Reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks to all who are still reading. Non-graphic violence in this chapter.
Also, I know there are some inconsistencies with Judith's timeline, and I was going to go back and revise everything, but then I remembered that this is fan fiction, and I'm doing it for fun.
Not today, OCD. Not today!
The One-Eyed Harpy was exactly the the hole that she remembered, though this time it seemed miraculously devoid of petty criminals, purveyors of stolen merchandise, or thugs-for-hire. It was not, however, devoid of drunks.
Hermione huddled in her corner, shooting supercilious glances at the other patrons, body language making clear to all who cared to look that she was not only slumming, but utterly unamused.
The door opened, raising up a cloud of dust and admitting a single cloaked figure. The newcomer glanced about, searching the room, then lowered her hood.
"Agatha," Hermione hissed, motioning the witch to her alcove. "Did you get my note?"
The elderly witch raised an eyebrow, wordlessly pointing out the inanity of the question, and sat down.
Embarrassed, Hermione slid a drink across the table. "Err...this is for you."
Agatha picked up the green concoction, the same Vipertooth she'd ordered when they first met here, and raised it in salute. "Much obliged."
This time, Hermione had opted for the Reaper's Revenge, and found, to her great disgust, that is tasted and smelled very much like rancid blood. Still, she sipped it mindlessly as she tried to gather the courage to begin her tale. "Well, thank you for coming," she said at last.
"You called it 'a matter of life and death'. What you didn't specify is who you are, what you want, or how we're acquainted."
"My name is Hermione, and I… well, I know you from the future," she revealed after a moment of hesitation.
Agatha's expression stiffened in shock. "You never should have come here," she whispered vehemently, looking about to make sure no one could overhear their exchange. "Do you even realize what mucking about with the timeline could do?"
"Yes." Hermione, as it happened, knew much better than most. "But there's nobody else I can ask. There's nobody else I trust."
Hermione turned pleading eyes on her companion, and held the witch's gaze even when the shiver of a spell began to probe her thoughts, as she'd already decided to be fully honest.
"Please, you have to help me," Hermione begged. There was nothing left to lose now. She was completely desperate.
"Very well," Agatha agreed reluctantly, after a long silence. "Tell me."
Hermione licked her dry lips. "There was an accident," she began, "Well, what I thought was an accident. Only, I found out that I had really caused it in the first place, by going back to fix it. I saw myself - or my past self saw me - and it caused the explosion that I was trying to prevent. And now my parents are in the hospital and I - the other me - is dying. And if she dies, then I wouldn't have been able to go back from the future, and it would be a paradox. But if she lives and remembers seeing me, then it would also be a paradox, because you're never supposed to meet yourself when traveling."
"Wait - slow down a second. Why would you ever take the risk of trying to 'fix' this accident in the first place?"
"It, ummm…" Hermione mumbled, looking away guiltily. "It killed my mother."
Agatha took a deep draught of her drink, and there was a sorrow in her eyes, as though she understood. "I see. But... as far as I know, the technology to travel back more than a few hours doesn't exist," she pointed out.
"Yes, well, I invented it. Or rather, I will invent it next spring."
The older woman's eyes grew wide. "You invented it? But, how is it done?"
Hermione explained, removing the spiraling time turner from her neck and pointing out its various parts.
"But how did you ever think of it?" Agatha wondered.
"Well, I'm muggleborn, and I know a bit about Muggle math and physics. Some principles are applicable to Numerology, so it was really quite straightforward."
"Muggle math!" Agatha barked a laugh, shaking her head incredulously. "Well, I'll be damned. Who would have ever thought?"
Hermione held back a huff of irritation. Wizards were forever underestimating the achievements of the non-magical world, usually to their own detriment. She, herself, had barely just begun to comprehend the potential of a true synthesis of the magical and the scientific.
"Well, one thing I can do for you," Agatha offered, "Is tell St. Mungos that there's a witch on her deathbed who needs their assistance. They strictly refuse to see muggles, so that's no help to your parents, I'm afraid."
"But what if she - the other me - remembers? Can I obliviate her? Last time I tried a spell near her, it turned into a complete disaster."
"I'm not sure, to be honest with you. You could try the Time Department, but-"
"They're useless," Hermione cut in tersely.
The elder witch snorted her agreement. "Well, there's not much more I can say, unless…" she trailed off thoughtfully.
"Unless what?" Hermione prompted, leaning over the table in her eagerness.
"Well, when the Department was overhauled in the seventies and the Head was sacked, rumor has it that she hid her research away, partially out of spite, and partially because she didn't want to hand a dangerous weapon to the morons who replaced her."
"You're ...you're talking about Judith Mintumble's original notes?" Hermione breathed reverently. It was practically the Holy Grail of knowledge about time travel. "I thought they were gone, destroyed!"
"As far as I know, they're somewhere in the British Library." Hearing Hermione's disbelieving gasp, she continued: "Judith would have wanted to hide her work in the last place the Ministry would ever think to look - the Muggle world."
But almost immediately, Hermione's enthusiasm turned to despondency. "There's millions of books there! How will I ever be able to find it?"
"Well, why don't you try the section on Mysticism and the Occult," Agatha suggested with an ironic grin.
"Wow," Hermione whispered, gazing in awe at the seemingly limitless multitude of tomes before her. The Hogwarts Library, considered one of the largest in the wizarding world, was positively dwarfed by the comparison. She felt, in that moment, a defiant pride for what the Muggle world - her world - had brought into existence, through centuries of toil, and struggle, and the relentless pursuit of knowledge - completely unaided by sorcery. This was her legacy, her birthright. This was the magic that she could bring to wizards: the magic of science.
"Can I help you?" an irritated voice cut through these lofty thoughts, snapping Hermione's attention back to the librarian before her, who could easily have passed for Irma Pince's sister, in temperament if not in appearance."There's a dozen people behind you in line."
"Err...yes. I was told that you may have some of the old research papers of a woman named Judith Mintumble's here? They would have been deposited some 20 years ago."
"Hmphh," was the disgruntled response, as the woman began to search the computer catalog. "Let's see here. Pertaining to that name I have… one entry on estate tax accounting, one on indigenous Scottish fungi, and one titled "The Extraordinary Memoirs of Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which."
Hermione couldn't help but smile at that; Judith, it seemed, had a curious sense of humor. "Oh, it's definitely the last one," she said.
But when she wandered into the aisles to retrieve the book, she found that it was missing under the reference. Not only that, but the prickling sensation of being observed refused to leave her. "They might be watching you," Agatha had declared cryptically, refusing to elaborate on who "they" were or why they would bother. And sure enough, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman sneaking surreptitious glances at her from behind a newspaper.
Just my bloody luck, Hermione thought, remembering her promise to herself to leave the intrigue to the professionals. But if she had to do it - and now it seemed unavoidable - she would at least do it right.
Wandering casually out of the woman's line of sight, Hermione waited to see if she would follow, and was unnerved to see her cross the next aisle a moment later.
Her heart beat a mile a minute as she withdrew deeper into the stacks, thoughtlessly rummaging in her bag for something tha
t might get her out of this, short of using magic in a building absolutely crawling with muggles. Finally, her fingers closed around a small bottle, the remnants of a batch of Polyjuice with Lucius Malfoy's hair in it, and she uncorked it and took a swig.
There, she thought triumphantly, looking down at her morphing body, that should definitely get them off track.
Doubling back to the place where Judith's book should have been, Hermione scanned the shelves again, and then all the surrounding shelves. Just when she'd begun to lose hope, she spotted a thin volume with gilded lettering on the side; it seemed to be calling her faintly.
She pulled it out. The Extraordinary Memoirs of Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which, the title read, but inside, the book was completely blank. Unreasonably disappointed, Hermione considered going to look for the estate-tax accounting thing, but what she saw when she looked up left her frozen in her tracks.
There, not five feet away, was the woman from before, staring directly at her with a look of absolute bewilderment etched on her disconcertingly familiar face. Hermione shrunk back in shock, but the woman followed, drawing closer, her eyes darting over every inch of Malfoy's frame.
"I - " the woman began to say, but Hermione didn't wait for the other shoe to drop: she pulled out her wand and apparated, secrecy statutes be damned.
She'd had no clear destination in mind, but was somehow relieved when she landed in the middle of her parents' living room. The house seemed eerily silent, altered in some permanent,ineffable way since she'd been there last, though nothing was out of place. Her parents, and her other self, were still in the hospital.
Sinking down on the settee, suddenly bone-weary, Hermione examined the thin volume in her lap.
"Specialis revelio," she tossed out, figuring it was worth a shot. No sooner had she spoken the words than ink began to appear upon the smooth paper. There were dozens of unintelligible diagrams and pages upon pages of obscure calculations. She leafed through these with confusion, until she came upon a block of writing, and began to read:
...
Today is a good day.
Arcarus Rockwood is dead - a retribution long, long overdue.
They called the entire department to St. Mungos to pay our respects, and with my luck, of course I end up sat by the bereaved: widow Rockwood, who surely must have wept a sea already, and her accursed spawn, Augustus. How I despise the hypocrisy of funerals, the endless reminiscences - but carefully revised! - about the dead one loathed in life, the second-rate hors d'oeuvres, the way the blacks don't match. My gods, I hope upon my death they have the decency to burn me where I lay, and let that be the end.
Coward that he was, Arcatus waited til his death-bed to confess to me in writing what I've already known for years. But, I care not for your apologies, old man! Go beg forgiveness from the Reaper, and may he kick you in the pants for your trouble.
My mother's name has turned to acid on the tongues of her former colleagues, and it is due to you! She ought to be remembered as the greatest researcher that ever lived, and not some tragic parable about meddling with cosmic forces. I hope the poison fruit of your ambition festered like an ulcer, tormenting you slowly before it led you to the grave.
I must confess - your mere death has left me unsatisfied.
…
Hermione turned the page, but the back was covered in more calculations. There were other bits of text, but it was hardly a journal - more like a collection of unconnected observations.
...
The eldest Black daughter came by again, demanding answers in that way she has, as though it is she that is doing you the favor. The boys in the office can't get enough of her; they loiter nearby, pretending to file, trying to catch a whiff of her perfume. Ah, to be young and beautiful, and full of the unshakable belief that life still owes you something!
Little do you suspect, my girl, that you won't really see yourself til decades hence, when the first blush of youth has long since faded from you cheeks - only then, in the cold, clear light of middle age, will you dare to turn that imperious judgement inward.
But finding me indifferent to her petulant threats, she's flounced away upstairs again. Nobody likes it down here in the great Basement of Mysteries, besides the rats and me. Our benevolent overlords on the Wizengamot Appropriations Committee have slashed my budget yet again, and I've been forced to reassign young Bode, my assistant. They fear my work and hope to starve me out of my position, but the only way I'll be leaving this office before the job is done is in handcuffs. Or a body bag. Whichever comes first.
…
All your life, you think of yourself as an average person, and then the day comes when others start avoiding sharing a lift with you. They call you "Mad-house Min" behind your back, afraid that if they get too close, the inertia of their mediocrity will give way, and you'll pull them up into your stellar orbit. They would only be so lucky!
So here I sit - at the very apex of my career, having today not only travelled back in time 300 years, but made a safe return - certain that this knowledge will never be allowed to see the light of day. They have already dug my grave, though I am still alive, and loiter at the ledge just waiting for a chance to push me in.
But first, I will undo the wrongs which have destroyed my family. I will destroy Rockwood.
The wizard who sent my mother back with a faulty time turner. Were you merely lost in the excitement of a new discovery? Was her life an acceptable sacrifice in the pursuit of science? Or did you deliberately plan her death to steal her research and her job? These are answers I will never have.
But I know that she came back half-dead, I know that she was getting better, and I certainly know that you kidnapped her from St. Mungos and forced her to jump.
You have taken so much from me that merely taking your life won't be enough. No, I will take your family, your legacy, your name, as you have taken hers. I will wipe your ancestors from the face of the earth. I will kill you by making sure you were never born.
...
It is widely believed that while the past can be visited, it cannot be changed. And, indeed, some will find that circumstances either prevent the change completely, or that their efforts were already always a part of the course of events. But to conduct a close examination of my mother's case is to admit that it is indeed possible to change the past, or more accurately, to rechannel it's eternal waters to a different shore.
I've spent decades trying to understand why her journey resulted in the non-existence of the 25 who were unborn when she returned, and I conclude that her behavior in the 14th century was the cause. You see, my mother was a woman of some refinement, a woman to whom the brutal world of the Middle Ages must have seemed like hell on earth. So, when she came upon a group of innocent muggles accused of witchcraft, she freed them from their fiery fate, and set in motion a series of events that would eventually lead to the demise of their substitutes in our own time.
Death is an immutable fact, an inevitably - but an indiscriminate one. Energy must pass from being to being, but the specific origin and the specific destination don't matter. It is only crucial that balance be maintained. For a life to be saved, another life - somewhere, somehow - must be taken.
My own experiments during my sojourn to the 17th century have given credence to this theory -
...
Hermione turned the page, but there was nothing on the back, as though the author had been called away mid-sentence.
She recalled that Judith was in prison for a murder she evidently committed during this "soujourn to the 17th century", and wondered whether she'd done it just to test a theory. At any rate, it was clear that the witch had a tenuous relationship with her own sanity. Still, Hermione couldn't help but feel a stab of pity, especially since she knew what had become of her. Her youth had been so tragic, and she'd been able to find neither justice nor peace in her life.
Sinking back into the cushions wearily, Hermione shut the book in her lap, but the moment she did, the pages caught alight, withering to a pile of ash in her hands before she could think to grab her wand. Strangely, this neither frightened nor frustrated her, but seemed, somehow, an appropriate closure to this unhappy tale.
She knew only that she didn't want her life to end like Judith's. And, knowing that, her path was plain to see.
Balance. It all came down to balance.
She'd utterly misunderstood its relevance before, but now she knew what Judith meant when she'd spoken of the symmetry of the hour glass. The sand flowed from one vessel to the other, back and forth - nothing added, nothing lost.
Energy must pass from being to being, but the specific origin and the specific destination don't matter. For a life to be saved, another life - somewhere, somehow - must be taken.
Thus, Hermione found herself at the bedside of Mr. Engel, her parents' partner in their dentistry practice, who'd been inside the car during the accident, and was still recovering. He'd suffered a few abrasions, a broken arm, and a concussion, and, despite his considerable age, was likely to be the first of the four to be released. Hermione had known him her entire life, had viewed him as something of a grandfather figure.
Grabbing ahold of the pillow before her resolve crumbled completely, she took a shaking breath and placed it over his face.
Seconds passed in utter stillness, and then he gulped for breath, and started to struggle.
His hands flailed wildly, grasping at her, and she began to use force, leaning into him with all of her body weight. Though he fought valiantly at first , Mr. Engel soon tired and, dropping his arms, spasmed unnaturally, as though electrocuted.
The heart-monitor beside him took up a frantic beat, as if begging her to stop in his stead, and Hermione drew back in shock, dropping the pillow.
Mr. Engel took long, gasping breaths, his face florid, his eyes blood-shot. He gazed around in bewilderment, right through the still-invisible Hermione, searching for his would-be assassin. A nurse rushed in, and seeing the state of her patient, called reinforcements. As the room filled with people fussing about the terrified old man, Hermione made her retreat.
She stood in the doorway of her mother's room, staring transfixed at the figure on the bed, for what seemed like a small eternity. The feeling of deja-vu was gnawing at her stomach, and she'd never imagined that it could possibly be worse than the first time, but it was. It was so much worse.
"Mum," she whispered, drawing near to lean over the unconscious woman, "I think I'm going mad."
Hermione had never thought that she could seriously harm anyone, but there she was, moments after having tried to take a life. Was it really her who'd done that? All of it seemed like some terrible, surreal, too-vivid dream.
Forcing her fist against her teeth to trap a sob, she realized that her parents would hate her if they knew. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried."
But there was no response, no forgiveness, no condemnation. Her mother lay oblivious, lost to the distant land of dreams.
"But I couldn't do it," Hermione brokenly confessed. "I just couldn't - "
Suddenly, an alarm sounded out in the hall, followed by the rush of footsteps.
"What the hell happened? He was fine a minute ago!" called the nurse with the nasally voice.
"I don't know," another nurse responded. "Get the defibrillator in here. It's like his heart's just … stopped."
Hermione gasped in shock. Hadn't she just left him alive? Gasping, winded, but still - alive?
And she was fully intending to go investigate, but a strange tingling in her wrist drew her attention. She watched in awe as, right before her eyes, the jagged scar across her skin turned white, and faded completely away.
Shameless reference to "A Wrinkle in Time" here ;)
