A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER EIGHT

Page count: 16

Unknown Location - Thursday 10th December 1981

Hermione was furious.

Not irritated. Not frustrated. Furious.

In fact, she was quite seriously considering murder.

Not an impulsive, passion-driven act — no. This was the kind of fury that bred calculation. Cold, measured, deliberate. The kind that made her fingers itch for her wand and her mind start drawing up perfectly detailed, entirely feasible plans for how best to dispose of two very specific wizards.

Alastor Moody and Albus Dumbledore.

She'd thought she'd made peace with Dumbledore. Truly. She'd buried her anger, convinced herself that time — and distance — had dulled it. But now, after weeks of being around him again, watching his subtle manipulations, his infuriatingly calm tone, those damned twinkling eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing — it was all coming back. Tenfold.

The room was silent in the wake of her outburst. No one dared to speak.

Every wizard seated around the long table had frozen mid-breath, staring at her as if one wrong word might trigger an explosion. And perhaps it would — because her magic was no longer quiet.

Her curls began to spark, silver light crackling through them like lightning. Her eyes glowed faintly, silver bleeding into brown, and the air in the room thickened — heavy with raw, untamed power.

Outside the tall new windows, the moon seemed to swell brighter in response.

That, James realised grimly, was not a good sign.

Parchment fluttered. Inkwells trembled. Quills and books began to lift from the table — slowly at first, then rising higher and higher until they hovered near the ceiling, caught in the pull of her magic. The air pulsed with energy, and everyone could feel it — the hum, the pressure, the instinctive awareness that something ancient and dangerous was stirring.

James reacted first.

Moving quickly, he rose from his chair and pressed Harry into her arms without a word.

The effect was instantaneous.

The moment Harry's little hand brushed her cheek, a golden light rippled between them — soft, warm, pure. The silver in Hermione's magic faded as the gold flared brighter, wrapping around them both like a gentle flame. Harry cooed, tugging playfully at one of her curls, utterly unbothered by the storm that had nearly filled the room.

Around the table, the Marauders and the Prewett twins could only watch — entranced, wide-eyed.

Hermione's breathing slowed. Her shoulders loosened. The silver aura dimmed, the floating objects slowly descending one by one until they settled neatly back onto the table.

When at last the glow faded entirely, Hermione pressed a kiss to the top of Harry's head and handed him carefully back to James. He cradled the child close, though his eyes never left her — cautious but admiring all the same.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice steady now but still edged with steel.

Then she turned her gaze — sharp, blazing, utterly unflinching — on Dumbledore and Moody.

And for the first time in a long while, neither of them looked particularly confident.

"This is the last time I'll ever say this," Hermione began, her voice low, cold, and cutting through the silence like a blade. "So listen very carefully."