Chapter Text
Mise En Scène:
“The arrangement of the scenery, props, etc. on the stage of a theatrical production or on the set of a film. Alternatively, the setting or surroundings of an event”.
Mysterious thing, time. Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous.
Hermione believes no truer words were ever spoken.
Time is indeed the most mysterious of phenomena, an enigma of which scholars and great minds have been trying to decipher for millennia.
An enigma, akin to a spider, spinning a web unfathomably wide, each strand resulting in a multitude of predicaments. Of danger.
Such predicaments she herself can attest to, having already had a taste of its deadly bite.
Still, her escapades with Harry in previous years have most certainly not prepared her for the current predicament she finds herself in.
Far from it.
Her head is drumming to an awful, painful beat, and she finds herself to be both dizzy and disoriented. A feeling of nausea, of sickness rolling through her.
And her mind, it’s difficult to think, to remember what came just before.
Before she’d found herself outside, half drenched in a downpour of rain, her body aching and cold against the cobblestone streets of what she presumes to be Diagon Alley.
Only- a slither of something is poking its head through the pounding ache of her head, demanding attention.
She’d been visiting someone-
Yes, someone down in the time room, on an assignment. The door comes into focus, her hand as it pushes the thick grate open.
A flash of light, and someone yelling-
Then, pain.
It ricochets through her mind, then and now, slamming like a full force stinging jinx right into the side of her brain.
A gasp escapes her, and she falls back against the exposed brick of the building behind her.
Her legs feel half boneless, like jelly and she finds herself gripping forcefully onto the hardened, scratchy surface of the brick for purchase, to keep herself upright.
What in Merlin’s name happened-
Only, she knows that’s an awfully stupid thought to have.
Because she may not know the intricacies of what, exactly happened, but she does know definitively that her symptomatology, the state of the street she can see poking through the fence beside her-
It all leads to one occurrence.
She has- she has been hurtled through time. Sent to somewhere in the past, if the shop names are anything to go by.
The lettering is not at all similar to her own time, to the present day. Most are in elaborate cursive, colouring of the buildings different.
Another roil of sickness slides through her gut, and she closes her eyes against the feeling.
Just like apparating, time travel can oftentimes produce a feeling of sickness, what with such force occurring on one's body.
That being said, Hermione has absolutely no fathomable idea how she’s even standing. How she is even breathing.
As far as her knowledge goes, no wizard, no witch, and no being in between has ever been recorded as going back in time by more than a handful of years.
And she is sure, as she inches toward the street, keeping herself firmly pressed to the wall, swept up in the shadowed darkness of the alleyway, that she has been sent back by more than ten years, at least.
More, perhaps.
The wizards, the witches all bustling through the streets, all rushing to who knows where- to escape the weather, perhaps- their clothes are indicative, though. Enough of an answer.
Missing shops, names entirely different, it’s all too much.
Her eyes sweep over it all, quickly, methodically.
It’s still raining, water splattering against the cobblestones. Luckily, though, it appears to be tapering off.
Still, the people are rushing, and although Hermione is most certainly sure of her exact predicament, she is still unable to pinpoint what year she’s come to find herself in.
The people are too quick in their steps, scurrying away before she can quite discern-
Someone passes close by, then, shading the alleyway in more darkness, and Hermione flings herself back, ducking back behind the curve in the wall sharply.
Her heart feels as if it has taken up residence in her throat, beating heavily.
A second passes, and when no one enters the alleyway, she inhales a deep, long breath.
Cold has begun to seep through her, owing to her drenched clothing, chilling all the way through. As if it is content to settle into her bones.
Hermione pushes through it, the nausea, the aches, the frozen, awful feel of her soaked clothing as it slicks to her skin.
Now is not the time to panic, to lose her head.
Across the way, she spots a clothing shop, the mannequins dressed smartly. From here, it’s a little difficult to see, but at least these subjects aren’t moving and so-
Dresses, long, and each cinched in at the waist. Full, quilted skirts.
High, buckle tabbed blouses. Wrap style robes, all hand sewn.
Tones of navy and avocado green. Some red.
Based on these fashions, Hermione can estimate that she is somewhere between 1945 and 1960, although fashions are never definitive. Never kept solely to specific timeframes.
Ideally, she needs to get access to a newspaper, to be sure.
Her hand instinctively curls into the pocket of her robes, clenching around-
Around something that doesn’t feel like a whole, complete wand.
She draws her wand from her pocket. Or, rather, what’s now left of it.
Hermione swallows, thickly.
It’s broken in multiple places, splintering. Her heart clenches painfully at the sight of it.
Of course, it’s not the first time she’s been without a wand in dire circumstances, but her wand- it’s never been broken. Not ever.
Hurt rises through all other feeling, alongside panic and worry. Hermione stamps it down, taking another long, stuttering breath.
Right.
First things first; newspaper.
Quickly and carefully, she slips out of the alleyway, eyes immediately taking stock of her surroundings.
She didn’t want to do this, honestly.
With Dumbledore’s words reverberating inside her mind, she considers her options.
She’s in the wrong time, clearly. That is most bloody obvious.
And she is perhaps aware more than most of how time works. That to meddle in it could be catastrophic. World ending.
The butterfly effect.
Her being seen by the wrong person, it could alter the timeline. Alter the future in a way that is completely unfathomable.
But, she has no other choice.
So, facing adversity down with ferocity, she slinks through the streets, thankful that the rain has warded off most patrons, keeping them inside.
Thankful, also, that she at least has her robes to hide her otherwise conspicuous clothing.
Slacks and a blouse, fitted and entirely the wrong style, the wrong fashion, for this era.
Luck appears to be on her side, today, as not a few steps later, she finds a discarded paper, hanging from the side of a bin.
Not wasting another moment, she snatches the soggy paper up, flipping to the front page.
The date is printed at the top, accompanying several headlines.
1955.
Hermione feels half frozen.
In her hands, the newspaper feels cold, heavy. Weighted.
1955, she thinks.
Terrible things, a deliberate string of events are orchestrated during this time period, and Hermione finds herself to be slap bang in the middle of it.
The rules of time are simple.
Do not meddle.
Do not try to change the course of things that have already occurred.
With that in mind, she does the only rational thing available to her- what any rational, reasonable and logical witch would do. She plans, quickly, on her feet as she walks through the thinned crowds.
A plan of simple mind, of simple concept.
She must hide, must not come into contact with any important persons, and if she does, she must not meddle. Must consider herself a secondary character. Secondly, she must find a way home, back to her own time.
The odd, entirely familiar feeling of panic sweeps through her, half demanding recognition.
She ignores it. Stuffs it down.
Occludes so quickly and so abruptly that she almost feels sick again. Dizzy.
Right- think.
People in the street are mostly minding their own business, but considering she’s presently wearing what would be considered incredibly odd, muggle-like clothing, she decides her next step is to find something a little more era appropriate to wear.
Normally, and under any other circumstances (namely, if her wand wasn’t broken), she’d be able to transfigure her clothing to be less …muggle. Less eye-catching.
But considering she can’t, not even if she were to try wandlessly, she must consider other options.
Money, she has. Not a lot, not enough, she’s sure, to see her through the week. But it should suffice for now.
Thankfully, magic folk in Britain largely kept the same monetary system for hundreds of years, so her knuts and sickles should be acceptable here, too.
She slips down the next alleyway, away from prying eyes.
For the moment, she resolves to keep walking until she can find somewhere to-
It’s then that she sees it, over a fence. Down an alleyway, houses lining the streets, and a few clothes hanging from a line, not far off.
It’s not her finest moment, she finds, as she quickly plucks the clothing from the line and backtracks the way she’d half come.
If she can save herself some money, it will make this better in the long run.
She ducks into another alleyway, using a sparse tree for coverage as she looks down upon the clothing.
A plain, cinched skirt, and a high-collared blouse. It’s not ideal, not for this weather. But paired with her robes, it will do.
Somewhere, deep down, Hermione cannot shake the feeling that she’s just begun down a rather turbulent path.
One that could be the end of everything as she knows it.
The answer to Hermione’s cash-flow issue comes in the form of a job-posting in the window of Flourish and Blotts as she’s walking through Diagon alley, still planning.
She falters in her steps, eyes catching on the board pinned to the window.
Shop Assistant Wanted, Enquire Within.
It’s not necessarily the best, she thinks, only-
Only, it might be, actually.
A position, half hidden away- in plain sight, but a position she can remain nameless, faceless in. One that allows her access on a daily basis to tomes, books, and scrolls. Information and knowledge at her fingertips.
Which is exactly what she needs.
The shop, if her memory serves her right, is far enough removed from any significant events that take place during this time. Namely, Voldemort before he truly went darkside.
Not sparing another minute, she marches through the door of the shop.
Xavier Uras is a portly gentleman with thick brown hair and an equally thick moustache. He bumbles rather diligently around Flourish and Blotts wearing a particularly bright set of wizarding robes- the colour of ripe plums.
“Hello, Miss,” he says with a jovial sort of voice, “how may I help you?”
Hermione realises what rests upon her being granted this position, and she feels a trickle of anxiety working over her spine.
Then she smiles, putting her best, most polite foot forward.
“I hope to apply for the position in your shop window, if you are still in need of a shop assistant, that is.”
He looks Hermione up and down, scrutinising in a way that has her shifting under his gaze.
Then he frowns, eyebrows pulling inward.
He doesn’t look convinced.
Likely because she looks bedraggled, hair like a drowned rat, she’s sure.
After a beat, he purses his lips.
“Got your papers with you?” he asks.
Hermione shakes her head, feeling now, as if coming in here may have been an entirely awful idea.
“No.”
His frown deepens.
“Previous employer?”
“Not one that can give a statement.”
“Anyone at all that can offer upholdment of your abilities?”
Hermione feels stuck.
“No.”
“Lodgings?”
She pauses, then shakes her head.
Uras looks entirely miffed by her answers, his frown deepening so much so that Hermione worries he may be left with frown lines.
“Any experience at all?”
This sets her mind whirring.
Because, she does in fact have-
“Yes,” she says, offering him a triumphant smile, “quite a bit, actually.”
And so begins a quizzing on tomes, scrolls and books that leaves Hermione almost breathless.
“Favourite release so far this year?” Uras asks, smoothing a hand over his moustache.
Hermione pauses, and usually when asked such a question, she doesn’t even have to think, to consider-
But now, now she must be incredibly careful.
She must take heed with the historical accuracy of any book releases during this era. If she makes references to things that are irrelevant- well, it may just give her away.
Thankfully, her pause only appears as if she is thinking over her response carefully.
“Ogber Oleus’ Ode to Occlumency, of course,” she replies.
And she doesn’t miss the gleam in the bookshop owner's eyes, his clear excitement at her knowledge.
“The best-selling book of last year?”
This one is a doddle, seeing as it was one of Hermione’s favourite reads a handful of years ago.
“Trewix Tragron’s Tinctures, Volume 2,” she replies after hardly a beat.
Xavier Uras claps his hands together, most delighted, his moustache glinting in the shops light.
Considering Hermione’s penchant for books both old (very, very old) and new, she answers the rest of his questions most carefully and diligently.
By the end of it, he’s clapping his hands together again, smiling as if he is pleased.
“When can you start?” he asks, tugging a piece of parchment from under the countertop.
Hermione smiles most brightly and quickly pulls her charmed quill from her robe pocket.
Using her own name could be a mistake, considering.
For a beat, she thinks- ponders.
What name should she use?
She thinks of her own name, pulling it apart. And then, like a freight train, it hits her.
An anagram, of her own name.
As she signs the employment contract, entering a new name, a new identity for herself, her quill shines back up at her- her initials, HJG staring back at her.
Then she stuffs it hastily back into her pocket, effectively stuffing her real identity away, too.
Much to Hermione’s luck, Xavier Uras has several spare rooms located above the shop, and he very kindly offers to rent one out to her.
Such an extension charm is an illegal act in her own time, but she can admit that her knowledge of magic structural law is a bit spotty, especially when it comes to the historical kind.
She sweeps the thought aside, instead finding herself thankful to have found somewhere to base herself whilst she sees to her plan.
For the next week, her plan works most effectively.
She manages to assimilate herself with the manners associated with the time period, and her knowledge on books serves her most well.
Not a single patron questions her, and each day passes quickly.
After the fourth day, upon finding her stacking books manually with her hands, Uras allows Hermione to borrow his wand during business hours, tutting under his breath about how time is of the essence-
Which Hermione finds to be most amusing.
Indeed, she thinks, it is.
During her working hours, whenever she finds a moment, she browses the more obscure books, both in order to learn and keep her well-maintained cover, but also to hopefully find something that may be useful for her.
As each day passes, her hope only grows, and she dares not think of what might happen if she cannot find a way back to her time. Dares not consider how long she may be here, largely alone, in a time that is not her own.
Instead, she refocuses her efforts on her plan, on the books and finding a way out of here.
On a particularly sunny, tepid Tuesday, Uras bumbles into the main shop with a large grin on his face. He takes stock of Hermione’s clothing, of which he has declared to be much more suitable for an assistant of Flourish and Blotts-
A high-waisted, cinched skirt of far better material and condition than the one she’d ‘borrowed’ the previous week, and a high collared, elaborate blouse in a peachy cream tone. It had been a strain, but Hermione had procured these articles of clothing and some hair management tools a few days ago.
Now, instead of her hair being as wild as it normally is, she’s managed to scrape it up into a style reminiscent of the time. It’s not perfect- owing both to her hair’s natural tendencies and her experience with 1950’s hairstyles, but it will do.
Indeed, Uras appears far more pleased by her appearance now that she’s stepped it up a notch.
His smile widens, his moustache curving just the same.
“I will be taking some business meetings away from the shop today. I’m sure you’ll be just fine on your own?” he informs her, gesturing towards his elaborate briefcase.
Hermione nods, dipping her head.
“Of course!” she replies, smiling brightly, so much so that her cheeks begin to ache, “are there any reservations I should be aware of?”
Uras removes a sheet of parchment from his briefcase with ease and deposits it onto the countertop.
“Always,” he replies in jest, “only a handful today, nothing that should be of any trouble.”
Hermione’s honey brown eyes slink down to the small hidey hole positioned just underneath the countertop, where they deposit all reserved books for the day.
Sure enough, there are one or two carefully wrapped bundles neatly stacked into the small alcove.
“Ensure you treat each customer with kindness,” he replies, which Hermione thinks is rather unnecessary, considering she has been nothing but her kindest for the past week.
Still, she does not argue, as much as she wishes to.
Instead she smiles even wider, and nods her head. Although it very much pains her to do so.
She might not be the most sceptical, the most careless in her interactions with others, but being so very polite and spritely all of the time is rather draining, she finds.
Not quite her, really.
With a brief goodbye, Uras departs from the shop, leaving Hermione alone there for what is, she thinks, the first time.
Hermione goes about her day, very much eager to find a moment of respite to look through the books (particularly those kept by Uras in the back rooms).
It’s a fine Tuesday, she thinks.
A fine day- until it isn’t.
The charmed clock on the wall chimes three times, signalling that it has just gone 3pm. And at that very moment, as the last chime is ringing out, the door opens.
Her honey brown eyes snap upward, catching on the tall, striking figure taking up residence in the doorway.
She knows it’s him immediately.
His dark, immaculately curly hair is swept to the side, framing a set of pointed, handsome features. The edges of his lips are upturned, as if he is on the precipice of a smile. Polite.
The obsidian black of his eyes sweep across the space, pinning to her behind the desk.
He is unmistakable, unforgettable.
It must have been a few years since he’d been at Hogwarts, in this time. But he hasn’t changed, not at all.
He looks, she thinks, every bit like the memories she’s seen. Of Harry’s, of Dumbledore’s.
It is as disconcerting, as unnerving as it is horrifying.
Violent unease grabs at her stomach.
In all of the details she had learnt about him, it was never recorded of him having frequented any book shops. So she is, she thinks, quite reasonably thrown by his sudden appearance here. Before her.
His eyebrow, it has quirked up now, a half question. The rest of his expression is moulded most perfectly. Carefully polite in a way that to most would have them easily fooled.
But not Hermione.
Not when she knows exactly who he becomes.
Who he is, beneath the facade.
Although she has learnt quite well how to school her expression, the odd flicker in his obsidian gaze tells her that he has noticed- whatever look has just washed over her features.
And she hopes, she begs all the gods and to Merlin, that it hasn’t given her away.
He moves with easy, measured strides, each carrying him a pace closer to the front desk.
With each inch, Hermione’s skin crawls.
And her occlusion, it is sharp and swift as his eyes meet hers. Obsidian black on honeyed brown.
She plasters what she hopes is a pleasant smile on her face.
"Hello, Sir, how may I help you?" She asks, dipping her head in greeting.
He tilts his head, just barely, eyes unwavering, although his polite smile, it grows.
"I'm here to collect a reservation I put in," he says, ever so courteous, "although, I daresay you aren't the person I'd been expecting to see."
In this moment, for precisely half a beat, Hermione considers.
Just how simple, how easy it could be. Slipping her wand up her sleeve and into her hand is a doddle, aiming to kill, she's absolutely certain she can do, if necessary.
And to some, to her peers back in her own time, she knows they'd try. Ron most certainly would. Harry, too.
They wouldn't think about it, they'd simply just do.
But that isn't Hermione. Not at all.
She thinks, considers. Weighs up the pros and cons.
Firstly, her wand is still in tatters, unusable. And although her boss' wand has been accommodating thus far for work inside the shop, she's not entirely sure it would even allow her to fire an unforgivable.
Secondly, she reminds herself rather abruptly, she must try to protect the integrity of time. She cannot mess the future up, even if there's a chance that killing the wizard before her would solve many a problem, save many a life.
She has absolutely no idea what might happen.
And so, she simply widens her smile.
"Ah, yes," she says carefully, "Uras is away on business. I’ll be more than happy to assist you in the meantime.”
His eyes, she finds, are the most unnerving of his features. In the memories, the images she’d seen of him, his eyes had never come across as being this dark.
Certainly not as dark as they are, now.
As dark as obsidian, as hardened and absent of any emotion of the substance, too. Like wells of nothingness.
Hermione’s skin crawls.
“Wonderful,” he replies quickly, and then half a beat later, “I do apologise for my lack of tact, for neglecting to introduce myself.”
And Hermione finds, even though she knows exactly who he is, her breath has gotten stuck in her throat. Choking.
He tilts his head, an immaculate sort of greeting.
And then those eyes of his, as black as endless ink, meet hers once more.
“I’m Tom Riddle, pleased to make your acquaintance, miss?”
“Jane,” she replies, not missing a beat, “Jane Margie Greenhorn.”
A name she has been using for just over a week, slipping easily from her tongue.
A lie.
One he seems completely unawares of, as his smile, as brilliant as it is- widens.
“Jane,” he echoes, the name rolling from his lips like honey.
And Hermione finds, that although it’s not her real name, not hers that has been carefully enunciated from Tom Riddle’s mouth - her skin still crawls, still feels suddenly much too tight.
A beat passes, stifled.
He taps a finger lightly to the top of the countertop, drawing her very quickly to her senses.
“My reserve,” he says, voice a low murmur.
Hermione clears her throat, nodding in ascent, ignoring the tense feeling of her body, the edge she feels she’s sat on, and quickly tugs the two neatly wrapped books from beneath the table.
“Of course,” she says, attempting in all vanity to keep her tone placid, even.
One is marked with his initials, T.R.
And she feels, then, awfully silly for not having seen it earlier. Not having looked.
She vows, then, to check every day from now on.
Just in case.
She slips the other wrapped parcel back into the alcove, pretending not to feel his immensely dark, steady gaze on her face.
Pretending that she is unaware of his analytical stare remaining on her, as she prepares his reserved order.
Hermione knows, that to do so is a rather rude action, but she finds herself placing his reserved book, wrapped in brown parchment and now carefully bagged, onto the table with a thud.
To not simply pass him the book is a half insult, she’s sure- but she must be immensely careful. Not to touch him.
If not because of the constant reminder, in the back of her mind, about the butterfly effect, but because she is resolutely sure she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure if she had, in fact, touched him.
The mere thought makes her feel immensely uneasy.
Indeed, his smile, although still carefully in place, grows smaller by half a notch.
A signal, if any, that he has noticed her action.
His own hand swiftly plucks up the bag, movement controlled in a way that is commanding of attention.
With his other hand, he plucks a charmed quill from his pocket, and Hermione slides the confirmation papers across the tabletop toward him.
Every ounce of her being feels as if it is on edge, being so immensely close to a wizard that, not a handful of years from now, becomes the most dangerous, dark wizard of all time.
And she watches as Tom Riddle signs his name on the papers, his script one that is entirely elegant, carefully constructed. Neat.
He re-pockets his quill, slipping the paper back across the counter instead of handing it to her.
A sign, perhaps, that he may have noticed her reluctant behaviour.
Bugger, she thinks.
“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side.
As if he is curious, perhaps.
Which is not good, not at all.
“You are most welcome,” she replies, watching with what she hopes is a placid expression on her face, and not at all telling of the unease rolling through her gut.
He nods, once, simply, and turns on his heel, his robes billowing out around his ankles as he moves.
Only when he has left, his tall, immaculate figure disappearing into the crowd beyond the shop window, does Hermione take a full, unhindered breath.
She braces her hands on the top of the counter, gripping at the edge of it tightly, harshly. Her mind is spinning, off-kilter.
Thoughts of the butterfly effect, of every rule in time-travel swamping her mind.
She inhales deeply again, shutting her eyes tightly.
Trying to ground herself.
And she hopes to Merlin that she does not see him again.
