A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER SEVEN

Page count: 14

Sirius' Apartment - Tuesday 24th November 1981

"Right, that's done. Dumbledore's seen to it that most of the Death Eaters have been caught," Hermione said briskly as she stepped out of the Floo, brushing soot from her jumper. "Now I need to start figuring out a way to break into Gringotts... you know, again."

James groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you ever rest? You've just spent seven years fighting a war, were in a coma for eight days, and you've been running yourself ragged for the last two weeks. Take a day off — breathe."

Hermione didn't even glance at him. "I'll rest when Voldemort isn't a threat — when I know he can't come back for revenge and kill everyone again."

And with that, she turned on her heel, stepped back into the fireplace, and vanished in a swirl of emerald flames.

James sighed. "She's going to burn herself out."

"Mate," Sirius muttered, "she already did. This is her running on ashes."

~000~000~000~

Hermione arrived in Diagon Alley, brushing off the last traces of soot before striding through the cobblestone street. Her first stop was Gringotts, where she exchanged a handful of Galleons for Muggle currency. From there, she visited the apothecary and ordered twice the usual quantity of every potion ingredient in stock, placing a special request for the rarer ones. The clerk promised delivery to Sirius' apartment by evening.

Next came several large cauldrons, vials, and parchment. She purchased everything discreetly and tucked it away in her beaded bag before crossing into Muggle London for furniture and supplies. By the time she returned through the Floo, her arms ached, her magic hummed faintly with fatigue, and Sirius' apartment looked exactly as she'd left it — slightly chaotic, faintly masculine, but home.

She went straight to her room.

With a few precise flicks of her wand, Hermione expanded the space, doubling its size. Another wave and a partition wall rose cleanly down the middle, complete with a door. The larger half became her new workspace.

She transfigured the wooden planks she'd bought into floating shelves and placed them evenly across the walls. The three desks she'd purchased enlarged themselves neatly to full potion-workbench size, each sliding into position against a wall. The two oak cabinets she'd acquired were resized, expanded, and settled on either side of the door, the air shimmering faintly as the magic took hold.

When the owl arrived, she paid it with a small treat before ferrying her deliveries inside. She placed a cauldron by each wall beside the worktables and set to organising her materials. Every jar of ingredients went into the left cabinet, alphabetised and checked for preservation spells — temperature, humidity, decay resistance. The right cabinet she filled with hundreds of empty vials for future brews, labelling each shelf by potion type.

Then she withdrew her stack of books from the beaded bag — a mixture of her own collection from Hogwarts, Harry's old Quidditch manuals she couldn't bring herself to part with, and the vast inheritance from Dumbledore's personal library.

Before his death, he'd made a Muggle will for secrecy's sake. Hermione had been the sole beneficiary. Five thousand volumes — rare, powerful, dangerous. Books on Fiendfyre, ancient curses, Horcrux theory — knowledge so dark even the Restricted Section paled beside it.

She placed a hand on the spines, her chest tightening. You left me the burden, old man. And the power to finish it.

It took hours to catalogue them. The single bookcase wasn't enough, even with Expansion Charms, so she elongated and widened it until it stretched to the ceiling, covering the wall from the door to the corner. With a murmured command, the books sorted themselves in her unique system: most useful, most dangerous, alphabetical by title, then author.