Yesterday is Tomorrow (Everything is Connected)

NINETEEN

Maybe we need to stop trying to fix the past and start looking at the present.

- Wyatt, Timeless

December 1978

Even though Petunia was going to see her for Christmas at their parents' back in Cokeworth in a few days, somehow, the eldest Evans was unsurprised to see her youngest sister standing out of her door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her winter coat and a bright, Gryffindor red scarf wrapped around her neck and covering the bottom half of her face.

She sighed, stepping back, and leaving space for Hermione to enter. "Come on in, then. It's just us – Sean's finishing up some overtime at the clinic and won't be back for a bit."

"Thanks," replied Hermione, sighing in pleasure as she stepped into warmth. It was quite a bit colder this December than previous ones, and she had to walk from where the Knight Bus had dropped her off, several streets away, to get to the estate.

Petunia had set up a tiny Christmas tree on an end table tucked in the corner of the living room, nestled between a bookshelf and a chair. There was a TV in the corner, and a squishy couch with a coffee table made up the rest of the living space. To make things festive, she had strung up fairy lights and had replaced a few boring landscape prints with stockings.

"Tea?" called her sister from the kitchen.

"Please," called back Hermione, unwinding her scarf as she gratefully sank onto the couch.

Petunia returned momentarily, carrying a teapot, two cups, and small bowls of sugar, cream, and honey on their mother's serving tray, which she had gifted Petunia as a housewarming present last year.

"I would ask why you're here, three days before we're going to see each other," began Petunia, peering at Hermione with her wide blue eyes, "But I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway, and that it's going to be something very important."

"It is," replied Hermione quietly, focusing her eyes on her cup as she made it to her preference. She swallowed. "What… what do you know about the magical world?"

Petunia's eyebrows shot up. "That's a bit of a loaded question, Hermione. And very vague. What are you fishing for?"

Hermione scowled. "Stop being such an investigative journalist."

"It's my job—"

"You're a glorified secretary at a PI's firm—"

"It's still my dream, you toerag—"

"So sorry, Tuney—"

Both sisters stopped, glowering at each other with matching scowls before glancing away and hiding their smiles. Finally, Hermione sighed and traced a finger against the raised edge of the serving tray's design to keep her hand busy. "I don't think you're going to like what I'm about to tell you."

Petunia's brow furrowed, but she obediently sat back, her teacup delicately held between two hands and four fingers, the very image of a poised housewife.

Rubbing her collarbone, Hermione slumped. "Officially, everything is fine with the magical world. Unofficially… we're in a civil war."

Petunia's teacup wavered in her hands and tea sloshed over the side as she fumbled but did not drop it.

"It's not… it hasn't been too bad, but… people are going missing. Certain people who are outspoken about their politics and beliefs," continued Hermione quietly. "Mostly about pro-Muggleborn, squib, and creature rights. Anyone who speaks against Dark magic and Pureblood families."

"You and Lily are considered Muggleborn," whispered Petunia, eyes wide and through bloodless lips as her face rapidly paled.

Hermione nodded.

"Do you remember that funeral I attended last summer? For Alphard Black?" asked Hermione.

Petunia nodded, slowly setting her teacup down.

"He was… he was… helping me." Hermione had to stop to swallow her tea in a quick gulp, trying to remove the lump that settled in her throat. "Helping me, Barty, and Regulus. We… we found out some things about the… the leader."

"Who wants to hurt you?" gapped Petunia.

"Well." Hermione's lips curled up. "Not just me – but yes. No one in the wizarding world is calling him by his name – because they think saying it will draw him to them. So, they're calling him 'You-Know-Who.'"

Petunia scoffed at that.

"Yeah," grinned Hermione, "I know. But, anyway – I know his birth name. But I don't know much else about him."

Petunia's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, closer to Hermione. "Why do you need to know about him, Hermione? Why you?"

Hermione glanced away, out the window that overlooked the flat entrance. "I came across something of his, I think. And it's… evil." Hermione wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered as cold settled over her, just thinking about the Horcruxes Voldemort had already made, and the locket and diadem they had already destroyed. "And then I found another."

"He made two of these things?" Petunia brought a hand to her mouth and then reached out to touch Hermione's hands, clenched as they were on her thighs. She was ice cold.

Hermione's eyes were a bit lost when she looked at her sister. "I think he made more. And I don't know where or what they could be until you stumble upon them."

"But why you?" cried Petunia, scooting forward and grasping Hermione's cold hands with both of hers. "Why not bring it to the attention of your police – to James, even? Or even your headmaster?"

Hermione shook her head. "James said they're overrun but keeping things quiet. More and more people are going missing and some case files are conveniently going missed or being closed abruptly, too."

Petunia's hands jerked. "Dear God."

Hermione nodded, slowly. "Yeah. This Dark Lord has his people in the police force. And as for Albus Dumbledore…" Hermione trailed off and sighed, bringing one of her hands out from under Petunia's to run it through her windswept hair, deftly avoiding it being caught. "I think he's running his own resistance group, but given how many people are disappearing, I don't think he's doing so well."

Petunia pursed her lips. "And you think that an eighteen-year-old witch who hasn't even graduated secondary school can do better?"

Quietly, Hermione began: "'When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle'."

Petunia sighed. "Of course, you would quote the original letter rather than the paraphrased quote." She blinked rapidly. "Oh, Hermione."

After a few moments, Petunia rallied herself, sniffing a bit. "What do you need?"

"I need information on the Dark Lord," said Hermione quietly. "Do you think you could help me, Tuney? Your job is perfect for this, but… I don't want you to get hurt, either."

Petunia stiffened her back, sitting up straight. Affronted, she spat, "Do you honestly think I'd let you go off and do this on your own, now? I don't think so! You're an Evans, and so am I—"

"Technically, you're a Bowes, now—"

"Shut up, Hermione."

The two sisters sat in silence for a moment while Hermione sat, chastised, and Petunia collected her thoughts. Finally, Petunia nodded once to herself and then stood, walking to the kitchen. Curious, Hermione twisted on the couch and peered over the back, looking across the tiny front hall to the kitchen doorway. Petunia appeared quickly, a pen and pad with her.

"Okay," the blonde began, a determined jut to her jaw. "Tell me everything you know."

Hermione grinned. "His birth name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he graduated Hogwarts in 1944 – so he was born in 1926."

"Name's peculiar enough that people will remember it," muttered Petunia as she scribbled. "And birth dates are good."

She looked up. "Parents? Birth location? Anything else?"

"Father was Tom Riddle, senior, from Little Hangleton. His mother was Merope Gaunt, but she was a witch, so you probably won't find anything about her," continued Hermione. "I think they'd both be from the same area, and the Riddles had money."

Petunia frowned at Hermione, glancing up. "You seem to know a lot more than you were letting on…"

"I know stupid stuff," sighed Hermione, "But knowing his parent's names isn't going to tell me what he is like. He did grow up in an orphanage, though."

"Helpful," sighed Petunia. "And a starting place." She put down her pen. "I'll see what I can find and then I'll get it to you in a return owl."

"Thanks, Tuney." Hermione bounced off the couch seat to hug her sister. "You're the best!"

"Yes, well," sniffed Petunia, her bony arms reaching around and hugging Hermione tightly.

That was how Sean found them when he walked in, a surprised but happy expression on his face. "Hermione! Hello! I wasn't expecting you." He hefted up a bag that he held, enticing scents wafting from it. "Up for some Indian?"

January 1979

December 1978 quickly moved into January 1979, and Lily's nineteenth birthday. With a light heart, Hermione began planning with Madame Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks for a special dinner for Lily's birthday, just as they had planned the previous year when they were both still at Hogwarts.

Hermione sent an owl to Lily a week before her birthday, asking to confirm their dinner plans and suggesting that she side-along Petunia so that the three sisters could be together; she would make sure to sneak out of Hogwarts through the Honeydukes passage and Barty already confirmed that he would cover for her if asked, and Dirk agreed to be a distraction as well if necessary.

Lily didn't reply immediately, but Hermione wasn't worried. She had a few assignments to complete for school – which were easy but kept her busy enough – while Lily was actually being an adult in the workplace. She was also living with Marlene and Mary (but not Phoebe, who had just recently gotten engaged to Pericles Belby) and, Hermione was sure, working for Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix.

Then Lily's reply came.

Sorry, she wrote, but I made plans that night with the girls. I wasn't expecting you to remember something we said last year! It was really sweet, but you're still at Hogwarts and should focus on that instead of sneaking out. Potter's clearly been an influence on you, huh? Take care – I'll see you at Easter if you're going home. If not, after graduation!

Something sour settled in the back of Hermione's throat as she read the owl, her hand clenching and crumpling the parchment as she did so. Barty, at her side at the Ravenclaw table, glanced at her hand, then her tight face, and immediately found the sweetest thing on the table in reach and summoned it toward them.

"Eat this! You'll feel better," he instructed, shoving the fruit tart at her.

"Sugar isn't going to make me not think my sister's a toe rag," muttered Hermione, but she obediently took the fruit tart and bit into it, chewing mechanically.

Barty fluttered about her helplessly. "I'm sorry!"

Hermione stewed for several more minutes in anger, running through scenarios in her head ranging from sending Lily a howler; to giving her the silent treatment again; to whining about it to Barty, Regulus, or hell, even James.

But then she sighed. I'm being stupid about this, aren't I? she thought, morosely looking down at the crumpled letter, Barty's anxiety a near-physical presence hanging over them.

She was expecting Lily to jump into doing anything she could to spend time with Hermione when even Hermione recognized that there was too large a gap between them to bridge with forced lunches and nostalgia. Of course, Lily had her own life, outside of Hermione and Hogwarts. Of course, she wasn't on the best terms with Petunia still. And of course, Lily would rather spend her birthday with her best friends, not her younger sister who was still in school.

Hermione closed her eyes and murmured, "Life is too short to be angry at one's sisters."

Barty peered at her. "Er. If you're sure…"

"I am," she replied, exhaling in a long breath. "If it's good enough for Jo March, it's good enough for me."

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

Barty peered at her suspiciously but dropped the subject. Instead, he began asking about their Charms homework, and Hermione happily replied, even though a part of her was still on Lily's letter.

She had issues regarding Lily, she knew that. Petunia had been terrible, calling them 'freaks' once they got their Hogwarts letters, but her vitriol had never been aimed at Hermione. Hermione had not been the one to snoop in her room with Snape, had not been the one over the years to continue to make fun of her, or drop branches on her head. That was why it was easier for her to forgive Petunia.

Lily, though, had seen Hermione every day for six years at Hogwarts. Two of those six years was spent in near silence, after the O.W.L.s disaster, so for four years, Lily spent much of her time with her friends in Gryffindor and only ventured out to speak to Hermione sporadically – enough so that most of the Hogwarts population had no idea they were related until Hermione's fourth year.

The sense of neglect, or even completely not understand her sister when Lily, of all people, should have understood Hermione, was perhaps a driving cause of Hermione's unease and frustration. Every time she reached out to Lily, something would tear her sister's attention away or she just wouldn't get Hermione.

Was it Hermione's fault? For being too old in a too young body? Did she keep putting expectations of Lily Potter in her sister's place and then conveniently let her fail in meeting those expectations? Should Hermione be making allowances for Lily because they were on different paths, and that was okay?

Whatever it was – Hermione needed to come to terms with her relationship with Lily and Petunia and their roles in her life. Lily was already seven months free from Hogwarts and functioning as a full-fledged witch in a world that was ready to explode in a civil war. She had other concerns than ensuring Hermione didn't feel slighted.

Even if Hermione did feel that way, she paused long enough to consider: how was Lily going to see once Hermione graduated, and didn't join the Order of the Phoenix? How was Lily going to look at her, and what would she see, when Hermione withdrew with Barty and Regulus as they hunted the remaining Horcruxes?

What would Lily see when she looked at Hermione? A witch who would do anything to save those she cared about, in this life and her previous? Someone who would do anything to ensure she never died, even if she would have no knowledge of that previous timeline?

Or her younger sister, best friends with who Pureblooded wizards, all three courted by Voldemort and Dumbledore equally – a witch who wasn't afraid to use Dark magic, who wasn't afraid of fighting and killing?

What would Lily think then?

March 1979

James wasn't expecting Barty, of all people, to meet him in the Shrieking Shack on March 24th, three days before his nineteenth birthday. He was expecting Hermione – it was what they planned, after all, since his birthday fell on a Tuesday and he had work. So, with his face twisted in confusion, James blurted, "What are you doing here?"

Barty, leaning against the wall with his arms and his ankles crossed, rolled his eyes. "Waiting for you."

"Where's Hermione?"

"Inside the castle. I'm here to sneak you in," replied Barty evenly, his brown eyes fixed on James as he watched the older man blink, still confused.

"But… we were… supposed to meet here?"

Both wizards took a moment to look around the dusty, mangled interior of the upstairs room in the Shrieking Shack. Dust motes floated in the early morning air that filtered through the boarded-up windows, and there were clumps of animal droppings in one corner from a squirrel, or mole, or something small. Maybe Peter.

Barty's scowled. "Yeah, really classy, Potter."

James flushed. "Okay, so it wasn't my best idea, but did you honestly think I'd get a room at the Three Broomsticks or something? That's just…" it was his turn to scowl. "Hermione's not that kind of witch."

"At least we agree on that," replied Barty, pushing off the wall. He sighed. "For some reason, Hermione seems to think you're wonderful."

"Really?" a goofy grin settled on James's face.

"Unfortunately," muttered Barty. "And since she's my best friend, that means putting up with you. And helping her spend time with you."

"Look, if this is too much of a problem, we can just have a date in Hogsmeade—"

"You'll get swarmed by Gryffindor groupies who miss you and your mates," retorted Barty with a soft snort. "Isn't that why you both wanted to meet away from the village during a Hogsmeade day?"

"Well, yes…"

"Then follow me," instructed Barty, turning on his heel toward the stairs. "A few of us went through a lot of effort for her."

Touched, James inquired, "Who? And what did you all do?"

"I'm supposed to fetch you," Barty replied, not turning to face James as he led the way James knew much better. "And sneak you into the castle. From there, Reg is taking you to Hermione, and Cresswell and a few of the other Gryffindors are creating a distraction near the dungeons to occupy the professors. That way, no one sees you."

"Cresswell?" James had not been expecting his once-rival to care that much about him, despite being housemates.

"Don't think it was all for you." This time, Barty did grin at James over his shoulder. "One; Hermione asked, and he'd do anything for her."

James scowled.

"And two; Rabastan Lestrange has been following Reg around for the last few months, and it's driving him batty. Cresswell and a few others decided that pranking the Slytherins in your name—"

"My name?" sputtered James.

"Well, the Marauder's, I guess," amended Barty with the shrug, "And also to annoy the little gremlin. Reg also promised Cresswell a letter of recommendation for the Ministry job he wants, as the Black heir, so that might have had something to do with it…"

"Huh."

There was little conversation then, Barty deftly freezing the knot on the Whomping Willow when they emerged from the underground tunnel, and James swept his invisibility cloak over his shoulders, keeping hidden and on Barty's heels as they took a leisurely stroll across the grounds.

"Can't we go any faster?" hissed James.

"Why?" asked Barty, eyes fixated forward on the castle. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

Sometimes I think I hate you, thought James viciously but without much ire. He knew Crouch disliked him – disliked everyone who wasn't Hermione or Regulus – but he was taking perverse pleasure in his slow amble and keeping him from his girlfriend.

"A wizard is never late," continued Barty, although it was said from the corner of his mouth. "Nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to."

"Are you quoting something?" asked James suspiciously. "I feel like you're quoting something. Like, something Hermione would say. Or quote."

When Barty refused to speak – as they were coming up a group of Hufflepuffs leaving the castle for Hogsmeade, James inched forward a bit more and nudged him in the back of the head.

The Ravenclaw scowled, heavily, eyes darting around for James – despite knowing he was under the cloak.

"C'mon, Crouch, is it a quote?" muttered James, on the teen's right.

Barty sent a scowl in that direction, keeping quiet as they passed the clock tower.

"Crouch, is it?" whined James. "This is going to bother me now."

There was a happy grin on Barty's face when he heard that, and they moved to the stairs in front of the entrance hall. James fought back a snort, a sound his animagus self would make when irritated when Barty remained silent.

They entered the castle, Barty immediately making a beeline for an alcove behind the stairs. In the shadows, James could make out a form, which as they approached, revealed itself to be Regulus, grey eyes darting back and forth in paranoia.

"We're here," announced Barty, slipping into the alcove.

Regulus looked around suspiciously, so James lowered the hood of the cloak. Regulus's eyes fastened on him, froze for a moment, and then shuddered. "That's so creepy. Alright. Up we go to the seventh floor, Potter."

"The Room?" he asked, perking up from his funk that Barty sent him into,

Regulus nodded his confirmation, looking out at the entrance hall again. "Ready?"

"Yeah." James resigned himself to asking Hermione about what Barty said, when Barty called his name quietly, making him turn. His hands remained on the hood, ready to flip it up.

"It's a quote," confirmed Barty, fighting a grin on his face.

"I knew it!" hissed James in victory, also grinning. But then it wiped off his face and he narrowed his eyes at Barty. "Wanker."

The Ravenclaw rolled his eyes and James covered himself completely. Regulus rolled his own eyes but then moved out of the alcove and James followed on his heels, feeling a bit weird at this game of subterfuge. Hermione and her friends must have been really bored if they were going through all this trouble for him, he thought.

He could understand if Hermione was bored – she didn't have as many N.E.W.T.s to write as Crouch or Regulus, having already written two – but surely, they were spending time studying? It would matter for their future careers!

Actually, now that he was thinking about it (and thinking so with a frown), what did Hermione want to do when she graduated?

James resolved to ask Hermione, but they were on the seventh floor now, and Regulus turned a corner. Hermione stood by a large painting of trolls attempting to dance in tutus, watching them. Seeing her, illuminated by the sun from the line of windows between the paintings, James felt his heart speed up. It had been too long since he saw her last.

"Hey," greeted Regulus, calling out to Hermione.

She turned, and James paused, seeing the wand in her hand.

"How did we meet?" asked Hermione, a serious look on her face.

Regulus, apparently used to the paranoid behaviour and question, wasn't phased and answered readily, "We fell in the Black Lake when crossing before the Sorting."

They had? Thought James, wide-eyed. How did I not know that?

Hermione's wand slowly lowered, and then she huffed, "Aren't you going to ask me something?"

Regulus sighed. "What was the name of the stuffed animal you used to sleep with until your third year—"

"Regulus!" shrieked Hermione. When he sent her an expectant look, she muttered, "Snuffles."

James dropped the cloak in shock. "You had a stuffed toy?! How did I not know this?"

Hermione sent Regulus a dirty glare in response. "Look what you did—"

"These are your protocols, Hermione, Merlin—"

"Wait, protocols?" asked James, head swinging between the two. "What for?"

"Stuff," replied Regulus.

Hermione nodded. "Stuff."

James narrowed his eyes, and repeated the word, slowly. "Stuff."

The two friends looked at each other, eyes searching, and then turned back to James. Regulus smirked, Hermione crossed her arms and nodded, definitively. "Stuff."

James peered at them a bit longer, and then sighed, turning his eyes to the ceiling. "I am off duty. I am here to see my girlfriend. It's my birthday soon. You know what? I don't care right now."

"Good idea," agreed Regulus, giving a lazy wave. "See you later – or, well, not. But I need to get to the dungeons and see what Cresswell cooked up." There was glee in his voice when he muttered, "Merlin, I hope he did something embarrassing to Lestrange…"

He turned and disappeared the way he came, leaving Hermione and James alone in the hallway, James still a floating head. Hermione bit back a grin and gestured at him. "You wanna stay like that?"

"What?" James looked down at him. "Oh!"

He took the cloak off and stuffed it in his pocket, a bit of shimmering material trailing out. He then turned back to her expectantly. "Now what?"

"Think of what you want the Room to be, pace back and forth three times in front of the wall. I'll stay here."

Curious, James followed Hermione's instructions, first slowly and then pacing aggressively. I want a comfortable place for us to spend the day together. I want a comfortable place for us to spend the day together…

He thought that several more times, and then a familiar wooden door popped up against the wall. He sucked in a breath, glancing back wide-eyed at Hermione, who was grinning. She gestured for him to open the door and enter the room first. Hesitantly, James stepped forward, twisted the knob, and entered—

His bedroom. At Potter's Peak.

Everything was the same, down to the quill he had used to write up reports the night before, resting precariously on top of a pile of defense books he had pulled from the library, by his bedside table. A fire was stoked and healthily flickering in the fireplace, casting a warm orange glow on the maroon couch in front of the fireplace, and further on the matching maroon bedspread and gold pillows of his large bed.

The mirrored door of his wardrobe was closed but the other partially open, hinting at his everyday robes and Muggle wear. There was a collection of his photographs and cologne bottles on the dresser opposite the window seat overlooking the late afternoon Welsh landscape, hinting at time dilation, or at least, that James wanted something later at night as that would be more romantic than a high noon sun.

"This looks familiar," teased Hermione as she stepped in, and shut the door behind her. It sounded very loud to James – but that was probably the pounding of his heart. He had dreams about Hermione in his bedroom, ever since Yule when she came over.

"Yeah?" he croaked.

The look Hermione sent him made James feel like a sizzle of something raced up his spine and ended up in his head, turning everything fuzzy and golden. His mouth went dry. His eyes fixated on her as Hermione walked toward him, the tiniest sway in her hips that made him gulp.

Just as she reached him, Hermione veered to the side, huffing a laugh under her breath as he pouted. Instead, she went and sat on his bed, bouncing a bit as she tested the springiness. She patted the spot beside her on the thick maroon duvet. "Come here and sit. I need to give you your present."

Wolfishly, a grin spread across James's face as he shrugged off his outer robe, revealing his Auror-grade wand holster, white button-up Oxford, and a gold Auror vest. He playfully leered at her. "My present, huh?"

"Put a chill order on the fiendfyre, Potter," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. She reached into the pocket of her robes and withdrew a shiny golden package. "I meant a physical birthday present."

"Oh, I was thinking something physical, too—"

Hermione threw the box at him and he caught it, thanks to Quidditch and Auror reflexes. He was laughing even as he undid the wrapping, grinning down at the box, regardless of what it was because Hermione gave it to him.

"You know, you didn't have to get me anything," he began, putting up a token protest, but he adored the fact that she did. Then, his hands stilled, and he went quiet, staring open mouth at the contents. "Hermione…"

He withdrew the shiny dragonscale Auror jacket. When the firelight bounced off the scales, they lit up a deep, blood red. Anything not facing the fireplace was an inky black. The cut was in standard Auror trim, like the asymmetrical design of the fancier jackets, and on the inside of the Mandarin collar was his name stitched in gold.

"It's bespelled, as well," said Hermione quietly, even as James walked over and sank onto the bed next to her, still staring and holding out the jacket, open, between his hands. The box lay forgotten on the floor at their feet. "Rain-resistant, heat-resistant given it's dragonscale. You could take most spells and not even feel them when wearing this—"

"Hermione," began James, quietly, "This must have cost a fortune… how—"

Hermione's cheeks tinged pink. "I've made – um, I've made some good investments over the years – that's not the point – my Gringott's vault is healthy—"

"That's not what I meant," muttered James, glancing at her from under his fringe. He let the jacket pillow in his lap, and he ran a finger down the smooth scales. "This is – it's an amazing gift—"

"Anything that keeps you safe," she finally said, quietly, staring at the dancing reflection of the fireplace in the scales. She looked up at James, breath hitching when their eyes met.

"Hermione," murmured James, eyes fluttering shut as his head moved slowly down toward her. Her eyes closed too, in anticipation, and she felt James's hot breath on her for all of a second before his lips were against hers.

Kissing James was like – reading a book for the first time: the excitement of discovering new knowledge, that exhilarating moment when there's a twist in the story and you breathlessly don't know what is going to happen next, the high you feel with the characters as they're triumphant and the completion and satisfaction that comes in turning the last page and closing the book.

Each kiss was something new, something to discover and treasure, and Hermione pressed back against his James, tasting James and peppermint and something that was undeniably him. His mouth parted under hers and he traced his tongue along her bottom lip.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and turned her head as the kiss deepened, with her tasting James as his tongue swept along hers –

His hands came up and cradled the back of her head and twined into the curls there, holding her in place –

James's other hand fell hot and heavy onto her hips and then they were slowly leaning down, together, and the jacket was falling to the floor, but it wasn't alone. His golden vest joined the jacket, as did Hermione's robes, and then her button-up and bra, and James's shirt and his trousers.

Talking wasn't necessary, as their soft sighs, soft eyes, and each heated kiss pressed against skin was a declaration, a promise, a vow. Each laugh was shared joy, and each rustle of the sheets was contentment.

They didn't need to say anything – they both knew.

Later, when the rumbling from their stomachs couldn't be ignored, James pulled on his underwear and trousers and called for a house elf to bring them something to eat. Hermione snagged his button-up, and her underwear and socks, and sank to the floor in front of the coffee table in front of the fireplace, the warmth of the stoked fire heating her back.

James sat on the couch, bare-chested as he leaned forward, arranging the plates and finger foods to his liking as he told her some story about Sirius, his Auror partner, and a case they investigated.

Hermione tried to pay attention, but James's voice washed over her, fading into the background as her eyes trailed over the small spattering of freckles that covered his shoulders, and then up and over his shoulder as something flickered in the mirror hanging outside the wardrobe. What should have reflected the back of James's head, his messy black hair going in all directions, and the edge of his pale shoulder, was something else.

She froze, breath caught as her eyes met emerald green.

Her Harry – and not the Harry the Room of Requirements used to construct from her memories and subconscious to push her into understanding her transmutation or to make philosophical decisions – stared back at her, his lips pulled back into a tiny, lopsided grin that was eerily reminiscent of James's.

But Harry was old – older than James was; he was grey at the temples, and there were wrinkles along his forehead and some by his mouth and eyes. He was tired, worn down in appearance, but it was her Harry – Harry as she remembered and knew him the last time she saw him, fighting side-by-side against those stupid, ignorant Purebloods who had burst into the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries and heading to the Time Room, hoping against hope to find a time turner and return to the Battle of Hogwarts to help Voldemort win.

His robes were a deep red, splattered with blood and singed from spell-fire, the Head Auror black threads worn and frayed in places. Harry had dressed up that day, having spent the morning in meetings with Kingsley and then the Wizengamot, and had joined her for lunch in her office when they both heard the alarm.

The last time she heard his voice, he had been shouting, and the last spell she heard him say was his signature expelliarmus –

Harry's lopsided grin turned into a gentle smile. She knew that smile. Hermione had been Harry's best friend for three decades, and had known and kept his secrets, his innermost desires and fears, and could read him better than anyone else. And that smile was the same one he wore after coming from Dumbledore's office during the ceasefire at the Battle of Hogwarts.

That smile said, as clear as he could have said: It's going to be okay. The smile also was an I love you, and a don't be afraid.

Her eyes flicked to James, who was still arranging the food, taking out cutlery now, still talking. He hadn't noticed anything. Her eyes returned to Harry in the mirror.

His mouth twitched and his eyes brightened. He pointed at her with a glove-covered hand, and then at himself. Hermione's eyes widened, as somewhere faint in her memories, or maybe through the Room, she heard his voice as clear as if he were standing before her.

"You and me, Hermione," Harry said, his voice familiar and as comforting as drinking hot butterbeer on the coldest of winter days. "It's going to be okay; I promise. Remember? Until the end."

Hermione sharply inhaled.

Harry's image in the mirror seemed to blur as she blinked back tears that swam in her eyes. But his voice was clear. "And this, Hermione? It's not yet the end."

"Hermione?"

James's voice broke through the fog, and she blinked, the tears lingering on her eyelashes but not spilling. Hermione tore her eyes from the mirror and Harry and looked at James, immediately noticing the differences between the two, despite how similar they were in their hair and nose.

"Hey," said James, his voice gentle and concerned. He frowned, leaning across the coffee table and cupped her cheek, his thumb coming up to rub at the apple of her cheek and brush carefully at the underside of her eye, trying to stop any tears from falling. "Is something wrong?"

"I—" Hermione's eyes trailed over his shoulder, but the mirror was clear, showing most of James's back. She frowned, eyes darting around the room at other reflective pieces, like the knife's blade, or the large pitcher, but Harry was gone.

"I thought I saw something," Hermione finally murmured, brows furrowed.

James sat back, looking around the room for what Hermione could have seen, taking her seriously. "Did someone sneak in after us? Is it Crouch or Regulus?"

Hermione shook her head. "No – they know you're here tonight. They wouldn't bother us save the end of the world."

"Cresswell?"

"Same, and he'd go to Barty or Reg first," concluded Hermione.

James was still in Auror-mode, eyes sweeping the room and he looked like he was ten seconds away from grabbing his wand and doing a sweep of the room, barefoot. Instead, Hermione leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, urging him to sit back on the couch.

"It's fine," she said softly. "It's the Room of Requirements, right? It might have caught on to a stray thought either of us had and was going to change something but then stopped."

"I guess…" James slowly sat back down, running a hand through his hair anxiously. "Well… let's have some dinner."

"Is it really, though?" grinned Hermione, eyes moving to the window. Even though the room was designed to look like James's bedroom at Potter's Peak, he had been thinking of an intimate evening, and the scene outside his room was that of a foggy, mountainous terrain illuminated by a half-moon against a star-riddled blue-black sky.

He flushed. "It might be four in the afternoon… or six… so, an early dinner…"

"I guess that makes this acceptable," teased Hermione, and James grinned back at her, handing her a plate.

At first, they ate in silence. Hermione found her thoughts drifting back to Harry. What did he mean? She knew that they were entwined since they first met on the Hogwarts Express in 1991. It was meant to be: Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, BFFs. After what they experienced on the Horcrux hunt, their bond had entrenched them further, deeper, in their friendship, sometimes in ways that Ron, who had left them for several months, couldn't breach. So, what did Harry mean, when he said it was him and her? That it was going to be okay?

And – until the end. Hermione's heart skipped a few beats. She and Ron used to tell Harry that whenever he got all broody about being the Chosen One and the weight of it was too much for one set of shoulders. It meant that she and Ron would be with him, until the end – whether it was the end of Voldemort and the war (which was what happened in 1998), or if it had been the end of them and he won, and they died.

But it meant they would be together.

So, what did it mean? Hermione's lips pursed in thought even as she absently nibbled on the sandwich triangle, barely tasting the cucumber and cream cheese. Did he mean that… that Harry would always exist, in some form or another? Were Lily and James actually going to get together?

No – she dismissed that thought as quickly as it appeared. They were both on separate, if not parallel, paths – working together in the Order, but certainly not joined. But perhaps Harry would still be Lily's son, one day? Or… Hermione's heart fluttered (nervously or in fear, she didn't know), hers with James?

Or, maybe, Harry meant that it was going to be okay, and this was his way of giving her permission to move on with her life, the same way that the Room got to her years ago. To recognize her place in this new timeline. Maybe a part of her was still desperately clinging to some unknown fear, and subconsciously, the Room gave her this.

But a part of Hermione knew – that was no Room supplied Harry. That was her Harry, from 2027, who was in that mirror. Like a tiny gap in time and space opened for a brief, transcendent moment to give her reassurance.

She was still mulling over it when James dropped a bombshell.

"So… I fought Voldemort."

Her elbow slipped from where it rested on the coffee table and Hermione barely caught herself from slamming her chin into the wood. "What?"

James fiddled nervously with his fork, rolling it across his empty plate, letting the tines ring as they hit. "Um. Back at – um, Halloween?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Are you telling me or asking me?"

He winced. "I don't – I don't like remembering it, much. It was… at the Bones'…"

Hermione's shoulders slumped. She reached forward and twined her fingers with his free hand. "Was it the first time you'd…" Fought, she tried to finish. Fought with the Order, she thought to herself.

"Yeah," nodded James, his voice a bare whisper. "He was toying with me. The whole time."

"Voldemort?"

James's head jerked up at Hermione, clearly surprised to hear that she was unafraid to say his name. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I thought I was doing well against his Death Eaters. I didn't realize I killed two until after… but I was fighting him, and it was hard… and then it was easy. But he was just testing me. He wanted me to join him."

"I'm not surprised," muttered Hermione, looking at their joined hand. "You're powerful and smart, and a transfiguration genius. You're also a Pureblood, and from a Light family. It would be a coup getting you. It would add legitimacy to his ideologies."

"I would never!" spat James angrily.

"I know," soothed Hermione. "I know you wouldn't."

The two sat, miserably, in silence. James was brooding, face twisted into a scowl, and facing the fireplace, and Hermione was contemplative as she eyed him.

Finally, James looked at her. "D'you think he's going to try to recruit you?"

"Who – Voldemort?"

James nodded.

Hermione paused, wondering if she should mention Travers and Wilkes – James would appreciate knowing, a head's up for them once they graduated so that the Aurors could keep an eye on them – but he would also be predictably worried. Instead, Hermione hedged, "There's been a few… implied statements made by people over the months, but nothing overt—"

"People are approaching you?" James's mouth dropped open. "Who?

"It doesn't matter—"

"It does matter—"

"James," said Hermione forcefully, if not quietly, "What would you do? If I told you the names of those sixth and seventh years, even the few fifth years, what would you do with that knowledge?"

"I'd… I'd…" James's hazel eyes darted around the room, searching for an answer, and then he slumped. "I'd do nothing because Moody would ask where I got the information and if it was credible, and he wouldn't take my girlfriend's word as strong enough evidence to place them under surveillance."

"Not without proof, no," agreed Hermione with a soft sigh. "I'm really sorry."

"Me, too," whispered James, voice strained. He gave a weary chuckle. "I didn't imagine our night would end like this."

"It might be something we need to get used to," suggested Hermione. She got up from the floor and eased next to James on the couch, snuggling into his side as she curled her bare legs under her. "I don't think things will get any better."

James frowned, pulling Hermione tight to his side. "Don't think that – we're doing what we can."

"I thought you said the Aurors were overrun?"

James froze, his hand spasming slightly on her shoulder. "Er… yeah. But… you know. We're doing what we can."

So, you meant the Order, thought Hermione with a mental sigh. She didn't need the confirmation, but that was enough to know he was already working for Dumbledore – if the Bones attack wasn't enough. The Aurors would've been called, but saying he fought Voldemort? He'd been there early enough that only another Order member could've called for help.

"And so will you," continued James, pulling Hermione from her thoughts.

"Hmm?"

He peered down at her. "You'll help, too, I'm sure. You're going to graduate soon, and I know you'll be brilliant at anything you do."

"Are you saying you think I should join the Auror Corps.?" teased Hermione, wondering just what James would confess to.

He laughed, rubbing the side of his nose and dislodging his glasses as he did so. "No, I don't think you'd take orders from Moody that well."

Hermione snorted her agreement.

"Just – there are more things that you could do than join the Ministry to fight against Voldemort," said James, hesitantly.

Hermione hummed but didn't ask what, and James didn't say anything else. Instead, the two both looked into the fire, even as the flames turned from orange to a dull red as the fire fizzled out and the room darkened around them.

James's hand, his fingers running up and down her shoulder, was comforting and the two were lulled into a semi-doze. But Hermione couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of the end for them: how else would James react when she turned Dumbledore down? Because surely, it wouldn't just be her – but Regulus and Barty, too.

Would James still believe the best in her? Would he think that she was a coward? Or would he realize that there was more going on to Hermione Evans?

And if he did realize she wasn't quite what he thought she was – how was he going to react?

The thought was heavy in Hermione's mind, and there was a sour taste on her tongue. No matter how much she snuggled next to the warm young man at her side, Hermione couldn't help but shiver.

April 1979

After deciding to remain at Hogwarts instead of going to Cokeworth to see her family (and Lily, a part of her whispered, not like she was actively trying to avoid her sister or something), Hermione received a thick envelope from Petunia instead of the short return note she was expecting. It arrived in the middle of breakfast, but only Barty and Regulus seemed to have any idea what she had received if their wide-eyed expressions meant anything.

Eagerly, Hermione shoved it into her bookbag and did her best to nonchalantly leave the Great Hall, Barty at her side. They went straight to their usual practice room and waited for Regulus, who appeared a few minutes later.

"Well?" he demanded as soon as he shut the door behind him, wand already moving as he set up privacy wards.

Hermione ripped the envelope open, and pulled out a thick wad of A4 paper, with typed notes on it. Barty took some of the paper and began to spread the sheets out across the desks, whistling at the extensive family tree Petunia included for the Riddles (which went back to the Middle Ages) and a few patchy bits she could fill in about Merope Gaunt's time in the non-magical world.

I wish I could have more to give you, Petunia's letter began apologetically, which made Hermione snort. This was far more than she expected! But without access to your Ministry records or newspapers, I can't add more to the Gaunt family line. And honestly, after what you told me about this dark wizard, I didn't want to visit the Leaky Cauldron even with Sean in case something happened. Sorry!

"She did this in four months?" gapped Regulus, rubbing his fingers against the strange feel of the mass-produced paper.

"Tuney is really good at finding things out when she wants," laughed Hermione, pulling one sheet toward her. "Look at this… a timeline! She took what she knew about his birthdate and Hogwarts graduation and managed to figure out where he was right afterward."

"She has interviews, Hermione," sputtered Barty, holding stapled sheets in his other hand. "Interviews with people who were in the same orphanage as him. And they're detailed. This Billy Stubbs is practically vicious in explaining how he thought Riddle killed his rabbit and how weird he was as a kid…"

"He popped up every so often in the Muggle world," exclaimed Regulus. "Always around Little Hangleton. There's an Auror report here—"

"Police," corrected Hermione absently as she went through some more notes.

"—About the Riddle family caretaker's murder charges formally discharged due to a lack of evidence," continued Regulus, engrossed. "Apparently someone was researching Riddle back then and they found out there was a son. He became a suspect."

"There's a photo!" gasped Barty, who had rummaged through the envelope.

Hermione and Regulus moved quickly to crowd Barty, and the three of them stared down at the small collection he had in his hands. The first was a formal photograph, faded with some cracks, but the family of three was clear: a young man with slicked-back hair standing next to his father with similar features and a skinny woman who sat in the chair in front of them. The men were in fashionable three-piece suits, dark colours, while the woman was in a slinky dress with a furry stole around her shoulders with a fancy cap pinned to her rolled hair.

Barty flipped it over and read the back. "William Riddle, Cynthia Riddle, and son Thomas Riddle. Nineteen-eleven."

"He looks like his father," breathed Regulus, eyes glued on Thomas Riddle. A shaking hand reached out to hover above the younger man in the photo. "Tall. The slicked-back hair. The face."

Hermione and Barty looked at Regulus in concern. Hermione touched his shoulder. "Are you going to be okay?"

He nodded and Barty continued to flip through what Petunia included. "A photo of Wool's Orphanage; one of Riddle's year at the orphanage – oh, look, there's Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop – Petunia had interviews with them, too… Another photograph of Little Hangleton – wow, is that the Riddle house? Looks right out of a Pureblood's catalog!"

Hermione turned back to the letter she had, and the type notes in bullets. "Petunia's also listed a few places that she thinks he thought was important during his earlier years – she had the cave listed here."

"Where we found the locket?" confirmed Regulus, a bit pale and shaky, but participating in the conversation. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"So, the cave – I think Bishop and Benson mention it in their interview," muttered Barty, flipping back to those notes. He quickly scanned them. "They won't say what happened there, but they mentioned the beach and caves specifically."

"Hogwarts, and the diadem," added Regulus. "Clearly, the cave was where he came into his power; maybe we should check Wool's out this summer. Hogwarts meant everything to him, right? Escaping the Muggles and learning he's a wizard."

"I think Little Hangleton is worth exploring," added Hermione slowly. "That's where he learned of his wizard heritage, right? Being the heir to Slytherin through the Gaunt line?"

Regulus made a face. "It'll be a mess. Wizards don't repossess family homes, and if the Gaunts lived there, it'll be a ruin."

"A good place to hide something if no one will visit," pointed out Barty. "Also, Gaunt. That sounds familiar."

Regulus frowned, agreeing. "There was something in the Prophet, wasn't there? I think Grandfather Pollux mentioned it—"

"Yeah, but like, in the '40s. Grandmother mentioned it in passing because the wizard had previously been Sacred-28," continued Barty with a frown of his own, licking his lips nervously with his tongue flick. "Morfin Gaunt, right? Last of the line and died in Azkaban for murdering three Muggles…"

As he trailed off, the three teenagers turned back to the timeline Petunia wrote and the death-date for the Riddles in 1943, all of whom had been murdered at the same time in a wartime home invasion where nothing was stolen.

"Cave, Hogwarts, Little Hangleton," said Hermione firmly. "For sure."

"And Uncle Alphard mentioned Bellatrix receiving an item," added Regulus quietly. "So instead of leaving his horcruxes in places, he's giving it to his minions. Bella wouldn't keep it at the Lestrange house, though."

"Definitely not!" agreed Barty. "It'll be in Gringott's."

Regulus made a face. "She hates goblins. She hates all creatures."

Hermione blinked. "Yes, but… a wizard can't exactly rob Gringott's, can they? It would be a declaration of war. And no one has ever broken into Gringott's."

Yet, she added mentally.

Regulus looked between his two friends. "I hope you're not suggesting we break into Gringott's!"

Hermione chewed on her lower lip. "No, I don't think that will be necessary…"

Barty raised his eyebrows, catching Hermione's unspoken thought: Now, but maybe in the future.

Regulus sighed, changing the subject. "Well, who else does he trust enough to guard a piece of his soul?"

"Probably his old friend crowd," allowed Barty. "We should check the Hogwarts yearbooks."

Game plan set, they gathered up the notes Petunia sent and stuffed them back in the envelope for Hermione to charm and then layer a Notice-Me-Not. They weren't going to take any chances with that information falling in the wrong hands.

"We're going to have to dedicate ourselves to this," sighed Regulus as they tore down his privacy wards. "We're only at Hogwarts for another two months."

"It'll be enough time. There's only seven yearbooks to review," soothed Hermione.

"And some of the professors would've been teaching here at the time," added Barty with a grin as they left the room. "We can interview them!"

"And say what? 'Hello Professor Dumbledore, I'm interested in a previous student of yours.' What do you think he'd think of that, huh?" Regulus asked, crossing his arms.

"I'd be delighted to speak with you."

Barty shrieked and whirled, facing the voice which had come from behind the three of them. Hermione was clutching at her collarbone in shock and Regulus had significantly paled.

Dumbledore, in radiant purple robes, smiled at them. "When was this student at Hogwarts?"

Hermione, trying to calm her racing heart, stuttered, "The forties."

Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes began to dull. "That was a rather turbulent time. Several students left Hogwarts or only remained in the castle for a few months before moving on. We had an abundant number of foreign students that decade, due to the Muggle war…"

"They would've graduated in 1944," explained Regulus, eyes downcast and to the side as he fidgeted slightly. He fiddled with his Slytherin tie when he finally looked up at the Headmaster's robes. "And in Slytherin."

There was a heavy silence. "You're speaking of the Head Boy. Tom Riddle."

Three eyes shot to Dumbledore. He looked rather solemn between the three teenagers; his mouth slightly turned down underneath the white of his beard. Finally, he sighed. "I cannot stop you with your investigation, but I must warn you: the wizard who Tom grew up to be would not like it very much if three teenagers began turning over his rocks."

Barty shot Hermione a glance, even as Regulus stuttered out, "W-We understand, Professor Dumbledore."

He nodded once at them, in goodbye, and continued down the hall.

"What was that about?" muttered Barty.

"A warning," answered Hermione thoughtfully. "But not an order to stop."

June 1979

Hogwarts did not have a ceremonial graduation. Seventh-year students wrote their N.E.W.T.s, beginning with a frantic fervor that ultimately descended into passivity as soon as they put their quill down for their last test.

Hermione and Barty both decide to completely murder their brains, taking all courses offered and a total of twelve N.E.W.T.s (although Hermione only wrote ten, having already completed two N.E.W.T.s early in her Hogwarts career) while Regulus decided for a highly competent nine; each was satisfied with how they did as they met up after the last one – History – and walked from the Great Hall to their spot by the lake.

"One week to relax and then," sighed Barty, a downturn curl to his lips, "Reality."

"Reality intruded awhile ago," replied Hermione wryly. "It just means that we start immediately with our project."

"To the Haberdashery then?" offered Regulus as they strolled across the bright green grass.

Barty stretched his arms high above his head, his Oxford untucking from his trousers as he did so. "Unless someone has plans," he teased, glancing at their female friend.

"Plans?" she replied, curiously.

"He means with Potter," said Regulus, eyeing Barty and then rolling his eyes. "In Pureblood circles, couples become engaged the summer following their graduation."

Hermione blinked, once, twice, and then sputtered, "Engaged? What? No - No–"

There was some more teasing as they made it to the lake, and then the three fell into a comfortable silence as they all but collapsed in their usual spot, slightly hidden by the gentle knoll of the hill that sloped down to a natural shoreline by the Forbidden forest.

Barty was flat on his back, soaking up the strong June sun as he lightly dozed. Regulus had a book out that he was reading, sitting cross-legged and Hermione was idly playing with a transmutation of the pebbles at the shoreline, smoothing the rocks into slick granite before separating them into their individual stones again and again for control and practice.

It was Barty, who, sometime later, sat up and muttered lowly, "Don't look now Reg, but your shadowy gremlin found us."

"What?" Regulus' head popped up from his book, a scowl on his face as his grey eyes glanced in the direction Barty was looking, only to see Rabastan Lestrange striding toward them determinedly. The fifth-year seemed to be muttering to himself, his mouth moving, but they couldn't hear what he was saying.

Regulus groaned loudly.

Hermione elbowed him in the side. "Cheer up, at least you know that Voldemort is still under the assumption that you're as Black as your cousins."

Regulus scowled at her. "Piss off, Hermione."

Barty sniggered, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the sun, but from her angle, Hermione could see his eyes were open, a watchful slice of brown. Hermione let her hand drop from her transmutations and watched as Rabastan appeared over the crest of their knoll, clearly pausing as he surveyed the three graduating seventh years.

"Hello, Black," greeted Rabastan slowly, eyes twitching toward Hermione and Barty. Through gritted teeth, he forced out, "Evans. Crouch."

Regulus put down his book with a heavy sigh. "Hullo, Lestrange. Fancy you finding us."

The fifth-year took that as an invitation and happily loped down the hill, flinging himself at Regulus's side, crossing his legs and then daintily picking off the blades of grass that stuck to his knees. Then he peered up at Regulus and said, "Congratulations on finishing your N.E.W.T.s! Are you excited about graduating? Have you thought about your future plans?"

Barty snorted, loudly, and then attempted to turn it into the most pathetic fake-snore that fooled no one. Hermione rolled her eyes and stood up to stand at the pebble beach she had been previously transmuting, her back to Regulus and Rabastan. She began skipping stones, watching them skim the water before sinking with loud plops.

Regulus's voice was a bit high when he echoed, "Future plans?"

"Yeah," said Rabastan. He sounded eager. "Does your father have plans for you to join him at the Wizengamot? On the Black seat? Will you be taking over the Black estate now that your older brother is disinherited? Will you be joining the season? I'm sure your cousin would be pleased to introduce you to the right sort of people."

"If that's a thinly-veiled jibe at us, baby Lestrange, you'll have to do better," called Hermione from over her shoulder. "I thought Slytherins were cunning."

Rabastan sent a scowl at Hermione's back and then turned back to Regulus. "So?"

"Father doesn't work," he finally said, after clearing his throat. "He spends time at the Ministry – I dunno, bribing people."

Rabastan's mouth dropped open like he couldn't believe that Regulus had admitted that so openly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have it," replied Regulus, absently, and then blanched when he realized his gib response was something he'd have said to Hermione or Barty, and not a fifteen-year-old who didn't realize that he was being used to spy on them for his older brother, and by extension, the Dark Lord. He cringed. "I'm not sure about joining the season – whatever Cissy thinks. I want to leave my options open, though."

Rabastan beamed. "Having many options is a good idea, but there are really only a few right options for the Black heir."

Barty snorted again, this time not even attempting to feint the snore. He sat up, bracing himself on both arms, and stared incredulously at Rabastan. "Look, is there something in the air? Even Travers did a better job of being subtle in his recruitment speech, and he's a Ravenclaw. Gremlin, we can see right through you, and all I'm hearing is desperation in how badly this Dark Lord wants us."

Hermione's pebble didn't even skip as her wrist-flick fell flat, and she turned to stare at Barty at his blatant comment. Regulus's mouth had dropped open, unattractively, and even Rabastan appeared startled, eyes wide.

"I—I don't—I'm not—" Rabastan badly stuttered, eyes darting at Regulus for help, and then even Hermione. Both were frozen, flabbergasted. He finally looked back at Barty, who had a dark look on his face. It was enough that the teenager gulped.

"I already told Travers no, and I'll keep saying it," continued Barty hotly. "And now you can go back and tell your brother or the dark wizard he's following, the same. I'm not interested. I'm not interested in hearing stupid recruitment speeches, and I'm not interested in whatever swill he's trying to sell us through second- and third-hand salesmen."

"Barty," cautioned Regulus.

"He's just a kid," added Hermione, softly.

"He should know better," replied Barty, with a heavy scowl. "He might be a kid, but he should be smart enough to know what's waiting for all of us next week."

Rabastan dramatically paled, so quickly that he swooned where he sat. "How—"

Barty's scowl turned into a sneer. "You know? As graduates? Going out into a world that's at war?"

"It's not war," protested Regulus immediately. "Don't say stuff like that—"

"Okay, Barty, I think it's time we got some sugar in you," interrupted Hermione, moving swiftly to his side. "I think Dirk's got a Honeyduke's stash he's been saving – why don't we go see him, hmmm?"

She reached down, holding a hand for Barty to take. He stared at it for a moment, and then reached out, allowing himself to be hauled up. For a long moment, they just stood, holding hands, with Barty's head bowed while Hermione looked up at him earnestly.

"Fine," he finally muttered, running a hand through his light brown hair.

Hermione turned to look at Regulus, extending her free hand, the one that Barty wasn't gripping tightly. She wriggled her fingers. "C'mon you. Don't tell me you don't relish the idea of unnerving the Gryffindors by stepping into their common room."

Regulus lit up. "I would enjoy that. Can you imagine Cresswell's face?"

Rabastan turned his head between Barty, Regulus, and Hermione.

"I'll just… I'll just go, then," muttered Rabastan with a frown. He was still pale, and his eyes kept darting nervously at Barty. "I was… I was hoping to join you on the train for a bit, Regulus. So, we could finish our… our talk?"

Barty snorted and Rabastan flinched.

"I –" Regulus stopped, glancing at Hermione and Barty.

Barty violently shook his head, but Hermione shrugged. "Your decision."

Regulus scowled, the tiniest amount, but then closed his eyes, coming to some sort of internal decision. "Fine. But you need to be polite."

Rabastan nodded furiously, launching to his feet. "I will! Thank you!"

He glanced at Hermione, opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it, snapping his mouth shut. He began to skirt around Barty with a wide berth, never turning his back on the tall Ravenclaw until he was up over the knoll and quickly retreating toward Hogwarts.

"Are we still going?" asked Regulus after a few moments of silence.

"Yes," answered Barty forcefully, tugging at Hermione's hand and beginning up the hill. She tripped after him, Regulus following.

"Slow down, Barty!" she cried, tugging back at his hand as he kept a face clip across the Hogwarts grounds, cutting across the same place where Lily, Snape, and Sirius had their battle of words after their O.W.L.s. "Why're you in a rush?"

He spun around, dropping Hermione's hand just as she and Regulus skidded to a stop. "Don't you feel it?"

"Feel what?" asked Regulus, looking around intently, hoping to see what Barty saw. There was nothing obvious to him: a bunch of upper years enjoying the weather outside while the younger years wrote their in-class exams, some groups of friends by the lake, and a couple of Hufflepuffs with brooms heading to the Quidditch pitch.

Barty shuddered. "I feel it all the time, now. Like we're being watched. It's Travers and Wilkes, in the Ravenclaw common room. Others, in the Great Hall, like Lestrange, or Penderghast. Sometimes, in our classes, too."

"Oh, Barty…" Hermione's face was pinched. "How long have you felt like this?"

"All year," he answered, miserably. He kicked at the ground and then spat, "I'm so sick of it. Why can't they leave us alone? We're never going to join them – the Death Eaters or Dumbledore's group – so why can't they just stop?"

"They are never going to stop," said Regulus, firmly. He stepped up to Barty, drawing his eyes. "You know that. And you know why."

"It's my fault," fretted Hermione. "I'm sorry – I should've been more careful –"

"It was going to happen eventually, with or without you, Hermione," sighed Regulus. "Stop being stupid, it doesn't suit you. It's because of my family and last name, and Barty's father and his name. They'd have approached us eventually, whichever side."

He glanced at her and then gave a wan smile. "At least, with you, we chose because you're our friend. And we know what we're getting into. Do you think those poor sods – those new Death Eaters – have any idea what they're signing on for?"

"Do you think Dumbledore's going to treat his people any better?" snorted Barty, crossing his arms. "You told us what James told you about the Bones attack, Hermione. Let's not all delude ourselves, here: he might not have seen it, being too Gryffindor, but we did. Battle lines are being drawn. You're with us, or against us. It didn't matter if, if… Voldemort or Dumbledore said it. It's the same either way."

Regulus was nodding. "We're in the wandsight of powerful wizards. Barty may be a bit paranoid—"

"Hey!"

"—but he's not wrong," finished Regulus, ignoring their friend as he pouted. "Things are changing."

Hermione sighed. "Well, this whole conversation was a downer, thanks, boys."

Barty gave Hermione a crooked grin. "Happy to provide you with a daily dose of reality, Hermione." He reached out and gently tugged on a curl. "Sometimes you're a smidge too optimistically Gryffindor and need to be reminded that you're a Ravenclaw."

"Oh, how terrible," drawled Hermione, "To be a Gryffindor."

"Very," deadpanned Regulus with a nod. "Now. While Barty's paranoia is, in some ways, useful, and I think we should be on our guard until we're safe at the Haberdashery, you mentioned Honeydukes and aggravating Cresswell. Can we go back to that, now? I want to finish of my Hogwarts career on that delightful note."

Hermione grinned, looping her arm through Regulus's. "You got it."

Barty looped Hermione's arm through his on her other side. "One last, happy hurrah?"

"One last," agreed Regulus, his smile sad and nostalgic, as they began walking toward Hogwarts.

And later, once they had successfully snuck into the Gryffindor common room, guessing the Fat Lady's password, Dirk's resounding shriek of outrage when he learned that Barty and Regulus had finished off the last of his Honeyduke's stash (that he was saving for his final Gryffindor party), was enough to push back their worries.

Temporarily, at least.

Hermione wanted to be jittery. The Hogwarts Express ride back to London was always fraught with tension: whether it was between her and Lily, or Snape, or even James's friends; and this ride was no different.

She tried to tell herself it was because she no longer had the security and safety of returning to Hogwarts in two months' time. That she was now an adult and out in the wizarding world. And the last time this happened to her, her legality in the wizarding world, she was Undesirable Number Two, with over a thousand galleons posted to her capture.

But Barty's equally tense frame, despite his languid sprawl next to her on the plush red velvet seat, and Regulus's slightly pinched expression, told her she was not alone in her fears. When their compartment door slid open and all three had their wands up and out, pointed at the intruder. Rabastan froze, blue eyes wide as he stared down at the wands before slowly sliding to the hard faces.

"Erm. Sorry?" he stuttered, pale eyes darting around the compartment. "Should I come back later? I know you said I could join you–"

Regulus sighed and slid his wand back into his holster, while Barty and Hermione did the same with their wands, secreting them away somewhere. "It's fine, Lestrange."

The fifth-year and brother to his cousin's husband inched into the compartment, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the very edge of the seat closest to the door, on Regulus' side of the compartment with his back very straight.

They were silent for a long, long moment. Hermione and Regulus stared at each other, each urging the other to begin a conversation; Barty certainly wasn't going to – his eyes were closed, head tilted back on the edge of the headrest, and had slid further down the seat with his ankle crossed over his knee and the arm that wasn't pressed against the window was along the back of the seat, his hand resting comfortably on the back of Hermione's neck, her presence grounding him.

Finally, Hermione sighed and slightly turned to Rabastan. She asked with false brightness, "So. How do you think you did on your O.W.L.s?"

It was a bland topic, but Rabastan cleared his throat and began to speak. After a few jilted starts – Rabastan still didn't like Hermione, made that clear, but hadn't tried calling her a "mudblood" again since that disastrous first time – the three had a conversation going, all blithely ignoring Barty's soft snores.

"–thought that the addition of Phoenician into a ritual around the equinox would add more power," the fifth year explained, "given the location of the language."

Regulus frowned and Hermione shook her head. "Phoenician doesn't lend to Greek, Lestrange – its power would be in Hebrew."

The teen glared mulishly at Hermione, ire flashing in his eyes as he argued, "It developed into Greek–"

"Which means it was altered," broke in Hermione calmly. "You'd have to offset any Phoenician arrays you've built with an understanding of the linguistic changes that occurred over time. You'd have to be near fluent in both–"

"It's a dead language, Evans–"

"That doesn't mean you can't study it–"

"It sure means you can't apply it–"

Hermione balefully stared at him. "And how were you sorted into Slytherin, lacking any ambition to tackle something unknown–"

"I don't live and breathe books, you bloody m–"

"It's not like Phoenician is the fucking Voynich manuscript–"

"Okay!" broke in Regulus loudly, startling the two badly enough that they both snapped their mouths shut, despite glaring hotly at one another. Barty snorted once, twice, and woke, bringing his left hand to his mouth to wipe at a bit of drool there.

"What did I miss?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Just a stupid argument," said Regulus evenly, eyes not leaving the two. "Right?"

"Right," agreed Hermione easily, settling back into her seat.

Rabastan glowered for a long moment before muttering, "Right," and crossing his arms.

Regulus stared at them a bit longer, ensuring neither began bickering again. Then, with a sigh, he turned to Rabastan and began, quietly, "Hermione's intuitive with her runes and arrays, and can read and write nearly twelve languages fluently, most of them for runes. If she says Phoenician is closer to Hebrew, and not Greek, it probably is."

The fifth-year Slytherin flushed at the reprimand.

"And Hermione?" Regulus raised his voice and glanced at her. "Don't be such a swotty know-it-all. People can have different opinions to you."

The Ravenclaw merely rolled her eyes, and muttered very lowly under her breath, "Not when they're fucking wrong."

Regulus glared until she sighed in apology. She stared at Rabastan for a bit and then extended her hand. "Truce?"

He eyed it with distaste but shook it quickly. "Truce."

"Good," declared Regulus with a wan smile that didn't reach his eyes. The three settled into silence while Barty eyed them silently from Hermione's side.

Eventually, Rabastan sighed, and turned, digging through his satchel until he pulled out a few blank sheets of parchment and an inkpot. He hesitated a moment on a nice, expensive quill but then put it on top of the thick parchments next to the ink and held the entire thing out to Hermione.

"Could you please explain and show me how you make the connection to Hebrew?" The request was through gritted teeth, but Hermione magnanimously took the collected pieces and unscrewed the ink cap, dipping the quill in and beginning to scratch out the Phoenician alphabet, all the while chattering about how each rune developed.

Regulus watched, and then leaned forward, touching a dried rune on the paper. "I think nūn should be longer on the final stroke – yours looks like a wonky lightning bolt."

Hermione glared up at him, holding out the quill. "D'you wanna draw it then, oh runemaster?"

"I think I will," sniffed Regulus, although it was a bit loftily done to indicate a joke. He reached out and touched the quill, his fingers just above Hermione's near the nib, ready to take it from her.

"I'm sorry."

Blinking, both Hermione and Regulus turned to Rabastan, their fingers frozen on the quill.

"What–"

"I'm so sorry," the fifth year said, this time not sounding at all like a pureblood snot, but rather a scared teenager. His eyes were wide and his face pale. "But I have to."

Understanding lit in Hermione and she opened to mouth to tell Regulus to let go of the quill, but Rabastian said, "portus," and her fingers were glued to the writing implement, Regulus's just above hers, and Barty along for the ride with his hand still at the back of her neck as they swirled through space, colours brushing by them sickeningly until they landed in a tangle of limbs on a very cold, rough stone floor.

"Ah. My guests. Welcome," a high, cool voice greeted them.

A bunch of low chuckles and titters followed the voice and Hermione brought a hand up to push her thick curls from her face, absently shoving Regulus's leg off her shoulders. He groaned.

Standing above them, tall and proud with his hands behind his back, was Voldemort, looking far more human than she had ever seen.

This was the wizard who charmed and weaseled his way into the pureblood families and began to sway people to cause. This was the wizard who had only split his soul three times, a magically powerful number.

On either side of her, Hermione felt Barty and Regulus right themselves; Regulus was minutely trembling, eyes wide and fixated on the wizard before them.

It was hard to see anything other than him; there was little light, but it looked like an underground catacomb. There were long arches made of thick stone and columns, and the low ceiling gave a claustrophobic feel to the cavernous space that stretched long and in a variety of directions, all hidden by inky darkness.

The Death Eaters - or, the early version of them that evolved from Voldemort's Knights of Walpurgis - finally had their skull masks, and the bone-white colour of them was stark against the black of their robes and passages behind them, leaving their skull heads to appear as if they were floating, ghostly visages that emerged from the darkness to stare at them.

Through thin lips, Voldemort gave a chilling parody of a smile and said, "I've been wanting to meet with you for so awfully long now. We have much to discuss, Mr. Black, Mr. Crouch, Miss Evans."

He paused to peer at them and finished, his voice a low, sibilant hiss, "Don't we?"

TBC…

A quick point - I know there are more Horcruxes, but at this point in time, we have an unreliable narrator in Hermione. Voldemort split his soul at 15/16 (diary); 18/19 (locket); late 20s (diadem and cup). We're missing the ring, and I think canon decided that Nagini was made into a Horcrux after Voldemort got his body back in 1995/TriWizard Tournament. Since Hermione's unsure of the time of TWO of them, we've only got "3" times instead of really, 5 times split into 6 pieces.