idiosyncrasies

Hermione raised the basilisk fang, ready to destroy the cup. Before she could bring it down, an eerie humming sound seemed to fill the air. At first Hermione thought she was imagining it, until she exchanged a panicked glance with Ron.

Ron seemed almost as concerned as she was. "It’s just a distraction, I reckon," he said. "The locket tried everything to prevent me from destroying it."

Hermione attempted to focus on bringing the fang down once more. The cup began to glow with an ominous light, pulsing in time with the hum, which became urgently louder.

Hermione kept attempting to bring the fang down, but some invisible force kept pushing her hands back. The humming turned into an overwhelming screech, and Hermione was unable to think about anything else. The fang slipped out of her shaky hands and she crouched to the ground, covering her ears. She could faintly hear Ron yelling in the distance but could not make out what he was saying.

The cup's glow brightened unbearably. Then, without warning, the ground beneath her seemed to give way. Hermione felt herself falling for what felt like several minutes, feeling dizzier and dizzier as she continued to fall.

Then abruptly, the sensation stopped and Hermione landed with a jolt. Disoriented, she looked up and suddenly found herself laying under a clear, blue sky, a stark and uncomfortable contrast to the darkness of the Chamber. She tried to stand, but her surroundings blurred as she instead succumbed to unconsciousness.

✦✧✦✧✦

Hermione woke up with a start, blinking as she adjusted to the light. She was in a soft bed.  The room was bright white and looked like the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Confused, Hermione ran through the events in her mind. She’d attempted - but not succeeded - to destroy Hufflepuff’s cup. Something strange had occurred. 

Hermione glanced around, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. How long had she been unconscious? What had she missed? The usual clutter of potions and medical supplies was arranged differently. It seemed to be more meticulously organized than she remembered. Madam Pomfrey had always been methodical, but this level of organization was unfamiliar. This felt… off. 

She heard footsteps approaching. An anxious pit in her stomach, Hermione sat up in her bed, tense and unprepared. A boy opened the main door, with messy black hair and brown eyes. He looked to be a few years younger than her. 

He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled cheerfully. "Well, look who's up! We were starting to think you might be out for another day. " he said, walking further into the room. In the light of the hospital wing, Hermione couldn’t help but notice that his resemblance to Harry was jarring. 

Hermione tried to formulate a question, but her mind was racing. "Where did you find me?" she asked, trying to mask the shakiness in her voice.

His smile lessened slightly. "You’re one of the new transfers, aren’t you? From the mainland? With the war and all, we’ve been expecting a few. I found you passed out on the Quidditch Pitch and brought you up here."

Trying to avoid answering until she had a better grasp on the situation, Hermione followed up with another question. "Sorry, what’s your name? Thank you for bringing me up,"

The boy grinned again. "Oh, forgive me, I should’ve introduced myself. Fleamont Potter’s the name. And you’re welcome - no trouble at all, really," he said earnestly.

"Fleamont," Hermione repeated softly, her mind connecting the dots. Harry’s… grandfather?  She examined his face again. He really did look like Harry, although there were slight differences in features, and of course, no lightning-bolt scar. "I’m Hermione." She paused, wondering whether she should give a real last name, then felt slightly panicky when she realized her pause would look suspicious. "Granger. Hermione Granger."

Fleamont didn’t seem to be the suspicious type at all, though, smiling broadly. "Lovely to meet you, Hermione. How are you feeling?"

Hermione hesitated, wondering how to answer. It seemed ridiculous, but… with everything that happened, she was willing to explore unlikely possibilities. It seemed like… there was a chance she’d maybe traveled back in time, ridiculously and impossibly far back in time, but she had no certainty. She needed to get more information. "I’m feeling alright, thank you, Fleamont," she said. "By any chance, do you have a copy of the Daily Prophet ? I’m feeling a bit out of the loop."

"Of course! Got one back in my dorm, I’ll tell Madam Holingberry you’re awake and fetch it for you. Back in a mo!" Fleamont exited through a side door, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts for a few minutes.

Hermione focused on her breathing to avoid her anxiety building. The unfamiliarity of the situation was horrifying. Where was she? Why was Harry’s grandfather alive? What was happening to her? 

Hermione got out of bed unsteadily, attempting to ground herself. She examined the potions and devices around her. The supplies included a few potions and magical instruments she didn't immediately recognize, which was peculiar, as she had a solid understanding of most medicinal potions and equipment, especially those kept in the Hogwarts infirmary.

Before she could dig deeper, the door swung open, and Fleamont returned, followed by a middle-aged witch in healer's robes. "Sorry for the delay, Hermione," Fleamont said, holding up a copy of the Daily Prophet . "And this is Madam Hollingberry."

Hermione accepted the newspaper, and immediately scanned the newspaper for the date. It read September 15, 1944. The reality of her situation began to sink in more deeply as she absorbed the news article headlines about the ongoing war and other events of the era. "Thank you for this," she said unsteadily, attempting to stay calm and prevent an anxiety attack.

Madam Holingberry was a woman with a sharp face, but kind eyes. She eyed Hermione critically. "You shouldn’t be standing, dear. It seemed like you had quite a fall. Must’ve been a portkey malfunction, was it?"

Hermione nodded, grateful for the excuse Holingberry had unknowingly given her. "Yes, quite an intense one. If you don’t mind, I’m still feeling a bit dizzy, actually. Would you mind if I laid down for a bit longer?" 

Madam Holingberry nodded. "Please do, Miss Granger. Headmaster Dippet will be by in a few to help you get settled, but let me know if you need anything, dear. I’ll just be in the next room. " 

Fleamont smiled at her as he left the hospital wing. "Nice meeting you, Hermione! I’m happy to show you around the school once you’re ready." Hermione smiled back weakly, and laid back on the white bed, her mind racing. 

1944.

1944?!

Hermione inhaled and exhaled, focusing on calming her pounding heart. Once she felt able to breathe again, she grabbed the newspaper, examining the details in each article. If it was truly 1944, she needed to focus on solidifying her backstory. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but she didn’t want to reveal too much to people she didn’t trust. Telling Dippet, or just anyone at all the truth was out of the question. She was still praying this was some awful nightmare and she’d wake up soon. 

After a few hours, Dippet entered the hospital wing. He was a wizened-looking old man with a bald head, but bright eyes. He smiled at her genially. 

"Well, Hermione Granger, was it? Our lovely healer, Madam Holingberry, was explaining your situation to me. Quite an unfortunate portkey malfunction. And you were set to be one of our transfers, correct?"

Hermione inhaled, ready for the backstory she’d been practicing. She explained, "Yes, Headmaster, it’s been a bad situation, I suppose. My parents were in the village in Petit-Marais, and it was, well, destroyed," she lied, naming the French village that had been reported as attacked in a small article in the Daily Prophet .

Dippet paled. "Petit-Marais? Quite dreadful news." Dippet wrung his hands together nervously. "How were you able to escape such a tragedy, if I may ask? And do you have any other family we should notify?"

"No, I… I was visiting a friend in a nearby village when it happened. It’s been just me and my parents for a while. When I heard the news, I tried to find out if they were alive, but… they’re gone." Hermione paused, lowering her gaze as if overwhelmed by the memory, although actually gathering her composure to continue the lie. "We were… we’re quite isolated, so there’s… nobody left to notify." Hermione prayed her somber tone would prevent further questions.

Dippet’s expression grew even more somber. There was a silence that stretched just a bit too long, and Hermione feared he might press her for more details, but finally, he nodded slowly. "Tragic, truly tragic. Miss Granger, these are dark times indeed, and stories like yours are becoming all too common. You have my deepest sympathies." He then frowned, his bright eyes studying her closely. "You weren't listed on our official transfer records. We had received information from other schools about their students, and your name didn't appear on any of the lists."

Hermione’s pulse quickened. She had anticipated questions about this, but coming up with a plausible answer required careful wording. “That’s because I was homeschooled, Headmaster,” she began, looking away to avoid revealing anything with her expression.. “My family was very private, especially given the current war. We didn’t feel comfortable being formally registered with a school or institution. My parents made arrangements for the portkey through a trusted contact when things started getting worse in my village. ”

Dippet’s frown deepened slightly, though his expression remained thoughtful. “And this contact - were they associated with any organization or Ministry records?”

Hermione answered quickly, “No, they preferred to keep their activities discreet. They were helping many families escape during dangerous times.” She hesitated for a moment before adding softly, “I believe they were killed during the attack, alongside my parents.” She looked away again as if the memory pained her.

Dippet’s expression softened, and after a brief silence, he sighed. “I see. A tragic circumstance, indeed. It’s understandable that your case didn’t follow the usual procedures.”

He paused again, looking at her curiously.  "But, homeschooled… our seventh-year curriculum is very advanced. I’m not certain you’ll be able to keep up with our other students." 

Hermione bristled, but forced herself to stay calm and remain polite. "I understand your concern, Headmaster, but I’ve been studying a wide range of magic on my own for years. I’m confident I can manage the curriculum here. If you’d like, I’d be happy to take any tests or assessments to prove that I’m capable. I’m just looking forward to putting this behind me, and getting started." 

Dippet’s eyes softened. "Of course, my dear. I am truly glad you’re looking forward to it, especially after everything you’ve been through. We’ve no time for placement tests, since we’re already into term, but we’ll need to limit your schedule to three courses or less, just to be sure you can handle the caliber of education at Hogwarts. And if you do feel behind and need to drop any courses, do inform a member of staff." Hermione felt indignant, but did not say anything to this. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be here for long anyways.

Dippet continued, "And of course, you’ll need to be sorted, so I took the liberty of bringing our Sorting Hat. Fear not, it’s a painless process," he said, smiling.

Hermione mustered a nervous smile in return, silently praying she would be sorted into Gryffindor. Dippet placed the Sorting Hat gently on her head.

Interesting.

Please just put me into Gryffindor. Please just put me into Gryffindor. Please just –

Are you sure? Ravenclaw might help with your… dilemma. But you know, you’ll have to be careful no matter which house you’re in. 

Hermione hesitated. What do you mean?

This isn’t the Gryffindor you know.

Before Hermione could ask any follow-up questions, the hat shouted "Gryffindor!" and Dippet pulled it off of her head. Hermione pushed the conversation to the back of her mind, determined to handle it later.

Dippet smiled at her amiably. "Ah, a lion, I should’ve guessed, with how much bravery and composure you’ve been handling your situation." Hermione smiled back, feeling optimistic for the first time. Maybe she’d be able to find some books and figure everything out and escape this awful situation. She was at Hogwarts, she was in Gryffindor, she had access to the school library, everything would be fine.

"And of course," Dippet continued, "Our Head Boy and Girl would be happy to help you out. Tom Riddle and Walburga Black. Riddle, in particular, is our top student, so I’ve already asked him to provide you with a copy of his notes for any classes you share, since you’ve joined us slightly late, two weeks into term."

Hermione froze. "Right, of course. Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate you asking and him taking the time."

"Oh, no problem, Miss Granger, no problem at all. Well, I’ll let you rest a bit more." Dippet exited, the door to the infirmary swinging shut. 

Tom Riddle. 1944.

Tom Riddle is Head Boy.

Voldemort is a student at Hogwarts, in my year.

✦✧✦✧✦

Despite Hermione’s protests, Dippet had announced that Hermione was a new Gryffindor transfer in the Great Hall the next day. She didn’t appreciate the curious looks of the student body as she walked from class to class. 

She had registered for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, and Transfiguration. It made her slightly devastated to be limited to three classes, but she knew it was likely for the best as she didn’t want to avoid excess attention. 

Thankfully, people in Gryffindor had not been unkind. She’d been discharged from the hospital wing the night before, and found the girls she was sharing a room with were sweet and had offered to help her with anything she needed. Although Dippet said Riddle would be able to help her with getting caught up, there was no way she was going to seek out the young version of Lord Voldemort just so she could borrow his notes. 

In the first-period Ancient Runes class that she shared with Slytherin, she watched the back of Riddle’s head as he sat comfortably at the front, surrounded by his Slytherin friends. He seemed to be at ease, his posture elegant. He sat next to a tall, blond figure that Hermione was certain was Abraxas Malfoy.

Professor Valsdottir, the Runes professor, was a stern-looking woman, silver hair tied neatly into a bun. She was lecturing on the applications of Elder Futhark in contemporary magical binding spells, and Hermione took notes diligently.

As Valsdottir elaborated on the topic, Hermione noticed something on the chalkboard that gave her pause. The base runes Sowulon and Laguz looked notably different from those she had studied for years. Laguz had several additional strokes, making it almost ornate. In her time it had been a simple shape. And Sowulon had an extra few zigzags below it. Although Runes could be altered to impact the meaning, she wasn’t sure what it meant that the base runic alphabet looked this way. Maybe she had missed something?

Hermione was so caught up in this discrepancy that she didn’t realize Valsdottir had acknowledged her. The whole class was looking at her, and Hermione, stuttering, asked her to repeat the question, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

The Professor sternly asked, "Miss Granger, can you explain the advantages of combining Fehu with Isa in ice-binding spells?" Blushing deeply, Hermione answered with, "Fehu is commonly used to represent energy, while Isa represents stillness and freezing. This combination would ensure that an ice spell not only immobilizes the target, but make it sustain, trapping the kinetic energy and preventing it from melting or moving until the caster has intended it to," 

Valsdottir gave a small smile. "Excellently put, Miss Granger. Yes, Fehu has the unique property of channeling kinetic energy, however, when paired with Isa, it modifies the energy into a more stable force."

Hermione exhaled a sigh of relief as the class slowly returned its attention to the board. She was thankful that those two runes and their meanings had remained the same, at least. She desperately wanted to avoid making eye contact with Riddle, so she focused intently on her notes, pretending to examine something until she was sure he was no longer looking at her.

✦✧✦✧✦

Throughout her first day, Hermione noticed several odd differences throughout her classes and in her textbooks. The runes being different wasn’t the only odd thing - in her loaner seventh-year Potions textbook, the instructions for Polyjuice required 4 measures of crushed lacewing flies, and then they needed to be heated for a minute, but she was certain in her time and from her experience that it was just 2 measures heated for 30 seconds. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Merrythought cast a stretching jinx with a much wavier hand motion than she had seen in her time.

Hermione finished the day of classes in a state of confusion, her head spinning. Instead of going to dinner in the Great Hall, she fled back to her dorm, hastening her pace as she approached the comfort of her four-poster bed, where she finally collapsed, exhausted. She was relieved that at least the dorms had not changed much over the years.

After her brief moment of relaxation, Hermione pulled out her trusty beaded bag. She quietly thanked whatever strange force had sent her here that she’d been able to keep it, and then her past self for being exceptionally prepared, and then pulled out the books she had kept. She compared them side-by-side to the loaner textbooks she had been given in this time period. She flipped through her 1990s Spellman’s Syllabary and the 1940s version she’d been given, and found several drastic differences. Although thankfully, the majority of runes were the same, some runes were completely different, new runes had been added, and some had disappeared.

The runic tables were indisputably different. The potions, perhaps, could be excused as having been modified for efficiency throughout the decades, and the different movements of spells could be explained away as differences of time or teaching, but the whole point of Ancient Runes is that the runes were… ancient. Throughout the curriculum of any century Hermione found it hard to believe that they would be completely different.

Hermione leaned back against the headboard, examining the differences in the runes and processing this realization. She had no idea what this could mean. Did they act and function differently too? What if she was dreadfully behind in this time period? What if she actually knew nothing? 

Eventually, Hermione realized that obsessing over each minute difference was not helping her. She focused on her breathing to calm down, and put her books away. If she slept early, she’d be able to start early tomorrow at the Hogwarts Library. The thought of books calmed her, and she was able to relax enough to succumb to her exhaustion and slip into an uneasy sleep.