Author's Note: Hey everyone! I know that I have not updated this story in YEARS. I was feeling inspired the other day and was reading it over and realized how choppy the writing is and how all over the place the plot was. I guess that's what happens when you write a fanfic over a span of five years and don't do too much planning.
I am taking the time to rewrite Only Time Will Tell. Most of the main points will stay the same, however, a lot is going to change. To everyone who has been there since the beginning, thank you so much for the support, the favorites, and the reviews. To anyone who is new, welcome along! This should be an interesting ride.
Dumbledore looked down at the girl, looking so small in the large cot of the hospital bed, and wondered what had happened to her.
Albus was no stranger to the cruelty of the world and to the horrors of war. He heard the rumors of the deeds of Tom Riddle and his followers and understood better than most what the rise of this new Dark Lord would mean for the wizarding world. But this? Seeing this teenage girl falling from the sky, broken, starved, and yet still so strong was almost too much for Dumbledore to bear. And yet, he knew that this was only the beginning.
The girl muttered in her sleep, her eyelids fluttering wildly about. She trashed and her limbs twitched, from aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse or from whatever she was seeing in her dream, he could not be sure.
Madame Pomphrey bustled about, frazzled, yet determined. The matron had become a Healer and worked at St. Mungo's for a few short years before coming to Hogwarts. She was more than adept at her job and always had students feeling good as new. She handled a sprain and a cold just as well as she healed a broken and battered werewolf after every full moon, but this girl on the cot was something else entirely.
Under Dumbledore's watchful and somber eyes, Madame Pomphrey performed check after check to determine the extent of the girl's injuries.
Magical exhaustion. Dehydration. Malnourishment.
A concussion. Multiple lacerations on the girl's arms, legs, and back. Glass embedded in the girl's chest. Three broken ribs. A sprained ankle. A nasty cut down, cutting up the girl's otherwise beautiful face that wouldn't heal.
And that wasn't even the worst of it.
Madame Pomphrey was glad the poor girl was unconscious, otherwise she would have been extremely embarrassed by her inability to control her emotions upon seeing the results of her scan for dark magic residue.
A scar that spanned from shoulder to hips, imbedded with dark, angry magic. The injury looked old, but Madame Pomphrey knew it would flair up for the rest of the girl's life.
The aftershocks from the Cruciatus curse that only occur after long term exposure to the spell.
The scar on her arm.
Madame Pomphrey thought she was going to be sick upon seeing the jagged red letters, spelling out that awful slur. The thought of someone hating this girl enough to carve Mudblood into her arm, it was unfathomable.
Madame Pomphrey took great care tending to the girl, giving her potion after potion and making her as comfortable as possible. It was the least she could do.
Dumbledore stirred, his eyes no longer holding their usual twinkle. He looked as tired as Madame Pomphrey felt.
"Will you summon me when she wakes? I think we have much to ask the little witch." Much to ask the little witch indeed.
The little witch in question was dreaming.
But her dreams didn't feel like dreams.
In them, she was back at the Battle of Hogwarts, watching as her friends continued the fight.
She was with Harry and Ron as they entered the Chamber of Secrets. She recoiled in fright, as Ron cursed and Harry grimaced, upon seeing the dead Basilisk. She cheered them on when they used a fang to destroy the diadem. And she cried out when they both almost drowned as the Horocrux fought back.
She watched as Neville, Ginny, and Luna fought side by side. Their training with Dumbledore's Army and their preparation over the last year showing in their skills and in the way they could hold their own against their opponents. She beamed at the determination on her friends' faces.
She heard Percy's anguished cries as he tried to pull Fred's body from out beneath the rubble. Fred, who had died with a joke on his lips and a smile on his face. Fred, who spent his life making others happy and driving away the darkness now lost to the war.
Hermione felt chills down her spine when Voldemort announced that he wanted Harry to come to him to end things. She walked with Harry to the Forest, pleading and begging him to turn around. She saw the resignation in her best friend's eyes and sobbed when she realized that he had been raised like a pig to slaughter. Manipulated by some of the people he trusted the most.
The brightest witch of her age could do nothing but watch as the green light sped towards Harry, as her best friend greeted death like an old friend.
Hermione woke with a start, Harry's name on her lips and tears streaming uncontrolled down her face. Madame Pomphrey was ready and gently poured Dreamless Sleep into her patient's mouth, whispering soothing nonsense as she did so. The last thing she felt before she was pulled back into unconsciousness was someone gently brushing her curls away from her face.
In another part of the castle, Sybill Trelawney jolted upright in bed. Eyes wide and unfocused, her raspy voice filled the dark room.
"The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord has arrived.
She will be marked by him. She who bears the scars of his war and survived.
She will have the power the Dark Lord knows not.
And one must die at the hands of the other, for both cannot be in the same place.
Or risk unraveling the fabric of time and space."
Author's Note: Kind of a short chapter but it sets up the main premise of the story. Anyone have any guesses what's going on? What does the new prophecy mean?