¡THIS IS NOT MY STORY! The story was make by nyxblack on fanfiction.net.
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"Are you sure you weren't a Gryffindor?" Hermione asks, a startled laugh falling from her lips as she straightens her back, her stomach once more settled after suddenly Apparating from the roof to one end of Times Square.
Newt mumbles something under his breath a few feet away.
"What was that?" Hermione asks, tilting her head slightly, unable to make out his mumbled words.
"The hat considered it-" Newt replies, a bashful expression on his face as he shrugs his shoulders slightly.
"Of course it did." Hermione huffs, turning to take in the scene around them up close.
The city is burning. The scene on the ground is one of total chaos. Buildings are on fire, people scream and run in all directions, cars lie destroyed in the streets.
"And didn't we just have a conversation about doing foolish thi-" Hermione continues absentmindedly, voice trailing off as her eyes alight on the form of Percival Graves who prowls through Times Square a little further up the street, oblivious and uncaring of the distress around him, his focus concentrated on only one thing.
Her brows furrow, Newt coming to stand beside her as they follow Graves line of sight.
The Obscurus writhes at one end of the square, its energy angrier now. Moving through layers of hurt and anguish, the products of isolation and torment, flecks of red light roaring from within. Credence's face is just barely discernible within the mass, distorted, pained. Graves stands before it, triumphant.
Fear and pity shoot through her then as the young man's face comes into view, unable to pinpoint where his dark hair ends and the writhing black mass begins.
'An Obscurus is developed under very specific conditions: trauma associated with the use of magic, internalized hatred of one's own magic and a conscious attempt to suppress it.' Hermione thinks suddenly, the image of a book strewn open in her mind, highlighting the single sentence in the middle of a dense passage.
"Harry-" Hermione breaths, a sliver of horror filling her voice as her breath catches. The memory of her very first meeting with Harry filling her mind.
An 11 year old Harry Potter sits across from Hermione in a carriage of the Hogwarts Express, a pair of broken glasses on his face. The bridge of his frames held together by a wad of tape.
She quickly takes in his appearance, taking note of the small kitchen related injuries criss crossing his hands. A variety of silvery scars and fresh wounds marring his skin, his hands so very small. Hermione furrows her brows, a thoughtful expression on her childish face.
How curious. She thinks, intelligent brown eyes canvassing his person more thoroughly, taking note of the clearly much too large clothing covering his thin frame.
Hand me downs. Her mind supplies.
The way the young boy holds himself as if uncomfortable with their vicinity, as though eager for her to leave. She's well aware of how she's often perceived though she doesn't believe she's done much to warrant this level of discomfort and possible dislike yet.
Her lips pull in a tight line as her eyes fall upon a sickly green bruise clearly in the healing stage peaking just above the gaping collar of his shirt, his bones prominent, his frame much to thin and small for a boy his age.
She shakes her head, wild, bushy curls bouncing before clearing her throat, pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind to be explored more at a later date.
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The Witch That Time Forgot | Newtmione ✔️
Fanfiction"Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time" At least that's what Hermione Granger has always been told. However, what if the fate's had another plan for you? Would you take the chance? A chance at the life you were always meant to live? (Maj...
