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Strange Attractors
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Characters: Hermione Granger, Albus Dumbledore, Armando Dippet, Tom Marvolo Riddle
Tags: Slice-of-life in Times-of-war, Worldbuilding, School Life, Politics, Political Manoeuvres, Pureblood Politics, 1940s, Alternate Universe/Alternate History, Fantasy Medical Mystery, or whatever genre you write if you read Team Medical Dragon too much, WWII, Adventure, Psychological, Sociopathic character, Psychopathic character, Connecticut Yankee, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Magical Theory, Epic-Length-Fic, Competence Kink, Some Degree of Amnesia Involved, Realistic Take, No Rose-Tinted Glasses, No Senseless Character Bashing, Can be hyperrealistic on the details, And you thought Victor Hugo detailing Parisian sewers was bad
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Long Summary: Unspeakable Granger wakes up with missing memories in Hogwarts...in 1942. Hermione might not remember much, but she knew that even post-Voldemort, there were many wannabe dark lords she and her friends had to fight against. The world wasn't automatically sunshine and roses just because they've defeated Voldemort.
Also, go back? What go back? If she doesn't even know how she got here with all the wounds she had, then there's really no guarantee that a safe way to jump forward exists!
Yet the possibilities that are open to her...
If she could change the wizarding world half a century earlier, maybe they'd be more prepared against dark lords in the future. Perhaps a better world for the friends she'd left. With this in mind, Hermione Curie (Granger) sets out to use her field healer and master arithmancer abilities to the fullest (if she had to invent a couple of things earlier than they actually happened in her old future, so be it). Not to mention that in her very-biased-opinion, the wizarding world needs to be dragged out of its old prejudices, kicking and screaming if necessary. But who is that particular prefect? Her mind itches at seeing him…
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Introductory Author's Note:
I wrote this to entertain my sister, who is a doctor, currently taking maternal leave and is bored out of her mind when she's not feeding the guzzling sprog. That meant she's also available to provide instant feedback for at least half of her waking hour. Also, I'm in an in-between hectic state right now and haven't quite settled down. Moving to my grandparents' city to help look after them plus considering grad school there. Life is a bit crazy right now.
The closest thing to medical knowledge I have is from reading her textbooks and books of weird medical cases—mainly so she could discuss gross cases with me and I could stump her with medical mysteries. The most recent time I did that intensively was when I was helping her get through her biochemistry class years ago (she's not exactly into basic science). Any remaining medical mistakes are mine rather than hers.
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Ingredients (Most of them, at least):
- Hermione Granger, HERO OF THE IMPERIUM—ahem, I mean, Brightest Witch of Her Generation.
- Unspeakable Hermione
- Nuanced view on good and evil.
- Conversations, character development.
- A metric Eff Ton of Magical Theory and Related Worldbuilding. Seriously, I'm not kidding. This is why the story isn't even primarily romance.
- Politicking (look, it's one of the tags).
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Story Structure (in case you're looking for convenient pauses where there's guaranteed to be no cliffhangers):
- First Arc: Chapters 1-29
- Second Arc: Chapters 30-62
- Intermezzo: Chapters 63-64
- Third Arc: Chapters 65-? (Currently being worked on)
Notes on chronology: Hermione drops in at the first few days of September and is unconscious for at least two weeks. She gets out of being an invalid around the end of the first/second week of October. First arc does not have timeskips because apparently I really enjoy writing in breadth and depth in terms of details and worldbuilding. Time flows faster in the second arc and I guarantee you that I will use time skips in the third arc and beyond because otherwise I'll never even finish one chronological, in-story year.
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Notes on writing style: It has come to my notice that I have my own idiosyncrasies when I wrote this. First, I sometimes contract not only he is/she is into he's/she's, but I also contract he was/she was into he's/she's. Same with they were. Odds are, there is at least one they were that I contracted into they're.
I didn't notice my own idiosyncrasies until someone complained about the past/present tense mix-up. My first reaction was "what the hell are you talking about?" Because I didn't feel I had any. It took some analysing before I realised where the misunderstanding occurred. So, now I'm giving a heads up about it; just in case you can't stop thinking of all those contractions to be in the present tense and it ruins your reading experience, well, better stop now.
George Bernard Shaw gets a pass for dropping apostrophes altogether in his contractions (he writes don't as dont), while Lewis Carroll adds extra apostrophes (can't is written as ca'n't, would not is contracted into wo'n't). I don't think my habit is any weirder than theirs.
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UPDATE 24th March 2018: We have tumblr, people! It has all the chapter photosets/mood board/whatever you call pic sets that I can't upload in FFNet (unlike AO3). The address is within the quotation marks: "timetwistedtale dot tumblr dot com". Just change the 'dot' words into real periods, and you're set. Practically all of the works are my sister's, not mine. I just did the cover(s).
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~ A ~
~ First Arc – Adaptation ~
[1]
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01 Waking Up with a Headache
In which we begin with the stereotypical game protagonist – the amnesiac hero. There is, of course, a slight twist to this set up.
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The intense migraine seemed to be trying to pulp her head like an overripe orange.
Hermione sneezed at the dry leaf that was stuck too close to her nostrils and tried to pull herself up from her prone position – she had been lying on her stomach when she woke up. She groaned as her head complained about the changing positions with a more intense hammering. The chilled air raised goosebumps on her skin. It was dark out here, she could feel dirt under her knee. Even without knowing that she didn't have the habit of sleeping outdoors, she had the gut feeling that something was wrong.
Her right hand had started feeling the ground around her for her wand. Fortunately for her, she found it quickly. The easy thrum of its resonance with her magic was comforting.
The unease wasn't just a feeling at the back of her neck—she had become so attuned to it that it was closer to a sixth sense by now. It had kept her alive through the war, through the insurrections after that and even against the newer dark lords. She wasn't about to ignore it now.
The witch stayed as still as possible, silently casting a spell to augment her hearing. There were no loud steps of a group rushing in her direction. She heard the hoot of an owl some distance away, of little feet scurrying up and down tree barks. There was the fleet footed skip of a fox on a hunt too.
Hermione sighed in relief and cancelled the spell. She let the scent of the forest calm her down while she pulled herself up slowly. Her head was still killing her and her lower back the kind of ache that felt as if someone had just drive kicked it and then stomped with steel boots for good measure.
I don't think there's any broken bones.
She tried to stand up and faltered when her left ankle failed her. A check showed her it was dislocated. Hermione found a convenient tree to lean against, held her knee carefully and then pushed it back in. The movements felt easy and familiar, something she'd done often enough that she'd bothered to excel at it. The pain sucked, but she could work with it. A minor Episkey should reduce inflammation for the moment, right? Right.
Besides, she wasn't in any sort of emergency where she needed to pour magic to heal it immediately because she needed to start running soon. It could wait.
Hermione stood up again.
She ran a diagnostic spell for bone integrity, just in case, because fractures could be easily missed. Glowing green letters floated and told her what she needed to know.
"Ha!"
No fractures either, though hmm, apparently, she needed to up her calcium intake. That could be dealt with later. It would have been annoying if she had to put her left ankle in a cast. The aches she was feeling spoke of a lot of bruises.
She grimaced. Her memory was spotty. She couldn't really recall what was the last thing she was doing. The memory eluded her the more she tried to remember. What with her throbbing headache, she guessed that she'd probably knocked her head hard. A concussion was possible. She needed to get out of the forest and find some help quickly.
There! There were lights in that direction. That was surely the way out. She would walk in that direction—well, limp in that direction seems to be more accurate, but she wasn't complaining.
Had there been a fight? An ambush?
She unconsciously gripped the wand in her hand tighter before forcing herself to relax. But why was she alone? It didn't make any sense. If they had been fighting, she should be with others—she wasn't foolish enough to think she could tackle a group of blood fanatics or new dark zealots alone. She should have woken up in the hospital, right? If she had been ambushed and somehow lost (a part of her snorted in disbelief at that—she hadn't been an easy picking in a while), she would've been dead.
…or worse.
(Who were these 'blood fanatics' and 'new dark zealots'? Why were these people, with these names, the first thing that came to her mind? She could not recall. Why not, well, Death Eaters? She'd spent her school years aiding Harry facing them, right? Her head felt light and weird…)
The forest didn't seem to be a particularly old growth. The trees were loose and they slowly continue to get looser as Hermione walked on and finally left the tree line behind her.
The distant lights were apparently those of a castle.
Hermione shook her head, uncertain if she was dreaming or not. But no, the vision stayed, the numerous lights on the windows twinkled their welcome. Even the sky was perfectly cloudless, an infinite velvet bed with infinite diamonds upon them. She could even see the Milky Way, serene and majestic in a way that you can't see in the smog-filled skies of London. Hermione's breath caught at her throat.
"Hogwarts? I can't be at Hogwarts." She protested to no one in particular.
There was a battle, (battles?) Even if the castle survived, surely it would not look this unscarred, as serene as an ideal sanctuary?
The perfect scene she'd found herself at was marred by the sudden rage growing inside her. She remembered vague outlines but nothing precise. No! She knew why Hogwarts shouldn't look like this. She can recall the battle (battles?). It was just there, at the edge of her mind…
The pain at her temples pulsed with her rising heartbeat and she dropped her face into her hand. No, she was not helpless. This was just a minor setback. She can get around this, yes? She was Hermione Granger, she'll always find a way—
That twinge of oddness again, this time at her last name. It was her name, yes, but it no longer sat quite right with her, as if it was part of her but there were other histories she was missing. She was getting sick at these holes in her memory. Being Hermione, she channelled it into something more productive; finding answers. At the very least, she can borrow the Headmaster's fireplace and floo back home—
(Wait, where's home? Why can't she recall any images, any feelings of where home is?)
The pain at the back of her waist was getting harder to ignore. She was gritting her teeth and focused on moving forward so much that she didn't notice the drops of blood she was trailing. No, I'll floo to the Ministry. She can always floo to the Ministry, she thought quickly, pressing down the rising panic. She was, after all, Unspeakable Granger—
(That uncertain twinge set off again—).
Unspeakable Hermione. She was Unspeakable Hermione.
(She held on to these solid pieces of her identity like an amulet, a lucky charm).
Well, at least she didn't somehow forget Hogwarts. Considering that she'd spent her formative years there, under life-threatening conditions, it would be ridiculous.
Hermione stopped about halfway from the castle's doors when her left ankle throbbed with pain. She sighed, sat down and after a vague accounting of what she was wearing (why was she wearing a tie? Was there a Ministry event, or something? Never mind, it could be useful) She wrapped her tie around the ankle to support the joint. She picked up her shoe to put it back on.
She had expected her comfortable and combat-tested boots. What she found was something else.
Hermione hadn't paid attention when she took it off, but she did now. Why would she be wearing mary-janes for field work? Wait, perhaps the field work had been an unexpected surprise. But who was responsible for the dress code for the last Ministry meeting? Umbridge? She scoffed.
As she put the shoe on with some choice complaints and mutterings, it crossed her mind that it might have been a budget meeting. Hermione groaned. No unspeakable she'd ever met liked the Ministry's budget meetings. The running department joke was that they have to 'play normal' and not scare the comptrollers. She still remembered the first time she heard the Department Head's speech.
"That means formal office wear, everyone! No project is to be worked on during that day—they must be shelved and contained. I repeat, shelved and contained."
He sent a warning look around the room, and there was no shortage of people who looked away or ducked. As usual, there were always the more egregious cases.
"That means your lab, Malina Moreau—no one needed to see what you managed to raise from the bones found in some ancient ruin. I don't care if you've managed to recreate the Chupacabra! This also means that cloud assistant you were working with should be bottled, Neptune O'Neil. Don't leave it to drift around the common room to rain on unsuspecting people! We also can't have improvements to the coffee machine that is not Ministry approved—take machine additions off and remove the spells. You can all put them back later."
A collective groan went around the meeting room at that. Never mind that half the room was cloaked and hooded, and some with genderless voices. The prospect mutual suffering in the wake of the dearth of good coffee made them all human.
"And for Merlin's sake, the next person who leaves some mock-up, some joke version of the Lemarchand puzzle box for the bean counters to find for shits and giggles will be our next liaison to the Budget Office! Do I make myself clear?"
Hermione couldn't help a small smile at the thought. The Unspeakables were unaccountably weird—they would be the first to admit that to anyone asking, but the Department of Mysteries were one of the few that strictly kept themselves away from politics and were more interested in the greater workings of magic. Granted, the few psychos the department manage to generate in its lengthy history were also far scarier than Umbridge. Yet the department also took the responsibility of taking them down too—unlike other parts of the Ministry itself, where people like Umbridge infested the place by the dozens. And then we have people like Cornelius Fudge.
She had just passed the castle's doors, the warm air wrapping around her like a blanket. Her energy was flagging down. It didn't make sense for a short walk. Why the bone deep tiredness that made her wish for a nice, clean bed to just fall down and sleep on?
The cold she was feeling wasn't just physical now.
Hermione had figured out why it was familiar—this was the sort of tiredness that came after a battle, the exhaustion experienced after throwing spells left and right. Was there an attack on the Ministry? Was there somehow an attack at the heart of the Department of Mystery? (She was now fully aware that the Prophecy Hall was not close to the more well-defended and well-staffed offices.)
But if that was true, why am I alone, at Hogwarts?
She can't remember. She can't remember anything at all, what she had for dinner, her last lunch. Who sat at the cubicle next to her at work? Wait, does she even have a cubicle? No, and she didn't have a mere table in a large open office set either. She was not that junior, not anymore. Yet when she tried to summon what her desk looks like she couldn't see it in her mind's eye. She can't—
Hermione leaned back against the wall, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was going to regulate her breathing carefully. Her right hand had gone to her left wrist and didn't find the emergency teleportation bracelet that had been standard issue for Ministry employees for a while (for a year? Two years? She can't remember. Why can't she—)
She was going to be fine. She didn't have time to panic. Headmaster's Office, she convinced herself. All I have to do is to get to the headmaster's office, ask the headmaster to call people through floo and figure out what's going on. Yes, I can do that. Then, if the situation is contained I can floo back straight to the Ministry.
If the situation wasn't contained…no, she's not going to think about otherwise yet. She didn't need to give her creative and knowledgeable mind free-rein to run worst case scenarios. In that direction lies madness.
"Hello? Why are you out after curfew?"
The female voice was polite, even if overly-inquisitive. Hermione turned and saw a tall blonde. The teenager had a sweet face and a Hufflepuff tie, and she radiated order and goodness. Even from this distance, she could recognise the head girl badge pinned at her collar.
Hermione didn't know how she looked like, but it must have been terrible for the girl to gasp and rush straight towards her.
"By Morgana and Circe! What happened?"
'I have no idea' doesn't sound like a good answer to give. "It's that bad, is it? I'm trying to get to the Headmaster's office."
"Who did this—"
"Whoever it is, it's too dangerous for students to deal with," Hermione had to stop her before her helpfulness got her killed. She was all for getting less people killed these days, especially when she had no idea of their skill level. Back when she was in Hogwarts, her year mates had been gearing up for war, studying spells beyond the curriculum. Even now, she considered that she'd been lucky—that everyone she knew had been lucky.
She wasn't sure what present Hogwarts was like.
"Don't you think the headmaster and the teachers would be better equipped to deal with them?"
The head girl saw the way Hermione limped and nodded, making up her mind. "You're right, come on. Let me help you."
"Thank you."
The girl was insistent on getting Hermione to put an arm across her shoulders and lean her weight more. It was easier to agree than to argue, so she did. This was how they made their way in relatively comfortable silence across Hogwarts.
That was, until the head girl spoke again.
"By the way, what year are you?"
Hermione blinked. The question was so absurd that she had to turn and stare at the Hufflepuff in disbelief.
"What year?"
"You're not in the seventh year, otherwise I'd have recognised you," the blonde replied easily.
Hermione was about to mouth a rebuttal before she closed her mouth again to think. No. Did Malina slip her that de-aging potion she was working on? (She was working on eternal youth, of course, but a non-toxic, working de-aging potion wasn't a bad intermediary goal). If she did, Hermione was going to slip her some after she adjusted the dose; let her see how much working in her lab with the height of a thirteen-year-old was going to cramp her style. She'd be complaining by the second day, much less the whole week it was probably going to take to fix.
"I'm Hermione," she answered. The head girl was unimpressed.
(The possible scenario that flashed in her mind was actually Malina feeding her the potion while they were hunkering down in a room, wishing her good luck before someone else sent her to Hogwarts, possibly via portkey. Then, the doors of the room would fall and her companions attacked…)
Hermione pushed any unpleasant images down. Her overactive imagination needs to shut up.
"And what house would you be from?"
"None, because I don't go to Hogwarts," she answered. She tacked on more words for plausible deniability when she saw the head girl's expression, "yet. I'm not registered yet."
The less the kid knew about her, the less danger she'd be in.
"Really? But you're already wearing our uniform—trust me, I'm very familiar with Beauxbatons' and Durmstrang's, and this is definitely Hogwarts."
Hermione couldn't help looking down by reflex. Her skirt was a few centimetres below the knee, of heavy twill and in a style that even Hermione's eyes could see as old and unfashionable. She was surprised she hadn't heard any uproar from the denizens of Hogwarts at the uniform change to a dowdier one. Her mary-janes were clearly a perfect fit to the outfit.
It was clear that she was wearing a Hogwarts uniform.
A feeling of dread grew in her stomach. Who gave her a change of clothes? Why the need for subterfuge? It was as if she was sent to hide her, out of all things. But that was ridiculous. She was perfectly fine as an Unspeakable. Merlin save anyone who challenged Hermione Granger's ability to defend herself. She'd acquitted herself on the field for too often.
What on earth happened?
'-
The trip up towards the Headmaster's Office was not friendly to her migraine. She was sure there was a herd of hippopotami stomping on her skull.
"Urgh."
"I'm sorry. I really am. It's just a little bit more."
Hermione didn't want to spare more energy just to answer. She merely shut her eyes and walked. Occasionally, her right hand massaged her temples—her wand had been slipped back to its holster on her forearm. (She was glad it was still there). She didn't even open her eyes when the head girl opened the door.
"What brings you to my office Ms. Abbott—oh dear."
"We have an emergency, Headmaster. Hermione here needs medical help."
Hermione opened her eyes, and the first thing that she saw was Armando Dippet, sitting on the headmaster's desk.
That doesn't even make sense! A logical part of her brain noted. She was sure she'd heard that Professor Dippet was dead.
Her wounds, her tiredness, her headache was taxing. The absurdity of being at Hogwarts, in a Hogwarts uniform, was eclipsed by Dippet's presence.
"I…how…"
"Miss? Miss, what happened? What's your name?" His tone was gentle and soothing.
Hermione's energy truly ran out and shock finally managed to set in. Her knees buckled and Hermione lost consciousness on the floor of the headmaster's office. She didn't hear the head girl's yelp or Headmaster Dippet knocking a knick-knack or two from his shelves in his hurry to reach her.
'-
Hemione was in a comfortable bed and she didn't feel like waking up. She opened her eyes slowly.
She didn't know what it spoke of her Hogwarts years that she could recognise Hogwarts infirmary by the pattern of spots on its ceiling.
The air was cool, sterile and all too familiar. The quietness was nice.
"Ah, I see you're awake—no, don't try to sit up yet. Just lie down for as long as you like. You've been out for a little over a day." The nurse bustled to her left. Hermione glanced at the other beds and found them empty—which was how it should be. A school should be safe.
"I'm alright."
The nurse's face was unfamiliar, her hair a lively copper shade and she would be motherly if she wasn't also so young. She couldn't be older than twenty-five. The nurse smiled, as if humouring her.
"I'm sure you could still be better. I'll find you some breakfast."
Hermione pulled herself up to a sitting position anyway, especially since her throat was parched. It wasn't Madam Pomfrey, but a part of her that knew Headmaster Dippet as dead also reminded her that Madam Pomfrey was dead. But…
Alright, so we have Headmaster Dippet in Hogwarts again. How did that happen?
As far as she knew, death was quite permanent. There were some theoretical methods to use to reverse death (it was the Department of Mysteries' business to know, after all), but no one had found a practical application of those methods that worked. Besides, if you could resurrect someone properly, why choose Armando Dippet? The fanatics would have chosen Voldemort or Grindelwald, and a significant number of the DMLE would have chosen Dumbledore.
She poured herself a glass of water from the jug and saw the newspaper on the side table.
It was the Daily Prophet, as usual, though it was interesting to see the name set with more flourishes and curlicues than she was familiar with. She picked it up and scanned through the news – deaths from a violent attack at a home. Hmm. Possibly related to whatever attack she had survived last night. She quickly skimmed the others too.
'…many Departments in the Ministry had disagreed with Minister Spencer-Moon's suggestions of the application of a generalist competitive examination for civil service, following the guidelines found in the Northcote-Trevelyan Report…'
Hermione snorted. Entrance exam for ministry employees? The purebloods were going to have a cow and block the motion in the Wizengamot if it meant half their kids won't pass. But why was the Minister's name unfamiliar? Never mind. Besides, it would be more useful to make sure that different departments actually have the same standards first before standardising the exam. Also, standardising wages throughout the UK? That was a bad idea. Living in the City of London was more expensive than Leeds or Newcastle-upon-Tyne—whose standard of living would the wage be set against?
The Guild of Tailors and Seamstresses at Diagon Alley complained that something Must Be Done about this inexplicable shortage of good fabrics, pushing costs to rise and customers to complain. 'After all,' one spokesman for the guild said to the reporter, 'If we've managed to overcome food difficulties by increasing and improving our wizarding farms, surely something similar can be arranged for the garment industry?'
Hermione paused. Something about it was so alien (what fabric shortage? She hadn't heard about any fabric shortage until now!) And yet at the same time so familiar.
('overcome food difficulties')
('inexplicable shortage of good fabrics')
She glanced back at the title. Daily Prophet. Saturday, 26th of September 1942.
The logical part of her worked lightning-quick, had figured out that the wizarding world was getting confounded by the shortage and rationing that the wartime muggle world was experiencing.
However, a larger part of her wanted to hyperventilate and dizziness had started to set in.
"Fuck it."
'-
Hermione laid down on the bed again with both of her hands were covering her face, while trying to come up with a reasonable argument why she was seeing a living Dippet and a Daily Prophet from 1942. She rubbed her temples over the bandage. The seriousness of her wounds easily discounted any pranks. The fact that she hadn't seen anyone she recognised was another.
But time travel is impossible…
Perhaps she was merely dreaming. Feverish and half dead as she was, was it a surprise? Maybe she was still face down in the forest. Maybe it wasn't even the Forbidden Forest. But going down that assumption lies madness. She might end up being desperate enough to wake up to try to kill herself (hello, Inception!)—and what would happen if she was actually alive now? She'd be well and truly dead.
She can prepare to test it later, but it was better to continue as if she was indeed in 1942 (somehow) and looking as if she was Hogwarts-aged.
'-
The sound of the rolling food tray caught her attention first before the footsteps. Her hair felt sticky and weird. She would bet it was in an explosive cloud around her head. She scratched her forehead and inadvertently displaced the bandage there. Hermione shifted it back into place with a sigh.
"What's your name, Dearie? I caught on that it was Hermione from dear Agatha, but she didn't give me your last name."
Hermione glanced up and smiled at the nurse. She can't be Hermione Granger, then. The first name that crossed her mind was the scientist Marie Sklodowska. The only person to have ever won two Nobel prizes in two different fields. A tribute to the first hero of her childhood. Unfortunately, a foreign last name would only make her stand out more, so she picked up Marie's married name instead.
"Curie, Ma'am. Hermione Curie, but please, just call me Hermione."
"I'll write it down now." She glanced up and saw Hermione's still waiting look.
"Oh, I'm Maggie Edelstein. Nurse at the Hogwarts Infirmary." She grimaced slightly. "And traditionally, all the nurses at Hogwarts are matrons, so everyone addresses me as 'Madam Edelstein', never mind that it makes me feel so old."
She couldn't help a small giggle from escaping, at least before she closed her mouth abruptly. Maggie Edelstein only smiled in return.
"I can call you Nurse Edelstein, if you want?" Hermione offered.
"Please do—and thank you for that."
"It's no problem at all."
Nurse Edelstein brought a tray of dinner over to Hermione. The tray, fortunately, had legs of their own so it could stand like a small table over her blanketed thighs. The nurse left to do some organising in the back room but was soon back to accompany Hermione, as there were no other patients in the infirmary. Hermione did her best to finish the food, no matter how bland it tasted to her tongue, because she was aware that she needed to eat enough to heal. At first, Hermione asked what she had been doing just to open up some small talk. Upon hearing the cures stocked in the infirmary and the ones that aren't, she started asking questions about keeping an ice box.
"Some of the potions that can spoil quickly can be kept fresh for longer under low temperatures,"
"That's a good idea!" Maggie was enthusiastic, "but wait, some potions are only stable at high temperatures."
"Then you'd need thermoses for those," Hermione replied. "Actually, thermoses could be used for lower temperatures too."
"Thermoses?"
"You know, containers that can keep drinks hot for long periods?"
The nurse shook her head. "A vessel with a warming charm cast on it is not a good idea, as the charm itself can interfere with the magical properties of some ingredients."
Hermione shook her head. She'd had to bite her lip to stop herself from interrupting. "No. It's not a magical solution at all. It's a vacuum flask. Um, do you have any paper and—" pen, she almost said, "—quill? I'll draw it and explain."
And so, the tray of food was removed back to the food trolley and the small table underneath it reused as a desk of sorts. Hermione drew a general cross section of what a thermos is like, and how between the inner walls and the outer one is a vacuum (or as near to vacuum as possible). This lack of matter meant there was virtually nothing that can conduct the heat outwards.
"But does it really work?"
"The muggles have been using it for years now, or even decades. I don't remember when exactly they invented it, but it's been a while. If it didn't work, why would they keep using it all this time?"
Hermione knew she'd captured the Nurse's interest now. She was glad to know the nurse wasn't one of the more rabid muggle-haters.
Yet after a while, Maggie sighed. "Unfortunately, the Hogwarts Board might think it's not a worthwhile expenditure. After all, why does a school infirmary need to be comprehensively stocked? They'd argue that it would be mostly Quidditch accidents that needs to be handled."
She listened carefully before looking down her bruised and scratched arms. They were bandaged now, of course, and smelled of sweetly-scented herbs.
The brunette raised her arms to display them.
"Because of Grindelwald, Nurse Edelstein. His sympathisers are everywhere, even in England."
The nurse paled. "Is that what happened, Hermione?"
I can't remember. It was an echo that never stopped in her mind, one that she blocked out most of the time. I can't remember, I can't remember, I CAN'T REMEMBER. But of course, she didn't say that.
Hermione shook her head. "I can't…I can't tell you anything yet. Not until I've finished speaking to the headmaster and Professor Dumbledore. But what I'm trying to say is that, just because Hogwarts has been safe all these years, it's no guarantee that it will continue to be so."
Dumbledore was here already, right? Her memory about Hogwarts in the 1940s was fuzzy, but she might as well gamble it.
Nurse Edelstein nodded. "You're right, but you should rest first. I'll tell the headmaster that you're still recovering. In my opinion, you can keep recovering even until the day after tomorrow if you don't feel like meeting them yet."
"Thank you."
'-
For all the soothing calm that Maggie Edelstein exuded around her, Hermione knew that it wasn't the entire story of her own condition.
If it was the entire story, she wouldn't have blood-red urine.
(haematuria, another voice inside her commented with a knowing nod.
Wait, why did she know that?)
'-
Nurse Edelstein managed to hold the headmaster back for a day, but after that she couldn't hold back his enthusiasm. Hermione yelped when he entered because she had yet managed to corral her hair to something more manageable.
"Your papers have come through, Miss Hermione! I have no idea who sent them, but they're here."
What papers? She thought, but did not say. (Who sent her here and why?)
"May I see them, Professor?"
"Ah, here. I'm afraid it got caught in the rain—your last name is beyond comprehension."
She had to grudgingly admit that it was an ingenious device to allow her to pick any last name to her convenience. "It's Curie, Headmaster. Hermione Curie."
"Right. We'll write that on your records. How are you feeling, dear?"
"Terrible," she said easily, but with a smile that took the edge away from the painful truth. It still caught Dippet flatfooted.
"Um, well, yes, I can see…it's such a terrifying event. A most unfortunate event. And for it to happen so close to Hogwarts too!" Dippet nodded. "However will the students feel on their Hogsmeade weekend?"
His hands were clasped tightly together. Hermione was sure that the headmaster was more afraid of secret attackers hiding in Hogwarts than she did, and she was the one who was injured.
"I'm sure it wasn't at Hogwarts, Headmaster. Someone probably brought me here to safety." She assured him.
"Yes, yes! That's a great notion. Of course, Hogwarts is always completely safe!"
She glanced back at the documents the headmaster had carried once she was sure that he wasn't about to start fretting. It was a transfer application to Hogwarts, for a fifth-year student. All the classes listed, however, were advanced ones. Not that she was even worried at this point. She tried to see whether there was any information on her parents, but no. They were only stated to be deceased.
"Headmaster, I…how am I going to pay for my tuition?" She asked.
If it was Dumbledore she was talking to, he would have noticed that she didn't sound distressed or upset when she asked that, only curious, and would start asking some pointed question. Dippet was conveniently oblivious.
"No need to worry, my dear. It is clear that you have taken the equivalent of OWLs in Norway. I was about to ask you regarding your class schedule, but if you truly have no problem with it, then it is clear to me that these reports on your intelligence is true. You will be one of the most intelligent witches in your year, if not the most intelligent, and thus, you can qualify for a scholarship."
Norway? Well, she can vaguely recall visiting Lillehammer once, and there was also another city (Tromsø? Trondheim? One of the two), but this was more than half a century into the past that even her meagre memories might not match. She just hoped she was never asked about it.
"Once you have recovered enough, Professor Merrythought will accompany you to shop for school supplies in Diagon Alley."
"That's very nice of you, Headmaster,"
"No, no. It's no trouble at all! And as for your attackers, we'll find them soon, don't worry."
"Have you contacted the Aurors?"
Dippet huffed. "They say that my report does not have enough information. Clearly it is obvious that a Hogwarts student is in danger and they need to do something about it, and yet they seem content to merely sit about."
Well, she wasn't going to argue about the lack of information, considering that no one would be able to come up with a plausible location of her attack.
"Perhaps you should tell Professor Dumbledore."
"Dumbledore? Why?"
The headmaster moved forward and she handed the documents back.
"He has been monitoring Grindelwald's rise for a while. If anyone can tell you about Grindelwald or his sympathisers, it would be him." She said.
"Hmm, yes. Perhaps I should drop in and chat with him. Anyway, I hope you get well soon, Miss Curie!" Headmaster Dippet said his farewell, and Hermione gave some polite answer in return before he left.
With that, she was once more left to the emptiness of the infirmary.
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"Nurse Edelstein?"
"Yes, Dear?"
"Can you help me with my hair?" Hermione didn't quite like how powerless she sounded. "It's bad enough that the headmaster had seen it like this, I don't want it to stay this way for days. I don't even know what makes it knot at the back! It could be my own vomit for all I know."
"Of course, Hermione. And no, it's not vomit, I washed it myself on your first day here, you know?"
"Ah, thanks."
"It might be blood, though. You had some head wounds."
The brunette sighed. "Right. That's not exactly much better."
The nurse patted her on the shoulder. "Well, we can do something about it right now, don't worry."
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End Notes:
There's one important thing to keep in mind as you read (and before I get swamped with questions). The protagonist of the story is certainly Hermione Granger.
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List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:
Lemarchand Puzzle Box, a.k.a, The Lament Configuration: The Unspeakables are aware of old stories about such things and knew that it had also leaked over to the muggle world. They are relieved to have never found anything close to the real thing. It doesn't mean that they're going to stop making mock-ups of it, though, and 'toy' versions with less serious side effects.
Marie Sklodowska Curie: Marie Curie was awarded the 1903 Nobel Prize in Physics (she shares this with her husband and Henri Becquerel) for the joint researches in radiation, and the 1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for her discovery of the elements radium and polonium. I always thought of little Hermione as a budding scientist, and that she was going to go down that path if she'd never received her Hogwarts letter.
Strange Attractors: (noun)
Attractor: (mathematics, dynamical systems) An attractor is a set of numerical values that a system tends to evolve towards, for a wide variety of starting conditions of the system.
(more technical detail) an attractor is a particular region in the n-dimensional space of the system. (Mostly paraphrased from Wikipedia)
Strange attractor: Strange attractors are unique from other attractors because one does not know exactly where on the attractor the system will be as time goes by. Strange attractors are also unique in that the system never repeats itself (non-periodic).
(Mostly cribbed from Space Telescope Science Institute's website, Dr. Larry Bradley's page on Chaos and Fractals).
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Additional Trivia:
"Perhaps she was merely dreaming… But going down that assumption lies madness. She might end up being desperate enough to wake up to try to kill herself (hello, Inception!)": I see no reason why Hermione shouldn't keep in touch with the muggle world and watch the occasional movies after the War. It's not as if the magical world has that much entertainment to begin with.
Lemarchand Puzzle Box a.k.a Lament Configuration: An eldritch item appearing often in Clive Barker's horror stories. This includes the Hellraiser movies
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