So I am absolute trash, and I am starting a Remione when I already have a Cedmione to finish, and 30k written of another Remione…. but the 30k fic is probably going to be a 100k+ monster, and the Cedmione is a sequel and requires a lot more thought and attention to detail (continuity). So here I am, on my day off, starting this fic. Here's hoping I finish it!


"Get back here, mudblood!"

Hermione's chest ached with each breath, and she tried to ignore the sharp pain that was like a knife in her side.

Just a little further, she thought to herself, just a bit more, that's it.

She broke free of the bushes, fresh scrapes marring her face, and went to turn on the spot. She saw the infuriated face of her pursuers before her apparation took her to a place of complete contrast.

The moon was full, round and glowing right above her. Its light shone on her new surroundings, illuminating them in an almost ethereal glow.

The black market was thriving, as it did every night. She weaved in and out of the crowd, bumping into all manner of people; mothers with their children, elderly wizards seeking help in their retirement, solo travellers wishing for a safer journey. There was no one running, like she was. There was no one with that slight edge of panic, like she had. The crowds parted for her somewhat, sensing her urgency, hearing her ragged breath.

Finally, Hermione reached her.

"Give it to me," Hermione rasped out, almost throwing a bag of gold at Verdandi, who looked shocked at the sudden interruption. Hermione had knocked the customer Verdandi was speaking to out of the way.

When Hermione received no response other than a wide-eyed look, she lost her patience.

"Give it to me!" She shrieked, grabbing the merchant's lapels in her fists and bringing her face close to her own.

Verdandi still looked shocked, but a glimmer of understanding was now in her eyes. Hermione let her go, and the older woman reached behind her for a small wooden box. The crowd bustled behind them amidst the glow of the full moon. The middle-aged woman Verdandi had previously been talking to had moved on, unimpressed. There was much else to be seen in the market, Hermione knew. Since the uprising, she had been perusing it for many months in the hopes of finding anything to help.

"Remember what I said when we first met," Verdandi whispered in her ear, shoving the box into Hermione's clammy hands. Her side felt ripped open with every breath, and she only nodded in response before turning quickly on her heel and leaving Verdandi behind.

The crowds thinned the closer Hermione got to the edges of the market, sticking to the shadows created by the moonlight hitting the roofs above her. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating an unusual rhythm that resonated through her blood, which began to sing an ominous tune as if sensing the reality of her situation.

Ducking into an alley that had seen better days, Hermione tried to ignore the rise in volume about twenty metres away from her, the indignant exclamations for someone to watch where they were going, and why did they have blood on them?

With trembling hands, she picked up the box, ornate in its design but irrelevant. She flipped open the lid, and saw inside her means of escape.

The gold glistened in the moonlight, slightly off colour to what she remembered. With no time to think at all, the shouts getting louder and closer, she yanked the necklace over her head and flipped the knob on the right side twice.

Two hours.

As she felt the old but familiar pull at her chest, where the time turner now sat quite comfortably, Hermione closed her eyes against the dizzy sensation likely to take a hold of her. She had learned, through much practice, that witnessing the present reverse itself did not sit well with her stomach. Especially amongst crowds.

Despite this, the sounds she heard rushed by her as if she was on an especially fast rollercoaster, the roar of the wind echoing in her ears painfully. She clasped her hands over them, wincing against the rushing sound of water, like her inner ear was struggling to keep up with the time change.

Suddenly, it stopped. Looking around, hoping to find shrubs or bushes to take cover behind, Hermione pulled up short. This was not the forest she had been in two hours ago. In fact, Hermione did not recognise the place she was standing in, just as she could not rectify having left at night but suddenly being blinded by daylight, however waning.

Pulling out her wand, which had been stashed in her robes before her run for freedom, Hermione eyed her surroundings warily. By all appearances, this was a Muggle neighbourhood – but she knew better than to trust things by their appearance. Death Eaters did not take offense at hiding behind Muggle facades, these days. Hermione knew all too well.

The road was relatively empty despite what, Hermione might've guessed, should be rush hour traffic. After all, it was dusk and despite seeming like a relatively warm day this was still winter. She seemed to be standing next to a large tree, an unusual sight in the London she was used to. In fact, looking around her she noticed the houses looked a lot less like her London and lot more like the London in her parents' pictures, the London of the 70's that they had lived in the outskirts of.

Mind whirring with any and every possibility, she stayed by the tree to stay upright. She lifted a hand to her left side, which now throbbed in a dull ache as if it were a few days old instead of a few hours. Wincing, she leant her shoulder against the tree, and cast a Disillusionment charm. It would not do well to be seen, regardless of her new location.

"Henry, you can't possibly expect me to entertain your parents at such short notice!" Hermione heard from inside the house next to her position. The voice was a woman's, young, probably newly married by the sounds of it. Hermione listened, keen to figure out where she was.

"It's nothing, Ruth, honestly! They just want to come around and see how we're doing."

Hermione frowned deeply. It couldn't be… ?

"How you're doing, you mean." Ruth said crossly, and Hermione knew exactly how she would be holding herself – arms crossed, fire in her eyes. The stance would not have changed in twenty years. "We've been together for over a year, and they still don't like me."

Hermione's heart, having relaxed after her escape, sped up again at an incredible pace.

"You know that's just because they don't know you well enough yet-" Hermione felt like her lungs had been wrenched out of her chest for all to see, gasping for air that wasn't there. The wound on her side started up its sinister rhythm once more, and Hermione let out a cry as she fell to her knees, her charm failing in her weakness.

"-about time they- what… what was that?"

Muffled voices. Hermione's vision swam as she only caught half of what was being said.

"Ruth, she's struggling to stand-"

"-quickly, now, Henry-"

"-knew we should've looked at that place closer to-"

"-honey, she doesn't look dangerous, I'm su-"

"-are you- are you all right? Do you need water?"

Her eyes felt weighted down as they fluttered open, heavy and tired in the face of this new world.

This new time, Hermione corrected herself groggily, calculations and arithmetic and timelines swirling around in her head.

As the faces above her came into focus, Hermione's tired mind could do nothing more than nod feebly. Lifting her right hand to her head, she came away with blood.

"Don't worry about that," a deep voice came from her right. Turning her head, Hermione saw a young Henry Granger gently pull her wrist from the cut. "It's small, likely just a flesh wound. Head ones tend to bleed a bit," He smiled, and it was only because Hermione knew him so well that she recognised the worry in his eyes.

"Here you go," Ruth – her mother – interrupted, pushing a small glass of water into her field of vision. Hermione, struggling against the pain in her side, pushed herself up into a sitting position.

"Thank you," she rasped, forgetting to clear her throat. It seemed like hours since she'd last spoken. She could only really remember screaming. She took a sip.

There was silence for a few moments as Hermione tried to process what had happened. Her parents – Merlin, her parents – seemed equally as stumped, but obviously not for the same reasons.

"You know," her father started jovially, trying to lighten the mood, "it's not every day we have a beautiful girl faint outside our house,"

Hermione, helpless in the presence of her father's embarrassing humour, gave a huff of laughter before wincing hard at the pain in her side.

"I don't suppose," she began, pressing gently at the wound in the hopes she wasn't bleeding all over their new, albeit second-hand, couch, "you have any bandages?"

Ruth gave Hermione's father a look before he went to retrieve what Hermione presumed to be a first aid kit.

"We're dentists, I'm afraid," Ruth started, "Not doctors." Hermione couldn't fathom calling them her parents right then. They were so young, so different. And yet, the same.

"That's alright," Hermione said quietly, "I'm rather adept at cleaning myself up when I have the strength. It's just-"

"You don't." Ruth finished, smiling wryly at her own daughter, although she didn't know it.

There was silence again between them, broken only by the clanging and muffled swearing from what Hermione presumed was the bathroom. She had never lived in this house. When her parents had fallen pregnant with her, they'd moved to somewhere a little more permanent.

"Do you want me to call the police?" Ruth asked, looking at Hermione gently like she did when Hermione had told her about the mean things people said in the hallways of Hogwarts about Muggleborns.

Hermione shook her head.

"It's not like that," she said, and continued on in the face of Ruth's sceptical expression, "I swear. I ran into…. ran into a stray dog, of all things."

"You've had your rabies shot?" Her mother asked immediately, and Hermione smiled.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

It's not rabies I've got to worry about.

"Sorry, sorry," Henry apologised, coming back into the living room with a medium sized tin in his hands. "I thought you'd put it somewhere else." He explained, looking to Ruth who rolled her eyes.

"Alright," he proclaimed, "Let's see it then."

Taking a deep breath and biting her lip to hold in any profanities she wasn't sure she'd be able to say in front of her parents without feeling extremely displaced, Hermione moved her robes to the side and slowly lifted up her shirt, which was stained with blood and as dirty as Hermione had ever seen it.

Her parents shared a look. Hermione knew what they were thinking, especially her mother.

It was definitely not a dog that had bitten her.

The wound was far too large in size for it to have been a regularly sized dog, at any rate. Hermione knew, for her story to pass, it had to have been a dog nearly double the size it should be, with a type of aggression not many would see in their lifetime from a supposedly tame pet.

It was not like Hermione could tell them it had been a werewolf, instead.

"It- it looks worse than it is," Hermione said, hoping they wouldn't be able to detect the tremble in her voice as the bite twinged painfully. "It just needs a clean, and some bandages."

Despite Hermione losing the tremble in her voice, Henry and Ruth Granger looked anything but convinced.

"It's fine," Hermione said, clenching her jaw in stubbornness, "I'll be fine. Please."

It was with that, that they managed to jump into action.

"This is going to hurt." Ruth said, holding a bottle of water near her bite. Hermione nodded quickly, letting Ruth know she could start.

She hissed through her teeth as the liquid poured over her side, getting inside the wound and dislodging some of the dirt. Werewolves weren't that clean to begin with, especially not–

"You really should go to a hospital," Henry remarked, dabbing at her to remove the excess moisture. Ruth was unravelling a bandage, ready to have Hermione standing for better application.

"I'll be fine," Hermione insisted, squeezing her eyes shut as Ruth tightly wound the bandage around her midsection.

"Do you need anything to eat? Clothes?" Henry asked, looking at her ripped robes once Ruth was done taping the bandage in place, finishing with a wipe of Hermione's brow and a band-aid. His hands were slightly pink with her diluted blood, and Hermione looked away to stop herself from remembering the sight too vividly.

"No, no… I just need the date."

He frowned.

"It's August 31st, a Wednesday." He stated, waiting for an explanation. Hermione stared him down, willing him to continue so she wouldn't have to ask. There was a pause.

"Nineteen… seventy-seven…" He said slowly, sharing a bewildered look with Ruth.

"Right," Hermione said jerkily, pulling her shirt back down carefully over the bandages, "Of course." Moving cautiously toward the front door, she ignored the stunned looks of her parents as they followed her to the exit.

"Are you sure you don't want us to call the police?" Ruth asked again, eyes imploring. Hermione turned, door open behind her, and looked between her parents. Her mother, the brown hair Hermione had inherited looking straight and sleek. Her eyes, brown and nervous. She looked at her father – short, thick hair a dark brown, eyes nearly black in their darkness.

They were so young.

"I'm sure," Hermione concluded, smiling as politely as she could with a werewolf bite on her abdomen, "Thank you for your help." And she left them at the door, hobbling down the street in the near night, looking for a side street to Apparate from.

Welcome to 1977, Hermione Granger.

Putting aside all ideas about how and why this was happening, Hermione figured out her first port of call: shelter.

It was night time, in summer, and she had nowhere to go. She couldn't have stayed with her parents much longer. In fact, she shouldn't have interacted with them at all, but it had been beyond her control. What was done was done, and Hermione would have to return to obliviate them later when she had the strength and the means. For now… they would surely forget in time and that would have to be good enough.

She was again in a Muggle neighbourhood, something more familiar. That made things a little easier. She could transfigure money, despite the churn the thought left in her gut, and she could steal food more easily. This on-the-run life was not foreign to her, but she did not miss it.

But desperate thoughts remained: how was she twenty some years in the past after using just a time turner? How was she even alive? It would explain why she had appeared before her parents – the closest vestiges of her DNA left in this time – but travelling to before your birth was impossible, even if you were hours old and in possession of a time turner to do so. This was unheard of, and Hermione did not like it.

And what was she to do, if she wanted to return? Did she want to return? There was little for her there but a life of running, separated from her best friends and struggling with her new disease every month for the rest of her life until she died, old and alone, or at the end of a Death Eater's wand. At the thought of Harry and Ron, her heart gave a pang. They weren't even born yet. They were not missing her. The future did not exist, and she knew, despite the voice screaming denial in her head, that you could not return to a place that did not exist.

Pushing the thoughts out of her head, Hermione realised there was only really one place she could go, despite her misgivings. Living as a Muggle could not possibly work given what she now was – monster, whispered a vicious voice inside her head – and she could not live in the Wizarding World without a proper back story, especially not in this time of increasing deaths and disappearances. And there were only so many people in the world who could get away with providing limited information but still call on favours.

Clear your mind, Hermione remembered, closing her eyes and gripping her wand tightly, you are impenetrable. Your mind is a fortress only you can enter.

She appeared outside the Hog's Head, still a little breathless from the Apparation. It was dark out now, the waning moon her only natural light. Hogsmeade was not as bright as it forced itself to be after Voldemort's death, but it held some warmth in the light from the windows. The Hog's Head didn't look nearly as dodgy as it tended to be, and Hermione supposed this was because its usual clientele tended to linger more dubiously on the weekends. It was a Wednesday. The school year at Hogwarts started tomorrow, and Hermione knew that time was of the essence, no matter how ironic it was that she had twenty extra years of it.

Entering, Hermione searched the faces around her, not too interested in her ripped robes and patched up appearance, for the owner. He was, Hermione realised, behind the bar in a rare act of socialisation.

Wasting no time, Hermione strode as confidently as she could to stand in front of the tall man who, like his brother, seemed eternally in his seventies.


He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione realised that these days, most people referred to his brother as such. Regardless, she continued on.

"I need to speak with your brother."

His face darkened, and Hermione again had to remind herself that he did not know her, and that his pain was twenty years fresher than it was in her time, despite still being decades old.

He gestured for her to follow him out back. This did not surprise Hermione, as she knew Aberforth preferred to air his dirty laundry in the presence of very few.

"What do you want?" He demanded gruffly, pulling out his wand and pointing it right in her face.

She tried to hide her surprise. The wound at her side seemed to be spitting angrily, for all it was hurting.

Lifting up her left hand calmly, she slowly pushed his wand aside.

"I haven't come here to threaten you, Aberforth," she said, swallowing down her apologies. 1977 was too foreign for her to act friendly. She was a fish out of water, and the ground surrounding her was filled with landmines. "Your brother has connections I need to utilise and, as you know, no outsider can enter Hogwarts without express permission."

That you know of, Hermione finished silently. But it wasn't in her interests to play her best cards too early. Secret passageways would have to remain just that – secret.

Aberforth said nothing, and Hermione let slip something she wasn't entirely sure was true, but would do the job.

"I do not trust him," Hermione began tentatively, and saw Aberforth relax a little, "But I need his help."

Hermione waited for the older man to come to a decision, thinking rapidly about how she was going to present her case.

"Name?" He grunted in a bad attempt at asking, and Hermione held back a smile at her victory.

"Hermione," She blurted out, knowing that she would have a lot of trouble answering to any other name, "Hermione Huxley." Her mother's maiden name would have to do.

Nodding, Aberforth swished his wand and a wispy, silver form appeared. Hermione realised, having only seen it once before, that it was a goat. Aberforth's patronus.

"It's not often that I contact my brother," He said, eyeing her up suspiciously, "He will listen to you. You're officially invited. Don't come back here."

With a nod, Hermione exited the back room and then the pub entirely, only looking back once to see a thoughtful look on Aberforth's face.

One night, twenty-two years ago… he would not remember.

As she walked up to the castle, the summer night's air on her face a warm change from the frigid winter she had left behind, Hermione realised this was a lot more complicated than she had originally thought. All these little instances, they would all add up. So far it was two. Upon seeing Dumbledore, it would be three. She could not obliviate them all. She could only hope, with time, that memory would fade and hopefully insignificant people like Hermione Huxley would disappear from existence. She relaxed at the thought that most of the people she would encounter would be dead by the time she became an adult. If they did recognise her, they had said and done nothing. There had been no time to reminisce amongst old friends. If she returned, it would not be hard to convince them they had misremembered. There were so few to contribute to collective memory, and so she would be safe.

As she approached the gates of Hogwarts, a figure stood tall and intimidating in the shadows. It was only once they stepped forward and announced themselves that Hermione understood her unease.

"Miss Huxley," the Headmaster said, "My brother sent word of you. Quite unusual, as you might know." His eyes seemed kind, but Hermione did not mistake his geniality as anything but pretence.

"Yes," Hermione replied, refusing to expand upon useless conversation, "I require your assistance in matters… time sensitive." The play on words would have amused her friends had they been there with her.

"If that is the case, then let us discuss such matters somewhere more private. Please," He swept his arm behind him, as if asking her to lead him. Hermione sent him a perplexed look, but knew that the Headmaster was likely testing her. He chuckled, as if he had forgotten.

"Of course, I forget you have not been through Hogwarts as a student. So few people have not, when they are British."

Hermione chose not to reply, following the Headmaster up a few staircases and down the Gargoyle corridor in silence. Her time turner, concealed under her robes but still around her neck, sat heavily against her breastbone. It felt clunky and unnatural. Kind of like Hermione.

"Ice Mice," Dumbledore announced, before the largest gargoyle in the corridor calmly stepped aside to let them up the spiral staircase. Despite his assumed age, Dumbledore was light on his feet and not at all out of breath by the time they entered the office.

"Please, have a seat." Fawkes, younger than Hermione remembered, squawked from his perch. "And forgive Fawkes, he does not take kindly to unfamiliar faces."

Hermione perched herself on the edge of her seat, nervous for the first time in 1977. Every other obstacle had seemed easily overcome, or within her abilities to alter if need be. Dumbledore would not simply be obliviated, though. She must tread carefully, for Hermione knew now that Dumbledore would use whatever he could to defeat Voldemort. An old man tempted by powerful magic and regret, he would not be able to leave a time turner with the ability to go back decades alone.

"I find myself in need of refuge," Hermione began, making sure her mind was clear and steady. She attempted to look past the Headmaster at his familiar, so she would not experience the probing force upon her thoughts. "I have heard a great many things about Hogwarts and its willingness to help those in need. With the escalating war upon us, I feel it is no longer safe to confront it alone."

"I see," Dumbledore mused, looking at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His beard was only slightly shorter than she remembered, and perhaps his eyes were not so tired, but apart from those miniscule differences, not much had changed. "It is such a late hour that I cannot help but wonder whether you found yourself lost unexpectedly."

"You could say that, sir." Hermione said, finally feeling calm enough to look Dumbledore in the eyes. She felt no unwanted presence waiting in the wings, and her shoulders relaxed slightly. Her bite, still aching, throbbed as if to remind her of its presence.

"And you are not a student?" Dumbledore enquired, shifting forward as if interested.

"No, Headmaster. I am years from that."

"Ah yes," Dumbledore smiled, crinkles appearing around his eyes, "Years in mind or in body, I wonder?" The curious tone stopped Hermione from explaining. Instead, she waited.

"I'm sure you've heard, of course, of the trouble I have finding Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers," His hands steepled together, as if he were concocting up a great plan. Hermione only nodded, knowing that, by now, the curse upon the position was well underway. "Hogwarts may keep you safe, here, but I am afraid it would be best if your presence not be questioned. Whilst I admire Professor Nettle's enthusiasm for the position, she is not entirely practised in, shall we say… combat. She would benefit, I think, from someone attempting to, as you said, confront the war."

Hermione did not say anything, noting curiously that he did not make an assumption either way about which side she was on. Hermione knew Dumbledore was well versed in the phrase keep your friends close but your enemies closer. She surmised that Dumbledore was only letting her stay at Hogwarts to keep a close eye on her. Especially if she had approached Aberforth first. This wouldn't be a problem, as Hermione intended to keep her head low until a solution could be figured out.

"I hope you will accept my offer of teaching assistant, Miss Huxley?"

"Sir, I think it's important you know…" Hermione held her breath, trying to swallow the fear inside her chest. This was the first time she would ever tell anybody, and despite knowing that Dumbledore would not judge her for it – something she was thankful for despite her difficulty in trusting him – Hermione could not help but hesitate. "I don't come to you unblemished."

Dumbledore simply looked at her, and Hermione almost thought he knew. But the idea was preposterous, and she pushed it aside.

"I am a werewolf," She declared, holding her neck high.

"The offer still stands, Miss Huxley. We do not discriminate here at Hogwarts." His voice was suddenly gentle, as if talking to an upset child.

There was a moment of silence before Hermione, with nothing else to say and nowhere else to go, nodded.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore clapped his hands together in triumph, and Fawkes gave a victory squawk. "There will be quarters available to you, of course, and meals in the Great Hall are part of your wages. Twenty galleons a week excluding these should be about right, I think, for a junior position with us here at Hogwarts. Your holidays fall in line with the school's terms, and we start tomorrow on September 1st. You shall be here to assist Professor Nettle with whatever she needs for as long as she stays. You will uphold the same duties as all other Professors, and act accordingly to the moral standards set forth by the school. Do you accept this contract as it has been read to you?"

Hermione was surprised by the use of verbal contract, and not written as was custom. Especially, she knew, in a time when Polyjuice was sure to be used deceitfully. Unless, Hermione thought, they haven't even considered it yet. After all, Barty Jr got away with it for a whole year in 1995.

"I accept." Hermione recited, and the slight tingle in her tongue told her that the magic had been activated.

"I believe that is all, Miss Huxley. The Great Feast is tomorrow night, as all the students will be arriving by train that evening. Please arrive promptly, so that I may introduce you to both staff and students. Fawkes will show you to your rooms. As for me, an old man needs his sleep. Goodnight, Miss Huxley."

"Please, sir," Hermione started as Fawkes flew to land on her right shoulder. She gave a small smile, "Call me Hermione."

And the two of them burned out of the room.

Hermione had not been so nervous when she'd been a First Year awaiting her own sorting.

After finding spare clothes in her closet, no doubt placed there by eager house elves, she had showered the grime and the blood off of herself. Noting her reflection in the mirror, she realised she had been foolish to think Dumbledore would not suspect something. Dirty and with a Muggle band-aid on her hairline, Hermione looked suspicious to someone who did not know her.

Her hypothesis seemed correct, then. Dumbledore intended to watch her closely.

Replacing the bandages that her parents had given her with conjured ones of her own, Hermione settled in for a long night. Tired and exhausted, it would not matter – the first sleep as a newly-turned werewolf would not be comfortable. The infected saliva would be circulating throughout her body, changing every cell within her so that she would be a fully-fledged werewolf in time for the next full moon.

It was with these thoughts swirling around her head, that Hermione had fallen into a fitful sleep.

She had supposed, the next day, that living in the Wizarding World might actually be easier, in many ways. Wands were the primary form of identification, and although Voldemort was a threat, he was not as imminent as he would be in the early 80's. And so, an unknown wand on a young woman was not entirely suspicious. Besides, Gringotts would remain neutral throughout both wars. She had a wand, and that was good enough to begin with.

She had opened an account, giving her details to Dumbledore for her pay. She would have to put up with the assortment of clothes Hogwarts had provided in the coming week before she received her first pay slip. Then she could purchase as many unfashionable clothes as her wages would allow, to her endless amusement.

Her robes had been mended and cleaned by the morning, and so with great care she had changed into them for the Welcoming Feast. They were plain, and the style would transcend into 1970's fashion. All up, she had been lucky.

Despite all this, the nerves grated on her. Her stomach felt like it was doing somersaults, and her mouth was so dry it was like she had a mouthful of sand. She had been receiving weird looks from the students Second Year and up since they had entered. She was seated at the staff table, next to a friendly but timid Professor Nettle who had chosen to give her a small hello and nothing more.

It was like First Year all over again, but worse.

The Hat's song and its subsequent sorting was a blur. There was the odd name Hermione recognised, simply by virtue of knowing a lot of the Ministry's employees in the future, but apart from that it had been wholly uneventful. Which was unusual for a Great Feast in the life of Hermione Granger.

"-and so, it is with great enthusiasm that I introduce to you Professor Emilia Nettle, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and her assistant, Miss Hermione Huxley." Upon hearing their names, they both stood politely. "May their time at Hogwarts be both entertaining and instructive."

Hermione froze at that, and looked to Dumbledore. Eyes twinkling, it seemed nothing was amiss. But Hermione had not forgotten the coupling of those words, and would not for a very long time.

Scooping steak and kidney pie along with some mashed potatoes and gravy onto her plate, Hermione endured the well-meaning but monotonous talk of Emilia Nettle.

"I'll need you to help me catch some of the creatures Dumbledore wants me to have the students facing. He's been very persuasive, I must say. Boggarts for Third Years! They're only young, they don't need to be introduced to such beasts until much later. I can't remember the last time I even faced a boggart!" Nettle was laughing nervously, picking at her roast beef. Hermione gave a friendly chuckle, somewhat eager to be helping out considering boggarts were child's play in comparison to what these kids would be facing in the next few years. It seemed she had a lot of work ahead of her. "But alas, he is the Headmaster, and so boggarts it is-"

Her small voice was interrupted by a very loud bang, and the heads of everyone in the Great Hall swivelled toward the commotion.

"Oi!" A young man shouted. He must have been a Seventh Year, by the look of him, "What are you playing at, James?"

The bespectacled youth sitting across the table from him laughed joyously.

"Me? Why would you ever think I'd jinx your hand to your-"

And it was then that Hermione saw the first student's hand struggling to unstick itself from his own groin area.

The older staff members, having seen the perpetrators, were chuckling light-heartedly and continuing with their meals. Most of the students, Hermione also noticed, were doing the same thing.

"Ha ha," the first student said sarcastically, flicking his stylishly long black hair out of his face, "Very funny. But I'm starving, and you've spilt pumpkin juice everywhere."

The man with glasses was grinning.

"I've spilt pumpkin juice everywhere? Oh, Sirius, use-"

They had been so loud that their conversation had carried across the hall, and Hermione had stopped short at that name.

No, Hermione thought with horror, it can't be.

But it was 1977, and Hermione wasn't so lucky.

"Remus, did you see me spill pumpkin juice?" The second man said – James, whispered a small voice in Hermione's head – to the man sitting next to him, sandy-haired and scarred.

"Nope," Remus said, smiling.

"Me neither, James," said a rounder boy through his boisterous laughter.

Sirius Black grumbled unhappily and sat back down, left hand still stuck to his groin and right hand angrily stabbing his meat with a fork.

"I'll get you back, Potter, just you wait," he said loudly, but Hermione saw the slight smirk on his face.

The Marauders, alive and well and seventeen years old. It was an amusing performance she'd witnessed.

Hermione watched them laugh together, flinging food at each other. And it was with growing dread that she realised the real performance had only just begun.

Suddenly, she'd lost her appetite.

So I realise this is very much an intro chapter, but I think it's important to lay the ground work. Originally I wasn't going to have Hermione be a werewolf, but I feel this will keep things exciting, and will also act as a way to bridge the gap between student and teacher. I love time travel stories, but I wanted something different because although Hermione as a student is still fun, I find it hard to believe the Marauders would let anyone else into their close knit group of pranking, especially someone who they barely know. Here is my solution. I hope you enjoy the beginning, and please review!