Death Sat and Hell Followed

Chapter Two: Hope

"Oh good, you're up! Finally! You've been out forever..." a crisp voice echoed mercilessly in her head, its last word slapping around in her brain like a cold metal pinball, her head being the machine.

Shaking herself painfully out of this hurtful frame of mind, she shot up in her bed, grabbing her wand out of the table next to her, pointed it at the speaker, ignoring the horrible headache growing, which rapidly made her head feel like it was going to explode at any minute. Her back and face stayed straight even though she, although not being in the medical field at all, could tell some of her muscles were torn, and the way her wrists crumpled underneath her as she moved them to support her, along with the unbearable pain accompanying it told them they were broken, and not in just one place, either. But, despite all her injuries, her senses were on full alert, trained perfectly from both Harry and assorted members of the Order. She stared defiantly and ready for a fight at the person whose voice replayed itself over and over in her mind.

The middle-aged woman in front of her backed up a step or two, her eyes widened. She put her hand up to her heart in surprise. "Oh, good heavens, child! Lower that wand at once! I swear…if it weren't for Dumbledore's orders, I'd have the rule saying students can keep their wands by their sides while here banned for eternity!"

Hermione frowned, putting her wand down a fraction of an inch. The woman certainly didn't seem like a threat, but Hermione was well aware of the fact that people weren't always what they seemed. She'd learned that the brutally hard way. She had learned to expect betrayal rather than be shocked every time it happened. It was easier that way; then at least you were prepared. Sure, it hurt sometimes not knowing who to trust, but in the long run, it had made things better…although, now she thought about it, everyone dying didn't exactly seem better…

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" she accused commandingly, giving up her continuing battles in her brain.

"I—don't you speak to me like that, young lady! I don't care who you are or how you came here, you have no right to take that tone with me! Now, kindly give me that wand and lay back down!" the woman said sharply, regaining her rule.

She stepped closer to Hermione, who stubbornly kept her wand out, and though it looked as though the woman's movements were a little apprehensive, they were bossing nonetheless. The woman's retreating threat, Hermione was starting to feel the full effects of the immense fatigue and ache all over her body now that the adrenaline was gone, and it seemed like she was going to crumble from all the pain she was experiencing. The muscles in her arm screamed in agony, and in an instant, it also fell to the bed, the rest of her body following. Hermione, somehow, kept her dull eyes open, though she desperately wished she could just go to sleep and forget her heartache. That was worse than any physical injuries. Ten thousand times worse. At least with injuries, they got fixed over time and with medicine, but internal ones…those never healed. Time heals all? Ha! Hermione laughed at that. How blatantly wrong that was. Time only made things all the crueler and anguishing. It was all she could do to just not take the Killing Curse on herself to relieve her of the results of the entirety of it.

Suddenly, the events of the Final Battle came rushing over her like a huge tidal wave, pouring salt in her already open wounds. "Harry…Ron…NO!!!" she yelled suddenly, ignoring the woman still in the room, an abrupt change in demeanor overtaking her, her chocolaty dry eyes starting to well up with tears long expected. "No! Don't leave me! You can't leave me alone with him! Don't…don't…leave…me…"

Tears now poured down her dirt-streaked face, leaving visible lines through the grime that apparently no one had cared to wipe off. She shouldn't have been surprised though, considering no one had cared at all in times of recent… The woman that was still in her company looked sympathetically at the girl that was breaking down, even though she had no idea what Hermione was rambling about, Hermione now staring at an invisible something in front of her, seeming to be talking to no one in particular. Madam Pomfrey started to walk away, deciding that even though the girl needed immediate attention, she should be left alone.

Unexpectedly, the young woman snapped her head towards the graying-haired lady in front of her, her eyes frantic and searching everywhere. "No…you can't go! Don't leave me alone! Everyone…gone…come back…don't…don't…you can't…" she mumbled incoherently, certainly not something the walled Hermione would do under more dire circumstances. She knew she was being ballistic and her personalities were changing like she has bi-polar disorder, but she couldn't help if she was going crazy. It wasn't her fault.

"Oh—okay, dear, what do you need?" the matron asked carefully, not wanting to upset Hermione further.

Hermione's breathing started getting faster, and she appeared terrified of something. "I need them! Bring them back! Hurry! He's coming!"

"Who do you need? Who's coming?"

"HIM! I need Harry! Harry and…and…and Ron and…Lupin and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley and…I need Ginny! Tonks! Where's Tonks? I need them all!" Hermione screamed, sitting up violently in her bed and, ignoring her wrist pain in her delirious state, grabbed the older woman's shirt, now yelling in her face. "BRING THEM BACK! BRING THEM BACK TO ME!"

"I—dear, I cant, I don't know who you are talking about! You must calm down, now. You have to calm down," she replied, calmly, but afraid for the girl's sanity.

"Calm down? I can't calm down! Bring…I…tell them…" she broke out in sobs again, her back giving way, and she stared at her hands. "Where…where am I?"

The woman sighed in relief, at least hoping the girl was gaining her straight mind back again. Maddened patients she'd had were never her favorite, even though she had managed to never lose one, and Hermione seemed to be one of the worse cases, but she hoped she'd bring herself out of it. It was often the strongest ones that realized their own problems, subconsciously or not. And if Hermione was one of these, Poppy was glad for it. At least then she'd be able to fix her other wounds and get her healthier again.

Poppy spoke again, leveling her voice and gently disengaging Hermione's hands from her starched uniform. "You're at Hogwarts, sweetie. In the Hospital Wing. And quite a state you're in, I must tell you. One, if not the worst I've seen. I'm sorry, dear. For whatever you've been through."

"I—I—where?" Hermione exclaimed incredulously, thinking she'd heard wrong. She could feel her body getting back into the right, sane, psyche, and now that she was more focused, she knew she wasn't hearing things.

"Hogwarts," The nurse answered again, calmly. "You don't remember anything?"

"I remember…them…them all…dying…he killed them…HE KILLED THEM ALL!" Hermione yelled, but her words were choked by another onslaught of sobs. This wasn't her going insane again; this was her breaking down out of irreparable sadness.

"K—Killed? Who was killed? What are you talking about?" Pomfrey asked, more fearfully, purely wondering what Hermione's grounds for her claims were. They certainly were astonishing.

"Everyone!" Hermione cried, as if it was the most obvious and real thing in the world. And for her, it was. "Everyone…they're all DEAD! How can I be at Hogwarts?" she asked oddly, changing subjects on a whim. "Hogwarts is destroyed! Crumbled! There's nothing left of it! He demolished it! How can I be here?"

"He who? Child, I promise you are at Hogwarts. In the Hospital Wing. My name is Madam Pomfrey, and I'm the matron here. You don't remember anything else?" Poppy supplied, hoping it might at least stable the girl.

"I told you what I remember, woman! Do you not listen? The only Pomfrey I know died trying to help all the injured and Lestrange killed her! Bellatrix Lestrange! All she was doing was trying to keep up valiantly with all the fallen, and Lestrange murdered her! What are you talking about?"

"Bella? Sure, she's—she's still here. She couldn't have killed anyone. It's just a figment that you're having. Just lie back now," Madam Pomfrey advised, deciding carefully to sort out Hermione's problems later and let her recuperate physically first. Her outcry of Bellatrix's name definitely stirred a confusion, but she'd let it lie for now.

"What do you MEAN? Lestrange…that…that…that bitch is dead! Lupin killed her! After she murdered Poppy…he was so strange. I've never seen him like that. What the hell are you talking about? Let me out of here!"

Pomfrey spluttered, blinking fast, trying to focus on something different than Hermione's outbursts. "L-Language! Please, do not use such profanities in my presence! It doesn't matter how sick you are."

Hermione scoffed. "HA! Profanities. That's exactly what he said. Before I killed his soul. And I'm not sick, damn it."

"S-Soul? Honey, wait here, and don't move. I'm going to get the Headmaster."

"Wait—Headmaster?" Hermione asked, suddenly changing her demeanor rapidly, her attention rapt and yet stoic, like she was trying to suppress hope.

Madam Pomfrey stabled her own voice, not wanting to get Hermione into hysterics again. "Yes, Armando Dippet. He'll know what to do."

Evidently, her efforts were in vain, as Hermione got frustrated again. "Dippet was Headmaster twenty years ago! I don't understand what you're SAYING!" Hermione screamed, holding her head in both pain and confusion.

"Just wait here, child. I'll be right back," Pomfrey replied, pointing her finger to Hermione for emphasis. She didn't want to leave this girl all alone, but she had no choice. She couldn't handle this alone, and a figure of more supreme authority had to know about this.

She bustled out, and Hermione rolled her eyes as she jumped out of her bed. Or, rather, toppled out of it. She was still in her bloodied clothes; obviously that lady who ascertained she was Poppy Pomfrey hadn't changed them. She tried to ignore her throbbing bones, but she honestly couldn't. She couldn't use her hands—her wrists were broken, and the way she was incapable of moving some of her fingers, some were dislocated. Her ankle pained her like no other, and she figured it was sprained, if not worse. It seemed like the only part of her that wasn't hurt was her brain and her organs. Except her heart. That had been shattered irreparably when the first person close to her had fallen to the ground, dead—Tonks. She and Hermione had become so close over the past months, and they, along with Ginny, had bonded so well. Hermione remembered wanting to yell in anguish and horror at Tonks's fallen body, but couldn't as she was then immediately engaged in a mini-war with none other than Lucius Malfoy, Tonks's killer. She had vaguely noticed that his good-for-nothing son had fled in cowardice as soon as he saw her, the first real Order's death. She scoffed at the thought, though in the back of her curious mind, she wondered what became of him. Had Voldemort found him? Killed him? Abducted and inducted him into his sick fan club? She didn't know what had happened to Draco Malfoy, but she figured nothing good.

But Hermione, in spite of her wracking hurt taking over her fragile body, made her way, limping no less, over to the stark white door. Frowning at the predicament of not being able to turn the doorknob, she muttered a silent spell, which she had mastered ages ago, and tried to smile as the door opened by itself, but was unable to do so. It was like those muscles around her mouth were rendered useless from inability to have any reason to smile. With her wand now held awkwardly and unmanageably in her hand, she conjured splints for both her wrists and her ankle, and wandered out, still ignoring the obvious complaints from her joints and limbs. She was about fed up with such things. Scratch that—she was fed up with such incapabilities.

As soon as she got far enough away to actually take in the full outside of the building, she nearly fainted from the sight. The tiers and stonework and emanating brilliant magic were unmistakable even by the most blind. This was Hogwarts. The words repeated in her head like an old friend. It had been so long since she'd referred to it as if it was still not in ruins. Was it truly possible? What had really happened? Her fingers slipped up to the necklace she was still wearing, a nervous habit of hers. Slowly, her mind flipped over in realization and her mouth dropped, her eyes widening as far as they were willing to go. She hurried—ish—back into the building and, finding a set of double doors, inched forward, and looked into the crack between it and its equally heavy counterpart. The Great Hall? She almost didn't want to imagine the possibility. She gasped as she saw, through about a two-centimeter gap, a room half-full of people laughing and eating. In the back of her mind, she still couldn't believe that there were still happy people in the world. There for sure weren't a large number of those back in her world, even muggles. Even they had felt Voldemort's reign, even if they didn't fully understand it. Hermione tried to come up with an equivalent in muggle terms, and finally found one that was only a semblance. Voldemort was like, to give a rough estimate, the thousandfold version of Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, Benini Mussolini, Mao Zedong, and the Bolsheviks all infused with the deadliest, evilest magic around. But that was only a fraction of the terror that constituted Voldemort. Which, given Hermione's natural knowledge of muggle history, was one of the scariest thoughts she'd ever had.

But, returning herself to her current predicament, she re-concentrated on it. All the possibilities running through her head oddly kept coming back to the last thing she did. Twisted her Time-Turner. She almost rolled her eyes at the effect of it; how stupid; how absurd; how ridiculous. And yet…plausible?

Fantastic, she thought cynically, her mind trying to wrap around it, I've gone back in time twenty years. How wonderful. I've now attracted the matron's attention, who's alive, and she's going to get the clueless Headmaster. Unless Dumbledore…who is alive in this time…Dumbledore! He's alive! He'll know exactly what to do. There's no way in hell I would rather wait idly for some lame-ass, oblivious has-been to look at me like I'm psycho and prescribe me some magical remedy. No. Dumbledore is the Transfiguration Professor now. So, all I have to do is find him, hoping the classroom hasn't changed, do this, mind you, all in the most clandestine way possible, approach him who is thirty years younger, explain that I'm from 1997, in my ripped, atrocious, bloodied-up clothes and broken bones. He'll SO believe me.

Sighing, but knowing she had no other options, she set off through the familiar halls of Hogwarts, her eyes now dry, but sadly reminiscing on the happy time before sixth year she had with Harry and Ron. Harry and Ron…how she wished with her every last fiber of her being that they were still alive. Still alive for her to scold and berate for not taking notes; still alive to be a last resort as a shoulder to cry on; still alive to…just be Harry and Ron, her two best friends in the whole world, no matter what. With another resigned and feeble sigh, she realized that now she would be the Golden…Person not in her own time anymore. That didn't have as nice a ring to it as the Golden Trio did, even if it was usually said with Malfoy's distaste.

"But no good missing things you'll never have again," she said softly and indifferently to herself.

As she reached the classroom that used to be taught by her favorite teacher, Professor Minerva McGonagall, she struggled with herself, like she didn't want to open the door again. The still familiar door she had spent so many wonderful hours in, learning from transforming teacups that would hum you the national anthem to the history of Animagi. She had fought well too, Hermione remembered. She ran in front of a Killing Curse shot by some Death Eater, to save Harry. It was so unbearable to see her small and frail body fall heavily through the air. The once majestic being, on the Light side, who commanded order second only to Dumbledore and compassion all at once. And now it was for nothing. Nothing! Everyone was dead!

Although, honestly, her Professor probably wouldn't have lasted too much longer anyway, as horrible as it was for Hermione to think. Why couldn't Harry have followed Hermione's requests to become an Animagus? Like Sirius and his father had? He could have been saved by now! But then again, maybe not, her flipside offered. After all, who was she, a mere pawn in the great game of life, to question the Grand Design—the stupid, fucking Grand Design that got everyone she ever loved killed. Sighing again with disdain, she quelled any thought of a quiet entrance, and just opened the door to the Transfiguration room so harshly that it ricocheted off of the wall and the immediate vicinity of the hallway.

Like she had expected, fifty heads snapped towards her, gaping like idiotic fish out of water. But she was over the taunts, stares, and oglings she had received as of late. She ignored all of the glares, and looked straight at the old man in the front of the classroom, his face surprised but strangely not appalled. Hermione was still impressed by the power he exuded. It was obviously not expected, her entrance, but there he was, acting like she had merely come in to ask him for a spot of tea. "I need to speak with you immediately, Professor Dumbledore." She said brusquely, staring him down.

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, like he knew what was going on, that she had traveled through time, even though that was impossible…wasn't it? Her eyes threatened to let cascades fall from them as she saw the almost literal sparkles in his sky-colored eyes. In the days since the war had been inevitable—since Cedric had died, practically—their shine had started to diminish. And then Harry had been pulled into the Horcrux struggle…and the light vanished. No more unsaid sparkles or shines of approval. That door was shut off completely, never to be seen again. In Hermione's time. Dumbledore's death…hard as it was, Hermione had noticed that his perished form of his eyes seemed no different than their living shells a time before. And so, seeing that proud, congenial, compassionate look in his wizened face, Hermione couldn't help but try and fail to swallow the lump formed in her throat. She willed herself not to break down, but she wouldn't blame herself if she did. That sparkle, that one twinkle, a facet of him only he possessed, was something that she hadn't realized how much she missed until now. She wished it wouldn't affect her so. His form now swimming and warping in her vision, she held her own at the moment.

Unaware of her internal twistings and his ultimate, fatal destiny, he clasped his hands, indigo robes swishing. "May I inquire as to the subject matter?" he asked serenely.

For a split second, she was surprised; amazed really, that he could be so calm about it. She had rudely interrupted his class, after all, and judging by the class's still awed faces at the front of the room's demonstration, it was a fascinating lesson that shouldn't have been interceded by her issues, impossibly pressing as they were. Still, he remained impassive about it.

"If you don't mind, I would rather not discuss it in front of these glaring students that think I'm some sort of anomaly who shouldn't care about people that stare at them." She said acidly, still staring into Dumbledore's eyes, though her words were directed at the pupils in the room.

A few of the students blushed and turned their heads, but some just let her words slide over them and continued to have their eyes glued to her. Dumbledore gave a quiet nod. "Very well. Give me a moment, won't you?" he asked amiably, and she was still slightly shocked, not only because there he was in front of her, tangible as herself. He turned to his students. "Class is dismissed. I still expect those two rolls of parchment on the development of the science of Transfiguration, the main figureheads, their roles, and diagrams on the metamorphosis of the kangaroo rat to the bobcat."

"Sir! That is so unfair! Who the hell is she?" a voice came from the right side of the room. Hermione paid no mind, but Dumbledore's eyes lost their glimmer for a second as he stared at the boy.

"None of that, Hendrien! I said class is dismissed!"

At his harsh tone, they scrambled like rats under a spotlight, grabbing their bags faster than anything. Hermione couldn't help but admire her former Headmaster. She walked briskly up the row, trying not to limp, but she didn't think she succeeded in doing so. Some ignorant boy—perhaps Hendrien, she couldn't tell—brushed by her harshly, snapping her wrist back. She gasped sharply in intense pain and her eyes started watering, but she sucked it up after a few breaths and brought her arms in closer to herself. A couple students gave her a mix of glares and query, but she disregarded them. Finally, she got up to the old man, who was staring at her intently and with intrigue.

"Professor, I really must speak with you. It is of supreme importance." She said stonily, finally managing to quell, for the time, her nostalgia.

"Yes," he said brightly. "I believe that fact has been established."

She frowned, wondering if it was his form of mocking her, but she threw that aside as well. "Sir, there is not a matter I know of that is graver or more imperative than this, and I need your help without delay. I mean not to be rude or presumptuous, but I've got to be honest and say I don't care. Not after everything."

Dumbledore pressed his lips together. "Perfectly understandable. You have nothing to apologize for. Lemon drop?"

The casualness of his offer hit home, and she felt a pang in her heart. She closed her amber eyes for a moment in suppression. "No," she said, addressing him again. "I gave them up a long time ago. After a certain favorite Headmaster of mine died. It was horrible. Please…just…don't."

"Very well then," he said, as if she had merely declined the candy itself and not part of the person it represented to her. "Now, before we get started, would you mind indulging me with your name? While I am confident on being only your most intent and patient listener, I would like to be able to talk to you by name. It's a little less stuffy and political in my opinion."

Hermione downcast her eyes, as if debating her response. She struggled with the answer, but she knew that if she couldn't trust him, whom could she trust? There were no Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, hell, Luna in this alien time. There wasn't anyone. No one except Dumbledore. And while Hermione knew she was a world of a lot smarter than a lot of people, she knew she'd at least need help figuring this all out. And the person that could do that, the person who she would put her life in the hands of in a millisecond, was the man right in front of her. Her hesitation was sometimes a useful tool, but in this case, it was not necessary, and she needed to acknowledge that fast.

"I'm Hermione. Hermione Jane Granger," she responded stiffly and slowly, like she was regretting saying each word. "And I'm from…1997."

He paused, taking in the information, but did not laugh or show signs of not believing her, which she was grateful for. "That's not something I can say I've heard before, but I have been one for a wild imagination. So at that, I say it is nice to meet you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with a nod. He then pressed his long fingertips together, peering at her so reminiscently through his half-moon spectacles. "Now," he began, "what is the nature of your business? I do find it is often not good to dwell too long on what you believe your exposition to be. But, by all means, take however long you may like."

She held his gaze a moment longer before looking around and, finding a spindly but reliable chair, she sat laboriously down into it, wincing at the motions it took. She took a shaky breath, both from the wealth of information she was about to disclose, and from the fact that it hurt to say it all again as it did to watch it happen. But, as the saying went, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And right now, she only stood to gain things.

She looked determinedly at him, brown eyes meeting blue. "Okay," she began eloquently. "You know of Voldemort, yes?"

Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow silently, and Hermione knew that that name had sparked a bit of interest in the wizard. At her reluctance, he spoke. "Though I knew him under a different guise, yes, I am familiar with the term," he replied quietly, words forming almost after he spoke them. "If you're wondering whether I am capable of comprehending the obvious grave news you have for me concerning him, I assure you I am. You need only go on."

Hermione bit her lip, fearing that Voldemort—or, as Dumbledore knew him, Tom Riddle—might have very well have been quite far in gathering his factions, and maybe her being here was just pointless. Yet, she continued. "Well," she began again, wondering where to start. There was just so much. "I have no idea why I am here of all places, or what I am doing anywhere but in verbal and literal combat with Voldemort, but I am. All I know is that the last thing I remember before being so unceremoniously dropped here is that I had accidentally twisted my Time-Turner the wrong way. You see, we were in what was—is—will be—whatever, you know what I mean—the Final Battle against him and his Death Eater followers. My best friend, Harry Potter, was supposed to kill the Dark Lord according to this prophecy he heard in the Department of Mysteries, that you have heard as well, though I am not exactly sure if you have or not yet. And so you see, I—" she had been doing well up until that point, voice solid, but at that moment, she faltered, tears springing to her eyes, but not falling. She closed them, sucked in another breath, and went on with her story. "Light and Dark forces were lost, and I lost everyone. He killed them all. Every single last one. He killed Lupin…Harry…Ron…the Weasleys…Shacklebolt…Moody…T-Tonks…everyone. And by killing them, he killed me, too. Or at least my heart and soul, that is. They made it up, they made me, and now that they're gone, I don't know what to do. I don't think I can survive. My only consolation was that by using the Killing Curse on Voldemort, I destroyed his last Horcrux. He's human. Or…at least, he was in my time. Which meant that he was at the mercy of forces grounded; he couldn't hide behind bits of his soul anymore. I know you know what Horcruxes are, so please don't think I'm making this up. Because that is the farthest thing from what I am doing, and I need you to know this. You're the last one I can trust. I mean, you're gone in my time—I'm sorry to say, and I don't think I can tell you why or how, but you are—and so this is weird, but you are the only one left. And if you don't believe me, there is no way I can—"

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore interrupted. She stopped, staring at him. "I apologize for cutting in, but I do believe you, Hermione. While your tale is one very intricately spun and vociferated, and many people wouldn't choose to open their minds for it, but I am not one of them. To say the least, you have got me interested, and if anything, even if it makes me look like a fool, I am intrigued to know where you are going with this. You can count on my confidence. And that I will keep your secret; I am assuming, correct me if I'm wrong, that this is something I don't believe would be best to be advertised."

Hermione gave a slight upturn of her mouth, the closest to a smile she'd had in a long time. He believed her. He believed her. She had one ally in this whole messed up loop, the best ally she could have in her opinion. "Yes, I think so, too," she consented. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you."

"Now, though this may seem like an odd and impertinent question, indulge me," Dumbledore offered, and Hermione nodded in interest. "Your home…are you willing to go back to it?"

Hermione frowned deeply in confusion. First of all, she had no idea what he was on about, and second, she had thought the answer was obvious. "What home?" she said with a laugh that was actually closer to a bark. "Everything's demolished! My parents are gone—important enough to be killed so kindly by Voldemort himself—my friends are gone, my whole world is gone. What would I want to go back to?"

Dumbledore held her stare for a moment before appearing to want to say something, but stopped himself. Hermione wondered fiercely what it was, but she knew better than to question him. "Yes. Of course," he said absently. "Now, I must discuss with you the—"

"Wait," Hermione interjected suddenly. "Sorry for cutting you off, but I need to…to…well…"

Dumbledore waved a hand at her. "By all means. I daresay I have too many words in my mouth already."

Hermione nodded in thanks. "Harry and Ron," she started, choking up. He lowered his head slightly, indicating her to continue. She swallowed brusquely. "Please…I need to see them again. Even if they don't remember me…if I fix our—their—future, I mean, it'd mean I wasn't there, at least this me wasn't, but they would be, wouldn't they? It would hurt like crazy, being apart from them, like it is now, but if they were alive, even if they wouldn't be my friends anymore, I think I would be able to live with that. I just—I need to see them one more time. Not in a picture, but in form. Please. Please tell me there is a way. I need a way. There is no possible path that I could take that wouldn't involve that. I have no reason for being to live without them."

Her words hung in the air like a bee searching for its next flower, and by his silence, Hermione's hopes started to dash. He looked at her sadly, and she knew the answer. However, he spoke before she could continue. "I am afraid to say that there is no obvious remedy to that situation, but, there is a rare event that has been rumored to occur, though even then, only once or twice in all history."

Her eyes moved back up to his after examining a quite interesting incarnadine-colored stain on the floor. "Well, what is it?" she asked, hardly one to get excited, but even she had to admit that she was starting to get hopeful once again.

He took a moment, as if trying to think of the best way to word his response. "Sometimes," he started with slowed anticipation, like he was not wanting to say it, "spirits, if they have not completely passed on, if they have unfinished business on Earth, if they are unwilling to leave this realm yet, they will appear to certain persons; a séance of sorts. It is said that they will appear as more or less of a ghost, though they will look just like they would if they were alive. Looking corporeal, that is to say. Although this is far from an exact science; far from an exact speculation. And like I said as well, this may not have even happened at all, but I figured you would like to know it. Your arrival is certainly an intriguing happenstance in my life, and if that can happen, then this event, I believe, would most likely happen to you of all people if it ever occurred."

Hermione's eyes widened to the point of hope. Raw hope. "Harry and Ron would do that!" she exclaimed, straightening up in the chair. "They wouldn't leave me like this; they wouldn't. They know I can't live without them! There has to be a way, Dumbledore. I know there is. They'll find it. They always find it. They would know I need to see them!"

"Unfortunately, Miss Granger, I do not know the Harry and Ron you speak of. It does sound like they were, indeed, quite close friends of yours, and, in my thought processes, if it were to happen to any trio, it would be to you, as I can see you obviously possess great initiative, internal strength, and the best sense of connection. There is rarely a connection so strong as to spur this phenomena, but if yours is strong enough, it could very well happen. I only hope that it does. However, I must caution you, there are ramifications to—"

"I don't care!" Hermione cried passionately. "There can't be 'ramifications' worse than what I am right now! I don't care! If it'll bring them to me, I don't care what happens!"

Dumbledore gave her a soft smile, but it was not completely full of empathy. "I commiserate with you, Hermione, I do. Trust me, your burden is one you, of all people, should not bear, and I regret for you that it has been placed upon your shoulders. I only with you all the happiness in the world. But other destinies are tied to your own, not just your immediate vicinity. Making friends here, stepping out of place of your own history, could wash out dire events. People who are happy and living a normal life thirty years from now may just find themselves far from it, depending on what your actions here are, how little they may seem. Saving someone from a prank, a harmless curse in their first year here could have detrimental causes to them, not just to you. You know the effects of Time-Turners, I can see. This would be the same. The same happenings. I only insist you take care to remember what can happen if you meddle in the timeline. I am not telling you to stay in a room with no contact, but please do not wander into the timelines of those you should not. You have an idea of what those may be, I assume, and I put my faith in you that you will take pains to make sure this does not happen. I dislike to be the bearer of condescendence and discouragement, but I mean only to forewarn you. This, after all, is not your natural time, and though there is a reason which I do not know for you to be sent here, you must not tread deeper waters than those in which you can stand."

Hermione downcast her eyes to the same zinnia-hued point, and with a sad nod that could only come from realizing a grim, cruel irony, she looked wearily back up to him. "Yes, Sir," she said helplessly, though she knew he was completely right, as always. "I understand. I do have a last question, though, if you please."

"Of course," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling again.

"A place to sleep?"

Dumbledore chuckled jovially, and he clapped his hands while rising from his chair and she knew he was trying to lighten the situation that, unfortunately, could not be lightened. "Oh, yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "With great haste, you will be all settled in. Have no worry about that. While I do this, however, I impress strongly upon you to travel down to the Infirmary where a delightful woman named Madam Pomfrey will attend to your injuries, as I do say you have a fair few too many. She was in a right state when you were brought in."

Hermione frowned again from her previous, not content per se, but settled placidity. 'Settled' being that she wasn't drowning in her own tears. "Brought in, Sir?" Hermione questioned curiously.

"Yes, I am sure Poppy will tell you everything, but right now I have some strings to pull and some connections to be taken advantage of. If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger, I must tend to those, otherwise I would assist you, although you do look like one who would like to go solo."

He had her labeled to a point, a point only two other people had been able to do, and, at least in this case, she appreciated it. "Yes, thank you, Professor. Really. You have no idea what you've done for me. Thank you."

He waved his hand again in dismissal. "No apologies, Miss Granger. Now, if you please," he paused a second, reaching into a bowl to pop into his mouth something looking peculiarly like a Licorice Snap, "escort yourself to the Hospital Wing. No good can come if you are incapacitated."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," she agreed. "And thank you for not asking many questions. I know it's unfair to do this, but I don't know how much I can tell you without it being, well, you know."

"I do," he said. "You are the least nuisance as possible, and you mustn't think otherwise. I will help you in any way you need, domestic amenities or Restricted Section library access or whatever else you desire. Do not hesitate, Hermione. Don't you worry about that."

She gave him a curt nod, getting up out of the chair and walking again along the long aisleway of desks, somehow happier—in relative terms—than she had been upon first escaping Madam Pomfrey's grips, even though that was to whom she was going to now. Dumbledore, as always, had a good point. She was in no condition to do anything if she kept up like this, gruesome-tasting Skele-gro or not.

So she really was twenty years in the past, she reminded herself with more certainty. Giving herself a little smile, she had one last thought before reaching the Infirmary.

Bring it on, Voldemort, bring it on.

Thanks to everyone that reviewed!
My utmost gratitude to Dawwwlish the auror for pointing out the twenty/thirty years thing. Thanks!