A few days after Viktor had fallen violently ill, Hermione was still thinking about the way those who loved him had closed ranks around him, from Krasmira to his mother to Demetrius and even the elves. Others had checked on him as well in various ways: His brother had sent an owl inquiring about his health; the team had sent their well wishes in the form of a Howler where they took turns telling him (loudly and with great pleasure) of the various ways that they would torture him if he didn't get better soon; and even the town had sent him a care package. Nevena, who had come to visit under the rather thin guise of bringing him some official correspondence (which had never manifested), had dispatched a messenger Patronus to update his brother and had promised to take care of the rest of the responses on his behalf.

"From the way everyone is acting," Viktor had grumbled, "you would think I'm at death's door. I'm only slightly under the weather."

Of course, Viktor was prone to under-stating things in this just as he was with everything else. He had, in fact, raged with fever for a full day and night as his body had fought the illness, lapsing into incoherency for long stretches of time. It was during that point that Demetrius had slept in his room to watch over him, though he had prohibited Hermione from doing the same and had, in fact, banished her to a room down the hall so she wouldn't pass out from exhaustion.

It was there she had spent a long, sleepless night wondering how he was, creeping down the hall to look in on him. Every time she had, Demetrius had been doing something—mopping his brow, rummaging through his bag with his entire arm stuck down it as he searched for something specific, or looking at a semi-permanent vitals spell he had cast to show on the wall.

Truly, Viktor didn't realize how lucky he was, Hermione thought as she recalled everyone's care and concern. He was able to grumble and kick up a fuss because he was secure in the knowledge that such behaviour wouldn't dispel the affection between him and those who cared for him. He was rich in that aspect of his life, and he didn't even realize it.

Of course, Hermione didn't begrudge him those bonds for even a moment; in fact, she counted herself lucky to be able to count him as one of her best and closest friends in such a short period of time, and she rather thought he felt the same way given his assertion.

You're mine, after all.

What that meant precisely wasn't quite clear to her, but since it had been right before his fever had spiked and he had become incoherent for the first time, she chose to focus on the underlying affection in the statement. He had probably meant something along the lines of after all, you're my friend. Perhaps even after all, you're my good friend, if she was lucky.

That label was something, she was not afraid to admit, she would greedily grasp onto with both hands. Unlike Viktor, she didn't have a large support network of friends who would rally around her should she fall ill or need assistance.

In fact, she could probably count them on one hand: Harry and Ron, though they were sometimes fair-weather friends; perhaps Neville and Ginny, though she wasn't quite sure about them; Viktor, who at least she was sure about; and maybe even Clara, who seemed to put up with her, if not outright like her.

She was under no illusion that Krasmira or even Milena actually felt any sort of strong affection toward her. Krasmira fell into the same category as the private tutors her parents had employed to continue her education once they had pulled her out of Westminster under prep at eight and her professors at Hogwarts: she was just another pupil to guide through the system before unleashing her upon the world.

Milena likely viewed her more as a friend of her son's rather than having any direct affection toward her, but Hermione had enjoyed her conversations with the witch all the same. It was the most interaction she'd had, really, with a truly maternal figure.

Helen Granger was not particularly maternal, nor was she present enough to be maternal were she so inclined. She and Daddy were typically off doing things—important things, of course, as relatives to the monarch of Britain were wont to do—but Hermione had been left behind in their wake, first because she was too young, then because she was recalcitrant and shy, and then finally because of the odd things that happened around her no matter how hard Hermione had tried to be a good, studious, upstanding daughter they would be able to take anywhere.

It was precisely the last thing that had gotten her private tutoring, though her parents had simply told everyone it was due to her 'truly prodigious intellect'. Said intellect, of course, then had to be trotted out in occasion to buff up the story, but she hadn't minded studying for those moments (truly, she had loved it, which had lent a fair amount of credence to the claim), not when it meant she got to spend some time with her parents at a meal or even on a brief excursion somewhere.

It was what had made the invitation to France this summer so special. She had been excited and thrilled beyond measure when she had seen the invitation written on the heavy ivory parchment her mother preferred to use when communicating via owl.

Darling,

Your father and I will be going to France for a few weeks this summer for a vacation before we begin the busy season. We were thinking you should join us—you're older now, and you need to be more formally introduced. The Margraves will be there with a few others of the set.

I know you had planned on spending most of the summer at Bainbridge studying as you typically do, but darling, you mustn't forget the other part of your duties as well.

All my love,

Helen

Duchess of Clarendale and Avon

Countess of Athlone

Viscountess of Trematon

With the invitation had come a new set of worries, but Hermione had done the utmost to prepare for the vacation even as the year hurtled to a close. Because she had the Time-Turner, she had as much time as she needed to be adequately ready, so she had written out a list and checked it off slowly.

First, she had brought out her muggle books, which she had stored in her trunk, to revise. She also took up the piano again using the old piano in the mostly unused music room off the sixth floor corridor, so as to be ready to play when Daddy asked—and he always asked. Finally, and most importantly, she had quietly asked Lavender for help fixing up her appearance so Mother might stop being so perennially disappointed that Hermione had not gotten the Granger genes that made their side of the family so striking. The blonde witch had been thrilled beyond measure but hadn't been able to help much once she discovered Hermione could only do beautification by muggle means, given the Trace.

Now that she had dispensation for the summer to use her magic, she could utilize those charms if she pleased, though she had never quite gotten the hang of the hair charms Lavender tried. Her hair just simply didn't like them, or perhaps she had never really been truly proficient at them. However, Clara had mentioned her mother was a world-renowned beautician, so she figured she might be able to ask her for help. The witch always did have impeccably done hair.

Regardless of if her own hair was well done or not, she thought tetchily, she still hadn't made a decision about France. Everything had seemed so straightforward in that moment when she was in Dumbledore's office at the beginning of the summer. Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards ever, had asked her for help. Not as Harry's friend, but because she had the skillset necessary to pull off the task. Not to mention that Sirius, who had been cast aside and left behind (obviously not in a different manner than Hermione, but she had felt a kinship all the same), needed her, and she had been given the opportunity to pursue a potential career under a world renowned Healer.

The Headmaster's suggestion of using the Time-Turner to accomplish both sets of responsibilities if she needed to had also seemed terribly straightforward. After all, she had been using it rather successfully all year, and what was one more—

"No, no, no."

The Time-Turner was not an option.

But if she did….

No. The consequences were so great, and Mistress Lazarov had said, explicitly, that she could tell if Hermione had used it.

The cost would be potentially astronomical if she were caught having used it. She could lose her newly minted apprenticeship if she used it, and even more than that, she could get sucked back into the gleaming golden lure of the Dark artefact.

"That's right," she told herself, nodding. "It's Dark. It's addictive. That's why we don't use them to do petty, stupid things like go on vacation to France. Merlin, what are you thinking?"

Almost against her will, she turned to look at her trunk, where she knew the golden hourglass was hidden from everyone but her. It would be so easy….

But wrong. It was wrong.

Sucking in a breath, she crossed her arms, her hands tightly gripping her forearms as she wrestled with herself.

She needed to get out of the house before she did something impulsive, stupid, and distinctly un-Hermione.

The next minute was a whirlwind of activity as she haphazardly grabbed some materials and stuck them in her bag. Determinedly, she strode out of the house, not even stopping to look at her typical study spot under the tree.

There was a nice pond a ways down the road going opposite of the Square that she had discovered when she had first explored the area around their house. It wasn't the most picturesque place—the water wasn't particularly clear, though it wasn't muddy either, and the grass was a bit high and reedy for her taste—but there were a few good trees she could sit under. Most importantly, it was far away from the house.

A minute or so into her rather determined trek, however, she abruptly turned around and marched in the other direction towards the Square. It might be better for her to be around people and keep her mind busy for a while first. Perhaps she could even pick up something in one of the stands that she could use as a fidget tool to keep her fingers busy. That way they wouldn't always be going to the spot on her chest where the hourglass had sat.

The Square was bustling with activity, as was usual. The hum of magic and merriment was bright in the air, and Hermione felt it cocoon her. Something about it was soothing somehow, and she relaxed into it, her shoulders unwinding as she bent the entirety of her attention to the act of mindlessly window shopping, the activity strangely engaging. Typically, she was much more of a 'need item, get item' shopper, with no room for browsing.

Unless it was a bookstore, of course, but that went without saying.

As she looked through the windows, wide-eyed at the things she sometimes saw, she found herself enjoying the activity despite the problem lurking in the back of her mind. It was nice to let go for a little while and let her mind take a rest. Instead of cramming in knowledge, her brain was breathing and opening up the sensory experiences around her, and Merlin did she ever enjoy it.

A soft summer breeze, faintly scented with the aroma of fresh bread and crushed lavender, brushed her face. The hum of people laughing, talking, and enjoying themselves was overlaid by the sweet sound of music being played in the center of the Square, and the sun glinted off the windows of the shops as she idly browsed. Eventually she grew warm enough that she sought out a cold beverage, although she was waylaid by the sight of an ice cream stall doing a brisk business next to a tall, bright toy stand.

A scoop of creme fraîche later and Hermione found herself wandering the stalls scattered across the large plaza. She had had such luck with these before (Clara had loved the ribbons she had given her in thanks for helping her a while back) that she figured one would have a nice necklace she could use as a substitute for the thing that she was most determinedly not thinking about.

One stall, which was trimmed with a bright, charming turquoise, caught her attention as various necklaces and bracelets winked in the summer sun. Idly, she browsed through them, discarding the gaudier and flashier ones first. Her wandering fingers slowed, though, as she made her way through the smaller necklaces. She almost picked up a chain with a small hippogryff attached to it, the small figure flaring its wings and rearing up in the palm of her hand before settling down, but didn't want the constant reminder of Sirius and their midnight flight with Harry to be hung around her neck. Ultimately, she picked a small abraxan out, the body of the horse golden and the expertly crafted miniature wings made of beaten silver.

As she held it up to her neck to see how low it would hang, the merchant obligingly held up a small mirror so she could see her reflection. The charm rested in between her breasts, right where the Time-Turner had used to. Almost out of habit, her hand came up and clasped the charm, the edges of the wings pressing against her fingers reassuringly.

"It's perfect," she told him. "I'll take it."

The slight pull of the chain against her neck was comforting, and she felt lighter somehow as she strolled across the plaza. Eventually she found her way back to the bookstore she had been in so many weeks earlier, the quiet space brightened by the light streaming in through the windows. The smell of paper and ink was comforting to her, and she closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed it in.

As was typical, she lost herself to the act of browsing and reading. The stack of books in her arms grew higher and higher until she had one neatly tucked right under her chin. When she reached for another one, the stack wobbled precariously, and she snatched her hand back to steady the books. A moment later, she laughed to herself as she realized her folly and spelled the stack to float next to her as she perused the next book.

Eventually, she looked over at her stack and discovered it was almost higher than the bookshelves. At that point, she was marginally embarrassed to head to the front with her collection. After spending five agonizing minutes trying to cut down her stack, she checked out with three fewer books than she had originally started with and headed out with her purchases shrunk to miniatures and neatly tied together with twine.

Her attention was caught by the sign of the Quidditch shop next door as she emerged, and she stepped inside with the intent of procuring something. Luckily, she knew what kind of broomkeeping kits the team used and managed to acquire one of those, along with a book of spells that held at least one she knew Viktor used. As soon as she got home, she'd wrap it up, mark the relevant spell so Harry would know to use it, and get Svirep to take it to Harry. Hopefully it would cheer him up during his summer at the Dursleys.

With a spring in her step, she turned towards home, her stride loose and relaxed instead of fast and tense as it had been when she had set out earlier. It seemed she would have to visit the pond another day: she'd whiled away the day at the Square, and the sun was fast crawling towards the edge of the horizon.

Sirius wasn't home when she returned, and when he did come back—something that came as a faint surprise—he was in a rare good mood, one she was loath to spoil.

"I was thinking," she said casually as she spooned some soup into a bowl, "about the next few weeks. You see, when I first agreed to do this, I mentioned to Dumbledore that I still wanted to go on vacation with my parents in France. He said it was perfectly fine, of course, but I just wanted to let you know that it'll be my turn to go traveling."

Sirius looked at her act as if she were daft. "You what?"

Patiently, she repeated herself. "I was thinking I could go to France to be with my parents. On vacation. Like it was agreed-upon with Dumbledore."

Slowly, Surius' eyebrows crept up his forehead. "You can't just go to France."

"Kras and I 'just went' to Italy," she responded tetchily. "Not that you would know about that, actually, but I did that just this week. It's not impossible, you know."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant and you know it. You've got obligations here that you've agreed to see you through. Does your apprenticeship ring a bell?" He looked pointedly at her. "If not that, then how about the small matter of my Polyjuice potion?"

She pressed her lips and took a deep breath, trying not to say anything rashly. "I'm aware of them. Thanks. But Dumbledore said I could use the Time-Turner—"

"Bullshite."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Bullshite. He would never give you the Time-Turner so you could do something as asinine as a family vacation."

She took another, longer breath. I didn't particularly help. "Are you calling me a liar?"

He spread his hands. "I am simply having a hard time reconciling the idea that Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards of all time, would willingly hand over an incredibly dangerous, possibly lethal artefact to a teenage girl for the express purpose of helping her take a vacation."

"He's given it to me before and it went just fine."

The older wizard barked out a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. "'Just fine?'" He repeated, tone incredulous. "'Just fine?' I watched you, Hermione. I watched you all year as you came out to that lake, and let me tell you if someone with first-hand experience of your decline over the school year, it was not 'just fine'. Both your physical and mental well-being or beginning to be in seriously precarious positions, not to mention the additional drain on your magical core."

The shock that his words engendered (he had been watching her all along?) was momentarily pushed aside and she stubbornly said, "That was for months! This will only be for a week. The pull won't be nearly as bad."

"Ah," he said softly, settling back against the counter as he crossed his arms. "That's it."

Sometimes, Sirius made her want to do something violent. "There what is?"

Baldly, he said, "Once an addict, always an addict. Are you feeling the draw, Hermione? Do you want another hit?" Knowing, piercing eyes had turned from flashing anger to molten sympathy—or was it pity?

She ground her teeth together. It was none of his business what she felt. And that accusation, that label…

"How dare you call me an addict," she flung back. "I am not, but even if I were—even if I had been, "she corrected herself, "addicts recover. They're not always addicts. That's flawed thinking."

"Were you using the Time-Turner even when you were exhausted?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Did you crave the feeling of euphoria it gave you?"

The joy—the incandescent feeling of power, of adventure, of knowing she superseded the boundaries of time itself—

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that—"

"And do you crave it even now?" His voice was infinitely softer, his eyes sad. "Do you take it out and sometimes look at it thinking, one more time surely wouldn't hurt?"

Guilty, she thought of the many times that she had opened the secret compartment and stared at the necklace, trying to rationalize using it. Just once. To do—well, anything. More time to study. More time to sleep. More time to figure out what Sirius was doing so she could understand who he had become.

"You don't have to say anything," Sirius continued when she remained silent, "but I do want to tell you a story."

"I hardly think this is the time for a story, Sirius."

"Just listen, Hermione. I'm not telling you this because I enjoy it. Rather the opposite, actually."

Somewhat reluctantly, she subsided.

"When I was at Hogwarts," the older wizard began, "there was a girl." He laughed softly. "There was always a girl—or a boy, really, I wasn't particular. But anyways, this girl… Well. She was special. Her name was Marlene."

His eyes grew softer, his lips turning up at the edges. "She was beautiful and bright like the sun. Her laughs filled the corridors, and her heart was kind. But Marlene had a terrible secret. You see, she liked Divination."

"And that's a terrible secret?" She asked, confused.

"No." He shook his head. "Her terrible secret was that she liked Divination too much. She was something of a prodigy, able to see far into the future clearly. And she grew better and better, she wanted to see further and further into the future. She stumbled upon an elixir purported to do just that and set about making it. But what she didn't know—or knew and ignored, I'm unclear on that—was that drinking the elixir would help her, but at a terrible cost."

"You see," he continued, shoulders sagging as he glanced down at the floor, "the elixir, or Faraday's Farseeing Eye, as it was called, was powerful. But it came at a price. Each time she used it, she lost her memory of the past even though she gained a piece of the future. Things like this are never free, you see. They always come at a cost."

A dawning sense of horror swept over Hermione as she thought through the implications. "She was forgetting the past."

Slowly, he nodded. "And the present, once she had gone through her life up to then. Everything that made her Marlene was slowly stolen from her—her memories made her who she was. A beautiful soul, a capable witch. By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was too late: she had forgotten memories up to and through some of her time at Hogwarts, but the visions she saw convinced her she needed to keep seeing, to keep drinking, for the good of the Wizarding world."

Hermione was aghast. "At the expense of herself?"

Sirius' smile was infinitely sad. "She claimed she was just one of many and that darkness was coming. There was a way to prevent it, or at least forestall it, but she could never quite discover it in her visions. So she kept drinking. One more, and one more, and one more, convinced that it was always the last time, that this vision would be the one to reveal the secret. But the cost was too high, and her memories were gone before she found it out."

"What happened to her?" She couldn't help but ask.

"Well," he said steadily, looking up at her, "because she had become so consumed—because she had been ruled by the idea of the possibilities the elixir could give her, she lost herself. She didn't understand who she was, where she was, or what she was. Her parents placed her in the Long-Term Damage ward at St Mungo's in hopes they could find a remedy. However…"

When he seemed unlikely to continue, the silence drawing out longer and longer, she prompted, "However?"

"She died, Hermione," he snapped. "Obviously."

She blanched as his words sat in the air between them for a long, full moment. Slowly, he took a deep breath. "Excuse me—this is difficult."

Chastened, Hermione also apologized. "I'm sorry. That was rather insensitive of me."

"Yes, it was, but I started this for a reason, and I'll end it for the same." He sighed. "Marlene never woke up one day. We don't know precisely what happened: if an experimental potion went wrong, if her magic had abandoned her because of a prolonged abuse, or if something else altogether occurred."

"Whatever the reason, she died, Hermione." He looked up at her, eyes dark. "She died, and she's never coming back. Do you want to do the same?"

"It wouldn't be like that. I'm—it's different."

"Isn't it?" He asked mercilessly. "At least with Marlene she wasn't using an addictive object with a known effect of magical drainage per use. For her, it was only her memories. For you it's a critical component that keeps you alive.

When she opened her mouth to argue, he raised a hand to forestall any argument she put forward. "Let me ask you this. Are you willing to leave everyone behind? Are you willing to leave Harry, and Ron, your parents, your teachers, Viktor, the team, your Mistress—all those who treasure you, who love you? Are you willing to let your memory haunt them for the rest of their lives as they think of you, not with joy and fondness but sorrow and regret, and let them try to figure out why they didn't know earlier, why they didn't see the signs, why they didn't stop you in time?"

"Will you be that selfish, but shortsighted, but willing to place such a burden on them?" He asked, his eyes drilling into her. "Only you can know the answer to that. Only you can make that decision. I can only hope it is the right one."

Feeling as though she had been struck across the face as her heart stuttered, she asked tremulously, "Then why did Dumbledore give it to me in the first place? And why did he give it back for the summer?"

"I don't know." Sirius crossed his arms, his lips a thin slash on his face as he pressed them together. "I really don't. He shouldn't have. It's sheer lunacy to give such a thing to anyone, let alone a minor, a child. I suppose, perhaps, he thought you might give it to me so that I could use it." He furrowed his brows, his tone dubious. "Perhaps. But that doesn't explain the school year before this. That, I have no answer to. By all rights, I'm shocked that you were able to resist it for so long and that you emerged relatively unscathed."

"Oh," she said off-handedly, not thinking. "It's because I have a Dark affinity."

The second the words exited her mouth, she regretted them. She might have told Sirius at the beginning of the summer, but given the new, increasingly peculiar and sometimes downright unsettling Sirius that had been showing up recently, she wouldn't trust him with that information at all. But their conversation, and his demeanor, had become reminiscent of the old Sirius, and she had slipped.

Hopefully this wouldn't come back to haunt her.

"A what?" he repeated incredulously.

She shrugged, looking down at the table.

"Hermione," his voice was fierce as he suddenly gripped her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her, "do not tell a soul about that. Let's hope that nobody knows."

If she didn't know better, she would say he was frightened.

"Is it a bad thing?" she asked, voice small. "To have that?" It has seemed rather the opposite, she had thought.

"No." He checked himself before saying something, then huffed, then repeated, "No. It is only the consequences of someone knowing that I fear. Don't tell anyone."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

She was actually beginning to get a bit scared. "All right, Sirius, I promise. Please, you're hurting me."

He released her as if he'd been burned, his fingers still cupped as if he was holding her. "I—I'm sorry."

There was something in his tone that made her wonder what, exactly he was apologizing for.

That conversation, along with all the other events of the day, left her in a mental turmoil that followed her even as she went up to her room to prepare for bed, at which point she was greeted by the sight of The Dress (as she had started calling it in her mind) hanging in plain sight. It was a stark reminder that the Quidditch World Cup Ball was only a few days away and she would have to face a situation that she knew she would not perform well in. Her stomach lurched at the idea.

Though she was familiar with the idea of a ball and had, in fact, attended similar such events in the past with her parents as they permitted, she had always been relegated to the position of an accessory, the adage of children being seen and not heard holding particularly true. This time, though, she wouldn't be able to hide behind anyone and would instead have to stand on her own as she socialized with notable and influential figures, many celebrities in their own right.

It was unfortunate, she thought absently, that Sirius was required to come with her because she wasn't an adult. At least when she had attended occasions such as these in the past with her parents, she'd had a notion of how it would go: wear the clothing given to her, exchange banalities, smile when referred to, and stand quietly. With Sirius, she couldn't even predict what he would do, and she certainly couldn't even rely on him staying by her. Although, a large part of her mind asked, did she actually want that? Wouldn't she be better off on her own without him?

"Merlin," she groaned, dragging a hand over her face. She still couldn't dance well and she still didn't know how to do her hair or to make sure she would look presentable. Not to mention she wasn't sure she had all the strange Pureblood customs memorized, and there were multiple ways of greeting different people from different countries…

Her blood pressure was surely too high to be healthy, she thought as she slipped between the covers. She had to stop thinking about this, or she would never fall asleep.

Unfortunately, the social occasion was not the only thing rolling around in her mind keeping the sweet mindlessness of sleep at bay.

"Do you take it out and sometimes look at it thinking, one more time surely wouldn't hurt?"

Hadn't that been exactly what she'd been doing earlier this morning, rationalizing this as a unique occasion that warranted the use of the Time-Turner? It hadn't helped that Dumbledore had fairly endorsed its use for precisely this thing: he was, after all, an adult who she very much looked up to. But his approval directly contradicted Krasmira, and now Sirius's, stance on its use.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as she thought furiously.

Pros to going to France: She got to go to France. She would get to see her parents, who had invited her to come with them. She could even, perhaps, bond with them as she never had before, if she played her cards right. All she had to do was present herself well—perhaps she could speak of her summer internship? It was, maybe, a little impressive.

Cons to going to France: She might not enjoy herself. She had to leave Bulgaria and miss work as well. Her parents likely wouldn't want her to practice her magic while she was with them, either.

But if she didn't go, what if they became displeased with her? What if they...no, they couldn't disown her: she was their only child. But to turn down their invitation, which they extended so very rarely...

And yet…

"So she kept drinking. One more, and one more, and one more, convinced that it was always the last time."

Madam Lazarov's eyes were dark, her tone intent as she said, "Time-Turners are parasitic and often lead to the death of its users."

Even though it would solve so many problems…even though it would let her see her parents and continue working with the team, the potential consequences seemed dire. Was this vacation worth the possibility of such a terrible price? And even if she did use it, and she managed to lock it away again, Mistress Lazarov said she would know and that she would sack her.

The costs seemed high. Too high.

"Are you willing to let your memory haunt them for the rest of their lives?"

"No," she whispered.

Slowly, she turned away from her trunk, where she knew the Time-Turner was safely nestled in its compartment.

"No, I'm not. Not this time."

*Looks at google doc slightly wild-eyed, then up at the camera* Hermione's not the only one that's going to have high blood pressure.

I rewrote this chapter four times. This chapter was THE chapter that got me blocked back the beginning of the summer. Thank God it's over and out out of my hands so I can't change it again. Please, take it and have mercy on my poor writer's soul.

Next up: ~~the Ball~~