My hands were trembling and I had to clench them tightly to avoid dropping the gold ring I carried. On my back was a leather satchel filled with all the possessions I had left in the world, and beside me stood Bill Weasley, red hair charmed to black, scarred face pale.

His hands, too, gripped each other tightly. Nevertheless, he gave me a small smile. In strange way, despite the pain behind his eyes, it was almost reassuring. We faced this together.

I took a deep breath. Nothing in my 17 years of life could have prepared me for the strangeness that was surrounding us, seeping through every pore in my being, as I stood at the top of a staircase I had known so well, in a castle that had once been my home. But Gryffindor courage had never failed me before. I steeled myself, eyes shut, and then in a single motion, stepped forward, raised my hand, and struck firmly on the griffin knocker of Albus Dumbledore's door.

The sound echoed familiarly in the round chamber, but the man who stepped out to greet us was not the Dumbledore I knew. No recognition stirred in the less less-lined face. I had expected that. Yet he looked so similar.

Fractionally younger, less defeated wary blue eyes met mine.

My heart stopped briefly– he was so familiar– it was Dumbledore– it would all be alright now–

"You must be Ms. Granger?"

Cold water splashed its way through my consciousness, dousing the tiny warmth that tried irrepressibly to bloom inside me. I knew it wasn't our old Dumbledore, no matter how much my heart wanted to hope. Hastily, I smothered the feeling.

"Professor, it's good to see you. We… have a lot to talk about."

Bill stepped forward beside me. "In private, please."

The new-yet-almost-identical Dumbledore gestured us silently inside his office, expression impenetrable. The first test, I thought.

•••

We laid out the entire story, every detail, and the younger Dumbledore soaked it all in. I handed him the ring as proof, along with a sealed letter I hadn't opened.

"From you," I said. "Your future self had some things to say to convince you of our honesty."

We told him everything– Harry, Tom Riddle, the new Lord Voldemort's first defeat, Pettigrew and the Death Eaters, Barty Crouch Jr., the Ministry, Voldemort's second rising, his strength and power, Harry, Harry, Harry, the deaths, the slow loss of hope, Cruciatus everywhere, Harry dead and there was chaos, and then the last hope, the modified Time Turners, our wild flight from our collapsing world–

He didn't say a word while we spoke, and it poured forth almost desperately.

"…we lost. Voldemort's people were everywhere. It might have been centuries before he was defeated again."

"Your future self had a friend in the Department of Mysteries; he was developing these Time Turners–"

"–the Order really didn't exist anymore–"

"–We thought if we killed Voldemort before he rose to power–"

"–there was nothing left, really

"The letter explains it all, Professor, you wrote it. This is your ring–"

"All we have to do is find him while he's still young, kill him–"

It seemed ages, and we had barely scratched the surface of our tale, when Dumbledore held up a hand to stop the flow of words. A perfectly healthy, intact hand, I thought, remembering the blackened mess it would become. Just one of many casualties.

Still, now we had a chance to make it right…. it would all be erased as if it had never been. Only Bill and I would remember, lone survivors of another time. All we had to do was kill the child Voldemort…. One child, for the good of countless many. We had lost our world in exchange, but it was necessary and worth the sacrifice.

Dumbledore's words were not what I expected, and I forced myself into the present to read the eyes that were not twinkling, but grave and distraught.

The long white hair should have had hints of red, I thought. Harry had said his hair was auburn in the memories…

"I'm afraid… there has been a slight mistake."

Bill met my eyes. Please no…

My heart beat wildly. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

"You have not come back as far as you hoped. I am afraid…" He surveyed us over the top of the half moon spectacles I had seen so many times. "…I am afraid the year is 1977 and Voldemort is very much a grown wizard, and very much in power."

We had failed.

We had gambled our last hope on this plan, our last chance, we had lost our world and everything we knew, and we had still failed.

Voldemort won. He always won.

Bill and I were looking at each other in horror, Dumbledore glanced from one to the other, one to the other, we had failed…. I had stood up before realizing what I was doing, and was stumbling to the door. Through numb lips, I mumbled some explanation, some excuse. I had to get out, had to breathe…. Memories were flashing through my head, dead Harry, dead Ron, dead Weasleys, my mother's dead eyes, staring at the ceiling as an eerie wailing filled the room, issuing from my own mouth…. Dead, everyone was dead. There was nowhere to hide, we were being picked off, who could we trust…

I was down the spiral stairs and in the seventh floor hallway before I realized where my feet were taking me. I paced the blank stretch of wall three times, not even thinking, not even knowing what I required of the room, and grabbed the doorknob like a lifeline when it appeared. I threw myself inside.

And stopped.

A gentle breeze wound lazily through my hair, picking up individual curls playfully and pulling them apart. The air was warm and fragrant and so achingly familiar. Long and wide, the grounds of Hogwarts as I once knew it opened around me. I thought I could hear faint birdsong, and even fainter splashing sounds coming from the lake. This was early summer perhaps, or late spring. And it was right, so right, it was my own time I'd stepped into, as if I'd never left. Except it wasn't destroyed, not yet; the grounds were beautiful, untainted with the blackness that would come so soon after.

It was beautiful. It was beautiful.

And then I heard them, coming up the path toward where I stood transfixed. It was a memory I existed in. And young Harry and Ron walked beside the young Hermione who approached, smiling and laughing.

This was the end of our First Year, after Professor Quirrell had been killed trying to reach the Stone, and Voldemort had disappeared. We were all so young. I followed them automatically, but they had no real destination in mind, and meandered their way toward the Lake, bordering the Forbidden Forest, just enjoying the early warmth of the day. Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them back angrily, not wanting to miss a single moment of the precious scene.

Harry and Ron…. How I missed them, their faces, their laughter. I would give anything to see them again. As I watched, Ron put his arm around young Hermione's shoulder and her face split in a wide grin. I remembered exactly what she was feeling, the acceptance and love for those two friends, first and best of any she would meet. The warmth that filled her entire chest and illuminated her shining face. Harry punched her lightly in the arm and tried to pry the bag of books off her back.

Slowly, without realizing it, I began to count backwards in my head. 1977…. Harry's parents were still alive, though Harry wasn't yet. James and Lily were here, at Hogwarts, or would be when the summer ended…. They could live. Harry and Ron could exist again, and this time I could protect them. They wouldn't know me, but I would know them.

Bill and I had failed, but maybe we hadn't lost. This time was still more hopeful than our own…. Voldemort was powerful, but so were we, and we had knowledge he didn't. Maybe, just maybe, we could still fight.

I didn't want to leave the memory, but time was ticking inexorably, and I was suddenly itching to get to work. We could still save them all. We had to save them all. The plan wasn't perfect, but it had to be enough. It had to be. I cast one last longing look at the memory, wishing I could burn it into my pupils and live in it it forever, but my feet were already moving, my hand was reaching, and I was running, flying, down the halls, up the stairs, back to Bill Weasley and Albus Dumbledore, and planning, scheming, outlining the salvation of our home.