AN: I don't own HP!

This fic was a really random idea I had about an hour ago...but I hope you enjoy!

Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome :)

Enjoy~


Frustration, she thought, leads to insanity. It couldn't be anything else. She threw down her quill in defeat as she leaned back and sighed in her chair. She couldn't easily remember a time she couldn't find the words needed to write an essay. Usually, topics where straight forward; topics given, references found, and thoughts flow onto a page. For every essay she has ever written—except, apparently, this one. She ground her teeth. Why did Professor Vector assign such a horrid assignment?

One would normally assume that arithmancy would cover how math—everything from geometry and algebra to calculus and differential equations—works in relation to and in support of magic. Normally that line of thinking would be correct. However, this one tiny little unit covered in the last month of her last year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is giving her trouble. This one little unit tries to link arithmancy to divination, however Septima Vector decided to give a twist to the unit. Instead of having the students try to predict some future event, she instead thought it would be an interesting topic to look towards the future by looking at the past. The two part assignment though, wasn't easy. The first part, which one Hermione Granger is stuck on, asks a student to write a letter to their younger—1st year selves. This letter must contain advice of what to do, what not to do et cetera. The second part of the assignment would be to try to calculate and predict what kind of changes to the timeline might occur.

The reason why Hermione was so frustrated at the assignment? She understood time better than most in her class, due to her experience with time-turners back in her third year of schooling. She learned two things: one, don't meddle in time, and two, everything that happens both inside and outside of time happens for a reason, and trying to change what happened or may be can create a time paradox, erase one's existence, or even create a new temporal flow (messing with space-time).

So her frustration came down to knowing too much. She figured that if she didn't know as much as she did about time travel, she would easily finish the assignment. She'd put down words of encouragement, tell herself to not worry so much about everything, She'd also write down the little details required for her to help Harry win the war, for her to save her family, for her to live to graduation.

Once she just realized what her mind just processed, she knew what she had to write, and write she did.


Septima was bored out of her mind. Normally, she was alright with playing the role of professor; she got to see the mischief of students in the halls while at the same time she got to teach them how to think outside the box. Or realize that there is no box, she chuckled to herself. However, as the war has been over for about a year or so, there has been almost no chaos. Everyone was still in mourning or rebuilding stage. She didn't like this one bit.

Unknown to nearly everyone in the castle (with the exceptions of Filius and the house elves), Septima Vector was part fae. More specifically, a part of the Unseelie Court, and no one outside the fae themselves even suspected due to her heavy glamour. Unfortunately, this means that she thrives when shenanigans and chaos are at their most abundant. Which is completely not the case right now, she thought.

She then took a glance over at her papers. The students' essays littered her desk. She grabbed one in particular—one written by one of her favorite students—and thought: I can work with this.

Without a second thought, she snapped her fingers. Both the paper and a copy of her memories disappeared through time, and a new rift in time appeared.


11 year old Hermione Granger was excited. Tomorrow her parents were going to drive her to Kings Cross Station so that she could attend a school of magic! She couldn't wait and made sure to read through all her books at least three times so that she'd be prepared.

However, that didn't mean she wouldn't worry.

Just as she finished packing her trunk for the next day, she heard a soft 'pop' coming from the direction of her bed. Sitting ever so innocently on the bed was a letter. She took it in hand and opened it—her curiosity getting to her.

Dear My Past Self,