Behind Death
post-apocalypse world In a last ditch attempt to right the wrong, Hermione goes back into the past. But, time refuses to be tamed.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
01. Still Life
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
Emily Dickinson
His cackles danced within the cold mist, echoing in Hermione Granger's numb ears. She wondered when the noise would stop, wondered if her mind would burst if it went for any longer. Her knees sank a fraction deeper into the wet dirt, her muddy hands clumsily grasping Harry's cold ones.
She refused to believe it. Her fingers rubbed Harry's hands, as if that action alone could bring warmth to her friend. Harrywastoocold,toomuchlikeacorpse—
She pleaded for Harry to open his eyes, like he would every time he emerged victorious in fighting against Lord Voldemort. But this time his glasses were gone, tossed somewhere in the darkness of the forest. Aside from that, there were no cuts, blood, or anything on him to indicate that a gruesome battle had occurred moments ago.
"Wake up," she whispered, but Harry Potter would not open his eyes.
A shiver shook through Hermione's body, and her silent tears dripped down to Harry's pale face. He couldn't be dead, she thought. He had to defeat Voldemort; he was destined to defeat him.
Her arms wrapped around her friend. She was all alone, not counting the dozens of Death Eaters that roamed in the distance and Lord Voldemort himself. She could footsteps closing in upon her. She didn't dare move, didn't want to leave Harry lying on the floor all alone where he would be no doubt messed with by the Death Eaters. Hermione clutched Harry's arms more tightly, hoping that whoever was there would not see them.
Her hopes were realized when the steps creaked away, and she was able to release the heavy breath she'd been holding. But she knew that they still weren't safe, especially with Harry out cold—she refused to think otherwise of his status. Her head twitched around; the mist was too thick. And Harry was too pale—she shook her head, reminding herself that Harry was sleeping merely and would wake in due time.
But then she felt it again, fear in its rawest form. Something squirmed in her stomach and she could feel the pace of her heart quicken. The footsteps grew closer, pounding loudly against the wet earth.
She felt the cold atmosphere stronger than ever, lingering on her frail skin and causing her to breath out white airy clouds. Idon'twanttodie, she realized, and it was as simple as those words that caused an unknown reaction.
Another cackle filled the air; her breath grew cold.
A green light flashed before her eyes and the world around her immediately spun in a deadly array of colors. She felt Harry disappear beneath her fingers and no matter how much she grabbed on tightly, she was pushed away. A powerful sting wrapped around her fingers, until she felt they would explode. She saw brief flashes, of her sixth year at Hogwarts, then her fifth, fourth, and third…until she began seeing other images, of people that she had never seen before.
Then it all stopped.
White.
Everything was white.
Hermione raised a hand to shield her eyes, for the light nearly blinded her. She was lying on her back. And she realized the floor was quite cool. Then, very quickly, as if someone had grabbed a paintbrush, the whole world was painted in different hues of colors. The white floor transformed into gray brick blocks as did the walls. The ceiling painted itself, into a stormy night sky filled with sprinkles of stars. Clear chandeliers, decorated with angelic ornaments of gold and silver, dropped from the ceiling and hung delicately on metal chains. The windows no longer shone pure white light, but shades of darkness, which flowed into the large hallway into soft layers of shadows. The tables and benches became lighted with different shades of brown, the top bare without the usual food that Hermione was used to seeing.
Hogwarts, she realized quite slowly. I'mintheGreatHall.
She sat upright before a pain ripped through her head. Hermione wrapped her hands around her forehead. The warmth from her hands did nothing to help, but the pain seemed to dissipate and she was able to remember what had happened. She twisted her neck and looked around. Harry!
"Students are to go to their dormitories after curfew, miss." The voice was polite, cool.
Her eyes flickered around the room, eyeing the dark figure briefly before looking elsewhere. "Harry?" Her voice was hesitant.
"I'm afraid you'll have to find 'Harry' in the morning. It's half past midnight. You know very well that students are not to wander," said the voice, sending in more waves of politeness and serenity. Hermione turned to face him and nearly froze. The boy looked so similar to Harry—jet black hair, pale, tall, dark eyes. But there was something hidden in those eyes that she could not quite understand. Looking at them made her feel as if she was trapped in a horribly dark place and would never get out again. She stopped thinking. The pain spun around her head, forcing her to break eye contact.
Blimey!I'dsaysomeonewastryingtobeHarryorsomething," Ron remarked in her ear.
She felt cool fingers seize her elbow. She tried to resist being pulled up, but the shock came too sudden—she wasn't prepared. Hogwarts was in ruins the last time she saw it—the Death Eaters had come and had their fun. Her legs wobbled uncontrollably at the sudden action, but the grip was firm and she found herself leaning on the edge of one of the dining tables.
What did it mean? All of this. Was it some trick by the Death Eaters? Some last ploy to torture?
"Harry?" she gasped, though it came out more like a squeak. She grasped his hand weakly in hers, but the boy—who looked so much like Harry she could burst into tears—prayed his fingers away from her. Annoyance flashed through his eyes, only briefly, before a courteous smile formed on his lips.
"I'm afraid you have the wrong person. Now, if you'll go back to your dormitory before I dock off any points…" the boy paused, looked at her closely, "Gryffindor, judging by your robe's emblem?"
He started to walk away, without any regard that Hermione had collapsed onto the floor once more. Her body shook and she was doing all she could, wrapping her arms around her chest and curling in a tight ball. She closed her eyes, trying hard to think but instead nothing came out. There was nothing to indicate a spell had been casted. And, she doubted she would have been able to, not without her wand.
"Please get back to your dormitory," said the dark-haired boy. She felt herself pulled up once more. But this time, she resisted.
"Let go of me," she said, almost a snarl if not for the fact that she was completely drained of energy. His hands remained on her shoulders.
"Gryffindor, are you aware that you are disobeying the Head Boy?" the boy's voice was still polite, but her mind was clearer now. She could hear something else embedded in his sweet tone—there was annoyance and angry, lots of it.
"Head—
"Tom Riddle. Now, let's go, miss." He pulled her up again, and this time, she did not put up any resistance. The boy—Tom Riddle—began dragging her into one of Hogwart's hallways. All the while, her mind began to spin. Was it possible for another boy to be named Tom Riddle? But then, would there even be a parent cruel enough to name their child after Voldemort's old name?
"The time!" she yelled out in a hushed voice. Hermione steadied herself. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Half past midnight," he responded coldly, his grip on her tightening.
"I meant…year," she said, a tad softer than she meant.
He turned around, his dark eyes eyeing her with a new curiosity. It reminded her eerily of a snake. "1944."
She tried to stop herself from gaping, from widening her eyes—she really did. But she saw Tom Riddle's eyes flicker to hers, noting the surprise from her face. She cursed inwardly, mustering a weak nod.
"Oh," she laughed, though it sounded more like a wheeze, "Fire whiskey really gets to your head, right?"
But Tom merely stared at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he turned back, continuing to walk down the hall. "Is that so?" he asked softly, almost a whisper and Hermione wondered if he meant for her to hear. But it was then that the pain snapped into something more terrible. She remembered the scene fading away into pale shades of white, her eyes rolling back, and nothing more.
She woke up feeling as if an entire slab of cement had fell on her body and then someone went and whacked a hammer on the pillar. Groggily, Hermione opened her eyes, quickly realizing that she was in the Hospital Wing. She tried to push aside the blanket that covered her, but found it near impossible as her arms felt like jelly. Panic spread across her like lighting. She pushed with her legs, but no movement showed the blankets.
What was wrong with her? Why was she like this?
ProfessorMcGonagalltoldyouwhatawfulthingshavehappenedwhenwizardsmeddledwithtime,her voice purred, as if answering her previous questions. It brought a looming chilliness around her spine. She wheezed, though no sound traveled through her dried lips. The lights flashed ominously above her before she reminded herself that the Hospital Wing had no lights. It was merely an illusionary spell made to enhance one's sight. The fact that it in use must have meant that it was the daytime.
"You're awake." Though Hermione could not turn her head, the figure eventually walked closer, as indicated by the loud footsteps. A nurse-like figure was peering down to her, not unlike Madam Pomfrey. Her face wore a stern look, with her lips curled in a discouraging expression.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but realized that no sound could come from her lips.
"You drank a Stonestiff potion that caused you to go unconscious, dear. You won't be able to move for the next several hours, but when it wears off you'll be fine again," said the nurse curtly. Hermione noticed she had white wisps of hair, which dangled closely to the bedside. The nurse held a finger under her chin, "Though, I would think the Headmaster would want to know how you obtained such a potion in the first place…" She looked at Hermione tartly before leaving the girl to her own peace.
Not that peace would come to Hermione. She was forced to rethink her thoughts again, perplexed beyond any thought possible. There was the image of Harry Potter that flashed through her mind periodically. She could feel the coolness of the air as she thought about his condition, as well as the others that were caught in the skirmish. The night was still a powerful memory for her and if anything being in this Hogwarts only stressed her out further.
Hermione closed her eyes, the only action she could do and slept.
Sleep did not come easy, nor were the dreams pleasant.
"You're awake." There was a faint ticking of a clock.
Hermione looked to see a kind face with delicate glasses across a wrinkled face. "Professor Dumbledore." Immediately, she sat up without a second thought. She felt as if the insides of her stomach had flipped and placed the back of her hand against her mouth.
"Careful," chuckled the Professor. He was sitting on a tiny stool, but he still carried the aura of a powerful wizard. "And might I ask you, how are you?" Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, looking at her expectantly for an answer.
"Professor, I—
Hermione paused in her thoughts, confused as to what her next sentence should be. Meddling with time was a major crime and it would be dangerous to reveal her true time to someone in the past. But to lie to Dumbledore would be unprecedented. Hermione trusted the old wizard for as long as she could remember. Nevertheless…
"I really don't know how I got to drinking that Stonestiff potion, Professor," she said, hoping that the apologetic gleam in her eyes would be realistic enough. Her hands were folded on her lap, tightly clasped together.
"Oh yes, that is unfortunate. It has been found that Nathaniel Malfoy has taken pains to fill your goblet with a Stonestiff potion," said the Professor. His tone was natural that Hermione could not tell if Dumbledore really meant for her to trust her words. How was that possible? She hadn't even arrived in this world that long. "That was a little joke, but the Headmaster saw to it that a just punishment would be prepared for Nathaniel. I trust that you are better?"
"Y-Yes, Professor," stammered Hermione.
"Then I hope to see Miss Hermione Lovegood in my classes again," said Dumbledore, getting back up.
Hermione nodded, listening to the faint sound of Dumbledore's fading footsteps.
"Glad to see that you're back in good health Hermione," said the red-headed boy who was currently stabbing at five pieces of bacon. He sat right of her and had called himself Wilbert Weasley and declared himself the brother of Edward Weasley and Georgina Weasley.
"Oh, come off it. Hermione does not fancy you," said a purple-haired girl whose name was Rena Duke and insisted that her hair was natural. Then she turned to Hermione and whispered, "Though I am relieved that you are fine."
"Thanks," mustered Hermione, who could barely mouth down the pancakes that were on her plate. Everything was the same yet at the same time she could not deny the differences. The people she knew were no longer by her side and despite the kindness the Gyffindors showed her, Hermione greatly missed her own housemates. And she could not deny the feeling that something was off.
Classes transpired like usual, and it was with great comfort that Hermione could bury herself in education and literature. But, the urgency of going back constantly was on the back of her mind. Harry was in need of help and while she rotted away in the past, he was dying in the future. The thought fueled her to read more books and she toiled away in the library even when all the others tried to get her to watch a Quidditch game or two. She snorted. Even back in her own time, she had despised the idea of flying on a ruddy broomstick. Only the loyalty she felt towards her friends kept her from leaving.
"You are hardworking."
The voice jerked her from her thoughts, almost causing her to tumble from her chair. She gripped the edge of the table, slowly turning around. When she saw who it was that interrupted her, she nearly froze.
"Head Boy," she muttered quietly. "Yes, I love to read."
Tom Riddle stood dangerously close to her so that she could see the darkness of his eyes and the paleness of his face. He was wearing the Sytherin tie across his neck, with his robes hanging loosely across his shoulders. "On such a hot day?" To prove his statement, he looked around the library, which was nearly empty.
Hermione nodded, "Yes."
She held her breath as he walked to her table, picking up a book she had previously read. "The Studies to Time-Travel," he said softly, gently turning through the pages of the book with slender fingers. "You have an interesting reading choice."
Hermione could feel sweat gathering on her neck. She nodded, "It's just a bit of light reading."
Riddle slammed the book shut before setting it back onto the table, "Have fun reading." When she looked up to him, she could see a thinly veiled smirk that instantly transformed into a smile. "I am glad that our students are taking an effort in learning."
Before Hermione could further respond, he was gone.