Author's Note: This story's beginning picks up from a specific point in cannon, and the necessary scene excerpt is here, in italics, as well as a citation at the end of the section as to where exactly it is from. It is the only example of this throughout the work, and is only included because it is necessary for fluidity. I do not claim ownership of this, obviously. Also anything else recognizable likely belongs to J.K.R.. I'm simply playing with her doll house.

Harry Potter lay face down, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.

A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore, he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.

Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he could see. In opening them, he discovered he had eyes.

He lay in a bright mist, although it was not like any mist he had experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapour; rather the cloudy vapour had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat blank something on which to be.

He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.

Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small, soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.

For the first time, he wished he were clothed.

Barely had the wish formed in his head, than robed appeared a short distance away. He took them and pulled them on: they were soft, clean and warm. It was extraordinary how they had appeared, just like that, the moment he had wanted them...

He stood up, looking around. Was he in some great Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more there was to see. A great, domed glass roof glittered above him in sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace. All was hushed and still, except for those odd thumping noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist...

Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes. A wide open space, bright and clean, a hall larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the only person there, except for-

He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was making the noises. It had the form of a small naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath.

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it. Nevertheless, he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon, he stood near enough to touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him.

'You cannot help.'

He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking towards him, spritely and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue.

'Harry.' He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged. 'You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk.'

Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading him to two seats that Harry had not previously noticed, set some distance away under that high, sparkling ceiling. Dumbledore sat down in one of them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old Headmaster's face. Dumbledore's long silver hair and beard, the piercingly blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, the crooked nose: everything was as he had remembered it. And yet…

'But you're dead,' said Harry.

'Oh, yes,' said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

'Then… I'm dead too?'"

[pg. 565-567 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, "King's Cross"]

'Yes,' he said again, simply, looking at him with a fond smile. 'Although, as you have already seen, Voldemort has achieved much more than he had intended by killing you."

"What do you mean?' Harry asked, looking searchingly up into those startlingly blue eyes.

"I believe you may already know," he responded softly.

"Oh… So, that-' he paused, feeling for an appropriate name for the creature he had found, gesturing toward it as he spoke '-thing, was the piece of Voldemort's soul that's been connecting us?' He felt rather disturbed by the thought, as he thought back to the moment when he had first glimpsed it.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I believe that by the time your mother sacrificed her life to save yours, Voldemort's soul was already damaged far beyond repair.. When the curse destroyed his body, I believe a fragment of his soul became dislodged from the rest and it attached itself to the nearest living thing: you."

Harry wanted to ask for more information about how exactly it could have happened, but then he ultimately decided that he didn't really want to know… After all, it didn't seem to matter all that much anymore… Harry sat in thought for a long time, or perhaps seconds. It was very hard to be sure of things like time, here.

'Are you sure we can't do anything?' he asked, glancing half-guiltily toward the creature he had previously abandoned without a second thought.

'There is no help possible.' Dumbledore confirmed, his piercing blue eyes lacking their previous exuberance. There was another moment during which they both sat in silence. Then-

'I am truly sorry, Harry. If-'

'There was nothing that could have been done, sir' Harry interrupted compulsively, despite feeling the too-familiar stab in his chest at the thought of what could have been… If only Peter hadn't been made the secret keeper for his parents' home.

From what seemed a great distance came the sudden familiar whistle of a train, and upon looking around Harry realised abruptly that they had been sitting in what resembled King's Cross station. A train, similar in design to the Hogwarts Express emerged from the far end of the Hall and trundled along it's track toward them. Instead of the typical scarlet, however, it was a magnificently golden engine which arrived, glinting brightly in the sunlight as it approached.

Harry couldn't make out exactly what destination it read at the front, but nonetheless found himself being filled with happiness of a kind he couldn't remember having ever experienced before. It was not for lack of clarity, for he could see perfectly well, but the inscription itself was different than anything he could have conceived of before finding himself here.

'Ah, yes, of course.' Dumbledore smiled grandly and stood, withdrawing two tickets gracefully from his robe pocket.

Harry followed his lead, stepping forward as it came to a stop before them. He wasn't worried; they had managed to rid the world of Voldemort's horcruxes. He didn't doubt for an instant that now the prophecy had been fulfilled someone else would take up the fight and be able to deal the final blow which would end this reign of terror.

Professor McGonagall perhaps, or possibly Professor Flitwick. They did say he was a champion duelist in his day and Harry imagined he could be quite formidable if he so desired… Hermione and Ron would still have a chance as well. Ginny would be upset over his death, he thought, but she would move on he was sure… Everything would be ok, at last. He won't have died for nothing.

And with that last thought, he boarded the gilded steam engine, ready for whatever adventure lay ahead…

Hermione stood transfixed with horror, as Voldemort and his loyal death eaters emerged from the forest, leading a clearly distinguishable Hagrid toward them. He was visibly sobbing, each step taking an obvious amount of effort and he was carrying something in his enormous arms. Her heart clenched wretchedly as they approached: she knew that mop of persistently messy hair anywhere. Harry, her best friend, with whom she and Ron had been through everything that had come their way, lay limp-bodied in Hagrid's arms.

She couldn't believe it. She had known, of course, about Harry's intention to give himself up for the safety of the rest, even understood why it was necessary for the Horcruxes to be destroyed no matter the cost, but somehow none of that provided her with any comfort. She must admit, she had thought he would have, by some twist of luck or fate, made it out okay. She felt Ron's hand grasp her own, firmly, and she squeezed it back resolutely, thankful for his grounding presence at her side.

Voldemort was beyond pleased, she could see, having finally managed to rid himself of his biggest threat, but it was something about the glint in the eyes of his followers that gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something told her that they were truly no safer than they would have been if Harry had not given himself up. Voldemort's followers were vast in both numbers and influence, placed strategically throughout their government, and would not stand idly by and hand themselves over after their Master's death; they had risked too much this time by coming out into the open.

Glancing around, she realised there were a good number of capable wizards and witches who may be able to land a killing blow against Him, as most of the wizarding community who remained able and willing to fight this madness had come to Hogwarts with the Order of the Phoenix, but she could see that they were still easily outnumbered. This was it, they had lost in the end.

She turned to her right, and found that Ron was already looking intensely at her, just as grim as she was. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but it seemed words had failed him. He simply closed it again and set his jaw, moving closer and putting his arms around her shoulders. He had come to the same conclusion, it would seem, and she wanted to say something but, for once, she didn't have any clever plans, no encouraging words. She returned the embrace, burying herself in the crook of his shoulder. It was too late, they had run out of time before they had even begun…

She gasped involuntarily as the sudden idea flooded into her mind, straightening suddenly to be face-to-face with her red-haired companion. He looked down at her, startled and momentarily bewildered, but instead held her gaze expectantly, waiting for her to explain whatever it was she had only just realised. It was so obvious, she couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to her already as a back-up plan. It would be absurdly dangerous, of course, let alone foolish to even dare try, but then what choice did they really have?

'I have an idea!' she blurted out frantically and without any further explanation she planted her lips once more against his, stealing one last moment together before wrenching herself away from him and darting back toward the castle. Her heart panged as she ran easily through the hole that had been left when the door which belonged there had been blasted off its hinges, turning away from the main route as soon as possible and down a side passageway. She wanted to avoid some of the more heavily desecrated areas of the castle if possible, although she told herself it was because she would need to find an appropriately secluded area to work the delicate magics required for what she was about to attempt. The longer she could work undetected, the better, she thought, trying valiantly to keep herself from dwelling on the heaviness of her heart.

She wished the Room of Requirement hadn't been consumed in fiendfyre, as that would have been the perfect place, but she did her best. Taking the back stairway from the dungeon nearby to the sixth floor and proceeding to take two of the lesser-known passageways across the castle to an abandoned wing, she rushes along the corridor and veers a left at the first opportunity, pulling open a door on the right and dashing inside.

It was an even older unused classroom than those which were periodically stumbled upon, which were usually either kept locked or hidden. She can hardly breathe and she clutches at the stitch in her side as she attempts to force herself to breathe deeply, banishing the desks within against the far wall out of her way and closing the door behind her, rapping it with her wand to lock it.

Hermione would have loved to be able to spend the proper amount of time and research that such a delicate piece of magic unquestionably deserves, but there was no time. She does her best to remember the particular runes which had decorated her old time-turner, ones she had once known like the back of her hand; those which had contained the parameters of the specific form of time-loop manipulation a time-turner uses, although there were several which would need to be changed out for the purposes of what she was attempting to accomplish. That is where the greatest potential for disaster lay. However, when she had written an appeal to obtain her time-turner she had been required to do a great deal of research and write extensive essays, and she believes that she may perhaps know enough collectively to pull something together.

She begins using her wand to carve the familiar runes in a slow and steady spiral inward around the room, analysing as she went exactly how far back she would be required to manipulate. She absolutely needed to speak with Dumbledore before Voldemort made his proper return, which would necessitate at least 3 years, and merely a year before that a valiant attempt to restore his Dark Lord had been set into motion by Draco Malfoy's father, which had caused a great deal of damage and had the potential of having caused much more, not to mention the artifact in question would be excellent concrete proof of everything she needed to relay.

'Of course,' she murmurs to herself as she moves determinedly onward, carefully creating each symbol in turn, 'Harry had been there to stop Young Riddle, just as the prophecy implied he would be'.

But Harry shouldn't have had to be the one to step in and be a hero. In fact, she thought he'd had the right of things all that time ago, when Harry had first been struggling with his fate. Why did it need to be him? Why couldn't any other wizard have accomplished most of what Harry had been forced into? It always came back to the prophecy. And if she would dare even hope to save Harry from that, she would need to travel back even further still: to before Harry had even learned about magic and Hogwarts, living safely with his resentful Aunt and Uncle, or perhaps even before the Dark Lord fell the first time and Harry lost his parents…

The funny thing with performing time magic was that the greater span of time one wished to address, the less specific the runes detailing the passage of time become. The further back she examined, the more likely it was she would be unable to choose a perfect moment to emerge in. She would simply have to hope for the best.

As she reached the centre of the spiral, she realised there was to be another problem facing her: the type of time-loop enabled by a time-turner, which she was using for her point of reference, would not allow this sort of dramatic change to events. She would be trapped in a loop which ends the exact same way as this. Hermione paused, chewing at her lip nervously as she attempted to quickly work out the best possible phrasing in her head.

Runes are a very finicky art: each one is vastly different in essence, no matter how closely they may resemble each other. One mistake, and there could be very dire consequences… But she was too far in to think about backing out now; she needed complete focus and dedication with every stroke of her wand.

She reaches the end of the spiral, wondering what will happen when she releases the spell. She doesn't have any idea how much time she might have left before she is discovered and without leaving herself a single moment to process the full implications of what was about to happen to the world around her, her heart beating wildly in her chest, she stood resolutely at the centre and began to speak the words aloud.

With each syllable the magic in the air grew more palpable, the world outside the confines of her written symbols steadily dissipating from the edges of her mind as it was filled instead with the words into which she poured her soul as she spoke them. Were someone to enter the room now, they would likely find a tangible web of aether surrounding her, if they could see her at all. As she spoke the final word with a remarkable finality everything seemed to come crashing in on her, overwhelming her, and then, nothing.