"I want the power to stop death." — Anakin Skywalker, Revenge of the Sith.
Chapter II
Carte Blanche
Seconds pass. Minutes. Hours, maybe. Or just heartbeats.
Time — time is sacred. It's conquered mankind from the very start. Muggle and magical. Traveling within it deserves a great deal of respect, something of which was made abundantly clear to her in third year: Sirius always escaped, and Buckbeak never died. It's not a game, a toy, a joke. Nor 'rewriting history', as he so eloquently put it. No, she thinks, as she watches Malfoy's grin fade, this is his joke. Her eyes lock onto his glittering ones.
"Time-Turner?" she echoes in disbelief. An owl hoots in the distance. Her mind is reeling so fast she can't even snatch words from it that make comprehensible sense together. Malfoy nods, his expression somber now where it had been bright mere heartbeats ago. He takes a tentative step towards her.
"Yes," he says, "Not your average sort, either. I've, uh, been messing around with some alchemy. But Granger — what I'm planning to do is going to be near impossible without you."
Like finding a radio channel, the static in her mind snaps into focus. Hermione narrows her eyes. "You can say 'Trick or Treat' now," she snaps.
His brows draw together. "What—"
"You're a sick bastard, Malfoy. Just do some justice for once and throw yourself off this fucking tower." She turns her back on him as rage bubbles in her chest, and storms towards the doorway.
"December first," he drawls. She caves and stops in her tracks, though she refuses to look back at him. "That's when I'm leaving. Two in the morning, sharp. I'll be… I'll be here, right on this fucking tower. It's your choice, Granger. It's only near impossible after all."
Another more distant owl calls into the night. Hermione leaves through the doorway towards her sanity, though it's already too late.
The grotesquely childish decorations around the castle are falling apart, slowly but surely. Housekeeping charms are making them vanish or Filch is lurking in some corner tugging cobwebs off the walls. The Great Hall is back to normal — pumpkin-lantern free, piled with ordinary food, and decorated with glum faces. Hermione gets one glimpse at it and loses her appetite immediately, retreating back to Gryffindor Tower.
She gazes out the window from where she lounges on one of the sofas, where gray clouds loom for miles. She's been tempted to try out a broomstick… just to feel the wind meandering through her hair and kissing her skin. A hiccup jolts her from her thoughts. Her eyes turn to the defeated figure slouched by the fire.
Parvati is crying. Again. In fact, it's such a regular occurrence that most people from Gryffindor know that she only wants to be consoled by one person. So they leave her be. Some flee from the common room, but others play chess or tackle their homework to divert their attention from her quiet sobs. An attempt at feigning normalcy. But Hermione knows that everybody is listening — the room is silent, hollowed out with her lonely cries.
Finally, Seamus makes an appearance in the portrait hole, flanked by Neville. He immediately abandons his conversation with the other man and Parvati is in his arms before Hermione can blink.
She gets up, turning her back on them. A few younger years glance in her direction but they've also been around her long enough to fear her venomous glares, so their furtive eyes don't linger much. What she needs is a quiet space. Neville's standing awkwardly by the portrait hole, and she gives him a curt nod as she passes him.
"Hermione-" she freezes, keeping her back turned to him. "I haven't seen you around much. How are you doing?"
The portrait hole is a mere two feet away. All she needs to do is carry her feet forward. She sighs down at her shoes planted firmly on the crimson carpet. "Fine," she replies, plastering a smile on her face before she turns around. Neville's watching her the same way one would be preparing to uproot a mandrake. "How about you?"
"I'm good. Yeah, pretty good." There's a brief moment of awkward silence — well, that's a lie, because Parvati's muffled sobs still carry across the room from Seamus' shoulder — before Hermione scratches the back of her neck and grimaces slightly.
"Listen, Neville, I've got to go…" she gestures helplessly to the portrait hole behind her, watching his expectant expression. "Library. Homework. You know."
"Right," he says, frowning, "Listen, Hermione — Ginny's in the Hospital Wing. Luna told me."
She sighs, her stomach twisting. "Thanks. I'll pay her a visit."
Monday arrives, angrily cold, so students wrap themselves in scarves and gloves and earmuffs, even in the hallways. Hermione doesn't. Her ears and fingers are numb as her breath spirals out like they're from the dying embers of a fire. Even as she marches at a brisk pace, she knows class has already started. The hallways are steadily draining of crowds, leaving her alone save for a few ghosts drifting by.
She's got Arithmancy first. Though, calculations are far from her mind. As she stalks into the classroom ten minutes late, Vector turns her head from where she's sketching on the blackboard and gives her a smile. Hermione forces a smile back.
Next, they'll be giving her house points for not doing her homework.
Her eyes roam over the cocktail of Eighth and Seventh Years, and they find their target — leaning back on his chair, on a desk next to Malfoy. The blonde Slytherin looks up and tries to catch her eye, but she can only see red.
Ducking her head, she marches to the empty desk behind them. Malfoy immediately turns around, but she still ignores him. She drags the chair back, deliberately and slowly. When she's finally caught Zabini's attention she takes her seat. Directly behind him. He's staring at her… funny. Dazed looking.
Eyes, bloodshot.
"You're on it too!" she growls lowly. Zabini blinks slowly at her. In her peripheral vision, Malfoy's head twists in front of him and over his shoulder.
"Granger," he hisses, "keep it quiet."
She does one sweep over the classroom to realize she's attracted some wandering eyes. Good. He deserves the attention. Hermione glares back at Zabini, who's smiling dreamily at her.
"Is that what you were doing in the Hospital Wing, huh? Giving Ginny more of the stuff? I bet you're the reason she's even in there!"
"Granger," Malfoy mumbles, swiftly reaching over and grabbing her arm. Her eyes snap to his, silver and glinting. She shakes him off; he lets go, though his hand waits on her desk. For a moment, she eyes the bronze watch on his wrist. Then her own hand falls into her pocket.
"No, no. I'm not the reason," drawls Zabini, dopey smile growing, "Nott is. But we did have some fun, the She-Weasel and I—"
Suddenly, he chokes on air, grabbing his throat, his mouth forming silent words.
"If I even see you look at her again, I will kill you, Zabini," she murmurs, "I have killed scum before. But with you? I will kill you the Muggle way."
His dreamy smile reemerges, as if she's just told him something simply delightful. Then he faces the front of the classroom again. The fingertips of her dominant hand twitch. In her peripheral vision, she catches Malfoy glancing under her desk. She slips her wand back into her pocket. He removes his hand from her desk, taps his watch with a somber look, and turns his back on her, too.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
On Sunday evening, Hagrid invites her into his hut for tea. She accepts because she doesn't want to see his crestfallen face. Otherwise she would avoid his hut at all costs. Harry and Ron's laughter is trapped in that tiny space. They have designated spots in the half-dead potted plants or the sheet-covered cages where shady creatures live, to pour the lukewarm tea or to drop the teeth-cracking rock cakes when their half-giant friend isn't looking. Ron always goes for the plants because he's worried Hagrid's got some freakish spider in one of the cages.
She frowns down at her untouched lukewarm tea as Hagrid prepares his infamous rock cakes. One of the cages next to her rattles.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She never really noticed the little cuckoo clock hanging over his fireplace. Or at least, she always assumed it was broken.
Tearing her eyes from it, she drops her gaze to the merrily crackling fire, and the old bloodhound that's pretending to be asleep by it. His wagging tail gives him away. Even Fang is cautious about Hagrid's cooking.
She's jolted out of her thoughts when he places a plate of steaming rock cakes on the table next to the teapot. Out of courtesy, she takes two and places them onto her empty plate on the small table. Hagrid puts away his furnace gloves and lowers onto a chair opposite her. While he takes five rock cakes and pours himself some tea, Hermione nibbles one of her cakes. On her right side, Ron is gagging. On her left side, Harry's choking on his tea. She can't tell if it's because of the tea or because he'd inhaled some laughing at Ron.
Then Hagrid speaks and the memory fades. "So, Hermione. How yer finding yer schoolwork?"
Her eyes move to his heavily bearded face; she does not meet his black beetle eyes.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
"Fine," she responds, looking down to his plate. Somehow one of his rock cakes has already vanished. "It's good, yeah."
"Tha's grea'," he says. There's a pause. He moves on to the fragile topic: "How yer copin'?"
Hermione clenches her jaw. The rock cake in her hand is gripped so hard that she feels it digging into her palm. She's too afraid to open her mouth. Eyes darting to Hagrid's, she nods. His bushy eyebrows draw together but even Hagrid knows when to not keep pushing. Hermione wishes he wouldn't pretend Harry and Ron didn't exist. At least, around her. She's not going to crumble if they talk about her best friends.
Instead, he nods, too, his large hands moving to cradle his mug.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Hermione's eyes shoot at the clock. It hangs on the wall, tick tick ticking away. The rock cake in her hand begins breaking through her skin.
"Do yer like it?" Brow furrowing, she returns her gaze to him. Hagrid's beaming at the clock. "I fixed it meself. Got a few splin'ers, but it were worth it." Her eyes drop to his hands, and only now does she notice a plaster peeking over one of his knuckles. Her grip on her rock cake loosens.
For the first time since the war ended, a smile from her heart rises on her lips.
"I do like it," she says. He turns to her, beetle eyes brightening. For a few moments, this is a simple time. She even considers making a joke. Inevitably… it fades.
And so does her smile.
The cage next to her rattles again. She turns her attention to it, eying the cloth over it.
"Hagrid?"
"Hmm?"
"If you could change the past…" She pauses. Exhales a shuddering breath. "Would you?"
The cage abruptly stops rattling. She listens to his fingertips rubbing against his mug. "I think we all would, Hermione. Yer, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Minerva, Molly, Remus, Tonks, Andromeda… But no poin' thinkin' 'bout somethin' impossible."
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
"You're right," she says.
In all her classes, there has been an unspoken agreement between her classmates that Hermione's desk is to always remain to herself. She has a tendency to snap when someone's elbow accidentally nudges her, or their clumsy feet accidentally touch hers. On one memorable occasion in a History of Magic lesson, she made a Seventh Year boy who'd been unfortunate enough to sit beside her cry.
So when Malfoy pulls back the spare chair next to her during potions, he starts a dangerous game.
"Granger," he greets cordially, tossing his bag under their desk and slumping on his seat.
"Malfoy," she grunts stiffly, shooting him a warning glare. A hesitant smirk plays on his lips. He cards his hand through his hair. Her eyes dart to Slughorn, who's bumbling about the many risks of failure towards brewing a Wolfsbane Potion. Then she drops her attention to her annotated textbook. She hasn't brewed a successful potion once this year.
"You, uh… You really did a number on Zabini." She smiles darkly. "We haven't been able to figure out a counter-curse. And, uh, now that he's — well, sober, he's somehow more of a nuisance than when he can speak."
"How unfortunate," she says dryly.
He hums. It's his silence that draws her eyes to him. Malfoy's tugging at the tie around his collar, loosening it. Then he undoes the top three buttons of his school shirt. Her eyes dip — then snap back to Slughorn.
"...and the end of the brewing process is not the end of potential failure!" the professor booms. "Adding anything to the potion before drinking it will make it useless, like sugar. It is essential that the potion is stored correctly and optimally…"
It really is stuffy here. She imagines the unforgiving November air of the hallways will be a welcome relief in fifty minutes' time. Unconsciously, she grabs her wild hair, scrunching it over her head and pulls an elastic band over it. In her peripheral vision, she spots Malfoy staring at her. She turns and gives him another glare.
His eyes are searing.
"Have you given it any thought?" he asks quietly. Suddenly, his brow furrows and he coughs into his elbow. His eyes appear bleary when he looks back at her.
Sneering, she glances pointedly at his left arm. His right hand moves to cover it, even though his sleeve is already doing that. "Why? So can you help Voldemort win this time?"
Something in his gaze shifts. Hardens.
"Weasley's out of the Hospital Wing," he remarks nasally. "And I was starting to think she lives there."
She snaps.
One evening, she feeds Thestrals in the Forbidden Forest with Luna. The girl looks almost translucent under the full moon, her misty eyes drifting over the creatures.
Hermione has no recollection of how she got here, nor why.
They don't say a word. They just feed the skeletal creatures, as the looming forest surrounding them slumbers.
Something in the distance catches her eye — a silhouette hanging from a tree. Her heart sinks. Abandoning the chunk of meat she was holding, she approaches the figure. For some reason, she's expecting to see herself.
But then she gets close enough to decipher unmistakably red hair.
Ginny's pale face is turned down towards her, the noose tight around her neck, a dreamy smile frozen on her lips and a dazed look in her glassy bloodshot eyes. Hermione stares down at her blood-soaked hands. Looks over her shoulder.
Luna doesn't look up once, dancing among the Thestrals.
Bolting upright on her bed, drenched in sweat, Hermione blinks in the darkness. She can just about make out Parvati's quiet sobbing from across their dormitory.
December is on the horizon. So is the snow. She suspects that the Hogwarts grounds must be charmed somehow because she doesn't remember it snowing every year without fail in the Muggle world. Though it could be an England versus Scotland thing. Much to her chagrin in her earlier years, Hogwarts, A History never mentioned anything about it.
Now she doesn't really care.
In some part of her hypothermic state of mind, she's expecting Malfoy to show up and irritate her. She doesn't know why. It's not like he knows she'll be at the Shrieking Shack. But still, he's always in the right place at the wrong time.
She's curled up here because she can't stand to hear the screeches as pink-cheeked kids throw snowballs at each other. If she had ever fooled herself that she cared about them, then now she knows. She's a selfish bitch. She wants Harry and Ron back so much that it aches.
The funniest part about it is that she has the power to do exactly that. Malfoy's built the doorway and has been holding it open for her for some time now. And she's just been staring at it. All the way to the nearing deadline.
There's a quicker and easier way to get to her best friends again. All she has to do is sleep in this stigmatized shack. Nature would do the rest.
The sky has darkened. It's spilling through the werewolf-scarred blinds of the shack. She can no longer watch her slowing breath spiral upwards. A welcoming drowsiness begins creeping over her.
So she's drifting alone in the growing darkness. Feels weightless, as if Death is lifting her soul from her body. That's when her sluggish heartbeat spikes.
Malfoy isn't coming.
It's a struggle to get her wand out of her robes with her stiff, numb fingers. She mutters several warming charms. Heat seeps over her body like water on ice.
Hermione's heart pounds in earnest, and she begins to sob.
She plucks the courage to ambush him after one dinner.
It's the last weekend of November, and the Great Hall's ceiling has cast a heavy gray gloom. The candles counteract it with a flickering warm glow. They dance over the goblets as Hermione watches her target from beneath lowered lashes. Once Malfoy departs from the Slytherin table, Hermione abandons her plate to follow.
The chatter and laughter and commotion is muffled when the doors close behind her. He's striding across the empty Entrance Hall towards the staircases.
"Malfoy!" she calls. He stiffens. When he turns around a hex jumps to her tongue. But instead of the smirk she was expecting, he's wearing a frown. Silver eyes meet hers.
"Listen, Granger, about potions—"
She waves him off, marching the distance across to him. "More than anyone, you should be apologizing to poor Slughorn. He looked like he was handling a rabid Manticore."
As the distance between them closes, he runs his hand through his hair, though some of the strands stubbornly return to hang over his brows. Hermione comes to a stop a foot away from him.
"Zabini got a lot to say?"
He snickers. "Oh yeah. You did the counter-curse, then?"
"No — it only lasts two weeks." His eyebrows jump. "I haven't seen him or Nott selling, so I haven't done it again."
He clears his throat. She shifts on her feet, nibbling on her lower lip. Even though she could change her mind at any time, her decision seems final, somehow.
"I'm coming with you in December."
Something strange happens. Malfoy's cheeks seem to gain a little colour. A boyish grin springs to his lips, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. And his eyes, oh his eyes seem to have been set alight. "I was beginning to think that you'd truly stood me up," he drawls, flipping his hair out of his blazing eyes. She watches as it just falls right back into place.
Deciding to ignore his comment, Hermione places her hands on her hips — which his eyes follow — and says, "But on one condition: you have to see Nymphadora and Remus first. As well as Andromeda. I know it won't matter in the long run, but uhm —" she exhales sharply, "it won't feel right. They need closure, and… it's near impossible without you."
Malfoy doesn't even flinch.
"Deal," he murmurs, taking a step closer to her. Her eyes flutter as she inhales. Green apples and deathly pines. "But you can't back out afterwards." For a moment, she wonders if he had invaded her mind again. Well. She supposes her decision is final after all.
That terrifies her more than death ever did.
In England, the air is noticeably warmer. Also, unsurprisingly, there is a distinct lack of snow. They hover at Tonks' doorstep with their deal from last night hanging over them.
Anchoring them down.
She glances at Malfoy. He looks paler than usual. Starkly dressed in all black, from the fur cap on his head to his polished boots. "Last chance to back out," she says.
His eyes meet hers, glittering in the weak sunlight. Then he steps forward and knocks on the wooden door. As her heart beats faster, she can only imagine what his heart is doing.
It swings open to reveal a woman with dark blue hair matching the shadows under her eyes. Nymphadora Tonks' widened eyes bounce between Hermione and Malfoy. Side by side.
Andromeda fusses over everything. Their clothes. Their health. Their warmth. Their hunger. She behaves towards Malfoy as if they have known each other his entire life, even trying to stroke his hair out of his eyes a few times. She starts making a chicken pie while they sit awkwardly in her small and shabby kitchen.
Tonks leans on a chair beside Hermione, one of her legs crossed over the other, and spends most of the time frowning in the direction of her stiff cousin. She hasn't said a word. Neither has Malfoy.
It's when Remus — looking as weary and ragged as ever — steps into the kitchen that the atmosphere drops.
"What is he doing here?" he spits, his eyes zeroing in on Malfoy. The younger man gets stiffer. Hermione tenses, glancing at a now silent Andromeda, who continues rolling her pastry, and Tonks, who's staring up at her husband.
"Please, Remus," Hermione begins, flinching as his head twitches up to her.
"Hermione," he says, nodding at her, a slight snarl on his lips, "It's good to see you again. Care to explain why you've brought my son's killer into our home?"
"Remus," murmurs Tonks. He ignores her.
Wringing her hands, she looks imploringly at the Slytherin across the table. Staring at her with a ticking jaw, he begins, "I was just doing what was ordered—"
Their old professor scoffs. He runs his hands through his graying hair and begins pacing like an animal in a cage. Malfoy doesn't stop looking at Hermione.
"I didn't have a choice."
"No," snarls Remus, "I didn't have a choice. I woke up after the full moon with Teddy's blood in my mouth." Malfoy flinches. "You Malfoys, you're all killers. No amount of money or public opinion is ever going to change that. And if you thought you would get some sort of absolution coming here, then you were sorely mistaken." He stalks out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Silence descends.
Remains.
The delicious scent of Andromeda's chicken pie makes Hermione feel sick. When it's ready, she places it in the center of the table, golden and crispy, with alluring steam rising from it. She sets four plates on the table, as well as the cutlery, and takes a seat next to her nephew.
Not one of them touches the pie.
By the time they decide to leave, it's the afternoon. Andromeda gives them both hugs, lingering on Malfoy. Hermione inwardly admits she understands Remus a lot more than she understands his mother-in-law. Then she retreats to the kitchen, leaving them alone in the doorway with Tonks.
"Thanks for having me," Malfoy says courteously, ducking his head when she only responds with a nod. He strides through the door and leans on an apple tree in their front garden.
"Tell me the truth." She crosses her arms. Blinks in Tonks' direction. The woman is still frowning, but in a different way. As if… she's trying to solve an Arithmancy problem. "What in Merlin's name are you doing with him? I mean, is he like, what, your project? Oh Merlin — your boyfriend?" Hermione scowls. "No? Then what? You can't just invite him into my home, no warning, and walk back out without an explanation. My mother's already unstable enough as it is. And don't get me started on my husband. So, what, Hermione?"
"We're going to change the past," she blurts.
Tonks' brows lower, and her mouth opens as she snaps, "Come on—" Something seems to sink in, and her expression twists in confusion. "What?"
"Malfoy has a Time-Turner. He modified it too. We're going back to the first of December, nineteen ninety-five. We're going to save everyone past that point. Including Teddy."
Tonks' hands dart out and grab Hermione's, freeing them from where they're trapped beneath her arms, and as their eyes meet, she recognises what's shining there. Desperate, hungry, raging hope. "Then stop at nothing. Make sure my son makes it. Even if it means I have to die."
"No," says Hermione, gripping her hands tighter in turn, "We're saving everyone."
Tonks smiles sadly, and lets go of her. Feeling like there's a stone in her stomach, Hermione walks towards the doorway to her past. Towards Malfoy.
"And Hermione?" She looks over her shoulder. "Be careful," Tonks says, nodding pointedly at the direction of her apple tree.
The new morning is unforgivingly cold.
Stars are sewn into the inky sky, splashing a ghostly light through the Astronomy Tower. They are fifteen minutes away from two in the morning.
Malfoy's hands gently cradle her fingers. Goosebumps are shooting up her arm. The simple golden band slips around her index finger. As he caresses it down slowly, he looks at her from below his lashes. She gets his implication. She also rolls her eyes.
His own ring is less subtle, decorated with a large, dark emerald glinting in the starlight. As his hands fall from hers, clutching a golden snitch, he waves one, and a golden dagger appears in his grip where the snitch had been a wink before. He holds it out to her.
Taking its leather handle, Hermione watches it shake over his waiting palm. Hogwarts' Grounds whisper in the silence. Finally, she murmurs, "Invenies Eos," slicing the blade across his palm. He hisses faintly as blood seeps from the cut in his skin. Then his fingers find her ring, rubbing his cut over it. With a wave of her own hand, she vanishes his blood from the blade and gives it to him.
Malfoy's searing eyes meet hers.
"Invenies Eos." She gasps as she feels her skin split. Hermione stares down at the blood pooling in her hand, and wonders if it would look the same pooling from her wrists. Something grabs her chin and tugs her head up. He nods at her, his gaze steady. She nods back. When Malfoy lets go of her, she feels her blood on her chin.
Dropping her eyes, she realizes he's put away the dagger. Moving her stinging hand towards his ring, she rubs her bleeding palm over it. Funny, that. His hands are glistening with her dirty blood. How fitting for a Death Eater.
The clinking of a chain draws her from her thoughts. Malfoy loops it over her head, and she silently thanks herself for tying her mad hair up. They are connected by the blood on their hands, the rings on their fingers and the chain surrounding their necks.
Hermione peers down at the golden blood-stained Time-Turner he holds between them, which looks almost identical to the one she'd once possessed. Almost. Even though it's been a few years, she is certain that the hourglass wasn't as large as this one's.
Malfoy checks his watch. "Two minutes." His eyes find hers. "Any new curses or jinxes you find — put it on your ring. Getting lost and mistaken identities are two things we can't afford. Get seen by the right people at the right time only. And Granger… We're going to make some powerful entities very upset."
She smirks. "I started with Voldemort. Was bound to start climbing the ladder."
He grins, though he looks slightly nervous, and glances at his watch. When he raises his wand and points at the Time-Turner, her heart leaps, her stomach rolls, her breathing grows erratic, cold sweat breaks on her forehead. She's nervous, too, but for a very different reason.
"You never did like breaking rules, did you, Hermione?" Harry laughs in her ear.
"Yeah she does!" Ron says incredulously. "She does it with us all the time."
Malfoy's lips begins moving silently, his steely eyes focused on the Time-Turner. Three. Two. One.
"Vicissim septem-milia quingenti viginti—"
In a split second, there's a violent flash of light, Malfoy drops the Time-Turner dangling precariously between them, their widened eyes turn towards four heavily armed, cloaked figures, who happen to be pointing strange looking guns at them. Hermione exhales shortly. Just as she's about to say that was bloody quick, the loud shout of, "Stop-" pauses, then seems to be dragged away from the fabric of time. If she could smirk, she would.
They're too late.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, the Time-Turner scurries back, and man does it have a lot of ground to cover. She watches the armed figures disappear in a flash that consumes itself. They'd miscalculated by a millisecond. What a joke.