Chapter 15. 1994


As the fine, golden chain of the Time-Turner tangled in Ron's fingers, Hermione's fingers twitched, the urge to snatch it away strong. Oblivious, Ron lifted the tiny hourglass to peer at it and she burst out, "Just be very careful!" His eyes met hers. "It's fragile."

Ron nodded seriously, rearranging his fingers until Hermione could breathe a bit better. His blue eyes examined the Time-Turner with mild interest before he carefully passed it off to Harry, who Hermione was pleased to see had stopped his absent musing. Harry's deft Seeker's fingers handled the gold chain with ease. He looked at the hourglass curiously.

"What makes the sand move like that?" he asked, and Hermione was just glad he was thinking of something other than Sirius Black.

"I'm not exactly sure," Hermione said, frowning. It had been the first question she'd asked Professor McGonagall when she had given her the Time-Turner and yet... "I tried looking it up in the library but apparently, the ministry is very secretive about time magic. Which," she added on second thought, "does make sense I suppose." Didn't mean it wasn't disappointing, though.

"Shame," Harry said.

"Yeah," Hermione sighed. Everything she knew about Time-Turners came from vague textbook descriptions and her own observa— "Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten!" The inscription! She'd read it so many times, she had it memorized. "If you look closely at the metal, there's an inscription that says—"

"Oi, Potter!"

Oh great. Hermione knew that voice. She stood, resigning herself to the immensely aggravating presence of Draco Malfoy, and Harry and Ron's inevitable, predictable aggression. It was only Ron's disturbed "News? What news?" that threw her off. Her eyes nervously met Harry's.

"I'm sure it'll come as a bit of a nasty shock… I don't think you want to hear it," Malfoy said with mock concern, and that was quite enough of that, thank you.

"Just spit it out, Malfoy," she said crossly, "And if it's about Sirius Black, we already know so you can save your breath."

Malfoy's grin was positively feral. "Not Black, no. But his filthy, half-breed pal Lupin, yes."

The three of them froze as his words sunk in. He knew. Malfoy's awful grin widened.

"Oh, so you knew then, did you?" He laughed. "Of course. Figures you lot would be fine with a mutt like that teaching."

"You shut your mouth!" Harry spat, and righteous anger clenched Hermione's fists as Malfoy continued spewing his hateful, prejudiced vitriol until—

"No wonder Lupin resigned."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"He resigned?" Harry blurted out, and oh god, this was the last thing he needed.

Malfoy refused to let up. "Heard he's packing as we speak," he gloated.

Stress twisted Harry's face as he turned to Hermione and Ron. "I need to see him."

"But Harry, if he's resigned—"

"—I don't think there's anything you can do."

"I don't care. I still want to see him," Harry insisted, turning towards the castle, and gold flashed.

She spoke without thinking. "Harry wait, the Time-Tur—"

Oh. Oh no.

The silence was deafening and if what she said hadn't been suspicious...

"The what?" Malfoy asked dangerously. What had she done? Hermione's mind raced, searching for an answer, a solution, anything to say before—

"None of your business, Malfoy."

Oh no.

"I think it is, actually."

"Wait—"

"Expelliarmus!"

"Protego!"

Harry's spell came a moment too late.

Gold sparkled and fear lit her blood like dragon fire. A shriek escaped her lips with the same ease the Time-Turner escaped Harry's fingers, the tiny hourglass arcing through the air, hitting his glasses, and—

And shattering.

Glittering sand rained down on Harry—how did such a small hourglass contain this much sand—before he collapsed, invisible marionette strings cut.

"No!" she cried, arm reaching out.

"Harry!" Ron immediately dropped to his knees beside him. "Harry wake up!"

The sight was too much to bear. "What did you do?!" Hermione shrieked, whirling on Malfoy who was just standing there, skin white, mouth gaping uselessly. "What did you do?!"

"I—I—" Draco stammered, backing away. "Was that a fucking Time-Turner?"

"You don't get to ask questions, Malfoy," Hermione snarled at him, and his face grew impossibly paler.

"He's not waking up!"

Fiery rage was doused with fear and she whipped back to see Harry sprawled out on the ground. He was so so still. Ron hovered over him, face pinched, eyes red. The sight sobered her, her fear crystallizing, sharp and hard in her chest. "Go get help." Her voice was biting.

"Who?!" Malfoy asked, panicking.

"ANYONE YOU BLOODY IDIOT!" Ron roared.

Malfoy sprinted.


"It'll be okay," Hermione muttered for the thousandth time. "It'll be alright. Professor Dumbledore is in there. And Professor McGonagall. And Madam Pomphrey knows what she's doing, of course."

Ron watched her pace in front of the Hospital Wing door from his spot on the cold stone floor, numb. He'd long since given up on responding. It had been hours since they'd been unceremoniously thrown out by a snarling Snape.

"Professor Snape can brew anything," Hermione continued, "Professor Dumbledore is in there. They'll figure it out."

A small noise, like someone clearing their throat, caught Ron's attention. It took a great effort to turn his head to the side.

"It'll be ok—" Hermione froze mid-turn.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

"You. Have a lot of nerve." Hermione's voice trembled with rage.

Ron began to stand.

Malfoy visibly swallowed, eyes flicking to sides, no doubt planning an escape route. Ron slowly started toward him. If he hadn't been cold with numb wrath, Ron would've been surprised when the bloody coward didn't run, instead drawing up resolve and squaring his shoulders.

"I'm sorry."

This did surprise Ron, but not enough to stop him.

"You will be," Hermione hissed, and Ron saw her level her wand at Malfoy out of the corner of his eyes.

Malfoy flinched, eyes darting between Ron, who continued to calmly approach him, and Hermione's wand. "I know. I know. I'm sorry, okay? I never meant to hurt him."

"Liar!" Hermione shrieked and the dim hallway flared with a red light that briefly cast a massive shadow before Ron; Hermione's wand had no doubt spat sparks in her fury. "You're always trying to hurt him!"

Malfoy was no longer watching him, too frightened by Hermione's overt hostility. Ron had become an afterthought.

"Look, I'm trying to apolo—"

Ron's fist smashed into Malfoy's jaw. The dull thud was louder than he expected, amplified by the empty corridor, and pain exploded in his hand as Malfoy crashed to the floor with a "FUCK!" that he did expect.

He stared down at Malfoy, a tangled mess of robes and limbs on the stone. The Slytherin was clutching his jaw, speechless, eyes wet with tears.

"Piss off, Malfoy."

Ron turned and stalked back to his spot, sinking to the floor again to wait for news.


"Up now, you two."

The words were gentle, the hand on Hermione's shoulder even more so. Her eyes cracked open to find Professor McGonagall kneeling in front of her, face weary. She lifted her head off someone's shoulder, groggy and sore, her mind slowly attempting to catch up—

"Harry," Ron said, and oh, so that's who she had fallen asleep on, because... She gasped as if drenched in freezing water as it all came back to her.

"Harry," she echoed, numb, "Is he—?"

"You can see him now," Professor McGonagall said. It was all they needed to hear. They both scrambled to their feet. As they did so, the door in front of them opened.

"Minerva, are you certain this is... wise?" Professor Snape's voice was silky as he leaned against the door frame, and Hermione felt a rush of hate. She felt Ron stiffen by her side.

"Yes, Severus," Professor McGonagall snapped, "I am quite sure." She placed a reassuring hand on one of both Ron and Hermione's shoulders. "Go on."

Professor Snape stepped to the side almost lazily and they rushed inside the Hospital Wing. Hermione immediately squinted at the early morning light pouring through the windows.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger." She turned her head, blinking to see Professor Dumbledore standing next to one of the hospital beds. It was occupied. "I'm sorry to have kept you from him for so long. Come."

Harry's body looked so small from where she was standing and suddenly, Hermione didn't want to come, her fear of what she'd find paralyzing. Unthinkingly, she reached out to Ron only to find him doing the same. Their hands tangled together, gripping each other like a lifeline.

"Is he okay?" she asked, voice smaller than she'd like.

"We removed every last grain of Time Sand with great effort," Professor Dumbledore said softly and that was not an answer. Either way, it was enough to nudge them forward, and finally, they saw him.

Harry looked like he was sleeping.

"What's wrong with him?" Ron asked bluntly.

"We are not sure." Professor Dumbledore looked exhausted and somber.

Hermione stared down at Harry, at his chest rising and falling. "He's breathing."

"Yes," the old man nodded. "By all appearances, it would seem Harry is asleep."

"But he's not?" Ron asked.

"Time will tell," Professor Dumbledore said seriously, and Hermione?

Hermione was breaking. Laughing, crying, hysterical.

Ron was yelling, hugging, smoothing her hair.

And Harry was still.


Hermione had had the minty taste of Calming Draught on her tongue when Harry's eyes first opened. It had been Ron who noticed it first, who had gasped and yelled for Madam Pomfrey, and honestly, the Calming Draught stood no chance. Any semblance of artificial peace within her had vanished, replaced with pure adrenaline.

This was it, she had thought. The moment Harry came back to them.

Then his eyes had slipped shut less than a minute later, and her hopes had withered.


Lavender Brown was more than familiar with Hermione's study habits at this point, having roomed together long enough. By now, she was pretty confident she could tell just how invested Hermione was in a topic based on how late she stayed up reading, wand-light peeking through the curtain cracks, or by how many times she overheard Harry or Ron reminding her to eat or drink.

This though... This was a whole other level.

In the week after the mysterious "accident," Hermione poured everything into her research, becoming ruthless and unforgiving both to others and herself in her pursuit of answers to questions Lavender didn't even know. She'd even dragged Ron into it. When Hermione and Ron weren't in the Hospital wing, they were together, sending out letter after letter and tackling book after book with a ferocity that almost scared her. Lavender didn't know when Hermione was sleeping and couldn't remember the last time she'd seen either she or Ron eat.

And then Hermione had skipped class. Multiple classes.

Lavender tried to bring it up to her once only for Hermione to snap at her. "Last I checked, Lavender, we need to be on the Hogwarts Express in — Tempus — four days, nine hours, and thirty-four minutes. Ron and I plan to do that with Harry at our side."

Lavender had decided to shut up then.


Normally at this hour, on the last day of the semester, the Gryffindor common room was empty, the fire in the fireplace left to sputter out to soft, glowing embers. That was not the case in 1994. The crackling fire instead was lively, fed dry logs throughout the night that left splinters in Ron's fingers. He was picking at one now as he leaned back in a cushy red armchair.

"'I mark the hours, every one,'" Hermione recited aloud as she sat cross-legged on the rug surrounded by stacks of books, "'Nor have I yet outrun the Sun. My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do.'"

Ron frowned deeply, pinching his thumb with his nails to squeeze the sliver of wood out. "Again."

"'I mark the hours, every one, Nor have I yet outrun the Sun. My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do,'" she repeated. "Remember, it's inscribed—"

"On the outer ring of metal, I know." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't..." He buried his head in his hands, exhausted. "I don't get it. Maybe... No, it broke. That can't be relevant. What about the sand?"

"Yeah, er, one—one mo." She began to rifle through the stacks, tossing books aside with fervor as she searched until— "Here! 'Advanced Geomagicks: A Comprehensive Review of Metallic and Stone Particulates.' I found it yesterday."

Ron looked at the old book in her hands. "That's ancient," he said doubtfully.

"It was the best I could find, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said crossly. "None of the other Geomagick books go into magical sand with as much depth as this one does."

"Okay, okay," he said defensively, "I'm sorry. Did you find anything useful?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I've skimmed it all but only really properly read the first couple of chapters. The closest I could find to Time Sand described pockets of gold sand deep in the Sahara desert, but as of—" she flipped the cover open, no doubt looking for the publishing date, "—1939, researchers were unable to get any closer than fifty meters before they mysteriously wound up miles away. We need to follow up on it." Her eyebrows knit together. "Somehow."

Her worry was plain. "Flourish and Blotts takes mail orders and so help me I will get to Diagon Alley even if I have to buy Floo powder myself," Ron declared firmly. "We won't stop researching just 'cause we don't have the Hogwarts Library, Hermione."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "Yeah," she breathed. "We won't stop."

The soothing crackles of the fire washed over them and Ron's eyes wandered to the window.

The sky was grey.


It took four days after the school year ended for the news to reach the Daily Prophet. BOY-WHO-LIVED COMATOSE AFTER THE BREAK-IN AND ESCAPE OF SIRIUS BLACK! the headline screamed, complete with a black-and-white photograph of Harry in a hospital bed. He was so still the photo looked almost Muggle.

It wasn't a very informative article. The author, Rita Skeeter, spent the better half of it wildly speculating as to the Dark spells Black must've performed to leave Harry like this and the rest of it bashing Dumbledore and the minister for supposedly collaborating to cover it up. The general public, already displeased with the scandalous escape reported a week prior, was livid about having been lied to and devastated to see their young hero hurt like this.

Neville was devastated too. Devastated because when he had imagined his friends in the Spell Damage ward, it was with him, providing the support he was finally brave enough to ask for as he visited what was left of his parents. Not this. Not Harry Potter lying there three beds down from his mother's.

"Poor boy," his grandmother whispered, and Neville could only nod.


The wizarding world waited with bated breath for Harry Potter to wake, but as the months passed and nothing changed, the public's attention shifted. The lavish donations to St. Mungos made popular by Lucius Malfoy of all people ("On behalf of my generous son, Draco.") began to slow.

A shame, they said. Horrific. How could the best and brightest of the world's healers fail Harry Potter so?

But alas, things returned to normal, and the headlines shifted their attention to more mundane issues—to politics and magical advancements and the odd memorial. The search for Sirius Black still continued, of course, though without much success, and if there were any odd deaths or disappearances, surely they were the work of the madman who put Harry Potter in a coma.

The madman who waited until their guards were down to strike.

STILL-COMATOSE BOY-WHO-LIVED NEARLY STRANGLED TO DEATH BY DISGUISED DEVIL'S SNARE!

The headline was explosive, the public outrage even more so. How could this have happened?! The negligence was appalling! And Sirius Black. How depraved was he to need to finish off a boy who could do nothing but lie there?

The donations returned in full force and security was increased. Harry Potter, the public was informed, had been moved to a private, well-guarded ward to heal. He was expected to fully recover—from the damage inflicted by the Devil's Snare at least.


The warm weight of Fawkes on his shoulder grounded Albus Dumbledore as he read the latest report on Harry Potter's medical status.

"16th of September, 1994. The patient shows no signs of improvement," he read and Fawkes let out a mournful cry that echoed the one in his heart. "Rather," it continued, "the patient appears to be opening his eyes with less and less regularity. The duration of such episodes has also been decreasing. See attached. Not promising. Please advise."

Albus studied the detailed accompanying scroll filled with all sorts of measurements and data and frowned. "Not promising, indeed," he whispered. Without pause, he summoned the monitoring device he had painstakingly designed over the summer. Made of glass, it looked like a modified Remembrall, but instead of smoke, golden Time Sand swirled inside. Albus tapped his wand on the glass and the sand split in two, pooling on opposite sides of the glass ball. A flowing line of gold still connected the two pools but it seemed thinner than usual. Not good. The parchment dropped from his hand onto the desk. He carefully placed the monitoring device next to it.

Just then his favorite cuckoo clock began to chime. Fawkes butted his head against his cheek and cooed chidingly.

"I know my friend," Albus whispered. It was so very late. He stood and walked over to his beautiful phoenix's perch; Fawkes hopped onto it. "I will sleep."

Exhaustion would not help Harry Potter.

It was with that thought that Albus left his office, plunging his office into darkness with a click of his Deluminator. He didn't look back. Perhaps if he had, he would've seen the glowing, flowing line of gold snap.

Either way, when he woke hours later, it was to the news that Harry Potter was dead.