September 1st, 1944.

Hermione had made the dire mistake of assuming nothing remarkable about the time she had landed herself in. Sure, Albus Dumbledore was only the Transfiguration Professor by this time, and Minerva McGonagall was nothing more than a student. Hermione vaguely recalled the names of Harry's grandparents: Charlus and Dorea Potter, who would surely be Dorea Black at this point of time.

Of course, girls were expected to marry into good Wizarding families and become housewives in the 1940s, which was definitely emnot/em the way Hermione imagined her life to end up.

There was one person Hermione never imagined, in her wildest dreams, to end up meeting

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the future Lord Voldemort.

Hermione Granger sat across the desk of one bewildered Albus Dumbledore, whose beard was not the usual silvery gray she had been accustomed to, but a shade of rich auburn.

"I believe you may be mistaken, Miss...?"

"Granger, sir. Hermione Granger."

"I am not the Headmaster of this school. Armando Dippet is, therefore you should be having this meeting with him," Dumbledore informed her with a searching frown.

"My apologies, sir, but where I'm from, you are the Headmaster of Hogwarts," Hermione explained.

Dumbledore's eyebrows furrowed. "Please explain, Miss Granger."

"I'm from the year 1997. I seem to have lost my place in time," Hermione said with a smile. "Would you care to inform me what time I'm in, Professor?"

"The date is September 1st," Dumbledore said.

Hermione sighed in relief. Perhaps she had only traveled to the beginning of next year, which wouldn't be too bad, come to think of it.

"...1944."

Her short-lived relief withered and died; her mouth fell down to the floor.

"1944?" she repeated. "What on Earth am I going to do in 1944?"

Dumbledore smiled sympathetically. "If I may know your age, Miss Granger?"

"Seventeen," Hermione supplied.

"You may finish your seventh year at the school, and be on your way to your own time," Dumbledore suggested merrily, the familiar twinkle dancing in his blue eyes. "But I am afraid you may have to be resorted."

"I'll have no problem getting into Gryffindor once more," Hermione pronounced confidently.

Dumbledore offered her, to her surprise, a brand new looking black hat, and she put it on top of her head.

Welcome back, Miss Granger, the hat greeted her.

Thank you, Hermione thought back. You know just where to put me, I presume?

Indeed I do, the hat said, and for the second time that day, Hermione's heart sank to the bottom of the floor.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione stared at the hat as it was swept off her head. "There must be some kind of mistake," she stammered. "There's no way I can be in Slytherin—I'm Muggle-born, they'll never allow me in the dormitory—"

"I am sure they will have no qualms about letting a young witch as yourself into their House," Dumbledore told her. "Especially with their Head Boy being a half-blood, and he has done perfectly well for himself."

With the first smile of the day, Hermione said, "And what is his name, if I may ask?"

"Tom Riddle."

Indeed, Hermione seemed to be mistaken: it turned out there had been something remarkable about the year of 1944, after all.