Chapter Text
The sounds of tiny footsteps echo through the elaborate mansion as a young blonde child pushed the door of the living room open. "Grandmama, you're here!!" She cried out happily in French, squeezing her way into the room.
"Oui, mon petite Fleur. What has you so excited today?"
The blonde pouted, firmly stationed before her grandmother’s chair. "You promised to tell me the story about the girl."
The old woman played coy, smirking at her eldest grandchild. "Girl? Well, I know many little girls, one of which should be at her classes right now." Fleur stomped her foot in aggravation; the former statement true but she chose to ignore that.
"Grandmama ~" The girl whined.
"Oh alright alright, let's see. Which one shall I tell you today." The woman's eyes brightened as an idea struck her.
"I know." The elder woman moved to sit down comfortably on the couch; the little girl ran up to cuddle with her as the story began.
"How about I tell you the story of the Witch of the Golden Dust…"
BAR
Hermione wondered at times whether there was a strange point in her life where she was blessed by Loki to attract mischief. That would be the only logical conclusion for how she was currently on a ship, in the middle of sea, holding a jar of dirt whilst attempting to escape what could only be the British Navy.
For a bit more context, we would have to begin the story where all great adventure’s start, the beginning.
It was a fairly peaceful day at Hogwarts, or as peaceful as anyone could make it when one is best friends with Harry James Potter. It was the closing months of 1993 and the little brunette witch had just started her third year at the magical school for witchcraft and wizardry.
Hogwarts, for those too lazy to read.
That year was particularly special as Hermione was given a coveted gift by Professor McGonagall to allow her to take all the extra electives the brunette had chosen to take. For the uninitiated; it was none other than the mythical time-turner. Of course, one would have to question McGonagall’s sanity at giving a literal 14 year old the power to pass through time unhinged…but it’s not spoken of for fear of being hexed into the next decade.
As previously stated, it was a peaceful afternoon, Hermione attended her classes as her schedule stated and was lucky not to run into any trouble.
As the smartest witch her age, she should’ve realised that it was at this moment that Murphy’s Law would come into effect; just as she happily flipped the hourglass to reset for her next class, a stray bludger came hurtling out of nowhere.
The metal ball of doom flew straight into Hermione’s side, violently knocking her out and concurrently the time turner hit the ground with a loud crack.
Who could possibly be playing Quidditch on a Tuesday afternoon between classes, Hermione did not know; but when she found out there would be hell to pay.
Whilst the confused witch was sprawled on the cold stone floor, for but a moment, the finely cut mineral sand of the magical item became airborne, swirled, then gently fell onto her unsuspecting body. They stray debris breathed into her body unbeknownst to her.
The next thing Hermione knew, the brunette found herself staring up into the brightly lit blue expanse of sky. That … That was certainly nowhere close to Scottish weather, especially not when it was Autumn in the Highlands.
As she slowly sat up, Hermione could feel the coarse grainy sand beneath her sensitive fingers and sure enough, the witch was not in Kansas (read:Hogwarts) anymore. In fact, she couldn’t even begin to predict where she was, except for the fact it was a beach.
An elongated, bright white sandy beach framed with lush emerald trees and crashing waves. A stunning picturesque holiday destination for any lucky holiday goer.
Hell was beautiful. Who knew?
Obviously, it would be at this point that one would consider panicking… any mentally sane person would evaluate the situation and respond accordingly.
Hermione did that for less than 0.3 of a second before verbally sharing her feelings- not internally either, mind you.
The teenager began screeching at the top of her lungs, particularly when she saw the cracked time turner. Why? Well the answer was twofold but simple. First, Hermione thought that the cracked time turner, the very item responsible for time travel and her access to classes, would leave her stranded in the apparent situation.
The second accompanying factor was the gift McGonagall painstakingly acquired just for her, was broken and now the professor would never trust her with anything again!
Or expel her for it!
Funnily enough, it did not register with the academically brilliant witch that if she hadn't already been expelled after the golden trio’s first two years of schooling, it could safely be concluded she never would be. Although to be fair, the troll attack could hardly be called the fault of the then three 1st year students.
To stir the shithole of a situation further, her voice had inevitably attracted a group of armed warriors. Had Hermione been calmer whilst stranded in who knows where, she would’ve observed that the armada was made entirely of beautiful, athletically toned women.
Said women were holding sharpened weapons that could kill her instantly but they were beautiful nonetheless.
“Hi there...” She gulped at the pointed blade so close to her throat. “So, you’re not going to kill me, right?” Hermione chuckled with an undercurrent of fear. “Can we…talk about this?”
It was obvious they knew not what she spoke.
To compensate for the language barrier, the Veela glared harder at the girl as they dragged her, arms bound with rope, to what could be described as a backwards town. From what she could see, the town looked like something out of a history book, with small mud brick houses, brass iron tools and large pantheon style buildings made with what Hermione assumed was marble.
The design on the architecture was incredibly intricate and Hermione wondered how long it would take to craft it, whether it was designed after the roof was built or during.
Of course it was not as if the brunette was ever particularly invested in such things however, the sudden obsession with architecture was simply borne from the witch’s need to ignore her own soon to be Greek tragedy because everyone knows, being tied up never ends up well.
Well, unless you’re into that; no judgement.
Now, if there was one way Hermione would have to die; not doing so by Voldermort’s or a death eater's hands would be great… at the very least she would be saved from the purebloods gloating.
A bonus that she would get, seemed to come from dying at the foot of a beautiful Queen; who looked at Hermione with disdain, confusion and like she was nothing more than dirt on the ground. Still, the scene from Hermione's point of view was breath-taking.
Eyes closed, knees pressed into the ground, Hermione prepared for the worst. The cold steel soon to slash through her sensitive neck…but, no pain of death came. After a few moments, she gathered up her Gryffindor courage to take a peak.
Were they waiting for someone? Maybe a last rites was to be spoken? The witch was startled to see a girl close to her age crouched barely a foot before her.
Her heart stuttered in both shock and gay panic.
The girl before her was ethereal; with smooth, youthful tanned skin, vibrant green eyes and black hair that glistened in the sun, she spoke to the woman on the throne. Hermione looked between the two in confusion, it was not hard to see the similarities between them with the only difference being their hair colour.
The girl, although still developing, clearly had her mothers features with high cheekbones, pouty lips and lithe body. Maybe Hermione had already died and was simply being picked up by a valkyrie from valhalla.
No, that was another cultural belief.
Soon all eyes were on her and a rush of words were spoken, clearly a question for her to answer.
“W-what? Sorry I don’t understand…Spanish? Or...is that Greek?”
The mother and daughter duo looked at each other again before the Queen gestured for another woman. She held a large stave and quickly moved forward. Were they going to bonk her to death with a large stick?
Unimaginative but understandable, maybe they liked to make intruders into bloody pancakes. Yet despite these morbid thoughts, all that the woman did was say a few oddly familiar words and like a fog had been lifted, Hermione through the blundered haze noticed one fine difference.
“Stranger, we ask you again, who are you?”
Hermione’s eyes widened, “Oh now you speak English?!”
“Answer our Queen intruder, or do you have a death wish?” Growled a guard, spear in hand.
“M-me?! Granger! I mean, I ah, Hermione. No, wrong. My name is Hermione Granger.” She sputtered, the words seemingly rolling into a panicked mess of a sentence.
The young girl giggled whilst her mother sighed, it was clear that Hermione was no spy.
Just a sad little girl who got stranded on their island.
“Umm, sorry to be intrusive and the stranger here but umm where am I? Or better yet, WHEN am I?”
“Certainly you jest?” Asked the woman holding the stave; a wise woman perhaps? “To forget a year is questionable to one’s mind, child.”
Hermione sighed. Well, there was no point in hiding it; the girl needed all the help she could get and the giant pretty ladies had weapons so…
And so Hermione went into the detailed if short story on how she ended up on the island. Her tale caused a stir in the Queen’s Court. None could believe that a person from the far flung future had literally appeared from nowhere. Still, they were considerate and hospitable to offer her food, shelter and clothing.
Hermione thanked the Queen and her entourage but promptly passed on the clothing; instead the witch pulled out her wand and transfigured her Hogwarts robes into something more comfortable under the island sun.
To witness magic performed so swiftly and for the simplicity as to change one's clothes was novel.
As the day waned, Hermione quickly found out that the young girl with the pretty hair that had been standing before her was actually the Princess; which was truly not a large step of logic all things considered. What did blow the witch’s mind however, after figuring out they were all speaking Greek, was the distinct lack of men on the island.
As in none. Zero. Nill. Hermione felt like Einstein in a human biology class.
Along with her unfamiliar face, the residents of the community became vastly intrigued in her words of wisdom from times not yet fathomable. Hermione shared her knowledge of undiscovered lands, advancements in medicine and not to mention the muggle world.
What started with Hermione a prisoner quickly turned her almost into a celebrity.
The witch was pulled away from the masses by Princess Chrysa, and the two walked around the island enjoying an impromptu tour.
“So does everyone in the future wear clothing such as you,” Princess Chrysa asked.
Hermione looked down at her button up white shirt and brown shorts, sandals similar to those worn by the villagers, adorned her feet.
“Not everyone but it’s pretty common.”
“Pretty?”
“Another way of saying the word quite or sufficient.”
“The future is filled with such oddities,” The princess mused.
“I think your time is filled with a lot of strange things too, how you all cast magic with long wooden poles.”
Chrysa laughed, “You must be mistaken, Hermione. I cannot use magic, Penelope is one of the few who have been gifted with the blessing of Hecate.”
The brunette stared at the girl bug-eyed, “Wait, wait. You mean you guys can’t cast magic at all? But you know of it.”
“Guys? Is this another term from your…nevermind. Of course we know about Hecate’s gift when we seek her followers for help in the occult.”
Well, it made sense and really Hermione should have realised that such prejudices by wizarding kind against muggles were more of a modern invention spurred on by the witch burnings across Europe thousands of years from now rather than any misplaced ideas of the bygone past that embraced the esoteric.
It seemed that the plague era killed more than just people but humans' proficiency to actually think. Of course, considering the current dark wizard who was trying to kill her friend when he was an actual baby - Hermione supposed she couldn’t keep criticising.
Despite the explanation given to her by Princess Chrysa, Hermione could not help but continue with her confusion because, call her delusional, but a toddler in front of them just lit a fire pit with her bare hands. The teen pointed at the child, looking back and forth between the princess and toddler.
“That is not normal! It’s witchcraft.”
Yup, she was officially losing her marbles.
Ignoring that problem, Hermione searched for answers on the princess’s face yet a smile was all that she found. Like a very pretty smile, and wow the princess could be a supermodel in her time and maybe even - snap out of it, you can’t fall for a person who is the same age as your many times great-grandparent Granger. Pull yourself together.
“I thought you said magic wasn’t that common, how did that child do that? Do they have magic - I mean is one of their parents a follower of Hecate?”
“Magic?” Princess Chrysa echoed before looking at the child and laughing. “Oh no, that child’s mother does not have the blessing of Hecate nor the child. It’s simply something all Veela’s can conjure.”
“Veela? What is a Veela?”
Almost to prove her point, Chrysa held out her palm and produced a magnificent sunset orange flame. “We are beings of Aphrodite, gifted with beauty but blessed by Athena in the way of wisdom and war with Hera watching over us, we Amazons defend our people and land against the world of man.”
Hermione coughed almost violently. “Did you say Amazons? Like Queen Otrera the consort of Ares, mother of Hippolyta and Penthesilea.”
The princess clapped gleefully. “Oh you know of our first Queen! Yes, my great-grandmother was a formidable woman; unfortunately she too fell in battle against men but my grandmother Queen Hippolyta has honoured us with various stories and statues to her name all over the island.”
With that information, the witch had a bit more of an idea as to where she was, the problem was getting back home. With the time turner cracked, Hermione didn’t know whether she could ever return and if she did, would the years compile and leave her as nothing but a pile of dust.
That anxiety and illogical thinking needled its way into the back of her mind with everyday that passed on the island.
BAR
Time marched ever forward and Hermione found herself spending most days in the company of Princess Chrysa, the Queen and her court or amongst the people.
Each adventure was just as interesting as the last. After a month had passed with the girls practically joined at the hip, the Queen found it right to have Hermione train with her fellow teenagers. They didn’t know when or if the young girl would return home, so the need to learn how to defend herself was imperative and in the correct amazonian way; through swordplay, archery and the various arts.
The brunette had to admit that she was no athlete but when days turned to months and months became a year, Hermione would daresay her once feeble 14 year old body, soon became a chiselled, athletically built machine and overall she was much healthier.
Horseback riding had strengthened her core muscles and made her thighs steel traps; mostly cultivated from fear of falling off whilst shooting an arrow. Her fluid dexterity had increased so well, it was enough to avoid a blade swiped at her body, deflect or bar the attack altogether.
Though Hermione was not nearly good enough to win against an amazonian warrior just yet. At the end of every match she had to be peeled from the ground with a tired groan.
With many nights by candle, the young witch learned about the occult and the ancient belief held by the Amazons, and Hermione was fascinated with how much they understood the world despite being a thousand years behind the modern era.
BAR
It was a normal day on the island; Hermione had just finished training and was sitting on the side of a cliff, once again in the company of Princess Chrysa. In leisure they both looked at the waves splash onto the beach while their horses idly grazed behind them near the treeline.
The quiet was broken by Chrysa who whispered solemnly. “Do you like the island Hermione?”
“I like it,” She replied, simply unsure why the question was asked.
“Can’t you stay then?” The princess inquired softly, a deep longing in her eyes. Brown met green as they leaned in close to each other, foreheads touching.
“I would if I could but that is not a choice I can make.”
Young Chrysa understood the notion but it didn’t mean she liked it. As they sat side by side, arms wound their way around and hands tightly grasped together. A hope that the moment would last just a bit longer.
Of course, chaos always comes after the calm and one day the bell of war rang out loud. Men had invaded their islands once more.
“Chrysa, you have to go with the guards!” Hermione cried out.
“No! I am an Amazon; heir to my mother’s throne. I will not be a coward when my people need me.”
“Your people need you alive! Go, I will help your mother and the other warriors on the beach.”
“Your skills with the sword will not be able to defend against the hoard that size.”
“Maybe so, but I have the powers of Hecate don’t I?” A tiny smirk cornered her mouth as the princess looked on in heated anger. Before Hermione could repeat herself, a hand gripped her shoulder as Chrysa pulled her into a crushing hug. Lips pressed against her cheek uttered hauntingly.
“Come back alive Hermione or so help me, I will storm through the underworld to bring you back before killing you myself.”
Hermione couldn’t help but grin. “Threat noted. Take care of yourself princess.”
With a renewed vigour, Hermione leapt onto her horse and rode towards the battlefield. In hand she brandished her wand, a feat not performed in a long time; in a flurry of illuminated power, she conjured water, fire, earth and lightning to aid her fellow warriors and strike down their enemies.
Witnesses couldn’t comprehend the sheer hell Hermione unleashed upon the invading men as one after the other they fell like puppets without strings.
Just as the tides turned and victory guaranteed she heard a call of her name.
“Hermione, look out!!” The Queen screamed.
But it was too late; just as the witch turned towards the voice, an arrow pierced her shoulder. The pain was excruciating, her balance lost and Hermione fell to the hot sand; despite the injury, she blindly flung her spells towards any moving figure near her. An Episkey would be meaningless until the arrow was out.
In her isolated pained state, Hermione was unaware that the sound of battle died out and as she struggled to open her eyes, the Queen’s blurred figure came running towards her felled body.
“Hermione, stay awake; can you hear me child?”
“My Queen, P-princess Chrysa -”
“She is safe, you have fought valiantly, child of the future. You will not be cast down by something as simple as an arrow.”
The injury was clean; the projectile went through completely and as the Queen gripped the arrow head, ready to pull it out, Hermione’s body began to fade.
Her once solid body became translucent, colourless and flickered in and out of existence. With the motion, the arrow fell to the sand uselessly, bloody and all. The Queen’s arms tried to hold the girl but without a physical body, Hermione began to wane and vanish before them.
Battered and weary onlookers watched in shock.
“Don’t you dare leave us Hermio..!”
“My Queen, please can you tell Princess Chrysa that I…”
And she was gone.
The witch of the future faded from existence as easily as she appeared; unspoken words echoed in the Queen’s chest as she was left with a crimson arrow and a handful of sand. The moment was still until the young princess rushed towards her mother, asking where the little witch had gone.
BAR
Shrieks resounded as Hermione’s body appeared in a flash of light; students wearing Quidditch gear almost collided overhead at the sudden illuminated scene. They couldn’t seem to understand what or how a body got in the way without their knowledge. What was once Hermione Granger, months before lying in pain from a bludger was not the same girl, adorned in strange well worn clothing with a wounded shoulder, clearly bleeding out.
“Out of the way, step aside!” The overbearing voice of Madame Pomfrey rang out followed by dozens of hurried footsteps of what was likely to be the whole staff of teachers behind her.
“What on earth happened here?” Professor McGonagall sternly questioned.
Hermione could not make out the murmured replies of her fellow students before she succumbed to the darkness.
The poor girl had been in a coma for three days. When she finally woke up, the teachers didn’t believe her tall tales of distance and time travel. What usually resulted in death, one way or another, any magical folk who dared to meddle with the powerful magic, certainly never returned to the same time of when they left.
Yet, Hermione sat atop the bed exactly three days post incident. The body she painstakingly worked hard for a year was again softened flesh, tanned skin back to its pale complexion and not even a faded scar lingered from her battle wound.
But no one could deny the evidence that lay before them; despite her lacking physique there was no denying that Hermione’s body had ‘aged’. It was noted her magical aura was immensely higher too and the clothes she wore retained their battered and bloodstained visage.
Hermione had guiltily returned the time turner to McGonagall, profusely apologising for its broken state but the teacher didn’t bat an eye.
The elder woman knew Hermione didn’t ask for the bludger to hit her, nor for the seemingly traumatic brain injury to compromise her bountiful intellect. McGonagall was just happy her favourite student was safe and alive. Still, she worried that the adventure had done more to change the Gryffindor girl than simply leaving the girl with a pseudo pain in her shoulder.
Pomfrey had offered many options to ease any lingering effects but Hermione refused, citing wanting to keep it as a memory of what she had endured.
In truth, even privately, Hermione wanted to keep it as a memento of her time with Princess Chrysa and the Amazons.
Back in the distant past, Princess Chrysa wept at the loss of her first love as she held the girl’s old attire in her arms; the once transfigured clothing had changed back to its skirt and robe form the instant its owner vanished.
“I will never forget you Hermione,” The princess whispered as she caressed the emblem of the robe. She vowed to never forget its detailing; even if faded and worn from time, both it and their moments together were engraved into the story of the girl who travelled through time. The Witch of the Golden Dust.
And maybe, Chrysa hoped through many years, as her aged body once again clung to the frail fabric, that the very girl she loved would hear tales of her venture to the island and reminisce of their time together.