14th May 1981

Hermione lifted the disillusionment charm and pulled her luggage to the end of the alley. She stopped there, looking around. The street was not so different – record shops, hamburger bars, and clothing stores lined the streets. Her eye was caught by a florescent pink sign that proclaimed 'Cassette players – the latest range, see inside!' in the window display of an electronic goods retailer across the road.

Noticing the determined muggles going about their morning commute on foot, Hermione looked down at her outfit. At least I got the clothes right, she thought. Her heart was still pumping frantically and she hoped she could pass off her anxious expression as the face of someone who just didn't want to be on her way to work, rather than a jumpy time traveller.

Changing her mind about pulling the luggage along the busy street, she opened her top case and pulled out her bag. She hastily shrank the assortment of cases and put them inside the shoulder bag. Steeling herself, she left the alleyway.

She was surprised that she really did fit in – as she was swallowed into the stream of briefcased coffee drinkers, no one paid her a second glance. But then, Londoners weren't known for their friendliness. She stopped as she passed a news agents, where banner headlines blared out at her from the wire display racks: 'POPE SHOT! ... Mehmet Ali Agca ... Catholics out for blood.' Realising this was absolute proof she was in the right time, she continued on.

The Leaky Cauldron was just ahead, but that was not her destination. It was important for her plan that she not be known to wizards yet. Picking up speed, she passed the dingy little pub and rounded a corner, moving quickly through the dreary weekday morning expressions. After four more blocks she reached the hotel, a grand old building with a short flight of wide steps leading up to large doors edged in gold.

She kept walking until she reached a phone box, one still there in her time. It looked almost the same – although perhaps it was slightly less covered in graffiti now. She pulled her notes from her pocketbook; the phone number for the hotel had been constant since the building was refurbished in the early seventies.

Dialling the number, she enquired about a room for two nights, explaining that her flight had been cancelled to account for the short notice. The snooty voice at the other end put her on hold – she listened to a few bars of an electronic version of Dancing Queen – before asking if a suite would be suitable, as it was all they had available.

Hermione thanked the snooty receptionist and mentioned that her driver insisted they were nearly there. She hung up the receiver, removed her luggage from her shoulder bag and un-shrunk it. She waited ten minutes crammed in the phone box with her full size luggage then, extracting herself with difficulty, she crossed the road and waited with her bags for the concierge to arrive.

'Madam!' a sandy haired youth wearing a white uniform shirt, black waistcoat, and a stricken expression was hurrying down the steps toward her almost immediately – horrified when he realised she was standing there. 'I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please go inside. I will bring these up.'

The lobby of the hotel was spectacular, from the thick carpet underfoot and shiny marble counters to the elaborate golden-framed mirrors reflecting the soft light from an oversized chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She smiled inwardly; she was not going to have this mission be as uncomfortable as the last one.

Reaching the counter she smiled at the man behind it. 'May I help you?' He asked, chin held high, looking down the length of his not very petite nose at her. It was the same snooty voiced man she had spoken with on the phone – unless they all sounded the same here, which she had to admit was possible. His wavy dark hair was combed neatly away from his forehead and he wore an impeccable black suit – he was obviously above the lowly waistcoat-wearing suitcase collector on the hotel staffers food chain, and well aware of it.

'I called from the car,' Hermione said, doing her best to imitate the man's manner. 'You have a suite for me?'

She riffled in her bag and retrieved her purse. Handing over her credit card, she said with a small smile, 'I'm very tired - are we able to get this organised quickly?'

'Of course, madam,' he said, taking the shiny silver card, a much more approving lilt to his voice now that she had proven she wasn't just some big-haired street urchin. In the world of accommodation service employees, anyone who possessed a credit card was a valuable functioning member of society.

As Hermione began to fill in the check-in form on the little clipboard he handed her, the snooty man put her card onto the imprint machine. She didn't let her smile waver, but she was nervous. Muggle fraud wasn't that big a deal compared to a modified Timeturner, but it would be an inconvenience to have to find another way around this problem. There was the sharp sliding and snapping as he moved the handle of the small machine over carbon paper. Her nerves vanished as he said, 'That's all in order madam. Henry will escort you to your room.' He gestured to the anxious porter she had met outside, who was waiting next to the lifts with a case in each hand and the third under his arm.

'Thank you,' she said, pushing the clipboard toward him and accepting her card back.

Once out of the lift and up a short flight of stairs, Henry the porter unlocked the door of her suite. She had to hide her pleasure for her posh reputation's sake, but it was lovely. Sofa, chairs and coffee table were arranged in the main space, with a kitchenette off to one side and a small dining table in between. Directly opposite the door to the corridor there were French doors onto a small iron-railed balcony that looked over part of the city. Off the sitting room was the bedroom and en-suite, the former containing a bed so wide she could have slept comfortably on it horizontally.

Henry the porter put her luggage in front of the wardrobe in the bedroom and wished her a pleasant stay, before leaving her alone.

She had a sudden pang of guilt. This was not a holiday. She was on a schedule. Today was the 14th of May. That was only 169 days! The task ahead began to overwhelm her: What if she failed? What if she changed the wrong thing? What if she made everything worse? No, she told herself firmly, if she thought like that she was sure to fail. 169 days was a long time to be without Ron and Harry and Ginny, but it was for the best. The greater good even. The hardest part was going to be watching people die. That's why she had chosen May to arrive; most of the Order deaths occurred last year and she couldn't risk keeping people alive that weren't meant to be. No, her mission was to kill not to save. With that highly unappealing thought, she decided a walk would clear her head; grabbing her bag and room key, she left the hotel.

After wandering the streets of nineteen-eighties London for a while she found herself thinking of Sirius Black - she needed to find him, as her whole plan would be far more difficult without his help. She hoped she would be able convince him, though she was still unsure of the best approach. A woman you don't know blurting out that she's from the future is not a woman most people would help – unless it was to the nearest psychiatric facility.

As she looked around she realised why he had popped into head: all the young men she saw had a similar look about them, with shaggy hair, leather jackets and boots, smoking and sauntering. Not that the Sirius she'd known had been like that really, but in all the pictures she had seen from Harry, that was how Sirius came across. Leather and long hair.

She smirked – that, she thought, would be exactly how the Sirius she'd known would have wanted to be remembered.

16th May

Two days after her arrival Hermione was walking along Hogsmeade high street. It felt so strange to be there – she hadn't visited that often since the end of the war, and it still reminded her of that night, the last night of the war. It was the same time of year, the same smells and sounds, although the raucous laughter echoing from inside the Three Broomsticks as she passed the bar certainly helped to dispel thoughts of that night. Seeing the sun disappear over the hilltops, Hermione quickened her pace. She was anxious to get this meeting over.

As she started up the path that led to Hogwarts she was running through the explanation over and over again in her head, to make sure she wouldn't leave anything out. When she reached the gates she tapped them as Dumbledore had advised in his letter. Then she waited, trying to clear her mind, concentrating as hard as she could on forcing the memory she needed to hide to the back – as far as it would go.

After ten minutes of waiting with her mind so focused, she was startled by the voice of Albus Dumbledore, 'Miss Granger I presume?'

He stood there on the other side of the still-locked gates, looking the same as ever – long silver beard and hair rippling slightly in the evening breeze, dressed in light blue robes covered in little silver moons, and on his head, a matching hat.

'Hello Professor,' she said quickly, 'it's a pleasure to, er ... meet you ... and please, call me Hermione'.

'Very well Hermione, I'm sure you will understand that in the current climate I am hesitant to allow unknown witches and wizards into my school.'

'Of course.' said Hermione. She wondered why he had invited her to come in the first place if he wasn't going to let her in. She had sent him an owl requesting a meeting, and he had had been the one to suggest she come to Hogwarts.

'Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the pub down in the village instead?'

'Um, sure' Hermione said, feeling a little put out. Why hadn't he just suggested they meet at the pub in the first place … was he being deliberately annoying?

As Dumbledore stepped through the gates as though they were naught but smoke, he looked down at her. 'Have I offended you, my dear?'

'No Professor, it's just ... no, never mind' she finished, a little embarrassed. It had taken her by surprise to be treated as a dangerous stranger by her old headmaster. But, she thought, she had been foolish not to expect it.

'Very good,' said Dumbledore smiling and whistling quietly he lead the way back down the path to Hogsmeade.

The temperature was dropping quickly as the sky became darker during their walk back to the village; although it was May, the Scottish highlands were not famous for their balmy evenings.

The High Street was quite empty now – it was after nine in the evening – but the Three Broomsticks was still doing a roaring trade. The sound of laughter and voices drew Hermione and her companion toward the entrance.

As Dumbledore reached to pull open the door, the little diamond-patterned leadlight window in the middle of it was obscured from the inside, then the door swung open quite suddenly, and a man with dirty gingery hair and a long overcoat was backing quickly away from the pub followed by an angry female voice –

'You know the rules Fletcher! How many times have I told you? You come in my pub to spend, not to sell your wares!'

'Of C-course, of course Rosie, I'm sorry!' stuttered Fletcher as he continued to back away, not realising he had an audience.

Dumbledore's moustache was twitching and Hermione had to look away to hide her smile as she recognised a young Mundungus receiving this tongue lashing.

'And DON'T call me Rosie!' came the woman's voice, sounding even angrier.

Muttering about over-sensitive women and not really hurting anyone, Mundungus Fletcher turned around only to notice Dumbledore's presence.

''Ere Professor- 'Ow are you this evenin'?' he asked in what he clearly thought was a tone of innocence.

'Magnificent Mundungus, thank you for asking. You had best be on your way. I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of Rosmerta's temper.'

'Right you are Professor, right you are.' Mundungus agreed, nodding distractedly. With a look over his shoulder at the door to the pub, he spun on the spot and vanished with a crack.

Dumbledore chuckled as he moved to open the door again, ushering Hermione through with a sweep of his hand.

Hermione entered the warm smoky room and found that very little had changed in the twenty intervening years: the gleaming wooden bar, the rows of bottles behind it the pictures on the walls, even the clientele still looked the same. It did something to settle her nerves, to be in such a familiar setting.

She continued to concentrate on her memories as she took in her surroundings, feeling sure that Dumbledore would use legilimency against her once she told him of her true identity.

Dumbledore ordered their drinks and they wound their way through the crowded pub, the professor leading the way through the tables with a practiced ease. He was greeted by a few of the patrons before he reached the table, but no one spoke to Hermione. As they sat Dumbledore leaned forward and said conspiratorially, 'If anyone inquires, the purpose of our meeting is my, once again, vacant Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching position.'

'Oh, er... Right' Hermione said, thinking he couldn't have thought of a better cover story. Excepting her age, she could play the part of believable candidate – she certainly had enough knowledge and experiences to answer questions in a convincing way.

'So, what is the real reason for your contacting me?'

'Well, as I've told you my name is Hermione Granger,' she began. 'Professor, I'm a muggleborn. I grew up in Kensington in London. Both my parents are dentists and I was born on the 19th of September 1979.' She bit the inside of her lip nervously as she waited for his response – being direct was the best course of action when it came to Dumbledore, but she was also afraid he would dismiss her as crazy.

'As you look to have more years than a toddler,' Dumbledore said cautiously, 'I'm going to assume you're about to tell me you have travelled in time?' His expression was blank, his eyes travelling over her face.

'Yes,' said Hermione simply, looking him directly in the eye, filling her mind with memories of Hogwarts, and Harry and Ron, welcoming feasts with Dumbledore standing on the raised platform in front of the house tables. He only held her gaze for a moment before looking away.

'Ah – Rosmerta,' he said with a smile. 'Thank you very much.'

While her pub may not have changed since Hermione's last visit, the landlady certainly had, or would anyway. Hermione smirked as she thought of how Ron would react if he could see this twenty year younger Rosmerta.

'Here you are Professor, Oak Matured Mead. I've tinkered with the old man's recipe, I'd love to have your opinion on the changes,' she said sweetly with a wide smile.

'Of course, my dear - you're enjoying running the place then?' Dumbledore queried, his eyes twinkling.

'Oh yes!' she said, 'It's brilliant.' Smile still firmly in place, she turned to Hermione 'Here's your Redcurrant Rum, Miss. Hope you enjoy it,' and with a little dip of her head at the pair she was gone.

'Her business booms,' Hermione said conversationally. 'The Three Broomsticks is still the most popular pub in Hogsmeade in 2001.'

'She's very good at her job.' Dumbledore nodded. 'So, how did you achieve this remarkable feat Hermione? As far as I am aware it is only possible to manipulate your place in time by a day – where did you get this amazing technology?'

'Er ...' said Hermione. Taken aback by this sudden return to topic, and his tone that implied belief. She knew Dumbledore liked to trust people, but this was to the point of insanity. 'I modified a Timeturner. It's very illegal sir, I don't really want to go into detail. I'm worried it will give you a reason to arrest me.' Dumbledore looked surprised at her answer. She pressed on, 'The reason I wanted to talk to you, Professor, is I need your help. I know how to bring Voldemort down.'

The headmaster's face was calm but he was staring at her so intently she felt as though he was gazing through her. She did not look away. 'He has made Horcruxes, four of them I believe at this point in time. And I know where they are.'

'Really?' He asked, his silver eyebrows raised. He didn't sound so believing now … almost, humouring. 'Why would you take on such a mission? Is he still powerful in your time?

'No.' said Hermione, 'My best friend, Harry, defeated him in 1998, I helped him. That's how I know the locations of the Horcruxes. But so many people were lost – so many lives ruined. I can change that. With your help.'

Dumbledore finally broke eye contact, quietly sipping his mead for a few moments, then locking her in that light blue gaze again. 'How can you prove it to me? You understand my reservations - it is unwise to trust in these troubled times.'

'Yes, Professor.' She fished in her bag, withdrawing a glass vial full of swirling misty memory. 'These will help.'

She passed it across the table to him, but he picked it up without examining it and tucked it into his robes. 'Very well, Hermione. Thank you.' He drained the last of his mead and pushed back his chair, then as if hit by a sudden thought, 'This "Harry" you mentioned?'

'Yes sir, it's Harry Potter, son of Lily and James. The prophecy was fulfilled.'

Dumbledore looked grave.

'Professor, there is another person who will be of great use during this quest. I was wondering if you could tell me where to find Sirius Black?'

He merely chuckled. 'Absolutely not, my dear. I cannot give up the whereabouts of an Auror to someone I do not know, especially someone who believes they have travelled in time.' He stood, giving her a searching look. 'I will be in contact if your memories corroborate your tale. But it is getting very late and I'm a busy man. Thank you for your time.' He turned and walked away, leaving a disgruntled but not altogether surprised Hermione in his wake.

After her confusing and somewhat disappointing conversation with Dumbledore, Hermione turned her attention to the next part of her plan. Since Dumbledore wouldn't tell her where to find Sirius – not that she could blame him – it left her in a bit of a pickle. She needed him, or rather his family, to get her hands on Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup and Riddle's diary. He was also talented and brave which would be a huge help to her on this dangerous mission – if she could convince him she wasn't mad.

She knew from his and Remus's reminiscences during her 5th year summer visit at Grimmauld place, that they used to frequent wizarding pubs up and down the country most nights in an attempt to avoid the bachelor-style cuisine that was available to them at their respective homes. Apparently Lily had cut them off at three meals a week at the Potter residence in the early days of her marriage, as it never ended with dinner and one day would roll into the next until the two men were basically living there. Hermione smiled as she remembered the two men giggling like little boys at each other's impressions of a pregnant Lily laying down the law: "I only signed on for one husband, not three! And I will not have my sitting room littered with sleeping men!"

So this left Remus and Sirius and she supposed Pettigrew (though they never mentioned him, whether he wasn't there or because of the pain his betrayal caused them Hermione wasn't sure) to find decent food four nights a week – and where better than somewhere that served firewhisky, and more often than not a pretty companion could be found?

Hermione's days began to take on a pattern. She knew of most of the likely places Sirius would go in the evenings, so during the day she kept to her hotel room, often practicing occlumency in the hope that if Dumbledore contacted her she would be able to keep Marvolo Gaunt's ring in the back of her mind. Then, when being stuck in her room – lovely as it was – became overwhelming, she would walk around muggle London. It was strangely relaxing, all the people pushing past each other, the horns of cars and the smell of exhaust. She could almost forget that it was twenty years in the past, and that in five months' time she would have to face Voldemort.

Every time she thought of this terrifying event looming ahead, her heart would beat erratically, her stomach would clench as though she'd eaten something bad, and she would struggle to draw breath. But then she would think of Harry putting on a brave face for the world despite his guilt. Of Ginny who was suffering just as much because Harry was so empty of true emotion, drained as he was from the constant pressure to seem pleased that he had saved the world. Of George in his drink sodden stupor. Of Mrs Weasley, blank and staring. Of Ron, trying to hold the family together, having his easy, happy self slowly worn away. These images filled her mind and she would be able to remember the lives that would be saved as well – too many to count. And then she could breathe again. She must succeed.

Then, each evening she would return to the hotel and prepare herself for the task of tracking down Sirius, apparating from wizarding town to wizarding town checking the pubs for the dark-haired marauder. When she returned from these – so far – futile trips she would lie in her bed and try to clear her mind. It was not the Horcruxes or Dumbledore's unwillingness to trust her, (as after two weeks she still hadn't heard from him) not even the worry that she would never find Sirius that prevented her from successful occlumency practice.

It was Ron. Wonderful and slightly impossible Ron. She thought of his face grinning happily, the sound of him and Harry laughing themselves hoarse in happier days at Hogwarts. She missed him fiercely, but being away from him for a short while was worth it. The despondent, stressed Ron she had known for the last three years was slowly being replaced in her memory with the student version, the joker, the slightly insecure and loyal friend he had been. To be able to go back to a world where he and Harry still laughed easily, where they had grown up without the constant fear of Voldemort, would be amazing.

Hermione knew that by changing the past she may not even be friends with the two boys, let alone fall in love with Ron, or have him fall in love with her. Without the threat of Voldemort, Hermione would likely stay the book centric, rule loving swot she had been on her arrival at Hogwarts. But even if she went back to a world where they weren't friends at school, that didn't mean she couldn't get to know them in their twenties - most of the friends one makes for life are made then, not at school. That's what her mother had told her anyway, but maybe she had just been trying to placate her somewhat friendless daughter.

As was her resolution whenever these complicated strings of chain reactions attempted to tangle her brain she repeated to herself, wait and see. As long as they were happy, all the Weasleys and Harry, then she will have done the right thing. She wasn't only here for them of course, she was here for all the friends and family they had lost, for the children that would never know their parents, for the parents that would never see their children grow up, for the siblings that had lost each other forever.

Hermione also had to deal with the problem of her accommodation. On the morning after her second night there she had given the hotel manager a story.

Her mother had left Britain after her divorce from her father and moved to America where Hermione had been living with her for the last two years, in New York. Her father was a business man, based in Hong Kong. Hermione had come to Britain to visit some old school friends, and when her flight home had been cancelled she had decided it was a sign.

She told the manager how much she had missed England while living in New York, and that she had decided to take a break from university for the rest of the year to enjoy her homeland. The manager had seemed surprised at her request to live in the hotel at first - what uni student could afford such a luxury? But she assured him that the credit card she had used at check in was financed by her father and that to him, six months hotel accommodation was achieved in one week's work.

The visa linked to a bank account of the fraudulent Mr. Granger, with a substantial limit and Hermione as signatory. The postal address was a private box on the main island of Hong Kong. All nice secure checkable facts just in case the hotel staff became suspicious. She had set this up before she left, more illegal behaviour – but again, nothing compared to wizarding restrictions on mucking about with time.

To commit the crime she had borrowed Harry's invisibility cloak and waited in a little village branch of the bank, a branch that only had two tellers at closing time. She had stunned one and imperioused the other; the overweight, bouffant-haired woman had been forced to create the account, back-dating its opening to 1978, adding a decent amount of money and issuing the credit card Hermione now carried. Hermione had transfigured the card, removing the logo and adding the one they had used in the eighties, as well as fixing the expiry date - it might raise the alarm if they noticed it could be used until January 2002.

She had become quite good at transfiguring muggle travel necessities – as well as the visa card and a drivers license that said she was born in 1959, she had a matching passport stamped with her departure from Britain two years previously, a holiday to Hong Kong at Christmas and her arrival in London through Gatwick six weeks ago. Perhaps if this all went horribly wrong she could make a living selling documents to asylum seekers. It would fit her new, criminally minded character.

Hermione had silently thanked the lack of computers in the early nineteen eighties more times than she could count. She had felt exceedingly guilty for what she saw as little less than bank robbery, but continued to remind herself that most people would agree her mission was worth much more than a few thousand pounds. It did help that the money went a lot further in 1981 than it did twenty years in the future.

The hotel manager seemed satisfied with her tale. Who was he to turn down a guaranteed small fortune? They did have long term guests from time to time, and the girl seemed nice, quiet and polite.

Hermione was very glad he had accepted her story; she really didn't want to resort to using magic against the muggle.