A/N: Here we are, another update! Thank you so very much for all the fantastic reviews, it really does make my day when I read them. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! =]

Tempora Abducto.

by Flaignhan.

She still hadn't been born.

She was now measuring time in odd ways. Simply using the years wasn't working for her. It made it all seem far too long.

Tom, of course, found this amusing. She could see it whenever she mentioned that there was only five years and so many months and so many days before she was born. He would smile, as though he was genuinely interested, but she knew that in his head he was laughing at her.

The truth was, she was dealing with the hiding away for decades thing in her own way. And it was working for her. That was all that mattered. It seemed like her birth would be a massive milestone for them to pass. Then it would only be another eighteen years. They'd be well past the half way mark. They were home running once she was born. She could even pass the time by trying to remember what she was doing each day.

She even wondered if a party was in order on the day she got her Hogwarts letter.

Not that anyone would be invited, but they could open a bottle of wine and drink to her education.

It was thoughts like this that made her head spin. Somewhere, in her past, on the day she got her Hogwarts letter, her older self was drinking to her own education. They were co-existing, only a couple of hundred miles from each other.

She shook her head, ignoring the madness of it all (it was all she could do) and resumed counting down to her birthday.

Eventually she was born.

They drank some wine, they had a nice dinner, and eventually, they went to bed.

She didn't know why, but she expected to feel different, once she actually existed. Once Hermione Granger was a proper person, she had expected to feel validated, like she was a real person living in the real world.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to feel anything remotely connected with reality in the little wooded corner of the universe they had claimed as their own. She couldn't remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with somebody who wasn't Tom.

"Who else could you possibly ever need to talk to?" Tom asked. "I'm perfect. You don't need anyone else."

He was joking, but there was a hint of sincerity behind his words. She supposed it was true. She hadn't needed anybody else before now, and she supposed she could quite easily go on not needing anybody else for a good while.

Sometimes she wished she could get a proper job, with real people, but there was no need and jobs only brought on stress, for her, at least. Even when Tom had been away she hadn't interacted with any of her colleagues too much. Yes, she'd been out for the occasional birthday drink and yes she'd chat to them during her lunch break, but other than that she'd been rather determined to keep herself as distant as possible.

Of course, that was the price you paid when you were thrown back in time and discovered the wizard who did it suddenly didn't want to be an evil sorcerer anymore.

Not that she was bitter of course.

Soon, Ron was born, as was Harry, and it seemed that the time passed more quickly, the older she got. She had given up caring what day of the week it was a long time ago. Occasionally she and Tom would update the text books with recent advances in magic but that never took up more than a few evenings around Easter time, just before the new editions were set to be released.

On the plus side, Hermione had gotten incredibly good at Wizard's Chess, and gobstones. She and Tom had also ventured into the muggle world to pick up some muggle games, because in all honesty, the wizarding world was rather lacking in ways to pass considerable amounts of time.

"I think it was Rubeus Hagrid, in the dungeon, with the acromantula," Tom said, looking up at Hermione over the adapted game of Cluedo they were playing.

She kicked him hard under the table and he yelped.

"Hagrid's a friend of mine."

Tom had the decency to look sheepish before suggesting that it had been Professor Merrythought, in the astronomy tower, with the Killing Curse.

One night, she refused to play any games.

She stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, glass of Firewhiskey held tightly in her hand, un-drunk. Once the clock ticked past midnight, she started to hear the whistles and bangs of fireworks, bursts of colour flooding in through the kitchen window, casting red and gold glows over her wan face.

He sat with her, their fingers laced together, her grip as hard as the solid stone walls of the room they were in. He didn't say a word, and nor did she. He drank his Firewhiskey, and refilled his glass with his wand, repeating the process every half hour or so until he decided that enough was enough.

Eventually he fell asleep, and when he awoke it was to find her head and shoulders sprawled over the kitchen table, her eyes closed, the dark circles beneath them far more obvious in the morning light.

An owl was waiting on the table too, newspaper held in its beak, leather pouch on its leg open expectantly. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of bronze knuts, and dropped them into the pouch. The newspaper was released, and fell onto the table heavily, the front page unfurling in front of him.

HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED, DEAD.

Harry Potter survives killing curse. Bodies of James and Lily Potter recovered from the scene.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but she awoke, eyelids fluttering open, mouth stretched wide in a yawn. She took one glance at the front page, then looked at him.

"It's far from over," she said.

"Oh joy."

She got up and stretched, then left the kitchen.

"You were actually quite annoying."

Hermione gave him a sharp look, but as she watched her seven year old self bossing her cousins around and telling them the rules of the game she'd just invented, she couldn't help but agree.

"Blimey, your hair was awful."

"Would you like to make a list?" Hermione snapped. "Go on, write down everything that's wrong with a seven year old child and I'll go and break it to her that there's a man who doesn't quite approve. I'm sure she'll be devastated."

"I'm sure she would," Tom said calmly. "After all, my opinion is worth that of about seven hundred intelligent people."

"Only to you."

He laughed. "Come on, let's go home. I don't think people take kindly to full grown adults watching children that aren't theirs."

"Fine," Hermione said with a sigh.

They got up from the bench, and she took one last longing look at her younger self - happy, laughing, without a care in the world - and followed Tom a little further down the path, where they could disapparate without fear of being seen.

The cottage was dark, even in the middle of the day, with the sun shining brightly. It had always been bad for natural light, with all the trees that surrounded it, and after their time in the park, the sun beating down on them, parched grass crunching underfoot, she found she couldn't just sit down and spend the afternoon indoors.

"Well where do you want to go, then?" Tom asked.

"The beach?"

He pulled a face.

"Not like, actually going swimming and sunbathing and all of that, but we could just go for a walk along the seafront, it's a sunny day, would be a shame to waste it."

"I could show you the cave I went to when I was younger if you like."

Hermione bit her lip. "I'm not sure I really want to see it."

"Right...fine, fine..."

"There's so much connected to you that just holds such terrible memories for me, and I can't even tell you the half of it for another ten years or so. I'm sorry, but I just - "

"Let's just go to the beach," he said.

"I found out I was a witch today," Hermione said, turning her head on the pillow so she could see Tom.

He opened his eyes, and looked her up and down before replying. "Congratulations. It's a bit early for wine, but we could have a celebratory breakfast?"

"What were you thinking?"

"Erm...toast?"

"Right."

"We need more food, by the way."

"I gathered."

"Nothing in the papers?" she threw the Daily Prophet down onto the kitchen table and Tom turned around, eyebrows raised.

"About what?"

"The troll!" Hermione said indignantly. "Not one single mention of it!"

"What troll?"

"The troll that broke into Hogwarts last night! Or rather, was let in."

Tom finished pouring the tea, and sat down, passing Hermione a large red mug. "I believe this is the beginning of a rather interesting story. Continue."

Hermione chuckled, took a sip of her tea, and began telling the story.

Half a packet of biscuits later, Tom was staring at her, slack jawed. "Wingardium Leviosa? You're kidding!"

Hermione shook her head.

"Three first years took out a troll? No way."

"Just you wait until the end of the year," Hermione said, draining the last of her now lukewarm tea, "I'll have a much better story then."

She was fidgeting. A lot.

She had barely touched her dinner, and now she couldn't settle. Tom had huffed several times at her restlessness, frowning when she got up and started pacing, and tutting when she refused to tell him what was wrong.

The trouble was, that night was very much a night left to chance. It was only by chance, that Dumbledore had seen fit to abandon his trip to the Ministry, and it was only by chance that he arrived in time to save Harry and the Philosopher's Stone from the clutches of Lord Voldemort.

She couldn't explain why she felt the need to do it, but after plenty of hesitation, lots of umming and aahing, she finally grabbed her cloak, swung it round her shoulders and fastened it, before disapparating, leaving a mildly shocked Tom on the sofa, alone.

She arrived at the Ministry with a loud crack, not bothering to stop and admire the architecture. The golden fountain was still in place, the witch still wearing that same dimwitted smile she had when Hermione had visited in her fifth year, while the Magic is Might statue was yet to even be considered.

Finally she saw him, dressed in over the top ruby coloured robes, his long silver beard tucked into his belt, he was strolling purposefully along next to Cornelius Fudge. She clenched her fist at the sight of him, then headed over, unaware of what exactly she was going to say.

"Professor, would I be able to talk to you, just for minute? It's rather urgent," she glanced at Fudge. "Sorry to interrupt Minister, but it is an issue of the utmost importance."

Dumbledore surveyed her, his blue eyes slightly wider than usual behind his half moon spectacles, before nodding. "Of course, Miss Mercer."

They moved aside, out of Fudge's earshot and it all came out in a rush. As soon as he heard to words 'trapdoor' and 'Harry', he informed her that he wished to see her the following morning in his office, then went over to Fudge, made his apologies, and disapparated.

Fudge frowned at her, took his lime green bowler hat from his head, and strode off, turning it over in his hands.

"You've certainly aged well."

"Thank you."

"I'm not sure I can say the same about myself, but can't complain. You seemed to disappear from the radar, if you pardon the muggle phrasing."

Hermione nodded.

"Are you going to divulge what you've been up to for the past few decades?"

"I can't."

"But everything has gone according to your memory, I presume?"

She nodded again.

"I wonder if Tom ever really did want to be Minister you know..."

"He did," Hermione said quietly. "But these things don't always work out. I'm sure he'd do a much better job than Fudge."

Dumbledore smiled grimly. "I'm sure he would have. But he chose his path. I sometimes wonder if there was more I could have done."

"I don't think so," Hermione said, feeling, for the first time she could remember, uncomfortable in the Headmaster's presence.

He sighed. "No I don't suppose there was. I'm not sure there was ever any stopping him."

"Terrible shame, such a lovely boy," Dippet's portrait had joined in the conversation, still stubbornly painting Tom as an angel, even after everything that had happened.

"Clever, Armando, and manipulative," Dumbledore corrected. "I'm not sure he was ever lovely."

"I should probably head off, " Hermione said, taking advantage of the gap in conversation and getting to her feet.

Dumbledore eyed her with suspicion, and she automatically heightened the defences around her mind.

"If you ever feel threatened, if you ever need somewhere to hide, somewhere you can be protected - if Lord Voldemort is trying to find you, and use you - "

Hermione blanched. "Oh it's nothing like that Professor," she assured him, with enough honesty that he seemed satisfied. "I just can't tell you what I've been up to yet. I'm sure you'll find out the truth eventually. I just feel it's best to keep out of sight, especially now there's two of me running around."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"And you're not going to divulge the secret to your youth?"

"It's not mine to divulge," Hermione told him with a smile. She turned to leave, but paused, hesitating as her hand hovered over the door handle.

"Something else, Hermione?"

She turned back to face him, and leant against the door. She couldn't just walk out on him. This would be the last time she would see him. She needed to give him some sort of warning, some sort of chance.

"Fudge is going to make things difficult. You need to be prepared to act alone, and ride out the storm that follows."

"How long do we have?"

"A short while."

"How old will Harry be?"

"Not old enough."

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded, and left.

He coughed.

She didn't think much of it, but then he coughed again, eyes clamped shut in pain, hand pressed against his chest. He cried out, and Hermione abandoned her book, running over to him.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know! I -" he yelled again and curled himself into a ball, knees pressed against his chest, hands shaking as they covered his head.

Hermione glanced at the calendar and saw the date. Everything fell into place.

"Your diary's being destroyed," she told him softly. "I...this will pass, won't it? I'm sure he didn't feel it, he never knew when one was destroyed but - "

"But he's not human," Tom wheezed, clutching Hermione's arm, his knuckles white and his grip unbearably tight. She clamped her teeth against her bottom lip, trying to ignore the pain, and held him close.

It felt like a lifetime, but when she looked at the clock, it hadn't even been two minutes. His grip slackened, and his body shook, damp sweat covering his face and neck, dark patches on his shirt sticking to his body. He was pale, paler than she'd ever seen him, and his eyes remained closed as she levitated him upstairs to bed and curled up next to him, holding him close, because there was nothing else she could do.

For the first time, he had to confiscate her wand.

"He's a boy!" she argued. "He's just a boy!"

"Did he die?"

"Yes!" Hermione yelled, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Then he needs to die. You can't alter the - "

"To hell with the blasted time lines!" she shrieked. "He's seventeen, and Harry's in danger and - "

The vase on the mantel smashed, and they immediately fell silent.

"Keep your emotions under control," Tom said slowly, flicking his wand in the direction of the vase, which flew neatly back together and resumed its rightful position above the fireplace. "You have spent fifty years making sure everything goes to plan. We've sacrificed far too much for you to go and mess it up now."

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, head in her hands.

He was right, of course. But that didn't make it easy.

"Look," he sat down next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders, which she attempted to shrug off, but he persisted. "He's young, I get that, and it's a terrible tragedy, I get that, but if you remember Cedric Diggory dying in a graveyard, then Cedric Diggory must die in a graveyard. Harry must face him alone. His death is important. Everyone will know how dire the situation is, they'll join together, and they'll fight. They'll fight for the the boy who wandered into the wrong graveyard."

Hermione laughed sardonically. "Oh that's what you think is it? You don't think Fudge will deny it all, will you? You don't think he'll try to discredit Dumbledore because it's all so much nicer for everybody if they think they're lovely and safe? You don't think people will be too scared to fight?"

"That bad?"

"Worse. A thousand times worse."

"It'll be okay, in the end."

"Maybe."