Out of Time

By Rurouni Star
Chapter 1 – Meetings

"Time is that quality of nature which keeps events from happening all at once. Lately it doesn't seem to be working."
-Anonymous

The days didn't fly by half as well as they used to.

Possibly, this was because Hermione was putting in thirty-hour days.

Hermione groaned, rubbing at her temples and trying to ignore the racket in the common room. She'd made it through Defense Against the Dark Arts (a preliminary abstract of what she knew of Grindylows), Herbology (two rolls of parchment on the kinds of plants usually found in the Hogwarts area, along with some of their qualities), and she was trying to write her Transfiguration paper on Animagus, but her concentration was wavering. And, she had to admit, it wasn't all everyone else's fault—she half wanted to listen to all the things one could do in Hogsmeade. Part of her mind had gone off on a tangent, already plotting what she was going to do tomorrow during their first Hogsmeade visit.

Hermione really did feel bad that Harry couldn't go with them, but she was half grateful for it at the same time. Ever since Harry had told her that Sirius Black was trying to kill him, she had inevitably started the worry process. Hermione brought her quill to her mouth unconsciously, chewing it nervously. Trouble always seemed to follow Harry. She had a feeling that something involving Black would happen by the end of the year, possibly also involving Harry and the Hospital Wing. That was just how things went.

She sighed as she realized she was getting nowhere with Transfiguration. Perhaps she should just call it a night after all, and do the essay on Sunday. But oh, she still had Muggle Studies and Arithmancy—

"Zonko's is amazing, of course, but we've made better stuff in our free time," Fred was saying loudly.

"If you want to get a quick laugh, then all right, but we've been, and you can make better dungbombs by yourself," George added.

Hermione shot them both dirty looks, but it would have taken a miracle for either of the twins to notice her expression. Hermione had stuffed herself into a corner with her books; Fred and George were, by comparison, currently swarmed by eager third-years. Then again, even had the twins seen her look, she doubted they would much care.

Hermione rose from her seat with a sigh, slipping her books in her bag and stifling a yawn. There was no help for it. She'd have to go to the library.

No one noticed as she went, of course, but that was fine. She liked going unnoticed… well, most of the time.

The portrait opened for her, and she slipped through, hiking up the bookbag that slid stubbornly down one shoulder. The Fat Lady muttered something about discourteous students swinging her around at all hours of the night, but Hermione ignored her and trudged onward tiredly. She reached the empty corridor before the library and turned a corner, eyes concentrated on the flagstone floor. The thought hit her that if she somehow managed to get all her homework done tonight, she'd be able to actually sleep on Sunday—

A hand clamped over her mouth—an arm moved around her waist to squeeze her arms against her sides. Hermione's eyes widened in panic, even as a harsh voice whispered in her ear:

"Don't move."

Hermione knew who it was—who it had to be—and therefore decided that she was disinclined to obey. Instead, she brought her foot down onto the foot next to her, and bit hard into the hand over her mouth, struggling to reach her wand. The man behind her seemed prepared for this, though, and all her efforts got her was the taste of blood, sweat, and dirt, and an awful lot of nasty swearing as she was dragged into a darkened classroom.

Oh god, he's going to kill me! He's going to kill me and leave me out for Harry or someone to find, to scare them all—or maybe he's just doing it because I'm a mudblood—

Hermione thrashed harder, and almost made some headway as he stopped to close the door.

"Would you please stop that?" the man behind her snapped. "It was hard enough to find a time to talk to you!"

The strangeness of the words stopped her for exactly one blank moment.

What?

It was just long enough for him to wrench her wand out of her hand. Her wand. Dash it all, why hadn't she tried to choke out a spell earlier? The opportunity was gone now, unless she somehow found the means to wrestle it from a dangerous convict. The slightest chill of fear trickled down her spine at the realization that she was now trapped, unarmed, and essentially now one unremarkable thirteen-year old girl against a full-grown wizard. Hermione forced herself to ignore the growing terror; she knew that if she acknowledged the feeling, it would only grow to an incapacitating size.

"Good," the man behind her muttered, mistaking her pause for acquiescence. "Now—if I let you go, will you promise not to scream?"

Hermione decided that now was an excellent time to stretch her lying skills. She nodded enthusiastically. Was he mad? She was going to scream so loud that the combined residents of Hogwarts would probably think they'd gotten a new ghost.

"Oh for—" There was an irritated grunt from behind her. Then: "Silencio!"

With her own wand, no less. Good god, how humiliating. Those tight-clenched hands released Hermione easily now, and the panic began to rise, pounding behind her eyes. Was he going to torture her first? What in god's name did he want?

She stumbled forward as far away from the man behind her as possible, turning in a clumsy pivot in order to put him in her sights.

The sight of her captor did not reassure her. The man was tall and emaciated, his tattered black robes hanging from him with a looseness that suggested they had once fit a much healthier man. His eyes stared out from dark and limpid hair like smoldering embers. Those eyes were regarding her with mixed feelings, she thought, but perhaps mixed feelings were still a step up from singularly murderous intent.

"A while ago," Sirius Black said slowly, her wand still clenched in his hand, "you said that you would help me. Does that offer hold true, or did you decide to go back on it after all?"

Hermione stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Ah," muttered Black. "I see." He shook his head with what looked like honest disappointment. "Well, it's not as though I didn't expect something of the sort. I suppose I'll have to obliviate you now—where were you going, the library?"

Hermione regained her senses long enough to shake her head wildly, pointing desperately at her throat. She had many, many questions to ask, and this particular memory was much too important to go the way of unimportant Quidditch trivia and facts about dentistry. Sirius Black was in the castle, Harry was in danger, and if Black was asking Hermione what she thought he was, she might be the only person that could warn anyone.

Black eyed her cautiously. It took him a long moment of agonizing decision—but he only waved the wand in a reassuringly familiar gesture, and muttered: "Finite incantatem."

Hermione coughed and muttered something silly, just to make sure she could talk. She looked up at him slowly, fear burning a hole in her stomach.

"You're here for Harry," she stated quietly.

Black laughed, but it was more of a harsh cough than anything amused. "I suppose this means you don't think I'm innocent anymore," he said, and Hermione saw that he was already bringing up her wand again.

She hurried to interrupt him, before he could destroy her memory. "What do you mean, I thought you were innocent—I've never met you before," Hermione told him earnestly. If she acted reasonable, it was possible he would put things off long enough for her to find an escape route.

Black's brow knitted, as though he were trying to remember something. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, perhaps—a little taller, more defined—and no one that's been to Azkaban could look so young…" But he shook his head. "Your name is Hermione Granger, yes?"

Until that moment, Hermione had been shooting darting glances toward the door. At her name, however, she choked and refocused her attention sharply. "Wh-what?"

Sirius Black smiled then, grimly. "You are the same person. It would be because of… ah. You told me to tell you something… in case you forgot." He was eyeing her with interest. His tone of voice said that he would be very interested to know exactly why this condition had needed enumerating.

A thrill of foreboding went down Hermione's spine. He was mad. Worse- he was mad, and he knew her name. But… but some part of her was hesitating, entirely uncharacteristically. It was maybe something about the way he talked. No, perhaps it was something about her, some part of her that wanted to believe... and that made no sense whatsoever.

"What… what did I ask you to tell me?" Hermione inquired, her voice slower and calmer than she'd thought she could manage.

"Help Sirius Black," he said, with a healthy dose of irony to his voice. "That's what you said." He shook his head. "You said to trust yourself. You said it would make sense because of what McGonagall gave you. What does that mean?"

Hermione's mouth went dry.

No.

Well. Maybe.

No! What utter nonsense!

Like any sensible person that had received a timeturner, Hermione had immediately wondered about the implications, the dangers and logistics of going through time so frequently. If Hermione so happened to meet herself, she had determined, she would not overreact as so many witches and wizards had done, but would calmly ask herself what she was doing. And since Hermione was a very sensible witch, Hermione would tell herself exactly what she needed to know, short and sweet, no nonsense whatsoever. In her occasional fantasies, Hermione always very strictly heeded any warnings she gave herself, unlike most any silly hero or heroine did in various time-travel novels.

Hermione bit down hard on her lower lip, now at war with herself. It was so unlikely. So preposterous. But... the need to be sensible, to make sure. There was such a large part of her now leaning on her to listen, listen, just for a moment, and perhaps there will be that perfect explanation which brings it all together...

Sirius Black's haunted eyes watched her carefully for signs of understanding. Apparently he found them, because he lifted up her wand once more—and turned it about, to hand it back to her. "You really have forgotten," he said. "How odd. I suppose I should ask what it is you need to know?"

Hermione took the wand from him numbly. Black's hand was still bleeding from where she'd bitten him, she noticed. It was dripping onto the classroom floor, while he entirely failed to take notice or even to staunch the bleeding. It was one of those little details that jumped out at you for no reason whatsoever.

"I..." Hermione looked back at his face, dazed. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose... you could just start from the beginning?" she offered tentatively. The last vestiges of her very rational fear railed at her quietly as she said it; but this was commitment. There would be no going back from here.

A strange look overcame Black's face—a bit of disbelief, perhaps even a bit of hope. A large weight lifted from his shoulders as she watched.

"You—you believe me," he whispered. "I really thought I was dreaming. I thought they'd finally found a way to suck my only coherent thought from me."

Dangerously—Hermione believed him. That wild look in his eyes—the deep destruction she could see carved into his mind and body—she knew what had done it to him. And worse, she was beginning to suspect that he was (unmercifully) still quite sane.

"Dementors," she whispered.

Black flinched as though she'd struck him, and she found herself regretting the word. "Start from the beginning," she told him again. Black closed his eyes, working hard to compose himself. He moved toward a classroom chair, no doubt ready to give up his footing for quite some time— "No, wait," Hermione interrupted him, with a reluctant look toward the door. "Is there somewhere safer we can go for this?"

Why in god's name am I trusting myself to a mass murderer?

Hermione brushed the thought aside. I am entertaining a hypothesis and getting information at the same time. And I have the only wand.

It was shaky, as self-arguments went, but it was enough for the moment.

"There's—yes," Black murmured, shaking off his exhaustion. "Yes, of course. It would have to be somewhere Moony wouldn't know... right, that leaves one." And then.

And then.

There was a large black dog.

It was bigger than a dog had any right to be, was her first thought. In fact, the word 'dog' barely failed to cover the thing that had suddenly come into existence only a few feet from her, nearly tall enough to reach her neck. 'Dog' was a word used to describe playful, faithful mutts. It did not apply to slavering, mangy black creatures with teeth the size of adult fingers. Its very presence took up the entire room, brooding and menacing in the extreme.

Hermione choked, stumbling backward and lifting her wand. She got out half of a vicious hex before the dog blurred shape once again and became a familiar convict with his hands very carefully lifted between them. "Easy," said Black cautiously, eyes fixed on her wand. "Sorry about that. It's been a while since I've been around… well, people who don't know."

Hermione managed a nod. Barely. Her heart was back to thump-thumping in her chest like a battering ram.

"I'm going to change back," said Sirius Black. "Just in a few moments. That way, no one will stop you in the hallway for following around a convict. Sounds reasonable?"

Hermione nodded again. She didn't trust her voice. She barely trusted her wand-hand, at this point, as it had begun to shake very slightly.

But the dog was already back; this time, it lowered its head to its paws, as though to show deference. Look at harmless me, the posture said. Couldn't hurt a fly. This was possibly less reassuring than intended, being that the dog still had that matted, wild look about it, as well as one bloody paw.

Slowly, the dog straightened itself. It looked her in the eyes—how incredible, the eyes were a dog's as well!—and then it was slinking toward the door of the classroom. It paused to lift one paw, resting it lightly against the wood of the door. It took Hermione a second to realize that Black was asking her, in polite doggie fashion, to use her opposable thumbs on his behalf.

It took Hermione most of her rather impressive Gryffindor courage to walk close enough to the great mangy hound to open the door. She could feel his warmth; could hear his soft, panting breaths. She turned the doorknob with the slightest of quivers, then stepped back abruptly, more worried with the safety of her hands than with showing a bit of very justified trepidation.

Black noticed her fear. It would have been difficult for him not to notice, she thought dimly, him being a dog. She heard a soft, almost worried whine from him; he ducked his head again, in some kind of vague doggie shame. It was such a very pathetic sight that Hermione actually reached out to pat him gingerly on that large head, only halfway aware of what she was doing.

The dog's ragged tail gave one light thump against the stone. It straightened once again, and slid out the half-open door.

And that, Hermione decided, was just enough of that. For the rest of this night, she was going to refuse to be surprised by, well, anything. The healthy thing to do—why, the only thing to do at all—was to save it all up calmly and be awfully surprised later, all at once.

With that settled, it was almost a trivial matter following the large dog down the dark, quiet hallways of Hogwarts. Hallway after hallway—another one, twisting and turning—Hermione walked up stairs and through strange corridors, trying to keep a mental map of it all inside her head.

When they came upon a very final dead-end, Hermione paused, then turned to backpedal for the hallway. Her robe caught as she moved, however, and she looked back to see that the large black dog had taken the very edge of her robe stubbornly in its teeth. It jerked its head (and her robe) gently toward the wall. Hermione stopped and looked at it with a puzzled expression.

The dog spit her robe out, and turned toward the wall once more. Then Sirius Black was back, suddenly and with no fanfare whatsoever, and he was pushing a certain brick on the wall and murmuring a word—patesco—beneath his breath.

And he was walking through the very end of the wall, right where it met another.

He obviously expected Hermione to follow. So she did, of course.

Of course. I have nothing to lose, after all—except my life. And possibly Harry's and Ron's, maybe add in the rebirth of Lord Voldemort if you're feeling generous…

It was still possible, though highly unlikely, that the convict had come up with this story exactly to get her somewhere no one would look for her, and then to kill her, or worse, put her under the Imperius curse, like she'd read they used to do—

He was cleaning away quite a few cobwebs and dust from a low coffee table in front of a couch, and looking strangely pleased about it.

"Hasn't been used," Black muttered. The wall behind Hermione snapped shut neatly, sending clouds of little dust particles billowing around her. Hermione sneezed and tried to brush the light coating of dust from her robes, but she only succeeded in rubbing it in more thoroughly. Finally, she simply pointed her wand at the room and muttered, "Scourgify, damn it all!"

It wasn't a word Hermione usually used (damn, not Scourgify), but she figured she was stressed enough to let off a bit of heat.

The room cleaned up immediately, and Hermione's robes turned good as new. She sighed as her sinuses relaxed in relief, and sat down in a chair across from the couch. She noticed that there were a few rusted old wall sconces with the remnants of torchwood pointing out of them. Hermione pointed at them with her wand, and absently gave them a bit of unburning flame to light the place. Black made himself comfortable on the ratty red divan, his movements now exceptionally wearied and uncomfortable.

Hermione stared at him for a moment, realizing for the first time just how badly off he was. Even knowing that Black was a well-known murderer, Hermione couldn't help but feel her concerned instincts kick in as she imagined how his ribs might be showing beneath the robe. Perhaps she could get some food- but no. No, she was going to get an explanation first.

But after that—if he was, indeed, innocent—then she would be getting him some food.

"I suppose I should start," Black said heavily. "Although honestly, I never expected to be explaining this to a thirteen-year old…"

Hermione scowled, but said nothing. Her age was… a touchy subject, at best. She was used to people looking down on her, of course, even as they told her how brilliant she was- but to have it from a man who'd supposedly killed twelve muggles and a wizard… well, and then there was the part where she was probably the only one stupid enough to listen to his story.

Black didn't seem to notice her disgruntlement. He was concentrating too hard on trying to remember something.

"It started with Hogwarts. I don't know if anyone's deigned to tell you, but I was part of a rather tight-knit group of friends. We thought, rather foolishly and naively, that we could trust each other to the death. Obviously, we were wrong."

Hermione bit back the instinct to say, Weren't you the one that went bad? She was grateful for it, a moment later, when she saw his pained expression.

"Who betrayed you?" she asked instead. It was the intuitive leap, maybe—but even so, she wasn't quite sure how she had made it. The sudden, jarring certainty inside her that it was the right question to ask... that was probably something to do with her adrenaline. It really rather had to be, didn't it?

Black ignored the question, for the moment. Some part of her thought, yes, he's trying to work his way up to talking about it, probably never has. It was the same part of her that had trusted him so instantly, had decided he was in need of a solid meal. "There were four of us," he said. "Peter Pettigrew. Remus Lupin—"

Hermione gasped. "No—Professor Lupin?"

Black looked at her with something that almost resembled amusement. "I didn't expect him to be teaching here, but I was lucky enough to catch sight of him on my way in. The job fits him, I suppose…" He shook his head. "And then, there was James."

Potter, her mind supplied numbly. James Potter.

"Harry's dad," Hermione managed. "But that's—"

"Entirely coincidental, if you ask the Ministry," said Black darkly. "But very important. Because after we graduated, James found out Voldemort was after him and his son. He decided to go into hiding." His face turned grave. "You probably don't know what this is, but his wife, Lily, cast the Fidelius charm—"

"I know what that is," Hermione interrupted, before he could go into explanations. "A secret-keeping spell. It's very complicated, though. I could only make out about half of it."

"Half?" Black said in surprise.

Hermione shifted uneasily. "Yes, well, maybe after this year in Charms… Arithmancy will help quite a bit with the diagrams as well, I should think."

Black shook his head slowly. The expression on his face as he regarded her was now shifting, becoming something slightly more respectful. "No. No, half is… well. Half is more than most wizards would comprehend in a lifetime, unless they were specialized in Charms. Are you?"

Hermione licked her lips and shook her head, suddenly self-conscious. "Maybe you should—" She waved her hand forward nervously, to indicate that he ought to continue.

Black nodded, pushed reluctantly back on-track. He didn't want to talk about it, she could tell. "Yes, well… in any case, I was supposed to be the secret-keeper. It would have been so much easier if I'd let it go at that, but then I had to go and change things up stupidly." His voice turned bitter. "I as good as killed Lily and James. I told them to use Peter at the last minute. We didn't tell anyone, not a soul, not even Dumbledore. Peter was our best friend, the little snake, we couldn't have even imagined..." Black's voice had begun to grow more heated as he went on; his eyes had picked up that terrifying, murderous gleam that Hermione had first been expecting from him. But now, he suddenly lapsed into silence, and his manner went dull and tired. He shook his head minutely, lost in some dark mood.

"He told," Hermione said for him. "He told someone, and you killed him for it."

"Yes," Black said softly, pulling his fingers through matted ebony hair. "I tried to kill him. I messed that up too, now, didn't I?"

Hermione saw the moment when he sank even further into that dark depression. It was blame, self-loathing, that she saw in his slouched form, in the dried brown blood on his neglected hand. It was certainly guilt in that manner, a horrible black guilt that was quite sufficient for murder. But it wasn't mad.

Hermione felt the flutterings of sympathy within her. They were quite unwelcome—Black had still murdered thirteen people in cold blood. But he looked so wracked about it, so pitiful—

"Wait," she said suddenly. "You tried?"

Black looked up at her slowly. It seemed to be an effort on his part. "He didn't kill those muggles for fun," he said dully. "He did it to cover himself. He faked his own death. Even I didn't know, until recently." He tugged a small piece of paper from his robes, and slid it across the table toward her. Hermione looked down at it curiously.

It was stained and crumpled from its long abuse. But she could still make out the paper's name—Daily Prophet—and the family Weasley portrait, all of them waving and smiling up at her through the wrinkles in the paper. Ron, in particular, gave her a sheepish sort of grin, as though to say: Well, er, didn't expect to be seeing you here, now did I?

"I don't understand," Hermione said blankly.

Black reached over slowly, to place his finger on one of the figures. His nails were torn and bloodied too, she thought, underneath all the dirt and grime.

"Yes," Hermione said testily. "I see. Ron Weasley. I know him quite well, and I can assure you, had someone replaced him recently, I would have noticed."

Black shook his head. "Not the boy. The rat. You see? It has a missing toe."

He said this urgently, as though it ought to have meant something to Hermione.

Worryingly... it did.

"They only found his finger," she said. It was another of those dangerous leaps of intuition, up out of nowhere but the mystifying depths of her own brain. Hermione would have been much more at home with the thought, had it happened more naturally; her thought process was a known variable, an analytical process which went from step to step to step and invariably came out with a number of very probable answers.

This answer had not come to her through a long and comforting string of deductive steps. It simply... was.

Black seemed impervious to her sudden discomfort. He was staring down at the rat on Ron's shoulder with a worryingly neutral expression.

Hermione rose to her feet and groaned.

"I must've forgotten how packed this year was for me," she muttered to herself sourly. "Giving myself something like this to worry over… and going against the law…" It was a petty complaint by comparison, perhaps, but it was one of the few things she felt safe in complaining about aloud. Immaculately conceived thoughts and convict-feeding seemed too odd or too sensitive to broach.

Maybe, a dread voice whispered in her head. Maybe something so horrible happened that you had to change it.

It was Hermione's voice. It was her Voice of Reason, and it was making her suddenly very uncomfortable and quite ready to leave.

"Stay here," she told Black, with more authority than she felt. "I'm going to go get some food."

Black's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Hermione straightened herself up and shot him a severe look. "I am not going to go tell the Headmaster. Lord knows you're probably winding me up, waiting to kill me with some dark magic I haven't yet guessed at, but I believe you. You want my wand? You want to silence me? You're going to have to start trusting me at some point if you want me to help you."

Black nodded grudgingly at this, but Hermione had a hunch he was agreeing more for his stomach's sake than from trust. Oh well. Couldn't build a castle in one night, after all.

Hermione moved to go through the wall, but Black moved to stop her, closing slim, bony fingers around her arm tightly. She jumped in shock at the touch, but forced herself to swallow newly-terrified shivers down as she turned to look at him.

His eyes were haunted again. They were flickering with fear and despair and resignation. "Please," he said quietly. "Don't send me back to Azkaban. You're smart enough to know… you've met the Dementors."

A shiver went down Hermione's spine as she stared into those dark, lightless pools. She didn't want to know what kind of horrors could turn a man into this.

"I won't," she said clearly. "I won't tell anyone. Trust me."

He let her go, hesitatingly, and nodded.

She left the room with trepidation, still, and had to stop to lean heavily against the wall behind her. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep, desperate breath.

What have I just promised?