4

And I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, pretending the echoes belong to someone. Someone I used to know...

- The Postal Service, We Will Become Silhouettes


Hermione took a moment to let her surroundings sink in. She stood with a hand held out for balance and glanced around. She could see the staircase that led to the now abandoned Department of Mysteries, adjacent to a large, ripped tapestry of a wizard having his wand serviced by a house-elf. Her vision blotched with coloured spots for a few seconds as she tried to collect her thoughts. She could still feel Draco's eyes burning into hers. This memory made her feel strangely subdued, like her grasp of reality had been somewhat loosened...

A sudden patter of footsteps against the marble startled Hermione back into full consciousness. Her blood was pounding in her veins with an anticipatory force, and she drew her wand. This floor had been deserted for months, avoided by all wizards, still haunted by the activities undertook there.

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by loud, indistinct voices, and Hermione rushed to the top of the stairs, pressing herself tight against the wall. She searched her brain for any reason why a member of the Ministry would be on this floor – she herself, in the position she was in, shouldn't be even be there. A breach in security, the entrance of an outsider, was perhaps the worst thing imaginable. Harry's associates deemed such a feat impossible but Hermione, after years of nothing being what it appeared to be, or acting as it should, knew better.

Her wand light was the only thing keeping the corridor illuminated, and as the sound of men grew louder, she quickly extinguished it, leaving herself in total darkness. She held her wand high, her body tense and still.

"It's heavy! Give me a hand before I drop it." The voice was deep and unfamiliar. "Quickly!"

She heard a grunt of relief. A dot of light appeared on the wall in front of Hermione for a moment, and then disappeared.

"No, don't try to use magic. It doesn't work; they've got it cursed."

The second voice was higher and prodded at something in Hermione's memory. "This is ridiculous. It won't work, I swear it won't work!"

There was sharp intake of breath, and a glaring red light for a moment lit up the entire chamber.

"Bugger!"

"Don't you ever disrespect the Dark Lord's requests," the first man growled.

Hermione's wand hand tightened, her knuckles crunching with the pressure. There were Death Eaters, or whatever they remained to be called, in the Ministry. Her mind filled with old Order hexes and curses, trying to ignore the stampede beating of her heart.

"I wasn't! Just look at this – piece of shite, isn't it?"

There footsteps were close; she could their breath. It was now or never. She shifted from her hiding spot, turning quickly on her heel to face the men in the near blackness.

"Did you hear --?"

"STUPEFY!" She shouted, hitting Blaise Zabini squarely in the chest.

"Bloody – Reducto!" Hermione quickly reflected the curse, staring into the muscular Death Eater's void brown eyes.

"Expelliarmus!"

He deflected it with ease, coughing out a hoarse, hacking laugh. "My, my, if it isn't the world famous Mudblood!" He snarled as he shot a silent curse her way.

"Fuck you," she hissed, shooting a curse right back at him. She shot a quick glance at the object dangling in his left hand; a large, chained piece of brass.

She stepped quickly to the right, narrowly avoiding an Unforgivable. Just as she shot a curse back in return, she caught a glimpse of Zabini starting to stir.

"Quite a mouth she's got on her," said the other wizard, more to himself than anything.

"Detected a pattern yet?" she said crisply, moving forward carefully, keeping her eyes on her quickly recovering alumni. "Mudblood as I may be, somehow I keep ending up right here," she took a deft step forward, putting herself between her two opponents, "kicking your sorry arses."

The Death Eater scowled, dark lines burned in his face. "I can assure you this time you won't be walking away the hero."

A commotion to her left alerted her that Zabini had gotten up. She whirled around, but not fast enough. A thin, veined hand grasped her wrist, and she turned to stare into the muddy eyes of her old schoolmate.

"This time, you won't be walking away at all."

In a swift motion with her free hand, she broke Zabini's grasp on her wrist and pushed him backwards with a kick to the stomach.

"Stupefy!" she cried, whirling around and paralyzing her other opponent. As she picked up the discarded object, her finger pressed against a dial, and immediately Hermione knew what was in her hands.

"You're right about one thing," she said as the world her behind to slide away. "I certainly won't be walking away."

Like a familiar dream, everything went black.


It was unlike her daily usage of time turners back in third year. This time the sensation was accompanied by an acute feeling of anticipation. Hermione, with no time to spare, had twisted the hour glass radically with no notion of how far she had pushed it. The blur of indistinct faces and places seemed to be rushing by her much too fast. She felt as if she was teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Something is wrong, she thought, her head feeling heavy and obsolete. Perhaps I've broken it, perhaps...

Suddenly, everything lurched to an ungraceful halt, and Hermione found herself on a cold, stone floor. Her reality was not clear, the walls and ceiling seemed to blur into one another and cast a foreboding sense, as if they'd turn to dust at any moment.

Squinting her eyes, she tried to make out where she was. The looming ceiling and high windows were that of the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower – they had to be.

Hermione sucked in a breath, the air around her seeming much too dense. She looked down at the time turner resting in her palm and registered with a terrifying sinking sensation that this was, not a time turner – at least not in any form she had seen before.

It was then she heard a sharp intake of breath. She spun around, the air surrounding her moving slowly to compensate.

By the Northernmost window stood a tall figure. Hermione moved as fast as she could through the space, quickly recognizing the blurred outline of the billowing black and the strong, sharp profile.

"Professor Snape?"

The figure spun around much faster than what seemed possible. She could now see one leg lifted onto the ledge and perhaps – was it? – tear stained cheeks.

But the man before her was much, much too young. He was still a child – younger than Hermione, even. Beady black eyes stared, confused and fearful.

"Don't do it," she whispered, before everything blended together, faces and objects, becoming once more incomprehensible.

This time, she did not wake.