Harry Potter does not, and will never, belong to me.

Bold is for thought-speak between Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Draco

Italics are for thoughts to self

The Paradox

The morning air was chilly and frigid, a small cover of snow blanketing the bright green hills. The sun crested over the faraway mountains, shining pale beams of light over the tranquil castle and its glittering lake.

Four figures lay in spreadeagled position, unconscious on the wet, frozen grass.

A strand of hair made her nose itch. Hermione sneezed, waking up violently, and opened her eyes. She felt disoriented; she shaded her eyes with her hand as her head spun. It was unbearably bright outside; she blinked, squinted, and coughed, shoving herself up into a sitting position. Something was splattered on her white blouse, darkening it in spots and splatters. Blood.

But it wasn't hers.

Her vision was still blurry and her body was beginning to break out in goosebumps from the icy wind, and the snow was melting into her clothing. But she was alive.

She couldn't believe it.

They were...hopefully, they were all alive. The spell had worked.

Against all odds, they had survived.

We survived.

Hermione blinked in realization. We survived!

But a simple statement repeated itself over and over in her mind.

What do we do next?

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear it. Her fingers were frozen, and her left leg felt funny. It was twisted beneath her body, in a position that was definitely not normal. It was probably broken. She could tell that it was supposed to be hurting, but the waves of pain were separated from her mind, making them slightly more bearable. But her pain wasn't the most important thing on her mind. She smiled bitterly. Hermione could easily fix a broken leg. But she couldn't bring back the dead.

She shook herself, remembering her priorities. She couldn't afford to look inwards, or linger in the past, when there was so much to be done now.

Hermione looked around her warily, her eyes scanning the field for the other three people that she knew would be there.

Draco was sitting up already, facing away from her, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed coughs as he waved his wand over his left wrist, which was bleeding copiously. Hermione worried for him. He'd been sick already before everything had spontaneously gone wrong, and the time traveling had only worsened his condition.

Ginny was sprawled carelessly on the ground, bruises blossoming on her ashen skin. She could have passed for a bloodless corpse- her eyes were sunken, her cheekbones sharp against her skin. She looked as if she hadn't eaten for several days. But she was stirring, her brown eyes opening, a pale hand reaching up to block the light. She did not seem to be in pain. Good. She was alive, at least, with no visible injuries.

Hermione cast her eyes about for the most important person in their little group.

Harry was...he was just lying there, his eyes closed. From this distance she could only see his limp figure on the ground. She couldn't see any injuries. She hoped that there were none. Hermione tried to limp towards him, but promptly fell on her face into the ground when her left leg buckled. She hoisted herself up, spat the bitter snow out of her mouth, and crawled towards him instead.

"Harry!" But Ginny was already there first, tenderly lifting Harry's head into her lap, a gentle hand smoothing down his unruly hair. Ginny bent and pressed her lips against his, but there was no response.

Oh Harry, please be alive, please be alive-

Hermione felt Ginny's wails in her mind, a blast of emotion that nearly unbalanced Hermione's careful control over her own emotions.

"What's wrong with him?" Ginny looked up at Hermione, alarm barely masked in her eyes.

Hermione fumbled for Harry's pulse, clasping his wrist tightly. His heartbeat was faint and fluttering, but it was there. "He's alive." She sighed in relief and ripped open his blood-stained shirt, causing buttons to fly in all directions. An ugly sight met her eyes. A deep, livid wound had been pressed against the cloth, with jagged edges and torn skin. Blood still pulsed sluggishly from the laceration, and the sour smell of infection permeated the air. She winced and felt for her wand, a hard lump in the back pocket of her jeans. "Accio Essence of Dittany!"

The bottle soared immediately into her trembling hands. She let three drops of the precious liquid fall on the wound, watching with bated breath as the skin steamed and the wound sealed itself. With a shaky breath, Hermione stowed the bottle away. She scanned his body for any other injuries but found none. Presumably, his mind was injured far worse than his body, because he still hadn't woken.

"Can't you heal him?" Ginny demanded.

"I already have." Hermione said impatiently.

"Why isn't he waking?"

"He might have a concussion." Or something even worse, Hermione thought, but she didn't say it, just in case speaking it out loud would make it true. She waved her wand over his face, her breath forming a visible cloud in the air. "Rennervate."

Her magic sparked feebly from the end of her wand and was absorbed into Harry's chest. But there was no reaction from Harry. His black scar stood out starkly on his pale forehead, like a stylized tattoo. His skin was white and bloodless, his muscles slack. But his expression was peaceful, and he could have been asleep if it weren't for the fact that Hermione knew that he wasn't. Her breathing quickened and she slid her hand over his forehead, checking his temperature. He was burning up. What if...what if he never even woke up? The possibility was too painful. She couldn't bear to think of it. She'd already lost so much- what if Harry was taken away from her, too?

He had to recover.

Fix him. Ginny pleaded.

"Rennervate." Hermione tried again. It was painful to speak: her voice was raspy and her throat felt raw, but she ignored her physical agonies in favor of staring at Harry's face until everything else seemed to blur out of focus.

There was nothing, not even a single twitch from Harry.

Ginny drew her wand and gently pushed Hermione out of the way. "Let me try."

"Rennervate." Ginny tapped Harry's shoulder. "Rennervate, rennervate, renervate-" Still no response.

It won't work. A new voice entered the telepathic conversation.

Ginny wore a look of helpless fury. But-

Draco's right. Hermione told Ginny apologetically. We don't know what happened to him. Until we investigate the cause of his unconsciousness more thoroughly, we shouldn't try anything or else we risk injuring him further.

So what do we do? Ginny seemed to be on the verge of panic.

Bring him up to the school. If the spell worked, then we should be safe enough. Draco had finished healing his wrist already. He stood over them now, casting a lengthy shadow on the glittering snow. He wasn't wearing his trademark sneer: his face was an expressionless mask. Hermione searched for the right word to describe him. He looked...war-torn. He was dirty and his face was pallid, and he was so skinny and exhausted with those dark bags lingering under his eyes that he didn't even look as if he had ever belonged to a pure-blooded family. No, Lucius certainly wouldn't have approved of his Muggle outfit, either. Hermione hid a smile and looked toward the castle in the distance, feeling a rush of relief warm her shivering body. Hogwarts was whole, intact, and...Harry needed help.

Still, she felt uncertain about their next course of action.

The castle should be safe now, completely safe, yet her senses were telling her that something was not right. The spell hadn't been done correctly, the ritual had been rushed, they'd been pursued- but she realized quickly that her hesitating was pointless. Harry could be in serious trouble.

They had no choice.

Hurry. Ginny pleaded. Harry needs help.

Hermione sighed. We all do. Let's go.

Draco opened his eyes and stared up at the comfortingly familiar ceiling of the Infirmary. He wanted to get up, but his vision was blurry, and his head ached, and something was really, really hurting him. He was so tired. He closed his eyes again.

Draco, wake up!

Why? He didn't want to listen. It didn't matter. He didn't care. He just wanted...to go back to...sleep.

Something nagged repeatedly at the back of his head, telling him that he was forgetting something.

The ritual...it didn't work correctly. We're in the wrong time. The voice told him.

What does it matter? He protested. Someone else was telling him to swallow a potion. He felt hands press down on his shoulders and tip his head back. But when he tasted the bitter liquid trickling into his mouth, he started to panic. He struggled desperately. He didn't want to take anything that could potentially harm him.

But the pain was so terrible. His headache was killing him. And his wrists were hurting again, like they'd been hurting ever since-

Ever since what?

He couldn't remember.

What did you give up? The voice demanded.

What are you talking about? He was becoming confused. He couldn't tell who was speaking to him. He didn't know what they wanted. He just wanted them to go away.

Draco- It was a feminine voice, he noted, and he vaguely remembered it from somewhere. There has to be a reason that the runes failed. What happened when you stumbled in on us? What he want you to give up? On second thought, the voice was definitely familiar to him. In fact, he knew that voice like he knew the unwanted tattoo on his left arm. He tried to remember a name, and with that name, a face...but he just couldn't think correctly.

His head pounded.

Go away. Draco complained.

But now someone else was bothering him. "Please take the potion. It will make the pain go away."

"Do you swear?" He asked groggily.

"Yes, sweetheart. You're safe at Hogwarts. Nothing can harm you now."

He tried to move, but he felt so weak. "I don't believe you."

"You have my promise."

"Make a...make a Wizard's Oath." He wasn't thinking correctly. He had no idea what he was saying.

"Take this first, dear."

Merlin, that voice was annoying.

Tired of fighting, he nodded and opened his mouth. The concoction went down his throat like an arrow, scorching everything away, including conscious thought. He blacked out again.

...

Draco? DRACO!

The voice in his head shouted uselessly into the darkness.

Draco didn't respond. He couldn't hear it.

"So, I'll leave you to deal with these two young ladies." And with that, Armando Dippet strode away, leaving two witches with dumbstruck expressions on their faces staring after him.

Dumbledore nodded at the two witches standing protectively in front of the entrance to the Infirmary.

"So what are we supposed to do with you?" He mused out loud.

One of the witches shrugged.

He adjusted his small glasses as he squinted at the two witches. He kept the expression on his face mildly interested while he racked his mind for any memory of these two students. He was quite sure that he'd never seen them before. He was also quite sure that they were far from the ordinary witches that they appeared to be.

He gave them a quick once-over, but it only served to increase his curiosity. Both witches looked simply exhausted. Their skin was smudged and dirtied and muddied, and he could see numerous shallow scratches and bruises on their arms and faces and uncovered skin, but they didn't seem to notice or care the state that they were in. Their eyes were haunted, full of desperation...and peculiarly empty. For a second, his heart almost twinged in empathy as he looked into those prematurely-lined faces. Their clothing, which was in terrible condition, was also strange: definitely Muggle in origin, but not within any of the current Muggle fashions that he was aware of. (Although it was not common knowledge, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore subscribed to several Muggle fashion magazines.) And then there was the defensive posture with which they held themselves, and the way their wand hands hovered near their pockets.

Strange, very strange. And suspicious, to say the least.

The two witches glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes, and at once, he knew that he was missing something between them. Something important.

"How old are you again?" Dumbledore's bright blue eyes peered searchingly into theirs. They both avoided his gaze. And again, there was that shared look that Dumbledore was beginning to despise.

"Eighteen." The brunette said after a short pause.

"I'm seventeen, sir." The redhead added.

"What about your names?" He tried, but they just looked away without answering. "Look me in the eye when I'm talking."

Both witches unwillingly raised their eyes.

Legilimens. Dumbledore pinned them with a dagger-like gaze.

Instantly he felt his vision darken; in his mind's eye, he saw himself floating in a dark haze. The mind was like a treasure chest, hidden inside this haze. His resolve hardened. All he needed to do, was to penetrate the fog, and break the lock-

He tried to pierce into their thoughts...searching for a weak link, a weakness to take advantage of. Suddenly, his eyes flew open in astonishment as he felt his spell shatter. One minute he was standing there with full concentration, waiting for their secrets to flow into his mind, the next, he'd been thrown out of their minds with such force that he was actually hurled back until he hit the opposite wall with a muffled thump. His head knocked against a moving portrait, and his glasses clattered to the floor.

The portrait complained loudly as Dumbledore winced, bending down to retrieve his spectacles.

Numbly, he got back to his feet, gently setting the glasses over his nose. He gingerly touched the back of his head. Already, the pain was fading. It was of little consequence; what really worried him was how the girls had nullified his attack. There was no way they could have blocked his Legilimency unless they'd already trained against a wizard of his caliber. But Masters of Legilimency were quite rare.

So how had they done it?

He started to speak, but was interrupted by one of the witches.

"You had no right to do that!" The witch on the right glared at him, her brown eyes alight with fury. She flicked a strand of fiery hair to the side and her wand hand twitched towards her pocket. "That can't be legal-"

"Please don't try that on us again." The other witch said calmly, cutting off the red-haired witch's tirade. Despite the dirt on her face, her hazel eyes were very bright, with flecks of gold in them. Her messy brown hair curled at her shoulders in ringlets, and they bounced on her shoulders when she shook her head impatiently. "You'll find that it has no effect on us whatsoever. Besides, we're not here to cause any trouble, Professor Dumbledore."

"Then what is your purpose here?" He inquired, his mind working busily.

So they knew his name. He did have quite a bit of fame in magical Britain and even in the world beyond, but to recognize him on first sight, and to have no doubts of who he was...it was very strange indeed. Furthermore, the way that they had spoken to him indicated familiarity. They were an enigma, a puzzle that sorely needed solving. They'd already showed unusual strength in throwing him out of their minds. Who knew what other abilities those girls were hiding?

Who knew what their intentions were?

"We're not supposed to be here at all, Professor." The brunette said. She hesitated for a moment. "We might need your help to get out of here."

His expression was unwavering as he considered them, his eyes as hard as chips of ice over his full-moon glasses.

"Why should I help you?"

Both witches greeted his rhetorical question with twin expressions of open-mouthed surprise. After a second, they turned and began to whisper to each other. Dumbledore tried to eavesdrop on what they were saying to each other, but it was difficult because their conversation was mainly nonverbal, communicated through covert glances and minute gestures of the hand.

Suddenly, the brown-haired witch was frantically shaking her head. "No, Ginny," she said, her voice rising. "We can't risk doing that. It'll change everything."

"How would you know?" Ginny challenged.

"What will change?" Dumbledore asked.

Both witches ignored him in favor of arguing with each other.

"Don't tell him!"

"But he'll help us find a way out of this." Ginny insisted.

"Don't count on it." Hermione said acidly.

Ginny tugged on a lock of her bright red hair and paused, her eyes darting between her friend and Dumbledore. "Professor, we'll tell you everything. Just...just please believe us."

"Of course I shall believe you." He nodded, hoping to set her worries at ease. He disliked doing so, but occasionally he did lie and break promises in the name of the greater good. Either way, he wouldn't completely believe them until they submitted themselves to a questioning by Veritaserum, which they most likely wouldn't consent to.

"Will you help us?" Ginny asked uncertainly.

His smile was encouraging. "I will help you to the best of my ability."

Ginny took a deep breath.

"No! Don't!" Hermione warned.

"We're-" Ginny started.

Hermione whipped out her wand.

"Stupefy." She whispered. Caught off-guard, Dumbledore barely had any time to reach for his wand before the charm hit him with unusual power, blasting him across the hall to smash into the wall. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The portrait, once again an unintentional victim of the attack, scolded the witches loudly. Both of them ignored it.

Ginny looked at Hermione accusingly. "What have you done? Now he'll never believe us! He could have helped us!"

Hermione just stared across the hallway at Dumbledore, not quite sure of what she had just done. "I-I-"

"Well?" Ginny's face was flushed irately, her hands at her hips. She reminded Hermione strongly of Molly Weasley.

"I didn't want- I didn't mean to-" Hermione shook her head slowly. She wanted to tell Ginny everything, but the words just wouldn't come to her mouth. There was no way to describe how it just hadn't felt right, telling the Professor of the countless secrets of the future. There was no way to describe the way her intuition had warned her that this Dumbledore was not a man to be trusted.

"What are you doing?" A low, smooth voice broke the silence.

Instinctively, Ginny looked around for the source of the voice. When she realized who had spoken, her face immediately turned bone-white, and then she fainted before Hermione could catch her.

"You." Hermione's eyes widened, and then narrowed. She didn't faint, but her knees wobbled, putting stress on her newly healed leg. She sank back, leaning against the door to the Infirmary.

She thought, for a split second, that her heart had stopped, literally ceased beating, when she recognized the figure standing there.

Hermione's lips formed unwilling words; she kept her eyes on him, watching him like a scared rabbit, staring into the ruby eyes of a poisonous snake. She was prey, and she was watching the person who would become her greatest predator.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

A/N: So hi there. This is my first foray into the Harry Potter Fandom. Since I've been reading so many Tom Riddle/Hermione fanfictions recently, I've decided to do my take on the whole time-traveling concept, which is already probably overused, but whatever. (There are probably far more original ideas for the ways that Tom and Hermione can meet, but I'm too lazy to think of any at the moment...anyways, the real challenge for this ship is mainly characterization.) Anyways...we're up for a LONG JOURNEY, so buckle in your seat-belts (are there seat-belts on brooms?) and enjoy! :)

Also, thanks for reading.