PROLOGUE
The battle raged on with a tumultuous symphony of light and shadow, virtue and malevolence, echoing ceaselessly through the venerable halls of Hogwarts, their stone walls steeped in ancient magic. Hermione Granger stood resolutely beside Harry Potter, her pulse quickening in tandem with the frenetic tempo of war, the chaos stretching endlessly around them. She had braved innumerable conflicts, each more harrowing than the last, yet nothing could have steeled her for this climactic confrontation. Every spell she recalled, every incantation she had ever learned, surged through her mind with blistering urgency. The end loomed imminent, pressing down upon her shoulders like a tangible weight. Voldemort was ensnared. The decisive spell, the culmination of prophecy and fate intertwined, hung perilously in the balance. She scanned the battlefield, the shrieks of wounded students mingling with the feral roars of Death Eaters, and felt the enormity of the moment crackling through the air like static.
Her mind, ever analytical, raced through incantations and counter-curses with meticulous precision, her eyes narrowing against the onslaught of sparks and spells. The air was taut with foreboding, suffocating in its intensity as if the very castle itself held its breath. Victory seemed tantalizingly close, but an unsettling shift crackled through the atmosphere—a preternatural energy, ancient and arcane, that made the fine hairs on her nape bristle. The groaning of the ancient walls intensified, strained under the weight of primordial magic that surged like a tidal wave threatening to consume them all. Hexes sliced through the air, some fizzling out harmlessly, others striking true with devastating impact, though none seemed consequential compared to the inexorable reckoning at hand. Voldemort’s ranks dwindled; his followers, scattered and desperate, remained perilous in their despair, their spells wild and unhinged.
Amidst the chaos, Fenrir Greyback burst forth—feral, bloodstained, his predatory gaze gleaming with insatiable hunger and dark glee. “For the Dark Lord!” he roared, unleashing a curse aimed at a young Hufflepuff with terror-stricken eyes. Hermione, instinct honed by countless battles, intervened with a swift incantation, her shield shimmering fiercely as it absorbed the lethal magic.
She pressed forward, weaving through the fray, her wand a blur of defensive and offensive spells. But the battle didn’t stop for her. More Death Eaters were closing in. The air was thick with danger. Bellatrix Lestrange, the last of her madness, had already fallen. But Greyback—ravenous, merciless—still moved, a wild beast among them.
Hermione and Ron locked eyes across the battlefield, both grimly focused, working in sync to protect the younger students who fought beside them. Ginny was by her side, her movements fluid and purposeful, every spell cast with the precision of a seasoned fighter. But Hermione’s attention was always flicking back to Harry, standing firm as Voldemort’s spells ricocheted around him, as though the finality of the battle was just within their grasp.
And then, everything shifted.
A flash of green light surged from Voldemort’s wand, and for a second, time seemed to slow. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she saw it—an impossible, fatal curse aimed directly at Harry. This was it. The curse that had haunted him for so long. The one that had marked him, the one that would finally end everything.
And something unexpected happened.
The curse veered off course, spiraling toward the stone walls instead, splintering the air with a terrifying crash. Voldemort’s face contorted in confusion. It had missed. And in that moment of confusion, Hermione felt it.
A sickening, wrenching sensation deep inside her—her body was being torn apart from the inside out. Magic exploded through her like a violent storm. It wasn’t the magic she knew. It was something else, something wild and unrecognizable. A force like she had never felt before. Her chest constricted with a sharp, excruciating pain, as though the very core of her being was being ripped open.
Her legs buckled. The world around her seemed to distort, the sounds of the battle fading into a deafening hum. She reached out desperately for Harry, her vision blurring. She could hear him calling her name, but his voice felt distant, as though it belonged somewhere else.
Another explosion.
But this one wasn’t like the rest. It wasn’t just the destruction of the battlefield. It wasn’t just magic at work—it was as though the world itself was cracking open, bending, distorting. She felt her mind being splitted, shattered into different places of time. She could not remember what she was doing before feeling long arms grabbing her. And then more hands were touching, grasping for more time together. It felt as if she were being pulled in two directions at once.
Pain. Fear. Confusion.
And then, nothing. The world went silent. Still.
Hermione’s eyes snapped open.
The air was warm. The faint scent of lavender and something soft filled her senses, like the gentle hum of a distant dream. Her tiny hands clutched at the air as she cried, the sound harsh in the quiet room. She felt small. Too small. Her body, fragile and helpless, jerked with each sob, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
The sounds of battle, of friends fighting for their lives, were gone. No screams. No spells. No war.
Only silence.
A rustling sound filled the room, followed by a soft, melodic voice that soothed her frantic heart. “There now, little miss,” the voice cooed, gentle and kind. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”
She tried to focus, but it was difficult. Her vision was blurry, and the weight of her body felt alien.
It couldn’t be. She had been fighting. She had been beside her friends, in the heart of Hogwarts, in the middle of the greatest battle the wizarding world had ever known.
But now? She was here. Wherever "here" was.
Her cries slowed when she felt a warmth around her. A pair of hands, gentle and wizened, lifted her from the bedding she lay upon. She looked up to see the face of a small elf, its dark skin soft in the dim light of the room. Its large eyes were filled with compassion, but it was strange—its gaze was far more knowing than any elf she had ever encountered.
“You’re safe now,” it whispered, as though it had always known she would come. “You’re home.”
The elf’s voice was melodic, soothing. But it was also strange. She didn’t understand. None of this made sense. Where were her friends?
She gripped the elf’s shirt with tiny hands, pulling it closer as the deep ache in her chest grew stronger. She was alone, but not in the way she had ever been before.
Family.
The word echoed in her mind, and she felt an unspoken tug at her soul. Was this where she was meant to be? What had happened to the life she had known?
“You will understand soon,” the elf murmured, as if reading her thoughts. “You’re home now, with your family.”
Family.
But the word didn’t fit. Not yet.
She wasn’t Hermione Granger anymore. Or at least, not entirely. This place—this time—wasn’t her own. The echoes of the battle, of her friends, of the war, still clung to her like an unshakable shadow. Her memories felt fractured, as if they were slipping from her fingers.
Yet, in this strange, quiet place, there was a tug at her heart—a pull that made her feel as though she were not alone.
The elf continued to hum, rocking her gently in its arms. And for the first time since everything had changed, Hermione—or whoever she was now—felt herself surrender to the warmth of it all, even though her heart longed for something she couldn’t remember.