Chapter 11: The Past Isn't Dead

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione received not just one, but two, missives. One was the expected notification about her coming detention, which she learned was to take place the following Thursday down in the dungeons with Professor Slughorn. Her and Sirius would be helping the head of Slytherin House prepare potions ingredients. Joy of joys, Hermione thought sarcastically, wrinkling her nose in anticipation of what she was sure would be a highly unpleasant evening. Preparing potions ingredients was often a rather revolting endeavor under the best of circumstances, the accompanying smells and slimes of the materials creating a disgusting, miasmatic ambiance as you worked. And when you considered the dismal company Hermione was going to be subjected to during her detention, the prospect was made even worse.

Her feelings concerning Sirius Black were a muddled mess of confusion in the wake of the events of the previous night. Hermione was not one to easily admit that she had made a mistake, a character flaw which Ron had always been a bit too keen to point out when the opportunity arose. Besides which, she usually didn't make mistakes in the first place, so when it did happen, she tended to be loath to acknowledge it. And if Hermione was going to be forced she reevaluate her attitude toward, and treatment of, Sirius Black she certainly didn't want to be around said irritating Marauder while she was doing so. Damn Black for being so not horrible the night before, and damn Lily for pointing it out and forcing her to acknowledge it! Hermione resisted the urge to glare at the red head. Her brain hurt; emotional problems concerning human relations were far more taxing than academic problems, she decided.

Hermione stuffed the detention slip into her bag with irritation, resisting the urge to sigh despondently. It was far too early in the morning to indulge in such self-pitying dramatics. Instead, she turned curiously to her other letter. It'd been delivered along with her detention notice by a terse looking school owl, so she could hardly hope for a cheerful note from Hagrid.

Opening the missive, she found a short, cryptic note penned in a script that was loopy, but neat.

"I believe it has become prudent that we meet. Come to my office at 7 o'clock this evening. The password is strudel."

It was signed "Albus Dumbledore".

Hermione frowned. Why, she wondered fretfully, did Dumbledore want to meet with her? And why now? Had he discovered a way to send her back to her proper time? Had he discovered that that was impossible? Or was it nothing to do with her unique temporal situation at all? Had he somehow heard about her altercation with Lucius Malfoy, and was now intent on chastising her over it? Her stomach clenched as her mind ruminated worriedly over the various possibilities.

She was interrupted from her anxious musings about why Dumbledore suddenly felt it was "prudent" that they meet when Dorcas arrived at the breakfast table; a flurry of blonde hair and commotion.

"So," her dormmate announced, dropping her bookbag carelessly onto the bench next to Hermione and Lily, where it landed with a loud thump, causing Hermione to jump slightly and drop her note from the Headmaster into her porridge. Dorcas was either heedless or oblivious, taking a seat next to Lily and barreling on with her news.

"I have intel," Dorcas informed them significantly, using her preferred word for gossip. "After your bizarre, little display with Black last night, Hermione, almost all of Gryffindor tower is convinced that the two of you have resolved the considerable tension between yourselves via aggressive snogging."

Hermione, who had been occupied with fishing the note from Dumbledore out of her breakfast cereal, intent on stowing the now somewhat soggy missive in her bag along with her detention notice, was stopped cold by this pronouncement of Dorcas'. In point of fact, the curly haired witch choked on her toast.

"That's completely wrong, not to mention utterly horrifying!" Hermione sputtered the moment her esophagus had cleared itself enough of the toast to allow her to speak.

"Well, I wouldn't go right to horrifying," Dorcas said, plating herself some sausages. "Black's got a very nice set of shoulders on him. His arms are rather nice too, come to that. I think it's all the quidditch. He's one of the beaters for the Gryffindor team, did you know, Hermione?"

"No, I didn't," Hermione said, adopting the prim tone that she tended to rely on when she was feeling vulnerable or defensive. "Black's physique isn't the problem, it's more his abhorrent personality that I find fault with."

"Ahh," Dorcas said, nodding understandingly. "So you don't have a problem with Black's physique then?"

"That's not what I—," Hermione cut herself off, sputtering once more. Her face had gone the color of strawberry jam. "If you're so keen, Dorcas, why don't you snog him!" she finished, rather weakly, if Lily's unimpressed snort was anything to go by.

"I've other prospects," Dorcas said loftily, looking suddenly mysterious. "Besides, I prefer the quiet ones myself. They tend to be much more fun to corrupt," the blonde said, winking saucily at them.

"You're a menace, Dorcas," Lily accused, amusement sparking in her green eyes.

Dorcas nodded, accepting Lily's assertion as her due. "Thanks, Lils, I do try," she said airily, before proceeding to flip her hair ostentatiously, smacking a Ravenclaw who happened to be passing behind in the face with her blonde mane. He didn't seem to mind.

"I still think it's a pity you and Black didn't actually snog," Dorcas said to Hermione, prompting an exasperated eyeroll from the other girl.

"What!?" Dorcas demanded, typically unashamed of her opinions. "A good snog would've been a right lot more fun then what actually happened, it seems to me! Though it still may have ended in detention for you and Black," she acknowledged with an offhand shrug. "But sometimes that's a necessary sacrifice. And besides," she continued unimpeded, despite the look of absolute horror on Hermione's face. "That boy is simply brimming with barely suppressed rage, he could use an outlet."

"I'm the one who punched Malfoy in the face," Hermione pointed out flatly, forgetting that Dorcas didn't already know that bit. All Lily had said last night, when Dorcas and Mary had arrived in the dormitory, was that Hermine had been cornered by some Slytherins when Sirius happened upon her, and that the encounter had gotten nasty, resulting in detentions for both of the Gryffindors. Hermione had been too dazed at that point to offer any more of an explanation to her other dorm mates herself.

Dorcas' eyes widened minutely in shock at this new revelation concerning Malfoy. Composing herself remarkably quickly, she raised an eyebrow at Hermione. "Perhaps you could use an outlet as well," the blonde observed. "I'm seeing new sides of you yet, Hermione."


The day proved to be quite an aggravating one for Hermione. As Dorcas had warned at breakfast, the majority of their Gryffindor classmates were abuzz with heated speculation over what had happened leading up to her and Sirius' admittedly odd interaction in the common room the previous evening. Much to Hermione's immense frustration, the general consensus seemed to be that snogging had been involved. She had been forced to spend the entire morning loudly and emphatically refuting such outlandish claims, and by lunch she was both aggravated and exhausted.

Sirius, for his part, was doing absolutely nothing to help counter the slew of nefarious rumors currently swirling about the pair of them. Unless you counted slouching about looking surly and distracted, which was typical behavior from the Black heir as far as Hermione could tell, but wasn't all that typical as an after effect of snogging. Or so she assumed, given what she'd learned from glancing briefly and disdainfully at the backs of the trashy romance novels Parvati and Lavender had frequently left scattered all about their dorm back in the 1990's. Perhaps Black was being more helpful than Hermione had previously been inclined to give him credit for, walking around all day in such a strop.

She was somewhat puzzled by Black's moodiness, truth be told. If anything, Sirius had seemed to almost enjoy what had happened last night between themselves and the two Slytherins. He'd been angry, of course, and self-righteously defensive on her behalf, but some people thrived on such things, and Black had clearly been right in his element. Hermione had almost been able to feel him thrumming with the energy of a heady adrenaline rush, clutching at him as she had been. She'd been able to see up close how he relished in verbally eviscerating Avery. Black was one who liked a good fight, that much Hermione could tell. So it was a mystery to her why he was in such a bad mood this morning, when he'd been in a perfectly good one the night before. She supposed it was possible that it had nothing to do with what had happened last night; Black had a tendency to be quite moody as a general rule, or so she had observed in the short time she'd known him. He was very mercurial. It was egocentric of Hermione to assume that last night's incident was consuming him as much as it was her.

"You're staring at Black," Dorcas observed matter-of-factly, taking a judgmental seeming bite out of her turkey sandwich.

"Again," Lily added, pinning Hermione with a significant look.

Hermione startled, driven from her thoughts. She tore her eyes away from Black, where they had indeed been trained, and quickly refocused them on her own lunch. She took a delicate bite of roasted carrot, patting her mouth primly with her napkin when she had finished chewing. Lily and Dorcas observed this affected little display of exaggerated dignity from Hermione with raised eyebrows and varying degrees of amusement.

"Shut up, the pair of you," Hermione said to them eventually, and her two traitorous friends burst into giggles.


Just a bit down the table, Sirius Black's dark eyes were fixed moodily on Hermione Granger, unbeknownst to said inexplicable, infuriating, usually so observant girl. His penetrating, fixated stare may have gone unnoticed by its subject, but it did not go unnoticed by his fellow Marauders.

"You're staring at Granger," Remus pointed out to Sirius in a low voice.

"Again," James added significantly.

Sirius huffed and rolled his eyes, before resettling them on Hermione. "Yes, and?" he said tersely, not looking away from the curly haired muggleborn.

"It's a little obsessive, mate," James pointed out.

"I don't understand her!" Sirius complained, finally dragging his eyes from Hermione, whom had been watching with morbid fascination as she folded her napkin in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of a high society pureblood girl.

Peter shrugged helplessly in response to Sirius' complaint. He didn't understand girls either.

"I don't understand why you helped her last night, Sirius" the smallest Marauder volunteered, his pudgy face screwed up in an expression of puzzlement. "She's been a right bitch to you."

The rest of the Marauders stared at him.

"You really are a rat bastard, aren't you, Pete?" Sirius snapped eventually after a moment of uncomfortable silence, not bothering to hide his disdain for what Peter had said. The state of irritation he'd been in all day was giving him little patience for his friend's stupidity.

"Well she has!" Peter protested, glancing from Marauder to Marauder in search of a sympathetic face. He didn't find one.

Sirius sighed, pushing himself up from the table and walking off without a word, abandoning his lunch. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Peter's particularly obtuse brand of stupidity today, much less attempt to rectify it by explaining things to him. He'd leave that tedious obligation to James and Remus. Besides, he rather felt like being alone. Sirius shouldered his way roughly around a small Hufflepuff as he exited the Great Hall, oblivious to her squeak of dismay. With the mood he was currently in, it was likely he wouldn't have bothered with an apology to the girl even if he had noticed her. As it was, Sirius was currently too lost in his own thoughts to be overly cognizant of other people. If they couldn't tell by the look on his face to get out of his way, they probably deserved to be run into anyhow.

It was Granger that had him distracted like this; his head all in a mix of confusion. She was odd, there was really no other way to say it. And Sirius wasn't sure if all of Hermione's strangeness could be written off as residual trauma from the experience of whatever it was that had wiped out her entire family, no matter what Remus contended. She'd surprised him last night, in more ways than one. Peter wasn't wrong when he'd pointed out that Granger had been a right bitch to him. Hermione had been unexpectedly unpleasant toward him ever since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, and it rankled. Usually Sirius only experienced that type of naked, unbridled hostility from the likes of his mother. He shuddered. There was a comparison he didn't want to broach. But Peter underestimated Sirius' sense of common decency if he thought that he'd leave Hermione at the mercy of Avery and Malfoy just because she'd been nasty to him. Sirius shook his head. It wasn't just girls Pete didn't understand.

Granger had hardly seemed like herself the night before. For Godric's sake, she'd punched Malfoy in the face! And even more shockingly, she'd treated him not like a venomous and potentially dangerous slug, as she usually did, but almost like a human being. Granger had been scared. Of Malfoy and Avery, of the possible repercussions of the situation, Sirius wasn't sure. But she'd been scared, and she'd reached for him; clutching first at his forearm, and later at his hand. Granger had certainly never touched him before, always regarding him as though if she got too close she might burst into flame or catch whatever noxious disease she clearly thought he had. But last night she'd almost clung to him. It had been entirely unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, and Sirius still wasn't sure how he felt about it. What he did know, was that Granger confused the hell out of him and he didn't know what to make of her or her strange behavior.

She'd spent most of the morning acting as if the thought of snogging him were the most repellent, horrifying concept which had ever entered her bushy haired head. He'd been forced to listen to her shrill and defensive denials that such a thing had ever taken place repeatedly throughout their morning classes. Girls' voices seemed to get higher and higher pitched in relation to how upset they were, Sirius had observed, and this was definitely true of Granger. He had found himself developing a headache quite quickly. As the morning wore on, and Granger's emphatic, disgusted denials of any snogging had continued unabated, Sirius also found himself struggling not to take offense. Not that he wanted to snog her either, but he thought Granger could do to seem a little bit less repulsed by the very idea. He did have reputation to maintain.

Sirius didn't like Granger, and he remained quite sure that the feeling was mutual on her part. But after what had happened last night, he couldn't help finding himself intrigued by the mysterious muggleborn girl. At least a little. Alright, a lot, Sirius admitted begrudgingly, if only to himself inside his own damn head. He wasn't sure whether he was tentatively looking forward to his detention with Granger, or all out dreading it. He'd thought he'd known what to expect from her. Clearly he'd been wrong.


As her meeting with Dumbledore that evening drew closer, Hermione grew increasingly anxious. She had been in 1973 for just under a month now, and she felt sure that the longer she remained here, the lesser her likelihood of returning to 1993 ahead of schedule. The idea of remaining here in this timeline for twenty years, until it caught up with the timeline she had previously occupied, was scarcely fathomable to Hermione. But the longer she remained in 1973, the more she was forced to reckon with the definite, dreadful possibility that she would be remaining here indefinitely. Dumbledore had not, as she had at first naively hoped, been able to return her to her proper place right away, and she was beginning to fear that despite the Headmaster's vast wisdom, he wasn't going to be able to return her there at all.

The insidious thought that perhaps time travel was like an instance of kidnapping had wormed its way into Hermione's brain. She knew, based on the true crime shows her parent's had sometimes indulged in on weekend evenings, and from her own determination to keep up on current events of both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, that if a victim of kidnapping wasn't successfully located and returned within the first 24 to 48 hours of their disappearance, the hope of them being returned in anything other than a body bag rapidly disintegrated. It was quite the morbid proposition to suppose that time travel was a similar situation, Hermione knew, but her mind had strayed there nonetheless.

There was, of course, also the possibility that her meeting with Dumbledore tonight was the result of him having found a solution to her problem; of the Headmaster having, in his brilliance, determined a way to send her back to 1993 after all. But Hermione wasn't holding her breath for such a positive outcome, much less pinning all her hopes on it. Frankly, she'd never been much of an optimist, and her tendency for realism had always served her well in the past. Perhaps it would continue to do so out of necessity of circumstance.


That evening found Hermione unable to concentrate properly on her homework, and furtively eyeing the clock. When it was nearing seven, she put away her homework, making excuses to her friends about wanting to get some air, and perhaps send an owl to Hagrid. Dorcas had waved her off, and Lily, who was deeply immersed in a charms essay, paused to smile at her before returning to her work. Mary was absent, so there was no need for Hermione to make additional excuses to the quiet brunet.

It seemed to Hermione that Mary had been making herself scarcer than usual, as of late. Spending less time with her, Lily and Dorcas outside of classes, and being very quiet at meals, never contributing much to their conversations. Hermione couldn't help but fear that her presence here in the 1970's had disrupted the previous friendship dynamic between her dormmates. Dorcas and Lily both had big personalities which made them impossible to ignore, and Hermione had quickly found herself bonding with them, despite the reservations she had about how forming relationships with them could potentially effect the timeline. But ever since her arrival in the 1970's Mary had seemed to fade evermore into the background, becoming more and more distant from the new trio of third year Gryffindor girls.

Hermione couldn't help but be troubled by it, on multiple levels. It had never been her intention to displace Mary among Lily and Dorcas. And she certainly didn't want to be the cause of anyone's social isolation, having previously experienced the pain of such a thing herself. Practically, she was also concerned about any effects on the timeline which might occur as the result of a weakened relationship between Lily, Mary and Dorcas. The girls were all still friendly with each other, but Mary seemed to be distancing herself more and more from them. Hermione was unsure what, if anything, she could or should do about the situation. In any case, she didn't have time to dwell on it now, not with her meeting with th Headmaster drawing ever nearer. She hurried along the corridor nervously, stopping when she arrived at the now familiar gargoyle which signified the entrance to Dumbledore's office, the ugly statue standing sentry before it and barring access to anyone who was not privy to its frequently in flux, frequently confectionary related password.

Hermione glanced at her watch. Seven on the nose. She took a deep breath, attempting to fortify herself. She'd been taking a lot of deep breaths since her arrival in 1973, but she remained a perpetual nervous wreck, so she wasn't sure how effective of a strategy that was. Nevertheless, the compulsion persisted.

"Strudel," she said to the Gargoyle, supplying the password Dumbledore had provided her with. The statue promptly move aside, granting her entrance. Climbing the twisted staircase which led to the Headmaster's office, Hermione felt as though she were weighted down with a kind of dreadful, nervous anticipation. Her legs were heavy, and the trek up the stairs seemed inordinately exhausting. Life in 1973 as a whole was inordinately exhausting, and she feared this meeting with Dumbledore would only result in further things to fuel her cycle of perpetual mental fatigue. But perhaps it would also provide a sense of finality, whatever conclusion the Headmaster had come to regarding her situation, if indeed he had come to one at all.

Hermione's confident knock on Dumbledore's door, when she finally came to stand before it, belied her true feelings about her imminent encounter with the Headmaster. But it was always good to put up a brave front, she felt, and so she did. Dumbledore bid her to enter, in that mysterious, melodious voice of his, and so she reluctantly let herself in to his office. Despite the less than ideal circumstances under which she found herself there, Hermione couldn't help but be awed anew by the quirky majesty of Dumbledore's domain. It reflected the personality of the man himself, Hermione thought as she studied the Headmaster. Tonight he had chosen to attire himself in a shockingly bright set of neon yellow robes which Hermione charitably would have chosen to describe as 'loud'. They featured flashing lightning bolts.

"Sit, child, please," Dumbledore invited her, and Hermione settled herself on the chair in front of his desk.

"I am sure you wish to know why it is I have called you here tonight, Hermione," Dumbledore said, pausing to bestow her with a soft, grandfatherly smile. "Quite simply, I wish to know how you are settling in."

Hermione blinked. Over the course of the day, she had built this meeting up to almost biblical proportions in her mind, expecting, in one form or another, to receive devastating, life altering news from the Headmaster. Only for Dumbledore to ask how she was settling in. Was he simply burying the lede, Hermione wondered, or had he really called her here to engage in idle chit chat, as though she were simply an ordinary transfer student whose wellbeing he was dutifully inquiring into?

"As well as can be expected, I think, Headmaster," Hermione replied eventually, her tone somewhat strangled.

"Good, good!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, retrieving a lemon drop from a tin on his desk and popping it in his mouth, before proffering the tin to Hermione. She shook her head in response to his wordless offering, having no appetite for sweets just at that moment.

"Headmaster, forgive me," Hermione heard herself saying, belatedly shocked at her own degree of boldness, "but I had assumed the reason you summoned me here was because you had an update on any progress you might have made in returning me to my original time. Or, lacking that, perhaps some words of wisdom in regards to my current…situation," she trailed off awkwardly, and began to fidget in her discomfort. Hermione wasn't used to being so abruptly direct with anyone, much less an authority figure as distinguished as Albus Dumbledore.

The Headmaster did not appear the least bit offended by her bluntness though. On the contrary he seemed rather pleasantly surprised, if not a little intrigued, and was now appraising Hermione in a thoughtful manner.

"The past is never dead, as they say, " Dumbledore pronounced suddenly, steepling his hands. "It's not even past."

Hermione frowned. "Professor, did you just quote William Faulkner?" she asked unsurely.

"Why yes!" Dumbledore said, his serious expression vanishing in an instant, replaced by a beaming, enthusiastic smile. The Headmaster appeared nothing short of utterly delighted that Hermione was familiar with the source material of his borrowed wisdom. "I've always much preferred Faulkner's work to that of Hemingway's myself, though I don't tend to make a habit of getting overly involved in muggle literary feuds," he related matter-of-factly.

Hermione stared at Dumbledore, speechless and bewildered. This conversation had gone in a direction she never could have anticipated. And if this was Professor Dumbledore's version of words of wisdom, did that mean he hadn't made any progress towards sending her back to 1993, where she rightfully belonged? What exactly did his choice of borrowed phrase indicate? Was Dumbledore being infuriatingly cryptic on purpose? Obviously the past wasn't past, she was currently living in it! Did Dumbledore mean she would be forced to continue to do so? Hermione normally delighted in the discussion and analysis of literature, but she was beginning to develop a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach. She just couldn't shake the feeling that the Headmaster's borrowed words had an ominous implication.

"Do you have a preference?" Dumbledore inquired in regards, Hermione assumed, to the muggle authors. He paused to pop yet another lemon drop into his mouth, his third so far during the course of their conversation. Could magical folk get diabetes, Hermione wondered idly, thinking of Dumbledore's famous penchant for sweets. She'd have to check on that.

"Erm, Faulkner, I suppose," Hermione ventured finally in response to the Headmaster's query, still not entirely sure how this line of conversation had come about.

"Ah," Dumbledore said with an approving nod, seeming quite pleased. "We are of one mind then, Hermione, on one subject at least."

"Yes, Sir," Hermione agreed, her voice verging on exasperated. This conversation was not progressing in the manner she had thought it would. She was trying valiantly to fight her feelings of frustration, not wanting to show disrespect to the Headmaster, but she suspected that an endeavor to hide one's emotions from him was futile anyway. Dumbledore was known to be a skilled legilimens, so really, what was the point of even attempting to hide anything from him?

Hermione was struck cold by a sudden, horrifying thought. What if Dumbledore had penetrated her mind without her knowing? What if he had chosen to make himself aware of all the knowledge of the future which she possessed?

But no, Hermione assured herself quickly, the Headmaster wouldn't do that. He knew, just as she did, that such an action could have catastrophic consequences. And Dumbledore was neither stupid nor reckless. She had simply been hasty and paranoid in her thinking. This entire situation was messing with her usually sublimely logical faculties in a way that was really quite horrific, Hermione thought. She seriously needed to get a hold of herself. Or just get herself back to 1993, where she could hopefully return to a previous level of sanity.

"Have you made any progress, Professor?" Hermione asked Dumbledore urgently, unable to contain herself any longer. "On finding a way to send me back to 1993?"

Dumbledore rested his impenetrable gaze on Hermione for a long, agonizing moment. And the longer the Headmaster simply stared, the more she could feel the tension building between them, threatening to swallow up all the air in his office and suffocate the both of them. At last, he spoke.

"I am sorry, my dear child, but I have been unable to arrive at a solution to our problem. I have devoted considerable time and effort, as much as I have been able, to the quandary your presence here presents. I have consulted others on the matter as well, those more learned in and familiar with the intricacies of time than myself. Discreetly, of course, " he assured her, as though this was Hermione's primary concern at the moment. It was not.

"Alas," Dumbledore continued, "we have been able to come up with no viable way to return you to the time from whence you came. Again, I am sorry."

He did indeed look sorry, Hermione thought.

"I will not stop searching for a way to return you to your proper time, nor for an explanation as to how you arrived here in the first place," Dumbledore promised, looking intently sincere.

Hermione's hand went instinctively for the scar she bore as a result of where the time turner had cut into her chest, where the sand and glass had mixed with her blood and marked her forever.

"I will not stop trying to find a solution," Dumbledore reiterated, and Hermione was surprised to find that the Headmaster was still speaking. A feeling of numbness had descended on upon her. "But given the circumstances, I feel that the best advice which I could give you would be to try to adjust, as best you can, Hermione, to life here in this time."

Hermione almost wanted to laugh, the compulsion bubbling up in her throat and threatening to escape her mouth in a mad babble. It was a ridiculous, inappropriate reaction, but she suspected Dumbledore would forgive her, just now, if she began acting hysterically.

"You're quite self-possessed for a girl of thirteen, Hermione," Dumbledore said, in what may have been an attempt to distract her from the horror he had just unleashed on her, or to head off any 'un-self-possessed' reaction to his words which may have been brewing inside her.

She must have frowned or betrayed some indication of dismay on her face, because the Headmaster smiled at her kindly. "Don't be offended, dear girl, for I mean it entirely as a compliment," he informed her, his eyes sparkling merrily. Speaking of situationally inappropriate displays of emotion, Hermione thought. The Headmaster was a very bizarre man, she decided, and perhaps possessed less emotional intelligence than one may have been wont to assume.

She managed tight smile in response to his comment. "Thank you, Sir. I'm fourteen now, though. As of yesterday," she explained.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "I see, I see. How delightful! And you have decided on keeping your original date of birth?"

"I have," Hermione confirmed distractedly, finding herself somewhat grated by the Headmaster's apparently cheerful mood. "Though I'm not sure how accurately it reflects my true age anymore."

"Sometimes it is worth fudging things just a bit in order to maintain a sense of normalcy," Dumbledore said understandingly. He paused, sobering slightly and looking contemplative. "As long as one does not get carried away."

Hermione frowned, unsure how exactly to take such a sentiment. "Headmaster," she ventured, wanting to give voice to something about which she had been wondering, and which, in light of the information Dumbledore had just given her, had now become more prudent a worry than ever. "What do you think will happen on my actual birthday? On September 19th, 1979, that is? If I'm still here?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "That is an intriguing line of enquiry, my girl, one that I have given thought to as well. I must admit that I am not quite sure what will happen." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "What I suspect, is that one of two things will occur. Either you will vanish upon the birth of your other self, or your other self will never be born in the first place. The second option, I think, would be preferable."

Dumbledore pronounced all this stoically and with little fanfare, heedless of, or more likely simply choosing to delicately ignore, the dramatic impact of his words on Hermione; of their ability to steal her breath like a punch to the stomach.

"Forgive me, my dear, for being blunt," Dumbledore said eventually, as Hermione stared at him wild eyed, almost panicky. She shouldn't have been so shocked, she knew. Dumbledore's assessment of the situation was only logical. Hermione herself had contemplated similar scenarios as she lay in bed at night, unable to sleep for the distressing thoughts churning in the darkest corners of her mind, making her head spin. But to hear her possible future, or lack thereof, laid out in such bleak, stark terms by Professor Dumbledore had the effect of driving home rather harshly what had previously been only an unpleasant abstraction.

If her other self was born in 1979, then the self she knew now, the self misplaced in time, would vanish. Hermione would be doomed to a purgatory of uncertainty for all eternity, forced to exist in an unknowing limbo as she was hurtled back and forth through time over and over. Unless something were to happen which disrupted the cycle, but Hermione had no idea how such a thing might occur, and she doubted Dumbledore did either. If the Headmaster did have any idea, even so much as an inkling, of how such a disruption might be enacted, he had kept such intimations to himself, likely disregarding any half formed thoughts or plans as too dangerous or uncertain to bother sharing with Hermione.

Dumbledore was correct, she realized with a kind of muted horror; if she was unable to return to 1993, it was probably best if she were never to be born to her parents at all. Perhaps, Hermione thought, attempting to force an air of clinical detachment, they would even be better off; unburdened by a daughter whom they would largely lose to a world they had such limited access to, and which they could never really understand.

But her parents had always been supportive of her and her magical abilities, even before they had received clarification on just what their daughter was in the form of her Hogwarts letter. When she had been little, Hermione knew that her parents had wondered about the oddities which occurred around their daughter. Of course they had, any muggle parent would, but they had never taken such things as cause to reject her. They had always loved her unconditionally. Hermione knew it was unfair, even dishonorable, to project her own insecurities onto her parents. Yet the adoption of such an illusion, that they were indeed better off without her, might things slightly more bearable if she were never to see them again. And Hermione was now almost sure that she never would.

"Wherever your head is, child," Dumbledore said softly, breaking into Hermione's increasingly dark line of thinking, "I would advise you not to let yourself be consumed by dread of eventualities which may never come to pass."

"There are many things which have already come to pass, Professor, that can never be undone," Hermione said flatly. "And I fear it would be no better to let myself be consumed by hope or longing for things that may not happen, and which likely will not."

Dumbledore bowed his head. "A world without hope is a bleak world in which to live, Hermione," he said, his voice tinged with an overarching sadness.

"I am coming to find that the world is a far bleaker place than I would have thought possible, Professor," Hermione replied softly, her eyes downcast.

"You are quite right, child," Dumbledore agreed soberly. "This world has a startling capacity for unspeakable horrors, as indeed, does humanity itself. I will not dispute you on that point. Yet we must never forget that this world, dark as it may be, also contains within it unbelievable depths of inexplicable beauty. Please, do not allow yourself to forget that, Hermione."

Despite her mood, Hermione found herself moved by the Headmaster's impassioned words. "I will try not to, Sir," she promised, her voice slightly choked. "I will try not to."

Dumbledore nodded. "Good," he affirmed. "Now let us speak on other matters."

Subsequently, Hermione's discussion with the Headmaster moved on to subjects considerably less sensational than muggle literary feuds or her various existential traumas. Dumbledore wanted to know how she was settling into the 1970's version of Gryffindor House, and whether she was enjoying her classes, and other such achingly bland inquiries, which were nevertheless comforting in their mundane familiarity.

Hermione answered him mechanically. She was in something of a daze as a result of their previous conversation, and the realizations which it had brought about. The likelihood of her returning to the 1990's, to her parents and to Harry and Ron, to the (relatively) normal life which she had so naively taken for granted, had dwindled down to practical nonexistence. That had been made blindingly, abundantly, painfully clear to Hermione this night. She was never going to be able to go home. For the foreseeable future, she was stuck in the 1970's. At least until 1979, when it was quite possible that she would abruptly vanish off the face of the earth and never be heard from again. Hermione had a lot to process.


AN: I'm so petty about how much I hate Hemingway lol, sorry. Reviews are love and fill me with motivation babes, so let me know what you think ;)