Chapter Two: The Price of a Choice

Pain.

It hit her all at once, raw and unrelenting, tearing through every nerve like fire. It wasn't like the Crucitas Curse—no, this was something deeper, something burning from the inside out. Her lungs felt crushed, her skin stung as if flayed open, and her head… her head was splitting apart.

Hermione couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Somewhere in the distance—distant but deafening—came the sound of an explosion. A rupture of space, of time itself. It was a sound she should have never heard, something unnatural, something wrong.

Had she miscalculated?

A strangled gasp escaped her lips, but even that sound felt wrong, off-pitch, unfamiliar.

Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision.

Someone was screaming.

Or maybe it was her.

And then—

Nothing.

Voices.

Muffled at first, like sound traveling through water, distorted and distant.

Then, clearer.

"…lucky to be alive."

"…severe magical exhaustion… a miracle she wasn't splinched."

"…unresponsive… give it time."

"…Black will not be pleased."

Hermione tried to focus, to latch onto the voices, but every word slipped through her grasp like sand through fingers. She wanted to move, to speak, but her body felt wrong, heavy in ways she didn't understand.

There was a weight in her limbs that wasn't quite hers, a dull ache in her muscles as if they had been stretched too far. Her hands… her fingers—they felt longer, more delicate, like they weren't her own. Even the sensation of the sheets against her skin was off, her nerves too sensitive, as if her body wasn't used to this touch.

Her mind drifted again, hazy and unfocused.

She was at St. Mungo's. She had to be. She had been experimenting with the Time-Turner, and—

Harry was going to be furious.

A part of her wanted to laugh, except she wasn't sure she even could. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to go back, supposed to fix everything, not end up here—wherever here was.

Another voice cut through the fog, softer this time, closer.

"She hasn't woken yet?"

"No, my lord."

Hermione tried to frown, tried to piece together the odd way they had said that, but exhaustion pulled her under again before she could even try.

Time passed.

She drifted in and out, awareness slipping through her fingers before she could fully grasp it. Her body ached with something deeper than pain—a wrongness, a disconnect.

Even the smallest movement sent nausea rolling through her, a deep sickness she had never known before. Her limbs felt foreign, the proportions of her body subtly off in ways she couldn't place. When she tried to move her hands, her fingers seemed too long, the movement too elegant, and the weight of her hair against her neck was heavier, smoother, lacking the wild curls she was used to.

It made no sense.

When she finally managed to crack open her eyes, the room around her was unfamiliar.

Not St. Mungo's.

Not the Burrow.

Not anywhere she knew.

Panic curled in her chest.

She was in a large, ornate bed, silk sheets cool against her overheated skin. The room was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn over tall windows. She forced her fingers to move, gripping the fabric beneath her, grounding herself.

This wasn't right.

She needed to get up.

With great effort, she tried to shift, but the moment she did, pain slammed into her like a physical force. A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it, nausea surging forward with dizzying intensity.

Even her voice sounded different—softer, weaker.

She was too drained.

Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, but she couldn't bring herself to call out.

Not yet.

Not until she knew where she was.

Not until she knew who she was dealing with.

So, Hermione did the only thing she could.

She closed her eyes and waited.

Hermione stirred, her body aching in a way that felt wrong, as though her very bones had been stretched and reshaped. A dull, insistent throb pulsed at the back of her skull, each breath sending sharp twinges through her ribs. Her limbs felt sluggish, weighted, as if she had been pulled from too deep a sleep.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, a faint trace of lavender lingering on her skin—not hers. The scent was soft and unfamiliar, the kind one associated with delicate hands and effortless luxury.

Her mind struggled through the haze of exhaustion, grasping at reality.

Something was wrong.

The bed beneath her was too soft, the air too still, the sheets far finer than anything she had ever owned. Her body felt… off. Not just sore, but different. Stretched. Lighter. Her fingers twitched against the fabric—longer, slender in a way that felt unnatural.

She lifted her hand, pressing it absently to her face.

And froze.

Her nose was narrower. Her jaw sharper. Her fingers brushed over cheekbones that sat higher than they should, lips that felt subtly fuller.

Panic coiled tight in her chest.

Her hands—always small, ink-stained, quick—felt too elegant, her nails smooth and perfectly shaped, nothing like the practical, bitten edges she was used to.

No. No, no, no—

Heart pounding, she pushed herself upright. The world spun violently, and nausea rolled through her stomach. She clenched the sheets, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she looked down.

Her legs stretched out beneath her, long and slender, wrapped in the delicate silk of a nightgown she had never seen before.

Too long.

Too graceful.

Her skin—once warmed by the sun, dusted with freckles—was now pale, untouched by even the softest summer light.

Dread pooled in her stomach, cold and unrelenting.

Something was very wrong.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the coolness of the marble floor shocking against her bare feet. The moment she tried to stand, she nearly toppled forward.

It wasn't her height that unsettled her—it was her legs.

They were too long. Too elegant. She wasn't used to the way they carried her, the way her body balanced atop them with effortless poise.

Her breathing grew shallow as she took in the room around her.

This was not St. Mungo's.

The towering ceilings, gilded paneling, and thick velvet drapes belonged to another world entirely. The candle sconces cast soft, golden light over walls lined with intricate scrollwork, the air rich with the scent of jasmine and parchment.

She knew wealth when she saw it.

This wasn't just money—this was generational. Old magic. The kind of quiet, effortless opulence that Purebloods carried like second skin.

Panic gripped her throat.

She had to see.

She forced herself forward, every step wobbling as she adjusted to the unfamiliarity of her own limbs. Her fingers brushed against the first door she reached, pushing it open to reveal a lavish washroom.

And then she saw it.

The mirror.

Her breath caught as she stumbled forward.

A stranger stared back.

Her hair, once a riot of chestnut curls, now fell in sleek, polished waves—a deep golden blonde, gleaming even in the candlelight. Her eyes—no longer warm brown—were a striking, icy blue. Her lips were fuller, her cheekbones high and delicate, her features impossibly refined.

A choked sound left her throat.

That's not me.

The room spun violently.

Hermione barely made it to the sink before her stomach heaved, nausea wracking her body as she gripped the porcelain. The acrid taste burned her throat, but she barely registered it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking.

When she finally forced herself to look up, the stranger remained.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, pressing them to her reflection.

She had done something. Something irreversible.

And whatever it was—

There was no undoing it.

The washroom was suffocatingly quiet, save for the ragged sound of her own breathing. Hermione gripped the edges of the sink as though it could anchor her, as though sheer force of will could steady the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat.

But the stranger in the mirror remained.

It wasn't Polyjuice. It couldn't be. The effects would have worn off by now, or at the very least, she would have felt the telltale discomfort of the transformation. No, this was something else. Something worse.

Her fingers dug into the porcelain as her breath hitched.

She had changed.

She had become someone else.

A broken, gasping sound tore from her throat, and she barely recognized it as her own.

The panic surged too quickly, too violently for her to contain.

This wasn't her body.

This wasn't her life.

Her stomach twisted again, bile burning up her throat, but there was nothing left to expel. Her legs gave out beneath her, sending her crumpling onto the cool marble floor, her golden hair spilling over her face like a stranger's veil.

No, no, no—

Her hands pressed against her chest, fingers curling over fabric that wasn't hers, skin that wasn't hers. She could feel her heart hammering—too fast, too wild, too foreign. Her body wasn't her own, but it was alive, and it wouldn't let her wake up from this nightmare.

For the first time since the war ended, Hermione Granger truly, completely broke.

She sobbed.

Not the silent, dignified grief she had learned to swallow, the kind that left her hollow and exhausted in the quiet of her bedroom. No, this was raw. Unrestrained. The kind of hopeless, ugly weeping she hadn't allowed herself even when Ron died.

Because this… this was worse than loss.

Loss, she could survive.

This was erasure.

She curled in on herself, hands fisting into the delicate silk of her nightdress, her breath stuttering between uneven sobs. The war had taken everything from her—her friends, her sense of purpose, her very will to keep going. But this?

This had stolen her.

She didn't know how long she stayed there, trembling and broken, her mind careening between horror and disbelief.

But eventually, the storm passed.

It had to.

Panic wouldn't help her.

Crying wouldn't change what had already been done.

With a shuddering inhale, she dragged herself upright, her fingers pressing against her temples in an attempt to steady her spinning thoughts. Think, Hermione. Think.

She needed control.

And when she had no control, she needed order.

Chronology first.

She forced her mind to rewind, picking apart her memories with cold precision.

The Time-Turner.

The experiment.

The explosion.

Pain.

Darkness.

Nothingness.

Then… this.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the sink again.

Second: Environment.

Hermione forced herself to assess the space with a detached, analytical eye.

It was, without a doubt, the most opulent bathroom she had ever seen. The sink was marble, veined with gold, the faucets glinting with what she suspected was actual silver. The bathtub—no, the bathing chamber—was large enough to fit three people. The fixtures were old, old, steeped in wealth and heritage.

This wasn't a hospital.

This wasn't even a private manor in the typical sense.

This was Pureblood aristocracy.

Her heart pounded as her fingers traced the intricate embroidery on her nightgown—not hers, but undoubtedly expensive. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to her skin, unmistakably magical, the kind of fragrance left behind by house-elf care.

She had been bathed. Changed. Tended to.

Which meant someone had done it.

Which meant she was not alone.

She exhaled slowly.

Alright. Alright.

That meant—

Third: Risk assessment.

She had woken up in a secured location, dressed in luxury, and tended to with care. That ruled out immediate danger.

For now.

She had no idea whose body she was in, nor whose house she was trapped in, but if the decor was any indication, it was someone of considerable standing.

Which meant she was under watch.

Which meant she had very little time before someone came to check on her.

Which meant she needed an escape plan.

Hermione turned back to the mirror, forcing herself to look into her unfamiliar reflection. Her golden hair gleamed in the candlelight, falling in waves too smooth, too elegant. Her pale blue eyes—so light they were almost silver—stared back at her with sharp intelligence, but it wasn't her.

Not the face she had seen in the mirror for twenty-four years.

Not the girl who had fought in a war, who had lost too much and wanted too much.

The stranger in the glass didn't know her.

But that didn't matter.

Because Hermione Granger was still in there, somewhere.

And she was going to get to the bottom of this.

Her gaze flickered to the washroom door.

She had no idea what was waiting for her on the other side.

But she wasn't about to sit around and wait to find out.