1998
"I'm going to sit here and watch you die."
His eyes betray nothing but unhindered glee and she's confused. Confused because Voldemort has always gone after Harry, more than anyone else, but yet, he has not gone downstairs to see the boy, to torture him, to kill him. He is here, with her, waiting expectantly, excitedly, to watch her die. To cause her pain. She is the priority and it doesn't make any sense.
"My Lord, we have the boy in the dungeons, we don't need to bother with this mud-"
And their Lord turns to Bellatrix quickly and the woman cowers.
"Has my most loyal servant started a new trend while I was away? Questioning her Lord?"
And Bellatrix shakes her head. Of course not. She would not dare question her wise, wonderful Lord. She would be more than happy to torture the mudblood. More than happy. And the Lord is glad. He needs his most loyal servant to remain so. And she smiles like a clown that plagues a child's nightmares and Hermione feels sick.
Their Lord sits. His feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands on the armrests, elbows bent, as if preparing to pounce, and the look on his face, the sadistic pleasure he will take in watching her be tortured, almost makes Hermione think he really will pounce. Decide to tear her apart with his own hands and his teeth and his feet instead of having her destroyed with the red blasts and the cursed words escaping Bellatrix.
But he does not pounce.
He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits.
He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits as Hermione's mind tries to run away. As her body tries to numb itself against the pain she is feeling. As Bellatrix cackles, and as tears start streaming down Hermione's face, and as bile starts rising in her throat, and as every fiber of her being is yelling at her to end this, to end this pain, this suffering.
But she cannot.
And he does not pounce.
He sits and he smiles and watches and he waits.
And she cries and she yells and she prays for death and she waits.
"Did you believe I would succumb to your will, mudblood? That you would so easily defeat me?"
Her head is spinning and his words leave her drawing blanks, and, as another round of crimson curses descend upon her body, as she hears Dolohov gain permission to take her once she's half mad, she wishes she wasn't just full of blanks, but real, hard bullets instead. A thousand bullets or twenty or one, racing through her mind so this pain would end, so she wouldn't have to feel every nerve in her body stand and be shot down and continue living throughout it all. Her eyes are wide open, just like her mouth, just like the palms of her hands and her legs and her chest as she spasms in the pain and Voldemort is meeting her eyes. His smile is still present, his eyes still gleeful, but he looks tense, his hands are gripping the armrests, his body half out of the chair without him even realizing it.
And then it's over.
And she's being rescued. And she's trying to see through the tears crowding her eyes, trying to raise her wand and run and throw curses, but her muscles ache. She can taste vomit in her mouth and she wants nothing more than to curl in on herself and sob.
She still sees his eyes, clearly in her mind, the tears not daring to interfere with the image of the glowing red orbs that had never seemed as frightening to her as they did now.
She's trying to run, but she's limping.
She's trying to throw curses at the Death Eaters, but her voice is hoarse from yelling through the pain, at the pain.
She's trying to see, trying to get to safety, but the tears are still flowing, the pain is still there.
She can hear Ron yelling her name in between his curses and hexes. She can hear Harry letting spell after spell erupt from himself, his voice strained, but his words not stopping, nevertheless. And she feels weak. She feels weak because she can do no more than shake and try to yell in a whispered, hoarse voice and she can't think straight for long enough to cast a wordless spell. And she doesn't know how long it was that she was tortured for, how long she was at the mercy of Bellatrix's wand, but she feels as if death is coming for her now anyways, all the efforts of her friends rescuing her are useless, because she is too weak. Her vision is spotty and she feels as if she might black out.
Cold cages her arm, but her vision is too fuzzy to see what, and then, suddenly, she's being ripped away from that, ripped away to warmth and comfort, and the horrible squeezing of apparition closely follows and she passes out in the suffocating warmth, in the suffocating nearness, in the suffocating echoes of pain that had not left her and she feared never would.
The voices are murmurs. And then they're whispers. And then they're only hushed. And then they're only talking. And then they're only raising their voice and then, quite suddenly, they're yelling, and her head is pounding, and her eyes open to the dim light of evening at Shell Cottage and waves crashing on sand join the voices of her friends. She's suddenly thankful that they can't risk going to the hospital or St. Mungo's, that she didn't have to wake up to bright, white lights and bustling nurses and doctors with clinical hospitality, but rather, to dimmed lamps and chairs the color of honey-stained wood, and her friends, with concerned faces and weak jokes.
And it's all:
"'Mione, are you sure you're okay?"
"You scared us."
"We're glad you're okay."
"We're sorry we took so long to rescue you."
And then, quieter:
"But she couldn't even take a Crutacious."
"She blacked out."
"Maybe she needs to be out of the war for a bit, clear her head."
And, finally:
"But did you see when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named touched her?"
"He almost looked human."
And then quiet.
Quiet, and she doesn't know what to say.
Still, and she doesn't know what to do.
But she's okay.
She can breathe. Bill smells like Fleur's perfume.
She can taste. The air is salty, the ocean unrestrained.
She can see. Harry's hands as they check her forehead for a temperature, the relief in his eyes as he feels it going down.
She can touch. Ron's hand on hers, his gaze shifting to her mouth.
She can hear. Her friends. Still discussing Voldemort's reaction. Still wondering what it was. Still worried it puts Hermione in danger. Still worried she puts them in danger.
She can feel. Hurt. Hurt that they think she would ever hurt them. Hurt that that monster feels any connection towards her at all. Hurt that her friends do not trust her. Hurt that she is not strong.
But, she can feel no pain, so she can sleep. She can sleep.
They win the war.
There was no doubt they would. The good ones always win. And they're happy. They're celebrating.
So many scars were left behind, so many souls were taken, but they're happy. They've won. The Wizarding World is safe and they can live normal, happy, calm lives now. They've won. They've won. They've really won.
But they haven't. She hasn't. The golden trio is laughing and they're being congratulated.
"The Boy-Who-Lived continues the tradition!"
"Weasley really is king!"
"But, honestly guys, we all know we only won because of Hermione's big brain."
And then the book, the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard that Dumbledore had left for Hermione, her copy, opens.
She has been sorting through the things she had kept in her magical bag, and, of course, the book was in there and she supposed it had somehow heard or felt or known something of the celebrations, of the victory, for it opened to a page that wasn't there before, a page that made Hermione's heart stop beating and her breath stop warming the air before her, but chilling it instead.
It turns out, Dean's comment about Hermione, about how vital she was to their victory, was a severe understatement.
"What do you mean you've got to go? We just won a bloody war! The only thing you've 'got to' do is stay right here and enjoy a butterbeer, or two, or three, oh hell, a whole case!"
And she's shaking her head and she thinks she feels tears prickling at the corners of her eyes again, because it's not over, not for her at least. There's another leg to the journey and the relief she had felt at their victory was short lived, useless, a lie.
She has to go. Because the war is lost if she doesn't. She promises she'll come back, she'll visit, she has a time turner, after all, she's not stuck there. And, gracefully, fluidly, quietly, sadly, it's all tears and hugs between the trio. It's all the 'thank you's and 'I love you's that they didn't have time to say before and won't have time to say again.
She's trying to compose herself. Trying to breathe. Trying to wrap her head around what is happening to her. Trying to understand that her war has not been won, it won't be won for years and years. Trying to not let herself feel all the desperation and anxiety that that truth carries for her.
She breathes.
Dumbledore's letter had asked that she leave as soon as possible, that she talk to himself, his past self, as soon as she arrived. He would have already been informed of the situation, she need only arrive.
She breathes.
She's scared. She's so scared of having this responsibility placed on her shoulders, of not having her friends around to help her, of not being a part of the Golden Trio, and being just Hermione, for the first time in years. She'll be alone and in charge of ensuring their victory in the war and she has never been more afraid, more worried, more unsure of herself. But she has to go, it is her duty and duty always comes before happiness.
1944
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no."
Her knees sinking into the wet dirt, the golden dust shining in the frigid darkness, the precious metal, bent and cracked, lying in a circle around it. And, as many spells as she tries, as much as she bloodies her hands from trying to fix the sharp edges together again, it's no use. The time turner is broken, irrevocably and despairingly so. And she is stuck, because she could only use her own time turner to return and because destroying a time turner while in the past means that there is no return, no way to save oneself. She is stuck and desperate and afraid and sad and so, so alone. And she hasn't been alone in years and she hates it, and she laughs, because she doesn't know what else to do. She is terrified, she is stuck, she is alone, and she is laughing on the lawn of Hogwarts, fifty years in the past, the echoing taste of celebratory butterbeer still on her tongue, the confetti still stuck in her hair, but it all fifty years away, it all resting on her shoulders.
She gathers all she can of the time turner and its magic into her bloodied fingers, into her ribboned palms, and she stands, and she shakes her hair back and away from her face, and she walks towards the castle, because it is her duty, and duty always comes first.