A tired woman was staring sadly at me from the mirror. Sunken, pale cheeks, dark circles under my eyes, dull, tangled hair... Yeah, at twenty-seven, I could look a lot better. The only thing playing in my head was: "You need to drink less! Drink less!" Sure, drink less, go to bed on time, work out. As if it even mattered anymore. Like changing anything would change my life.
I walk into the kitchen and open a bottle of wine. Another one. Today is Ksyusha's birthday. She would have turned four. I place my favorite photo next to me: my daughter hugging my neck, laughing. Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope you're at peace, wherever you are.
I drink and mindlessly shuffle through the events of my miserable life. And it all started so well. A happy childhood, finished school, graduated from college, found a job I loved, married the man I loved, gave birth to a daughter...
Was he really a loving man? It's hard to say now. Maybe he did love me once. But in the end, he hated me. And I hated him.
An accident, a gas cylinder explosion. My parents had taken Ksyusha to the countryside so she wouldn't have to stay in the stifling city while we worked.
One night — and I lost everyone. My daughter, my parents... and my husband too.
He never forgave us. He cursed my parents, blaming them for everything, screamed that they were murderers. Cursed me for trusting the wrong people with our daughter — called me a murderer too.
Eventually, I believed it myself.
And once you carry that kind of guilt, how do you even go on living?
We divorced, with a mutual desire never to see each other again.
My therapist says it's not the end of the world. That the pain fades. That people lose loved ones and still move on — remarry, have more children.
She's right, of course.
I just don't want to move on. I don't want more children. I'd lose my mind from fear.
Now, I have no one left to lose. And there's nothing left to fear.
Maybe I need stronger antidepressants.
An unexpected knock at the door. I'm not expecting anyone, but I open it automatically. Goddamn it! My ex-husband. Even drunker than I am. Why the hell didn't I check the peephole? How do I get rid of him now? Without a word, he shoves past me into the kitchen. I trail after him, watching as he finishes my wine like he owns the place and rummages through the fridge. He calls me a murderer again. A piece of shit… I look at him and can't believe I once loved him. He keeps ranting about his miserable life. I tune him out.
A plate crashes to the floor. I flinch. Another one smashes against the wall. Shit — his eyes are wild! He's going to destroy my whole apartment.
Suddenly, he storms over and grabs me by the throat, still screaming. I don't even resist. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Let me die too. What's the point of staying here anyway? For what?
The strangling sensation knocks every thought of "rightness" out of my mind. I can't breathe. Please! I struggle, scratching at the hands squeezing my neck. My head spins. The shadows blur and twist into little clay animals — the kind my daughter used to mold for me... My husband is saying something, shouting something… I think I'm falling… Darkness.
***
Ugh, my head is splitting! It even hurts to think. What happened yesterday? Two people nearby are arguing, their voices drilling straight into my suffering brain. I open my eyes — I'm definitely not at home, that's not my ceiling.
Wait, hold on! Memories of the previous day hit me all at once. Looks like they managed to revive me. I wonder, did my ex get scared and call an ambulance himself, or did the neighbor find me? I slowly look around, because even moving my eyes hurts: a two-bed hospital room, an IV drip, a man in a white coat, and a worried woman with adorable curls.
"Mom," I croak. Mom... Why did I just call this woman 'Mom'? And where have I seen her before?
"Sweetheart, you scared us so much! How are you feeling?" The woman rushes to my side and grabs my hand — the one free from the IV.
"My head hurts."
"That's normal with a concussion. And no fractures, just bruises. You'll be good as new soon," the doctor says, clearly trying to calm the woman more than me. No wonder — she probably drove him crazy while I was lying here quietly.
The woman gently strokes my cheek and whispers something soothing. I stare at her, trying to understand what's going on and where I know her from, but my eyelids grow heavy against my will.
"Sleep is the best medicine right now. Let's step into my office, Mrs. Granger," I hear as I'm already drifting off. Granger? Sounds familiar...
***
I dream a vivid and very realistic dream about a girl named Hermione. The dream ends on September 19, 1990. Hermione is walking home in tears. How many times had she told herself she wouldn't pay attention to Stacey and Olivia? Those two inseparable friends were always making fun of her. But today was her birthday, and today it hurt especially badly. Hermione cries and doesn't watch where she's going. Screeching brakes, a crash...
I wake up. This time my head doesn't hurt as much. There's no one else in the room but me. I try to sit up; it only works on the third attempt. Something is wrong. This isn't my body — it feels small. I examine my not-my childish hands, tug at someone else's curls on my head, touch my still-chubby cheeks. I feel my chest — breasts, there used to be breasts here! I'm starting to suspect that it wasn't just a dream. For some reason, I'm not panicking, probably because right now I have a more urgent problem — I'm about to pee myself. I slowly climb off the bed. It feels like I've forgotten how to walk — my coordination is a mess, and my legs aren't listening to me at all. I manage to take three steps along the wall when a nurse comes into the room and gives me a very disapproving look. Oh, she's already opening her mouth to start scolding me — I need to be faster.
I quickly make the most pitiful face I can and say:
"I really need to go to the bathroom."
"Fine, I'll take you. But after that, you're not setting foot off the bed," she grumbles.
She leads me to the bathroom, waits for me, then takes me back. Too bad there wasn't a mirror — although, I feel like I already know who I'd see there. The girl Hermione from my dream. And that woman who was so worried about me — in the dream, she was her mother.
After the doctor's visit and dinner, I lie there, thinking. I'll be doing a lot of that over the next couple of weeks, since with a concussion there's not much else to keep myself entertained. There's plenty of time to think things through. Either I'm lying in some ICU and hallucinating, or the universe has a terrible sense of humor. I'm sure thousands of people would give anything for a second chance at life, clinging to it with hands, feet, and teeth — and yet it's me who ended up with this "gift," even though I hardly appreciated my first life. And it's not like I can pass it on to someone who needs it more.
I wonder: is Hermione my reincarnation, who, after the shock, remembered her past life? Or did Hermione actually die in that accident, and my restless soul somehow ended up in her body? The first option sounds more logical, but I don't feel anything of Hermione inside me. I have her memories, but I don't share her emotions, her tastes, her thoughts. Could memories from a previous life really change a personality so much? Then again, the second option is even harder to believe. If Hermione's body was still perfectly alive, where did Hermione herself go? She clearly wasn't eager to die. And why would my soul get pulled into the vacancy? Surely there were many other souls closer in time and space. Actually — is this even my world? Could it be a parallel one? Or maybe it's still just hallucinations? Sadly, there's probably no quick way to check.
Wait, I'm missing the main point. Hermione Granger is a girl from a fairy tale about a young wizard. There could easily be more than one girl in the world with that name — an English girl, the right age, with dentist parents. I don't really remember any more details about Hermione from the books. Let's say that's the case... But there were moments in the dream that made me think my Hermione really is the one from the fairy tale.
Little Hermione reaching up for a pretty shell box, standing too high to reach — and the box just flies into her hands. Hermione knocking a sugar bowl off the table, panicking because her mom would scold her — and the sugar bowl reassembled itself from the shards, good as new, though the sugar stayed scattered on the floor. Stacey tripping Hermione again, and little Hermione, furious, glaring at her — and Stacey's bag tearing apart, her books and notebooks flying everywhere.
That actually leans toward the hallucination theory.
On the other hand, if you treat hallucinations as the real world, things can't get worse. But if you mistake reality for hallucinations, that's dangerous. So let's agree that everything around me is real — just to be safe and to keep my sanity.
In that case, it's definitely a different world. In my world, there can't be any Hermione the witch.
I wonder — is there a version of me in this world? And what will happen to her?
Although if she exists, there are still many years left until the tragedy; I could change everything. Maybe here, my little Ksyusha and my parents will live.
My heart clenched painfully. Quiet! Nothing has happened here yet. Here, not only Ksyusha, but even I — Katya — haven't been born yet.
Checking the book theory would be easy. I just need to take a stroll down Charing Cross Road and see if the Leaky Cauldron is there. And honestly, I hope it's not. I'm nothing like Hermione and I fit her role less than anyone. There's no way I could be a savior of the oppressed, a revolutionary, or a person with a strong civic stance. Since I ended up here anyway, I'd rather sit quietly, mind my own business, and fix a primus stove. Nothing good ever comes out of the magical world created by Rowling.
***
The next day, my new parents arrived, and Mom joyfully announced that the doctor had allowed them to take me home, as long as I promised to follow the prescribed routine.
I like the charming suburb of London, which I already recognized from my dream. And I like our house too. It's good to be a dentist in England. Hermione had a very girly room, with teddy bears, cushions, frills, and pink curtains. This doesn't really seem like the book version of Hermione to me. And most importantly, there was a large mirror, and I was finally able to see myself from all angles. I had already seen all this in the dream, but it wasn't quite the same. A pretty girl, there's definitely something in common with little Emma Watson. Her front teeth are indeed a bit long, but at eleven, it's actually kind of cute. Her hair is really thick, so now I'm going to have to spend a lot of time dealing with this excessive fluffiness. Maybe I should get a haircut?
For the next two weeks, I mostly slept, ate, and stared at the ceiling. I tried reading, but I got a headache by the third page. The possibility of saving Ksyusha and my parents in this world definitely helped lift my spirits. I no longer had the urge to get drunk and forget everything, which was mostly what I did last year. So, I just lay there, making plans for the future. My future plans included settling in comfortably, ensuring the safety of my new family, and saving my old family. Saving Harry Potter and the entire magical world was definitely not part of my plans. If I could convince my new parents to move out of England to a safer place, I would do it, but let's be realistic—who would listen to an eleven-year-old child about such things? However, while they were pitying poor, traumatized me, I managed to convince them to switch me to home schooling. Spending endless hours at a desk with little kids didn't appeal to me at all, so—hooray! I'll be submitting written assignments once a month and attending exams twice a year.
When the doctor gave me permission to return to normal life, the first thing I decided to test was my new superpowers. What if they had left with the previous Hermione, and here I was making plans? I thought I should start with something easy. I placed a coin on the table and tried to move it with my gaze. No effect. The longer I stared at the penny, the dumber I felt. Queen Elizabeth, in profile, was clearly showing what she thought of me. Thirty minutes of staring and slowly rising irritation. No, I'm definitely doing something wrong. Frustrated, I swiped the penny off the table with my hand, and it slid five centimeters. Yes! They used sticks, after all. I mentally imagined the energy flowing into my hand and pushed the penny away from me. Another attempt. Yes, it works!
"Yay! Yay! Yay!" I cheered joyfully, hopping around the room as if I really were eleven.
I needed to solidify the result. For the next half hour, I made the penny slide across the table back and forth. Let's make it more difficult: I tried to lift it off the table's surface. The coin rose a couple of centimeters and then fell. I felt like I had been digging potatoes all day. Ugh. By the way, I should switch from centimeters to inches. I knew English pretty well in my previous life, and even without Hermione's memory, I would have managed. But learning to think in inches and ounces is a real challenge for me. I miss the metric system. After having two servings of soup for lunch, I collapsed into bed. Magic really eats up a lot of energy.
So, telekinesis is real, now I need to check out the Leaky Cauldron. I'll train my magic in the evenings since after it, I only have enough energy for sleep. My parents are at work, so it's time for a little expedition to the center. I climb into Hermione's—no, now it's my—stash. How great that she was so thrifty, and a decent sum had accumulated there.
I stroll leisurely down Charing Cross Road, window-shopping. I'm looking for a big bookstore—Rowling's landmark. There it is, and next to it, the goal of my trip—the bar "Leaky Cauldron," which looks more like a little shed. So, we are in a fairy tale after all. Although I was already pretty much certain of this. And I'll still have to go to school, whether I want to or not. That means I need to prepare as much as possible. Should I go in or not? I examine the bookstore window, glancing at the bar. Finally, my patience is rewarded by a wizard who exits the Leaky Cauldron in a robe, looks around for a minute, and then changes his outfit into a fall coat right there in front of everyone. Hey, what about the Statute of Secrecy?! But no one seems to care about him. He was probably still in the "invisible zone" of the bar.
No, I'm not going today. I need to think, including about my disguise. I wonder if this is canon or not. It would be good if it were canon, at least there's some clarity there, but if it's non-canon, it's a complete mess. I still can't believe in a good Voldemort, but I could easily believe in a bad Dumbledore. Even in the canon, Dumbledore can't be called a very good and caring person. At the very least, he was a negligent guardian for Harry and a very clever... cunning politician with immense influence, and such people are rarely good-hearted eccentrics. But still, there's hope that he's not a complete jerk. In any case, caution is needed. If I think about the fact that I married a man who later went off the rails and killed me, I definitely don't have a good sense of people. I wonder, is Snape a sweetie or a jerk here? I'll have to make a list of questions, maybe I'll find someone who can answer them?