Hermione's head spun as quickly as the golden time-turner clutched covertly in her hand. She
stopped studdenly while throngs of other students bustled around her, a solitary buouy in a sea of
Where am I supposed to be? she asked herself, panic attempting to seep in before she mentally batted it away.
Look it up.
She thrust a hand into her satchel, grabbing a calendar.
Hermione inhaled deeply, reassured at the answer.
Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Her shoulders slumped, a rare submission to fatigue.
Maybe it was too much.
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