Hourglass.
Summary: Hermione Granger never wanted to travel far into the past, she didn't mean to get stranded there indefinitely and she never expected to want to stay there. Time was always against her. RLHG.
Prologue.
"Miss Granger?" rumbled an irritated sounding voice, breaking her from her reverie.
Her boss poked his balding head around her door and fixed his small, dark eyes on her face. The door could not open enough to allow his substantial bulk to move inside. There were times when she was quite thankful for that. Peering around the stacks of broken artefacts and piles of paper, Hermione Granger forced her features into a calm, blank expression.
"Yes, Mr Newberry?"
"I want you to..." he began, breaking off as he attempted to suck in and squeeze through the slim gap - his large, strangely flat face working furiously," I want you to fix this for me before the important meeting on Monday."
He gave up half-way and wiped his receding hairline with a sweat stained and snitch patterned handkerchief. It was a struggle to keep a look of contempt off her face; more work. This was her first job outside of Hogwarts and she had known she would be entering at a low level, she had known that they would take advantage of her in any way possible - despite her top marks... This did not make it any less of an annoyance.
Clenched in one of his pasty fists was a thin gold chain, from which dangled a half melted hourglass. A Time Turner.
"It's been terminated?" she asked, coolly, but reached out from the tiny object gingerly when he gave a curt nod.
Before objects came to her to be fixed someone would have a look at them; remove any potentially harmful magical residue that lingered around them, broke any remaining rune chains, and basically make them safe for her to handle.
"I'll have it in complete working order, first thing Monday morning," she said quietly, carefully signing her final piece of paperwork for the day.
Mr Newberry shifted from foot to foot and twisted his large handkerchief in his boulder sized fists.
"I would just like you to know that the meeting may feature you highly, Miss Granger, and doing a good job on this assignment," he gave her an oily smile, "might just work in your favour."
Against her will her spirits rose slightly - a promotion was just what she wanted. It might be a con to try and get her to work better, he was not above such things, but she could hope. There was always hope. Nodding, Hermione slid the small instrument into the little, beaded bag she had bought specially for the evening. Concealed beneath her practical, white button up shirt, soft blue jumper and loose grey wool skirt was a pretty and ridiculously expensive little dress.
Muttering a quick locking spell she bolted the door and began sliding off her work clothes to reveal the little dress beneath. Each piece of clothing was meticulously folded and placed inside the magically enlarged bag.
The dress was a deep aubergine colour with a tightly fitted, structural bodice and a layered, flowing silk skirt hemmed with black lace, which fell to mid-thigh. Slick, and flirty, the dress was a little boost of confidence that had hurt her bank balance, but was completely worth it. She slid the comfy, leather flats off her feet and tip-toed into black patent court shoes. A little pair of star shaped diamond studs and a matching necklace completed the ensemble.
When she arrived at the party she would shake her hair out of the bun in was restrained in and add a slick of eyeliner. Smiling to herself, she stood, unlocked the door and walked out towards the main atrium. A quick apparition later and she appeared in one of the litter strewn back alleys close to the Leaky Cauldron, and a minutes' walk away from the minuscule cake shop that she would be retrieving a behemoth of a dessert from for Mrs Weasley.
Normally the Weasley matriarch would have made one herself - and would have been happy to do it - but, because of the size of the party and the suddenness of it, she had been half-forced to accept a cake from an outside source. The evening was more about the companionship, anyway.
The party was mainly a celebration for Ron and Harry, who had just been accepted into Auror training. Just the thought of them helped wipe the acrid taste that speaking to Mr Newberry brought straight from her mouth.
Hermione began walking briskly forward, but her heels made her unsteady and after a few steps on the cobbles she crashed to her knees. Tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes as pin-pricks of white hot pain shot through her knees and ankle. Blood appeared on her raw palms from where she had thrown her hands out to stop herself. She hissed angrily at herself and staggered to her feet, anxiously checking her dress for marks.
At least these things always seemed to happen when she was alone.
Just at that thought her head seemed to spin wildly and for a moment the soot-stained bricks in front of her span. Motion sickness gripped her and she felt as though she had jumped from a cliff and left her organs behind. The clamouring sensations seemed to grip her entire body for a moment and she leaned her hands on her scraped knees, gasping violently. Bile rose in her throat and she leaned over the gutter, coughing up a milky coloured liquid and feeling her throat tingling with the burn.
And as soon as it had begun, it was over.
Hermione took deep, choking breaths of frigid night air and wiped the heated tears from her stinging eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand. Her ankle throbbed painfully as she hobbled forward in search of her wand - feeling vulnerable and naked without it. She found it lying not far from a set of bulging black bin bags that reeked of the sweet scent of decay and cheap vodka.
A quick "Lumos" and she could scan the ground for her missing bag which she left without a good ten minutes later. If she stayed any longer she would be late for the celebration and would have to bear the brunt of Mrs Weasley's irritation and probably some snide comments about her own lectures on punctuality. It was clear that no one came down here - she would return and look for the bag in the light of day.
There was a tiny niggling feeling in the back of her mind that told her something was wrong which she chose to ignore. A small stomach bug, that was probably what it was. Nothing to be worried about.
It was deathly quiet in one of the many streets of Muggle London that wove away from Diagon Alley. Hermione huffed slightly - dismayed by the visible cloud of breath that swirled in plain view in front of her - and rubbed her arms. The ridiculous, purple dress that she loved chose to point out all of its impracticalities; it started too late, ended too soon, and did nothing to stop the chill wind that cut though the flimsy silk and turned the ends of her bare fingers a dull blue colour. Her heels kept her out the slush for the most part, but bits of the chill wetness that squelched beneath her feet still managed to reach her toes.
Her ankle felt swollen and painful, but it didn't hinder her too much.
Somewhere to her left a dog howled and whined - probably begging to be let inside out of the frigid night. She rubbed her arms more vigorously and glared up at the puffy, grey clouds that threatened to spill hail, or snow, on her head at any moment. Her keen eyes picked out the little shop perched at the corner of the street and she hurried towards it - dismayed by the lack of lighting.
She fumbled with her watch, which was turned to the inside of her wrist, and held it up to the orange light of one of the streetlamps. The shop shut at half past five and it had only been five past when she left the office. Surely it should still be open? The niggling feeling in the back of her mind increased. She shook her head - a small, fussy movement she often made - when she saw that her watch had stopped.
A small, discrete, tap with her wand did nothing.
Soon she was stomping as quickly as she could towards the small windows. They were quite dusty and grimy, with the paint peeling from the olive coloured window frames. The display was not the usual one of sumptuous cakes piled high with fussy little ribbons, decorative fruits made of marzipan and exotic looking flowers as big as her clenched fist. Instead, cheap looking, gaudy jewellery was stacked onto mannequins with their false eyelashes hanging off and moth-eaten velvet curtains were blocking the view into the rest of the shop.
This was the right street, definitely. Hermione glanced at the cleaner, newer looking sign with a mounting feeling of panic. As quickly as she could with her sore ankle she moved to the posters plastered on the brick wall across the street. They were overlapping and peeling slightly, but still readable. Her brown eyes quickly scanned the pictures and lines of text with an increasing feeling of desperation.
One showed a picture of someone who was undoubtedly famous, but who she didn't recognise, shaking his long, sweat soaked hair and grinning. That was unremarkable. However, in the bottom left hand corner there was a small line of text stating: "Concert one night only, 30 October 1981."
It hit her like the Knight Bus a full speed. Her head swam with thoughts, but one surfaced in a boiling fury.
The Time Turner had not been terminated.
I originally had this plus a load more as the first chapter, but I separated this part and made it into a prologue. Break you in gently - and all that. I knowI should really be updating my HermioneSirius TT, but I got attacked by rabid plot bunnies and this happened.
As far as I'm concerned while writing this Tonks, Remus and subsequently Teddy, never happened. They never got together because breaking up a family isn't really what I feel like writing just now. Oh, and a lot of people didn't die. It's basically not entirely HBP and DH compliant. Some parts it is, and some parts it isn't.
Also, I've promised to write a Dramione for a friend of mine. She had a plot bunny, I volunteered. So, watch out for that as well. (Hopefully. Otherwise she might hurt me. Seriously.)
Hope you're liking it so far.
xxx.