The world was held deathly silent, disturbingly still. Hermione had never known how connected a person was to the earth and its movements until it had ripped itself away from her, made her wait, as if halfway between trying to draw in a breath and letting it out. She could do neither. The movement was within her; chaos of feeling and twisting that dug claw-like fingers into her eyes and pulled, a heavy weight.

And the pain…it gleefully dribbled hands of ice across her soul and clung. She wanted to cry but…crying was not a possibility in this silence, this stilted halt in time. The part of her that had hidden away in the darkest part of her mind noted how she seemed to be caught in the moment that the third Cruciatus had been cast. Which…which could not be a good thing, for her mind or her body. Maybe this was her insanity. Maybe her body had shut down, given up, just let her drift.

Maybe she had died.

Beyond the forces that made her wait in prickling clay, Hermione could sense a disturbance. A point of unease and failure, of life and death, of suffering just to feel beyond the numb embrace of destruction. She managed to draw in a breath, but was it her or someone else? Something else. Something not human, natural but beyond humanity. Innocently selfish.

As her world shifted, her skin softly fell into something solid.

Disorder slammed into her, through her chest, shattering any breath she had taken. She saw images, of trees and land and war and blood and sun and laughter and –

Pain. Confusion. Panic. Curiosity. Something lost and something found, bathing in sun and feeding on its light, drinking rain, growing and stretching, determined to be higher and stronger, greener – not her not her, not human, not Hermione – wind brushing against her, harsh, harsher, a thrashing of limbs and the fear of a blade – her own fear, thank Merlin, her own – loud, so loud, with glinting edges that roared and demanded quick, easy death…

Deforestation, she thought dazedly, Muggles. Saws. Trees. Grass.

And the agony. The fury. It sank into her, scalding liquid, fed on her life, filling every inch of her. She thrashed, somehow, somewhere, a sound bubbling on her tongue, so acidic. She clawed at her throat, eyes wide, watched and felt and breathed with the world and knew. She saw Curses and Spells and she felt people dieing, murdered, so violently stolen from her, ripped from her as if her own skin, her flesh, blood pouring –

Life's liquid, she whispered frantically, it burns, it burns so much…stop it, stop it please!

– Or taken from her gently, soothing her, parting with last fleeting kisses on her cheeks, her lips, her hands, a sweet kind of sadness. Bound with love and care, in silk and satin bows.

Hermione cried, and saw and knew and watched without her eyes as a Battle commenced, her Battle, Harry so dull and dirty and cold and lost. Such a shadow. Saw Ron, crumpled, lost to her as well now, saw others dieing, felt them disappear with a wrenching tug that crushed her. Saw herself, fallen beneath the DeathEaters, the blinding red of Crucio. Felt it inside, a raw wound, pricked again and again by a needle.

Beyond this all was a faint emotion of admonishment, as if a mother to her child, twisted with anger and hurt and confusion.

She felt sightless eyes focus for one piercing moment on the other Hermione, with a clarity she knew instantly was rare for such a being, and it twitched just slightly, before moving on and forgetting. Forgetting, forgetting, forgotten.

And Hermione was left, suspended, caught in emotion and chaos that wasn't her own. Turned and spun and held so still, and paused, to examine and move on.

It was too much. Too much for a human, for a mind barred and bound by the rules of humanity. And she fell with no sign of ending, or beginning.

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Perturbo Aetas

It's not the Last Battle, but it's just as intense, and they're just as unprepared. They're dieing. And then, something amazing happens…Your typical Hermione sent back in time story? Maybe…but not quite. SB/HG

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PART TWO

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it. - Michel de Montaigne

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Memory

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There seemed to be something Hermione was forgetting. Her brow furrowed as she walked, boots sinking into the mud of the dirt track that led away from the field she'd woken up in. Her arm hung limp at one side, but it was a numb pain. She suspected she'd slept on it strangely, to cause it to throb so. The air was cold, but not the bitter ice of…before. Of…

Shaking her head, Hermione treaded on.

Her hair was heavy with mud, and tangled beyond assistance, her body a leaden weight, but she felt distanced from it all. She felt like one beyond the realms; everything was hazy. Edges had softened and become dreamlike. She walked with nothing more then the thought that she had to keep going. There was somewhere she had to be.

The track merged into a makeshift road, and Hermione stood at the crossroads. She looked left and then right, very carefully, head heavy. Everything was so empty. Desolate. Destroyed.

She blinked, the world shifting slightly, and took the turn to the right. The soles of her boots pressed against the ground, grounding her, holding her in place. A figurine. A play piece. A pawn.

She walked.

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Detective Inspector Dawn was not an easily unnerved woman. Having survived the taunts and sexism of Officer Training and clawed her way to the top of her division, she was known to be as tough as leather and not to be trifled with. Her love life was thus a little bleak, but Dawn preferred shoving a dick into a cell than a dick being shoved into her, so she supposed it worked out just fine. She was well known for her unwavering loyalty to the force and her superiors; she focused unrelentingly on each case and didn't let any strange business daunt her. Therefore, she was put on many different and unusual cases. Like this one, for example.

Detective Inspector Dawn stared at the green skull in the sky and was daunted.

Sirius couldn't blame her, really. In fact, he quite admired the way she stared up at it - obviously frightened - before turning back to them with clear eyes. Her shoulders were tense, and Sirius knew she was feeling that Dark Mark's malevolent power, empty eyes scoring into her darkest secrets and laughing at them. But Detective Inspector Dawn simply straightened her back and ignored it, focusing those intensely blue eyes on Sirius and Barrock. He grinned at her as her gaze met his, and she quickly looked at him head to foot. Her brow furrowed, and she turned to Barrock.

"Can I help you?" she asked wearily. "I have an Investigation to run here. I can't stop to chat."

Barrock grunted a reply as Sirius scanned the area.

The flashing blue and red lights would have been a strange sight on such a clear day, had it been only two years ago. It had been going on longer, of course, but there was only so long you could cover up mass murder. The police cars dotting the road, signs of obstruction leading men and women heading to lunch in the opposite direction; the body on the pavement. It was all a common sight now. A brutal sight, beyond comprehension. And so people ignored it. Lived between the lines of the stories in the newspapers. Pretended it didn't involve them.

Sirius Black wished he could take such a stance on life. How easy it must be, he mused, to be able to look the other way. He often watched people walk by, staring in morbid fascination at the commotion, moving on to cluck pityingly with their friends that it was such a gruesome crime to so lovely a person, and why weren't the police doing something already? As if they had any say in the matter, locked away in their little pink bubbles and pointing the finger at anyone but themselves.

Detective Inspector Dawn looked tired. Sirius squished the feeling of pity that rose up in him, should Barrock look and see anything but professionalism in his face.

"Authorisation, please?" she asked, rubbing one set of rough knuckles against her right eye, squinting at the fake badges presented to her. She eyed them jadedly, and then proceeded to stare once more at both Sirius and Barrock. But, it seemed, there were more pressing matters on her mind, and no matter who these strange men were, a little more help couldn't hurt. She sighed, and gestured to the crime scene. "Follow me."

The sight was gruesome, even for Voldemort. Limbs no longer attached to the body, eye sockets empty and weeping, mouth gaping in a shriek of horror. Sirius shuddered briefly, and hoped James was serving better with his third assignment. His eyes trailed to the Forensic Scientist assigned to the case. The woman was shaking her head in bewilderment, waving a hand at an older man who was gesturing frantically. They wouldn't find anything, just like the last time. And just like the last time, their minds would be wiped and a nice little story concocted, of a mugging gone wrong and a poor young woman who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, a very nice little story indeed.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at his superior, but Barrock dismissed him with a shake of his head.

"No questions, Black," he growled, eyes narrowing. "We get in there, we take a look around, we get out and let Clean-Up do their job, alright?"

"Yes, sir," Sirius replied, acknowledging the hidden message to do nothing but watch. Guarding the corpses left behind by the Death Eaters was a boring job, but Voldemort had been quiet lately. Fighting would come later. For now, they had to make sure the bodies were respected and not taken for nefarious purposes.

Detective Inspector Dawn met with the Forensic Scientist and her partner, listening gravely as they listed everything that was wrong with the body, everything that shouldn't have been possible. Sirius watched the interaction, liking the woman's quiet anger, and wishing they could have someone like that on their side. But she would be Obliviated, just like the others, her memories altered, and in a few years she would probably be dead too.

Most good people were, now.

Barrock patted him on the arm, and pulled out a square of cotton. With great care, he laid it over the two bloody holes where the victim's eyes should have been.

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Hermione tilted her head to the side, feet aching, eyes throbbing as she tried to focus. Her wand was tucked neatly into her pocket, forgotten for the moment as she crouched in the shadows of the hedges surrounding the small agricultural village.

"I was sure the Safe Point was around here," she murmured to herself. Confused. Lost. Harry and Ron had spent the past year trying to prove that they could lead this. This…rebellion. Battle. Sacrifice. She'd invariably been caught up in it. Trying to prove that she was worth everything they didn't want to expect. She'd been so sure that she could live up to her reputation. Or even to simply live.

Funny. She didn't seem so sure anymore. A Little Girl Lost. Not even a definite form. Simply one of many.

Standing, Hermione approached the main street. Wary. Her head hurt, becoming liquid; heavy and scalding. She turned to face the line of shops, gingerbread houses, filled with the unknown that threatened to consume her. She took a step forward. Hesitated.

Where was everyone?

The moments passed as she breathed, quietly, trying to calm that wild fluttering within her. She understood that she was out in the open. Moody would skewer her. The bare silence pressed in on her. Move, she told herself firmly. Move. Those few months of training had not been for nothing. Gruelling though they were, she had tried to submerge herself within it, to make herself faster, harder, steelier. A bullet to hurt, to kill, to do her job. A weapon for the Order to use. Move, Hermione.

A shriek of laughter shattered her subdued and disjointed thoughts. Her body jerked, reacting instinctively to the surprise, wand out and levelling towards the noise before she could gasp. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, breathing it all in, and then she flicked her wrist and her wand disappeared as the gaggle of kids rounded the corner. She watched them, uneasy. Twisted. Seeing herself in that group, and Ron and Harry, laughing against the world. She watched and wished and they rounded another corner and were gone. Just like her own innocence.

Everything was quiet again.

She turned back to the shops, ignoring her wild heart, and began to trace the lines with her eyes. Something was wrong here. She just didn't know what it was yet. But Hermione was clever. She knew things intimately, without anyone having to explain. She would figure this out. She would prove that she was useful.

Her cautious footsteps followed her eyes, moving from one shop to another, meeting the eyes of any curious shopkeeper before dropping her gaze and moving on. I am a spectre, she thought. I am not here. You cannot see me.

It was play magic, in the end. Like a toy gun. Witches and wizards, too young to go to Hogwarts but aware of magic, used this 'play magic' to their hearts content and promptly dismissed it as child's play as soon as wands and school was introduced. But it was easy to manipulate, and Hermione weaved it around herself now, a mock Invisibility Cloak, deflecting any muggle eyes.

Now that she had some form of protection, Hermione tried to tell herself that she felt better. That her heart had stopped swelling with fear until it began to constrict her breathing. That her mind wasn't a mess of muddied thought, shot through with horror at the thought that something was wrong and God, why can't I remember what's wrong?

Red hair, tipped with blood; dirt streaked freckled skin and empty eyes; cold lips and blasts of colour that blind and leave for dead

A strangled whimper clawed at her throat, but Hermione pressed one hand to her mouth to hold it in and breathed. She was just scared. That was all. Fear and the things you didn't know conjured worst images than the reality of it. Fighting it valiantly, Hermione began to list the things she'd do once she was back at Headquarters: A hot shower. Some food. Sit and listen to Harry and Ron talk about Quidditch because not speaking at all was unbearable. Read. Try and understand the next set of Ancient Texts that Remus left for her.

Hermione paused before a stack of newspapers, eyeing the shop behind them. There was a turning here. She remembered it, vividly, the road becoming rocky and treacherous until it met another road, which led into the city. There was a Portkey there, for returning Order members who were stranded.

Stranded from what?

Wide, gaping grins of monsters from the night, things that had once been men twisted into sickening replicas of their Lord; a perfect blue eye burst and weeping down one dirty cheek as she screamed and wailed and fought so desperately; Get up Hermione get up get down I tried I'm sorry Hermione; and clawing fingers that left insidious darkness on that which shouldn't be touched

Shaking her head, Hermione reached out and idly touched the newspaper on top. The smooth, inky paper left a trace of grey on her fingertip. She rubbed the stain quietly, staring at the date.

February 2nd 1980

Her breath caught. The fingertip returned to brush across the offending text, as if to rub it away. Her eyes widened.

"What...?" she breathed. One step back, two. Her heart began to pound, a sickening pace, her vision tunnelling to envelope that innocent stack of newspapers. Her chest hitched. "No...there is no way..." Her head shook, slowly, denying it. "It's against all the laws of time-travel...it's just not possible...it's -"

A shriek of laughter, of voices, and Hermione was gone.

Time passed.

She lay in a field of mud, eyes faded, a song on her lips. She felt heavy. Leaden, like she was encased in stone. Her eyes burned. And beneath it all, there was a distant hum in her ears, of an ancient power, and ancient life. Almost like a child. Hermione stared at the sky, the newspaper curled in one outstretched hand, and breathed in the air of a world where she did not belong.

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To be continued...