Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Hermione Granger had loved to read.

If there was anything that she had ever enjoyed, it was flipping through the pages of an opened book, the words sitting in neat, typed lines, ready to be gleaned of knowledge. There was something magical about understanding what was written down on a page, something beautiful about the fragility of a word—how it could be taken, how it could be remolded and interpreted into something else—that Hermione loved when reading.

Her eyes would travel across the pages, a small, neat smile on her face, her lips curled upwards, her hair hanging loose and in waves against her back, occasionally sliding forward and blocking her view. She was at peace when she read; immersed in another world, a prettier, better, more engaging world where the words just made sense.

Hermione Granger had loved to read.

And when she was in her fifth year of Hogwarts, desperately trying to find new theories on Tom Riddle's immortality, she had stumbled across a little prize of knowledge. A little kernel that planted a seed that bloomed into a thought that turned into action.

She had been flipping through old textbooks, her hair gone wiry and curly, her butt beginning to get numb from how long she had been sitting still, her eyes tired and pulling at her lids, ready to go to bed when she had found it.

The coinjoint soul theory.

She had stumbled upon the words quite by accident really, her eyes barely skimming over the page, looking for terminology that related to horcruxes when she had blinked her way down the phrases, getting snagged on four little words that seemed to stick out more than most.

Hermione had glanced at it briefly, yawning as she traced the words with her finger, "The spell is cast with incredible power—be it anger, fear or love—and the effect should be one that transports the soul into a body that shares its characteristics. It does not guarantee immortality, however, unlike the horcrux that belonged to Harpo the Foul, yet it has the ability to keep one from succumbing from their first lifetime."

She had been curious, even going so far to delve deeper into enthralling muggle articles that spoke about the multiverse theory, the debate about how much did a soul weigh, if you could return from death—and yet she had dismissed it, knowing that there was no way someone like Lord Voldemort would indulge in something that would completely set back his plans, no matter how many more years he would have.

The Dark Lord had wanted immortality not merely a longer life.

Besides, she had yawned, the thoughts still buzzing in her brain despite her exhaustion, there was very little possibility of someone harnessing enough power to transport a dying soul into another, older or younger body.

It was this memory that she drew on as she sat on the bed, her eyes wide, tears trickling down her cheeks. The memory of the warm, fuzzy feeling she got from staying up too much in the library, downing coffee after coffee, her hair curlier and curlier as she ran ink-stained fingers through the mass, trying to calm her buzzing thoughts.

It was this memory that she drew on when she woke up on the second morning.

The second morning she'd woken up as Hermione Wells.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was peeking out from behind dark, thunderous storm clouds, last night's storm washed away by the soft, morning rays. The train had not gone by in a while and Hermione couldn't hear the death-rattle that it brought either, the room staying a quiet space. The sky was a soft blue with streaks of hearty yellow and pretty pink punctuating it, the last echoes of night slipping away into day.

And yet, it was the second morning.

Her heart squeezed in her chest, the air stuttering in her lungs as she raised trembling fingers to her face, tracing over the unfamiliar features, still unused to the paleness of her own skin.

She let out a low whine, as if the grief couldn't help but escape her, choke her down and she buried her face in her hands. Her breaths were quicker now, her shoulders heaving as her thoughts skittered in her mind, ready to bubble from her lips in a high-pitched scream.

This is not happening, she thought frantically, please—please don't let this be happening.

She remembered yesterday night, her relaxed air, the friendly demeanor Mrs. Porter had displayed, the kind yet intrigued smiles that had been sent her way.

There was no other possible way other than the theory. She knew this. She knew. But—But—

She remembered the night before that one. The night where she—where she had died—the suffocation of a black, toxic cloud. The flash of green and static in her ears—the sound of someone screaming. The emptiness of the void, the bleakness and slow, deterioration of the mind.

Hermione did not know how long she had spent in that void.

And—and worst of all—was yesterday. When she had woken up, choking on the black water of the Thames, her mind reeling—memories that weren't hers flickering through her mind and—

It was a dream—it was supposed to be a dream!

She couldn't—wouldn't—go through that again.

A sob escaped her lips.

"Blimey, already crying?"

She raised her eyes to the doorway where Edward stood, his nose held high, beady black eyes riveted on her face.

You're not real. Not real. Not real. Can't be real.

She had died. She was dead. This was just some skewed—

("The effect should be one that transports the soul into another, twin body." She had smiled. "Interesting." She had said—and now—no—no—no—this can't—"It has to be cast with incredibly power—love—" Green eyes. A gaping mouth. Moving lips—Harry?)

"And here I thought you'd be the different one. I'm surprised you didn't burst into tears yesterday though. I would with my mum throwing me off the Blackfriars Bridge."

If Hermione had woken up in a different era, ready for war, she would have overlooked the snappish attitude. She would have gritted her teeth at the vicious words, knowing that everyone was a little testy lately. She would have smiled or maybe even sighed, knowing that her eyes were just as dead as theirs, just a broken, just as lost.

Yet she had not.

She had woken on a pretty morning in an institute that was unknown to her, full of people who seemed to already know her, her lips carving out a name that wasn't hers.

So, it was with great relish that she snapped furious eyes to his, a snarl on her lips, "Oh shut up, you horrible, nasty little boy! Go away, worthless little toad. I didn't ask for your ruddy opinion!"

The boy reared back and for a minute, Hermione felt guilt surge up inside of her but she quickly pushed it down, far too angry and lost to control her feelings.

She was stuck—stuck in a different time, a different life, a different body.

She had died.

(She remembered the swirling vortex of nothingness, filling her up, curling around her lungs—tearing out screams—no. No.—it has to be—a dream.)

"Fine." Edward spat, his cheeks lighting up in a furious blush. His words and anger dragged her back to reality. "I'll leave you to sob by yourself like the pitiful little girl you are."

I am not a little girl.

Rage so fierce and hot burned under her skin and she felt her face twist into a snarl. Something was itching in her veins, begging to be let free and she felt the power of her magic far too late. It sung under her skin, in her bones, at her fingertips and before she could stop it, it escaped her in a fury of sharp flashes and the bang of the door.

She gaped.

Accidental Magic.

"Y—You-You freak!" Edward screeched from behind the door. "Don't come near me again!"

She heard his footsteps rapidly descending the stairs and his harsh breathing but she was far too shocked to move.

Accidental Magic.

How long had it been since she had had an outburst like that? She barely even remembered anymore. Her magic had become so precise and fierce during battle that this—this feeling—the itching of her skin, the tightness of her knuckles, the twitching of her mouth—was unknown to her. Her magic was subtle and dangerous like a blade that was only to be wielded by the finest.

This magic…it didn't feel like hers.

This magic was clumsy and strong, fierce and pushy, as if subjecting her to its whims. This magic was not easy and stable and calm. No. This magic was like sticking your hand in a roaring river and expecting to control it. It was harsh and bludgeoning and—

Wait.

Magic.

Tears filled her eyes.

She had magic.

A sob escaped her lips.

She still had her magic.

It took her two hours to come to terms with the fact that she had woken up in the same place, the same institute the second morning. It took her two hours of sobbing into her pillow, her fingers clutching at her hair, raking down her cheeks, her body shuddering with grief and rage and fury before—

Before she sat up.

"Okay." Her voice was hoarse and unused. "Okay. I still have my magic."

It was the only highlight in this new reality. If it even counted as a new reality—the conjoint soul theory was just that—theory. No one ever expected it to work, no one wanted to find out what it was like to wake up in another twin-soul, another body, decades earlier or later.

She closed her eyes, trying to stave off her ragged breaths.

"I—I need to make inventory." She told herself quickly, dragging herself out of her stupor. Tears still stung her eyes. Her lips still trembled. Her hands were shaking as she moved off the bed. "I need to make sure I'm—that I'm—I—"

"Take a deep breath, Hermione." She whispered to herself, closing her eyes against the sobs. "Breathe. Step one: I need to find out in what world—century—year—month, day I'm in. Step two…I need to find out if I'm in England. Oh no—no wait. He said Blackfriars. Blackfriars is on the Thames. Okay. Okay."

The panic was getting worse. Her skin itched, her magic flared, levitating objects randomly and she wished for nothing more than to huddle down in a corner and sob her heart out again. But no. She couldn't.

She couldn't because someone—someone—had given her another shot. She didn't know how—the conjoint soul theory was messy and grossly misunderstood by the magical world—but she had to do this. She had to somehow…

Her lip trembled. She bit down on her tongue hard.

"You are here." She whispered furiously. "You are here whether you like it or not. Whether you wanted it or not. You—You cannot go back."

Tears stung her red-rimmed eyes and she felt them slide down her cheeks. Another sob rose in her throat but she tugged at her hair knowing the pain at her scalp would distract her enough to concentrate.

"Breathe. Breathe." She begged, hoping her lungs would listen. "You have to—you have to—Get. Through. This."

"Hermione?" A kind voice floated into the room.

She jumped. Quickly wiping away her tears and tucking her hair behind her ears, she pasted on a smile.

"Um, yes?" Hermione answered, hoping that whoever was at the door would just leave.

"Is everything alright, dearie? Eddy was in a little bit of a fit when he came to drag you out of your room this morning. Told me you were a freak—obviously I don't condone that language but—but well, darling, if you need to speak to anyone about…your mother…well I just wanted to tell you that I am here." It was Mrs. Porter, Hermione realized. It was Mrs. Porter that was speaking at the door.

She loosed a sigh that sounded a little like a sob.

("If you need anything, dearie, just tell me." Mrs. Weasley patted her hand, her eyes shining with sincerity.)

"I'm just—"in a different reality. A different body. "—A little overwhelmed."

"Ah," Mrs. Porter seemed to agree behind the door and Hermione could imagine her nodding. "Yes. You did seem pale at dinner yesterday. A little delirious too…you kept giggling at the most mundane things. Still…I'm a little worried, darling."

Hermione grit her teeth and began to pace the room. "It's really—really—fine. I was just tired. And 'cos you know…my mother pushed me off a bridge."

Hermione winced.

The memories of her—this?—body were appearing rather quickly, taking a hold of her mind. She could remember a mother, dark hair and crazy eyes, always drinking, always smoking; with long red nails and a row of straight, yellowed teeth. She was beautiful though. Hermione remembered the men that caved to her wiles, their dazed eyes and the breathless hitch in their voices when her mother spoke to them, her red, red lips curling around sugary sweet lies. She could remember a father—vaguely—with red hair and calm gray eyes—who—who died—

Breathing out a harsh breath, she blinked away the tears.

She was Hermione Granger before she was Hermione Wells.

She was Hermione Granger before she was Hermione Wells.

"I understand, Ms. Wells." There was a long silence before Mrs. Porter continued a little awkwardly, "Lunch is on the table if you're hungry. I've even made extra rashers, just for you!"

"Uh—ah—um—Thank you." Hermione rushed out, pacing the room. "Sorry—just—Thank you. I'll be down soon."

Mrs. Porter left after that and Hermione sat on the floor with close eyes, trying to breathe through the panic that threatened to choke her.

What was she going to do now?

Okay, so someone commented that my description of Hermione's skin in the last chapter was a little bit racist? I didn't think so and if it did, or does, I would like to humbly apologize as this was not my intention. I just wanted to show that the change to a different body was a very different, very shocking one for her.

Regardless, thank you very much for reading and I hope you liked the update! I'm a little stuck on this one in terms of plot, but I'm getting there! Please be patient with me :)