It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

- JK Rowling


Sleep did not come easily to Hermione on her first night in 1944. She lay awake restless and terrified for hours in the beautiful paneled spare room at Professor Dumbledore's house. The night was warm and through the open window she could hear the gentle sounds of the countryside at night: owls calling out to each other, the distant lowing of cattle.

There was no known way back.

The spell used to send her here was one known apparently only to a future Dumbledore.

She would be middle-aged before she was ever born.

No one had ever moved forward in time. Hermione might have lost everyone she loved in a single moment. She could die before she saw them again. Her best-case scenario was waiting for fifty-five years.

She had already lived through so much in the nine years since she'd stepped into the wonderous, dangerous world she'd fought so hard to make safe.

Would the years slip past quickly, blurring their faces into distant memory? Would she remember her parents without that slight look of mistrust and fear? How they'd looked in the days before they understood exactly what their daughter was capable of.

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Then another thought. On top of all her intimate horror, she would have to live the war again. Tom Riddle walked freely in this age. He would be taking up his position as Head Boy this year. Tom Riddle, who had already killed three people. Tom Riddle, who had sent his own Uncle to Azkaban in his place. Tom Riddle who would become Lord Voldemort.

No one in the world knew his secrets - except her. Even Dumbledore couldn't suspect the full extent of his ambition and evil. A new burden for her to bear. He was lying in his bed at the Orphanage alive at this very moment. She could apparate to London and kill him and be done.

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Louder still than that cacophony was this: why she was there?

What had she done? Had her presence affected the time her younger self would live in? Whatever it was, whatever effect she'd had would already have been felt. In theory.

All works on time-travel of this magnitude theorised she would not be able to change the past, because she knew what was to come. If she tried to murder Tom Riddle she would not be able to. Her spell would miss. Something would get in the way. Her wand would backfire.

But the temptation to try was strong. The theories had, insofar as she knew, never actually been tested. The lack of any recorded visitors from the future did indicate no means of going to the past had ever been publicised or perhaps even invented - until now. Or not now, but whenever Dumbledore managed to find the way, or she did, or someone did and told Dumbledore.

The only evidence that it was at all possible was her own presence.

And, just perhaps, that was the scariest thought of all. She was quite possibly the only person to have ever gone out of her own life-time. The longest recorded magical jump backwards was a year and that had been a particularly obsessive member of the Department of Mysteries who had enchanted his Time Turner to spin 8760 times. He had had to spend the entire year in hiding from his family and friends and from himself.

He had committed suicide three years later.

When someone had tried to send themselves back further than a year, the hourglass within the time turner had simply shattered.

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was she stuck, would she have to relive the war, did she die -

Her mind turned the same questions over and over. But no tears came. It was too big. She lay there dry-eyed and restless and scared.

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There was no clock in this room to mark the passing seconds, minutes, hours. Too many without sleep; far too many until she could be home again.

As her reality formed itself into something she could envisage, cold devastation spread. But she didn't cry.

Fifty-five years into the past had jolted her into realising she had not been fine. She had been feeling empty since the war. She'd spent over a year feeling numb, surrounded by smiles tightened by loss, and she hadn't noticed. She'd occupied herself with helping to rebuild what had been destroyed, with returning her parents to their home and memories and accepting that they might never fully trust her again, with grieving Weasleys, being with Ron, her NEWTs -

Hermione lay dry-eyed in the elegantly-appointed guest room and stared into the darkness, considering her situation. Remembering facts about time travel, and dates and the exact number of turns one needed to repeat an entire year. Perhaps if she could count the hourglass in her head turn over 8766 times, it would drown out her own mind.

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(It did not.)

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The part of Hermione that might forever be a schoolgirl couldn't forget that Professor Dumbledore had been her Headmaster and that, somehow, they were having breakfast together, alone, in his house.

She made a concerted effort to be cheerful despite her fatigue and stuck to politely discussing his work, which she had read extensively, for the first fifteen minutes.

After he had finished his second cup of tea, he cleared his throat slightly to indicate a shift in subject.

"I have decided that the first thing we must do is find some attire more appropriate for this time. You stand out far too much in... those, although I'm sure they are very suitable and normal garments in your time. If you would permit Jingo to take your measurements, I will owl Twilfit & Tattings."

"Yes of course – I'm only sorry to burden you with the expense. If you would keep a list of them I'll pay you back as soon as possible."

"Nonsense. Please do not speak of it again. I have some business that will take me away from the house for a few days. Please stay within the grounds. You will not be disturbed here."

He placed her wand on the table, and she picked up with a rush of relief. He must believe her.

"Use this only in an emergency. The Ministry have certain measures in place to detect unregistered magic users. You will need a new one."

She swallowed, absorbed the loss, and took refuge in gratitude.

"Professor, you are being so kind. Thank you."

"My dear girl, I sent you here myself. It is the very least I can do."

For all that it did seem bleak, and for all she knew of his flaws, there was a surety in having Dumbledore on your side that gave Hermione confidence.

"Turning to the future," he continued, "the more immediate future, I should say. I will not attempt to learn of my own future, or that of the Wizarding World – it is too dangerous for us both."

He flicked his fingers at the teapot and it started pouring yet another cup.

"And yet we must deal with your situation. I have a proposal for you. I would offer you the chance to learn directly from me - to learn magic I have never shared with anyone. I have good enough reason to believe you are a worthy recipient of this knowledge, and even I cannot live forever."

Her eyes grew large, and the Professor found himself chuckling for the second time in as many days as she apparently lost the ability to speak. The girl – Hermione – stammered her thanks and some assurances of attempting to be worthy of his trust. It was the first real sign of emotion she'd expressed, and he wondered how awful the times to come would be to make a girl her age so grave and composed.

And in a breakfast which had lasted over forty minutes, his thoughts had not once turned to the man he had once loved.

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Planting the false documentation of her birth at the Ministry proved to be surprisingly easy. Or at least, it was easy for someone of his magical prowess and current celebrity status. Albus was surprised to find himself actually enjoying the illicit adventure.

He called in a favour from an old friend for the correct documentation. Then it required some sneaking and just one Confundus to persuade the Master of the Birth Seal (who was, after all, two hundred and ten, and almost blind) that he was stamping a new birth and charm it to relocate to its proper year upon filing.

That done, Hermione Dearborn came into existence (b. September 19th 1925 to Cerdic Dearborn and Ceilidh Lowell).

Dumbledore apparated to a remote castle in Wales, as he had arranged with his old friend, and returned to his home by carriage, accompanied by the girl's official father. Cerdic Dearborn was an immensely clever wizard who'd been a precocious second year when Dumbledore had been Head Boy. He had chosen not to take up any of the brilliant career paths he might have taken. Instead, at the age of forty, he'd come back from years of travel and exploration and locked himself away with all the wonders he had brought back to dedicate his life to alchemy.

Albus was one of a small circle of witches and wizards Cerdic had kept in irregular contact with over the had seemed extremely excited about what he called their new project.

He had not been a precisely handsome man in his youth, but possessed of a wicked charm that had not needed classical good looks to support his eye for the ladies. Now, just shy of sixty, he cut a distinguished, albeit eccentric, figure. His wild, lustrous hair was still dark brown, his face livelier that one might expect in one who was, essentially, a hermit.

"My dear old thing," Cerdic filled the carriage with his booming voice as they flew over the Bristol Channel. "I confess I am filled with anticipation to meet my new daughter! I always meant to have one, you know, but how time flies and I find myself nearing sixty without any progeny when my younger brother has already married and seen his firstborn grown. Funny how it all turns out. Still, if I like this girl well enough I'm sure I will do very well by her. I do so love a mystery. I've a mind to take her back to Wales until its time for Hogwarts. The only thing I do resent about all this is that girl, your cousin, the one who you're saying is the girl's mother – what was her name? Oh, I know, Ceilidh, that's it, well she was was a dull chit. Pretty enough I suppose but I'm not sure I'd have taken her to bed. I'm not meant to have married the gal am I?" He asked this last with entertaining consternation.

"No, no. One night is all you need confess to. My cousin – who I admit I barely knew myself – died fifteen years ago. She married a Muggle and died in childbirth, which I'm rather afraid my aunt thought was fully deserved. Hermione would have been five. So you were given a child whose existence you'd known nothing of, and then raised and educated her yourself in Wales. As I have already assured you, you will like Hermione, who is both pretty and intelligent, and I suspect rather charming when she wishes. I wouldn't have entrusted this to just anyone, Cerdic, however old a friend." He paused and then added mischievously, "She has your hair though - it would likely fool anyone but your grandmother."

"'Pon my life, does she indeed? The hair's the tell, my mother used to say, not that she'd know, being a redhead, but there we are. Well, you're a wily old thing Albus and no mistake. Getting me out of my castle after all these years. I've not noticed the time pass but I think it may have been six years since I came this far out of Wales. Well, well. How it flies. Pretty you say? Well, I wouldn't have an ugly chit in my house so I'm glad of that. A daughter. Fancy. How it all turns out."

Cerdic made up for the time he spent alone by fitting several years' worth of conversation into the journey from Wales to Devon, something he got away with only due to his infectious, boisterous charm and sharp intellect. The conversation ranged from idle gossip of old schoolmates to complex alchemic theories before the winged horses landed on the lawn outside Dumbledore's home.

The house was built of soft grey stone, finely built, with large bay windows. It was set in extensive gardens, with a small walled kitchen garden in which grew vegetables, herbs and plants, greenhouses for potion ingredients.

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Hermione was in the library when they arrived. It had French windows looking out onto the biggest lawn at the back of the house and elegantly carved white bookshelves running floor to ceiling on two sides. The fourth side was mostly occupied with a large fireplace. In front of it sat winged leather armchairs that adjusted into the perfect position for whomever sat in them to read. Even from this vantage point she didn't notice the carriage land until a booming laugh jerked her attention away from her book.

Hermione stood, almost catching her shoe in the hem of the pale blue robes that had arrived the day before.

When she'd first put them on and looked in the mirror she'd seen someone she barely recognised staring back: a reminder that everything was different, that she was fifty five years away from where she should be, that she would be playing a part for weeks, years even the rest of her life. A part she didn't know yet, but that involved powder blue velvet and learning from one of the most brilliant wizards the world had ever seen.

"Ah, Hermione," Dumbledore greeted as she stepped out of the French windows "– may I introduce Cerdic Dearborn? A very old friend of mine - and now your father."

"By Merlin you're right, old thing, she could be a Dearborn! Look at that hair! Well, child, this is an unexpected pleasure. Always meant to have a daughter. Not a son, peskier to bring up, always challenging, but a nice, clever girl... and here you are almost at a useful age. Not that Albus will let me take you back to Wales but you never know. You might decide to join me in my hermitage."

Hermione wouldn't have believed for one second that this energetic and oddly charming man was truly a hermit had she not read about him when she had been researching Nicolas Flamel. She had to bite down hard on her tongue not to exclaim that he was the Cerdic Dearborn!

"A father? Goodness, I um well, I wasn't expecting – I didn't think – are you sure? It must seem very strange… and a risk if anyone were to discover…" she trailed off.

"Well, let's not loiter about out here," Dumbledore interrupted. "Jingo? Ah my dear how are you?"

The elf popped into presence.

"Jingo is very well, thanking Master Albus, and has made the girl sleep and eat as she is as bad as yourself at remembering such things. Would Master and guests like to have their tea on the terrace? Jingo has laid it there, as it is such a nice sunny day."

Hermione was surprised to see the house-elf gently, but firmly, direct her master as she had directed Hermione over the past few days. She was certainly different from Winky and Kreacher and their slavish affection. But perhaps Dobby would have – but not, she must not think of such things. She must focus on this present.

"What an excellent idea, thank you Jingo."

"Jingo if you ever get fed up with Albus it would be the greatest pleasure to offer you a place with me in Wales," Cerdic offered gallantly.

"Jingo would never leave Mister Dumbledore! Not even if he gave Jingo her clothes! Jingo has looked after Mister Albus since her was born and will look after his babies when he finally picks a nice witch, but there is no rush Master – Jingo is still young."

"Well, Cerdic, there you have it."

Quite amused by the conversation, Hermione followed the two great men around the house to the terrace on the south side.

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"Professor – did you, er, did you actually break into the Ministry and fake my records? I hate to ask but I was rather concerned and it's such a big risk. It would have looked very odd and under law thirty six c. in the statute concerning new births it's a minimum Azkaban sentence of nine years for faking a child's magical registration and birth."

"Of course I didn't 'break in', I simply called in a favour and did a little er sneaking around. It was rather fun, actually."

And there, for the first time since she had been in 1945, was that familiar blue twinkle. Hermione smiled, and wondered if either Wizard would believe her if she told them that she had broken into the Ministry, twice, into Gringotts, and into Hogwarts. Probably not. She still hardly believed they'd managed it all. Memories swirled up, clouding her mind, but she forced them away, filed them back in her tidy, ordered mind.

"How did you know that law, child?"

"I looked into the laws of the Wizarding World as a bit of light reading one summer. It was very interesting; they're remarkably outdated and prejudiced in parts - and there are some particularly silly ones. Did you know applicants for a post in the Ministry will be considered in order of blood, and if you are related to a person who has held the post before you are considered first, in closest genetic order according to the sub-clauses of laws fifteen-hundred-and thirty-six and -seven. I mean, that's just outrageous nepotism and bigotry! It's positively feudal."

Hermione was a little bemused when the two men caught each others' eyes and began to laugh.

"Light reading?" Cerdic chortled. "A campaigner at heart are you then, Hermione?" he asked, apparently highly entertained. "Your memory is positively encyclopaedic I see. Well, that's a useful thing and no mistake. Oh, this is too brilliant - when I never even know what day of the week it is and still hold the record of forgetting to go to classes at Hogwarts."

She still didn't understand what was so funny, but he was a very eccentric man after all. Perhaps he simply had a bizarre sense of humour.

"I wonder how our top students will find your presence over the next year. You'll be interesting competition for one or two of them especially, I daresay," Albus commented, with little trace of humour left in his voice.

"Over the next year? I don't understand, Professor."

She could not go to school with Tom Riddle, she could not. She would kill him. The temptation would be far too great.

"You will be accompanying me to Hogwarts, Hermione. You will join the Seventh Year in order to take your NEWTs. You need qualifications and I'm afraid those are not as easily forged as your birth: Griselda Marchbanks never forgets a student, especially one as clever as you. No, you must take them – just in case."

"I can't go to Hogwarts, Professor. I'm very sorry, I will find my own way, but I cannot go there."

"I'm afraid you must, Hermione. You always did, you see."

His blue eyes met her and she frowned, always did. How could he know?

"What's that, Albus? Always did? Doesn't make sense, old thing."

"Cerdic… I would not lie to you, old friend, so I will leave the questioned unanswered and you may draw your own conclusions. Suffice to say, Hermione will go to Hogwarts and that is that."

There was a certainty behind Dumbledore's words, a lacing of steel, and Hermione fell silent as she considered the implications. She would be Tom Riddle's peer. The man who would one day repeatedly try to kill her and all those she loved. A man who stood for everything she hated.

She had thought she could handle anything the past flung at her but suddenly she doubted herself. If anything could break her, it would be being around him. But then again, she couldn't imagine she would have to interact with him any more than she had with Malfoy and unlike that prat presumably Riddle would have to maintain the act Harry had described to her.

Brilliant but poor, a model student – and so kind! The very best of Slytherin house.

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She cried that night, and wished she could tell Dumbledore everything. But she could not, and Hermione felt the sting of knowledge as a far greater burden than it was a power.

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