A Matter of Time

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the canon Harry Potter characters present in this work.

The Beginning

1998

Ron and Hermione were still asleep: good. They should never have been involved in the first place. This final fate was meant for him alone. In a few hours it would all be over: one way or another.

"He's dead Hermione! Don't you get it! Maybe, if I had gone, if he hadn't had to be so bloody noble and selfless and stupid, it could have been me instead!"

"He did it for us, Ron: for the entire world."

"We stand here today to mourn, perhaps, the youngest and greatest hero…"

"We've done it before! We could do it again!"

"The Ministry of Magic awards Harry Potter The Order of Merlin, First Class post-humorously. For service to the crown, the honourable minister Rufus Scrimgeour awards The Order of Merlin, Second Class to Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley in absentia."

"You could destroy everything!"

"As if there's anything worth having after…"

Hermione was asleep: good. Just a little insurance was necessary: "Coego Somnus." She had refused to help him. Oh well. It would all be over a few years ago: some sacrifices could not be borne.

"Welcome to The Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Ronald Weasley: I'm here to pick something up."

A single badge slid out of the coin return slot in the telephone booth: Ronald Weasley, Acquisition.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant morning."

"Someone broke into the department of Mysteries this morning: stunned a pair of aurors and a half-dozen unspeakables."

"But we had won. Voldemort is dead. Who could possibly-"

"It wasn't a Death Eater. From what we heard, Ronald Weasley walked into the Department, caught the two aurors by surprise, and hit the unspeakables with a powerful disarming curse before they could draw their wands."

"But why? I mean… He's a hero! I gave him The Order of Merlin!"

"The time room was broken into, Minister. We have determined that Mr. Weasley has traveled to the year 1991. We suspect he plans to save Harry Potter's life, likely by confronting The Dark Lord."

"Can you stop him?"

"Maybe."

1991

"Phineas, it has been too long since your portrait last graced my walls."

"I am not here to exchange pleasantries, Albus."

"I suppose I am in store for a lecture then."

"No. Someone has broken into the Black Manor."

"Who?"

"I don't know, or I would have told you, wouldn't I have?"

"Was anything of value taken?"

"No. The intruder took nothing except for one of Regulus' old trinkets: a heavy golden locket. It seems strange that such a competent thief would choose such a trifling prize, does it not?"

"Do you remember anything else about the locket, Phineas?"

"I never gave such a tiny piece any thought before. The one noticeable characteristic I recall was that it did not bear the mark of our house. Rather, it had inscribed upon it the Slytherin crest."

For a moment, Dumbledore seemed to freeze in place, shock which many who knew him would have thought impossible dancing across his visage.

"What is it Albus? What do you know?"

Albus P.W.B Dumbledore simply replied with a tired half-grimace, shoulders slumping.

"Know? I know very little, my friend, but I have many suspicions."

Gesturing idly, the headmaster summoned a quill and parchment to his hand. Rolling the parchment out along his desk, he dipped his quill in a nearby pot of ink, and began to hastily penning a letter.

"Nicholas and I will have to accelerate our plans. Matters are coming to a head far more swiftly than I anticipated."

For not the first time, Phineas Nigellus glared at Hogwarts present headmaster.

"For a Gryffindor, Albus, you have an infuriating habit of speaking in riddles."

"What form more appropriate, though Phineas, for our subject. Your diction is quite apt in this circumstance."

For the first time since the former headmaster's news Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile, blue eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. Unsurprisingly, Phineas simply snorted in response.

1998

Hermione was having an awful morning. She had woken up hours later than she had expected to find a team of four curse-breakers and two aurors futilely attempting to break through the wards on Godric's Hollow. Honestly, she Harry, Ron, Professor McGonnagall and a good half of the Weasley family had spent nearly two months carefully constructing wards strong enough to hold off even Voldemort himself. Did they really expect to crack through the barriers in a few minutes?

Coming out to see why the Ministry had sent a good chunk of its security personnel over in order to break into Harry's one-time home, the young witch found herself whisked away in a matter of moments to that self-same Ministry. She had not even had time to find and tell Ron, whom she had been planning to confront that morning regarding his time traveling threats. Now Hermione found herself sitting in a room deep in the bowels of The Ministry of Magic with one of the more esotheric groups she had ever seen assembled.

Apparently, not contented with hassling her that morning, Rufus Scrimgeour had sent teams out to bring in Ginny from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan from whatever he had been doing (the well-remembered prankster's decided nonchalance when questioned on said matter made her feel that, perhaps, she would be better not knowing), as well as Tonks, who had actually had a team of aurors apparate into her flat while she was showering. Recalling the less than flattering tones with which Tonks referred to her predominantly male colleagues, Hermione felt particularly grateful that her current abode was so thoroughly warded.

Abruptly, the door to the chamber opened, allowing a pair of new figures to enter. The first, tall and even more serious than usual, was Kingsley Shacklebolt, a major member of The Order of The Phoenix, as well as the current Deputy Head of the auror department. Behind him strode a decidedly smaller witch: almost timid in appearance. Carrol Bones, as her identification badge displayed, looked, although smaller in stature, quite similar to another Bones, who had been in Hermione's year at Hogwarts: Susan. Both shared the stocky build and auburn hair so characteristic of the ancient wizarding family.

"I am glad that you have all arrived so promptly," Kingsley began. "You are all here because Britain is suffering from one of the most perilous circumstances in its long history. I regret to inform you that Ronald Weasley, sometime early this morning, succeeded in traveling nearly a decade backwards in time. Ms. Bones," he nodded briefly towards his companion, "an expert in temporal mechanics, hypothesizes that The Ministry has approximately ten hours to act before we begin to feel the effects of his actions. As such, the Minister has authorized the dispatch of a team capable of bringing Mr. Weasley back, if possible, or, if not, killing him before we begin to lose causal integrity."

The entire room had fallen into a shocked silence following the deputy minister's initial pronouncement. Hermione's face had gone completely pale, as her brain, for once seemingly uncomprehending, repeated the words "killing him" over and over.

"I understand that you are shocked, but we must act quickly. Each of you has talents or insight which this team may need, if we are to catch Mr. Weasley without unduly damaging our history. Thus, I must ask you to decide now whether you will be accompanying me in this sojourn. Do not make the choice lightly; if you agree, the Ministry has authorized me to take from each of you an unbreakable vow that you will take no unnecessary actions to damage our timeline."

Unbreakable vows were not something to take lightly, but, all things considered, they were an excellent countermeasure to protect against tampering with time; one could not benefit from temporal manipulation if one was dead.

Hermione did not truly feel as if she had a choice, however. Ron was her friend, and, if anyone could convince him to come home alive, it was her. She had already lost one best friend, and was not willing to lose another under any circumstances. The brilliant witch saw a similar determination alight in Ginny's eyes, which was no surprise. After all, her and Ginny's circumstances were remarkably similar. Lee had looked almost sick when he first heard about the unbreakable vow, but, gradually, he was starting to look increasingly certain and decided; Hermione was nearly sure Lee Jordan did not plan on leaving. Tonks was, perhaps, the quickest to decide of all four wizards and witches. She still was known to feel guilty that Sirius had died, and likely feared losing Remus Lupin to some arbitrary shift in the timeline (their relationship, now quite strong, had required such a tenuous commencement); her decision was a simple one.

Kingsley had clearly expected swift decisions, for he had not even left the room during the five minutes in which the quartet silently deliberated. As, one by one, each confirmed his or her affirmative reply, the experienced auror's eyes grew no warmer. The vows were made and magically confirmed; a slightly more detailed briefing occurred; resources were procured; within six hours, Hermione Granger found herself traveling to August 20th, 1991.

1991

Time travel was bloody confusing. His first actions, upon arriving in the past, were actually fairly simple: he had walked into the Black Manor, and grabbed the easiest to retrieve of You-Know-Who's horcruxes. Admittedly, Ron needed to stun Kreacher and Mrs. Black went into a bit of a fit about blood traitor scum invading her ancestral home, but that had been expected. Then the youngest of The Weasley boys had to reckon with a very uncomfortable reality; he did not have a clue what he was doing.

Between Harry, Hermione, Dumbledore, and himself, the horcruxes had barely gotten destroyed the first time around. Even if he did manage that, however, he had no idea how he could even hope to kill You-Know-Who. Admittedly, Ron had picked up a few tricks last year, but, if it came down to a duel between him and Tom Riddle, he was, quite simply, a dead wizard. Moreover, Ron did not even have a place to sleep, or even an identity for that matter. Fred and George once talked about a place to get forged identification, but he had long forgotten any details. At least, he had a source of gold, even if he felt terrible using the vault.

Surprisingly, at least to Ron, Harry had written a will in which he left Ron his Gringotts key. Probably, he would have never used the key under normal circumstances, but he needed the funds badly, if he was going to save Harry's life. Besides, he could pay his best mate back later; it was, really, more of a loan, all things considered.

As Ron strode into the Wizarding Bank, he passed his key to one of the more clueless looking goblins; this venture would be chancy enough without having to reckon with a shrewd goblin. After all, while he was about the correct age, and had the characteristic Weasley hair, his planned charade could backfire ridiculously easily.

"Name and business?"

"I'm Charlie Weasley: here to pick up some gold for Harry Potter's welfare on Dumbledore's orders."

The goblin eyed him carefully, but not for too long.

"A Weasely you certainly look. Do you have Mr. Potter's key then?"

"Of course."

He passed the key over, and watched carefully as the goblin carefully inspected its authenticity.

"Everything appears in order then. Follow me."

Ron proceeded, removing a few hundred galleons from his friend's vault rather guiltily, despite his inward insistence that this was just a loan. Besides Harry still had a small fortune left in his vault; he could more than afford his tuition.

However, even a million galleons would not help him too much, if he could not come up with a plan, or at least a way of dodging whomever Dumbledore would send once he found out a Weasley impostor with a replica of Harry's key had been traipsing through Diagon Alley. Then, almost absentmindedly, he caught sight of a sign in the window of the Apothecary.

Surprise friends and family with a whole new you! Aging potions of all varieties available and on sale now!

Ron recalled Fred and George once more, who had attempted to age up a bit to enter The Triwizard Tournament by 'aging up' a few months. He grinned suddenly, having a rather brilliant thought, if he did think so himself. He did not need an identity. He already had one. All Ron had to do was shave a few years off.

Turning rather suddenly, and bumping into a rather plump witch as a result, Ron moved to enter the apothecary.

"Young man, show some respect!"

No cranky old biddy was going to upset Ron now, however. He had a positively perfect plan. Dumbledore would never find him; he would be on hand to safeguard Harry; he would even have access to Hogwarts' library in a week, in order to help him figure out how to retrieve the horcruxes. The young man simply replied with a grin, ignoring the older lady's huffing as he stepped into the shop.

"I'm looking for a year's worth of deaging potion: seven year vintage.

The shop owner quirked an interested eyebrow upwards. "Planning on recapturing your youth, sonny?"

"Something like that, yeah," the time traveler replied nonchalantly.

"It'll cost yeh a pretty sickle that will. I figure you'll be needing about six hundred and fifty hundred galleons to afford that."

"I'll pay half now and the other half once my first six months are up then. Is that alright with you?"

The older man's eyes shone greedily. "More than acceptable. I'll have to deliver it in smaller lots of course. You'll need to take one portion each day for full effect, and I don't have more than a month's worth of that vintage on hand."

"One month lots are fine. Send the owls addressed to Ron Weasley."

The red-haired, young man passed over a pouch full of galleons, taking a bag full of potions in return.

"I'll have the rest for you at Christmas, and, if you wouldn't mind, could you not mention this to anyone? It's a bit of a surprise."

The store owner's eyes sharpened in suspicion, and then slowly lightened once more. "Of course, of course: all transactions are confidential."

"Thanks then," Ron replied with a grin. "See you."

With a pop, Ron disapparated from the apothecary, appearing some ways away from The Burrow. He'd run across a couple of pretty decent long-term binding hexes last year, so all he needed to do was find his younger self.

Taking a swig of potion, he felt his features already gradually shifting, as everything around him seemed to loom larger. A wave of his wand effectively made his purchases invisible, and he began walking towards his home, only to find himself crashing face first into the ground, as well as being knocked unconscious. So caught up in his successes, Ron had ignored the reality that his clothing was now less than entirely fitting, and tripped over his own pant leg.

When Ron woke up, it was to see one of the strangest sights of his life thus far; he was staring at himself, who was looking right back with equal interest.

"Are you a bogeyman? I never figured they were real when Fred and George mentioned them, but maybe they were telling the truth for once."

Ron (the older, normally, if not quite at the moment one) simply stared back dumbly. What was going on? Where was Harry? Usually his best mate was around when the weird stuff began occurring. Oh yeah: Harry was dead. That thought grounded him entirely, and matters began to make sense.

That was right. After traveling back in time to play the hero, he had managed to trip over his own robes, no longer fitting his much smaller limbs after he took the deaging potion, and knock himself out. Thus, his younger self had discovered him. Way to save the day Weasley. At this rate he would be lucky if he did not skewer himself on his wand, and end his mission that way. Oh well, at least this situation appeared salvageable.

"Have you told anyone I'm here?"

His younger self paled, swallowed dryly, and replied, "S-sure. Course I have."

That was a definite no then.

"Stupefy." The technically the same age, if actually younger Weasley boy toppled to the ground, red hair splayed out. A quick disillusionment charm made him invisible, while a mobilicorpus made certain he would follow along. It was a good thing the Ministry did not monitor underage magic in wizarding households. For now, he could just stow his past self in his room under the bed. By the time he began to awaken, Ron could probably whip up a few binding and silencing charms; this would not be any trouble at all.

1991

"Minerva, I have received some highly distressing news."

"What is it Albus?"

"Someone has managed to access Mr. Potter's vault."

"But how is that possible? You still have his key, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then-"

"I have no idea, Minerva, how the thief managed to make a replica which could fool the goblins. At the height of his power, Lord Voldemort could have done so, but I can think of no other. As well, only a trifling sum was taken: four hundred galleons."

"But that is absolutely senseless!"

"Yes: it is very nearly as senseless as the thief's pseudonym. He called himself Charlie Weasley, who is commonly known to currently reside in Romania. I cannot understand these events in the least, Minerva. Have you any thoughts?"

"It all seems quite preposterous, Albus."

"I concur. I can see no rationality in these events. I fear, Minerva, that it may not be merely the Dark Lord we face now, and, if it is solely he, Tom Riddle has grown far more dangerous than at any time before. Regardless, this time he has missed his prize. Hagrid retrieved the stone just this morning."

"Then it is safe."

"It is as secure as possible for the moment."

1991

"Miss…"

"Wazlib, Helen Wazlib."

"Of course, Miss Wazlib: I apologize."

"Have you received my request for admission?" The chestnut-haired girl raised her eyebrows in question.

Quickly, checking the registry, Minerva McGonagall's reply was equally prompt: "Of course we have. Hogwarts has always been highly efficient in processing applications: particularly those of such high quality. Admittedly, we received your application quite late, but with such excellent references we could hardly refuse. If you could simply try on the sorting hat, we can conclude this business."

The young woman smiled, and picked up the battered, black hat, placing it daintily on her head. If nothing else, this hat brought back memories of happier times.

"You have quite the mind Miss Granger, and I see this is not your first time here. Or would you prefer if I called you Miss. Wazlib?"

"Whichever you prefer is fine, as long as you keep the former to yourself," the witch whispered in return.

"Yes, yes, and I agree. Your identity is better kept a secret I should think."

"Thank you."

"Now then: regarding the sorting, I could place you in the same house again, but, perhaps you have changed. Hmmm… the mind remains sharp and quick; your loyalty to your friends is commendable; you haven't the makings of a Slytherin I would say. All this, however, is little next to trials which would have broken nearly any wizard or witch, and yet you persevere. I believe your aims will be best served in GRYFFINDOR."