Yesterday's Tomorrow
Potter47
Part One
The Shadow of Death
Macbeth does murder sleep' – the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast, –"
Shakespeare
Chapter Seven
Happy Birthday
Hermione stepped out into her front garden, looking about worriedly. Why hadn't they come yet?
She had been contacted early that morning, by Professor Snape of all people, telling her that she was to be removed from her residence and brought to a safe place. She wondered why her house was unsafe all of a sudden.
He had said that she would be picked up at two o'clock. It was now two forty-two, and no one was to be seen—she assumed that they would arrive by an outdoor method of transportation, as her fireplace was not a Floo and her house had been charmed against Apparating.
Hermione walked out to the edge of the lawn quickly, careful not to touch the end of the property—that was where Dumbledore's spells ended, and she wanted to be safe, even if something seemed to have been compromised already. She hiked up the bag on her shoulder and peered down the street. No one.
"Where are they?" she said to herself, consulting her watch once more. "They're late."
Letting out a frustrated breath, Hermione hurried back into her house, and was quickly pulled against the wall inside, a hand covering her mouth, preventing her from screaming.
Madam Pomfrey did not return that day, and Ginny was becoming impatient—what was wrong with her, anyway? She did not... did not remember, now that she thought about it, why she had fallen all those days ago; had it been the wind? But how had the wind knocked her over?
She shook her head, trying to forget it for the moment. To pass the time, Ginny had had her mother put on The Wizard of Oz for her again, although she had a bit of trouble with the machine. Harry had disappeared upstairs after the school nurse had left, and Ginny hadn't heard from him since.
And now, as the film was ending, Ginny felt tired. It had been a long day, she felt, and she wished for nothing more than to go upstairs and curl up in her bed with the sweet knowledge that her alarm would not sound at six fifty-eight tomorrow morning.
But she wasn't supposed to fall asleep—Ginny didn't see what harm it would do, as she'd fallen asleep quite easily every night since the injury, and nothing had come of it.
Ginny let out a breath of frustration. It was bad enough that she had to stay awake; but to have to be alone in the living room all night...that was another thing entirely.
Ginny curled her arms round her chest and looked out the window at the night sky. The lights of Ottery St. Catchpole could be seen in the distance, as well as the moon—it was full, and she realised now why Professor Lupin had disappeared so suddenly earlier.
Ginny watched the moonlight filter in through the window and, quite clearly, this is a very boring thing to do. Soon, however—though it wasn't really very soon as the clock had long since struck twelve—the moon seemed a great deal more interesting, as it was no longer the moon at all.
"Be careful, Miss Granger—you never know who's watching."
Hermione recognised her captor's voice in an instant, and mentally replaced 'captor' with 'rescuer' before even thinking about it. For it was Professor Snape that had snatched her into her house. His grip eased as soon as she relaxed in his arms, and he removed his hand from her mouth.
"What was that about?" Hermione hissed. "Professor?"
"You were being watched, Miss Granger." He put a finger to his lips and pointed out the front window. Draco Malfoy stood there, now, just on the outside of the gate. Hermione's eyes widened.
Professor Snape eased the front door shut—it had been open a crack.
"How did I not see him?" Hermione said, still whispering.
"He was in the bushes," said Snape. "I only noticed him because I was at a better perspective."
Hermione furrowed her brow. She glanced down and noticed the invisibility cloak in the professor's hand.
"Oh."
"You're to come with me," said Snape. "Gather your things."
Hermione shrugged the bag on her shoulder.
"You'll wish to bid farewell to your parents...?"
"I left a note." Snape quirked an eyebrow, and Hermione wondered why.
"I daresay you are familiar with these?" He motioned with the invisibility cloak. She nodded. "Then let us go," he said, and with a flourish he covered them both with the cloak—it was larger than Harry's, apparently.
To Hermione's surprise, they were no longer in her front room—the invisibility cloak had been a Portkey, she now understood, and they now stood in the darkness of a silent corridor. She wondered where they were.
She made as though to ask, but Snape sensed her intentions somehow; he put a finger to his lips before she even made a sound.
Snape began to walk, and Hermione had no choice but to follow. She was so utterly confused and puzzled, and she wished she had asked where they were going before they had gone.
Step, step, step, their feet moved slowly yet quickly at the same time. She didn't think that made sense, and she was right.
Finally they came to a small, pitch-dark alcove, which Snape led the way into. Hermione followed, of course, and as they reached the end, Snape spoke:
"We are at Headquarters, Miss Granger," he said, and her eyes widened—what had happened to the place?
"What's happened?" she said.
"The location has been compromised. I am...sorry, to tell you this, but Sirius Black is dead." He did not sound especially sorry to say it, though he also did not sound happy about it, which Hermione thought was a good thing.
"What?" said Hermione disbelievingly. "How did he—?"
"All will be explained in time. Once Black died, the charms that his father had set up on this house deteriorated, the last Black being gone. The location had been discovered before his death, but the event allowed a complete Death Eater raid to take place—As I understand it, Miss Granger, it was Bellatrix Lestrange that killed him; being a Black, she was able to—"
"Professor, you're not making sense," said Hermione, unable to comprehend what Snape was trying to say.
"Then let me put it simply: they've taken over Headquarters. There is a certain thing here that needs to be removed before it is found. I have been sent to retrieve it."
"With me?" she said.
Snape shook his head. "The headmaster seems to have forgotten about you. I took the liberty of removing you myself. He has been very busy today—"
"So what do I do?" Hermione said, and Snape looked at her shrewdly.
"You are to wait here. What did you expect?"
"To come with you!" she said, sounding scandalised. "You can't expect me to just wait here while you risk your neck for the Order!"
"You are not a member of the Order—which means that I certainly can. You must keep watch."
"How am I supposed to keep watch from this place? I can't even see!"
"Will you be quiet?" Snape hissed, and Hermione realised that she had been rather loud. "You are to keep watch with this." He handed her a piece of parchment, which she took curiously. Glancing over his shoulder, Snape lit his wand.
The parchment read:
THE MARAUDER'S MAP: Home Edition"Black created this map of his home when he was a child. He gave it to Dumbledore when this house was implemented as Headquarters. It shows—"
"I know what it shows," said Hermione.
"Do you have your wand?" said Snape, and Hermione pulled it out of her pocket. He took it and carefully touched its tip to the tip of his own wand, as if lighting a candle with one already lit. Hermione's wand flared, and he handed it back. Hermione had read that this was possible, once; she'd just never thought it would be useful. But, of course, if one wand is under supervision from the Ministry during the summer, it makes sense not to use it when operating with stealth.
"Here," Snape said now, handing her what looked like a Muggle walkie-talkie. "It is a Muggle talkie-walkie. I'm sure you've heard of them. Dumbledore gave them to the staff years ago for Easter. I never thought they would be useful, though."
Hermione took the walkie-talkie from him, and for a moment they were both still.
"Good luck," she said, and he nodded, before disappearing out of under the invisibility cloak. She peered at the map.
The moon had become a shining stone, far above, on a very high pillar above Ginny. There were other pillars round her, round it, and they were just as tall, just as high above her. And the floor beneath her was
Cold. Very, very cold. Freezing. Stone. Hard stone. Cold, hard stone.
Her eyes opened. Had they been closed? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.
Ginny looked round—no, no, no, no, no, no, not now. Not again.
Everywhere she looked, there was the cold—the cold, tall, stone pillars that were the very pillars that held her up and forced her downwards again.
An enormous statue rose at the back, she knew, and she did not have to actually look to see it was there. It was there. She knew it was there. Just where it always was, at the back of the chamber.
The Chamber.
The Chamber of Secrets.
"Do you want to play hide and seek?" came a familiar voice, so familiar that it was sickening. It was her self—not herself, but her self—the self that belonged to her.
"Hello, Ginevra," said the smooth voice, the one she couldn't see, but of course she couldn't see it, it was a voice, after all.
"Do you? Do you?" said the other, and Ginny felt her vision clearing. Had it been blurred? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.
Ginny saw her selves, the selves that belonged to her, the selves that she had created, the selves just before her eyes—the selves with her eyes...
"Why am I here?" Ginny asked finally. "Again? Why am I here again?"
"You hit your head hard, Ginny," said the boy, the image of Tom Riddle, the evil inside. "Very hard. In fact—"
"Who cares about that?" said the girl, the eleven-year-old Ginny, the picture of innocence. "Let's play hide and seek!"
"Will you shut up?" said the boy. "This is no time for games." His expression changed slightly, to a small smirk. "Or is it? Is not this whole thing a game? A struggle between opposing forces? Now is the time for games, but not for children's games—for the most important game of all."
"What are you on about?" said Ginny, and her head was hurting. Aching. When had it started aching? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.
"Don't you see it, Ginny?" said the boy. "Don't you feel it?"
"Feel what?" said Ginny, and she did feel something, she did feel the unbearable silence of the Chamber, she felt an ache in her head, and she felt precisely what words her self was going to say next:
"It is...beginning."
"What is? What are you—what do you—what does it—what is it—" She could not speak, could not finish her questions, for there were far too many questions, yes, too many questions. There were always too many questions, and never were there enough answers, no, never, not once. Ginny didn't like that—why couldn't, just once, someone give answers before revealing the next mystery, the next enigma, the next riddle?
He smiled, but did not speak, and then he was gone—he did not fade, he did not slowly vanish before her eyes—he was gone, just gone, with no intermediate stage of disappearance.
But the other, the other was there still, the girl. She turned towards Ginny, or did Ginny turn towards her? She—Ginny, that is—could not tell.
"Don't mind him," the girl said with a slight smile. "You know how he is—always speaking in riddles. Probably doesn't mean a thing."
"You're...right," said Ginny finally. The girl's smile widened.
"Or am I?" she said, and then she was gone as well, leaving Ginny alone.
Ginny was scared. She was alone. Alone in the Chamber. No one to rescue her, no one to save her from herself.
And then the Chamber slowly faded, faded to blackness, as if it were the end of a film and the credits were about to roll. Ginny knew this blackness; it was the unforgiving blackness of possession, and she had feared it without realising it for a very long time.
Sounds echoed in the blackness, words, voices. Phrases that had come to haunt her, the phrases she heard when a Dementor was near.
"He hates you.
"He thinks of you as dirt.
"He doesn't think of you at all."
"Ginny, wake up."
"You're evil.
"You're worse than evil.
"You're worse than the Dark Lord that he defeated so famously..."
"Ginny, wake up."
"...does he need to vanquish you now?
"I bet he does."
"Ginny, wake up."
Ginny's eyes opened suddenly, and she took a breath of air as soon as she could—she had felt like she was suffocating, and now she could breathe once more.
Harry was standing above her with a fearful look on his face.
"You weren't supposed to go to sleep," he said, but Ginny didn't really hear him.
"It's getting worse," she said, and that was all she could think to say. "It's getting worse."
——Hermione stood in the darkness, watching Professor Snape's dot move slowly—unbearably slowly—on the map. She could hardly believe that he'd even reached the end of the alcove yet—thankfully, the map showed that he had, indeed, reached that point, and he was now moving along the corridor.
The dot moved almost imperceptibly, and Hermione realised that she was supposed to be keeping watch, which did not mean that she was supposed to stare at Snape's dot. Instead, she looked round the rest of the parchment, and noted some interesting names: Rebastan, Jugson—Dolohov—Avery and Macnair—just a few of the names that popped out to Hermione, and she realised just what 'taken over' meant.
They were nowhere near Snape—he was moving along the first floor, and Hermione noticed that he seemed to have covered a great distance while she wasn't looking—a watched cauldron never boils, after all.
"What's getting worse?" said Harry, except that he didn't. Perhaps someone else would have, but Harry knew what was getting worse and had no reason at all to ask; there were a lot of questions that he wouldn't ask, even some that he should have.
"The dreams..."
"You're not supposed to go to sleep," said Harry again.
"I know...but you try to stay awake out here by yourself."
"No problem—I do it all the time."
Ginny looked down or would have if she hadn't looked right at his face, which she did and saw the most painful expression she'd ever seen out of the mirror—painful to Harry and painful to herself.
"What dreams?" said Harry now, breaking the gaze she held on his eyes.
Ginny shook her head, almost dismissively and almost resignedly, but not really any way at all. "I've been dreaming of the Chamber," she began, but then started again. "I've been dreaming about dreaming about the Chamber." But that wasn't right either. "I've been dreaming about Tom."
That was it. Sort of. But it would do.
Harry nodded in what could be called understanding because it was the closest thing to understanding in the world—no one, no one but Harry could come close with a nod, not a soul.
A clock chimed suddenly and it was in a funny, unexpected tune.
Ding-di-ding-ding-ding-dong. Ding-di-ding-ding-ding-dong. Ding-di-DING-DING-DING-DOOOOONG...ding-di-ding-ding-ding-dong!
Ginny sort of half-laughed. Harry appeared confused, which he was.
"What was...?"
"Happy birthday," she said. "The song. It's your birthday."
"It is?" It was. "Oh, it is," said Harry, sort of enthusiastic and not enthusiastic at the same time, if that was possible. "How did it know...?"
"It's like an alarm clock, I guess," said Ginny, thinking of the smashed one on her floor upstairs. "Suppose it sets itself."
"Who's idea was that?" said Harry, brow furrowed. "I mean, honestly, how likely is it that someone is going to be up at midnight the morning of their birthday?"
"It's not midnight," said Ginny, vaguely remembering that midnight was some time before she had fallen asleep. "It's the time you were born. The minute, I mean."
"So I was born at...one seventeen in the morning?" said Harry, looking at the clock—this one, of course, actually told time. Mr Weasley had thought it would make a nice wall ornament—he didn't have that many Muggle things adorning the Burrow, after all—and had soon realised its unexpected practicality.
"Yup," said Ginny, laying her head back and looking up at the ceiling. "I was born at seven thirty-one in the morning, apparently," she said. "I hear that one a bit more often, as you'd guess."
She let out a breath and a sharp blade stabbed her head, prying scalp from bone and brain.
She winced and rolled over, looking back at Harry.
"What's wrong with me?" she said, and Harry put a hand on her head, just holding it there and not really even noticing. Ginny's head didn't hurt any more.
"I could ask the same question," said Harry, and that was the last word either spoke that night. Neither fell asleep, of course. Sometimes they would move round, changing places on the couch, but neither spoke. For most of the night, it was Harry's hand on Ginny's head, a soothing touch in a world of pain, or it was his arm round her back or it was her head on his lap. They were always touching, that was the rule, and neither felt tired at all.
Snape walked along a stairway—Hermione couldn't tell if he were walking up or down it, from the map—and emerged into a room that may have been the kitchen or the room above it. He walked across it; stopped; turned back and came the other way. Hermione reckoned he'd picked something up.
Now Snape was walking back, and his dot was nearing and nearing and nearing until suddenly another dot was atop it, one that Hermione hadn't noticed before. It took her a moment to read the name beneath it, for the letters were mingling with Snape's. But then she did read it, and she felt a plummeting sensation in her chest because it was all her fault and she should have been paying attention and now she would be in so much trouble which could have been so easily avoided if she'd only used the brains in her head and picked up the walkie-talkie and warned Snape that the dot bearing Bellatrix Lestrange's name was headed his way.
If only.
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