Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from the use of J.K. Rowling's estate.
Words: 5,511
Posted: 1/2/15
1: The Plan
"They said yes?" Albus Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up in much the same manner that Minerva's had just hours earlier. The younger professor shrugged.
"My best guess is that they want her to progress as far and as quickly as possible, so they can recruit her as soon as she graduates." She paced back and forth in front of Albus' desk.
"Do they usually pick them out before they've even taken their O.W.L.s?" asked the headmaster.
"No," she frowned. "Although you must admit that if they were to choose anyone, it would be our Miss Granger."
Albus opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of grinding stone that meant someone was coming up the staircase. The two professors glanced at one another; Minerva patted down her robes to compose herself and moved to stand to the side of her colleague's desk. A moment later, a soft but confident knock sounded.
"Come in, Miss Granger," invited Professor Dumbledore. Hermione opened the door quietly and closed it just as gently. She had come straight from the Opening Feast, and before that, the train, so she was still wearing muggle clothes under her outer robes.
"You wanted to see me, sir," she said, her eyes flickering over to her Head of House and back to the headmaster.
"Yes," he paused. "You are aware, Miss Granger, that several of the courses you are enrolled in this year meet concurrently."
Hermione said nothing. She had already discussed this with Professor McGonagall.
"Because of your stellar performance over the past two years, however, we have managed to gain a special dispensation from the Department of Mysteries." Here he gestured to Minerva, who reached into her robes to pull out a tiny hourglass hanging on a gold chain. "They have agreed to loan you a Time Turner so that you can attend all of your courses and have enough time to study."
Despite her efforts to remain calm in front of her two most respected teachers, Hermione felt her mouth split open into a wide grin, and she found herself suddenly unable to stand still. Professor Dumbledore smiled at her excitement.
"There were a few conditions," Professor McGonagall spoke up for the first time. "The Unspeakables have requested that you learn French and not only keep up with but also push ahead in your studies."
Hermione nodded frantically. "Of course, Professor, I'll do anything—!"
Neither of the older teachers could hold back a smile now.
"We believe they've had an eye on you because they want to recruit you when you graduate," continued Professor McGonagall. Hermione's eyes widened comically. "Now there's no need to commit to anything yet, but a permanent position in the Department of Mysteries is nothing to scoff at. Make sure you continue to impress them."
The thirteen-year-old nodded frantically. Her professor held out the Time Turner and she took it reverently, glancing up for approval before placing the chain over her neck.
"One twist equals one hour," said Professor Dumbledore. "We have allowed for twelve extra hours in each of your days, although you certainly don't have to use them all. Every day—so every thirty-six hours—in the morning go to Madame Pomfrey for your De-Aging Potion."
"De-Aging Potion? A permanent one?" asked Hermione, looking back and forth between the adults before her and correctly guessing that it was an invention of Professor Snape's.
"It is only barely effective enough to undo the extra twelve hours each day," explained Professor Dumbledore. "Increasing the time removed beyond that makes the potion volatile to the extreme."
"You are already older than your peers," added Professor McGonagall. "And they'd certainly realized something was different if you started aging half again as fast as them."
Hermione nodded. "The extra twelve hours," she began, looking at the headmaster. "Three of those will be for getting to class, and I shouldn't need more than six for the extra homework. What are the last three for?"
"French," he reminded her. "And you'll have longer days so you might need some extra sleep."
There was a pause; Hermione eventually broke it, looking at her professors with a raised brow.
"Are there laws regarding time travel?"
The headmaster shook himself out of a tangential thought. "Yes. No one is to know. No one. That includes Misters Potter and Weasley." Hermione nodded, looking a little disappointed. "You must not be seen doubled, not even by your past self. And do not try to change an event whose outcome you are already certain of; that is not what the Time Turner was constructed to do and you will cause serious injury to yourself and, potentially, others."
She nodded solemnly. "Why can't I be seen by my past self, sir?"
He rested his elbows on the desk in front of him and steepled his fingers.
"Most users of the Time Turner go back to a time before they knew that they could go into the past. They often mistake their future self for an imposter and end up injuring or killing them. In your case this is not so much of a danger because you know you're going to be wandering around at the same time as yourself, but let's err on the side of caution, shall we?"
Hermione and Professor McGonagall both blinked at the chain of pronouns.
"Er," said the student. "Yes, sir."
He smiled at her kindly over the rim of his glasses.
"Do you have any more questions, my dear?"
"No," she said as she carefully tucked the Time Turner under her shirt. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. And you, Professor McGonagall."
Her mentor smiled at her kindly, the expression seeming out of a place on such a normally stern face.
"That will be all, Miss Granger," she said. "You may go to your dormitory."
Hermione thanked them both once more and then disappeared.
Albus sighed deeply as he heard the stairway grind to a halt. Knowing what he was thinking, Minerva said reservedly, "It is a lot of responsibility for a third year."
"Too much responsibility?" he asked. His friend shook her head.
"I don't think so," she said, glancing in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. "But she's a sensible girl and we'll keep an eye on her. If it becomes too much we'll lighten her course load."
Albus chuckled. "Yes, I was surprised that you allowed her to sign up for Divination, on top of all the others."
Minerva sniffed. "I hope she will realize on her own what a useless course it is."
"It keeps Sybil safe," he reminded her. She snorted.
"Yes. And it's allowed sixth and seventh years to avoid real electives like Arithmancy for the past twelve years."
The headmaster shrugged. This was a long-standing disagreement between the two of them. Minerva sighed.
"Hogwarts is a school, not your personal estate, Albus," she reminded him gently as she walked toward the door. "Good evening."
He sat there at his desk for a while afterwards, Fawkes the only thing keeping him company.
The first several weeks were confusing in the extreme. Hermione couldn't for the life of her remember what day it was: On the second Tuesday of October she almost drove poor Colin Creevey to tears demanding the date from him on four separate occasions that, to him, occurred within a ten minute span of time.
"What's the matter with her?" Ron muttered to Harry as the three of them sat in front of the fire in the Common Room. Hermione finally looked up from her watch, which she'd been quietly cursing at, and slapped the back of his head a la Snape.
"There's nothing 'the matter with me,' Ronald Weasley!" she informed him tartly, pulling her sleeve back down to cover the timepiece. As she did, Harry caught a glimpse of it and shook his head. No wonder the normally punctual Hermione had been so out of it the past few weeks: her watch was set six hours ahead! "But there will be something the matter with you if you don't do that Potions essay soon. It took me a solid hour."
Ron blinked and looked at Harry, who was equally confused. "It only took you an hour? Then it shouldn't take the rest of us more than fifteen minutes. Blimey."
Hermione gaped at him, appalled that anyone could so readily dismiss their academics. (And already on edge from the enormous pressure she was under.) "RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!"
"Whelp, that's the full name," Harry said quietly to Ron as he stood up and began to move away. "I'm out, sorry mate."
"Traitor," Ron hissed at him without any real heat. "Come on, 'Mione, if you just let me look over yours before I write up mine—"
"YOU WILL CERTAINLY SPEND MORE THAN A QUARTER OF AN HOUR ON YOUR POTIONS ASSIGNMENT AND YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO ASK TO SEE MINE! HOW CAN YOU SAY YOU WANT TO BE AN AUROR IF YOU DON'T EVEN PUT IN ENOUGH EFFORT TO GET AN EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS IN ONE OF THE REQUIRED COURSES?! YOU KNOW PROFESSOR SNAPE WON'T TAKE YOU IN HIS N.E.W.T. LEVEL CLASS IF YOU DON'T GET AN OUTSTANDING ON YOUR O.W.L. AND I'M NOT GOING TO BE THERE FOR YOU TO BLOODY WELL CHEAT OFF OF DURING THE EXAM!"
"Whoop, there it is," said the redhead flippantly. "Already referenced the O.W.L.s."
Harry winced and moved farther away, knowing that since she had already reached her limit in terms of decibel level Hermione's lecture would now inevitably begin to rise in pitch.
He wasn't wrong.
Ron had grown far too dismissive of her directives, Hermione thought as she checked over his paper for errors. The writing was shoddy, and the content barely answered Professor Snape's question, but it would do. She passed it back to him with a displeased hum.
"It'll do," she told him shortly.
"Brilliant, thanks Hermione!" he told her, throwing his school things into his bag and going upstairs. "G'night!"
Harry looked over as Hermione rubbed a hand over her face instead of answering their redheaded friend. She ignored him at first but eventually caved and answered his unasked question.
"I'm used to being taken advantage of," she told him softly, so Ginny, who was sitting a few feet away, wouldn't hear her. "But that doesn't mean I like it."
She didn't say anything else, just propped her elbows on her knees and rested her face in the palms of her hands. Harry brought his essay over to the couch so he could rub her back soothingly.
"Boys don't grow up as quickly as girls," he reminded her. "And Ron's a bit behind everyone at the moment."
She grunted. "We've been close for two years now, Harry. He doesn't know my favorite book, let alone my birthday or my parents' jobs or anything else that friends are meant to know about one another."
Harry removed his hand from her back so he could add a few more sentences to his essay, but didn't move from his place next to her.
"Give him a chance," he said. "Next time he asks to copy your work ignore him instead of lecturing him."
Hermione sighed and nodded. As far as she could remember, it was only October 16th, so she shouldn't've expected anyone but her to be serious about their coursework yet anyway. Ron, however, appeared to be growing more comfortable around her than ever, and it was reflected in his increasingly frequent requests for favors and jokes at her expense and she was so busy that she just couldn't take it anymore—
Whoa there, girl, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. You're never going to make it through the whole year with the Time Turner if you have a panic attack in the second month.
Harry went up to bed soon after their conversation, patting her gently on the shoulder as he left. Ginny moved soon after, and Hermione had the idle thought that she'd only been there because Harry was. The Common Room was left empty around her.
A quick Tempus charm revealed that it was 10:03pm; it seemed everyone had gone to sleep uncommonly early, which was nice because it meant Hermione could sleep on the couch, then wake up and repeat part of the night sleeping in her own bed for a solid twelve hours of rest.
She cancelled the spell and began packing up her books when a tapping noise at the window distracted her. An owl was sitting on the sill; she could barely see it through the warped glass but it looked like a perfectly ordinary barn owl.
"Why are you here so late?" she asked it softly as she opened the window. It burred at her and stuck its foot out.
Miss Hermione Granger, read the creamy envelope clutched gently between the talons. She took it gently and thanked the owl. It hooted at her quietly and half hopped, half flew up to her shoulder, where it balanced precariously with one talon near her collarbone and the other tangled in her hair.
"Oh!" she exclaimed quietly, surprised, barely resisting the urge to duck out of the way. "What are you doing?"
The owl burred again and lightly squeezed her shoulder.
Hermione decided answers were not going to be forthcoming and turned her attention to the letter. The very high quality of paper and ink was obvious; it seemed almost a shame to open it. She stuck a hand into her pocket to touch her wand and muttered a summoning spell; her letter opener flew down the stairs and into her grasp.
Dear Miss Granger,
My name is Alistair McGeoch. I work for the Department of Mysteries as the Head of the Time Division; it was I that arranged for your use of the Time Turner. As your professors should have told you, part of the arrangement for the loan was the agreement that we (specifically, I) would be able to conduct research through your use of the device. We do not fully understand how they work, despite decades of work, and greatly appreciate the opportunity to observe someone using the Time Turner heavily.
All of this was, of course, a lie.
The Department of Mysteries has known for a long time the full uses and effects of the Time Turner. We have, at this time, no further use for research on this specific device. (Although, of course, research on the dust within the device itself continues. But that is a discussion for a later time.)
You must be wondering about the forthrightness of this missive; the D.O.M. is not usually so revealing of its activities. I must ask that you keep the contents of this and future letters to yourself, which will require training in Occlumency. At the foot of this paper you will find a list of references that I expect you to read before the next Hogsmeade weekend. Make sure you keep the evening of that day free: I will meet you for your first lesson at 7pm.
Your progress in your classes has remained extraordinary, as I expected of you. You may wish to consider dropping Divination, since we do want you to attain near fluency in French by the end of the school year.
In the meantime, please write back to confirm our December meeting in Hogsmeade. I would welcome any other concerns, questions, or simple anecdotes, as well. It may be difficult at first, but I hope you will come to think of me as one of your professors—as an advisor and mentor, if you will.
Yours,
Alistair
Underneath his personal signature was a more formal, printed one:
Alistair McGeoch
Chief Unspeakable, Time Division
Department of Mysteries
Office 8
This was followed, as promised, by the citations for two books on Occlumency, which he wrote that she should be able to find easily in the Hogwarts library. The letter was ended with a post-postscript: The owl is a gift; our correspondence necessitates a creature that can reach the inner offices of the D.O.M. Her name is Soleil.
Soleil. Sun. A strange name for a barn owl, which, in addition to the obvious nocturnal connotations, had a remarkably moon-like face.
"So your name's Soleil, hmm?" she murmured, not expecting a response. The owl hooted and shifted as though it were about to abandon its perch on her shoulder, but suddenly stilled. Hermione wondered what had happened for only half a second before Crookshanks leapt up onto the windowsill. The owl remained still (out of Crooks' sight) for a moment, then hooted again and hopped down so she was facing the cat.
Crookshanks sat up, clearly startled, and stared at Soleil, who hooted again, this time (Hermione blinked in amusement) sounding almost seductive. The cat stared at the owl for about a minute without moving, then sat back on his haunches and began grooming himself, sending glances towards the owl that almost seemed flirtatious.
Hermione, certain that the various events of the evening were driving her insane, decided to ignore the both of them and sat back down at the coffee table by the fireplace. Soleil glided over after her, followed quickly by a smitten Crookshanks.
Dear Unspeakable McGeoch, she began, then immediately scribbled it out. What was it her father had told her? A less formal signature is an invitation to use a less formal address.
Dear Alistair, she began again, on a new paper.
Thank you for the exceptionally honest letter. I must note, however, that although you were very clear in stating that you had lied to the Hogwarts' staff, you did not explain your real reason for loaning me the Time Turner. I presume this is because you want me to first learn Occlumency. On a related note, I will keep the 6th of December, 7pm, free. Where in Hogsmeade shall I meet you?
You invited me to ask questions, but I have so many that I'm not sure where to start. What is the exact purpose of the Department of Mysteries? Is it research-focused? Intelligence-focused? Are Unspeakables government operatives or scientists? (Or whatever the magical world even calls scientists.) What do you do? You said that you aren't sure what the dust inside the Time Turners does—where did it come from? What do you know about it?
My mother would tell me those are too many questions but they're only the first few that come to mind. I understand if you're too busy to answer them but I would appreciate it if you could tell me where to find the answers. I've read several books on magical governments but none could tell me much about the D.O.M.
Thank you,
Hermione
She reread the letter several times, intently checking the content, the spelling, and the grammar. Finally satisfied for the moment, she tucked it into an envelope and sealed it, writing "Unspeakable McGeoch" instead of an address.
"Soleil, why don't you spend the night at the owlery," the owl bobbed its head at her. "I'll find you tomorrow so you can get this back to them." Soleil gently nipped Hermione's knuckles before hopping onto the armrest of the couch (suggestively brushing her wing over Crookshanks' back as she went) to take off towards the still-open window.
The cat seemed dumbfounded and his owner shook her head and chuckled as she stood to close the window. Both of her letters were tucked into her school bag and she laid down on the couch for three hours of hard-earned rest before she went back in time and could go up to her bed.
The weeks to December 7th passed quickly. Hermione completed her required reading for Occlumency quickly and practiced as many exercises as she could without an instructor. Her level in French increased quickly as well, as she began to budget her time more efficiently. She found, in fact, that she enjoyed being so busy. (Although she did drop Divination after a particularly melodramatic incident during which Professor Trelawney predicted Harry's death one too many times.) It forced her to be quicker and more concise in her work; her professors noticed and commented on the change—even Professor Snape grudgingly informed her that her essays were much clearer and easier to read.
Her relationship with Ron improved significantly after she took Harry's words to heart and made an honest effort to let him deal with his schoolwork as he wished. His grades plummeted for about three weeks, but instead of nagging him she gritted her teeth and ignored his complaining. It took two more weeks after that for him to admit defeat and come to her asking for help creating a study schedule.
Crookshanks and Soleil continued to enjoy oddly romantic interactions—by November the cat was fully infatuated with the owl. Soleil herself seemed to enjoy the attention, when she wasn't busy flying back and forth from the Department of Mysteries. Alistair was a faithful pen pal, and Hermione found him easy to talk to—he was very much an older version of Harry, funny but honest and grounded. As she reported her progress with the Occlumency books he trusted her with brief tidbits of information, but wouldn't tell her more of the story until he could determine her proficiency in person. The most interesting hint he dropped was that his plans involved very experimental research with the golden dust inside her Time Turner, and she found the time to do some of her own research (theoretical rather than practical) on it in the library, in addition to her schoolwork, her French, and her Occlumency.
It was with this feeling of productivity and achievement that Hermione woke on December 7th, dressed, and went down to Hogsmeade around midday.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hermione."
The voice was not entirely unexpected, given that she had just walked into the Three Broomsticks, but the French surprised her, as did the direction from whence it came. She whirled around and peered into the darkness of the booth behind her, but could not make out more than a thin mouth with shallow smile lines above a solidly built body clothed in plain black and maroon robes.
"Monsieur M—Alistair?" she answered hesitantly, not sure about the name or the language. He answered her in French.
"You are correct, Hermione. Thank you for meeting me today." He spoke slowly enough that she knew he was purposefully enunciating more clearly than normal for her sake.
"Of course. I know I have thanked you in my letters, but I want to thank you again for giving me this—" she paused, searching for the words, conscious that her accent was much more pronounced than she wanted it to be "—opportunity."
Alistair smiled. "Please, sit. And the best thanks you could give me is hard work, which I can hear you've done. Now, shall we see about the Occlumency?"
That was all the warning she got before a pressure leaned on her mind—that was really the only way to describe it. She hid all information relating to the Time Turner, substituting fake letters containing research questions she'd made up. Alistair retreated after about a minute and a half of gentle probing.
"Very well done, Hermione. You have mastered the basics enough that a casual observer would find nothing amiss." He paused, and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Before we begin our discussion, I have a gift for you. Your progress in French is nothing short of extraordinary, and I would like to congratulate you on your hard work. But you are not yet quite fluent, nor have you quite accomplished the tone of a native French speaker—both of those things would follow within the next year with consistent effort on your part, but our plan progresses much more quickly than that. Because of this, I have an assist for your learning development."
He pulled a medium sized mason jar out of some hidden pocket. It glowed a dim silver in the dark light of their corner, and she could see many tendrils of what looked light weightless silver thread floating around inside.
"Memories," she breathed.
"And not just any memories," Alistair added, unscrewing the jar, "Very carefully chosen memories, removed by a trained Legilimancer from her own mind. These are memories of speaking French—what makes them special is that the context has been removed. You will take on these memories and will be able to remember speaking fluent French with an accent native to Marseilles in the same way that you can now remember speaking any number of words in English without associating them with any specific event."
Hermione wrestled with this idea for a few moments, trying to process the method by which this would help her understand French. Alistair waited patiently, and pushed the mason jar across the table at her when he saw her come back to earth. She took the jar and, one tendril at a time, emptied it into her own mind.
"Now you have the vocabulary necessary to have this conversation," Alistair said, satisfied. Hermione noted that he was speaking much more quickly now, and also picked up on the slight hint of an English accent in his French, a hint that she hadn't thought she would be able to find.
"Oui," she answered, somewhat cheekily.
"The long and short of it is, Hermione, that regardless of the official stance of whichever Minister happens to be in office, the Department of Mysteries regards the Dark Lord Voldemort as a serious threat."
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "So he is really back, then."
"And out for Mr. Potter," Alistair sighed. "Your first year he possessed your Professor Quirrel in an effort to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Last year his servant Lucius Malfoy planted a Horcrux in Ginny Weasley's school books, which almost allowed Voldemort to resurrect himself in his 17-year-old body. This year he's evaded us—we last tracked him going south along the coast in Croatia—and we're not sure what he's planning next. Regardless of his plans, his ideas and his followers have poisoned our entire community, and we plan to go back to the root of the problem." He paused for dramatic effect. "The root of the problem being his first rise to power. After graduating from Hogwarts he travelled the world, gaining knowledge of the Dark Arts from various places in the underworld, but alone he still could not have overtaken the United Kingdom to the same degree. His power came from his followers, because he convinced them that muggles and muggleborns were dangerous. That needs to change."
"But how?" Hermione asked. "I've been looking through the library at school—according to the sources there, most Time Turners can't go back more than a day, and no one's been able to reliably go farther back than a week."
"We're not using a Time Turner. We're turning you into one." He chuckled at the dumbfounded look on her face. "Temporarily, at least. You and a team of several others will be sent back to 1970. You specifically will attend Beauxbatons School as the adopted daughter of prominent I.C.W. member Marienne Delacour. Your new younger sister, Fleur, also attends Beauxbatons. The pair of you will make names for yourselves by gaining masteries in the subject of your choice—during this time there will be much speculation as to who your birth parents are. Eventually, you will reveal that you are muggleborn by birth, hopefully beginning a social movement that will lead to more acceptance of muggleborns."
"I'm sorry, Alistair, but why do we have to go back in time to do that?" Hermione asked with a raised brow, unconsciously mimicking her transfiguration professor. The man held up a hand in a silent request for patience.
"At the same time, Marienne and her collaborators will be sweeping through Voldemort's supporters as he gains them, making examples out of them in an attempt to dissuade others from joining him. With combined effort from the lot of you, we believe Voldemort's first rise can be significantly hampered or even entirely prevented."
Hermione took some time to process that, eventually saying, "Still, why go back in time? Why not just do this now?"
Alistair sighed. "I'm afraid you'll have to finish a few Arithmancy classes before you can understand that question fully. Suffice to say that our projections have indicated grave futures, the causes of which were set in stone before 1980."
She frowned briefly, frustrated at her own inability to verify that statement, but let the question rest. For now, at least.
"A mastery, you said? A mastery in what?"
The older wizard smiled.
"It depends on your interests, Miss Granger. You have plenty of time to decide; even discuss it with a professor. An apprenticeship is not something that should be undertaken on a whim."
A thoughtful nod answered him and he turned the conversation to her coursework.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Hermione, who felt pleasantly rested after ten hours of sleep, bustled quietly around the third year girls' dorm, packing her bag for the day. The only other one awake was Lavender, who was just beginning her lengthy makeup routine.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Harry and Ron wandered in about fifteen minutes after her and plopped down on the other side of the table. Hermione waved at them absently but didn't bother to look up from her copy of the Daily Prophet—they wouldn't be coherent until Ron was done his first two helpings and Harry finished his coffee.
She thought back over her conversation with Alistair as she scanned the paper. The first thing she'd thought to do when she got back from Hogsmeade had been research the exact history and implications of a mastery, but it being 9:00 on a Saturday, the library had been closed.
"Hey, Mione, is that Potions essay due tomorrow?" Hermione blinked to clear her head and looked over at Ron.
"On the properties of dragon blood? Yes. Only five inches, though."
"Only five inches, she says," Ron groaned in Harry's general direction, helping himself to a generous fourth helping of pancakes. Harry snickered, having completed the essay under Hermione's watchful eye the day before while his redheaded friend played chess.
"Hey, Ron," Hermione said, suddenly remembering that her friend was from an old pureblood family. "What can you tell me about masteries?"
"Uh," he began intelligently around a mouthful of breakfast. "A mastery is the highest title you can get in a field. Like Dumbledore, he's got a mastery in Alchemy, and McGonagall's got one in Transfiguration."
"How do you get one?"
"There's guilds. Usually you find a master in your field to mentor you, and when they think you're ready you take the guild's test and they either award you the title or don't."
"Why, you thinking of doing it?" Harry asked with interest, having never really thought about his own career path beyond resolving to never work for a drill company.
Hermione shrugged. "Maybe."
Ron smiled at her. "You know, my dad wondered if you would. It's why the classes at Hogwarts get smaller after the O.W.L.S., 'cause the brightest kids get into apprenticeships."
She made a thoughtful noise but allowed the conversation to drift on to other subjects.
A meeting with a Professor McGonagall later that week ended with her sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring down at a list of guilds that interested her.
Spell-crafting, Arithmancy, Transfiguration (which was divided into several sub-guilds, of which she was most interested in Self-Transfiguration and Animate Transfiguration), and, improbably, Dueling.
The last had arisen from arguments among members of the guild for the Dark Arts (disbanded in 1932 due to a Ministry decree), some of whom believed the focus of the guild should be practical and others who believed it should be mostly theoretical. Eventually the more practical-minded group broke off and, because the Dark Arts were so frequently combat-oriented, eventually evolved into the Dueling Guild, formally renamed in 1940, almost 100 years since the two groups had split, eight since its parent guild was disbanded, and decades after masters had begun advocating creative use of non-"Dark Arts" spells in an effort to differentiate themselves from their former colleagues.
She thought it would be practical of her to learn how to defend herself, especially since Alistair had indicated that she and her new adopted family would be a conspicuous target for the blood supremists.
Mostly, though, McGonagall had told her that it wasn't until 1989 that a woman had been accepted as an apprentice in the Dueling Guild, and Hermione's well-rounded sense of justice found that abhorrent.
Nothing was settled in stone, of course. But she circled the word "Dueling" on her list before she shoved it into the drawer of her bedside table and went to sleep.