Chapter Text
Unmoored, Evermore
Chapter One: And I Can't Be Sure, I Had A Feeling So Peculiar
The first sound Hermione registered was the rushing of water. Maybe it was the sound of a wave tossing against a shore. Then she heard a bird, perhaps a seagull. The sound was filtered and she felt softness and warmth around her.
With her eyes still closed, she further clenched them together tightly, preparing for the light that would penetrate when she did open them. She was anticipating the action of rapidly adjusting her vision to clarity.
Blinking repeatedly, she slowly opened her eyes. A muted grey filled her vision, however, she didn’t recognize the wall and window she was staring at.
A cool breeze rustled the gauzy curtains, the open window bringing in a salty smell—the sea.
She had no idea where this was or how she got here. She took inventory of her body, slowly shifting each limb and wiggling each finger and toe. Her brows knitted together as she rolled over onto her back and raised herself up on her elbows.
She felt fine save for the typical grogginess of waking. She wasn't sure of the time, though she knew it was day from her view beyond the curtains. The sun was hidden behind grey fluffy forms, submerging the beach in dull light and amalgamated puddles of varying hues.
She squinted, thinking. Her brain felt foggy trying to recall the weather recently and she questioned her knowledge of the current season. However, the breeze coming in felt chilly. Maybe fall? Maybe spring? She couldn’t be completely sure from indoors.
Her senses began prickling to awareness, catching the faint sound of metal clinking outside.
Hermione didn’t want to panic.
She sat up further, running her hands down her front as the blanket pooled around her waist.
She was wearing clothing; an oversized long sleeve shirt and light drawstring sleep shorts. Nothing unusual. She didn't panic because instinct tingled behind her ears; something about being here felt intentional on her part, despite the fact that she had no clue what was going on.
“ Accio wand.” she whispered.
Nothing.
In fact, something felt... off with her magic. She took in a deep breath to stay calm even as her pulse started racing. Hermione scanned the room quickly, spotting her wand on the bedside table. She immediately reached out and grabbed it, her knuckles going white with her tight grip. Even as relief flooded her at repossessing it, she didn't want to let it go.
She kicked her legs out of the bed and stood. The wood floor was cold against her bare feet. She tiptoed gingerly for a better look; she could see wild grass stopping at a sandy beach that was swallowed up by softly rolling waves.
She didn’t recognize this beach.
She moved around the room quickly and quietly, alert for any sounds outside of the bedroom door. It was unlocked and slightly ajar.
Across from the end of the bed was a wardrobe with a pair of jeans folded neatly on top. She didn't know who they belonged to. Her legs tightened in goosebumps from the chill of the air. She pulled the jeans over her sleep shorts. They seemed to fit fine, a baggy style but instinct again told her they were hers.
She tiptoed along the wall to the door, her back brushing the faded floral wallpaper.
Why couldn’t she remember how she got here? What was the last thing she did before falling asleep?
Hermione squeezed her eyes together and pressed the heel of her palm into one; her wand sticking out either side of her fist. It gave her a dull headache trying to recall her last waking memory.
Had she been with the boys? Harry and Ron? She thought so, at Shell Cottage maybe. However, this wasn’t Shell Cottage. Hermione was sure of it, she knew every room in that place. There were no noises outside the door, though usually by the time she woke, Fleur would be singing softly while preparing breakfast.
Her hand dropped. She needed to figure out where she was, if she was safe, and if anyone else was with her.
The manner in which she woke up gave her hope that this was a friendly situation but she couldn’t besure. She needed to be cautious first. After all, they were in the middle of a war.
She slowly pushed the squeaking door open wider with the tip of her wand and strained her neck to see as much as she could out its opening. There was a small stretch of hallway with another door opposite to her and the end looked to open into a brighter room.
She didn't recognize this either. It was apparent now that this was not Shell Cottage.
She slipped out the door, careful to tiptoe slowly. The floor boards looked ready to creak but she was lucky and they, thankfully, held strong.
As she slowly entered the bright room, she found it was a large kitchen and shared sitting room. The kitchen was covered in basic appliances and cabinets, a round white washed table and chairs in its centre. It was simple. The pads of her bare feet were cold on the stone floor.
Looking around she observed a cozy sitting area with a plush powder blue sofa, two worn blue wingback chairs, a low coffee table and a small fireplace. Squeezed between curtained windows were bookshelves on the two exterior walls. They were littered with tomes and knick-knacks.
The room was tidy and clean, everything seemed cozy and well worn. Nothing appeared decrepit, as if it hadn't had some sort of attention for a long time. Wherever she was, it looked lived in and taken care of.
She heard the clanking metal sound from outside again.
At the back of the kitchen, she found a wooden door with a tiny window, distorted from the assault of seaside elements. She walked quickly, hoping the opaque glass would give her some answers. All she could see was the sand kissing the sea shore.
Hermione saw a bit of movement at the peripheral of the view the small window granted her.
She took a steadying breath, her heartbeat racing in her ribcage as she put her hand on the door knob. Her wand was held tightly, ready to cast at a moment's notice if necessary.
She twisted the knob, pulling in the door as silently as she could manage, and peered around the frame.
There was a man.
Or, she was pretty sure it was a man.
He was bent over and faced away from her. She swallowed and stepped out from within the threshold, her wand raised and pointing at his back.
She’d forgotten the door and it made a tapping sound against the frame as it closed. Her eyes widened, heart jumping to her throat at her carelessness. The person straightened with a jolt and spun to face her.
Pale hair and grey eyes met her stare.
Malfoy.
First, shock hit her like a wave of water, causing her to choke in a deep breath. She stumbled, stomping backward to keep herself from toppling over and drowning in paralyzed fear.
Malfoy sucked in a quick breath between his teeth. His hand was on his chest, knuckles white and his eyes were wide in surprise.
Second, wild fear pulsed in her ears; if Malfoy was here, was Bellatrix here? She couldn't think clearly on that, his platinum hair shattered her thoughts into fragments, revealing nothing but the memories of laying on his drawing room floor, writhing in pain. A pain that corroded her molars like acid; the grainy, scalding remains sliding down the back of her throat leaving blisters in its wake and locking her jaw like a piece of petrified wood.
Malfoy wooshed a breath out, cheeks hollow and eyebrows high, he looked relieved.
Third, she felt something akin to a tiny brush of warmth, like a barely there breeze where you had to halt completely just to confirm its presence. The warmth was insistent, caressing the hairs at the back of her neck from raised alarm to submissive pacification. It was a displaced sensation of familiarity. Not unlike the instinctual familiarity she felt when she first opened her eyes. But also, there was something oddly benevolent about Malfoy’s posture.
Though she was skeptical of fate and divination, Hermione believed in her intuition and she fought her other senses tooth and nail to sink into that last feeling. She wanted to run but she needed to stay and figure out what the hell was going on.
Hermione didn’t speak or lower her wand. Her jaw dropped slightly and her brow furrowed as she twisted and tilted her head as if it was about to tip and tumble from its axis in bewilderment.
“Hermione, you startled me!” His amused expression quickly slipped into hesitation as he took in her raised wand.
“Malfoy?” she questioned, her tone laced with cautious disbelief.
“Malfoy? ” He parroted quietly. Then his expression hardened, “Oh...Granger.”
He swallowed visibly and his hands came together in front of his torso, turning a wrench over between them. Her eyes flicked down to dirty hands holding the tool and back to his eyes.
“What's going on...why are you here, Malfoy?” Her heart raced and she twitched with the urge to wrap her fingers around the carved letters in her forearm but her skin wasn't stinging with a fresh wound like she expected.
He remained silent and stoic⸺cold steel like the wrench in his hand. He looked out at the tide and pursed his lips, the breeze rustling his hair.
It looked longer than she remembered. She wasn't sure. She had seen him only weeks ago at the Manor, hadn’t she? Everything was off.
“Malfoy!” She repeated with insistence.
He looked back at her but didn't answer for a few more seconds before casually pointing the wrench towards her. “Your wand won't work here, Granger.”
“Why not!” She held it tighter, expression exuding defiance. Malfoy pursed his lips and his shoulders rose with a deep breath.
“You have nothing to fear from me." His expression was still hard and his voice was low.
“Is that so—”
“Yes.”
“What is going on here, Malfoy!” She was panicking and realized her volume was rising.
“What do you remember? Before you woke up this morning, I mean…” He took a step towards her and she took two back. He stopped, lips pressing into a hard line and a hand raised, a feeble attempt to placate.
“I...I’m not exactly sure...I…” She looked around, worrying her lip and trying to keep a clear head. Hermione didn't recognize anything around her.
“Where are we? Why are you here and how did I get here?” Hermione shot off her questions so quickly she forgot to take a breath. She was frantic for some answers and needed to take a gulp of air.
She grew dizzy as her head began to throb, overcome with a discombobulated feeling. It was as if the breeze brushing past her temples was dragging every coherent thought from her brain.
“When do you think this is, Granger?” Malfoy asked hesitantly, eyes downcast at his hands fidgeting with the tool.
“Shut up, Malfoy! Answer my questions!” She shouted angrily, jabbing her wand in the air, “what's going on here!?”
“Granger…” His tone softened like he was approaching a frightened animal, “what... year do you think it is?”
“What?” The word blew past her lips on an exhale.
“What year?” He repeated with equanimity.
She swallowed again, her wrist shaking. Her wand suddenly felt as heavy as a brick. “It's, it's 1998...it’s April.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows twitched and he glanced back out at the water, shaking his head slightly.
“Malfoy!” Hermione shouted. Her pulse quickened and she dropped her wand hand to her side. Her stomach rolled over and she widened her stance for stability at the dizzying nausea. She was alarmed at his silence.
He swallowed and finally met her eyes once more, “It's September, Granger.”
“What?”
“September of 1999.”