Chapter One

It was 1998, September 2nd.

Hermione Granger sat in front of Professor – now Headmistress – McGonagall, with fingers anxiously twisting around the handle of her wand, her face thinner and sadder than it had been a year previously; her shoulders hunching forwards as if she was bracing herself against the world, against life, people, memories; a barrier of bone and flesh, her own human shield. She felt lost, out of place; Hogwarts was no place to be, not when she was drowning in the past, not now -

"Miss Granger, I'm glad to see that you've decided to return for your eighth year," Professor McGonagall said crisply. "A few other students have also chosen to repeat their last year and gain their NEWT's, but I must admit there are not many." She examined Hermione more closely, who fixed her gaze on the floor.

"... Who?" Hermione finally spoke up, her voice hoarse from lack of use. Her tongue felt clumsy and hard to manoeuvre around words, so she stuck with a short sentence.

"I know that Mr Longbottom and Miss Patel are both resuming all of their studies... Miss Chang, Mr Finnigan and Mr Thomas are only resuming a few of their NEWTs... and Mr Malfoy is solely completing his Potions NEWT whilst on-taking an apprenticeship in the same subject."

(Neville. Red and gold, one of the bravest people Hermione knew, a true gryffindor; Parvati, Harry's first date, dancing at the Yule Ball with snowflakes in her hair; her mirror image ("Padma! PADMA!") falling to the ground without the chance to gasp or scream or say 'I love you,' and all it had taken was a green flash of light -

Draco. Green and silver and a streak of gold that his mother had put there, betrayal and murder and crying in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom because he didn't want to be like his father any more, walking away from that battle that battle...)

Hermione looked down again and screwed up her face because -

- she didn't want to remember.

And "Oh," is all she said. McGonagall pursed her lips primly.

"Miss Granger, I understand that you are under a great deal of stress at the moment. We all are. I also know that the amount of work you have this year will surely be overwhelming after..." she paused, plunged on, "everything. I want to give you this." Hermione glanced upwards, her attention caught as McGonagall pulled out a dainty gold chain from a drawer; at the end of its length hung a tiny hourglass, winking in the sunlight.

"But – at the Ministry -" Hermione stammered, her lips parted and eyes wide as she stared at the Time Turner; "I thought they had all been destroyed!" She can remember clearly the cabinets full of shattered glass and twisted metal, the stupid nagging worry that had been foremost in her mind – oh no, what if we get in trouble? - as Death Eaters shot Killing Curses everywhere, and Ron was being strangled by a brain with tentacles. A small smile worked its' way onto her face, as she remembered how easily she used to fear rules and regulations.

McGonagall nodded again. "All except the one you used in your third year; the Headmaster kept it here, and now it's the last of its' kind. Knowing Albus, he guessed ahead that this might be the case..." Her mask seemed to slip briefly and a smile touched the corners of her mouth, before she looked back at Hermione and handed over the necklace. "Here. Take it!" She said insistently, as Hermione at first continued to stare at it. "You can use it to get to all your classes and have some spare time left for yourself."

Hermione's hands slipped from her wand and grasped the necklace delicately, and she was suddenly reminded of that third year; of Harry and Buckbeak – Witherwings, she smiled inwardly – of Sirius and Remus... and suddenly her lips set in a grim line, and she slipped the chain around her neck.

"Thank you," Hermione said quietly. A silence stretched – McGonagall broke it with a sigh.

"You may leave, Miss Granger."

With a nod, Hermione was up and out, descending down the small stone staircase outside the office; noticing that the Gargoyle guarding it still had a web of cracks across his forehead from a poorly aimed spell; down the corridor; through the entrance and finally out the door -

- into sunshine. Hermione exhaled. She stood there and breathed for a minute, then two; feeling the sun heating her face and hands. She didn't want to roll up her sleeves because then she would see herself shaking, see her pale, sickly skin, see her scars - "Mudblood! Filthy lying mudblood, filthy lying mudblood!"

So she walked. And tried not to think. But of course, that wasn't possible; not for a insufferable little know-it-all. Her eyes began to sting and her throat ached, and she couldn't take it any more: she had to rush down to the lake - where she no-one could see her - and cry, and cry, and cry. Being at Hogwarts was like torture. Everything reminded her of the War; every face and spell and crack in a wall; everything seemed stained with a ghostly sheen of blood. It was all poisoned

(How can things ever go back to the way they were when so much bad happened?)

Hermione wiped a sleeve over her face and heaved a deep, shuddering breath. Pull yourself together, she thought, and closed her eyes to try and calm herself down; What would Harry and Ron say? They're strong. Stronger than you.

But she knew that they weren't. The two of them had each other – they were best friends. And Hermione was just the girl. The one that Ron loved, the one that didn't love him back. The one that he wouldn't speak to any more.

"He'll get over it," Harry said as Ron stormed out of the room when Hermione came to visit the Burrow; but he still hadn't, and now Harry couldn't talk to her either because Ron wouldn't talk to him if he did, and she had nobody.

Nobody. It was so lonely in crowded rooms; so quiet when people spoke. All Hermione could think of was the people who didn't speak – who couldn't, any more.

"Scared, Freddie?"

"Nah."

"It's a boy! We named him Ted, after her father -"

"You really are the cleverest witch of your age."

"Hermione? Hermione Granger?" A voice spoke aloud, distorted and deep then high then a whisper, and it took her a moment to realize it was real and that she's no longer lost in her thoughts; Hermione straightened up, the sudden sunlight blinding her when she opened her eyes again.

"Petrificus Totalus!" The voice spoke again, garbled and twisted, Hermione's body locking and falling away from the assailant, heart beating fit to burst and breathing shallow and quick -

"Obliviate."

There was a rush of sound, of voices; everything melted from Hermione's mind until she wasn't Hermione, she was slipping away (who was?), her memories (what memories?) and -

- what? -

- who am I?

A/N: I rewrote this first chapter three times! First HP fic much?

I think the first two chapters of this are a little awkward, so don't judge me until the third chapter... that's when it gets fun and not as angsty! But still a little bit angsty, because we all love drama. Right? RIGHT! Anyways: enjoy, and I hope I didn't get anything wrong. Criticism and corrections are always welcome!

P.S. My keyboard runs on reviews. ;^)

- appleseedquest