I did promise a new piece, didn't I? Well, here it is, my first, long-awaited venture into TR/HG ship.

I've read and loved this ship for ages, but have never gathered the plot/courage to write my own. This came to me out of the blue last week, hopefully it pans out.

It is set post-DH, a time travel fic, and shall be approximately 10 chapters in length.

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is not mine. All characters, locations, names, etc, belong to the lovely Ms. Rowling.

Please enjoy.

-XXX-

"I don't know what this crest means," she says, tracing the outline on the lid. Its a mysterious symbol, something snakelike and foreign. Very Malfoy-esque, which is fitting considering they are raiding their dugneons.

The unspeakable beside her looks over briefly, then murmurs something unintelligible. Across the room, Harry and Dawlish are examining a cursed painting. They don't seem to hear her.

Perfectly used to this behavior, the young witch carries the object over to a lacquered oriental buffet for inspection. She waves her wand over the box, then taps it, willing any evilness or curses to reveal themselves. When nothing happens she turns to the lock. It takes a few tries beyond "Alohamora," but she soon has it open. Cautiously lifting the lid, Hermione is surprised by what she is met with – bright, tinkling notes of music.

"A music box?" she whispers, incredulous, staring into the mirror set in the lid. When she looks up, the room is shifting.

Hermione opens her mouth, scream at the ready. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, like a dramatic scene in an action film. Harry has turned back to look at her, eyes widening behind the lenses of his glasses. She can see him mouth her name. He lunges for her. Hermione releases the box, letting it tumble down towards the floor. It makes contact with the stone of the dungeon's floor, clattering loudly the second Hermione disappears from view in a flash of light.

-XXX-

She didn't come with the intention of changing things. In fact, if anything Hermione Granger arrived with little more but the intent to swiftly leave. But fate is a fickle thing, and no number of hours in the library seemed to be helping her cause. Every day spent in 1946 tethers her to it even more – like her ties to 1999 are breaking, so that she is being restrung for this new year, this new life.

"I can't stay here," she tells Dumbledore.

It's the not-quite-right Dumbledore, the one with a trimmed auburn beard and fondness for scarves. He still possessive those bright, twinkling blue eyes. Harry use to describe them as x-rays, able to see through anything and anyone.

"Of course, my dear," he sooths readily. "But –"

"No, you don't understand." She cut across him - something pre-time-abducted Hermione would have never done to entirely-right Albus Dumbledore. But the transfiguration professor just smiles placidly as she hurriedly explains herself. "School is starting up again in just a week. I can't stay here with the new semester – I'd say it's pretty clear that I'm older than 17."

He folds his hands upon his desk, watching her intently. "What do you propose then, Miss Granger?"

"I should leave Hogwarts. I don't know where I'll go…if I could be somewhere near a library, or a large resource of books, potion making materials…."

"Diagon Alley would be a suitable location," the professor says thoughtfully. "You'd be safe there. In our community, near the Ministry. And there is quite a sizeable library in London, perfect for your research efforts."

"Oh, but that sounds very expensive," she begins, hesitant. She came here with little more than the clothes on her back and her wand.

"The Ministry shall cover initial costs, of course."

"But I couldn't –"

"It is only right," Dumbledore says, holding up a hand. "After all, it sounds as though it was on the Ministry's watch that you were sent here, Miss Granger. Think of it as compensation. We can, of course, find you a position so that in a few month's time you may be able to support yourself financially."

While the offer is kind, Hermione finds herself sickened at the thought. She doesn't want to be here longer than a few more days, let alone months! But Dumbledore is likely right; it will take some time for her to find the answer to her time-trapped conundrum, that is, if she ever manages to find an answer.

"I suppose that makes sense," Hermione says slowly. "If is not much trouble. You've already done so much to help me, Professor Dumbledore."

He pats her hand fondly. "It is not the least bit of trouble, Hermione."

-XXX-

The flat isn't much – two whole rooms, not including the water closet. When they enter it's teeth-chatteringly cold. Dumbledore is quick to start a fire in the small hearth as Hermione pokes around. Though rather small, it's been outfitted comfortably with a bed, chest of drawers, a sofa and threadbare armchair, and a tiny table for two. There are a handful of windows. The one in her bedroom lets in an awful draft, but it's east-facing, which nearly makes up for the cold.

"This is nice," she says. "I'll be quite content here. Thank you so much, sir. I cannot tell you how much your help has meant to me."

"My pleasure, Hermione." He crosses to the armchair, sinking down. "Is there anything else you need here? I made sure they stocked your pantry, so you should be set for the next several days. There is an account at Gringots for you, under your new name. And here is half of your first stipend." He places a small velvet coin purse upon the coffee table. "Your trunk ought to be in your bedroom, along with your purchases from this morning."

He had been kind enough to accompany her on a short trip around Diagon Alley that morning to find necessities such as robes, a few potion ingredients, and plenty of writing materials – she would need them to figure out a new formula or potion for returning. Earlier, he'd allowed her access to the immense collection of lost clothes that generations of students had left behind at the end of term and never reclaimed. She selected several more casual, every-day items of clothing that would suit trips into muggle London.

His generosity was baffling, as he barely knew her and had little reason to trust her, despite what Hermione had revealed upon arriving in 1946. Their initial meeting had been an uncomfortable one, as she's hastily spouted out a few personal facts regarding his family life that had made the transfiguration professor red in the face.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "May I offer you some tea, or –" She faltered, not knowing what else she might have to offer.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he replied jovially.

Hermione filled the kettle and started the stove with immense focus. She noted the trickiness of the kitchen, the odd kind of icebox, and the small pile of The Magic of Cookery magazines in one back corner of the counter. She absently wondered how the future headmaster knew of her abysmal lack of skill in the kitchen, but was interrupted by the screaming of the kettle.

Dumbledore accepted his teacup with a smile. She perched herself upon the couch and waited. After several seconds of sipping, the professor spoke again.

"I do not relish the idea of leaving you alone here, so I intend on sharing correspondence at least once a week. And, if you'd like, perhaps meet at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner every so often."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Never hesitate to contact me or the Ministry should you need anything," he says seriously. "You're in a special position here, Miss Granger. Should a single thing feel out of place, should you become ill, should you require a thing, do not feel as though you must handle it on your own. Promise me this, Hermione."

Solemn, she nods. "Yes, Professor."

At the time, she fully intends on keeping that promise.

-XXX-

During her first day, Hermione uses the limited knowledge she has on household magic to make the place feel more homey. The windows are cleaned, and with fresh light streaming in a little too brightly, she conjures some floral curtains to brighten the place up with color. She puts a cranberry-colored blanket upon the bed, and fluffs the pillows. The hearth's tiles are polished, and on the mantle she puts her small store of books, and a few framed pictures.

She has been lucky enough to find her beaded purse in the robe's she initially appeared in. Hermione had taken to carrying the thing around with her, fully stocked with books and potion making materials. In it, she found a few pictures of herself, Harry, and Ron, from Fleur and Bill's wedding. Last times they'd been relatively happy before they had to go on the run.

There were also more clothes in there, things she'd forgotten to remove when the war had ended. A few sweaters, some shoes, and two pairs of trousers. In the very bottom she found a small box filled with trinkets from her parents. Mostly jewelry, a few spare buttons, and a several old hair ribbons. When she was little girl her mother had insisted on using them as a way of taming her mane. Feeling a little sentimental, Hermione selects a red ribbon and ties back her hair.

In the evening, the flat becomes too, too quiet. Over the last two weeks Hermione has been so busy trying to find a way out, reading all hours of the day and night, that she has barely had time to dwell on her loneliness. But now that she is alone, without much to do….

"Tomorrow," she says to herself. "I will go to the Magical Menagerie and purchase a cat. Yes. A cat will be just the thing."

-XXX-

She finds a pure black sleek little thing, a creature that looks exactly like a witch's cat should. The cliché should bother her, but Hermione can't bring herself to care. It's shy, hiding in one back corner of the shop, cowering from the other creatures and from Hermione, but she tempts it out with a soft voice and gentle hand. The shopwitch says it's a skittish, tempermental kitten, but Hermione pushes over the appropriate number of sickles and apparates home.

The cat, who she names Onyx, warily explores the flat for approximately three hours before curling up in the middle of the bed, so that Hermione is forced to ease onto the mattress and spoon around the little creature.

The next morning she wakes to find a tail being playfully teased in her face.

-XXX-

Even when she had been in her time, Hermione had never had a chance to visit the London Library of Magic. It is one of five libraries of magic that is open to the public. It rivaled the library at Alexandria (another magic library) in content. The library at Hogwarts is the only comparison on the continent.

Despite her circumstances, Hermione is a ball of energy when she approaches the steps. Through the huge double doors, she is quavering with excitement. There are so many books at her disposal. "Where to start…."

But she all too quickly remembers that there is one specific subject she needs to be studying. A little disappointed, she resigns herself to asking the librarian – a kindly old witch who appears far friendlier than Madam Pince – where she might find a few books on time travel.

"Third floor, to the left, my dear," she answers, writing down a few helpful suggestions.

Of course, she becomes distracted on her way up to the third floor, and finds herself cross-legged on the floor in the middle of one row, engrossed in a dissertation on the use of bowtruckle bark in mood-altering potions. That's where he comes across her – and by "come across," she means "stumbled upon." Literally.

She's nearly bowled over when someone bumps into her wandering down the row. Hermione squeaks, scrambling to her feet. When she stands, she's angrily face-to-face with a surprised young man. A handsome surprised young man. He's a little too pale for her taste, but he has a sculpted face, grey-green eyes framed by thick lashes, and dark, wavy hair that has been meticulously styled. And he's quite tall, looming over her, still looking terribly surprised and annoyed. As she smooth her skirts he schools his expression to something more impassive.

"Whatever did you mean by that?" she demands.

"By what?" he replies just as hotly. "You were the one foolish enough to sit in the middle of the floor where anyone could run across you. Thankfully," he sneers. "I wasn't running, else I've no doubt you'd be down the stairs on the landing with a broken neck by now."

"Yes, thankfully! Because regular people run in libraries." She sniffs. "An apology would be appropriate now, I think."

"I agree." He pauses. "Well? Are you going to apologize for being in my way?"

"Me? No, no, you're the one who needs to apologize," Hermione exclaims. "You knocked me over!"

The man purses his lips. "I believe we are at an impasse. Why don't we agree to disagree, then go about our way, eh?"

Hermione crosses her arms, channeling her very best McGonagall expression of intimidation. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. He's looking down his nose at her with a smirk. Eventually, the man speaks.

"Very well, shall we now vow to be mortal enemies for life, then?" he asks seriously. The smirk turns into a real smile. Hermione cannot help but break her own glare and return it.

"If you'd like," she replies fairly. "Though it may just be easier to go about our day, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," he drawls. Bending down, he retrieves a scrape of paper from the floor, looking over the writing before offering it to Hermione. "Yours?"

"Yes –" She reaches for the paper, but he pulls it back.

"Time travel books? Do you have a desire to visit the renaissance? Perhaps hold council with cavemen?"

"No," she says, snatching the paper from him. "It's just a passing interest. Some light reading, you know."

"That is not light reading."

"Maybe not for you," she condescends.

Suddenly, the man grins. "Interesting topic, time travel. The Ministry has been doing quite a lot research on it lately." He tilts his head. "Are you in the Ministry?"

"No," she says. "I'm not. It's just something I am interested in."

He clearly wants to continue conversing, but Hermione hikes her purse up on her shoulders and offers a hand.

"Well, I'd say it was nice meeting you, but –" She makes a face. "I'll be going now."

"Without your name or anything?"

Hermione glances back. She can't help but smile. But she doesn't reply, merely heads up to the third floor.

Later, that night in bed, as she goes over her notes from the library and reflects on her day, she thinks of the young man. She didn't anticipate anyone from the 1940s to be so…so….

She doesn't have the words for it, she decides.

-XXX-

It's only a week later when she nervously enters Florish and Blott's to request an application. The person tending the till is polite, and offers her a quill with which to fill out the form, and even points her to a quiet back table. She spends a long time answering the questions, even ones that should be easy – references, past experience, et cetera. Eventually, she's forced to list Dumbledore as her only reference (which should really be more than enough), and no job experience.

She returns the completed application to the front. The wizard at the register reads over it really quickly, flashing her a grin when he's done. "This looks perfect, Miss Garner."

"Oh, so that is your name?" a voice says behind her.

Hermione turns to see him, the man from the library. She's half pleased, half exasperated. "You again?"

"Me." He puts one hand in the pocket of his robes. "You know, we've never been properly introduced, Miss Garner."

"I am well aware."

The shopkeeper is hardly containing a smile, but says nothing.

Hand out, the man steps closer. "Tom Riddle."

She stares at the hand, then at the man – at Tom Riddle. Her lower lip quivers as she stumbles forward. But she doesn't accept the offered limb. Instead, Hermione makes a dash for it, fleeing the bookshop, heart racing faster than a Firebolt at full speed. She hopes the impression won't prevent her application from being considered.

-XXX-

It was terribly rude, she thinks later. But he was the person who killed Harry's parents, not to mention a whole slew of other people. He'd also created an entire cult of people who would have been ecstatic to squeeze the breath out of her.

"There is no shame in being afraid," she tells herself over a cup of coco after the incident. "Especially not when the fear is of him."

-XXX-

That was an uncomfortable introduction.

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