Disclaimer: Not mine! I just thought there was a distinct lack of Dumbledore fics out there. If you think the pairing is sick, don't flame me before I've even had a chance to write it. They're the same age here, after all.
---
She landed hard, face down on a cold stone floor. The sounds of the battle had faded; instead, she could hear a roaring fire and a book closing with a snap. She raised her head slightly, groggy. The spell that had hit her was not one she had experienced before, that much was certain. Through bleary eyes she saw a figure moving toward her.
The man that looked down at her was clearly unnerved by her presence. As her vision cleared, she saw he had long auburn hair and dazzling blue eyes. She was looking up at a man who could only be a young Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor?" she asked. She tried to sit up, feeling light-headed. As she slumped back to the ground, he caught her in his arms.
"I am no Professor," he said, "Who are you?" There was a hint of apprehension, even fear, in his voice.
She tried once again to sit and he helped her to an armchair.
"Hermione Granger," she replied. Looking around, she saw she was in a small room with a bed. There was a writing desk and the chair on which she was seated, but no other furnishings. Instead, the floor was largely piled with books and rolls of parchment. There was a fire in the hearth and a small window in the corner. Seeing her companion at a loss for words, she added,
"You are Albus Dumbledore?"
She saw him start at her question, but he hid it well and nodded slightly. Showing the composure and intelligence she associated with his elder counterpart, he said slowly,
"I feel the right thing to ask you is where you have come from… I have never seen an entrance like yours and I know I have not seen you before today. I wonder, from your appearance, if you come from this time at all."
He seated himself behind his desk and continued to survey her from behind steepled fingers – a habit she knew he continued in later life. Not knowing how to answer, she considered how she had come to be in the house of her Headmaster, apparently several decades before her own birth. Harry had defeated Voldemort and the Death Eaters were being rounded up. Harry, after telling them about his ethereal meeting with Dumbledore, had wanted to be left alone to his thoughts. Ron had been mourning Fred and, not wanting to intrude, she had retreated to the grounds.
The spell had come from nowhere; in a jet of bright blue light she experienced a feeling like apparition and found herself here, wherever 'here' was.
"Sorry, Sir, but would you mind telling me the date before I answer your questions?"
He frowned and replied,
"My name is Albus. The date is December the ninth, 1867."
Something inside her snapped. She was apparently trapped, more than one hundred years before her own birth. The man before her, by her calculation, must have just ended a great friendship with the wizard Grindelwald, whom he would later defeat. He had entertained fantasies of ruling muggles by the motto "For the Greater Good". He had neglected his family and likely murdered his sister.
"I… You see, Pro-Albus… I already know you… Or, I will know you in the future. I want to be honest with you. It seems I have been sent to this time by a curse; I thought I was safe, because we'd won the war." She wanted to break down and cry, but he was looking at her with those dazzling eyes that seemed to see through her. She would be strong.
"How did you know me?" demanded the young man impatiently. Hermione was taken aback by the harshness of his tone. She realised she shouldn't have expected him to exactly resemble the kindly old man she had known.
"You were my Headmaster - the Headmaster of Hogwarts. That is, you were, before you died. I don't think I should tell you anything else." His expression hardened, almost to the point that she became scared of him. To break the silence, she added pointedly,
"How old are you, Albus?"
"Almost nineteen." The words sounded odd, coming from someone she knew to be almost a hundred and fifty.
"I'm eighteen, too."
He made no move to acknowledge her speech. Eventually he said,
"You can't stay here."
Her eyes filled with tears for the first time and a sob racked her body. There was nothing she could say to such blind hostility from the one person she had known solidly to be fair and kind.
---
Sometime in the night she awoke to find herself under the covers of what was presumably the Headmaster's bed. Through her eyelids she could see a soft light in front of her. She opened her eyes.
Though his head was bent and a curtain of hair obscured his face, she could tell he was crying. His shoulders shook and his legs were drawn up to his body defensively. In the glow from the candle, he seemed the most fragile and, somehow, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
As if sensing the weight of her gaze, he raised his head toward her. The blue eyes she had always seen so full of life were dull, as if behind a veil. He did not speak for a long while.
She sat up, drawing her legs close to her in the same position as him. Nothing seemed the right thing to say.
"Please tell me why you cry," she said, some moments later. Maybe the direct approach would prompt honesty from him, she did not know.
If he was embarrassed of his tears, he did not show it. After several attempts to speak, he shook his head.
"Is it…" she hesitated to show how much she knew of him, in case it angered or scared him. "Is it your sister?" She prayed his explosion would be quick.
"How do you know of my sister?" His voice was raspy from crying.
Deciding lies were not going to help, she tried to explain truthfully.
"Me and my friends had to do a task for you this year. We found out a little of your past as we tried to follow your wishes. Then Harry spoke to you when you had both died – I don't really understand, but he came back – he said you talked about it. He had been angry with you for hiding things from him; he couldn't believe that you still cared for him at all. But I think you sorted it out."
The young Dumbledore looked, to Hermione, like he had not understood a word she said. After a while she added,
"I suppose I'm trying to say you shouldn't dwell on what you can't change. People can forgive you if you can forgive yourself."
His words were so soft she barely caught them at all.
"If I stay in here, I can't hurt anyone else."
She rose and sat on the desk chair opposite him.
"My friend Harry once said you were the greatest wizard alive. Called himself 'Dumbledore's man, through and through'. You were an inspiration to everyone! You might not hurt anyone in here, Albus, but you can't help anyone either." He looked agitated.
"You don't understand! Hogwarts took me from my family – look what happened to them! How can I forgive myself when my selfish urges killed Ariana? When I wanted to rule the Muggles 'For the Greater Good'! I can't be allowed power or knowledge… all it does is harm people."
In eighteen years, Hermione had never heard anyone so bitter or so full of self-loathing. She reached out but he shied away as if her touch would burn – or as if he would burn her.
"Albus, why don't you go to bed," she said. He shook his head roughly, a haunted look passing briefly over his face.
"Why?"
"Dreams," he mumbled. She noticed dark circles under his eyes.
"Please, Albus, try," she pleaded. "I'll watch over you… you look so tired." Again he shook his head, saying,
"Where will you sleep?"
"I'll be fine."
"No you won't!" For a moment he sounded so like Molly Weasley she almost laughed. Then she remembered she might never see Molly Weasley again. It was a sobering thought.
"Would it not be improper for us to sleep in the same room, where you come from?" he asked. She smiled.
"Of course not." Hurriedly she added, "But I won't sleep, if it would bother you, I promise. I'll just wake you if you dream. You can trust me."
She had a feeling that under ordinary circumstances, he would never have agreed. Clearly he was very tired and the day had been unusual, at best, for him.
As he climbed under the covers, she said,
"Don't you want to get changed, or something?"
She realised the awkwardness of her question as soon as she voiced it and blushed terribly. To Albus, dressed in a formal waistcoat and long robes, her proposition must have been on a par with asking Headmaster-Albus to sleep with her. She saw he was also blushing violently. It was surprisingly endearing.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I just haven't got used to this time yet, but I will." Pulling the armchair slightly nearer the bed, she settled down to let him sleep.
---
He fell asleep quickly, despite his unease at her watching. It seemed to Hermione that the dream began almost as soon as the sleep came on. Not wanting to awaken him so soon, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand.
It was warm, but began to almost burn as she touched it. Every so often a shudder ran through him and his long fingers gripped her hand tightly.
After a while he began to speak, calling 'no' over and over. She raised a hand to his cheek the way her mother had once done, stroking his face and saying that it was alright; she was here. Some minutes later he appeared to calm and fall into a deeper sleep. She relaxed but kept hold of his hand, hoping he would know she was still there.
---
She woke, stiff-necked, in the early morning. The candle had burned out and pale yellow light was filtering through the window, illuminating swirling motes of dust in the air.
She must have fallen asleep as she sat holding his hand, as she was now slumped on the floor with her head resting on the bed. Thankfully, her companion appeared to still be asleep. She shuddered to think how improper he would find their current situation.
Standing up and stretching her aching limbs, she glanced at her watch. 6:32. She crossed to the window.
The view, while not spectacular, was certainly pleasant. The room was a floor above the ground, overlooking a small road and a few thatched stone buildings. In the distance was a line of rolling hills, now blazing with the sunlight rising behind. Victorian sunlight, but light from her sun nonetheless. She wondered where the eighteen-year-old Dumbledore had chosen to live, having left Hogwarts and now estranged from the one family member that remained.
As she turned back to face the room, she noticed her companion's eyes were following her form closely. Perhaps he had thought she would be gone by now.
"Good morning," she said uneasily. Suddenly she was acutely aware that yesterday he had wanted her gone and that she had nowhere to go. The silence was heavy. "I'll just leave, then," she added after a short pause.
Looking around the room out of habit though she knew she had not left anything, she moved towards the door.
Her hand was on the handle when his soft voice called her back.
"Don't leave. I'm sorry I said you couldn't stay." He looked troubled. "You don't have anywhere to go."
"I'll find somewhere."
"No! I won't let you. You don't have anything with you." She smiled.
"Don't I?"
He shot her a quizzical look and sidled out of bed, surreptitiously smoothing his robes over his thin frame.
"Show me," he said. Deciding to continue her policy of honesty, she held out her purse. He took it, confused, and opened the clasp.
His frown turned to a laugh as he realised what she had done.
"You came prepared, Hermione." He blushed suddenly and added, "M-Miss Granger."
The carefree expressions had transformed his face; his blue eyes sparkled the way she remembered.
"Hermione is fine, Mister Dumbledore, if Albus is fine." He nodded, relieved.
They couldn't both live in that room – that much was obvious to Hermione. With that in mind, she rushed out,
"Come with me."
He looked taken aback. It was clear he didn't know what to say; nothing tied him to this place, she was sure, but likewise nothing tied him to her. Why would he agree? That embarrassing thought in mind, she was surprised to hear him say,
"Where?" She decided to be confident.
"Wherever we want."
"Where will we stay?"
"I have a tent. It's perfectly spacious. It wouldn't be improper." He smiled slightly as if embarrassed by his society's thinking.
"Would you make me a carrier, like yours?" Hermione looked down at her beaded purse and raised an eyebrow at him enquiringly. He looked alarmed. "Oh! I mean… not exactly like yours, obviously, I just meant…" She laughed.
"I know, I'm sorry. Show me what you want to enlarge. Does this charm not exist in this time? It takes me a while to cast." He appeared to think for a minute.
"I have not met it before. Perhaps you would be able to charm this?" Putting his hand in his pocket he drew out a small leather pouch. She took it from him.
"I'll need an hour. Is there anything you need to do before we can leave?" Albus nodded, mumbling something about the rent. He left the room, presumably to talk to the landlord.
Sighing, she settled into the armchair with the pouch on her lap and drew her wand.
---
The charm was difficult; with all the year's events she had almost forgotten how difficult. It was nine o'clock and the sun was bright outside by the time she had finished.
Albus had returned only a few minutes after leaving and for the most part he simply watched her. When she looked up she could understand how brilliant he was – his face was alive with concentrating on her movements. He was not handsome, with his already slightly crooked nose, but he was captivating.
Tentatively she reached out and handed him the pouch.
"That should work," she said shyly. He moved his arm around inside the pouch, laughing in disbelief when he found the space inside was much larger than the outside portrayed. Looking around the room at his belongings he said,
"I'll pack up, then." She nodded in agreement.
"Um," she began after a while, "is there a bath somewhere? I'd like to clean up before we go." She could sense his embarrassment, but to his credit he said only,
"There's a bathroom along the hall. If… If you could try not to be seen, I'd appreciate it." She grinned and nodded, imagining what a Victorian landlord would think of her secretly being in Albus' room at night.
---
"Where are we?" Hermione asked as they left the inn where Albus had rented his room.
"Not far from Godric's Hollow. The wizarding inn was built on the outskirts to avoid too much suspicion from the Muggles."
"Oh." They were walking past the thatched cottages on the road that appeared to lead away from the village. "Where are you taking me?" He paused for a minute and then stopped walking.
"I thought, since we can't send you back yet, you'd have to learn to fit in better. I thought I could buy you some suitable robes in Diagon Alley. We can buy whatever we need. You can see what people are like-" he hesitated, "nowadays." She gasped and only just managed to stop short of throwing her arms around him. This man, who had known her for less than a day, tried harder to please her than Ron had in seven years. She was floored by his willingness to accompany her to an unknown end, help her return to her own time and spend his money on her.
"Albus, I-" she felt around for the right words - "if there's anything at all I can do for you… You've been so kind to me. I think I have some money but I don't even know if it's the right currency… My Muggle money is definitely wrong."
"Hermione, don't worry," he reassured, "We'll be alright." There was something in his calm voice that made her forget that she was lost, trapped in the past and a long way from home. It was comforting. Taking her arm shyly but firmly, he apparated.
---
She had never much liked side-along apparition; the feeling that she was going to become distanced from her partner was always overwhelming. As a result, they arrived in Diagon Alley with her arms clamped tightly around his waist, her head tucked under his chin.
His arms flew away from her the second their feet touched the floor and he stepped back hurriedly. He looked so flustered, in fact, that she had to stop herself laughing and hugging him again.
"Sorry, Albus," she said. "I really didn't mean to be awkward. I just don't like side-along apparition very much." He nodded and, taking a deep breath, offered her his arm.
They had appeared in an alley off what turned out to be Flourish and Blott's. The magical street, in fact, was not very different to how she knew it. Gringotts still dominated the higher end and several names such as Ollivander's (Makers of fine wands since 382 BC) were familiar. They headed towards a shop that, about a hundred years later, would become Quality Quidditch Supplies. At this point in time, it was 'Miss Goshawk's Wizarding Garments'.
The inside was crowded and fairly dark. The latter pleased Hermione as she had already begun to feel her plain black robes were rather out of place. She was as fascinated as she had been visiting Diagon Alley for the first time. Caught up in the bustle, she heard snippets of hurried conversation.
"-getting married at Christmas, I ask you! All these new robes to buy for the children and you know they'll only outgrow them-"
"-wants us all round for Christmas dinner, didn't know how to say no – we all need something to wear, of course-"
"-heard about your family, poor dear, if there's anything I can do… So young…" At this last scrap of dialogue, Hermione turned her head in her companion's direction.
She had seen Albus uncomfortable – her suggestion that he get changed for bed, for example – but this was different. Panic and guilt were washing over him until he seemed almost incapable of forming words. Edging over, she decided to intervene.
"Albus, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I feel so ill… I think I'll just stand outside for a moment." Sidling out of the shop, she heard her friend reply,
"I'm sorry, Mrs Prewitt, do you think you could excuse me? It seems my cousin is unwell. She gets the most awful headaches, you know." A moment later, Albus was beside her.
"Don't make me go in there again," he pleaded, pressing money into her hand. "Get whatever you want and I'll be in the alley." He picked a small stone from the floor and transfigured it into a goblet. With a murmur of 'Aguamenti', the goblet filled with water. "Drink this," he said with a wink. "It will help the headache."
A minute or two later Hermione returned to the shop. Albus had disappeared into the alley and she had a sneaking suspicion he was also under a Disillusionment charm. How badly could one woman have shaken him? It must be several months since Ariana's death. Shaken from her thoughts, she caught the end of a speech aimed at her.
"-cousin, eh? What's your name?" The question appeared more of a demand. She realised she had no idea how to formally address Victorian witches, or even how to answer the question. In the absence of a plausible lie, she decided on the truth.
"Hermione Granger, Madame."
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, child!" Hermione forced her eyes upward. The woman was indeed formidable. She looked almost exactly like Ron's Auntie Muriel; coupled with Albus' use of her surname, Hermione felt it safe to assume that she was looking at some relation of hers. The woman had begun to talk again.
"-always said it was fishy, keeping her indoors all the time, what with a father like that… Who knew what went on? Nasty business. I expect they like to hush it up in the family, do they? A squib – yet another blemish on the name of Dumbledore!" By this time Hermione had tuned out, although the woman's tirade was far from over.
In the five minutes it took her to reach the front of the queue, Mrs Prewitt had insulted Albus, Ariana, Percival, the Dumbledores in general and eventually Hermione herself. Apparently, her posture and manners were almost as distasteful as her family name and her taste in robes also left much to be desired.
In contrast to the scathing tongue of Mrs Prewitt, Madame Goshawk was a calm, even-tempered woman.
"What were you looking for, dear?" she asked. Hermione considered her reply.
"Well, I just need some robes for everyday wear," she said.
"What colour were you thinking of?" Quickly glancing around at the rolls of fabric, she replied,
"That blue one looks nice." She knew she was being dreadfully dull but, she thought, acting slightly slow could mean she was excused not using etiquette as perfect as everyone else's.
"Yes, I think it would suit you," the witch said cheerfully to herself as she began to wave her wand, measuring Hermione and cutting up the fabric.
Ten minutes later she was able to leave, clutching a paper bag containing her first nineteenth-century purchase.
"Albus?" She said to the empty alleyway. "It's alright, she's gone. I got some robes, I hope they're alright." After a few seconds the young Dumbledore appeared before her. She could tell he still felt slightly shaky, so she added, "Why don't we get an ice cream? That shop is so good it's still there in my time! Mrs Prewitt's gone, anyway, and I think she ran out of insults for us for one day." He smiled at her and arm-in-arm they walked back into the main street.
Florean Fortescue senior was almost the double of his son. Like the proprietor Hermione had known, he was inclined to give away free sundaes and bounce about his parlour with a large grin on his face. Albus ordered two chocolate and cherry sundaes, one of which was declared 'on the house – I saw ol' Mrs Prewitt givin' your friend a righ' goin' over jus' now.'
"What did she say to you?" asked Albus. Deciding the whole truth in this case was unnecessary, Hermione settled for replying,
"Oh, nothing I couldn't handle. Just empty insults." After a short time, she added, "Thank you for everything. I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't found you yesterday." Suddenly embarrassed, she returned to eating her ice cream slowly. In all the excitement of this new world, she hadn't yet had time to dwell on the one she had left behind. All her mind would let her think was that somehow she and her friends had survived the war, and that was the main thing. What better companion could she have than Albus Dumbledore in her search for the counter-curse?