standing up. “At Hogwarts, we’re like family. We spend the entire year together, so imagine if we bothered with formalities. Anyway, here’s the key to your office and the badge that allows access to the school gates after a simple Belonging Spell.”
“Excuse me?” Hermione asked as he handed her a key and a golden coin that looked like a large Galleon.
“The key opens your office door, and the badge grants access to Hogwarts,” he explained, pointing to each item in turn. “You’ll need to cast a Belonging Spell on the badge for it to function. I suggest doing it quickly to prevent anyone else from using it. Otherwise, it could become… dangerous.”
She’d barely been hired and already had to use magic. There was no escaping it—a Belonging Spell could only be cast by the intended owner of the object.
“Isn’t there another way? I’ve never been particularly skilled with magic,” she lied.
“You can practice the spell beforehand, as long as you don’t take too long,” Professor Dippet grumbled. “In any case, you won’t need to leave Hogwarts often. We provide our teachers with everything they need, including uniforms. Apollo Picott will show you around once you’ve moved in. He’ll also give you the books the students use. As for the curriculum, you’re entirely free to follow it in whatever order you think best. Classes resume in a week, so I’ll need you to move into the castle at least two days beforehand. When do you plan to join us?”
“I—May I come today?”
Professor Dippet seemed surprised.
“Merlin’s beard, yes, of course—by all means, it would be my pleasure!” he responded cheerfully. “We are celebrating Christmas at noon, and it will be a small gathering—only four students stayed behind this year. Most were taken home by their family… With all these threats looming over us… Well, I’ll wait for you downstairs!”
Hermione considered lingering in her room to pretend she was preparing her belongings, but Professor Dippet would quickly notice that she had no luggage when she joined him. She let herself fall on the bed, instead. The springs groaned beneath her weight, and she thought that, with any luck, her ears would never have to endure that unpleasant sound again.
Hermione was now a teacher at Hogwarts. As long as she could remain there, she would be housed, fed, and protected. Teaching Divination promised to be a challenge, but she had lived through worse times.
With that thought, she stood up, retrieved the soap from the edge of the bathtub, and, after one last look at the room, hurried down the stairs.
The sky was white, its clouds looking like cotton over the mountains. It had stopped snowing. Hermione passed through the gate with the winged boars, past the Quidditch field, and the Gamekeeper’s hut… The towers of Hogwarts seemed taller the closer she got, and she could now make out the windows, while five chimneys puffed white smoke over the roofs of the castle. Her gaze fell on the future location of the Whomping Willow, currently covered by small, pink and grey bushes. Except for a few details, Hogwarts hadn’t changed, and a deep sense of nostalgia washed over her.
The oak doors opened silently, and Hermione entered the hall behind Professor Dippet. At the sight of the torches and the large marble staircase leading up to the upper floors, her heartbeat quickened. The last time she had admired this scene had been at the end of her sixth year, just as she was about to leave on the quest for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. When she returned a year later, the hall was still there, but the bodies of Voldemort’s victims were lined near the walls, covered by white sheets often stained with blood. That day, there had been blood everywhere, even on the walls.
Hermione shook her head to clear the image from her mind. Dwelling on the past was useless, especially if said past hadn’t happened yet.
Not happened yet…
An idea suddenly came to her. A dangerous idea, but awfully tempting. Could she save Fred Weasley only? The genie had sent her fifty-seven years back into the past. Could she save Lupin, Tonks, and Moddy as well? Could she rescue everyone Voldemort had killed?
No. McGonagall had told her over and over that it was forbidden. Prohibited. It was… the ultimate rule.
No, Hermione wasn’t allowed to save everyone. But wasn’t it heartless to let her friends die when she had the possibility to save them? She suddenly understood Harry’s anger when he hadn’t been able to catch Pettigrew during their short trip with the Time Turner. She felt frustrated and uneasy at the thought that she might face such a difficult choice.
She repressed her sadness as she entered the Great Hall behind Professor Dippet. The sight of the magical ceiling comforted her a little. The candles flickered under the shimmering steel-blue sky, laden with snowy clouds. Further down, all the tables had been pushed against the walls, and a single one stood proudly in the center of the Great Hall, laid with nine place settings. Hermione looked down at her new colleagues.
The first person Hermione recognized was Albus Dumbledore. He wore a thick auburn beard, neatly groomed. His face was the same, despite the absence of wrinkles. Hermione felt a wave of affection and a pang in her heart all at once and quickly averted her gaze so as not to betray herself.
At Dumbledore’s side sat Horace Slughorn, already plump but so much younger. There was also a thin witch with a round face and ginger hair, talking to a handsome blond man with incredibly white teeth. The resemblance between him and Gilderoy Lockart struck Hermione immediately.
Four students were sitting at the end of the table. The first was a Gryffindor, probably in her final year. She had a noble-looking face, and her hair was tied in a bun which gave Hermione an instant feeling of déjà vu. Facing her was another Gryffindor, twelve or thirteen years old, with large eyes and a cheerful pout, chatting merrily with a plump, shy-looking Hufflepuff. Hermione’s eyes returned to the Gryffindor girl. She was almost certain she had seen her before; her pinched expression was familiar.
The last student at the table belonged to Slytherin. According to the badge pinned to his robe, he was the Prefect of his house. Despite sitting with the others, he gave the impression of being apart, and when his gaze met Hermione’s, she was struck by his impassive demeanor. A wave of unease washed over her as he stared. He had dark curly hair and appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen years old. His onyx-black eyes stood out sharply against his pale complexion. His features were delicate, with high cheekbones and thin, pale lips. He might have been handsome if not for his eyes—eyes so dark they seemed unnatural.
The Slytherin stood politely and all the students and staff at the table followed suit.
“Merry Christmas!” Albus Dumbledore exclaimed cheerfully, setting off a party cracker.
“We’ve been eagerly awaiting you, Armando,” the red-haired woman added calmly. “I presume this is our new colleague?”
“Indeed,” Professor Dippet confirmed in his high-pitched voice. “Allow me to introduce Miss Grizzly!”
The youngest students burst into laughter, attempting to stifle it by ducking their heads, while the Slytherin Prefect’s lips twitched with amusement.
“Connor, Arnold, show some decorum, please!” Professor Dippet admonished them. “Miss Grizzly will be teaching Divination after the holidays. And if I’m not mistaken, you both chose it as an elective.”
“We’ll need an extra place setting,” Horace Slughorn observed, glancing at his plate.
A new set of cutlery and a plate appeared instantly at the end of the table where the professors were seated. Everyone took their seats as the headmaster sat opposite Dumbledore at the center of the table. The excitable young Gryffindor immediately calmed down when the headmaster settled near him. Meanwhile, the small Hufflepuff who had laughed at Hermione’s name flushed crimson and cast ashamed glances in her direction.
Hermione hesitated before offering the boy a reassuring smile, then made her way to the end of the table to sit beside the red-haired woman.
“Miranda Bones,” the woman introduced herself warmly. “I teach Herbology and serve as Head of Hufflepuff House. Please, call me Miranda.”
“Um… Thank you,” Hermione stammered. “I’m Hermione Grizzly.”
“Apollon Picott,” the handsome blond man seated across from her said in a smooth, almost seductive voice. He brushed aside a lock of blond hair that had fallen over the left side of his face and added in a breathy tone, “I’m the caretaker.”
“Oh, um, okay,” Hermione replied awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”
He winked, and Hermione felt distinctly uncomfortable.
“Horace Slughorn,” another voice chimed in. “Professor of Potions and Head of Slytherin House. You may—no, you must—call me Horace!” He let out a soft chuckle into his hand and then coughed.
Dumbledore gave him a hearty pat on the back, using the opportunity to perch a toad-shaped, wart-covered hat on his head.
“Charming, Albus,” Miranda commented dryly, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the hat.
Hermione took a moment to commit their names to memory: Miranda Bones and Apollon Picott, the blond caretaker who now seemed utterly absorbed in studying a table candle. She would have to remember them.
When her former headmaster turned to address her, Hermione felt a pang in her chest. It wasn’t the first and likely wouldn’t be the last, she mused.
“Albus Dumbledore,” he said. “I teach Transfiguration, Head of Gryffindor House, and serve as Deputy Headmaster. As for names, I trust you’ve caught on to the general principle. Hermione, is it?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed.
“A pleasure to meet you. To my left, allow me to introduce Minerva McGonagall, a sixth-year student in my house. She’s an exceptional Quidditch player and the captain of the Gryffindor team.”
Hermione stared, astonished, as a sixteen-year-old Minerva McGonagall smiled politely in response to Dumbledore’s praise. Minerva McGonagall, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team! Hermione wondered what position she played. She’d find out at the next match, no doubt.
Judging by the hostile look McGonagall was giving her, it seemed her distaste for Divination had been long-standing.
“Next, we have Connor Wilmoor from Gryffindor and Arnold Goodseed from Hufflepuff. Both are Divination students, so you’ll be seeing them in class,” Dumbledore continued, before gesturing toward the Slytherin Prefect. “And here is Tom Riddle. He’s a sixth-year student, Prefect, and one of our finest pupils.”
Tom Riddle thanked Professor Dumbledore for the compliment and inclined his head in greeting to Hermione. Tom Riddle… Crucial information was trying to force its way into Hermione’s consciousness—information accompanied by blaring alarm bells and flashing warning lights. Harry had mentioned him! Hermione had an excellent memory, so why was she struggling to think clearly? Professor Dippet… Tom Riddle… 1942… Harry had told her about this, during their discussions about… the Chamber of Secrets. About the Horcruxes.
Voldemort.
The realization hit her like a lightning bolt. Tom Riddle was the true name of Lord Voldemort—the name he had used as a student at Hogwarts! Terror-stricken, she lowered her gaze to her plate, now filled with stuffed turkey, roasted vegetables, and potatoes.
Tom Riddle—this was the name he had used to introduce himself to Ginny, then to Harry, through the cursed diary. If her memory served her right, he had opened the Chamber of Secrets at fifteen and murdered his father during the summer of his sixteenth year.
Hermione’s hands trembled. So, that was why the genie had sent her to this era. Why he had helped her gain entry to Hogwarts. Voldemort was still just a teenager. He hadn’t yet traveled or delved into his horrid research on the Dark Arts. But what was she supposed to do about it? Could she arrange to have him expelled from the school? Prove his culpability in Moaning Myrtle’s death so he’d end up in Azkaban? Or was she expected to kill him now?
The thought made her sick… until Fred’s face flashed in her mind.
Voldemort would cause so much suffering in the Wizarding world. Perhaps this extreme yet certain solution was the best course of action. But she’d have to succeed on her first attempt: without magic, she would have no means to defend herself against a furious future Dark Lord. Perhaps it was too dangerous after all. And a nagging voice at the back of her mind whispered that no member of the Order of the Phoenix would ever encourage such a path.
Hermione swallowed hard. Merlin’s beard, she had only just traveled back in time and already felt desperately alone. She would have given anything for someone to advise her. Voldemort didn’t exist yet… but Tom Riddle did.
In any case, it was too late to turn back now. She would plan her next steps once the initial wave of emotion passed. For now, she picked up her cutlery and began slicing into the juicy piece of turkey on her plate, even though her appetite had entirely vanished.
By the end of the meal, Hermione found herself wearing a snowman-shaped hat and glasses styled like a Christmas wreath. Dumbledore kept offering her more jewelry to complete her ensemble: a necklace of singing cherubs, flashing pumpkin-shaped earrings—Luna would have adored them—and six rings adorned with oversized fir trees that shouted "Merry Christmas!" whenever touched.
Hermione did her best to keep up appearances and conceal the crushing dread in her chest. In the end, she accepted all the accessories Dumbledore insisted on giving her, provoking another round of laughter from the two younger students seated at the far end of the table.
“You look more like a Divination teacher, now!” Slughorn exclaimed between chuckles.
Professor Bones shot him a sharp look, and he immediately seemed to realize his mistakes.
“My apologies,” he added hastily. “That was poorly phrased…”
“It’s quite alright,” Hermione replied graciously. “Most of my colleagues have rather… peculiar fashion tastes, and I’m often the first to tease them about it.
“Oh, well, all’s well then!” he said with a broad smile. “Finally, I can share all the Divination jokes I’ve been saving!”
“Don’t overdo it, Horace,” Professor Bones cautioned.
“But Miss Granger clearly has a sense of humor,” he countered. “Here, my grandmother always said, ‘One should never be superstitious—it’s bad luck!”
Most of the staff either smiled or rolled their eyes at the joke, except for the caretaker, who simply hiccupped—Hermione suspected he hadn’t understood it. At the other end of the table, Connor and Arnold seemed to be debating how to react. Connor whispered something to Arnold, and they both quickly covered their mouths, stifling their laughter in the remains of their cream cake.
“Are they laughing at me?” Slughorn exclaimed, feigning indignation.
“I believe it’s time to bring this Christmas meal to a close,” Dumbledore remarked.
“Indeed, it seems everyone has finished eating,” Professor Bones added.
“In truth, I was more concerned about the lack of remaining party crackers.”
"Albus!" Bones chided.
As soon as Professor Dippet rose from his seat, the room fell silent.
“Apollo," he addressed the caretaker, "I entrust you with showing Miss Grizzly around—her lodgings, her office, and her classroom in particular. The books she needs are in my office.”
“Understood, Headmaster.”
“I have some paperwork awaiting me in my office,” Dippet announced. “I wish you all a Merry Christmas and shall see you this evening.”
He left the room, followed shortly after by Professors Bones and Dumbledore. Hermione stood up as well, but her heart lurched when she found herself face-to-face with Tom Riddle. She stepped back so abruptly that she nearly toppled over the table. Only the quick reflexes of the future Dark Lord saved her from disaster; his hand shot out to steady her, wrapping his fingers around her arm firmly.
As soon as Hermione regained her balance, he released her, his movements graceful and deliberate. Minerva McGonagall, passing by, cast them an unreadable glance.
“Tom Riddle," he introduced himself smoothly. "A pleasure to meet you.”
Hermione met his gaze, an immediate sense of unease washing over her. He was Voldemort. These handsome features might disguise him, but she knew the truth. Pretending to be cordial with the man who would one day murder so many she loved was infinitely harder than deceiving Professor Dippet.
Steeling herself, Hermione forced her eyes to meet his. She couldn’t afford to reveal anything. For now, he was only Tom Riddle—a Hogwarts student.
“The pleasure is mine,” she replied evenly.
Just a Hogwarts student. Nothing more.
“I’m not in Divination, but I wanted to congratulate you on your new position," he said, his tone laced with admiration. "I had no idea one could become a professor at such a young age. I’ve always been told otherwise. You must have left quite the impression on Professor Dippet.”
“Oh, I—”
The blaring alarm bells and flashing warning lights returned in full force. She knew this was critical too. Something about the last Horcrux. The last Horcrux… which he had hidden at Hogwarts… when he had returned asking Dumbledore for a teaching position.
That was it! Voldemort had always wanted to be a professor, and Dippet would have likely hired him once he came of age. But the headmaster had stepped down before Riddle could secure the position, and Dumbledore had firmly rejected his application.
Voldemort hadn’t become a professor, which had significantly delayed his rise to power in the original timeline—one where Hermione hadn’t been hired, either. Now, with the precedent of hiring a professor under twenty, Dumbledore might not have any convincing argument to refuse Tom Riddle once he graduated with his diploma.
“Don’t congratulate me too quickly,” she said, her voice slightly panicked. “Divination is a subject… different from the others.”
She needed an argument—fast.
“It relies more on innate gifts than on theoretical knowledge,” she added hastily. "Take, for instance, a Defense against the Dark Arts professor. They need both theoretical and practical knowledge—skills that can only be developed after many years of experience. At Salem, all of my teachers were at least in their forties, except for my Divination professor. The reverse would have been surprising.”
Tom Riddle blinked, his lips curling into a peculiar smile. “Why Defense against the Dark Arts?”
“Oh, it was just an example,” she replied quickly, forcing her tone to remain casual.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “That’s precisely the position I intend to pursue.”
“Well, I—I’m not a Divination professor for nothing,” Hermione said, attempting an air of lightheartedness she didn’t feel.
Riddle gave a slow nod. “I’m even more certain now that you’ve impressed Professor Dippet,” he said, his tone both smooth and insistent. “Allow me to congratulate you again before I take my leave. Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Grizzly.”
He turned and walked away, Hermione’s eyes trailing him until he disappeared through the large oak doors. He turned right, likely heading for the staircase that descended into the dungeons.
A heavy sigh escaped the new professor’s lips. She had done it—she had managed to find something to say. Deep down, she could only hope he hadn’t noticed the tension radiating off her during their exchange.
And if he had... Merlin helped her, at least he wasn’t studying Divination.
“Miss Grizzly,” murmured a dulcet voice in her ear.
Hermione shrieked, and spun around quickly, her arms raised. Her hand collided against something soft that squealed in response. Apollo Picott.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hermione exclaimed.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, his tone soothing as he rubbed his sore cheek. “Would you like me to give you a tour, Miss Grizzly?”
“Yes, thank—thank you.”
They left the Great Hall and made their way up the large marble staircase. In the end, Hermione reflected—once the shock of the involuntary slap had worn off—pretending to be passionate about Divination hadn’t been so difficult. She simply repeated the arguments of various authors on the subject and added her own embellishments. So far, it had even been somewhat enjoyable.
Of course, performing crystal ball readings in front of a full class would be another matter entirely, but she saw the bright side: studying crystal balls didn’t require any theory, it was purely about making things up.
“Miss Grizzly?”
Apollo Picott’s voice broke her out of her thoughts in the middle of an empty corridor.
“This isn’t my office?” she remarked.
“No, not yet,” he whispered. “I was just wondering, you wouldn’t happen to be Canadian, would you?”
Hermione sighed. She was starting to regret her choice of a fake surname. If everyone kept teasing her about it, she might just commit a murder before dawn.