Chapter 2: An Ominous Arrival

There was a bird cawing shrilly. Not an owl, as would be quite typical at Hogwarts, but something else. A crow perhaps. Or a raven, Hermione mused vaguely. Whatever it was though, the repeated noise of its' call was making her head ache fiercely. Absently, she raised a hand in order to probe the pain, only to find that her normally bushy hair was wet and flattened on one side of her head; matted down with something sticky. That was strange, Hermione thought blurrily; her normally quick mind struggling to make sense of the information. Her ears were buzzing, and everything felt muddled. It was as though her head had been filled with cotton on the inside. The outside of her head, meanwhile, felt as though it had been whacked upside rather harshly with a beaters bat. And the pounding in her skull was being made particularly unbearable by the continuous cawing of that bothersome bird of as of yet indeterminate species.

Her back was wet as well, Hermione realized. Was she outside? How did that happen, she wondered, dragging her fingers through what felt like grass wet with dew. She had been inside, hadn't she? Yes. She remembered. She had been arguing with Professor Trelawney. Hermione's nose wrinkled; such an odious woman. She had decided once and for all to drop Divination. But how had she gotten outside?

With a disconcerting amount of effort, Hermione slowly managed to drag open her eyes. It was an effort she quickly came to regret when she was confronted with an unforgivingly, blinding sun which did no favours at all for her aching skull. Definitely outside then, she determined. In an effort to escape the glare of the sun, Hermione gingerly turned her head to the side. The move set off a wave of dizziness, and Hermione roiled at the onslaught of unpleasant, disorienting sensation, closing her eyes once more in an effort to abate it. All of this, simply from the small action of turning her head. Something, Hermione was realizing, was terribly wrong. However she had gotten outside, it had clearly not been a pleasant journey. Indeed, she was developing a sickening suspicion that the mysterious, sticky, substance matting down her normally buoyant hair was blood.

Panting, she opened her eyes once more. Squinting against the light, she was able to make out an expanse of what looked like large, orange orbs in the distance. Hermione had never needed glasses. In point of fact, she had impeccable vision. Only something seemed to be wrong with it at the moment, and everything was blurry. Orange orbs, orange orbs; Hermione's mind was spinning, trying to determine what the nonsensical objects were and what possible clue they could provide as to her location.

Pumpkins! They were pumpkins, she realized suddenly. And beyond the pumpkins, when she strained her eyes, Hermione could just make out a small, hodgepodge of a cottage. Hagrid. She was near Hagrid's! Hermione could have laughed out loud with incredulous relief if there hadn't been such a painful stitch in her chest. Now she just had to get to Hagrid's door somehow, and desperately hope that her kind friend of unusual size happened to be home. But Hermione was about to discover that making her way to Hagrid's would not be such an easy task. The monumental difficulty of her objective was driven home as soon as she tried to sit up. Upon her attempt, Hermione was immediately overcome with another wave of dizziness, compounded by intensified pounding in her head. She needed to think about this strategically. Perhaps, she reasoned, the best thing to do would be to roll over onto her stomach, and then push herself up. Her arms, at least, didn't seem to be injured. She might as well try to put them to use. It certainly didn't hurt to try a new approach.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, Hermione rolled over onto her chest. The action led to an excruciating new advent of pain, and she gave a sharp cry as what felt like a million little shards glass were further ground into her chest. As her shock receded, and she lay there panting and labored on the ground, it gradually became clear to Hermione that her initial assessment of this new pain was more than just an apt metaphor. There were actual shards of glass digging into her chest. Shards of glass from her shattered time turner, which she could now clearly remember having been wearing when she was talking to Professor Trelawney, but whose critical existence she had forgotten until this moment. It must have broken when…whatever happened to her happened. She had been rushing down the east seventh floor stairs, Hermione remembered, fuming from her encounter with Trelawney, and desperate to get away from the woman as quickly as possible. Could she have fallen off the stairs, she wondered? But then how on earth did she get outside?

Tears leaking from eyes which were squeezed tightly shut, either against the pain or as a device with which to attempt to block out her new reality, Hermione was forced to confront the horrifying possibility that she had traveled through time. In fact, she realized with a ragged sob, it was the only explanation that even remotely made sense. How else could she have gone from inside to outside? And she was sure that she had been inside. Her time turner was broken. She could feel the remnants of it sticking in her chest; sharp pieces of glass, along with a profoundly painful itchiness which she thought must be the sands of time mixing with, and irritating, the open wound caused by the glass.

If she had traveled through time, which she was now almost certain that she had, Hermione's circumstances were even direr than she had previously assessed.

She was almost certain though, that she was at Hogwarts. That little cottage she could just see in the distance looked exactly as she had known Hagrid's to. And the pumpkins suggested it was still some time around late summer or autumn. Was it possible she had only traveled a few hours back in time? Could she hope for that? If she had fallen from the seventh floor staircase, how many times would her body flip in the air? Drawing in a rattling breath, Hermione was reminded once again of the great amount of pain with which her body was currently racked. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, now was not the moment to ponder logistical questions, however important they may be in the greater scheme of things. She needed to get to Hagrid's, and damn all the rules Professor McGonagall had drilled into her about not allowing herself to be seen in the past. She needed to get help.

Bracing her arms on the ground, Hermione managed to push herself up to a kneeling position. It was a painfully belabored effort, but an ultimately successful one. Breathing harshly, she then attempted to stand, but overwhelmed with dizziness, the gravely injured girl found herself falling back down to her knees. The impact of the fall reverberated through her body in a way that made her head rattle. Standing seemed an insurmountable feat, and in the end, Hermione decided that her best option would be to crawl. And so she began the painful process of forcing her broken body in the direction of what she thought to be Hagrid's hut.

One of her ankles seemed to be twisted to the point of uselessness, and as a consequence, Hermione found herself relying heavily on her uninjured arms; dragging herself across the grounds it what was almost a bastardized approximation of an army crawl. Finally, after what seemed an interminably long journey, Hermione collapsed triumphantly on the threshold of the Gamekeeper's cottage. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she proceeded to pound as forcibly as she could on the door of the hut, crying for help as she did so.


The Hogwarts Gamekeeper had just been relaxing into a nice cuppa by the fire, when he was roused from his relaxation by a furious banging on his cottage door. The sudden onslaught provoked a shout of alarm from the (half) giant of a man, and he was so startled that he dropped his teacup.

"Hold yer hippogriffs, I'm comin', I'm comin'," Hagrid cried, hastily throwing down a towel to try and stem the flow of hot tea now seeping across his floorboards.

Still rather preoccupied with his upended cuppa as he hauled open the door, all thoughts of spilt earl grey were immediately vanished from his mind when he caught sight of the horrifying spectacle which awaited him on the other side of his door. A girl, a young girl, lay collapsed on his doorstep in a crumpled, bloody heap.

The poor creature must have heard him open the door, because before he could gather himself or think what to do, she looked up at him, seemingly with great effort. Her action revealed a deathly pale face, and a head which looked as though it had been bludgeoned fiercely on one side by the whomping willow. The Gamekeeper's eyes widened in fear and dismay as he began to assess the full range of the lass's injuries; that nasty, fearful looking head wound being just the start of them.

"Hagrid," choked the girl, shocking the man from his appraisal. He hadn't expected her to speak; and indeed, it seemed she struggled to, her voice a jagged rasp of a whisper. It did not occur to Hagrid in that moment to wonder how the strange, terribly injured girl knew his name.

"What year is it?" she demanded, her eyes wild and frantic, her voice rough.

Hagrid's large brow furrowed in confusion at the odd question. Did the lass have a concussion of some sort? With the looks of that head wound, he wouldn't be surprised if she did

"1973, o' course," he supplied. "Lass, how hard did yeh hit yer head now?"

His answer seemed to distress the girl for some reason, and she gave a great, pitiful moan, similar to that of a creature looking to be put out of its' misery. After throwing Hagrid one wrenchingly, agonized look, the girl's eyes rolled up in the back of her head and she passed clean out.

Not knowing what to make of this sudden flight of consciousness, other than to surmise that the shock and severity of the girl's injuries had finally caught up with her, Hagrid gathered up her limp body in his large, capable arms and proceeded to carry her up to the Castle; delivering her into the hands of those who could provide her with the medical and magical help she so desperately needed.


Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman. She had toiled in the bloody and baffling wards of St. Mungo's Hospital for years before eventually deciding to lend her considerably in demand services, and particular brand of unflappability, to Hogwarts. And for those who thought the school was a soft option, they clearly underestimated the destructive capability of a large group of adolescents in a confined space. Adolescents who were not only just coming into and developing the full range of their magical powers, but who were also inundated with hormones. Not to mention the faction of them who gleefully engaged in a highly dangerous and violent sport; namely quidditch, the bane of her existence. She was far more than a simple distributor of pepper up potions to hoards of students exhausted by exams. The formidable Hospital Matron dealt with injuries varied and gruesome day in and day out at the castle, some of them life threatening. All this to say that Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman.

And her reputation for stoicism held true that late August morning. When she turned away from reorganizing her medicinal potions cupboard to find the Hogwarts Gamekeeper stood in her doorway, holding the bleeding body of an unconscious child, she reacted with perfectly calm and precise efficiency. After, that is, she let out a small scream and dropped the bottle of skelegrow she had been holding. It skittered jarringly across the floor, ending up in far corner of the ward under one of the many beds, where it would lay forgotten for months, the only evidence of Poppy Pomfrey having momentarily been startled. In her defense, the sight of such a large man cradling such a small and frail looking body would be enough to give anyone a fright. To her credit, the Hospital Matron recovered almost immediately, instructing Hagrid to gently lay the child down on a bed and then quickly fetch her a blood replenishing potion from the cupboard she had just abandoned.

Some twenty minutes later, blood spattered and a little worse for wear, Madam Pomfrey let out a tired but satisfied sigh, tucking a sweaty tendril of hair behind her ear. With the help of Hagrid, she had managed to stabilize the girl, leaving the child in a magically induced sleep while her body recovered. It was only then, in the wake of the frantic medical maneuvers she had performed in order to save the girls life, that it occurred to Madam Pomfrey that she had better send Hagrid off for the Headmaster. Dumbledore would no doubt have questions as to the girl's sudden and strange appearance at Hogwarts, not to mention how she had obtained such severe, life threatening injuries.

Poppy had some questions herself, now that she wasn't immediately consumed with stabilizing the girl. The child was wearing what looked to be a Gryffindor House tie, but she wasn't a student as far as Madame Pomfrey recognized. She may not have treated all of them, but Hogwarts's was a fairly small school, and Poppy was confident in her ability to recognize most of the students past the second half of their first year. This girl, despite her petite stature, looked to be at least a second or third year. So why didn't Poppy know her, if indeed she was a Hogwarts student? And why was she here at the castle, in her school uniform, a fortnight before term was even set to begin? It didn't seem as though any of the girl's injuries were the result of any type of magic, dark or otherwise; besides, that is, the peculiar wound on her chest. It more seemed to Poppy that she had had a particularly bad fall from a great height. But from where had she fallen, and how had she come to end up at Hogwarts? Those were the questions that gave Madam Pomfrey particular pause. The circumstances of the whole matter were deeply unsettling to the mediwitch. Frankly, she didn't know what to make of any of it. The Headmaster, hopefully, would have greater insight, although whether or not he would choose to share such insight with her was anyone's guess. The man could be infuriatingly opaque when it suited him, and it usually seemed to.

As though she had summoned him with her thoughts, the Headmaster himself glided into the Hospital Wing at just that moment, Dumbledore's presence announced with a delicate swishing of his midnight blue robes and a soft throat clearing. Hagrid, who judging by his huffing, had run at full tilt in order to retrieve the Headmaster, asserted his own reappearance in a considerably less delicate way, shuffling noisily into the room and proceeding to peer anxiously at the still unconscious girl.

"Poppy, what is the situation?" Dumbledore inquired, surveying her young patient with an expression of great concern.

Madam Pomfrey sucked in a deep breath. "Well, Headmaster, the child is stable. I'm keeping her in a magically induced sleep for the time being in order to let her body heal. She suffered a grievous head wound, and she lost quite a bit of blood. I've replenished all I can, but she's still quite weak. From what Hagrid told me, and given the severity of her head injury, it is likely she suffered a concussion as well. I did my best to reduce any swelling on her brain. Her right ankle was also badly mangled, but I fixed that up very quickly. Bones are easier to mend than brains."

Madam Pomfrey paused before relaying the last of the child's major injuries, for it had been the most perplexing to her. "Additionally, Headmaster, there was a deep wound on her chest. I believe she was wearing a necklace of some sort, made of glass. It shattered, presumably when she fell, and pieces of glass became deeply embedded in her chest. Dirt, or possibly sand of some sort, somehow made its way under her sweater to contaminate the wound. I vanished the contaminants and mended the cut to the best of my ability, but it's proven particularly stubborn to even my most advanced healing spells. I suspect the necklace may have been magical in nature, to create such a wound. The girl will undoubtedly bare a scar. For the rest of her life, I'd wager."

Dumbledore's face was inscrutable. "Indeed, magical wounds can create very lasting scars," he observed. "I bare a few myself."

He strode toward the bed, coming to a stop beside its head and reaching out to allow one slender hand to hover over the chest of the motionless girl who was its occupant. "May I?" he inquired, turning once more to Madam Pomfrey.

"Of course, Headmaster," she demurred, gesturing for Dumbledore to proceed.

Taking a seat on a stool beside the bed, Dumbledore reached out, delicately moving aside the neck of the girl's gray sweater in order to reveal what was beneath. His gaze lingered briefly on her Gryffindor tie, before coming to rest with deep intention on the unusual wound which he had just uncovered. A scattering of long, thin cuts stood out starkly against the paleness of the girl's chest, their harsh, red lines forming what almost looked like a star burst.

"That is a most unusual scar," Dumbledore mused softly. "I suspect you are right, Madam Pomfrey, in thinking that she will have that for life. It's quite vivid, and I'd be very surprised if it faded." He eyed the scar for a bit longer, and then moved the girl's sweater back into place; covering her wound once more. He continued to gaze contemplatively at the unconscious child for a while longer, eventually reaching out to finger the delicate gold chain which still encircled her neck.

"This, I presume, is the remnants of the necklace you believe she was wearing, Poppy?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

Dumbledore examined the chain for a few moments longer, sliding its delicate links between his long, thin fingers, before letting it come to rest once more against the girl's chest. Then, sweeping his penetrating gaze over the mysterious figure of the girl one final time, he pushed back his stool and stood.

"A most unusual situation," he declared, straightening his robes. "In any case, I thank you for your efforts Poppy, and you as well, Hagrid," he nodded in acknowledgment towards the Gamekeeper. "It is due to the quick action of the pair of you that this child's life was saved. As ever, you prove yourselves invaluable assets to this castle, and I thank you."

Hagrid beamed with pride, seeming to almost brim over with emotion, while Madam Pomfrey simply nodded in solemn acknowledgment.

"Please inform me when the child wakes, Poppy," Dumbledore requested, "And let me know when she is sufficiently recovered enough that I may talk to her. There is a great deal we will have to discuss, I should think. Hagrid, I am sure, would like to be kept abreast of her recovery as well."

"I would, indeed, Headmaster; Madam Pomfrey," the Gamekeeper said quickly. "I'd like to know the lass is alright."

"I'll keep both of you informed," the mediwitch assured them.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said briskly. "Hagrid and I will be on our way, Poppy, leaving the child in your sublime care to rest and recover."

The Hospital Matron nodded, turning to face her patient once more as the two men exited the Hospital Wing. The girl slumbered on in her magically induced sleep. She was almost eerily still, and this, coupled with her pallor, would have been quite alarming, if not for the slight rise and fall of her chest which indicated that she lived. What had happened to the child, and how she had come to be here at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey did not know. Dumbledore would ferret it out, if anyone could.

Regardless of the mysterious and troubling circumstances of her arrival, the girl was here now, and she would recover fully; of that Madam Pomfrey was sure. The Hospital Matron should have been feeling proud and satisfied with the work she had done that day in bringing the girl back from the brink; reveling in the due accolades which she had received from the Headmaster in recognition of her skills. But something was nagging at her, a persistent distraction that the mediwitch could not dispel from the back of her mind, try as she might. Despite herself, Madam Pomfrey just could not be rid of the unshakable sense that the child was out of place here; that somehow, in some vital but indiscoverable way, she did not quite belong.