Chapter 3

The next two days passed in a blur of pain, resolution, and copious list-making. By Friday evening, Hermione had finally gathered her resolve and was ready to tell the Headmaster the decision she had truly made her first day in his time. The walls of the Room of Requirement now held images of many of her most precious memories, from the troll in first year, to skiing with her parents, to just sitting and laughing in the Common Room. So many happy moments, and also some that were less so, but each was equally worthy of its position in her heart.

She turned from a picture of the "DA Core," and walked to the open window that had materialized for her. The cool breeze was soothing, and looking at the familiar scene before her, she could almost pretend that she wasn't saying goodbye to her loved ones that weekend. But not just yet, she reassured herself. Hermione leaned on the windowsill, trying in vain to forget the last time she had stood at an open window. I still can't believe they're gone… she thought sadly. But they're not yet… I'll save them, too—Harry and his parents, Sirius, Mum, Dad, the Headmaster, as many people as I can.

She tried to imagine a world without The Chosen One, where Harry was just an ordinary, happy boy. She caught herself wondering, idly, whether they'd still all be friends, then banished the thought. It was hardly the important thing at the moment. She glanced at her, now corrected, watch. 8:40 PM. Most people would be in their common rooms now; it was time to go.

A short time later she found herself settled into one of the Headmaster's comfortably plush chairs, accepting the proffered cup of tea. They had been sitting in silence for several long moments when Albus spoke.

"Miss Granger, am I right in presuming that you intend to remain in this time?" he asked gently.

This was it—this was the moment that would seal the deal, her fate. She looked up from her cup solemnly, and her throat seemed to close for a moment forcing her to swallow thickly before responding. "You are, sir," she replied quietly. "I'm staying."

He reached out and patted her hand lightly, understanding glimmering in his eyes. "You're a very brave girl, Miss Granger."

She couldn't help the wry smile that appeared on her face. "I'm not much of a girl anymore, Headmaster."

"No," he replied thoughtfully, though she caught no hint as to what thoughts were concealed behind his eyes. "No, I suppose you are not."

"I'm glad that you agree, sir," she replied, forcing herself to take advantage of the opening that had presented itself, "because there are some things that I feel need to be addressed." She refused to let herself squirm in discomfort as he steepled his fingers and looked at her intently. What am I doing demanding things of Professor Dumbledore of all people? I must be going mental She quickly pulled herself together, and looked at him calmly.

"First though, for the sake of clarity, I think it's important that you know why it is that Hogwarts sent me here." She had carefully considered how to broach the subject, and had concluded that Gryffindor bluntness was probably the best option. She took a fortifying breath. "My purpose in this time, sir, is to bring about Lord Voldemort's downfall—before, I believe, summer of the year 1979." She noted that none of the portraits were still pretending to sleep.

"That is quite an undertaking, Miss Granger." The Headmaster's voice held both surprise and concern, but clearly in carefully measured amounts.

Yes, she thought bitterly, and I have reason to believe you were about to die and dump it onto the shoulders of my best friend. Instead of voicing this less than constructive sentiment, however, she nodded and continued.

"Which leads me to my first request, sir. I will not be able to do this without your aid, which requires that you and I enter into a partnership." She paused, carefully considering her words. Potent, but polite, she reminded herself. "This cannot be a mentor-student relationship. It must be entered into with the understanding that I'm not a little girl in need of protection—that I've faced Death Eaters, and feared for and fought for the lives of those that I love—, that I'm here now, freely accepting the weight of this war's outcome. I have a right to know everything pertaining to the war, and to be involved. So, that's the deal; either I'm all in, or I'm all out."

Through her relief at having gotten all of that out, Hermione noted that he seemed a bit taken aback. "I don't mean to cast aspersions on your character, sir," she said in a rush, "but you must understand that you have been known to, in my time, withhold vital information in a self-proclaimed 'misguided attempt' at protecting people." She paused, then, more warmly, "I trust you implicitly, sir, I assure you, or I wouldn't be here, but I'm not willing to be seen as expendable. This means that I intend to share information as it seems pertinent, while expecting full disclosure on your part."

She felt horrible saying and demanding these things, giving terrible ultimatums to a man worthy of so much more respect, and she wondered whether her words didn't affect him more than his expression of polite consideration implied.

"I will agree to your terms of partnership then, Hermione, and I truly regret that you feel they're necessary." He paused, smiling amicably. "As partners however, I ask you to please call me Albus."

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise, and he began to chuckle. Blushing furiously, she took a gulp of her still-hot tea. "Thank you, sir, I mean…" Oh come on – it's just a name! she scolded herself. If you can say Voldemort, you can say Albus. "I mean thank you, Albus."

"Not at all, Hermione," he replied, masterfully hiding his amusement. She wondered if this wasn't a way of putting her back in her place. She hoped not. "You had other terms, I believe?" he prompted.

She forcefully squelched her embarrassment deep down. "Yes, my next term is that I be permitted to join the Order of the Phoenix at the end of the month." He raised an eyebrow, sensing an explanation forthcoming. "I know it's unorthodox, sir, but you see, I'm really 17 already; in fact in my time it was May, so I'm just over 17 and a half," she explained. "However, I intend to restart my sixth year—both because I told Lily I would be, and because I haven't written the exams. In spite of this, even keeping my original birthday, and simply turning 17 again, I will be of age on September 21." She paused in consideration. "If explaining the exception to the Order would be an issue, I'm sure we could come up with something plausible. I feel that it's where I need to be, though, and I think it makes a great deal of sense for me to be a member."

Albus nodded in agreement. "I can't see why joining the Order should be a problem, provided we come up with a reasonable explanation. Nor should restarting your sixth year be an issue."

Hermione smiled in relief, confident that her final, and equally important requirement, would be accepted. "My last request," she began, "is that you teach me Occlumency."

Albus smiled cheerily. "All easily done! I do, however, have a request of my own." Hemione felt slightly abashed, still uncomfortable with having dictated terms to him, however accommodating he was being. "I assume you're familiar with Minerva McGonagall?" Hermione nodded. "I feel that Minerva should know," he said seriously, "of your true identity and purpose." He seemed to notice Hermione's hesitation. "If something were to happen to me," he explained, "you would benefit from her awareness of the situation."

Hermione agreed, scolding herself for not having thought of the same thing.

"Well, now that all of that is settled," he said, the twinkle rampant in his eyes, "we shall need a cover story for you, m'dear."

Hermione nodded; she'd given this a bit—or, in all honesty, a lot—of thought, and if she were being entirely truthful with herself, she would confess that it was more worrying than it was thinking. "Well, er, Albus, I've told Lily that I'm a new sixth year Gryffindor, by the name of Hermione," she told him, slightly embarrassed by her lack of discretion at the time, "so, I suppose the best option is to fabricate some sort of tragic past for me." Which won't be entirely fabricated, she added sadly to herself.

Albus nodded his approval. "Yes," he said solemnly, "but I feel it would be perhaps best to choose a tragedy instead."

"That's a bit vague," Hermione pointed out.

"Ah, of course, permit me to elucidate!" She got the distinct impression that he quite favoured a slightly dramatic approach to things. "I have, in my possession," he said, "an extensive archive of Prophet editions from which I am suggesting you adopt, and forgive me the morbidity of it, a recently deceased family." His voice was quite soft by the end of his explanation and Hermione didn't blame him; as much merit as she recognized the idea possessed, it sent a chill down her spine. "As you're probably aware, Voldemort has been quite active lately; I'm afraid you've quite the selection from which to choose.

"I have contacts at the ministry," he continued, still quietly, after giving her a minute to process what he'd said, "who will be able to establish your status as a witch of this time. The real point of concern will be establishing why you're leaving your previous school to come to Hogwarts, and why no one in the community knows who you are."

Hermione nodded slowly. "Perhaps it's best if I choose a… a family first, and come up with a story that fits their situation…" She was relieved that she would be a legitimate member of the magical community, but now the full weight of what she was about to undertake was beginning to truly set in. I'm leaving behind everything and everyone that I know; venturing into the past on a seemingly impossible task; taking on a false identity, which I will have to assume for the entirety of my life… God my parents are out there somewhere, and they're going to have a little me, except it won't be me… and they won't be my parents… and—

"Hermione?" She jerked from her panicked train of thought. "I know this must be overwhelming, but remember that you are not alone in your task." He smiled warmly at her and refilled her tea cup. "Now, tell me," he said with a trace of genuine curiosity in his voice, "about your friend, Harry."

Hermione grinned at him, clearly catching his attempt at distraction. She was more than happy to oblige, however, and soon she was telling him all about her years at Hogwarts, though leaving some things out, particularly with regards to her sixth year.

Hermione found that once she started talking to her friend's beloved mentor, it unlocked something deep in her chest, and anecdotes and memories were soon flowing from her mouth almost faster than she could articulate them. Reminiscing, she thought briefly, This is the difference between reminiscing and wallowing. She told him about all kinds of things: Harry and Ron, their yearly encounters with trouble, her favourite subjects, SPEW. She even told him about her parents, though it was very painful to finally voice, and she was unable to prevent the tears that rose at her confession.

Albus listened intently and grew to feel a sense of pride and deep empathy for the woman before him. For that is indeed what she is, he concluded, listening to her pour her heart out to him so bravely and passionately. From the moment she began recounting her tales there was a fiery spark alight in her eyes that didn't fade once, not even when confiding in him about her parents' death. By the time he had sent her to rest, and agreed to meet with her in the Room of Requirement the next afternoon, he felt that he had been given a rare gift to have encountered such a passionate woman with so astounding a capacity for love.

"Now she will go far," came an impressed voice from behind him.

"Yes, Eurydice," he replied, turning to face the woman. "I daresay she will. She's quite remarkable."

"Don't count your Mandrakes before they've bloomed, Albus," scowled another portrait.

"Ah, Phinneas, optimistic as always," he said cheerfully.

"Humph."

"Waldon, would you be so good as to let Minerva know that I wish to speak with her?"

A heavy-browed man with a monocle disappeared from his frame with a sharp nod. "She is on her way presently, Albus," he announced as he slid back into his portrait only a moment later.

"Thank you, Waldon. She and I have much to discuss this evening."

Hermione worked on her cover story well into the early morning hours, determined to have a well thought-out plan before she retired for the evening. "It's no use," she sighed, exasperated. "I'm just thinking myself in bloody circles." Pulling herself heavily from her chair, she set a charm to wake her at 9, dropped onto her bed, and fell immediately asleep.

"Harry! Harry, no!" Hermione screamed desperately, watching her friend walk slowly towards the veil. He paused and looked back at her calmly, through piercingly green eyes.

"It's the only way, Hermione."

She raised her wand to stop him, desperate to save him, shouting spell after spell, but no magic left her wand. Screaming in frustration, she cast it aside, stumbling toward him. But something was restraining her—a long and delicate gold chain. She struggled, thrashing her body this way and that. It was no use, and Hermione looked on helplessly as Harry slipped silently through the dark veil.

People started rushing past her, sucked through the archway by an invisible force. Ron. Ginny. Molly and Arthur. The twins. Bill. Charlie. Albus. Remus. Sirius. Lily. The faces began to blur as people rushed faster and faster through the veil. She fought her bonds, tears streaming down her face, and choked sobs obscuring the words that tore futilely from her throat.

Then the chains fell to dust at her feet, and she was flying toward the tattered curtain herself. Closer and closer. She felt it whisper against her face

Hermione woke with a strangled gasp. Sweat drenched the clothes she had been too tired to change out of, and the incessant beeping of her alarm charm pierced through a painful headache. Salty trails covered her cheeks, and her fingers shook as she pushed her disastrous hair from her face to check the time. One o'clock, she noted absently, ending the charm. Then it hit her. "One o'clock?!" She dragged herself hurriedly from her bed and into the shower. Thirty minutes is plenty of time, she thought dryly, but not for constructing an entire life history for myself.

She was long since used to the nightmares; they were a natural part of being best friends with Harry, and their frequency had been gradually increasing since the debacle at the end of first year. Even so, there was no denying that they affected her deeply, and the feelings of impotence and desperation often lurked behind her bright-eyed, smiling face each morning. Anyone at Hogwarts would tell you that Hermione was one of those few, loathsome "morning people"—waking up each morning wearing an obnoxiously cheerful smile and an equally sickening upbeat attitude. Harry and Ron were perhaps the only two people in the world that knew the cheerful persona was simply a pretence, both a mask to hide behind, and a device to push away the frustrations of her dreams.

Hermione stood a long time in the shower, letting the cascading water wash away as much of the dream as possible and allowing herself to remember the night that she had confessed her nightmares to Harry. It had been early in the morning, the lightest rays of the sun just beginning to breathe against the horizon, when Harry came thudding down the stairs to the Common Room.

"Good morning, Harry," Hermione greeted softly, smiling lightly when he jumped in surprise.

"Hermione! What're you doing down here?" He looked at the bare table before her. "Studying?" he asked, in an amused and knowing tone. Harry's rare moment of perception startled her. She usually brought her books down with her as an excuse each morning, their absence today was due to her absent-mindedness after having woken from a particularly awful nightmare.

"I—," but he just smiled.

"I know you tell everyone that's what you're doing up so early, Hermione." His smile turned a little sad. "But I'm not everyone, am I?" He paused, visibly contemplating his next words, while Hermione sat there, shocked that he had noticed anything. "I've been thinking lately," he continued, more quietly, "and I've come to realize that sometimes Ron and I don't pay as much attention to you as we should… and that sometimes it must seem like we don't care."

She recalled fondly that he had run his hand absently through his messy locks at this point—a nervous habit she found terribly endearing, like a frequent reminder of his preserved innocence and sensitivity.

He looked at her sadly, but with great intensity. "But we love you, both of us, and I'm sorry, Hermione, that we haven't—that I haven't—shown you this the way I should have… the way you deserve."

Her heart swelled at the painful sincerity in his voice, and she felt her eyes prickle with a promise of tears. She wanted nothing more than to hug the brave boy before her, and tell him it was okay, that he had so much to worry about, and she understood. Instead she sat silently and let her friend finish what he was clearly so desperate to say.

"You've always been there, supporting me, helping me, telling me off when I was about to do something stupid," he smiled wryly. "You've been beside me every step of the way. I've confided in you, and depended on you, and trusted you." His eyes began to glisten in the soft light. "When Sirius died, you understood that I needed to face my guilt and pain, and so you made sure that I did. When I wake up from a nightmare, you're right there to remind me that I'm not alone. When Umbridge was driving me crazy, you helped me to fight back constructively instead of letting me blunder around self-righteously. You've done a million amazing things for me, and I've never once stopped to thank you; I've never shown you appreciation. Hell, half the time I was furious with you for it."

The fierceness in Harry's voice reached into her soul, and a sadness she had never fully acknowledged evaporated in the flood of passionate words. She stood and hugged him tightly—the tears that streamed down her face telling him more than she could ever have said with words.

"I really am sorry, Hermione, that you don't feel like you can trust me with your secrets," he said softly, recovering from his surprise and holding her just as tight. "I was angry at first, but I'm not now that I understand, and if ever you change your mind, I… I'd be honoured to listen." He shifted slightly, clearly embarrassed.

After only a moment of hesitation the truth came pouring out as she confided in him the fears and worries that haunted her sleep, and he listened, just as he'd promised. Many such mornings had followed, the pale light creeping in the window and lighting upon the two of them sitting quietly together before the fire, and when their fellow Gryffindors began to wake and she donned her cheerful smile, it didn't feel as fake, as deceptive, when accompanied by the knowledge that her best friends knew how she was really feeling beneath it.

Hermione pulled herself from her contemplation and, armed with a sad smile, she prepared herself to meet with the Headmaster. She had just finished tidying her notes on a table, which was much more formal than the carpet she'd actually been working at, when she heard a polite knocking at the door. With a small amount of nervousness, she opened the door to invite the twinkling-eyed man in.

"Professor McGonagall!" she exclaimed in surprise, and received a pair of kindly smiles in return.

"Minerva, dear," said her own mentor, and Hermione felt herself blush, yet again, in response. "It's good to meet you, Hermione. Albus thought I might be able to assist with your backstory development," continued the transfiguration professor, clearly feeling Hermione ought to be saved from her moment of shock.

"Yes, of course," replied Hermione, feeling a bit out of sorts. Life had become very strange, very quickly. (But when, she supposed, had it ever been normal anyway?) "Come in." She stepped out of the doorway and led them to the table, the Room creating a third chair for Minerva.

Albus promptly conjured them each a cup of tea and sat down, clapping his hands cheerfully together. "Well, let's get started, shall we? Have you decided upon a family, Hermione?"

Hermione felt no small amount of trepidation at revealing the name of the family she had decided would be best. "I've gone through the Prophets that you gave me, and I feel that the ideal family is the Belangers," she replied, a bit timidly. The Belangers were his relatives. The very idea of being a relative of Albus Dumbledore's, however distantly, felt incredibly presumptuous and ostentatious, nevermind that sitting there and proposing to someone that he pretend to adopt her was hardly something she felt comfortable with.

Albus, however, seemed pleased as he nodded. "I suspected you would come to that conclusion," he said with a comforting smile, and Hermione found herself feeling quite relieved.

"The Belangers? But, Albus, why ever should they be a good choice?" Minerva protested, incredulous. Hermione had researched the family quite extensively before deciding upon them, and knew that Minerva's reservations were likely based on the fact that the Belangers hadn't had the best of reputations with regards to their views and feelings about the war.

Albus' eyes twinkled merrily nonetheless. "Because, as the last of my and Aberforth's kin, it would not be unreasonable for the Ministry to give Hermione into my care. Aberforth would, of course, have refused had he been approached." Minerva nodded her understanding. "Nevermind their fear of producing a squib, which I suspect is the reason they never produced any offspring. They would have hidden any child's birth, and then arranged for a private tutor until they were certain the child was magical."

"Beyond that," Hermione interjected, "the Prophet describes them as a mysterious and secretive couple that kept primarily to themselves. Together, that would explain why no one knew to look for a daughter at the… at the scene." She batted away the nightmarish imaginings of what her own home must have looked like.

"Quite so, they kept entirely to themselves; I've never met them, nor corresponded with them, myself."

"Which could be why she never attended Hogwarts," Minerva mused.

And so they planned, and much sooner than Hermione had expected, she had her whole life story prepared. Albus had contacted his friend at the Ministry, and in a matter of hours she was officially established as a witch and enrolled in Hogwarts, with several documents proving that she had been privately tutored – alongside her now deceased brother Harry - with great success for the last five years.

"I just can't pretend that I was never friends with Harry or Ron—that I was an only child, tutored at home, with no social interaction," she'd argued. "I can't pretend they weren't—aren't—intensely important to me." The professors understood perfectly, though two unreported deaths was a stretch, and they'd negotiated her down to just Harry.

The greatest surprise to Hermione was when Albus asked her whether she wouldn't mind him adopting her for real.

"But— Sir— I—" I don't think I've been this inarticulate in my life, she thought furiously. "Sir— Albus—," She paused and looked helplessly at the kind man before her, noting his wildly twinkling eyes. "Why?" she demanded, finally settling upon the phrase most appropriate for the situation.

"Because, my dear," he replied solemnly, though somehow still with a smile in his voice, "no one should be without family. I would be honoured to have you as my adopted daughter, Hermione."

Lying in bed later, she still couldn't quite believe she was the legal daughter of Harry's beloved Headmaster, though nor could she banish the thought that perhaps Albus should have done the same for Harry in her time—blood ties and protection be damned.