Disclaimer: Harry and all of his playmates are the sole property of JKR and whoever she choses to share with: I can't keep track of these movie rights, actors and crap.

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The Hog's Head pub was quiet when Hermione entered, but it was by no means empty. All of the conversations were being held in hushed voices, the groups sitting close together with their backs to the room at large. The light was dim, but she could see well enough. The room was mostly the same as it was in her time: dusty grey, with an aura of dirtiness. Still, Hermione knew for a fact that the barman, while gruff, was trustworthy. Aberforth Dumbledore had helped Hermione and her friends at his own risk when they had been in terrible danger, and even if his establishment wasn't her first choice it would do for now.

The tall, thin man was pouring glasses of firewhiskey for a pair of old witches who seemed to be negotiating prices on a batch of Venomous Tentacula pods. He looked much the same as he had in her time, except that his hair wasn't grey: it was a dark shade of brown. Hermione waited patiently until he was done and looked down at her with a grouchy frown on his face.

"A room, please?" She asked simply, keeping her voice low to match the tone of the general conversation. Even though her hood shielded her face well enough that only her mouth and chin were easily visible, it was still unnerving meeting a gaze like Aberforth's: so similar to his brothers, even down to the x-ray sensation. Grunting, the man nodded once before rummaging under the bar. He produced a key and dropped it on the counter.

"15 sickles a night," he said, his manner suggesting heavily that she should pay in advance. Hermione took the money from her pocket but held onto it for a moment.

"For room and board?" A grunt was her answer, which she took to be an affirmative, and she placed the coins on the counter beside the key.

"Drinks not included," was his parting remark, "First landing, second on the left." With that, he turned away and began wiping out glasses. Hermione picked up the key and set off up the rickety staircase to the room she had rented. Well, she had enough for about a week. Her stomach tightened with anxiety at the thought. A week, and then she was on her own again - but without any money this time.

Don't think about that, she told herself firmly, get a good night's sleep and start planning in the morning. Somehow she would find a way out of this mess, even if she had no idea how she'd gotten into it in the first place. The method of her time travel was a mystery to her, but strangely that comforted her: it was possible to travel through time in ways not yet commonly known, so her task might not be as impossible as she feared. Hermione reached the landing and found the appropriate door, opening it to reveal a small, dingy room that matched the rest of the building perfectly. Grimacing slightly as she closed the door, Hermione unclasped her cloak and draped it over the wooden chair that sat in one corner. First things first, judging by the look of the bed she'd want to give it a good few scourgifies before even sitting down on it. Whipping out her wand she performed a few choice spells until, satisfied, she sat herself on the much improved bed.

With a roof over her head and some privacy, and also having had some time to calm down and get her head wrapped around her bizarre situation, Hermione allowed her thoughts to wander. Her mother and father, Harry, Ron and Ginny were the first things that she thought of. She missed them all so much that it was like a hole in her chest. Harry had always been the leader, guiding their actions with his instinct and intuition: both of which had proved to be reliable. Although by no means crippled without her two best friends, Hermione did feel distinctly bereft. They'd always been together when things like this had happened. She missed Ron terribly, too. Ron who, even if he left them, always came back. Who was honest in his mistakes, sturdy in his support and his friendship. Now she didn't even have her cat to comfort her.

Sighing sadly, she wondered yet again why this whole thing had happened. Granted, some of the strongest and most devious of Voldemort's followers had yet to be captured, but Hermione was sure that if they had been responsible for this strange turn of events she never would have woken up. Or, if she had she would have been a prisoner: a hostage to use against Harry. Maybe they were hoping she would blunder and reveal the future to their leader? If so, whoever it was hadn't bothered to do much research. She would never, ever, betray Harry.

Something different than the distress and confusion Hermione had been feeling stole through her. It was cold, determined, born of the anger she was beginning to feel at her predicament. Somehow, whatever it took, she would fix this. She would find a way back home.

A quick trip to the Owl Post Station, a few notes on public wizarding libraries within reach, and Hermione was off. With the start of a new day she found that the strange, calm, cold determination she had felt the night before had remained with her: if anything it had intensified. Grateful for it, she had donned her cloak and left another fifteen sickles on the counter of the pub on her way out, nodding to Aberforth who understood she would be back that night. She purchased parchment, a quill and ink bottle before, armed for battle, she disapparated.

Having always had access to the Hogwarts Library, Hermione often found herself grinding her teeth at the inadequacy of public libraries over the next few days. A routine was established immediately. Leave every morning at six when businesses opened, dropping money on the counter within sight of Aberforth. Spend all day pouring over books, taking extensive notes and copying pages onto parchment for later references. Come back tired and hungry late at night to find cheese and bread in her room. Eat quickly pouring over her notes, trying to theorize and draw connections, fall asleep well after midnight. Repeat. It would have been more endurable if she had been making actual progress. The only conclusion Hermione could come up with was that she was looking in the wrong places.

Amazingly helpful, that was. The less sleep she got, the more irritable and emotional she felt, and the less effective her researching techniques became. This, in turn, meant that she determinedly spent even more time on her work - and the cycle would continue.

On the fifth night of this, she found herself sitting on her bed and staring at the food left out for her. She was starving but couldn't make herself eat. A nauseating sensation of twisting and writhing currently had a hold of her innards, and she wasn't sure food would stay down. Two more nights… that was all she had money for, and she had absolutely nothing to go on. Looking away from the plate on her nightstand, her eyes found the cracked and tarnished mirror opposite the bed. The Hermione that returned her gaze looked unbelievably tired. There were dark purple patches around her eyes, evidence of her exhaustion, her skin was paler than normal, and a good deal of the life had gone out of her hair.

"You're a mess," she told herself absently, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. Her reflection only mimicked her action then gazed back with a martyred expression. There was no sense in denying it: she needed help, and badly. She couldn't do this on her own, it was driving her insane and it hadn't even been a week yet. A shuddering gasp traveled through her frame and Hermione bent over, resting her face in her hands and her elbows on her knees. Breathing deeply, she gulped and tried to hold back the sobs that were threatening her. She knew her emotional instability was due to her lack of sleep, but that didn't help; it never had. Hermione remembered her third year of schooling, remembered what she had gone through trying to keep up with her coursework, remembered what it was like to try and keep up with time. It made her feel even worse knowing that this situation could become more difficult than that living nightmare. The deep breath she had taken came out as a gasp, and she let herself fall sideways and curl up, crying herself to sleep.

Waking up the next day, she knew what she should do. It felt like she had always known, but hadn't wanted to do it. It wasn't that she didn't trust him… it was… it was…

The idea of seeing her old headmaster again was both a wonderful and terrible thought. Dumbledore had always seemed to be the one with the answers, after every battle, every hardship, right up to the day he died, Dumbledore had been steadfast and reliable. When Harry had been worried about Voldemort stealing the Sorcerer's Stone in their first year Dumbledore was what she had used to console him. When Sirius had been captured and was awaiting the Dementor's Kiss, Dumbledore had believed in his innocence and known to send Hermione and Harry back to save him - and had saved Buckbeak in the process. In their fourth and fifth years, Dumbledore had been the one who knew Voldemort was back, who had reorganized the Order of the Phoenix, who had been working to warn the wizard community and simultaneously to stop Voldemort's plans. Dumbledore had always known what Voldemort was or could become, Dumbledore was the one who had unraveled the puzzles of Tom Riddle's past and discovered the horcrux secret that had been buried so deep. Dumbledore was the one who had died doing his best both to protect and help Harry and to bring Voldemort down.

Dumbledore was also human.

It had been awful, finding out about his past from Rita Skeeter - of all the horrid people. The lies she had twisted from truth had been a constant torture to Hermione and Harry during Ron's absence. Though Hermione had steadfastly insisted that it couldn't be the entire truth, that there had to be reasons behind it, that Rita Skeeter was twisting things around to suit her own horrid agenda, it had been hard to stay confident in Dumbledore. Seeing the pain Harry had gone through made it twice as hard; and she had wished desperately that she could have helped her friend somehow. A difficult task, given that Harry's anger was reasonable for once. The only fact that consoled her was the very clear evidence that Dumbledore had changed: whatever Dumbledore might have been in his past, he had changed.

While gratified to later find out she had been right, it was not comfortable realizing that the greatest wizard she had ever known was only human - and made human mistakes. What if she trusted him with this and he made another human mistake?

There was still no question that, if anyone could help her Dumbledore could. He was the greatest wizard of the age. But still, could she live with herself if she placed such a burden on his shoulders? The knowledge that she could show or tell him things about the future, how all of his efforts turned out, might be terrible for him, and she had no wish to present any temptations to him. Also… Hermione scrunched her face up and pressed it into her pillow. Losing the comfort and protection Dumbledore had symbolized, losing his guidance, losing the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared, had been an awful, crippling blow. For several years now, Hermione and those she loved had been dealing with that loss. The idea of having Dumbledore back was almost irresistible but… If she succeeded and went back home, it would mean losing Dumbledore all over again in a way. Keeping her distance meant that she could pretend nothing had changed, that he might have been dead already and she would never know the difference.

Punching her pillow in sheer frustration, Hermione realized that very soon she would have no choice.

Better to get it over with, then. It certainly beat another day of fruitless research. She sighed and lifted herself out of bed, preparing for the new day and whatever challenges it might present. She was halfway through raising her hood when a thought stopped her.

Bugger, damn and blast it, how was she going to contact him? What was she going to say? Hello, Professor! I'm an ex-pupil of yours and I need some help getting back to the future. Mind lending me a hand? She laughed dryly at the thought. That was just so believable, wasn't it? It'd be a cinch.

After serious thought, Hermione decided on a letter. It would be better than trying to march up into Hogwarts - she probably wouldn't even get past the winged boars at the front gates. She took a sheaf of her parchment down to the main room, which was almost empty this early in the day, and sat herself down at an out-of-the-way table in a corner. Sighing heavily, Hermione leaned forward and touched her quill to the parchment. The actual content of the letter gave her a bit more trouble. How to begin without sounding like a raving lunatic? Rubbing the end of her chin with the tip of the feather quill in her hand, humming thoughtfully now and then, she finally decided on something relatively simple.

Professor Dumbledore,

To date we have not corresponded, but it will surely come as no surprise that I have heard of you. I realize that you must be very busy, and as such I apologize for taking up your time. However I believe that you are one of the few people capable of helping me. If it is convenient to you, could we meet sometime in the, very, near future? I shall understand if you would prefer to name the time and place; I am open to any suggestions. If not I will be in the Hog's Head Pub for the next day or so, sitting to the immediate right of the door as you enter.

Hoping to hear favorably from you,
Hermione Granger

Hermione didn't want to go into the details of her predicament in a letter: especially a letter sent by public owl. Too many things could go wrong. She also felt that her story would be more believable if delivered in person. Signing her name on the parchment made her uncomfortable, but adding it on might take away some of the suspicious nature of the letter. Gathering her courage, she got up from the table, left the pub and started the walk to the Owl Post station.

Having paid the charge and entrusted her letter to a tawny barn owl, Hermione returned to the Hog's Head. Aberforth raised an eyebrow at her when she approached the bar, and she ordered two bottles of butterbeer with some of her last remaining money. If Dumbledore showed up, the other bottle would be for him: it wouldn't do to forget her manners. If not, she suspected that she could find a way to deal with the extra drink. Sitting herself down at the table she had named in her letter, Hermione popped the top off of her bottle and took a measured sip. The drink gave her no pleasure, but it did help stop the shaking in her hands.

It was a long wait, it seemed like forever. With her hood up and her face mostly hidden, Hermione felt more comfortable watching the few other customers as they came in and out. Even if they all seemed a glum, unfriendly sort, there was sufficient variety to hold her attention. One man bore a striking resemblance to a vampire, while the next was covered head to toe with bandages. Remembering a similar figure that had reported her and her friends to the Ministry on another occasion, Hermione drew her cloak a little closer around herself and lowered her gaze until he left. It was frightfully dull, but she was unable to relax an inch. Judicious sips of her butterbeer kept her nerves mostly calm, but the tension never completely left her. What if the letter went astray? What if he wasn't in Hogwarts and the owl had to fly to some remote location on another continent? What if Dumbledore was so suspicious he decided not to even respond and just ignore the letter? He must get dozens of useless letters in the course of a week. What if he thought it was a prank? What if? What if? What if?

The door opened behind her, bringing a draft of air that smelled like the outdoors. Hermione had almost worn herself out looking up every time the door opened, so she did not immediately glance to see who it was. The moment the corners of her eyes caught sight of spangled midnight blue robes, however, her heart leapt up into her throat and she looked around so fast that her neck popped. Sure enough, there he was. His hair and beard were shorter, but his eyes were just as bright, as alive, as she remembered. Albus Dumbledore stood beside her table looking down his crooked nose and through his half-moon spectacles at her.

His expression was… interesting. There was no hostility: nothing in his face indicated a threat. There was, however, a certain amount of caution and not a little curiosity. Despite the non-threatening nature, Hermione got the very distinct impression that he was judging whether she was a danger herself. Several moments passed in which Hermione found herself quite incapable of saying anything, before Dumbledore spoke and broke the silence.

"You are Miss Hermione Granger?" His voice was calm, polite, just as it had always been when he spoke at the start or end of term feasts. Despite herself, Hermione had to blink away a hint of moisture from her eyes. This was no time for a loss of control. She stood up just as he finished and offered her hand, pushing back her hood with the other. She saw his gaze travel across her features, no doubt observing the very things she herself had noticed the night before in the mirror. Something in his face shifted subtly, and though it was hard to judge she thought that he looked slightly kinder than before.

"Yes sir, thank you very much for seeing me."

There was the smile that made his eyes smile, the one Harry had spoken about several times, and then she was shaking his hand. Hermione was not surprised by the strength in the fingers that gripped her own - she knew what the future headmaster was and could do.

"Would you, please?" She said, gesturing to the chair across from her at the table. "I didn't know if you would want a drink or not, so I bought a butterbeer." Her tone, Hermione was disgruntled to note, revealed some of the nervousness she was feeling. At least there were no other customers at the moment - the last had left several minutes before Dumbledore arrived. They both sat down at the table, Hermione wrapping her hands nervously around her own, empty, bottle.

"You said in your letter that you required help," Dumbledore said, his tone remained unchanged, though he did not immediately touch the bottle before him. "I assume that you are in trouble of some sort?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione answered, horrified at how small her voice sounded. She was unable to look up at Dumbledore, and instead stared at the glass bottle in her hands. "I… I realize that my letter to you was less than vague, and I am sorry. I just… I didn't know how…"

"To put whatever it is into a letter?" was the kind suggestion. She couldn't be certain without looking up, but Hermione rather thought that he was smiling. She nodded. "My, it does sound serious. How may I assist you, young lady?" Hermione thought very, very carefully about how to continue. Her knuckles changed to white as her grip tightened.

"I'm… researching time travel, sir."

"A complex, fascinating and often frustrating subject that has baffled wizards for centuries. Is there any particular reason for your project?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione swallowed against the hard lump that suddenly sprang up in her throat. "I… You see… I want to go home, sir."

As he was not the headmaster of the school, Professor Dumbledore's office was noticeably smaller than the one Hermione knew he would someday occupy. Still, it was pleasant enough. Not all of the silver instruments she remembered seeing once or twice were there, but a good deal of them were. He had the same desk, the same high-backed chair sat behind it. Red and gold hangings adorned the walls, and next to the desk on his perch sat Fawkes the phoenix. Hermione smiled at the scarlet bird as she sat in the chair in front of the desk. He observed her silently, but not unkindly, with one bright black eye. She could have sworn that he was smiling.

Dumbledore was seated across from her, his hands together just in front of his face, the fingertips touching. It was with a great deal of relief that she noticed that the suspicion was no longer so evident on his face. The fact that he had invited her within the castle also spoke volumes. Even though the school was currently closed for the summer, he wouldn't have allowed her inside if he had considered her a threat. It was a monumental relief not to be alone in her secret anymore, Hermione hadn't realized how much of her anxiety and stress had come from being unable to tell anyone what had happened to her. She did wonder a little why he had believed her so quickly. For now, Dumbledore was simply watching her.

"Professor," She asked, finally unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "I'm not complaining but, why - I mean, shouldn't you ask -"

"Ask you to prove your claim?" She could hear the laugh he had not released in his voice, and tilted her head to one side, bemused. "You already have, Miss Granger."

"How, sir? I haven't done anything."

"Gifted as I am, it is exceedingly difficult to lie successfully to me. It is clear that you certainly believe that what you have said is the truth," He tilted his head forward so that he was looking over the glasses perched on his nose rather than through them. "You do not show any symptoms of insanity, merely great stress, worry, and if I may say so an obvious lack of sleep. Added to which your memories have told me all I need to know."

"My memories?" Then it clicked, "Legilimency, sir? Is that it?"

"Indeed. Added to which, I have had reports on your activities this past week. The notes in your room were quite curious, if I may say so."

"My - my notes? Reports?" Hermione frowned a little in surprise, "Someone was looking at -?"

"Yes, Miss Granger. Forgive me for saying so, but you were a bit of an odd customer at the Hog's Head. A long friendship with the barman," Hermione smiled faintly at that, knowing what their relation really was, "Has given me an excellent idea of the usual traffic in and out of the pub. Most customers are involved in say, illegal potions trading. After a week of living there you had exhibited no such intentions and, it must be said, you piqued the barman's interest."

"If you know that these things happen, sir," Hermione asked, a little put off that she hadn't been able to keep herself as inconspicuous as she would have liked, "Why do you let it continue?"

"It provides an opportunity to monitor the activity and stop it at its source, my dear. If those participating in such illegal activities believe that they are able to safely do so at the Hog's Head those of us making an effort to stop them have an easier time of things. Just a few weeks ago, I believe, a gentleman was apprehended smuggling acromantula eggs into the country. His entire stock was discovered and confiscated." Hermione blinked, and then frowned very slightly. Acromantula eggs? Then was that the man who - ?

"I see that the incident is not unknown in your time," Dumbledore said gravely, "Yes, I believe that the man was the one who sold young Rubeus Hagrid his egg, though I cannot prove it."

"I thought Hagrid never told anyone about that!" Hermione was shocked, to say the least. Dumbledore merely smiled that enigmatic smile of his.

"To business now, my dear," His tone was slightly brisk now, and Hermione automatically sat straighter in her chair. It was a knee-jerk reaction after so many years of classes. "I should like to know everything you can tell me about what happened that brought you here."

"You'll help me, sir?" It was a foolish question, and she knew it: if he wasn't going to help her why would he have wasted any time on her? But Hermione couldn't stop herself.

"Of course, Miss Granger," and the expression on Dumbledore's face was so understanding, so kind, that Hermione almost felt like crying again, "Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who ask for it."

Fawkes sang out one bright musical note, and it seemed to hover in the air much longer than was natural, causing a warm sensation to creep back into Hermione's chest. It eased the tightness in her chest, smoothed away her worries, brought back some of the shine in her eyes: it was like hope.

Merlin's beard, Hermione thought to herself, How did he get to be headmaster in the first place? The stone staircase stopped revolving and Hermione stepped lightly down off of it and out of the gargoyle's way. The statue jumped nimbly back into place and became motionless once more. Dumbledore, turning to look her in the face, chuckled at the expression she wore.

"Headmaster Dippet is a good man," He said, his tone sympathetic, "But he does take some getting used to."

"Getting used to?" Hermione repeated blandly, raising her eyebrows.

"Don't judge him too harshly, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said as they strode down the corridor toward the staircase, "By most accounts, the Headmaster does his job well. He upholds the rules and treats his students fairly."

"He seemed…" She faltered a little, unsure how much she could say about the man in front of Dumbledore. "Well… a bit… hidebound."

"Yes, the very traits that give him his desire to see order upheld limit him to noticing what is directly in front of him. In many cases I have felt that he lets matters drop simply because he is satisfied with the explanations presented to him."

From this, Hermione gathered that Dumbledore disapproved of more than one of Armando Dippet's decisions.

"In any case, let us not complain too much. He has gracefully allowed your appointment here, which is the most important matter."

"Yes, sir," Hermione said.

She hadn't been sure what to expect at first from Dumbledore. His suggestion that she enter Hogwarts under the cover of being an intern was not it. Though, now that she thought of it, it wasn't a bad cover identity. She knew enough that a job assisting in education wasn't beyond her capabilities; and it gave her access to most everywhere in the castle while also giving her a way to avoid mingling too much with the students.

"You'll have a week or so to adjust before term starts," Dumbledore was saying, "I'll be sure to have lesson plans sent up to your office in time for you to look over them. Of course, given that you will be assisting me and will need as much information as possible, you will have access to the entire library. Though may I recommend you chose what to read from the restricted section very carefully?"

"Yes sir, of course," there was no issue there. Hermione had seen what some of those books contained already. She had no desire to repeat the experience.

"You were a prefect previously?" He waited for her nod before continuing, "Then there is no need to explain the point system to you." She shook her head. "I shall be sure to make a note of that on your records when I pass them along to the headmaster tomorrow. Very well, a scroll with your schedule shall be delivered to you sometime tomorrow." They had reached a door Hermione remembered as being an unused classroom in her time: one of the smaller ones. "This will be your office, though I daresay it isn't very large."

"I don't need much space, Professor," Hermione said, which was true. She was momentarily surprised by the sound of her voice. Even to her own ears she sounded completely exhausted and not a little sad. Dumbledore turned slowly to look down her, his eyes had the curious quality Hermione was beginning to suspect indicated that he was using legilimency on her.

"You will be all right, Miss Granger," He said, placing one hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "The ones we love are never very far from us." Hermione nodded, looking down at the floor, her efforts the past week seeming to crash down on her shoulders. She was so very tired, and so very relieved. Someone believed her, was helping her. Dumbledore released her shoulder before he smiled brightly, breaking the somber mood. "You may, of course, rearrange the furniture to suit your needs. Unless I am mistaken, I believe everything will have been brought in for you."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said, meaning it to apply to more than the furniture in her new living quarters.

"Not at all, not at all. I shall see you in the morning, Miss Granger," With that he swept off down the corridor, nodding once in her direction. Several feet away, he stopped, seeming to remember something. "By the way, should you feel the need for a companion," Hermione looked around, raising one eyebrow curiously, "I have an acquantence who is a well known figure in the world of feline familiars. I would be glad to put you in touch with him." Then he turned around and really did leave for the night, his blue robes swirling behind him as he turned the corner.

That, Hermione thought, was skill. How had he known that she had been missing Crookshanks so deeply?

No, no Tom this chapter. Be patient. Good things come to those who wait. *ducks rotten vegetables* Oh come on. Gimme a break, the bug is bad enough. *Bug snickers* Riddle shows up soon, all right?