A/N: The Elysian Candle is based on the Bablyon Candle from Neil Gaiman's "Stardust". The phrase "travel by candlelight" is one of my favorites and inspired the device in this fic. If you've never read Gaiman, do yourself a favor and go read him now!
Also see if you can spot the Buffy quote in the middle.
And for those of you who haven't guessed by now, things are gonna be AU like whoa.
Hermione had been hoping for a more, ahem, understated point of departure than the middle of the Welcome Feast. She certainly had, at least a little, hoped to not be held at wandpoint so soon after surviving a battle. The adrenaline was wearing off, though the shock of grief kept her standing (if not steady). After all, it's not every day you lose everyone you've ever known.
"Who are you?" a slightly younger Headmaster Dumbledore inquired. Hermione kept her hands in the air as she responded. Thankfully they were empty - the candle had burned up in the transition, so that was one less thing she had to explain.
"When I was young, I was told that help would always be given at Hogwarts to those who had need of it." She winced – did her voice really sound that croaky? "Well, I have need of it, Headmaster. Will you grant me asylum?"
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up at her evasive response, and Professor Slughorn was sputtering so much Hermione feared he would pass out. Yes, it wasn't the most enlightening of responses, but she needed to coordinate with Dumbledore on how this should play out. Was she keeping her name? Did she know anyone in this time? Where… or rather when was she, anyway?
She quickly glanced around. Judging by the hairstyles, she'd have to say she was about twenty years in the past.
"Far be it from me to contradict myself," Dumbledore said, a slight chuckle in his voice. Hermione kept herself from rolling her eyes. The Headmaster loved his little jokes.
"Headmaster, I must object!" several teachers said at once. Professor McGonagall glanced around at the others who had spoken with her – teachers Hermione didn't recognize – before voicing her own concerns.
"It is impossible to simply appear, either by apparition or other means, on the grounds of this castle-"
"I'm sorry, Professor, but that's simply not true," Hermione said politely. Or as politely as one can when interrupting someone you deeply respect. "As you can see, I've done it. If you would kindly lower your wands, I have a letter for the Headmaster explaining how I came to be here."
Curiosity shone in Dumbledore's eyes and sounded in the whispers from the students around her. Dumbledore lowered his wand and beckoned Hermione forward. The trip to the Head Table had never felt so long before, but usually she was running to greet Hagrid or something. She stifled a sigh – another fallen friend, killed by the giants he had been sent to recruit. Also, she was pretty sure there was some sort of cut on the back of her leg, as she was most definitely hobbling.
Splendid, she thought. I've been up for at least thirty-six hours straight, probably have more cuts on me than a Christmas turkey, and now I have to convince one of the most powerful wizards alive that I deserve his help. Must be Tuesday.
Hermione reached into her jacket as she neared the Head Table, causing some of the staff to reach for their wands again. They relaxed when she withdrew the letter, sealed with Dumbledore's personal signet: a phoenix entwined with the letter "d". She handed the hefty missive to Dumbledore – his future self had sent quite the long message to his past self. Knowing that they would need to change the future anyway, she guessed that the older Headmaster had opted to lay out the history of the war and his reasoning for sending Hermione to... whenever she was.
Dumbledore summoned her to meet him in the Grimmauld Place kitchen at midnight, alone. Hermione, used to spending time one on one with the brilliant man, arrived exactly on time as the elder wizard Floo'd down the chimney. They greeted each other and sat at the battered wooden table, listening for a few moments to the winter wind howling beyond the Order headquarters.
"Miss Granger, I have a request of you, and I do not wish for you to become disheartened when you hear it." Hermione nodded, used to waiting for Dumbledore to get to the point by now. The man buzzed around his meaning like a bee with a flower. He took a deep breath and leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
"There is a very good chance that we will lose everything in the final battle. The prophecy concerning Harry and Tom is unlike any other in recorded history, and we cannot be certain that the outcome will be pleasant. I wish to give the world another chance if the worst should come to pass."
Hermione nodded again – why put all your eggs in one basket? (She'd had a lot of fun explaining that idiom to Arthur a few nights ago.)
"Thanks to your research into the Dark Arts, we were able to recover an ancient device long thought lost. Do you know what an Elysian Candle is?"
The answer popped into her head, itself shaded with candlelight from long nights in the library. "An Elysian Candle is an ancient Dark device, used primarily during the Inquisition and other times of severe Muggle oppression, to transport a witch or wizard backwards in time in order to correct an event or series of events. Most often the user sought to prevent their impending death or imprisonment. Banned by the Ministry in the seventeenth century, along with other time-manipulating devices due to their unknown ramifications, the technology to produce the Elysian Candle was lost to time."
Hermione blinked, the true meaning of her little recitation hitting her. "You know how to make one thanks to research I did? I barely remember touching on it."
Dumbledore chuckled. "You mentioned it in passing about three months ago, and I have been working on it ever since. Now, it's not to say that I don't have faith in Harry, or the prophecy, but I like to ensure a happy ending whenever I can. Especially after this war, it has all been too much for this old man's heart."
Some days, when the cynicism of war got to her, Hermione wondered if he had a heart. He was a brilliant leader and man, but there were days…
From his pocket, Dumbledore withdrew a small black candle and two large, sealed, letters. The candle smelled faintly of sandalwood and time, though she couldn't exactly say how she knew that. Time was one of those background sense and sensations, moving along the body with only a whisper in its wake. Hermione's witch-senses, her intuition, felt the power radiating off the small piece of wax.
"You want me to travel back in time and fix things if they go wrong?" Dumbledore nodded, handing her the candle. Hermione's hand shook as she received the device, vibrating with the power radiating from it. She quickly set it down on the table and examined the letters – the seal, the weight, the way the writing didn't bleed through the parchment. One was addressed to 'Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore', the other simply to 'Hermione'.
"How far back will I need to go? How do I control the candle? What are the letters for? When-"
Dumbledore held up a hand to halt her questions. "I do not know when you will end up, however I can tell you that, like most Dark objects, the Elysian candle feeds on emotion. If you concentrate on your heart's desire, the candle will take you to the most opportune moment for making that wish a reality. The letters are as you see them addressed. I ask that you open yours away from prying eyes, but hand mine to me as soon as you can. Understood?"
Hermione had no choice but to nod. Dumbledore was the general of their army, considered by many to be their only hope in winning this war. His wishes were orders, and orders must be followed.
Without further discussion, she rose from the table and took the candle. As she reached the door, a thought occurred to her. She turned back and met the carefully emotionless eyes of Albus Dumbledore.
"How do you know I'll survive the war if the others don't?" she asked. "How do you expect me to live when all my friends, my family, are dead?" Dumbledore smiled sadly.
"Because you must, Hermione. If the rest of us do not survive this war, you must live on for us."
Hermione had not read her letter yet, though she had carried it in the inner pocket of her trusty leather jacket for months after that conversation. An abbreviated and tense Christmas, complete with a Death Eater attack, had followed a short while after her meeting with Dumbledore. In the run-up to the battle at summer's beginning, Hermione had spent many sleepless nights researching for the Order in public and researching the Candle in secret. To be quite frank, the letter had slipped her mind.
Thanks to her research, she knew she had one shot to use the Candle. There was no going back if one made a mistake, hence the need for a strong will and wish when lighting the Candle.
It was a good thing that she had nothing to miss.
Sirius, along with the rest of the school, watched with baited breath as Dumbledore read the strange girl's letter. The Headmaster's eyebrows moved minutely, giving nothing away, though his mouth tightened a bit as he flipped through the pages. Sirius was not terribly familiar with the Headmaster, aside from the odd reprimand when the Marauders pushed things too far, but he could tell that the man was intrigued.
The sixth-year's eyes were mostly drawn to the girl all in black standing in front of the Head Table. Her shoulders were tense and even from here he could see she was shaking. The whispers traveling over from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff said she had blood and dust on her face. The whole school could see the cut on the back of her left thigh, which was sluggishly bleeding down to her combat boots. Who was this girl? Why were her pants so (gloriously) tight? And why was no one helping her?
He whispered the last to James, who shrugged. As ever, Potter was watching Evans to see her reaction. Sirius thought Lily was nice enough, but didn't understand his friend's obsession. There was puppy love and there was just being creepy, as he had told James a number of times in private, and James was getting towards the creepy end of things. He wished his friend would just relax - it wasn't that hard to talk to the bird you liked.
The longer Dumbledore read his letter, the more unsteady the girl seemed to become. The teachers were too busy being wary to notice the girl was injured, and everyone else was caught up in their own gossip. It felt oddly like the Black family dinners, only without the screaming matches. Thoughts of his insane family alone were enough to get his blood boiling. Sirius was just about to jump to his feet (and possibly, in his imaginative mind, sweep the injured girl off hers) when Dumbledore looked up from his letter. Even from afar, Sirius could read the strange mix of pity and gratitude on the old man's face. What was that about?
"Thank you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said in a quiet voice. The whole school went silent, straining to hear the Headmaster's words. "I cannot begin to thank you enough. I assume you are a Gryffindor?" The girl – Miss Granger – nodded. "Then let us have someone from your House escort you to the Hospital Wing."
Dumbledore's eyes swept over the Gryffindor table and landed on Sirius, who started to rise from his seat even before the headmaster summoned him. "Mr. Black, would you kindly escort Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing?"
"It would be an honor, Headmaster," Sirius said with all his usual charm. Several girls nearby tittered, but he ignored them. There were grumbles from the other boys in his house as Sirius quickly made his way to the Head Table, where Miss Granger was about to keel over from exhaustion. He smiled at her and was surprised when she smiled back, though the expression did not reach her lovely brown eyes.
Oh Circe, did I really just think that her eyes were 'lovely' in my own head?
"Sirius Black at your service," he said, reverting to pureblood mannerisms out of habit. Miss Granger's smile widened.
"Oh well, then I know I'm saved," she said with unwonted sarcasm. Sirius tried to cover his confusion – maybe the girl was just tired – as he slung one of her too-thin arms over his shoulder.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"Probably," she responded, leaning on him as they made their way down the length of the hall towards the doors. "Make that probably for a short while."
He moved his arm, which had been pressing hers into his shoulders, and looped it around her waist. Even beneath the leather of her jacket, he could feel how curvy she really was. Where was she from? What was her name? When would be an appropriate time to ask?
Sirius was often forward with the girls he met – Muggles, witches, everything in between he flirted (and sometimes did more) with alike. But this girl, this battered girl, did not look like someone who would take kindly to his normal methods.
Then again, there was no harm in trying.
"Don't worry, I'll carry you if need be," he responded with what was assuredly a charming grin. Miss Granger rolled her eyes.
"You're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Black. I barely know you. A girl can't let herself be carried around by strange men, it'll ruin her reputation."
Is she flirting with me? She's so deadpan it's hard to tell.
"You could tell me your name," he said as they reached the doors. She raised an eyebrow. "In the interest of getting to know each other better, of course. Just in case. Wouldn't want to be too forward, in an emergency situation, or, um, whatever."
Merlin's beard, what's wrong with me? Sirius never tripped over his words around women, not even when he was eleven.
Miss Granger laughed. "No, we wouldn't want that."
She stumbled over nothing as they neared the main stairs, her feet finally giving way to what Sirius thought must be shock.
"My name's Hermione," she said as she fainted.