Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any sort of profit from this hobby. All rights are reserved for J. K. Rowling

Only Time Will Tell

II: Through a Haze

By

RedLillies

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real."
― Cormac McCarthy

May 4th, 1975

Her screams echoed in the silent room whilst the sun tenderly greeted her with her early morning rays. The world around her rose unsuspectedly while hers was in turmoil. Her face, red-striped with dried tear marks, scrunched up as more tears fell from her closed eyes.

Her bed was as uncomfortable and sterile as the rest of the room. And, accompanied by the sound of singing birds, she curled up into a fetal position, trying with all her might to protect her body from something that was not there. Her distress was clearly visible on her face if one even bothered to look closely at all. Her mind worked all through the night and into the early morning.

The time of dawn was just as innocent as she ought to be but we all know, what blooms and thrives in the beginning, will slowly wilt until their day's end. Could that not be applied to a person's innocents as well?

A child is innocent. Some may say naïve – still learning and discovering the world around them, while an adolescent already starts to become familiar with certain hardships of the world, trying to accept the world they live in as their innocents slowly slips through their fingers like grains of sand.

As a person turns into an adult, be it in their mind or physically, they are either blindside by the bigotry in the world or can see the devastation as clear as day. But to either one, the unfairness of it all is clear as day. Their realization from adolescent to adult comes not in a mind-blowing way but creeps in, unsuspecting, until they are drowning in their feelings and surroundings.

As an elderly, you should have experienced the world. From the richest of your life to your poorest. Some people will never find the solace of life's ending and some are the lucky ones that do. But the bitter truth of life is, that it will all eventually come to an end. That's the normal cycle of life – of innocence even.

It is, however, not the case when you are thrust into a life-changing event from an early age. An event that you could not have seen coming from a mile away, yet, still becomes a part of you. It is and always will be unavoidable.

The most traumatizing event in a person's life, in the history of the world, is when a child loses his or her innocents in life, most importantly, during a war. No child deserves such cruelty.

People say that war is a game played by adults but it is always the children that are fighting them, who are stuck in the cross-fire.

And when death hangs like a prominent smell in the air, it will linger until your very last breath of life's ending. Death, that is like a scar, will forever mark your hardships, like strikes, deep in your heart.

Her body started shaking in the now completely risen Scottish sun. The air was still crisp from the night before. Her whimpers were becoming louder again. Her mutters grew and grew in volume until they could be properly heard from far a distance.

''We didn't take it... No – No, we didn't take it. We found it. WE FOUND IT,'' her shrill voice rose in volume as she begged, ''Please, please I can't take it anymore. PLEASE…''

Her scream echoed against the stone walls. Her hands fisted into her curly and slightly bushy hair, pulling it at its roots, hoping that would be the solution to keep those monstrous thoughts from her mind. Her eyes scrunched up with pain and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

Her treacherous mind keeping the horrifying events on a loop. On and on it went. The word that was carved into her, full of dark magic and hate, opened up again. The wound seeped with blood.

Another blood-curling scream was heard.

''Please, Please help me...'' sounded her pitiful voice.

She arched her back from the bed into the air as her muscles became taught with the stress she put on them. The bouts of after effects from the Cruciatus Curse were stronger than ever. Her screams became so powerful and horrifying that they broke through the silencing wards of the Infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey finally ran into the room. Her unclothed feet padded on the stone floor and her nightgown billowed behind her, ''Miss Granger, Miss Granger!''

The nurse grabbed her wand from her pocket and tried to calm the witch down, forcing potions down the patient's throat, while her torn flesh was knitting itself back together.

•

There was nothing but a dim haze of pain clouding her senses when she woke up for the second time that day. It took a while to register where she was and what had happened.

A distant corner of her brain screamed at her that she was in danger but her body was so lethargic, so heavy, that she could not even summon the strength to open her eyes. Her eyelids felt like they were glued shut, too weak to flutter open and to take in her surroundings.

The last thing she remembered was the smell of burning flesh and screams of people nearby as she felt the magic of the ancient spell fly her way, accompanied by a dull ache and chanting of people surrounding her. She could still see the rabid eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange only happy to torture her to the brink of insanity. Her mask, long forgotten at her master's feet, revealing a yellow-toothed grin with a desire to murder and torture in those crazed eyes.

Hermione felt fear race up her spine, drawing her further out of sleep. She was going to die. She needed to get up. She needed to protect herself.

Her chest ached, as did her arm. That was the next thing she grasped as she shifted her body. Her eyes opened stiffly, slowly, to be greeted by a pale ceiling above her. Her throat burned as she gasped.

Finally recovering from the shock of waking up, she grappled for her wand but only felt the roughness of cotton. The material was crisp and wrapped tightly around her body. It did not make sense to her sleep-riddled mind. She swallowed thickly and tried to sit up, whimpering as she felt the searing pain in her body intensify.

She told herself to calm down, to keep breathing. Her body soon followed her mind's order and inhaled deeply, relaxing into the pillow beneath her. That was her third realization. She was in bed. Under a sheet.

Hermione forced her mind to cooperate and rationalize the sensations she was experiencing. She liked to catalogue things, liked to put things in little compartments. She tried to see the logic in the most basic of things. Her mind finally woke up and remembered slowly, like flowing water that comes into a stream, the memories of the days before.

What do I do?

It was barely day, almost night. There was a mix between the artificial lights in the room and the mystical sunrays just barely grazing her sheet-covered toes. She was smothered in white cotton, the kind of material that rubs your skin the annoying way. The confused aroma of multiple potions hung in the air. The most distinguished scents were asphodel and wormwood. She was not wearing her normal clothes, she remarked, at least, not the ones she remembered, but a white sterile hospital gown. And there was silence.

Well, not complete silence. She grimaced at that thought.

Very faintly, she could hear a slight sniffing as if someone trying not to cry. Although the sound could be anything, her hazy minded chose not to acknowledge it further.

Her minded was suddenly flooded with thoughts of her loved ones, all dead, mutilated at the hand of their murderers – those monsters.

Finally, she managed to crawl up the bed and drag herself to sit in an upright position, though she was still slightly slumped against the metal headboard.

Hermione closed her eyes. As she focused to control her breathing again, she became more and more aware of the other sound in the room. She tilted her head to the side and concentrated. The sound continued to go on. She sighed heavily and could ignore it no more.

She opened her eyes and peered over there but her eyes were still too blurry to see a single thing in front of her.

Hermione spun her legs from the bed and set them gingerly on the cold stone floor. She wiggled her toes a bit to get the feeling back in them and shivered, it was ice cold. She pushed the feeling from aside as she made up her mind. Whoever it was, seemed to go through great trouble to hide their sadness.

Slowly, as not to make a sound, Hermione shuffled towards the noise. Her legs were aching and weak but with every step, she seemed to regain some strength. She leaned on her bed with her hands, searching for extra support. One hand raised itself from the mattress, and gently, with her fingertips, touched her collarbones.

As she made contact with the bandage around her shoulders she flinched and pulled her hand away. It was agony. Whatever spells rushed her way during the battle, she must not have felt them due to the adrenaline pumping in her body.

Eventually, she arrived at the corner of her bed. The curtains were drawn around it, separating her and her discovery. She finger curled, gripped the coarse curtain tightly in her hand, and nervously opened it to reveal no one. The bed next to hers was empty.

Hermione approached the bed and only belatedly saw a person in the farthest corner of the room, sobbing. It was a man, no, boy – Hermione thought wryly – hunched over. His knees were drawn all the way to his chest with his face between the crooks of his arms and his long black locks obscuring his face.

Sirius echoed in her mind. An instinct buried deep inside her, due to the cause of his untimely death in 1996, bubbled up. His death, like a dark mark on her life, on her view of the war, of history, would forever give her pangs in her heart. His death was the starter of a series of events that should have never happened.

She approached the boy cautiously, not knowing what his reaction would be. She leaned with her back against the wall and slowly slid down to the same position. She looked befuddled at the boy. She could not think of a reason why he would be crying.

She gently lay a hand on his back between his shoulder blades and started rubbing his back in a circular motion. The boy's head shot up and looked in surprise at Hermione. His eyes wide and blood-shot.

''Hi,'' Hermione said a bit shy, ''are you okay, did something happen?''

The boy in question looked at her and gave her a confused look. ''Okay? Okay? Of course, I'm not okay. I'm crying or can't you see,'' he asked sarcastically.

''I'm sorry,'' she apologized without a reason, ''Can I help you with anything,'' Hermione continued, not acknowledging his tone whilst still rubbing his back in a soothing motion.

''Sirius,'' he said.

''Pardon?''

''My name, it's Sirius.''

''Nice to meet you, I'm Hermione.''

''Hi.'' Sirius gave her a small smile in acknowledgement and slid his gaze in front of him looking straight-ahead.

''Are you okay,'' Sirius asked Hermione.

''Could be better,'' she replied tonelessly while still looking intently at his face. As they both lost themselves in their thought, Hermione slowly turned her head to the front, focussing on nothing in particular.

''Would you like to tell me why you were crying,'' Hermione tried to ask gently, ''in the Hospital Wing no less…'' She gave a tentative smile.

Sirius looked at her then, blinked once and abruptly stood up. He wiped his cheeks violently, trying to erase the red tear-strikes that were left behind on his aristocratic face – throwing Hermione's hand from between his shoulders.

''I should go, I'm sorry.''

Hermione was speechless at the behaviour of the young version of Sirius. It shocked her to the core when she remembered that this was not the same Sirius she spent her time within the library of Grimmauld Place talking about the world, Harry and other subjects.

They stumbled upon each other one evening in the library in Grimmauld Place. Hermione was sitting on the couch with a book in her hands when Sirius suddenly banged the door open.

''Sorry,'' he said, not in the least convinced with what he was saying, ''I should go.''

''No!'' Hermione grimaced a bit, ''No, I mean – It's okay. You can stay.''

Sirius nodded and walked towards where she was sitting. Plopping not ten centimetres from where she sat. Their thighs touching each other. Her gaze slid back to her book as Sirius kept looking into the fireplace.

Abruptly, Sirius cleared his throat. Hermione's head shot up and looked at him curiously with wide eyes. Her brows knitted and she contemplated asking what was wrong. Just when she had mustered up the courage to ask him what was troubling him – he beat her to it.

''I'm worried about Harry,'' He stated simply, ''You are like a mother to him in some sort of weird twisted way. Did you know?'' after some silence he added with a deep sigh, ''I'm jealous of you. You can spend time with him whenever you want, while I'm stuck here for a good chunk of the year. I just don't get to see him as often as I'd like.''

Hermione shut her mouth and immediately understood him. Her mind peeled away more layers then he meant with that statement. He turned to look at her and she saw the sincerity and vulnerability in his eyes.

They started talking and from that moment on a bond had formed. One where they could talk for hours upon hours about what was troubling them. Sirius was the one that spoke the most and he slowly turned Hermione in his rock that protected him from the waves crashing at his unstable shore; his only tether to sanity within that godforsaken house.

Sirius's burdens were stacked upon each other throughout the years. His imprisonment, feelings of abandonment, guilt, anger, betrayal, and of course, his feelings towards the Ministry were not helping him in the slightest.

The fact that he could not escape from his personal hell, from the house that represented so many terrible things, abuse, torture; physically and mentally, became a greater burden than the Order had anticipated.

The pile on his shoulders stacked itself higher and higher and became heavier as time went on. The claustrophobic feeling of being trapped only added to the endless pile of turmoil, of unresolved emotions and emotional outbursts. He needed an outlet. And who better than Hermione herself?

Hermione was the one who helped him through the isolation of the wizarding world. Hermione was the one he talked to about his incarceration. Hermione was the one he talked to about his feeling of guilt. Hermione was the one he talked to about Harry. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione.

She kept on putting more and more stress on herself, thriving for some sort of perfection or accomplishment for being a good daughter, friend, student or soldier for the upcoming war but most importantly being a sister, or dare she say, motherly figure to the one and only 'Chosen One' himself.

She thrived for knowledge. She thrived to prove her worth to the world. Tried to show that she was not a third class citizen due to her blood-status. She felt discriminated. Both amongst her peers and the outside world. She felt used and discarded by the ones around her. Was she ultimately a puppet in the show called 'the Greater Good'?

She was the one people depend on for knowledge. She was the one they turned to when she needed to solve something: to save the Philosopher Stone, finding out who the Heir of Slytherin was, the monster in the chamber, protecting Harry form a so-called 'mass-murderer', helping Harry through the tournament – finding new spells for him to try out; runes for protection, charms for distractions, offensive curses and violent spells to attack their opponent. She researched everything for them.

She understood why she needed to help Harry, yet, could not help but feel used. She was jealous of Ginny and Ron. They had each other, they had a family. One that supported one another. She could not fathom why her own parents could not support her as Harry did?

So, as a solution, Harry and she became their own small family.

She would do everything for the people she loved. That's what made her a double-edged sword. Her characteristic being both a liability and a good thing.

A liability in the sense of being easily manipulated to unconsciously doing someone's bidding – maybe at times even consciously. Yet, she was also unceasing for the fact that she was unstoppable if someone was threatening her loved ones. At times even ruthless.

Sirius depended on her, even before their library-talk. That was their thing. Their unconscious decision made towards the end of her third year when Sirius went on the run - when she rescued him. She was the one he clung to on the Hippogriff's back and thanking her repeatedly with her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

They loved each other. Not like lovers, mind, but in a kind of weird brother-sister way. More or less a best friend.

Oh no, you have to understand that no-one could replace Harry and Ron. Sirius, however, came third, then unquestionably the quirky and sometimes weird Luna.

She did not know how to respond to this strange feeling rushing through her veins and fueling her confusion. Hermione put her hands sluggishly behind her on the ancient wall and pushed herself up, slowly shuffling back to her bed and waiting for the next turn of events that would happen in the past.

•

Dear Miss Granger,

Could you please come to my office at a time which will benefit you, as to not hinder your healing? I am becoming particularly fond of Popping Flower Candy.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Hermione looked at the note with a melancholy look. A small smile graced her gaunt face. He never does change, does he? Always obsessed with candy, Hermione thought to herself. She put the note back on her nightstand and clicked on the light to make the room a bit lighter. The little clock that was put next to her bed some hours ago, displayed obnoxiously that it was eleven PM.

She reached with her hand towards a chair that stood not far from her bed with a fresh set of clothes. She swung her legs over her bed and onto the floor and grabbed the first thing of the neatly folded pile, putting the clothes on with difficulty.

A simple set of undergarments, a plain white t-shirt that was slightly baggy on her body, a pair of jeans that bore a remarkable resemblance to the jeans her mother wore when she was younger, the typical mom jeans; and some black combat boots.

While walking the familiar path towards the Headmasters Office, she slowed down her pace and admired the castle from a historical point of view. It won't change much, she decided after seeing the halls that she would hopefully walk in, in the future.

Her mind and eyes reflected the deep sorrow she felt for not being with the ones she truly wished to be with. The people she supported through thick and thin, and they, her.

Oh, how she missed the simpler times and not her life scarred by sacrifices and death. She remembered her mother at that moment, telling her that her skin wrinkled around her face and that a frown would always mar her young daughter face. She imagined that her mother would then preach to her that she needed to stop her bouts of stress and pulling her face in such ways and threatning that it would remain that way forever.

Having arrived at the memorable Griffin statue leading to the Headmasters Office, she stopped to take a deep breath and collected herself.

''Popping Flower Candy,'' whispered Hermione with a shuddering breath.

As the Griffin turned to reveal the winding staircase, Hermione stepped on the first step that her feet could locate and let herself be brought to the ornate wooden door.

''Come in,'' sounded from the other side of the door.

Hermione opened the door cautiously and stepped inside. Dumbledore sat at his desk with his hands in front of him, and waved his hand, inviting her to sit in one of the chairs in his office.

''Good evening, Headmaster.''

''You as well, Miss Granger,'' Dumbledore said with a small smile gracing his old face, hidden a bit by his long beard.

''How is your healing progress coming along?'' The Headmaster asked not unkindly.

''Very well,'' she replied curtly and giving a polite nod, ''Have you heard a word from the Delacours, sir,'' she continued.

''Straight to the point my dear,'' the Headmaster replied with his eyes twinkling, ''They gave me a Floo call not too long ago. Telling me that they don't mind waiting until you are recovered. They have gotten the adoption-ritual all set up and asked me if you wanted a quick read through the procedure?''

Hermione looked at the Headmaster with pursed lips. Disapproval on her face, clear for all to see.

''This is for your protection, Miss Granger! Do not take it lightly,'' The Headmaster pointed in a loud voice. His grandfatherly façade quickly shattered.

''For my protection,'' Hermione hissed, ''What about theirs? Who is to think about them? What would happen if they adopted me and I would be dragged back to where I came from, what then? Did you even think about that?''

''We don't know what sent you here in the first place, Miss Granger. We cannot speculate and guess what will happen when we don't have the reigns of Time in our hands. We cannot manipulate it. We cannot change it to fit our needs. It would simply slip through our fingers," the old man paused before continuing, "Imagine if you were never to return to the past. At this moment you'd have an alibi. No one would question your existence,'' Dumbledore finished with a whisper, awe in his voice.

''Even if,'' Dumbledore said unrelentingly, ''by some miracle you got sent back… You could explain it to them, tell them why you suddenly have a different name, but the same red blood. Think about it,'' he stated.

Hermione looked long and hard at her esteemed Headmaster, not betraying her emotions. It felt like ages before she spoke.

''I think,'' she said before breaking off. She collected her thoughts, ''I think it'd like to check over the ritual before I make a decision.''

Dumbledore hummed his agreement and went to stand up. He walked towards his wall of bookcases filled with all kinds of books; small, big, thick, thin, everything you could imagine, cramped in a little space.

If I am stuck, maybe this would be the best way...

He stood before the second bookcase on the right and grabbed a thick, small, black tome. The Magicks: Among the old families, it read. She made to grab the book but Dumbledore took his hand away at the last second.

''Tut, Miss Granger,'' he said mockingly with a sardonic smile as if speaking to a mere child, ''Do take it seriously. It is a special edition after all.''

Hermione felt her body going stiff. She felt foolish the way he spoke to her, not appreciating her as someone who was almost literally his only hope. She felt like he said the words in such a way as if he was crowning her Queen of the marionettes, a puppeteer; God even.

''Thank you, sir,'' she said finally, in a sickly sweet voice.

Hermione stood up from her chair and did not look behind her as she walked out of the Headmasters Office. She did not see the triumphant smirk that graced the old Headmaster's lips, casting dark shadows on his face, making him look like the evil man she painted him.

She walked in the shadows in the dead of the night, jumping from one of the torches' shadows to the other. Gliding seamlessly along the old stone walls. No one was to see her after all.

She sat down on her bed and looked nervous at the cover of the little black tome. No author, she thought, that doesn't seem suspicious, she finished sarcastically. She opened the book to the first page and began to read.

The Magicks: Among the old Families

Being part of one of the old families is a privilege most mudbloods don't understand. It is the honour of the highest order. Especially, if you are chosen to become one of them.

You will never be alone. In body and in spirit – that you would have to understand. And by that dear reader, I mean that there will always be something judging you, watching you, lurking somewhere in your subconscious.

An entity that would be flowing through your veins, into your pores and breathe life into your very skin. It would be there with you at every step of the way. It will give you knowledge and strength when needed, and reprimand you when you go too far.

Every entity is different, such as each family is. Every entity chooses the boundaries of one's family. You have no control. Some entities are stronger than others. Such as one person is stronger than the other.

The only one that could ever bargain a deal with your family's entity, would have to be The Lord and Head of your Ancient and most Noble House.

To become one of the few who will be bestowed the honour of joining an Old family, you must take part in the adoption ritual. If you are a woman, then you shall need the ritual and ingredients as followed:

Lily of the valley (humility, chastity, sweetness, purity, brings luck in love), Yellow Daffodils (represents new beginnings), cranberries (long and happy life), Gillyflower (happy life and lasting beauty), figs (fertility, understanding, knowledge and faith), two drops of blood from your Ancient and most Noble House, two drops of the one who is officiating and nine drops of blood of the adoptee, a piece of jewelry that will represent her new family and lastly a knife made out of moonstone.

On the day of the New Moon the ritual must take place where the adoptee is represented best; symbolizing the earth she was birthed from. Beforehand the woman must be clothed in a simple cotton dress whilst leaving the rest of her body bare. That way she will be better connected to the earth of the Gods.

You must all stand in a circle around the cup, each representing a cardinal direction and put the silver cup in the middle.

Firstly, the head of House must put a drop on blood on the north side of the silver cup and one in the cup – the same for the officiator, but his drop will be in the south. Both using the moonstone knife.

The first ingredient that must be poured or put in the cup are the Yellow Daffodils. Be they crushed or not – the consistency will not matter. Secondly the figs. Thirdly, the Gillyflower. Fourthly, the Lilies of the Valley.

When the four ingredients have been placed in the cup, the cranberry pulp must be smeared in a cross between the brows of the adoptee by the matriarch. Representing the welcoming of the new offspring.

Passing the knife, lastly, to the adoptee herself, she needs to make a cut in her hand and soak the piece of jewellery in her blood above the cup, so that the excess blood will fall into the cup – precisely nine drops. While the jewellery is soaking in her blood, the adoptee must recite the ancient words of the promises of the Gods (see page 117).

After the incantation and the adding of the blood, the entire consistency of the cup must be drunk while the piece of jewellery is placed on the body. If it is a ring; on the finger, and so on.

If it were to be a boy, however…

Hermione sighed and flipped a few pages searching for the incantation.

''I, (name of choosing), promise faithfully, in the presence of the eternal magic, the entity, that I, enduring the whole course of my life shall be faithful to my family, to the utmost of my power; To be honest, true, righteous and uphold my family's standing. To honour the Fates and the Gods that have given me my power, to defend their integrity and make them proud. May I be the truest example for my future offsprings, so that they will repeat my good-doings and learn from my misconducts. With the honour of my spoken words, I faithfully affirm by my solemn oath. So I said, So mote it be.''

She stared off distractingly into the distance and closed the book slowly. Unfortunately for her, she had mistakingly forgotten to read the most important part of the entire ritual on the next page.

•

The next morning Hermione found herself in the Headmasters Office again. She felt conflicted. It was a dark ritual infused with Blood Magic which many see as a highly unstable and illegal ritual; not even worth to consider. But shouldn't she have more leisure towards Blood Magic? After all, Lily Potter had used Blood Magic to save Harry.

Should I risk it, she pondered. She didn't have a choice in the matter. It would be the only thing that would stop arousal of her presence. Well, at least for the time being. Oh, stop the fucking incessant whining, you really have to get a life, a voice said in her mind.

She looked up into the cold and grey calculating eyes of the Headmaster and took a deep breath.

''I accept.''

..Once the ritual is complete and the adoptee becomes part of the family, they will be rewritten into the lives of the Old Family and the world, as if they have always been there. Their looks will slowly morph into the mix of what a biological child of the matriarch and the patriarch would look like while creating a whole new life and memories for the newly formed family.

The parents would, and will, never know that the child did not come from their womb. The adoptee, however, shall retain all her, or his, memories of their previous life. While the officiator will forever remember their memories together, fusing them with the new ones. The world around them will shift and pull and create new relationships and different outcomes. In essence, the adoptee will have a whole new life waiting for them, but remember, it is a privilege you are now born into. One you can never relinquish…