idiosyncrasies

It was a chilly morning in October, and the cold of autumn outside had begun to infiltrate the castle. The sky outside was still dark, a smattering of stars still visible across the sky, and a hint of dawn on the horizon. The library was dimly lit by flickering lanterns that cast long shadows between rows of towering shelves. 

Hermione was awake in the spot that had become her usual in the library, a secluded corner near the back, where heavy curtains kept out the cold draft and muffled the echoing sounds of footsteps from the few students who occasionally passed.

Her eyes were painful with exhaustion, and the ache in her temples was a reminder that she hadn’t slept well in weeks. Several heavy, leather-bound books on the table before her were piled high, a mix of Hogsmeade purchases and library books.

She had been there for a while already, arriving right when the library opened. At the moment, she was rereading Temporal Tangles for the third time, wondering if there was anything she’d missed that could help her. She kept fixating on one passage:

Few figures are as haunting as Václav the Vague. The stories describe a reclusive sorcerer from Eastern Europe: Václav was consumed by a desire to unravel the deepest mysteries of time. Unlike others who sought to bend time to their will through overt manipulation, he believed that true mastery over time magic lay in aligning one's own energy with what he believed were subtle currents that bound all moments together.

Václav's experiments were unorthodox. He would sequester himself for months in ancient caverns, meditating beside underground streams that he claimed whispered to him with stories of the past. By entering deep trances, he aimed to dissolve the boundaries between himself and what he called ‘the web of time’, seeking to feel every moment simultaneously.

One moonless night, all signs of Václav vanished. His secluded home was found empty, a thin layer of dust covering his belongings as if untouched for years. Those who dared to enter claimed they felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, as if the place had been hollowed out of time itself.

Many have theorized that Václav had become so entwined with the temporal threads that he unraveled his own existence. Others feared that his journey had inadvertently torn a rift, allowing external forces beyond comprehension to seep into the world.

Perhaps this had happened to her - her attempt to destroy the Horcrux had unraveled her existence, and she had somehow just disappeared from her own timeline.

But if she was in the same timeline, the possibilities were worse. She hadn't intentionally traveled through time, but the fear of having altered it ate at her. What if her presence here strengthened Voldemort? Or, maybe, she might accidentally prevent her own birth? With a sudden pang of nostalgia, a memory surfaced of a film she'd watched with her parents - a man nearly erasing his existence by time-traveling. 

She closed the book with a sigh, rubbing her eyes. The lines between words were beginning to blur. Pushing Temporal Tangles aside, her gaze drifted to the blue book she'd bought in Hogsmeade. 

Despite her efforts, she'd been unable to find anything in the library to help her uncover the language or decipher the script. Most of the resources in Hogwarts focused on Western Europe. She’d found a book called Lost Languages from Phoenicia to Parthia, but it had offered little more than scattered trivia, without any practical guidance.

It should have been enough reason to set the book aside and forget about it completely, but she had the most irrational feeling that she had to keep looking into it. 

She’d thought it was just scholarly curiosity - but something about it pulled at her. An old manuscript in an unfamiliar script, unlike anything she'd seen in Britain or neighboring countries. How had it ended up in Hogsmeade? She wanted to know more. The cashier at the used bookstore didn’t seem to have known anything either, vacantly ringing her up despite her prying.

Several times, she had cast Specialis Revelio on it, trying to reveal if there was perhaps a compulsion charm cast upon its pages, but each attempt yielded only a faint shimmer around the edges, confirming just the Notice-Me-Not charm she’d discovered earlier.

But she knew there was something else. Something easily missed. If it was a compulsion, it was not any kind she had seen, nor did it carry the unmistakable traits of a concealment charm. Instead, it pulsed faintly, in an subdued, unsettling way that she could not recognize. She’d also tried an Aparecium, hoping to expose any hidden text, but that spell, too, had revealed nothing.

Even though she couldn't understand the script, she found herself flipping through the book, admiring the way the handwriting curled elegantly across the pages. Despite the worn cover, the pages were remarkably well-preserved, the ink dark and the paper not overly ripped or stained. She turned back to the first page, where the transfer spell she’d cast had managed to transliterate what she assumed was the author's mononym - Tahmina.

Maybe it was worth just trying to translate more of the book. If it was completely impossible, she’d forget about it, but if there was even a small chance it could help her get home, she had to take it. She pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began writing down everything she knew about the mysterious blue book. 

The transfer spell she'd cast with the Arabic-English dictionary had translated at least a few words, suggesting there might be some overlap between the languages. Words like "web," "connection," and "ether" had appeared. What could Tahmina have written about, to be using such abstract terms?

As she squinted over a dense section of the script, wondering if there was any way to distinguish between the tightly-written characters, a smooth voice cut through her concentration.

“Morning, Miss Granger. I trust your classes have been going well?”

Hermione looked up, startled, to see Tom Riddle standing by her table, his dark eyes lingering on her scattered books and notes.

Hermione stilled. She was suddenly painfully aware of her disheveled appearance and the scattered books cluttered around the table. Riddle stood there, effortlessly composed. His hair fell in neat, soft waves around his face.

“Good morning, Riddle. Yes, they’re going well, thank you.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice stiffer than she intended.

Riddle walked around the table, approaching her with measured steps. He glanced at the array of books sprawled across the surface, and gave her a curious look.

"Just, uh, working on something for one of my classes," Hermione said, forcing her voice to sound casual. She moved to hide Tahmina’s book, stacking a random Runes-related text above it.

"Interesting," Riddle replied, raising an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the book she had used to cover it. "Though I didn't see you in Ancient Runes today."

"Oh, right... I just wasn't feeling well," Hermione said, looking away, her face warm. She glanced around and realized with a start that the sun had risen. The library was now awash with daylight. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the shelves. 

She hadn't noticed how much time had passed, hadn’t even registered completely working through breakfast and her first period class. She scrambled for an excuse. "Needed to catch up on some… some personal things."

"Well, since you missed the lesson, I’d be glad to loan you my notes." Riddle offered, a warmth to his voice that Hermione was certain wasn’t real. He let his hand rest on the table, fingers idly tracing the edges of a book.

"No, thank you," Hermione replied quickly. "I can catch up on my own."

"Please, I insist," he said, a bit of an edge to his tone. "If you fall behind, it reflects on me."

Hermione forced a polite smile. She could feel her heart pounding. "Well, alright. If it’ll ease your mind."

He smiled back, in a way that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course." He pulled a few scrolls of parchment from his bag and set them down, pointedly placing them atop one of the stacks.

"Sure," she muttered. An uneasy silence stretched between them. She could feel his gaze lingering in her peripheral vision, though she was pointedly examining a faded section of wood grain on the table.

Riddle's eyes flickered to the pile of books again. "You've assembled quite a… varied… collection here," he remarked, his tone casual. "Some of these texts don’t seem related to our curriculum."

Hermione's pulse sped up. "I like to read ahead," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Riddle smiled oddly at that, but said nothing, eyeing Lost Languages from Phoenicia to Parthia a moment longer. Hermione noticed his lingering look and, feeling apprehensive, decided to press him.

“Was there something else you needed, Riddle?” she asked, keeping her tone even.

To her surprise, he didn’t push further. His gaze lingered a beat longer on the books before drifting back to her, his expression unreadable. “Not at all. But do let me know if you need anything,” he replied. “It’s my duty to help you catch up.”

At that, he turned on his heel, walking away with that same smooth composure.

Hermione exhaled quietly, forcing a quick, polite smile until his back was fully turned. Then, she glanced at the clock on the far wall. Oh god, she thought, her stomach twisting. It’s almost time for Transfiguration. Hastily, she gathered her books and papers, stuffing them haphazardly into her bag. If she was quick, she could still make it in time.

✦✧✦✧✦

Hermione managed to slip into her seat a few moments before class started, and was relieved to find Aurelia already beside her. She quickly arranged her books and took out her quill as class began. This was thankfully not a class she shared with Riddle.

Aurelia was diligently taking notes beside Hermione as they listened to Dumbledore’s lecture. Since Dumbledore had not been a professor in her time, she felt a sense of privilege attending his class, one of the few perks of being stuck here.

Today’s topic, Perceptual Transfiguration, was written in neat, precise script on the chalkboard: objects that could alter themselves based on the expectations, intentions, or needs of the observer.

"Imagine," Dumbledore began, conjuring a greyish stone as a visual aid, "a simple rock. To one, it might be just a rock, not worth thinking about. To another, it could be a fond memory of a day spent skipping stones."

He began to pace slowly. "Perceptual Transfiguration taps into this very concept - the idea that our perceptions can influence the physical nature of an object. It is a magic that does not merely alter form… but taps into the mind and heart of the observer." Dumbledore cast something on the stone, and Hermione watched as it turned iridescent, then faded to a soft blue.

“Miss Abbott, what color do you see?” The girl examined the stone for a second, then responded with: “A pale yellow, Professor.” 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he asked another student, who responded with red. 

“You all see the stone differently because it has been transfigured to respond to the individual thoughts and emotions of each observer. Your own feelings, memories, and perceptions influence how you experience the object.” He paused to write a few terms on the board. 

“Certain materials exhibit this capacity naturally. Consider the chameleon lily, known to change its color and scent based on the emotions of those nearby. In the presence of joy, it blossoms, but in times of sorrow, it withers." He paused for emphasis. “Unicorn hair has this quality as well. This is why unicorns are often described differently to those who are lucky enough to perceive them, varying in color depending on the observer’s intent.”

Hermione dipped her quill into her inkwell, watching as the dark ink pooled at the tip before she pressed it to the parchment. The quiet scratch of her writing felt comforting accompanied with the lecture. Transfiguration, she’d noticed, was one of the subjects where principles had not changed too drastically between eras, so she felt more at ease and engaged.

"Magic, at its core, is as much about understanding ourselves as it is about understanding the world," Dumbledore said. "When we engage with Perceptual Transfiguration, we are inviting those around us to feel, and inviting ourselves to truly connect with them." He paused for emphasis.

“Now, for today’s exercise,” Dumbledore began to hand out quills. “Your assignment is to transfigure this quill so it adapts to the writer’s needs,” he instructed. “You may intend it to become thicker for signing formal documents, or, perhaps, become slimmer if it is needed for detailed notation.”

When she received her quill, Hermione examined it carefully, running her thumb along the edges of the dark feather. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, knowing this assignment would require her full concentration to weave together multiple Transfiguration layers. 

The first spell came easily. She envisioned the feather’s core becoming flexible, her wand movements precise as she focused. A gentle warmth spread through the quill, indicating success.

The second layer, meant to adjust the quill’s responsiveness, required a bit more precision. Hermione took a slow, steadying breath before casting. The feather softened beneath her hand, bending enough to make it clear the spell had taken effect.

Finally, she moved on to the third layer. This one would determine how the quill adapted in real time to the user’s intent, the most challenging of the three. She raised her wand again, drawing her focus inward before murmuring the incantation. A stronger wave of magic flowed from her wand into the quill, which quivered in response. But as she watched, the feather tip stiffened instead, growing brittle and inflexible. Hermione frowned. Maybe her focus had been too narrow.

"In this exercise, it is most important to maintain clear intent," Dumbledore reminded them, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed the class. "Imagine not just the object before you, but also the person who will be using it - their needs, their desires. Tap into your empathy. The N.E.W.T. examiners will look for such depth in your casting during your final assessments. Remember to clear your mind and focus on both the object and its intended purpose. Cast successfully, these transformations will hold forever, which is something no comparable charm can achieve."

Hermione took a deep breath, centering her thoughts and clearing her mind to try again. She envisioned the quill adapting smoothly, focusing on the experience of someone who might be using it - attempting to connect with an imagined version of her future self, writing something in detail, then signing the document. Her wand tip hovered above the quill, and once more, with an incantation, she directed her intention into the spell.

The quill warmed below her fingers, and this time, as she imagined signing a letter, it broadened and softened at the tip. She focused on details, imagining it thinning for small, precise lettering, and the feather obliged. 

"Very good, Miss Granger," Dumbledore remarked as he passed by her desk. His tone was polite. He glanced briefly at her quill before moving on without further comment. Hermione felt a flicker of disappointment at his cool response but pushed it aside.

A few minutes later, Aurelia let out a small gasp of triumph as her own quill displayed the desired effect. Dumbledore paused beside her, and smiled warmly. "Excellent work, Miss Prewett!" he exclaimed. "Ten points to Gryffindor for your impressive effort."

Hermione's stomach tightened. She had not been awarded any points. She bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself that it wasn't worth getting upset over. Still, her hand tightened on her bag as she gathered her things.

As the class wrapped up, Aurelia turned to her with an apologetic smile. "You did well, Hermione. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore took notice."

"Thanks," Hermione replied, forcing a tight smile. "Your quill looked really good too." Not as good as mine, though, she thought uncharitably, although she knew Aurelia had been nothing but kind to her since she’d arrived.

"Are you going to lunch?" Aurelia asked.

"I think I'll stop by the library first," Hermione said. "I want to check on something for Runes."

"Very well, see you at dinner!"

Hermione waved goodbye and slipped out of the classroom. The corridors were starting to fill with students, but she navigated around them with ease, focused on getting to the library as fast as possible.

✦✧✦✧✦

Hermione had spent her last few free periods in the library, catching up on Ancient Runes. Riddle’s notes, though annoyingly meticulous, had been surprisingly helpful. If only he weren’t so infuriatingly thorough too, on top of everything else, she thought idly, adding mashed potatoes to her plate, now at dinner in the Great Hall. Her mind drifted to the lingering thought she kept returning to lately - if there was any chance she could find a way home, she’d have to put in the effort. Maybe she hadn’t been searching as thoroughly as she could. That book from Hogsmeade - could it provide any answers?

Her attempts that day in the library had been anything but uninterrupted: that morning by Riddle, and when she had returned after Transfiguration, a pack of chaotic second-years had claimed her peaceful, quiet table, forcing her to move to a louder section of the library. The noise made concentrating nearly impossible.

Perhaps the library was too busy. The Room of Requirement, instead, might provide some peace. And maybe there would be books that would help her translate the blue book, or even just understand what she was dealing with. Yes, that might be the best approach - in fact, she would try that after dinner.

Ignatius sat across from her, digging into his meal while describing his potions class to Aurelia. "...but the cauldron exploded on its own! Never even had the chance to try the second jinx. And Slughorn somehow blamed it on Travers instead," he laughed. 

“Or perhaps he simply knows your jinxes leave much to be desired either way,” Aurelia said, refilling her goblet. Hermione tried to follow the story and stay present, though she felt herself drifting. She was physically exhausted, after several nights with little sleep, and she felt she might be coming down with something too. Her food seemed less appetizing, though she continued picking at it absently. 

Ignatius and Aurelia’s laughter was comforting, though, easing some of the fatigue that had settled into her bones. They reminded her of Ron and Ginny, and an intense pang of nostalgia washed over her as she watched them banter.

"Frankly, it’s a wonder Slughorn kept you on for N.E.W.T. Potions, you are truly such a menace," Aurelia was saying, rolling her eyes at her brother. Then, glancing over at Hermione’s distracted expression, she tilted her head. “Hermione, are you quite alright? You’re awfully quiet this evening.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Hermione replied quickly, smiling. “Just thinking about some Runes paper I’m working on.” She opened her mouth to change the subject, but a sudden clinking of a glass silenced the hall, drawing everyone’s attention toward the staff table.

Headmaster Dippet had risen from his seat at the staff table, his face unusually grave. “Attention, students,” he began, his voice ringing clearly through the Great Hall. “I have an important announcement. Due to recent sightings of Grindelwald’s forces in Britain, all Hogsmeade trips will be suspended for the foreseeable future.”

Hermione felt her heart stop for a moment as she processed Dippet’s words. It felt surreal to hear about the threat of Grindelwald in such an immediate way. The rest of the hall seemed similarly stunned, with a mixture of fear and disappointment on the faces around her. She scanned the staff’s faces, and found them solemn. Hogsmeade weekends had been one of the few opportunities for students to escape the castle, and now, with even that gone, a sense of confinement seemed to settle over them.

Dippet’s gaze swept over the students, his expression softening. “Please do not be alarmed. The school’s defenses are strong, and additional measures are being taken to ensure your safety. This decision is a precaution and nothing more.” He nodded once, signaling the end of his announcement, and resumed his seat, leaving the hall to return to its subdued conversations.

As the students resumed their dinner, Hermione exchanged a glance with Aurelia, who looked shaken. Ignatius’s usual grin had faded as well, and he was uncharacteristically serious. "That’s… unsettling," he murmured, glancing toward the staff table. Hermione nodded, feeling heavy. Grindelwald’s reach was extending into Britain, and even Hogwarts felt the shadow of it. It reminded her a bit of sixth year, where the feeling of Voldemort’s return was ever-present, though he had not yet taken over the castle.

With the lull in conversation and Hermione’s dinner done, she excused herself from the Great Hall, telling Aurelia and Ignatius that she had some reading to catch up on. 

She headed out, moving quickly up a flight of stairs and through an empty corridor. The portraits lining the walls were mostly occupied in their own activities - two knights were fencing, their swords parrying, while a lady in a tall feathered hat was painting something on a canvas. Hermione kept her head down, her mind occupied by thoughts of getting home. 

As she walked, she had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced over her shoulder, but the corridor was empty save for the animated portraits. The knights continued to clash swords, and the lady in the feathered hat remained absorbed in her painting. Shaking off the sensation, she continued up to the seventh floor.