Difficult to Apparate within the Ministry, but not impossible.
Hermione skipped, hallway to hallway, floor to floor, appearing and vanishing in silent rooms and burning rooms, rooms filled with shouting Aurors and cursing Death Eaters, a technique that was very good for evasion, and not much use otherwise. Few Aurors practised it for that reason; "skipping," as Moody had dubbed it, required total concentration when used to move to unseen locations, and left no energy whatsoever for spellwork.
That was fine; Hermione had no intention of using her wand again for quite some time, given what had happened the last time she used it. It was only by flatly refusing to think of what might have changed–who else might die, who else might live–that she forged onward at all.
Finally deeming it safe, she Apparated exhaustedly into the potions ingredients storeroom, daring a dim light and flipping through the book to the ingredients list. The list, oddly enough, was short, but she wanted to be certain, nonetheless, that she took the proper items and more than double what was called for. There would be no more mistakes.
Spare cauldrons were piled along the floor in the back, and Hermione dragged a bag over to it–there were a stack of them in a corner specifically for that purpose–packing the ingredients tightly into a medium sized cauldron. Honey. Gall, which smelled atrocious, even in the bottle. Moonstone. Jobberknoll feathers, which she handled carefully, minding the poisonous tip of the shaft. Ashwinder eggs and hellebore.
Knowing what she knew of these ingredients, the results would be interesting. Catching another whiff of the gall, she wrinkled her nose and slipped it into the bottom of the cauldron. The results would also be pungent.
Bending, Hermione laced the bag closed and hefted it, wondering where on earth she could go and remain undisturbed for two days.
Few places in the Wizarding world, she thought grudgingly. Having a relationship of any kind to Harry Potter–friend, foe, or pet–had always drawn an almost rabid amount of scrutiny. The Hermione Granger of this time was working frantically for the Order, and there were few places she hadn't gone, at least once, during those desperate hours. Hermione exhaled sharply, feeling as if she were screwing up her whole brain in thought.
The hotel.
No one knew of that place but she and Draco, and the Draco of this time was hunting for Voldemort.
The Draco of this time would not know that she, the Hermione-from-the-Future, was there, because she no longer bore his Confatalis Mark. He would not be able to see through her eyes. He would not know...
Ruthlessly, she quashed that line of thought as unproductive. She was not going to try to change everything that had happened. She had come for one purpose, and she now had the means and a safe location.
Draco had not died from the Killing Curse. A curse that killed him, which she hoped feverishly was not at all the same thing.
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Her eyes were burned holes in her head, and Hermione forced them open, stirring the potion cautiously, her mind already far ahead. Planning, some of the time; worrying, a little, and desperately trying to not think, for the most part.
If the potion was not stirred constantly, it would solidify, and her arm ached with it, though she had finally adjusted to the sulfurous fumes that danced merrily across its surface. Her eyes weren't even watering that much anymore; or at least, when they did, it wasn't because of the potion.
Hermione, after nine and a half hours in the silent hotel room, had vowed, if she survived, to destroy all the ticking timepieces she encountered for the rest of her life. The clock on the wall was driving her mad, and yet it drew her as she counted down the hours to when she had first awakened, the little dragon on her back shrieking. Counting down until the time when Draco was captured, the moment she knew that Hedwig's warning, if it had come at all, had come too late.
Meditating, as the book instructed, was easy; Draco was foremost in her mind no matter what she did. Preventing herself from running into the night to save him...that was the challenge.
Knowing what would happen if she did–what could happen–what she knew had happened...
She was risking his life even now; gambling that the Mark would be strong enough to save him. She didn't know for certain that it would. If she was wrong, then he would die again, and she would die with him.
So be it.
Hermione dug her fingernails into her hand, squeezing her eyes shut, stirring all the while. In another quarter hour, she would rub more of the potion onto her ears, over her eyelids, and over her heart. It burned. And she reeked of it. Her robes reeked of it. This room reeked of it.
Twelve more hours. Ten. She had never seen a clock move so slowly, and wondered if it was broken. A quick check of her pocket-watch confirmed that yes, time had indeed slowed down to a crawl, and a minute was an impossibly long time.
Six more hours. Hermione yawned, sticking her head over the cauldron to wake herself up.
Thinking of Draco was agonizing. She flashed to his face when he first kissed her, the tight lines of anger around his eyes; the vision of him stretched over her as they made love, eyes flashing silver, the cords in his neck standing out. The chagrin on his face when Mrs. Bourne's dog attacked him. The impossible beauty of him, the touch of his hands, the strength of his arms. And the mixture of sadness and resignation in his face when he kissed her goodbye, letting her go alone to face the Death Eaters in Romania; as if he had already charted the course of the future in his mind and moved ahead into it nonetheless.
The wistfulness in his eyes as he asked, "was it enough?"
Her eyes were watering again, and she rubbed them with her sleeve, sniffling.
Two more hours.
The Hermione-of-the-Present was sitting in her bedroom, staring at the wall, all but buried under the terrible knowledge of what was happening. Reaching behind her, occasionally, to touch the dragon on her back; checking the mirror to be certain he was still there. Alone. Silent. Lost.
Within her, she felt a click, as if a key had been trying for hours to turn some internal tumblers, and finally succeeded. It was time; and she was stiff as she rose, dousing the flames and using an evanesco to get rid of the remains of the potion.
Merlin, Morgana, Alberic and Circe, let this work.
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The sky to the west was brilliant as the sun set, a sweeping canopy of crimson, and bronze, a few violet clouds floating along as if they were coasting on a golden sea, underlit by the last rays of light.
Hermione crouched just down the street from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, peeking out to watch for Draco, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out to him when he appeared, staggering, on the sidewalk in front of the house. Pushed the gate open and reeled up the path to the front steps; falling against the door as he pounded on it.
Hermione had not had time to give much thought to how she would deal with the Hermione-of-the-Present. It was her own past that she was altering, and only vaguely did she remember the few–so few!–minutes she would have to save him. There was no question of trying to force her way into Headquarters the moment the twins carried Draco in; a houseful of edgy Aurors would make dust of her before she managed a breath.
No one had ever so thoroughly altered their own past, and she planned as she waited, how best to convince the grief-stricken Hermione-of-the-Present to stand aside; whether she would have time to give Draco the mark before he died; whether the act of giving the Mark might lengthen his life, to give her the time she needed. Whether she would be able to finish the Mark as she took his pain. That thought made her bite her lip harder. Given all the other possible ways she could fail, she would not fail because of that.
The twins, to their everlasting credit, only stared at Draco for a moment, and caught him as he fell, looping his arms over their shoulders and dragging him into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.
Her heart in her throat, Hermione crept closer, realizing very belatedly that with Draco's mark gone, she could enter the house by herself; and in the meantime, she could hear what went on through the door.
The twins shouting–herself, sprinting down the steps.
"...Hangleton!"
She caught back a sob. Merlin, let this work, please let this work.
"...dammit, go!"
The uproar that ensued; shouting, running, the cracks of Apparation.
"Hermione?"
She dug her fingernails into her hands. Get out there, Harry!
Herself, and yet a voice so terror-stricken that it was scarcely recognizable. "...chance to reorganize."
Now.
With a calmness that she in no way felt, Hermione opened the door and stepped inside.
The Hermione-of-the-Present stared at her, mouth open in shock.
Carefully, Hermione bent and placed her wand on the floor, straightening slowly with her hands out, to prove that she was no threat.
"I'm you," she said, quietly but firmly. "You're going to go into the past with Professor McGonagall's Time Turner. You will come back and save him. There isn't much time." Her voice quavered. "We have to try."
"The Mark?" the Hermione-of-the-Present guessed, and Hermione nodded. For a moment, her vision wavered, and she suddenly remembered a vision of herself, grim faced, shadow-eyed and white, striding through the door. The words she had just spoken, being spoken to her. It felt for an instant as if her head had split in two. The lever that moves the world, she thought, unable to remember who spoke those words.
It didn't matter.
She knelt, picking up her wand and leaning over Draco, who was too far gone to make sense of it, recognizing only Hermione bending over him, not noticing as the Hermione-of-the-Present retreated to the steps, deathly pale.
"Draco," she whispered, and rolled him over onto his belly, an unresisting but heavy weight. He turned his head, grey eyes dull as he looked up at her, realizing what she was going to do.
"'Mione, no," he said hoarsely, and she smiled through her tears, bending to press a kiss on his lips. Draco tried to draw back, too weak to struggle away.
"Adseropictum Confatalis," she said, pressing her wand between his shoulder blades and lying down beside him, gritting her teeth against the rush of pain. Her mouth filled with the coppery-sweet taste of blood.
Oh, but it hurt!
Perspiration broke on her forehead, and her wand shook in her hands, the humming she remembered –it might have been from a different age–breaking the deathly silence of the room. She could feel his pain as if she were in his body, feel the fractured and tortured inner workings that were killing him. Feebly, Draco managed to rise halfway, and she stopped him, pressing her free hand to his chest as her wand hummed on.
"The Binding of Fates," she said, dashing away tears. "You chose to share mine, remember?"
Draco shook his head in mute denial, but nonetheless drew her against him, neither helping nor hindering.
Her heart sped to double time, then triple.
And still she held on.
She felt Draco's breath hitch, an iron band welding around her lungs.
And still she held on.
His arm fell around her waist, the weight of him almost dragging her down as he collapsed, halfway on top of her, and her hand shook where she held the wand. From a great distance, she felt something flutter near it, heard a faint, importunate screech.
Crushing pain traced her heart, gripped it, held it.
The floor rushed up to meet her very suddenly.
From the steps, Hermione watched the strange version of herself fall, wand clattering to floor, a loud sound in the absolute silence of the house.
Her hands had been at her mouth, and she lowered them, slowly, to her sides. Found something there. Lifted.
A tiny hourglass, a fine long chain of gold.
Without Hermione halfway holding the unconscious length of his body up, Draco slipped downward, his arm around the strange Hermione's waist, her face hidden in his chest. Neither moved again.
...five...six...seven...
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, murmuring into silence.
She stood, clutching the hourglass in her hands.
Whether they lived or died, she would go.
Twice horizontally, several times vertically, she rotated the hourglass.
And vanished.