Hermione stood like that, her head against the door, for a few silent minutes. She tried to calm her breathing and the pit-patter beat of her heart, but when she placed three fingers on her wrist, she felt her pulse accelerating. Finally, she slumped down on the floor and kicked her legs out before placing her head dejectedly in her hands.

This was how it was.

There was little point in moping. She knew that if she let herself be sad for even a moment longer than was necessary, there would be no getting rid of that feeling. It had not even been a day since her arrival and already she had so much to mourn. She needed to do something.

Climbing back into bed, Hermione leafed through the pile of books she had left there before coming across a crinkly leather notebook. The school had been kind enough to give her this; whatever lukewarm reprieve it was, it would be useful.

Her scribbles were neat as she tested the black quill and pot of ink attached to the notebook. There was something about writing on a new sheet of paper, something new and clean and invigorating, akin to the purification of drenching oneself in running waters. It felt almost as if, by writing something here, she was transcribing her fears and sorrows and worries and ending with something like a clean slate, or as similar to a clean slate as she could get at this point.

It looked like a diary. She had known only one person who kept a diary like this one, but the other had been defiled long ago. With a start, Hermione looked down at the notebook and realized that this Horcrux had already likely been created.

Swallowing, she could only write two words:

Destroy it.

Shutting the notebook on its binding, Hermione released a long, deep breath and turned back to search the bag again. In the bottom, she found a few coins: no more than four Galleons total.

She could buy something nice for four Galleons, something beautiful she could cherish in this forsaken time. A book, she thought immediately, or something to remind her of home. Of Harry and Ron.

She gritted her teeth. The dim light in the dungeon was making her head ache, her temples throbbing angrily. Clothing would be more practical. And she needed to be practical.

Without bothering to clean up her scattered pile of textbooks, Hermione grabbed the coins and, holding them tightly with her left hand, left the dormitory. The common room was empty (a tiny blessing) and the fire had gone out, sinking the room into an eerie darkness.

Traversing the common room was like walking through a maze, but Hermione's light feet maneuvered to the door and then out the dungeons to the light. Hogwarts looked strange, empty, but once she left the basement it still seemed like home to her; the grooves in the bricks and the hairline cracks in the floor were familiar and comforting.

It hadn't changed much in fifty years.

Smiling slightly, Hermione clutched the coins tighter in her palm and left the castle, making her way down the well-trodden path to Hogsmeade.

She saw its outline clearly from the grounds; the patchwork village looked picturesque, roofs like tortoise shells cutting a fine edge in the horizon. Hogwarts was steady, ancient, and though she knew Hogsmeade to be comparatively younger she couldn't imagine the quiet town looked any different one thousand years ago.

As she walked, Hermione took comfort in that: in the nature that surrounded her, in the firmness of these certain implacable things. Like the seasons, they changed but they never transformed beyond necessity. Once you knew Hogwarts and the streets of Hogsmeade, you knew them, whether or not you saw them fifty years apart.

Hermione came to a stop in the center of the village. As she looked around, she saw many of the same establishments: the Three Broomsticks looked as inviting as ever, Honeydukes stood testament to humanity's stubborn love of candy, and Gladrags Wizardwear was open and filled with all sorts of wizarding clothing. Other shops, like Zonko's and Dervish and Bangs, were noticeably missing; Hermione felt a distinct pang in her chest as she thought of their absence.

Though she felt a niggling urge to explore the rest of the village, Hermione knew she needed to buy some clothing at Gladrags to at least have something other than the school uniform to wear.

Tinkling bells chimed to signify her entrance into the store, which she ignored in favor of perusing the racks of clothing nearest to her. Casual wizarding fashion didn't look very different from Muggle wear, but Hermione wasn't in the nineties anymore, she thought as she handled a floral-patterned dress with a grimace. The fashion of the day was much more dainty and feminine than what she was used to. If she had the option, Mrs. Weasley's thick knit argyle sweaters were all she wore for days at a time.

These dresses didn't suit her.

Stiff-backed and delicate, the clothing reminded her of that which fifties housewives would wear; Hermione briefly wondered whether Gladrags sold aprons and baking gloves to complete the ensembles. Closing her eyes and sighing as she twirled halfheartedly in front of a shiny mirror, she realized her own deprecating thoughts weren't very far from the truth of the manner.

There had been certain rights she had enjoyed as a woman in her timeline that she wasn't certain would be carried over here, in a place so oddly familiar and yet damagingly backwards and contrary to her own. Wizarding culture had always been more conservative than its Muggle equivalent, but the reality of living in the 1940s was not one Hermione took to kindly.

She grit her teeth. She was nothing if not an activist, and the idea of blending into docility was frightening, but until she finished what she set out to do it would be much more clever to not bring too much attention to herself.

After ringing up her clothing (she had bought two casual dresses, a simple black skirt, and a woolen sweater for comfort), Hermione left the clothing store and was left to her own devices.

She hadn't much money left, only a Sickle and several Knuts, but it would be enough for Honeydukes.

The shop looked just as it did when she had last seen it, filled with such a wondrous and dizzying assortment of sweets and otherwise interesting confections that Hermione found herself grinning for the first time since her arrival.

As she sampled chocolate frogs and cockroach clusters, courtesy of a beaming young employee, she felt an overwhelming sense of calmness and lucidity overcome her. This store was safe: a haven of well-known comfort and happiness.

Just as she was about to buy a chocolate frog and several packs of sugar quills, she heard the door open and a cheerful tune burst forth from it to announce the arrival of a new customer. The employee, whose nametag read "Karl", smiled wide and waved the customer over.

"We've just received a new shipment of cauldron cakes, fresh from Polly's kitchen. I know how much you like them, Tom."

"Thank you," purred a voice alarmingly close to her ear.

She turned around to a dreaded sight less than a foot away from her. Immediately, her mood darkened. Even though she had divined something like this happening, Hermione felt a growing sense of alarm. Had he followed her here?

Tom turned to look at her then, his dark eyes trailing over her figure just quickly enough to not seem improper before resting solidly to meet her own. Under the bright colors of Honeydukes, he seemed out of place. He looked like he belonged in a dimly-lit mansion or beneath the frames of an old black and white photograph, something rich and almost sinister.

Even Hermione could admit he possessed an aristocratic beauty; she would be hard pressed to find a person who wouldn't find him at least objectively attractive.

If she weren't so physically repulsed by him, she would even think him appealing.

Turning away, as if scolded by her own thoughts, Hermione nodded politely at him before moving to make a quick exit.

Before she could get two steps in, she was held back by a pale wrist gently clasping her own. Hermione stopped. She felt a burning, an itching on the point of contact that trailed goosebumps up her arm even when Tom had let go.

"I will see you at the common room," said he, his voice soft. She noticed he asked her no question but instead issued a command. He was only seventeen, she realized, and already he spoke like he was above her.

Gulping down her shallow breaths, Hermione spoke in the steadiest manner she could muster. "Yes, I reckon you will."

When she left the store she could still feel a tingling on her arms.

Author's Note:

Sorry for being such a crappy author and for writing such short chapters, lol. I've been struggling to get the words out even though I have the plot pretty much all summarized. I hope you all enjoy it nevertheless!