Chapter 2:

Filth

It was the loud shrill cackle of a distant witch that eventually roused Hermione from sleep. She didn't remember ever landing. Just falling. It was as if ground had just appeared from underneath her. Although, whilst she wasn't tumbling anymore, her stomach definitely was. She abruptly launched forward, clutching her abdomen with one hand and holding back her manic mane of hair with the other. What little food she had in her stomach, was soon deposited on to the cold, damp floor. With the back of her hand she wiped her mouth and seated herself back on the floor. The taste left in her mouth nearly made her sick all over again.

"…Ron?" she croaked; voice notably higher.

Thick impenetrable smoke wafted through the air, carrying with it the stench of rotting flesh and urine. It made Hermione's eyes water involuntarily and it took several hard blinks for her vision to clear. When it did, she was met with grim looming buildings with dark exposed bricks and featureless bleak skies. The cold cobbled floor she found herself sat on, was wet and caked with grime. She stood with shaking legs; bits of filth deciding to stick to her clothes and skin.

On either side of her stood proud, gothic-like structures that casted long and eery shadows. Behind her was a tall rotting wooden fence, most-likely doused in magic that prohibited wrong-doers from climbing it. Her hand reached out to touch it but stopped when she felt a small invisible energy licking at her palm. Her hypothesis was correct. In front was a bustling lane filled with gloomy individuals covered in soot and dirt. Dogs snarled at those who came near, shop owners with grim faces hassled their customers and two very drunk men could be seen brawling through a bar window. Cackles, sobbing and disputes echoed throughout. Even from where she stood, Hermione could see the characters that filled the streets all wore similar expressions of either evil or anguish.

Icy wind seeped through Hermione's clothes, causing a shiver to roll down her spine. Fingernails digging into her arms, she crossed them over her chest. However, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her sleeves were no longer a shade of rich red and reached her fingertips. Instead they stopped just before her elbows and were fashioned from thin white cotton, covered in little specks of dirt. She looked down at her clothes. Fragile white fabric had been fashioned into a dress that stopped just under her knees. Her feet were left bare and fully exposed to the cold.

Then she noticed something. Her hands came up to her chest, finding it flat and narrow. 'What the hell happened?'

And then she remembered.

Her eyes shot open with alarm and she rushed out on to the street, cupping her hands to her mouth. "Ron!" she called, her little voice trying to rival the loud groans, grunts and growls that flowed through the street. "RON!"

No one seemed to notice the shivering girl screaming urgently. Or if they did, they didn't care. She delved further into bustling crowd of giants. The only time someone addressing her was when a large beefy man bellowed for Hermione to move. She didn't have time to before his large clammy hand grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and tossed her to the pavement. Her hip bone smacked into the curb and she winced in pain. With trembling legs, she forced herself on to her feet and shook off the pain. "Ron!" Hermione tried again. "RON!"

"Ron!" an older witch mocked; her sunken features twisted into an amused expression as she mocked the little girl.

"Oh, bugger off!" Hermione snapped before darting back into the crowds.

For hours she searched. Her feet numb and bleeding towards the end. Shivering uncontrollably, her limbs tired and aching, she darted through the grim crowd, dodging past witches and wizards who felt no guilt from shoving her on to hard flagged road. "Move." someone growled from behind her. A hard push on the shoulder and Hermione was sent flying on to the curb, making an audible smacking sound as she did. Unbothered, she dusted herself off.

There were too many people. It was impossible to distinguish anything past the sea of misery. That and she was suddenly half the size of everyone, making it dreadfully easy to be tossed around like a ragdoll. She backed into the building behind her, rewarding herself with a short rest. With a passing glance she surveyed the building that she leant on.

It was an insignificant shop with peeling paint and broken windows on the upper floor. A plank of wood had been hammered to the front door with the words 'Max & Sons' scribbled on. Golden brown baguettes and glistening red apples were displayed in the window tauntingly. Hermione's stomach whined desperately to be fed and had been doing so for nearly an hour. She had kept the nagging in her middle at bay, deeming it unimportant, but now she stood with her nose to the glass, eyes wide and mouth drooling.

Then something drew her attention away from the teasing food. In the reflection of the glass stood a little girl, with big doleful brown eyes, untamed hair and slightly larger than average front teeth. Those being the only remnants of how Hermione Granger used to be. Her features were softer and smaller, and her skin flushed red from the cold. Small barely-there freckles were spattered all over her face. Too short to see the rest of her body, Hermione contented herself with hating just her babyish face and its chubby cheeks.

All suspicions had been confirmed. Hermione had defied all logic surrounding time and youth, for here she stood age eighteen with the face of a small child. Shock and horror coursed through her as her hands automatically came up to play with her new round face. She watched herself intently, moving her head and angling it every so often to try and find any small fragments of the definable features she used to have.

A bell ringed and a few seconds later, something smacked the side of her head. "Shoo!" a doddery old man roared, beating her away with a thick newspaper, "Get away from my shop, you thieving little beggar!" She brought her hands above her face, protecting it from his surprisingly hard hits and opened her palm. He smacked his newspaper down directly on to her splayed hand which she immediately curled her fingers around and snatched away. Quickly she ran off back into the sea of people with the newspaper securely tucked under her arm. The obnoxiously loud protests of the old man being drowned out by the sound of the streets.

Just like many times before, Hermione had to reorganise and strategize. This was clearly Knockturn Alley (the smell was enough evidence to prove that theory), and through a strange series of events Hermione had ended up here looking as she did.

There's a bright side to every situation. Or, at least, most of them. Whilst Death Eaters were on the prowl, looking for an adult Hermione Granger no one would think to look twice at the little girl with bushy hair, bad teeth and bare feet. And, of course, the best place to hide is in plain sight. She had hoped to update herself on the past few weeks, to see if there was any news about allies outside of the Order who would be willing to help a small, pale little creature such as herself.

Ducking under a sofa, a wizard was levitating and leaping over puddles of rainwater, Hermione darted through Knockturn Alley until she was positive it was safe to read the news without being swatted or spat on. Her tiny chest heaving, she unfolded the newspaper. Family of Muggles Found Murdered in Their Home was printed in large black letters.

Just above written in small thick text was the date, something she would usually overlook but a nagging feeling in the back of her mind had forbidden it from happening this time. 1st June 1965. Her stomach wrenched and that earlier feeling of nausea was slowly creeping back. If it wasn't for the fact Hermione was there now, standing tall at three foot her heart wouldn't have been thundering half as much.

"It's just an old paper…" she breathed, needing those words to be said aloud if she was to feel any comfort from them. Do people keep newspapers that are over three decades old? Maybe for sentiment? But as evil as the residents of this place were, would they really keep a newspaper article on something they consider so seemingly unimportant, such as muggles? Questions whirred around in her head. And questions should preferably have answers. Squaring her shoulders and gathering courage she stepped out from her resting place, leaving the comforts that the shadows provided.

On the other side of the street, a young woman with a pale sullen face and wild ebony hair sat huddled on the damp paved ground. In her hand rested a large bottle of Fire-whiskey. She brought it up to her white, chapped lips and guzzled it down. A drunk may not have been the best option, but as she looked back at her other options, she decided an alcoholic would be not as likely to kick her. Without looking back Hermione jogged up to where she sat and shoved the newspaper into her lap.

"When did this happen?" Hermione demanded rather than asked, her teeth gritted together.

"Why?" the stranger asked before taking another swig. "Friends of yours, Mudblood?"

Hermione faltered. "How did you…"

"Your arm." The woman grinned, the vile reek of alcohol pouring from her mouth. "Ain't doing a good job of hiding it, Sunshine."

Hermione checked her arm. Dark, jagged letters contrasted harshly against her pale skin. She just presumed that the damage had been reversed, just like her teeth, body and, of course, age. But no. Apparently not. "Seriously?" she muttered to herself, rubbing her thumb over the scar as if it could be wiped away.

Huffing, Hermione transfixed her gaze back to the drunk in front of her, who had discovered her bottle was empty. She pulled her wand from the inside of her sock and managed to slur a small 'Repleo' before continuing to drink herself into a stupor.

"When did this happen?" Hermione tried again, her tone becoming more forceful.

"If you're too young to read it, you're too young to know about it."

"I can read it—"

"Then stop bothering me."

"How long ago was it!" Hermione persisted, jabbing her finger at the paper on the stranger's lap.

"I don't know. Few days? Now, would ya kindly sod off." Was the reply she received before being promptly shoved into the streets.

With very little grace Hermione tumbled into a passer-by. He gently hauled her to her feet but before she could thank him, he had trudged away muttering about the 'youth of today'.

A few days ago. She said it happened a few days ago. So, that meant a few days ago it was the 1st of June 1965. Not a few decades; days. Could she really take a drunk's word? Normally she would have brushed it off as a result of the stranger's obvious intoxication but that seemed highly irresponsible seeing what current predicament she was currently suffering with.

More people flooded the narrow road and Hermione was left to fight her way through. She barged past strangers, the darkness that the early evening provided made it infinitely harder. Her little heart palpitated at an alarming speed and all blood rushed to her head. Her feet were still bloodied and bruised, not to mention tired. Every part of her ached from exhaustion so her venturing was cut short and she snuck into a small cramped alley. The moss from the gutter was so soft and tempting and a large fraying and tattered blanket, which was more holes than fabric, lay near.

Hermione cocooned herself. Her little frame trembling from the cold as she nestled into the floor. Her head thundered with questions that needed answers. This was worse than a nightmare. She was small, helpless and alone. And worst of all, her feet really hurt.

A.N. Hello good people. Yes, this is an annoying author's note. Mwahaha. I'd just like to say that C, E, F, J (and perhaps even M if the others coax you into reading this) stop bringing up my fanfiction. You know I will have my revenge.