Summary:

There was something not quite right about being victorious this time. He was gone, true; they had suffered heavy casualties, true, they knew that; the entire Wizarding World would be scarred for many a time to come, true, of course... but despite that, something still seemed off.

Hermione and Ron have a falling out, Harry becomes deathly ill, and all of their loved ones are once again scared out of their wits. Hermione uses this new opportunity to take it upon herself to jump back in time and fix what was broken, though she finds that, just perhaps, she actually had gotten in way over her head.

No character bashing.

Hey again guys! So… I know I haven't updated 'The Torn Picture,' but I had this crazy idea and I just really, really, wanted to start it. I've been in Harry Potter-mood the entire week (and a half) so I'm giving this fic-fandom a try. Give it a chance! I'm rather proud of it right now, actually.

It follows the entire canon timeline and is compatable with the entire ending. What? Look at the epilogue..?
What epilogue? *rips out the pages because everything isn't ALL WELL* Nope, I don't see any epilogue. Meh heh heh... ebil laugh.
Cookie if you get the reference ;)

This… I'm not planning on making it very fluffy. There's going to be heartbreak (but no character death… for once… I'm getting soft. NEED DEATH AND SADNESS). Hopefully you guys will like it! Positive feedback = quicker chapter updates.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its affiliates. I wish I did. I do, however, own the plot of this story (though I did get some ideas from other fics, but no copying at all. I promise. I branched from those ideas), and any emotions I pull from you lovely readers.

Oh, I do hope you like it so far! Shout-out to the wonderful author Nerys for inspiring me to write spunky :3 (Spunky? Spunkily? Spunkilikilizy. That sounds about right.) Enjoy, please.

I solemnly swear I am up to no good.

Chapter One: Rough Winds and Stormy Seas

"Hermione..."

A warm breath flowed around her, encasing her, tickling the hairs at the back of her neck and freezing her muscles in place. The air entering and exiting her lungs hitched in fear as she felt a darkness circle her, slowly. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying so very hard to block it out...

Hermione Jean Granger woke with a gasp, bolting straight up into a sitting position, drenched in sweat and shivering. The room was dark, her bedroom blanketed in shadow. Chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath, her eyes darted around her surroundings. The comforter and sheets were strewn willy-nilly on her side of the bed, bunched up and wrinkled by her ankles. A pillow was left laying lonely on the undoubtedly cold hardwood floor.

A slight snore alerted her to her partner's presence, his still, pale form standing out in the twilight. Her nerves calming as she gazed at his features, she lovingly brushed away a stray lock of fiery red hair from his peaceful, sleeping face. Ronald Weasley gave a small sigh in his dreams, but otherwise did not move.

Pulling her hand away and inhaling deeply, she slid back down the headboard into a supine position again. Her hair was a bushy, tangled mess as she lay, staring wide-eyed at the whimsical little muggle glow-in-the-dark stars that were littered across the ceiling. She stayed that way, lost in her reminisces of war, until a soft, mellow light began to mix with the shadows of the room, alerting the world of the coming of dawn.

Hermione sat at her desk by the window, her quill, ink, and parchment-paper book long forgotten as she stared into space. Ron was at work, an Auror in the Magical Law Enforcement division of the Ministry. She, herself, had no where to go but to her own writing.

Absentmindedly, she traced the scar letters that were carved into the skin down her left forearm, spelling out one, disgusting, hateful word: 'Mudblood.' The tissue around it was pink and puckered, never to be healed. She wasn't ashamed of being Muggleborn, ever, but... This scar caused a lot of controversy. Same with the long, straight gash that stood out on her pale neck, just across her windpipe.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione sat up straight again, stretching out her lungs, proving to herself she still could, before taking the slender hawk-feather quill and rolling it between her fingers. Brow furrowed, she began to write.

16 July, 1999

It's been exactly one year, two months, one week, six days, 13 hours. I've been keeping count. Harry's scar doesn't hurt anymore, but... all of our hearts still do. Ron pretends not to feel the pain of Fred's loss - they all do - but it's still there, lying underneath everyone's falsely cheerful facades. Poor, dearest George has just started to come out of his depression; we've Angelina to thank for that. He's actually started to make Patronuses again. But he's, of course, not the same; not that any of us are. I still belive the pair of them were the glue that bound the Weasley family together, at least in the latest generation. Now all George has left of his other half are the prototypes for silly little inventions. Mrs. Weasley only just recently removed Fred's clock-hand from the enchanted grandfather in the sitting-room, so that they wouldn't have to see it resting firmly on 'dead' everytime they walked past the thing.

Ron's not been doing well. He'll go to work everyday, sure, but when he comes home, it's... different. He doesn't like to talk to me anymore. I worry that... I may not be doing my part to try and keep him, well... content, at best. Is he displeased with my lack of labor at the moment? Should I go and work for the blasted ministry, despite that I don't even know what to do with that wretched place anymore? Fuck. I don't know.

We've been living together for five months now, and still haven't moved any farther forward in a decent relationship.

Harry, when I see him, still insists that he's just peachy keen, as always. He puts on a brave, winning smile and watches me through thick glasses with bright, round green eyes. I know he'll never be perfect, but usually I believe him when he says he's fine. He has Ginny now, after all... But I've found reason to doubt him as of late. He's gotten decisively thinner, if it was possible, even with Ginny's healthy cooking, and the orbs behind the rims of his spectacles are tired and haunted. Bags had formed in rings beneath his eyes with skin as gray as a ghost. Harry just looks... drained. All the time, physically and mentally. He looks like he did after his spontaneous Voldemort-visions, except he doesn't seem to be in pain.

Pain or not, though, I worry. As practically his sister, I'm not falling for the 'Auror-case stress' crap that he blows it off to everyone else as, but I don't dare approach him about it yet.

Ginny is doing just fine. She told me that they had been perhaps thinking of marriage, but Harry had yet to propose. I assured her that he would, given time. I know he loves her deeply, but I also know how nit-picky he can be about his space sometimes.

For a while, the brunette gazed around her study blankly, twirling the quill in the inkpot before continuing her journal with a new thought.

I feel so alone on days like these. Everyone around me seems so hell-bent on moving on that they are forgetting how to live. They want to squish the war into the ground with the heel of their boot, and then run away.

Here, Hermione paused, feather pen hovering millimeters from the parchment, her thoughts filling up the space in the room that had once been filled with the calming scritch-scratch of the quill-tip upon the parchment.

Perhaps I should talk to Malfoy again sometime. He's the only one right now who, I think, would understand my views.

It's amazing, how much a person can change, especially under the pressure of pleasing the world. I should know, shouldn't I?

"Oi, Potter!" A tall, bulky, cloaked Auror pompously strode down the marble Ministry hall toward him, as if he were superior to everyone else in the division and he owned the place.

Harry looked up wearily from his desk, where the name plaque read: Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Setting his quill down patiently as he gazed at one of his Aurors - a trick he had picked up from Dumbledore - he sighed softly, "Yes, McClaggen?"

The latter smirked as he reached where Harry sat, slipping a hand into the folds of his heavy robes to produce a thick, manila file. "Your weekly report, as promised," he sniggered, as if he found something amusing about the circumstances, before tossing the folder haphazardly upon the surface before the young, raven-haired Head Auror.

Harry blinked slowly, then reached out to pull the report closer to him. "Thank you," he stated shortly, his actions so automatic that he felt like he could be possessed. Or under the Imperious Curse. "You-" Suddenly, he cut off short as a hiss of pain escaped his lips, his left hand jerking upwards of its own accord to grasp his presently burning forehead. Unconsciously, he rubbed furiously at his formerly dormant scar, which was now searing hot and throbbing mercilessly. His head felt like it was being squeezed roughly through a wringer, and he gasped, grimacing. It felt like...that... again.

McClaggen had the decency to appear shocked and try to help. "P-Potter? Are you alright-?"

"Get Ron," he interjected weakly, feeling pressure on his chest as he could barely breathe.The... Darkness...

The other Auror just stared at him dully.

"Ron Weasley, you dunce, get Auror Weasley over here!" Harry snapped waspishly as his already poor vision began to glaze over and white spots danced across his eyes, barely able to suppress a small grunt of agony as he tried to massage his temples.

The elder wizard visibly swallowed, as if determining the severity of the situation, before turning and sweeping away quickly.

With a groan, Harry slipped from his wheely office chair to the floor, on his knees. His body couldn't support his weight anymore, unable to bear the pains and steady weakening of his life-force. His core, his magical node, had been draining for weeks, maybe even months. He'd just put it aside as stress, even though he'd recognized that restricting aura that'd swirled around him instantly. Until now, of course.

He heard the rush of footsteps of Cormac McClaggen returning, with another person, as he hissed through his teeth again. "Harry?" he heard Ron ask tentatively. The tall ginger crouched beside him on the floor. "Mate, what..." He paused in disbelief as he noticed where the bespectacled young man was clutching. His blue eyes widened. "Bloody hell, Harry, I thought... You... Oh, bullocks, nevermind..." As carefully as he could, he helped Harry off the floor to trudge toward the fireplace only meters away. Taking hold of a fist-full of green Floo powder, he threw it down among the wood logs. "St. Mungo's!"

Harry gave a tiny, protesting 'mmrf' as he saw his office spin away, bits of the fine dust stinging his eyes as he clutched his head, until he was consumed in the cold green flame, before he was choked again by an -the- invisible force, and promptly blacked out.

Hermione woke with start, a small gasp pulled from her parted lips. Her already bushy brown hair was tangled and puffy, framing her face to make her actually appear like the lion she was. Stretching out her board-stiff muscles, she realized she had fallen asleep hunched over the mahogany desk with her arms crossed over her journal. A small spattering of white crusts from dried saliva decorated the right outer edge of her mouth unflatteringly.

Checking the muggle clock on the side-table, she found it to be one in the afternoon already.One year, two months, one week, six days, 15 hours...She couldn't stop counting. It was an obsession. She found it kept the madness at bay.

But upon looking around the room, she felt a funny tug at her navel. Something about the atmosphere... just didn't feel right. Hermione couldn't tell if it was the gray, overcast clouds covering the sun, or the way the dark shadows stretched wispy tendrils across the wooden floorboards, or if it was a certain staleness in the air that surrounded her. Either way, an unsettling made her gut clench tightly.

As her eyes searched the room warily, her gaze was drawn to the open book on her desktop and landed on a single word. Her blood froze.

She recognized the feeling now. It had been the same pressurized feeling she had experienced in her fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years for the same reason. She knew.

Harry.

Very short, I know. I just reread it and I was like, "Mehhh..."

But what do you think about it? Bother continuing? Please review! It helps a lot :)

By the way, in relation to Hermione's obsessive counting, it is set so that the Final Battle of Hogwarts started at 10 o'clock at night (since it doesn't give an exact time until it decribes midnight later), 2 May 1998. So, thus, Hermione's journal entry was written at 11 o'clock in the morning.