Hands in his pockets, collar turned up against the wind, Steve walked at a brisk pace to get home as soon as possible while trying not to set off his asthma. After being deemed unfit to join the army, for the… what? Fourth time? Fifth? He wasn't counting anymore, and his fake identities became more and more ludicrous every time. Heck, he'd even said he was from New-Jersey tonight, and that particular lie had made his skin crawl worse than the time Bucky had put a worm in his shoe.

Oh God… Bucky was going to kill him if he heard about New-Jersey. He supposed he would have killed him anyway if he had been approved. Bucky might be his best friend, his brother in all but blood, but he couldn't understand, he didn't know what it felt like to be dismissed when all he wanted was to help and do his part like everyone else.

Steve felt so… useless. Like an old shoe beyond repair that no one knew what to do with. Useless but you didn't just throw a shoe out, so you left it to rot in a corner.

But he could fight. No one believed him, but he could. He'd taken on bullies twice his size. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't impotent. Steve kicked a stone, followed it with his eyes as it hit a trash can, then the next in a musical combo. Okay so maybe he didn't win those fights, not really, but neither did the bullies in the end since he refused to let them, refused to stand down and cower. Steve was looking for another stone to take his anger out on when he heard a harsh laugh. It wasn't a happy one, but mocking and cruel. He'd heard it often enough directed at him. Worried, he searched for the source, walking back a couple of yards to the dark parking lot nestled between the back of barber's shop and the grocer's. Both closed at this hour, of course, so it was deserted and dark, or it should be but he heard a deep voice from the entrance.

"...walking around dressed like that. Just askin' for trouble is what I say."

That voice belonged to the laugh that had made his hackles rise, no doubt about it.

"Piss off! I can dress how I ruddy well like, you neanderthal."

"Think not, doll. C'mere and I'll show you a good time."

"No!"

The woman's shout ended in a squeak. Steve had heard enough. To be honest, he had waited too long already to intervene, but he had been taken by surprise at hearing a dame stand up for herself like that. However, this was not a lovers' quarrel. He doubted she even knew the man, and he sounded well into his drinks, too.

"Hey!" he shouted as loud as he could and stepped further into the darkened lot until he could see them. He had cornered the dame in the far end, leaving her no chance to escape, the beast. "Leave her alone!"

The man laughed when he saw him, but Steve jutted his chin out, fists clenched, ready to strike. He wasn't intimidated. What worried him was the woman who was struggling to keep her weight on her toes while the drunkard crushed her right arm in his meaty hand. A huge hand as large as her head. She was holding a stick as if she'd tried to attack him with it. She was brave, he's give her that, but she finally let it go with a whimper when he yanked her arm forward to face his new adversary.

Steve saw red. That was no way to treat a dame. Before he knew it, he was throwing himself at the bulky man, who swatted him back like a fly before he could even land a punch. Steve fell on his arse, tasting blood on his lips. The brute was wearing heavy rings to top it off. Damnit. Steve shook his head, trying to get rid of the dizziness from the blow when the other man yelled suddenly, dropping the lady as he held his hand. He cursed, then kicked her in the stomach and called her a couple of words Steve had never even heard before, although he could guess at the meaning. Finally, the drunkard left, snarling at him as he walked past. All in all, not such a bad outcome. It could have been a lot worse. For him at least, because he still had to check on the woman who had just been assaulted. Steve picked himself up and approached her cautiously so as not to scare her further. She was curled on herself on the floor, groaning.

"Ma'am?"

He was surprised when she carefully uncurled and looked directly at him, without any fear, even if she still looked to be in pain.

"Hey," she replied with a soft voice and a bloody smile. "My knight in shining armour."

A blush crept up his face. He knew she wasn't serious, but he couldn't help his heart from swelling with pride at those words.

"Thank you," she added, and she really did sound sincere. His blush intensified and he looked away.

"I couldn't just walk away. Are you badly hurt?"

"My pride, mostly," she replied, but her wince as she moved to a sitting position told him otherwise.

The lines around her mouth, the way she cradled her arm against her body and how she held herself, hunched over… He knew the signs of someone in pain and trying to hide it.

"May I help you up?"

She bit her lip and picked up her stick, which looked more like a drumstick now that he got a better look at it, all smooth and polished and straight. She tucked it into her large coat, almost a cape, before she nodded and gave him her uninjured arm. Steve put it around his shoulders to help her stand up, glad she was light enough he didn't make a fool of himself and drop her, or the both of them, back on the ground. Surprisingly, once she was up on her own two legs, she left her arm slung around his shoulders, unconcerned about propriety and seeming perfectly at ease with their proximity. They were of a height too, which was a welcome change, so it wasn't as uncomfortable or difficult to hold her up as he'd feared. Maybe she was still too wobbly on her legs. Shock alone could do that, but she'd been pretty roughed up too.

"Where do you live? I'll walk you back just in case that brute is still around."

The woman looked around, then at him, biting her lip again.

"You know… I'm really not sure. Where is this exactly?"

"Brooklyn." He frowned. "Did you hit your head?"

"New-york?" she asked instead.

Was there another Brooklyn around these parts? Steve nodded at her question. With her strong accent, she didn't sound like she was from around here, but there had been a lot of immigrants fleeing the war these last few years so it wasn't out of the ordinary either.

"That's impossible," she said in a whisper, more to herself than to him.

She paled considerably, enough that he could see it in the near darkness, then slumped, putting more of her weight on him. He squared his shoulders, refusing to be weak when someone needed him.

"Where do you live?" he asked again, more softly.

"London… England."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Bit far to walk," he said, not knowing how to deal with someone who seemed to suffer a bout of amnesia.

She chuckled and he felt like he was doing something right if he managed to cheer her up. He could do more though. He couldn't very well leave her there to fend for herself. The next person who offered their help might not have such noble intentions.

"I live just up the street if you want. It's not much, but you can rest there until you feel more like yourself."

He half expected her to refuse, but she just looked straight at him and there was so much going on behind those deep brown eyes. She was nothing like the vapid girls Bucky took him to dates with.

"If you don't mind. Just for a bit. Until I figure things out."

Steve smiled. He was useful after all.

His worry about her mental state grew when the woman froze upon stepping onto the lighted street. She just stood there, and, as inelegant as it sounded speaking about a dame, she gaped. At the cars, at the people, at the buildings and the signs… It was as if she had never seen a city before, but surely London couldn't be all that different. It was a big city too, right?

"Alright?" Steve asked.

"Yes… yes, sorry. Lead on."

She was quiet the rest of the way, but seemed relieved when they arrived and he had closed the door behind him. He felt a bit awkward. He had never had a guest before, except Bucky, and he didn't really count. Bucky had always been there… until he wasn't. Punk better come visit before he left.

"Water?" he asked as she sat on his chair.

"Please."

He scurried off to the sink and filled a glass, then got out his first aid kit, hoping she wasn't hurt too badly. He knew how to deal with scrapes, but anything more… He shook off his doubts. No use imagining the worse. He kicked himself into action and returned to his unexpected guest, having a good look at her for the first time, as well as her clothes!

"Are you- Are those pants?" he blurted out, pointing at her legs before hastily withdrawing his finger.

She looked down at herself with a frown, then back up at him with a gleam of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Trousers? Yeah. Jeans, actually. I take it they're not very fashionable around here."

For men working on the docks, maybe… and they looked nothing like those she was wearing. Steve shook his head vehemently and she seemed amused. Her jumper was fine though, if a bit childish. At least it didn't cling to her curves like her bottom half. And her long coat really did look like an old timey cape. It even had a large hood. It was just… weird. Foreigners, go figure. His Ma would probably have had a lot to say about her being English to explain her strange ways.

"Do you have a bloody lip?" he asked. Might as well start small.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and he followed it like a hawk.

"No? Why?"

"You've got… blood, there."

He motionned around her mouth and she grimaced, grabbing the cup of water as she stood to walk over to the sink with careful steps.

"Not mine," she muttered over her shoulder.

Not hers? Oh! That explained the drunkard's howl of pain and hasty retreat. She must have bitten him hard enough to draw blood. He smiled. Good on her. Even if it was a bit gross. He heard her spitting in his sink. She was so unlady-like, it was almost comical. When the gurgling from his kitchen area had stopped, she sat back and went through his medical kit, lining up materials. She seemed to know what she was doing so he watched, out of her way, but there if she needed help. She shrugged off her coat, then her jumper, hissing every time she had to slide a sleeve past her injured arm.

And Steve was blushing, again. She was just undressing. And he was right there. Should he turn around? Close his eyes? Bucky wouldn't. He'd ask if she needed a hand, but that hardly seemed appropriate right now. Besides, she wasn't shedding any more layers. She was in a simple white tee-shirt now, and he had one very much like it. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised she was wearing yet another male item of clothing, although it suited her rather well. It was very… form-fitting. Like her jeans. At this rate, he was just going to blush non-stop. But then he saw the bruises, the distinctive shape of large fingers on her forearm, and her wrist… it was not only bruised but swollen too. He wished he had a least punched that bastard in return. Steve didn't want to imagine what he would have done to her if he hadn't stepped in.

"It's only a sprain," she said, looking up at him, holding his gaze for a moment. "I don't want to risk making it worse, though. Do you have anything I can use to make a splint?"

"I have pencils," he offered, not sure that would work, but it was one thing he had enough of. Unfortunately, he lacked everything else. He took a couple pencils from the table where he usually drew and watched again as she set her wrist, then wrapped it with the makeshift splint with precise movements.

"Are you a nurse?"

She tied the ends of her bandage with a chuckle.

"No. But I do have an accident-prone friend so I read a lot on basic healing in case we couldn't use- uh… see a doctor."

That didn't sound quite right, but Steve didn't want to pry if she didn't want to say anymore. Her expression turned from merry to chastised in an instant.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't even introduce myself, did I? After everything you've done for me, too."

"That's quite alright. A bit of a shock, I imagine. I'm Steve Rogers," he said and offered his hand before recalling her right hand was injured.

He let his hand drop. Why did he always have to make a fool of himself? Before he could beat himself up too much about it, her left hand sought his out: soft and warm and small, even compared to his own. It felt so good, this human contact: warm, earnest and friendly. Like Bucky. He chuckled to himself. His friend was never going to believe this story.

"I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger. I'm really grateful for your help tonight, Steve. You have no idea how much."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"More than getting beaten up by a giant in the street, you mean?"

"And being so far away from home too."

She bit her bottom lip, dragging her teeth over it before letting it go. She sighed.

"So much trouble," she admitted and slumped back in her chair.

Her tee-shirt rode up, revealing her midriff, but she didn't seem to notice, or care. And this position made her breast perk up… Steve wanted to bang his head on the table. If this is the sort of thought bringing a dame back home put in his brain, maybe it was for the best he remain a hermit.

"I was in London, and then I was in that parking lot," she snapped her fingers. "Just like that."

Steve dragged the second chair from the table and sat facing her.

"That's impossible."

"Without meaning to? Yes, quite. But that's not even the worse part."

"No?"

The incredulity in his voice was as evident as the time Bucky had told him about the ginger triplets he'd picked up one night in a bar.

"What year is it?"

"1943," he said with a frown. Just how hard did she hit her head? Maybe he should check her skull for a bump.

"You see, I was in London in 1999."

Steve stared blankly at her.

"That's impossible."

"I knew you wouldn't believe me. I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time processing it too, and I just needed to say it out loud."

"And that makes it better?"

"No. Not really. I don't know… I thought it would make it seem more real. I can't figure out what happened. Why it happened. It doesn't make any sense."

The last word ended on a high pitch note and she apologized again. Steve didn't know what to make of her. She seemed so earnest, and she was nice, polite. He'd like to believe her, really, but it was so farfetched. Hermione sighed and busied her hands, cleaning up the mess she'd made, then she pulled her chair closer to his, holding up a damp cloth.

"Your lip," she explained.

"I can-"

"Let me? It's my fault, after all."

He nodded. She was so close, he was having trouble thinking, let alone talk. Without her outer layers, he could smell her perfume, sweet and fresh like the spring flowers he drew in the parc. She dabbed his lip gently, her eyes focused downward allowed him to look his fill. Her skin seemed soft, almost flawless and she had a few freckles smattered across her nose, long dark lashes and her eyes were a whisky brown colour. Her hair up in a tight knot seemed to have a wave to them and he wondered what it would look like undone.

When she glanced up, probably feeling his eyes on her, she caught him staring, but didn't berate him for it. In fact, he could have sworn her cheeks had coloured pink, but she was half turned away from him, going through the pockets of her coat and dumpling various things on his table.

"Aha!" The triumphant exclamation was followed by her holding out a little vial of orange liquid. "Dittany. I always carry some on me. I'll have your lip fixed in no time."

Steve had never heard of dittany, but if it involved her being close again, he didn't mind. God, Bucky was such a bad influence on him. She dabbed some of the liquid on the cloth and dabbed his lip again. It tingled for a bit, then the pain was gone. Completely gone. She let go of the cloth and her finger trailed over his lip, checking her work.

"There you go. All healed."

It took all of his will to remain cool as a cucumber, which he definitely was not.

"I- I need to go. To sleep. If you want to stay, you're welcome to have my-"

"I'll take the sofa. Thank you again, Steve. Sweet dreams."

Steve was too out of it to protest, or wish her the same. He walked over to his bed in the next room with stiff movements and fell face first, groaning into his pillow. He was such an idiot for reacting this way. She was way out of his league, and injured, just been molested in fact, and she was a bit nutters. It didn't keep his thoughts from straying back to her, however.

The next morning, he woke early. He always did, but even more so today because he had to check he hadn't dreamed up last night. He threw on yesterday's clothes and was very careful not to make his door squeak as he opened it to peek into the other room. There was someone sleeping on his sofa, tucked into the pillow and blanket Bucky stashed next to it for when he stayed over. He tiptoed over to the table, still littered with the contents of Hermione's pockets. She must had dropped right off to sleep like he had if she hadn't bothered putting away her belongings. There were even a few coins, but they looked unfamiliar. Curious, he lifted the closest up to his nose and squinted at the markings, almost dropping it when the date jumped out at him: 1987. He checked every coin, most British and a few others he couldn't identify and had no apparent dates. But all of the other coins were dated between 1972 for the oldest… the oldest! Which was thirty years in the future. The coin dated further into the future was a penny dated 1998… Hermione had said she came from 1999.

Steve dropped in the chair she had occupied last night. It couldn't be a prank. Why would anyone bother pulling something this elaborate on him?

Feeling only slightly guilty, Steve perused the other items: a paper ticket in garrish orange and green stamped with the date 12th April 1999, an old fashioned quill, round foil wrappers which he assumed contained sweets, a mixed bunch of keys, old fashioned and modern both, gloves made of a strange material he'd never seen, almost like scales, plus a few odds and ends he couldn't identify, not even what they were made off.

Could she really be from the future? It sounded so insane and yet, it would explain a lot. Her clothes, her manners, even her speech, accent aside, she had a strange turn of phrase… A yawn from the sofa made him snap back to the present, sitting ramrod straight in his chair as if he had been caught red-handed.

"Steve?"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"It's fine," she said as she pushed the blanket off then stood. "I guess I should start-"

"Jesus! You're not- You're- Pants!"

He dropped his head in his hands. She was going to kill him. And this just proved his point about her being out of time. He was pretty sure normal dames didn't walk around in just a tee-shirt and what looked like men's boxers, even less so in mixed company, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Right. The forties," she muttered. "Hold on. Okay. I'm… well, more or less presentable."

Steve peeked up. Okay. No more skin showing. He was equal parts relieved and disappointed. He hadn't noticed her hair undone either, what with all the legs distracting him, but it cascaded down her shoulders, brushing past her elbows in a beautiful tangle of caramel curls. He had an urge to draw her, just like that, still sleep tousled, with the morning light shining like a halo around her. He should probably pick his jaw off the floor first.

"Were you looking through my pockets?" Hermione asked, breaking the spell.

"Not on purpose. You left it there after last night and I saw the coins and the date and then… you were telling the truth?"

"Yes! Why didn't I think of that? You believe me?"

Steve nodded.

"Hard not to. What are you going to do? To get back? It's possible, right? I mean, if you can go one way-"

Her stricken expression told him that wasn't so. Strange to think time travel only worked backwards.

"I thought about it all night. I could go to people who know about this, but I don't know them, and they certainly don't know me. I don't even know who to trust. Time travel is strictly controlled and those who abuse it are severely punished. They might...no, they will lock me up somewhere so I don't mess up the time continuum. The Americans will. Maybe if I can get back to England… find Professor Dumbledore… Yes, I think he would help me."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan. But… erm… you do know what's going on in the world, right? I mean, if you're from the future, you know… Oh! You know! The war! Do we win?"

Hermione was well read despite not having had a muggle education so she knew how and when the war ended. She even knew a lot more than that given there was a magical side to this war too.

"See, this is why time-travel is forbidden," she deadpanned. "I'm sorry."

Steve couldn't hide his disappointment. To think he could know, that the information was right at the tips of his fingers, that he could know if Bucky would have to be sent to the front after boot camp or if he would be safe… And suddenly he understood what she was saying, why her being here, her knowledge, was so dangerous. If the wrong people got her hands on her… they would get the information they wanted whether she wanted to give it or not, and it might change everything.

"But-" she began and his head snapped up. "You'll notice I don't speak German. Not one word of it, in fact."

Steve laughed. He didn't remember laughing this hard since his mother passed away. He was so happy, so relieved… So, of course, he had to ruin the moment and have an asthma attack.