Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it, J. K. R. does. This story is just a tribute of sorts.

Chapter 2

In which Hermione realises that she has a problem.

Hermione refused to believe that she was awake. If I were awake, she reasoned, there would be voices around me, wondering aloud who I was and whence I came, as well as conveniently giving me a general idea where I was. My surroundings are eerily silent. Ergo, I am still dreaming. Either that, or the fall killed me. Then the rational side of her kicked in. Don't be an idiot. You've been reading too many novels. It smells too bad for you to be dead.

Like most magical folk, Hermione was agnostic. It's hard to believe in miracles when walking on water and turning water into wine can be so easily accomplished with the wave of a wand. Still, she had some preconceptions about life after death—her mother was Catholic—and she doubted it would smell like disinfectant. Opening her eyes, Hermione received evidence in support of her theory of her continued life. There's no way the afterlife looks like the infirmary at Hogwarts. And those curtains are not modern. Which means… I got to when I was going. Yay!

Then the implications of her location hit her. I can't stay here! They'll want to know how I got here and why I came. I can't tell them anything. But if I leave, they'll search for me. I have to find the statue now, and leave.

With this simple plan in mind, Hermione forced herself into a sitting position. She felt an initial stab of pain in her head, and then it throbbed continually, but she tested her hand, and it seemed to be fine. She checked and found that she was still wearing her clothes, minus her cloak, rather than a flimsy hospital gown. Then she put her hand to her neck.

Her heart sank. She couldn't feel the delicate links of her time-turner's chain. Her bedside table was also bare. Shit. Whoever found me must have taken it. What now? She sat despondently for fifteen minutes, trying to decide whether she should leave the infirmary and wander around in search of Dumbledore. He's headmaster, by now.

Hermione had just made up her mind to stand up when a plump, young woman bustled in wearing an apron. She had dark hair and twinkling eyes. She tsked at Hermione. "Lie back down, love. You're to stay here until the headmaster is free."

Hermione didn't want to lie down again, but she slumped down until only her head was still up, resting against the pillow. "Why do I have to stay still? Am I hurt?"

The woman shook her head. "But Headmaster Dippet will want to ask you questions."

Hermione turned her gaze from the door to look at the woman. "Headmaster who?"

"Dippet."

"I'm sorry… I think I'm just a little bit confused. I thought Albus Dumbledore was headmaster here."

"Hopefully not for another twenty years. The headmaster still has at least that long in him, I think." Hermione looked back at the doorway. A minute ago, it had been empty. Now Dumbledore stood there, watching her over his spectacles. Seeing him hit her hard. He looked so young—his hair was more brown than grey, and his beard was shorter—but it was still Dumbledore.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. "Professor."

He smiled politely at her. "Madame Greenley, if you would." The nurse hurried into her office. Hermione watched the door shut and turned back to Dumbledore.

He looked kindly back.

"Sir, what month is it, in what year, if you don't mind my asking?"

"September, 1944." Hermione felt as though she had been punched in the gut. She had worried about getting away to look for the snake, but that seemed to be the least of her problems.

1999 – 1944 = 55 years. 27.5 years x 2 = 55 years). She had set the time turner for March 1971, 27.5 years ago, as close as she could get to the accident, and twisted the time-turner twice. But the first time, it hadn't done anything. Had it? If it was just taking a second to react, and I turned it again… With a wave of relief, she realised that it didn't matter. She could just turn it forward once, and she'd be where she needed to be.

Dumbledore waited patiently while she thought about this. "Sir, when I came here, I was wearing a necklace. Do you know what happened to that?"

Dumbledore's calm smile disappeared and he suddenly looked very grave. "I have it here, Miss…?"

She let him trail off.

"Unfortunately, when you fell (from a hole about twenty feet up, I am told), it broke." He drew out the silver chain. The frame of the hourglass was still there, but the glass was gone. Hermione's heart stopped and she felt her face crumple in shock. "I am sorry." His sympathetic tone told her he knew exactly why the loss of a mere trinket caused her such horror. She felt utterly helpless. Dumbledore stopped to let her take a deep breath.

"Now, I must ask that you tell me who you are. I will respect your privacy as best I can, but I have to know a little to help you. If you don't talk to me, Dippet will take the task of questioning you upon himself. The headmaster is a good man, but he lacks discretion."

She winced. Harry had described Dippet to her as a fool, and she didn't relish the thought of telling him her story.

"I can't say a lot, sir. That could complicate things. I am Hermione Jean Granger, I am from the far future, and I went back further than I meant to."

"And now you can't leave."

Hermione felt tears' threatening to well up in her eyes, but pushed them back. "And now I can't leave."

"Since you seemed unsurprised to find yourself in Hogwarts, I assume that you arrived where you were intending, just not when." She nodded.

"It seems to me that you have three options. One is that you get a job, start a life, and wait until your future comes." He paused, seeing the look on Hermione's face. "Perhaps not. You could also leave Britain, go to mainland Europe, and try to find a wyrm to take you back."

"Sorry, sir?"

"Kin to a dragon, but much smarter. They are very rare, but if one brings them enough gold or performs a quest for one of them, they are very generous with their considerable magic. They would not require any object to send you back to your time.

"Or, you could stay here temporarily while we search for a way back."

"Would that be allowed?"

"Only if you acted as a student."

That's easy. But what if I don't find a way back? Shut up! I will! But what if I don't? Hermione tuned out her pessimistic side and smiled at Dumbledore. "That would be wonderful, sir."

"You seem familiar with the school. Am I correct in assuming that you attended Hogwarts in the future?"

Hermione blinked at the strangeness of using past tense in referring to the future. "You are."

"What year would you be attending, Miss Granger?"

"I was in sixth year the year before last, but I never attended seventh year."

"Very well. We will place you in seventh year, assuming Headmaster Dippet agrees. We should have time to place a visit to the Sorting Hat before dinner."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think that will be necessary. You see, I will just be placed in Gryffindor."

"I'm sure you will. The sorting hat is just a formality, of course.

"But before we proceed to the headmaster's office, I would like to know your purpose in coming here."

Hermione sighed. "I was supposed to find something that has been destroyed by my time."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up, and his face darkened disapprovingly. "And bring it back with you? Are you sure that's the wisest course of action, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't going to take it. I just needed to look at it for a moment. Then I was going to go back."

"And why can you not look at it just as well now as in whatever time you expected to arrive?"

"I'm not sure that what I'm looking for exists yet." If it was Riddle who put the writing there, he probably didn't do so until after his graduation. I don't remember the exact date of that. And if it was an enemy of his, it was probably not done until after Riddle started publicly calling himself Voldemort.

"I see. Well, for the moment, there is little we can do about that. You might go to where the object will be, and see if it is there already."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, let us go to the headmaster's office."

Hermione rose and then stopped. "Madame Greenley—"

"Will understand that you are safe with me."

And off they went. It had to be class time, for the halls were deserted. Dumbledore went into Dippet's office alone, enjoining Hermione to wait outside. He came out a few minutes later and beckoned her to join him.

The headmaster's office in 1944 looked nothing like it would under Dumbledore. Dumbledore's office had been filled with strange gadgets and squishy furniture. Dippet's office was almost bare, but what little furniture there was clearly very expensive. Dumbledore gestured for Hermione to take the chair opposite the headmaster's desk. She sat down gingerly.

Dumbledore went over to the other side off the room and picked the Sorting Hat from a shelf near the ceiling. Hermione would have had to use a stepladder, and she wasn't short, but Dumbledore reached it easily. He walked back over to her and held it out.

She took it and gingerly placed it on her head. Can we make this quick? We both know I'm a Gryffindor.

We don't both know anything of the sort, the hat responded waspishly. Now, quiet, girl, and let me think. The hat sat silently for a moment, hmming and hawing. Finally, it seemed to have come to a decision. You were Gryffindor, once. But now… Slytherin, I think.

No! Hermione was horrified.

No?

My friend said that you put him in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin, because he asked. Now I'm asking. Please. I'm not Slytherin material.

If I put your friend in Gryffindor, it was because I thought he would do well there. You are a different story.

I fit Gryffindor better than I do Slytherin!

Slytherin or Hufflepuff, final offer. In other circumstances, Hermione would have found it amusing that the hat saw this as bargaining, since it was her life. But she was preoccupied.

When Hermione had come to Hogwarts, she had known very little about the houses, but she had asked for Ravenclaw, knowing the house's reputation for intellectualism. The hat had refused. Why am I the only one to whom the hat won't listen?

The more she thought about it, the better Slytherin sounded. I don't think I could stand a whole year with the Hufflepuffs. Not that they weren't nice people, in general. It was just that, well, they weren't famous for their wit.

Slytherins might be evil incarnate, but if I spend time with them, not only will I gain important insight into how they think, insight which could help if I ever get back to my time, and not only will I have ample opportunity to try and find the snake, if it exists yet, but I will also always have someone intelligent with whom to converse, at least unless they miraculously discover I'm a muggle-born, and how likely is that? All Hufflepuff has to offer is the possibility of forming an acquaintance that will fade from their minds as soon as I leave. Hermione sighed. Slytherin it is.

The hat shouted her house triumphantly.

"Very good, very good," said Dippet. "Fine house, Slytherin. But there is no room in the girls' dormitory for a transfer student. She will have to stay with Hufflepuff.

No, Hermione wanted to scream! The whole point of agreeing to be in Slytherin was that I wouldn't have to spend time with Hufflepuffs.

"If I may, headmaster, I will propose an alternate solution. It seems to me that Miss Grey should be given as much opportunity as possible to interact with her own house. That would not be easy if she were sharing a common room with those of a different house." What happened to interhouse unity? "I suggest that she be allowed to sleep in the room officially occupied by the Head Girl, who sleeps with her friends, in Gryffindor tower. The Head Boy is also a Slytherin, so they would be likely to have a fair amount in common."

Dippet shook his head. "Bad business, giving a common student the Head Girl's room. Some people might see it as favoritism."

Dumbledore spread his hands. "But Miss Martineaux will not object, and if I, the Head of Gryffindor, approve of the room's being given to a Slytherin, I predict that the protestations will be few, if any."

Dippet frowned and waved them out of the room.

Hermione followed Dumbledore down the corridor a ways before he spoke. "Miss Granger, are you familiar with the Heads' dormitory?" Hermione had never had any reason to go there before, and told him so. On the way, he told her that she was to go by a false name, and if anyone asked her where she had previously gone to school, she had been privately tutored up until this point. Well, at least after that, it won't be hard to convince people that I'm a pureblood. Privately tutored? Honestly.

He halted in front of a floor-to-ceiling portrait of a life-size, classically beautiful young woman in a long, white dress. She was standing in the shadows of a cave, beside a silvery river, picking at a pomegranate and didn't notice them.

"Ah, Proserpine. I trust you are well." The girl looked up at him disinterestedly. "This is Hermione Grey." Proserpine nodded at her. "Now, Miss Grey, I would like you to step into the painting."

Hermione just stared at him. "Sorry?"

"Step into the painting, Miss Grey." He gave her a comforting smile. "I realise that is a somewhat unorthodox method of entry, even for Hogwarts, but it is quite safe. Tell the boat keeper that Pluto sent you."

Hermione hesitated a second longer, before tentatively stepping into the picture. Any second now, I'm going to collide with the wall, and my head's going to start hurting again. But the smack of her forehead against the canvas over the stone never came. She opened her eyes and found that she was staring into the dark water. She looked around for the boatman and found him to her left. She was heading towards him when a voice called her name, or rather, Hermione Grey's name. "Come to my office, behind the Transfiguration classroom, at ten tomorrow morning. It's a Hogsmeade weekend." Just like it was when I left. "I will give you some money, since I suspect you will need to buy clothes." Duh. I knew I'd forgotten something. I only have modern clothes. I didn't even buy seventies clothes, since I thought I would only be here for a very little while. "Your school supplies will be in your room tomorrow night. I'm afraid the books will be a little worn."

"Thank you, Professor." He nodded and swept off. Hermione turned back into the darkness of the cavern. She approached the ferryman cautiously. "Charon?"

He regarded her suspiciously. "How do you know my name?"

"Lucky guess. Pluto sent me."

He held her arm to support her as she clambered into the boat. Only when she was well and truly settled did he push off shore. The journey over was uneventful for the most part, although at one point Hermione could have sworn she saw the face of a little boy staring at her out of the water. She was relieved when she stepped out of the ferry onto solid rock. "Thank you."

Charon pointed towards a tunnel that seemed to end in still more darkness.

The tunnel was twisty but short, and a handful of seconds brought Hermione into a large, circular, well-lit room. It would have been very cozy-looking, since it contained an abundance of overstuffed armchairs, except that the decorations were, disconcertingly, all green. Not just emerald, but jade, and olive, and pine. There were many plants, but none with colorful flowers, only leaves. Even the crackling fire in the (green) marble fireplace was verdant. Hermione sighed. I suppose it suits a pair of Slytherins.

The half of the wall directly in front of Hermione was made up of windows filled in with stained glass. It was dark, now, so Hermione couldn't determine the color, but she made an educated guess.

The windows parted in two places, where stood dark wood doors. Hermione left off her exploration of those for a minute. She spun slowly on her heel to look whence she came.

Dark curtains blocked what had to be the entrance to the tunnel. To the left of that there was a canvas. She pulled on the edge and peered into the space beyond. It was an ordinary stone corridor. She tilted her head to see which portrait guarded this entrance. It was an elegant woman with white hair, lying asleep in a field. Occasionally a russet leaf floated down from one of the trees above. That has to be Ceres.

Hermione closed the portrait hole gently, so as not to wake its slumbering occupant, and returned to her study of the room. To the left of the tunnel there was a huge bookcase, piled high with tomes. Hermione was in heaven. During a war, few things are constant, but books had always given Hermione comfort.

Beyond the bookshelf there was a marble desk with a slight curve to the back, making it fit perfectly against the wall, which was on this side -–How lovely.—more marble. Surveying this desk, Hermione realised what was slightly off about the whole space.

If Hermione had walked into the Gryffindor common room, she would certainly have seen rolls of parchment, books thrown carelessly on the couch, half open ("Humph," Hermione muttered, because some things never change.), and chocolate frog wrappers scattered around. This room is too neat. There are no signs of life (Saving your presence, as a mental aside to the plants.) Of course, the Gryffindor common room plays host to far more people, but… Surely the Head Boy is already here. What boy who wasn't expecting to have to share his room wouldn't make use of all the space available to him? But then, it wasn't really that strange. She supposed that there had to be some neat boys at Hogwarts. Just because she'd never encountered one didn't mean one didn't exist. Besides, his stuff is probably still in his room. Term just started. You're being ridiculous, Hermione. And she was.

Hermione wasn't tired, having been awake for just under two hours, but she figured she had better find out how to enter her room. She tentatively reached out to the door nearer the desk. It should have been cool to the touch, but instead she felt as though she had dipped the tips of her fingers into lukewarm water. It was more a lack of sensation than anything else. When she looked at her hand, she drew it back in shock. Her fingers had been going through the wood.

Not for nothing was Hermione called the most curious girl in Hogwarts. The title didn't apply when she heard of personal dramas, but withhold general knowledge from Hermione, and she would pester you until you told her from sheer exhaustion. She didn't give up until she understood, if not why something worked (although one who tried to stop her from obtaining that information if it was available would regret it), then at least how. So, being Hermione Granger (despite her assumed name), she punched her hand forward, prepared for resistance, but expecting none. Her hand slid through the door and she felt the brush of air as it emerged on the other side.

Being Hermione, she quickly formed a hypothesis. She went over to the right-hand door and pressed her fingers against it. It just felt like wood. The left-hand door, then, was unquestionably hers. Or the Head Girl's, at any rate.

Hermione stepped through the left-hand door into a world of wine-red. Unlike the outer room, this was one shade, which was even more unsettling than the various greens had been.

The windows in this room were clear glass and looked out over the lake. Hermione stood for a moment, admiring the view, and then tried to draw the velvet curtains with just her mind. The castle clock struck ten. Hermione gritted her teeth in frustration and jerked the drapes closed manually.

She restored her trunk to its proper size, took off her robes, and lay on the bed on her jeans and t-shirt. Due partially to her irregular sleep pattern, but more to her growing sense of impotence, she couldn't sleep.

Instead, she just lay there, immobile, trying to accept that, in all likelihood, she would never see her world again. As much as she tried, she couldn't go numb. Finally, minutes before the clock struck five, Hermione fell asleep.

The sun was out and shining brightly, but it was cold in the cave, high in the mountains, and the people within it were dressed in little more than rags. Yet they showed no signs of discomfort. They were standing at the mouth of the cave, watching as a barn owl flew straight at them. "It's Gwen," one of the boys said finally.

The man behind him cursed. "Why would she endanger us—and herself—like that?"

"Gwen would have lost any pursuers. As for the danger to Hermione," he shrugged, "she wouldn't have sent this unless it was important." The speaker drew a hand through his black hair, which the wind immediately teased into its former position, and held out his arm as a perch.

When the owl landed gracefully, he fed her as much as could be spared (not much) from their meager supply of meat. She hooted and extended her leg so he could remove the letter.

Harry Potter (aka the-Boy-who-lived, Scarhead), Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom) gathered around to read the message. There was silence. Finally, Ron, the slowest reader, finished, and everyone looked around at his companions. No one knew exactly what to say. Various time-travelling-involving methods of ending the war had been proposed from the start of the whole affair, and they had all been rejected because of the danger inherent in the process. Hermione had been the deciding, dissenting vote on many of those ideas. She had quite a bit of influence since she had the most theoretical and practical knowledge of the concept. No one knew quite what to make of her sudden change of heart, but everyone understood that Hermione would have employed such a tactic only if she thought that the risks of refraining were very great indeed.

If Hermione doesn't return, we're going to lose the war. No one said it out loud, but everyone was thinking it. They had known for a while that the dark was slowly overwhelming the Light, but it was the first time they all tacitly accepted the fact that it was a state of affairs which every day grew harder to reverse. That soon it would be impossible. That even if they did survive, they would be helpless. That they were already helpless against the evil which was sweeping Britain, as was evidenced by Luna's eye, clouded over, unseeing, the stump where Kingsley's left hand should be, and the general emaciation and scarring.

Ron was the first to speak. "Now what?"

"Now," Lupin answered wearily, "we wait to allow her to get to another safe place." If we haven't heard from Hermione in two days, she's not coming back, and we can't plan on having her with us in battle." He turned abruptly and left the group. His wife followed.

Those remaining stood awkwardly for a moment, avoiding each others' eyes. Neville muttered something about going back to his research and shuffled away with Luna close on his heels. They were responsible for finding spells that could be useful. They had a respectable stack of books to peruse, courtesy of Hermione. Mercifully, the British magical government had no authority to scrutinize the magical activity in mainland Europe, so unlike Hermione, they could practice for battle.

Glowering at Gwen as though she had personally offended him, Shacklebolt nodded curtly at the Weasleys and Harry, who didn't notice, and withdrew. They were staring at the letter.

These three were the closest to Hermione. The other five mutely maneuvered around them, out of respect for their worry. Ron, in particular, was prepared to wait until they saw an owl to reassure him of his friend's safety. Harry and Ginny in tandem reasoned with him for an hour and a half before he would resume discussing strategy with Shacklebolt. Ron's mind being geared for chess, tactics were his special strength, and, as his sister pointed out, Hermione would have been furious with him for sitting idle.

And so the little party of guerrillas resumed their business of resistance, albeit it in a tenser atmosphere than previously. Two more missives arrived that day via crows, as had become the Light's standard practice whenever possible (Owls were more noticeable, with Gwen being exceptionally good at not exciting the interest of the Dark.), but neither was from Hermione. Night came, and an oppressive quiet settled over the camp. No one made any comment when Ron pulled his bundle near the entrance to the hollow and lay looking out over the valley.

A/N: Poor Ron!