two | 02.
WHO WE ONCE WERE.

    Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Relief flooded her, but it was brief—quickly replaced by dread.

    The conversation that was about to unfold between the two men would decide her fate, and possibly much more.

    Turning on her heel, she made her way to the corridor just beyond the office. The heavy oak doors groaned shut behind her, and the sound echoed off the cobblestone walls like a gavel's strike.

The hallway was dark, lit only by a few flickering sconces that seemed nearly burnt out.

    It must've been late into the night.

    Armando Dippet, she thought, leaning against the cool wall as her mind began to churn. He was headmaster during the 1940s. What else did she remember about him?

    She recalled reading that Dippet was known for his dedication to tradition and had been deeply concerned with Hogwarts' reputation. He had watched over it  with an iron-clad sense of order, the kind that brooked no deviations or mysteries.

    And Hermione? She was a walking deviation.

    Her mind flicked to the potential fallout if Dippet chose to report her to the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry in the 1940s was nothing like the one she knew in her own time—it was a hub of prejudice, paranoia, and strict enforcement of magical law.

    A girl arriving mysteriously without documentation, without a traceable history? And a muggleborn at that. That would not go over well. And Dippet would surely know it.

    The muffled hum of conversation reached Hermione's ears through the doors. Though she couldn't make out every word, she caught fragments. She didn't need to hear every word to know that Dippet was arguing for caution.

    His tone was brisk, his words snipped with concern.

    "Unprecedented... Potential risk... The Ministry."

    Hermione's fingers curled into fists. The last thing she needed was for the Ministry to get involved. It would be catastrophic.

    The response from Dumbledore was softer. Though she couldn't hear all he said, one phrase struck her: "Trust must be extended before it can be earned."

    Hermione tilted her head against the wall, forcing herself to breathe. Trust Dumbledore. He was the only ally she had in this time—perhaps the only person capable of ensuring her safety. But even Dumbledore's influence had limits.

    The conversation between the two men stretched on for several more minutes.

    Then finally, the doors creaked open. Hermione straightened immediately, instinctively smoothing the fabric of her robes. Dumbledore stepped out first, his expression as serene as ever but with a trace of something warmer beneath his gaze—an understanding, perhaps, or a quiet reassurance.

    "Miss Aldrin," He began, using the alias she had invented mere minutes ago with ease. "I've spoken with Headmaster Dippet. He has agreed that you may remain at Hogwarts, provided you enroll as a student."

    Enroll? Hermione had anticipated sanctuary, yes, but under the guise of temporary accommodation.

    She had not expected full reintegration into a structured academic life that she had already completed once before. And not here, not now.

    She had spent so long outside the walls of the school, wrapped in the responsibilities of Horcruxes and spell-slinging, that it almost felt like a different lifetime.

    Could she return to that life? Was she even capable of navigating the social complexities of a school environment now?

    "There are, of course, expectations that accompany this arrangement..." Dumbledore said as he took note of her silence.

"The student body is bound by rules that ensure both safety and discipline. While you will have some measure of autonomy, you must understand that Hogwarts is a place where structure is paramount. The very nature of the school relies on its routines—its rhythm. You will be required to attend lessons regularly, as any student would, and you must be prepared to engage fully in your studies."

    Dumbledore's voice took on a more formal tone as he continued.

    "In addition, you will be expected to participate in House activities, attend meals, and be a part of the greater life of the school. You will find that Hogwarts is not a place where one can remain entirely removed from the community. The bonds formed here—between students, between Houses—are part of what makes the school strong."

    She had heard these words before, albeit under different circumstances. Rules and expectations were hardly new to her. But something about the formality of this arrangement—her second chance at a Hogwarts experience, though not by choice—made her feel like an outsider all over again.

    She knew better than to argue. Dumbledore's subtext was clear enough.

Blend in. Stay under the radar. Play the part until you find a way home.

    "You will also need to be Sorted." He added. His eyes twinkled slightly, as if he had anticipated her reaction before she even formed it.

    Sorted? Again? She had worn her Gryffindor robes with pride since her first year, and her identity had been shaped by her time in that house.

But now? Who was she now? The girl who had been fighting in the biggest war in wizarding history, who had lost too much, who had traveled too far back in time by accident?

    What if the Sorting Hat saw the cracks and didn't think she fit anywhere anymore?

    Dumbledore seemed to read the question in her silence. He offered a gentle, knowing smile, the kind that could be infuriating in its quiet wisdom. "The Sorting Hat is quite perceptive, Miss Aldrin, so you need not worry. It will take all things into account, including the woman you are now."

    Hermione swallowed hard. That did little to reassure her. She wasn't even sure who she was anymore. But there was no turning back.

    "I understand this may not be what you envisioned. But Hogwarts is a safe haven, and it will remain so for as long as you need it. While you are here, you will have time to gather your thoughts and, perhaps, find a way to enjoy yourself."

    Safety. Time. These were the very things she had been denied for so long—the very things she had craved since Voldemort had gotten out of hand. Now, for the first time in what felt like ages, they were being offered to her.

    Hermione felt the tightness in her chest ease, if only slightly. "Alright, I accept." She responded softly, her words settling over her like a cloak too heavy to shrug off but too necessary to discard.

    Dumbledore nodded, a hint of approval glinting in his eyes. "Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements. The Sorting ceremony will take place privately in Headmaster Dippet's office before breakfast at seven-thirty. Until then, I will have one of our house elves escort you to an unused staff bedroom so that you may rest there undisturbed."

__________

    Hermione passed the night dreamlessly, a rarity that surprised her as she stirred awake.

    For years, sleep had been a fragile thing—more of a necessity than an escape—haunted by nightmares of fighting, loss, and moments she could never take back. Yet this night had been different.

    There had been no haunted passages, no pursuers, no sounds of distant shrieks echoing through her mind. For the first time in what felt like years, her mind had surrendered to an uninterrupted darkness.

    Perhaps her brain had been lulled into rest by the familiarity of the place and the comfort of knowing she was once again within Hogwarts' walls.

    Pre-dawn light crept in through the narrow, mullioned windows, painting the walls in muted shades of purple and yellow.

    The teaching quarters Dumbledore had arranged for her were modest but functional: a four-poster bed with deep pine drapes, a small writing desk pushed against the far wall, and a narrow bookshelf coated in dust.

    The hearth, though unlit, still held the faintest traces of warmth from the night before when Hermione had stared into the flames for hours.

    Hermione sat up slowly, the brittle chill of the room pecking at her exposed skin. Her body, so accustomed to tensed muscles and clenched fists even in sleep, felt strangely loose.

    Free, even.

    She inched towards the edge of the bed, her fingers rising to massage her temples. She had always been the kind of person who worked through problems with logic and research, but now, logic had slowly slipped through her fingers like sand.

    Always the questions.

    How would she return to her time? How could she, with no Time-Turner, no map to follow, no guide? The past had a way of trapping you when you weren't looking.

    Hermione's gaze fell to the window, where a pale slice of autumn sunlight filtered in, too weak to offer any comfort to Hermione's thoughts.

    Hogwarts was the same in many ways; The walls still stood tall, the halls still whispered with the secrets of a thousand generations, but it felt alien to her now, a place out of sync with her recollection.

    Her fingers traced the sill as she stared into the horizon, her mind drifting to what lay ahead—Headmaster Dippet's office, the Sorting Hat... yet another crossroads for her to figure out.

    She resolved herself to focus on the present, no matter how daunting it felt in the moment.

    Returning to Headmaster Dippet's office for her private sorting was surely the first step to solving her growing list of problems. Yet her thoughts drifted to the last time she had been sorted—the nervous eleven-year-old girl with bushy hair.

    Hermione had been so desperate then—not just to belong, but to prove herself. Even now, she could hear the hat's voice in her ear: "You could do well in any House... But where do you truly want to be?"

    But that had been a different Hermione. A girl who had not yet faced war. A girl who had not seen death or carried the weight of those lost on her shoulders. A girl who had not fought to her breaking point and still pressed on because she had no other choice.

    Now, sitting alone in the pale light, Hermione wasn't sure who she was anymore, much less where she belonged.

    Would she ask for Gryffindor again, knowing what awaited her there? Could she endure seeing scarlet and gold, hearing familiar cheers echoing through the corridors, knowing that her closest friends—her family—were decades away?

    The thought sent a sharp pang through her chest.

    Harry's reckless grin. Ron's terrible jokes. The bond forged through fire and tragedy, stronger than blood. Would all of that become a torment if she surrounded herself with reminders of a world she might never return to?

    Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms. Don't cry, Hermione. Save your tears for later. There is too much to do.

    A sharp knock at the door pulled Hermione from her spiraling thoughts. She took a steadying breath and rose, fingers hesitating on the door handle for a moment longer than necessary, and the door creaked open.

    Hermione's eyes widened in recognition at the figure standing on the opposite side of the threshold, the blood draining from her face so quickly that her vision swam.

    The doorframe pressed into her palm, her grip so tight that the wood groaned in protest. She didn't even notice.

    Every detail of him—too vivid, too real—burned itself into her consciousness. Standing before her was a face whispered about in caution in the halls of the Order.

    Tom Riddle. Voldemort.

    The descriptions Harry had given her came rushing back in fragments, disjointed memories spoken between school years and grief: handsome but hollow, dark hair slicked with too much control, eyes that would devour you whole.

    Yet nothing—no book, no conversation—had truly captured the disquieting symmetry of his features or the cold, clinical precision of his gaze.

    If not for the darkness simmering behind those black eyes, he might have looked like just another sixth-or seventh-year student, a boy on the cusp of graduation.

    But Tom Riddle was no innocent, sod-eyed schoolboy. He was a storm just before the break—a facade of beauty masking ruin.

    Her breath remained trapped in her lungs, and Hermione fought the instinct to recoil. She swallowed the scream threatening to tear from her throat. It lodged there instead, a brittle thing, suffocating her from within.

    His eyes—those black, glinting voids—narrowed slightly, observing her with a disturbing intensity. There was no cruelty in his expression. Not yet. Only calculation. A predator's gaze, curiously detached and cold.

    His brows furrowed ever so slightly, no doubt noting her ashen pallor and trembling fingers. He was trying to decipher her, just as he would anyone who crossed his path. Even then, at that moment, Tom Riddle was a collector of knowledge.

    "Hermione Aldrin?"

    Her fingers loosened their death grip on the doorframe, and she drew herself up. There was no room for weakness here, not with Tom Riddle watching her.

    The fear that had once threatened to drown her transformed—slowly, agonizingly—into determination.

    Hermione forced herself to blink, dragging air into her lungs. Her heart pounded with a ferocity that nearly drowned out his words. She knew she had seconds—mere seconds—to compose herself.

    To school her expression into something that wouldn't betray the hurricane raging within her.

    Her fingers loosened their death grip on the doorframe, and she drew herself up. There was no room for weakness here, not with Tom Riddle watching her. The fear that had once threatened to drown her transformed—slowly, agonizingly—into determination.

    "I've come to escort you to Headmaster Dippet's office." He offered, every word carefully constructed to uphold his image. He stood perfectly still, unnervingly patient, as if waiting for her to make the first move in a game she hadn't agreed to play.

    Hermione swallowed again, forcing the scream even further into the pit of her stomach, where it curled up and smoldered.

    She could feel the weight of wizarding history pressing down on her shoulders—the knowledge of who Tom Riddle would become, the horrors he would unleash. But she was not the frightened little girl he so often preyed upon.

    "Of course, I apologize for the dramatic reaction. You reminded me of... someone I once knew." Hermione managed, her voice controlled despite the ice in her veins.

    She stepped forward, closing the door behind her with deliberate slowness. Every movement felt like a test, an exercise in self-restraint.

    Tom's eyes followed her as she fell into step beside him, but she refused to meet his gaze. She couldn't let him see the tears threatening to spill over her bottom lashes.

END OF CHAPTER II.