THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

A Fevered Reality

Hermione Granger felt an odd warmth spreading through her body, far from the cold, still sensation she expected after death. It was a feverish heat, one that seemed to burn her from the inside out. She struggled to make sense of the sensation, her mind sluggish from the heat and the confusion swirling inside her.

I was hit with the Killing Curse, she thought. Why am I burning up? Shouldn’t it have been instant—no pain, no heat? Her mind latched onto the information she had once read about Avada Kedavra: an unforgivable curse, quick and final, without suffering. But here she was, feeling her body, sensing things she hadn’t expected to feel ever again.

Silken sheets pressed against her back, smooth and comforting. There was a damp cloth placed gently on her forehead, and she could hear the quiet cooing of a child nearby. Teddy? Her mind jumped to the boy who had been with her in those final moments. But how is that possible? I’m supposed to be dead. We both are.

Tentatively, Hermione tried to move her hand. She felt her fingers twitch and was immediately filled with shock. I’m not supposed to be able to move... she thought, panic slowly rising in her chest. She had felt death’s approach, but now she was alive—at least, that’s what her senses told her. Her mind raced, trying to grasp at what had happened after the flash of green light.

The scent of herbs and incense filled her nose, old and musty, as if they were relics from a time long forgotten. She strained to hear the quiet murmurs around her, listening to the voices of people she didn’t know. A man’s voice, old and rasping, spoke with reverence, “My lady, the heiress’s fever has finally broken.”

Another voice, a woman’s, spoke with palpable relief. “Oh, thank the Lord.”

Hermione’s confusion deepened. Heiress? Fever? Her heart began to race as the realization hit her—none of this made sense. This wasn’t St. Mungo’s, or Grimmauld Place, or any place she knew. She wasn’t even sure where she was anymore.

The cooing continued. Teddy, she thought again, focusing on the child’s presence, feeling a maternal instinct rise within her. Her hand moved weakly in the direction of the sound, wanting to reach him, to make sure he was safe. For a brief moment, Hermione’s worry about herself evaporated, replaced by the primal urge to protect.

Her senses returned in full force as she opened her eyes. The room around her was dim, filled with swirling smoke that made it hard to see, but she managed to make out her surroundings. It was an unfamiliar room, filled with old-fashioned furniture and thick, heavy drapes that trapped the heat and smoke.

The sudden brightness stung her eyes, and she instinctively squeezed them shut again. The woman’s voice came urgently, “Open the windows! The heiress cannot bear the smoke.”

Hermione’s mind spun. Heiress? What heiress? But as the smoke began to thin and the room cooled, she tried again, slowly opening her eyes.

She found herself staring into the face of a woman. Her appearance startled Hermione—she looked like a sharper, more angular version of herself. The woman had dark, nearly black hair, pale skin, and deep brown eyes, but she lacked the softer features Hermione was used to seeing in her own reflection. It was like looking at a strange version of herself.

The woman smiled softly, holding Hermione’s hand as if they had done this a hundred times. “Are you all right, little sister? How did you fall into the pond, dear one? You’re usually so careful.”

Hermione’s throat felt parched, her voice barely more than a rasp. “What?” The word came out hoarse, and the woman leaned in closer to catch it.

“I asked how you fell into the pond,” the woman repeated, her voice laced with affection. “You’re always so vigilant, Hermione.”

The shock jolted Hermione upright. “Hermione?” she croaked, confusion twisting her words. She barely had the energy to process what was happening. She knows my name? And yet, everything about this woman, this place, felt wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be here—wherever here was. The woman’s face was kind, but the strangeness of it all left Hermione unsettled.

“What do you mean, ‘pond’?” Hermione asked, forcing the words through her dry throat.

The woman’s brow furrowed slightly, but she smiled again, brushing Hermione’s hair back from her face. “Don’t worry about it now, little one. You’re safe. Just rest.” Her tone was soft, soothing, but it did nothing to calm Hermione’s racing thoughts.

Hermione glanced around the room again, her gaze landing on the crib in the corner. There, sitting in the crib, was Teddy—alive, cooing softly to himself. Relief washed over her like a wave, but it only added to her confusion. How is he alive? She distinctly remembered them both being hit by the curse.

“Where am I?” she asked, her voice stronger now but filled with fear and confusion. “Who are you?”

The woman looked at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. “You’ve had a bad fever. Maybe it’s clouded your memory,” she said gently, before adding, “You’re in vale, in our home, Runestone. You are Hermione, the heir to the seat of Runestone.”

Hermione felt her stomach drop. Heir? Vale? Runestone? None of these names meant anything to her. They weren’t part of the world she knew. But before she could voice her disbelief, the woman’s attention shifted to Teddy.

“You’re worried about the boy, aren’t you?” the woman said. “Eddie was with you when you fell into the pond, but don’t worry. The servants pulled him out before any harm came to him.”

Hermione’s head swam. Servants? Who is Eddie? But there he was—Teddy—alive and well in the crib. Everything was spinning out of control, and she had no answers to make sense of the situation.

A man entered the room, dressed in strange, medieval-looking clothes. He spoke softly to the woman. “My lady, the fever may have caused some delusions. It’s common after such an intense bout.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, it seems the fever may have clouded her memory. She just needs time.”

Hermione, trying to process everything, reached out again weakly. “Who... who are you?” she asked the woman one last time.

The woman smiled, her eyes filled with warmth. “I am Rhea Royce, your older sister, little one.”

The words hit Hermione like a curse, and she felt her head spin. Older sister? Rhea Royce? This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening.

Before she could protest, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she sank back into the bed, her mind racing as she fell into a fitful sleep, Teddy’s small body snuggling against hers.