A Blur of Time: Hermione darted into the empty classroom, shutting the door with a soft click. Her pulse thudded in her ears—she could already hear footsteps echoing in some hallway she had supposedly just come from. She slipped the chain of the Time-Turner over her head, the metal cool against her skin despite how often she’d handled it that year. “Just one rotation,” she whispered. “One should be enough.” She twisted the hourglass. The world yanked backward so sharply she staggered. Torches flared and dimmed in reverse, a gust of wind rushed past as if un-breathing, and her hair whipped around her in weightless spirals. For a heartbeat she could see faint, ghostlike figures—her own, blurred and moving a few seconds behind—like afterimages caught in the clockwork of the castle. Then the motion stopped. Hermione steadied herself, scanning the corridor as it re-formed into stillness. Everything looked almost the same—almost. A tapestry hung slightly differently; the windowlight had shifted; distant voices belonged to conversations she’d heard earlier in the day. She didn’t have time to appreciate the accuracy. A crash echoed from the staircase below. Hermione flinched. She remembered this—Neville’s books slipping, bouncing all the way down the steps like a small avalanche. And right now, she was on the wrong side of the hallway to avoid being seen. She sprinted, her shoes barely whispering on the stone floor. She hugged the wall, ducking behind a jut of armor just as her past self rounded the far corner. For a breath, two Hermiones occupied the same corridor, one hurrying, one hiding. The Time-Turner warmed against her chest, reminding her of every rule she wasn’t supposed to bend. Her past self vanished down the opposite hall. Hermione exhaled shakily—too soon. From above came the unmistakable scrape of Peeves drifting closer. “Oh no. No, no—please not now.” She dashed toward the classroom she needed to reach before Professor McGonagall did her attendance. Peeves’s laughter sharpened, echoing off the stones like a handful of bells shaken in mischief. Hermione pushed the door open, slipped through, and shut it just as the poltergeist swooped past. Her heart hammered, but she allowed herself a thin, triumphant smile. She’d made it—again. She tugged her books from her bag and sat, breath steadier now, time settling neatly around her like a cloak that had been flung mid-stride and caught perfectly before hitting the ground. Another class. Another hour borrowed from a day already stuffed full. Hermione straightened her parchment and readied her quill. “Right,” she murmured. “Let’s do this properly.”
