31 October 2114
Isle of Dead, Hogwarts
It was odd not having Harry Potter and Ron Weasley at her back, even all these decades later, the three of them against the world just as it had always been for most of their lives. Three little Gryffindors shouldering the weight of the world, taking it by storm. At least that had been the idea, the rose-tinted altruistic idea; one in which had completely shattered as the Second Wizarding War had drawn to a close. Things hadn't changed that much at first, there had been a shit ton of red tape to wade through in order to reform Wizarding Britain and no one (bar the few fanatics) wanted a repeat of the First War. Then there was the decision to return to Hogwarts to complete her final year of Hogwarts, something in which Harry and Ron had seen no sense in doing. It had been the first of the real cracks between the three.
Ron, high on the infamy granted to him as a war hero, had ridden the wave and wealth offered to him as far as he possibly could. Which usually meant delving into his suddenly deep pocket as if it were never ending. It had been a rather big shock to the ginger when it had run out and even more so when he had turned to family and friends for support—people, mind you, that he had originally shunned as being below him in those few months of wealth. That had been the second crack.
Harry had predictably joined the Ministry as an Auror-in-training, sailing through the programme with little difficulty (whether due to his reputation or experience was still up for debate). Although Hermione was always a little smug when he wrote her, sourly complaining about relearning all the defensive basics. His departure from her life wasn't as drastic as Ron's had been, instead it was more of a gradual decline. Following his pursuit and marriage of one Ginevra Weasley, the pair had just simply drifted apart. One consumed by work, the other by family. That was the third crack.
Looking back on it, Hermione couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had she put a little more effort into staying in touch. Would she have married Ronald? Would she be a mother? Would her parents (still not quite the same from their obliviation) have been grandparents? They were lonely questions, sad questions, ones that she often tried to ignore, although it wasn't always easy particularly as old age appeared to be the age of reminiscence & regret. But those days were long gone, buried alongside the very childhood friends whom she so dearly missed, leaving her to wander the British Isles all alone.
And then there was Hogwarts herself. Gone was the crumbling stone walls and burning trees, instead replaced by the impressive castle she had come to know and love over her years at the school. The walls once bare from the spoils of war, had been refilled by the late Headmistress McGonagall who had commissioned several new works of art depicting fallen comrades & family, as a kind of memoriam for them. It was sweet, if a little hard to see her classmates and friends happily chatting to the ghosts or having champagne with the Fat Lady. She had spent many a-day during her seventh year at Hogwarts (having returned to finish her schooling) in front of some of those portraits just weeping.
The elderly woman would've loved nothing more than to pursue the endless halls of her alumni with just the portraits as company. Perhaps she would have visited Fred's portrait to tell him of his brothers' adventures, or maybe she would've gone down to the kitchens to see the little House elves still tinkering away down there, covered in soot and flour or perhaps she would stargaze from the vandalised Astronomy tower. But that was not why she was here, not tonight. It was not why the full moon still shone overhead like a beacon. It wasn't why the usually barren Scottish isle was currently occupied, nor why her desecrated headmaster's tomb stood as her altar, or even why the dormant Eldritch egg lay at her leathered feet.
Eldritch monsters were rather curious creatures, things—beings of the Void that very rarely crossed through the Veil to cause destruction and chaos in this world. Those few—those brave, stupid few—who carried the eggs, like this one, across the planes had barely tapped into the potentials of such creatures (if they survived the journey, that is). Where dragon hide was widely known to be used in a multitude of ways, Eldritch eggs were (so far) used for the one sole purpose; something in which Theodore Nott had discovered in his work as an Unspeakable in the Time Vault. Plied with firewhiskey, the Slytherin boy had let slip how the eggs where the original source for time turners—how they were the original source for time travel to begin with. It had been a fascinating story, and a disastrous kidnapping; one for the ages, really.
Shaking her head as if to physically clear the memory from her mind, Hermione returned to the task at hand. It had taken her a long time to find the items she had needed for this particular ritual—an Eldritch egg, the Unholy regalia smelted down into a morning star, the holy sight of Hogwarts' isle of dead—and even longer to ready herself for the task at hand. Nott, despite not knowing it, had been a great help in divulging what information he knew about time travel—even if he been hammered at the time and far more interested in talking about the discrepancies between women and dragons.
At her back sat the ruins of the ancient groundskeeper's quarters, the ones that had once been used back during Merlin's time. The ghosts of those long-passed seemed to be judging her as she reached for her little drawstring bag and stuffed the item into her bra. This time, she was far more prepared for the dangers they would face, the bag baring more than just a few cans of food and a tent; one could almost consider it a doomsday bunker, if wizards even had those. Next was the morning star, (a medieval spiked ball and chain—similar to a mace) which she held loosely in her hand, trying her very best not to drop it on her foot. With a fair amount of effort she was able to pick up the bowling ball-sized Eldritch egg and heft it up to her chest before she shuffled over to the area she had marked for the ritual.
Carefully stepping over tarnished stones and around burning candles (as much as old bones could), Hermione spared a glance towards her wand where it remained faithfully strapped to her scarred wrist, as if protecting her from the horror of the memory it caused, or perhaps reminding her why she was doing this in the first place. This time would be different, she would make sure of it. Hefting the egg higher, she lifted her chin to the heavens as if stubbornly denying their fates cast upon them, just as Nott's words of warning came to mind. "…Why're—hic—why're you so interested—hic—in—in ole magics anyway, Granger? You—hic—y'know they're dang—dan—bad, right? Most of it's pretty—hic—pretty dark stuff and—hic—and, if you're in for a knut, you're in for a galleon. Once you start, you—hic—you can't stop—stop for nothin'…"
"I know, Nott" Hermione muttered to herself as if talking any louder would awaken the dead. "But I hate losing" Setting her shoulders back and standing straight with feet apart like the soldier she was (you never really got rid of that, she found) and began the ritual. Swinging the morning star above her head like a propeller, the words she'd practised time and time again flowed from her bluing lips, the cold evening making her breath barely visible by candlelight as she chanted. "Dei tempus, sit nobis reddere, iter recipere, ut heri" Around her the world began to blur as the egg in her hand heated up with otherworldly magics. The incantation repeated over and over, words flowing into each other until they no longer made sense and then all at once she was gone.
Hermione wasn't aware if anything had worked when she had arrived in the past, all that she knew was when she had stopped chanting both the morning star and the Eldritch egg had disappeared from hands as if they had never been there. Sparing a quick minute to check herself over, the witch found that she was no longer the 135 year old woman she had been, instead regressed to her 13 year old self. It would appear that the sacrifice mentioned in the texts about the ritual pertained to more than just the usual mind-bending issues related to time travel. At the very least, it was nice change for all the aches and pains that came with old age, to disappear, instead replaced by the full body ache that seemed to pulse as bones shrank & weathered skin retracted into a previous stage of youth.
"Right" Hermione brushed herself off and went about shrinking her clothes down enough sizes to fit properly before she made her way to the little jetty that jutted out from the isle. Hopping inside one of the little rickety boats docked there, she sank to the floor as it began to trundle its way across the still lake and towards the shore. "Ooh! My head!" She groaned, leaning forward to clutch at her aching skull. Accompanied by the full body ache that coursed through her bones, she felt like her bones were trying to reconstruct themselves beneath her marred skin—which they were, in a sense. "This must've been what Harry had to deal with when Ma'am Pomfrey regrew is bones! Eurgh!"
Soon enough, the little boat had docked itself at the shore on the outskirts of Hogwarts, letting the young witch disembark and head towards the castle, hoping to blend in with the crowds following the end of the Triwizard Tournament. If all had gone well, then she would have arrived just as Harry had been bundled up to the hospital wing. But as she trekked through the dense undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest something seemed…off. It may have been late in the evening, but even then the commotion of the Third event had kept everyone well up passed curfew the last time around. Friends had slept in beds together, Mrs Weasley had swaddled all of her children (adopted and otherwise) into her arms like a mother hen and the castle had effectively gone on lockdown.
But there was none of that here now. Standing on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, Hermione stared up at the gleaming castle filled with a cocktail of feelings, her gaze flittering back and forth between the Quidditch pitch, which remained unmarred by the large hedge maze once placed there. And then there was this feeling in the air, something electric that she would have typically brushed off as a slip of accidental magic running through her curls or the beginnings of a lightning storm on the horizon.
She disappeared with a crack, not giving a second thought to the fact that you couldn't apparate on Hogwarts grounds, and yet she had. Stumbling slightly upon arrival, Hermione clutched at her pounding head as black dots danced across her vision. There was a pain in her wrist over her brand like something had pierced through the skin there. Some part of her believed that the letters—the pain had been etched into her soul. As it turned out, the ritual had taken far more out of her than she had first believed. But that still didn't stop her from staring dumbly up at the pumpkin-littered doorstep of Potter Cottage, nor the snow-covered stoop. "That's…not right" She blinked dumbly at the fully bright and upright house before her.
The faint tingle of weak wards glittered before her, turning the visage of the previously broken Potter's cottage a little murky. She'd come to Godric's Hollow on nothing more than a whim, something in the back of her mind niggling at her brain when she reappeared and seen the seemingly tranquil grounds of Hogwarts. When did she get use to the chaos? Everyone knew the dangers of delving into the murky waters that were the old magics, but who could ever know that this is what would come of it? Who knew delving into old magics would end like this?