The world was very blurry as Hermione's eyes fluttered open, needing a few moments to adjust to her surroundings. She was, at the very least, surprised to still be alive. She was more surprised though that the hospital wing had already been rebuilt in the time that she had been asleep. How long had she been unconscious? Shouldn't there have been more people than just her occupying the medical ward?

How had she survived? That was the real question. With both Harry and Ron dead moments before she had collapsed, Hermione wondered who had come to her rescue. How did they win? They must have won, for surely Voldemort would not keep prisoners, waiting for them to heal before killing them.

Where was everybody?

Hermione pulled her body up into a sitting position. Yes, there was pain, but she had been living with magical injuries for the past year or so while on the run. Her heart hurt for her friends—her family. However, if there is one thing that could be said about Hermione Granger, it is that she is competent enough to know how to put away her emotions long enough to gage her situation.

It was dark out. The windows showed the night sky and all of the stars she had once studied in the astronomy tower. Hermione pushed off the blankets that covered her body, noticing the copious number of bandages that littered her body, ranging in size from her ankles to her head. She clenched her jaw and grit her teeth while twisting her body so that her bare feet sat on the cold linoleum tile. It was only a few steps to the window. She could make it that far.

Unfortunately, our young protagonist crumpled to the floor the moment she tried to stand up, her legs too weak to support her full weight. So she crawled, painstakingly pulling herself to the wall where she could grip the ledge of the windowsill. She took a few steadying gasps of air, somehow out of breath from even the smallest of excursions. Hermione hauled herself up and leaned against the frame, at last being able to see out.

The sight that met her eyes was impossible. Even more impossible than the hospital wing being rebuilt so quickly. The whole castle looked just as it did before the battle had begun.

Just how long had she slept?

Suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, she unlatched the window and pushed it open, gulping down the fresh air. Gooseflesh traveled up her arms from the chill, but she didn't hardly notice. Nor did she notice the sound of an opening door and the slight shriek of alarm from Madame Pomfrey, who fully expected her ward to be unconscious in bed—not sticking the front half of her body out of a window.

"Come, dear, let's just get you back in bed." She coaxed the trembling girl, who looked unexpectedly younger than before, back under the covers. "No need to worry."

The girl seemed to look at her with extreme confusion, as if she didn't understand a word the nurse was saying. In fact, she almost appeared to see straight through her, as if she couldn't focus exactly.

"You just sit tight." Madame Pomfrey ordered, tucking in the sheets tightly. "I'll be just a moment. I must send word to Dumbledore that you've woken."

Shock overcame the younger witch's face, and her hand crept up to her neck, searching for the necklace chain that usually rested there. She whispered. "Dumbledore?"

Hermione was able to put the pieces together quickly as the young Madame Pomfrey bustled away from her. Where in Godric's name was her time turner? More importantly, perhaps most importantly, what year was it? The Hogwarts nurse looked younger than Hermione had ever seen her, so it couldn't have been in the time when she was at school. But was it even possible for her to go back more than a few years? A million questions flew through her head as she sat, for perhaps the first time in her life, quite dumbly without speaking a word.

When Madame Pomfrey returned, Dumbledore was with her. The sight of him brought tears to her eyes. After all, she had not seen him in over a year, when he had died and fell from the astronomy tower. He was younger now, of course, though the only difference she could spot was that his white beard was shorter and his eyes appeared more lively than she'd noticed in the years that she knew him.

"Hello, my dear," Dumbledore greeted. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which is where you are now."

Hermione couldn't pull her gaze away from him, though he was becoming increasingly blurry as her eyes filled with tears. One slowly traced its way down her cheek as she said. "Yes, sir. I know."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and looked at her over his crescent moon spectacles. She clearly recognized him, but he had no recollection of her. He asked anyway, "Have we met?"

The girls hands were shaking slightly, so she curled them into fists and pressed them harshly into her lap. "That's the thing. Not yet."

Dumbledore paused a moment to ponder, coming to sit at the foot of Hermione's bed. "So you know me, but I do not yet know you?"

The girl nodded stiffly. "Exactly, Professor."

Madame Pomfrey looked back and forth between her ward and her employer. A profound look had come over the latter's face, and it renewed the unsettling feeling in her stomach that the young woman in her care was not all that she seemed to be. The nurse, much like everyone else in the castle, was curious, and was in a unique position to learn more about the mysterious witch who appeared out of nowhere, covered in blood and retaining only a wand and a beaded bag.

"Let us, then, start with your name." Dumbledore humbly asked, not wanting to push any harder than he needed, knowing full well the girl must have gone through some form of hell before arriving here.

"Hermione Granger, sir." She replied with ease. "And if I may ask, what is the year?"