Hermione wrenched open the door of the wardrobe and pulled out the duffel Professor McGonagall had sent over with some of her things. Her parents had not been contacted, to her great relief. Having gone to a month-long dental convention tour in America, Hermione hoped that there would be no need for them to know, at least not for a long, long time. Unfortunately, the kind Mediwitch who cared for her had mentioned that she could not be released until her parents gave their consent that the hospital had done all they could and she was not being sent off prematurely. This posed a problem – Hermione was itching to get back to school, to a sense of normalcy even though she acknowledged that nothing would be the same for her at Hogwarts ever again. How could she ever look Draco Malfoy – or, for that matter – Snape, or even Ron in the eyes ever again?
She longed for the simplicity of her mother's hand on her cheek, the way her father smelled of cigars and sage – but in no way could she tolerate soiling those memories with these! To Hermione, it was as if she had been a comet orbiting the solar system and had suddenly had her trajectory interrupted by a planet. All she was now was a scar, a crater, a blemish in time. Never again could she be in that euphoric state, circling the solar system with graceful abandon, spinning through space, despite Voldemort's presence the war efforts seemed innocent compared to this. This was the terrible reality – more than anything she could have fantasized about over the summer, more than her consorts, this had catapulted her into adulthood, a disorienting equilibrium which confused her. There was only one way to pull herself out of this, to concentrate all of her efforts on getting herself out of here!
All it had taken was Ron's confession to jolt her memory. She remembered snippets of that afternoon, like shredded cloth falling though her fingers. It was life something that had happened to her as a child; dreamlike and incomplete thoughts crawled around her mind like insects, taunting her. But it was enough. She didn't need to hear the story from his lips.
An urge had overcome her; she had to leave. It was all she could do not to throw the company out more forcefully – before the door had even shut she was half-way to the wardrobe door. Pulling out her things, she dressed in seconds. Over her sweater she shrugged on what she had hoped – what was – at the bottom of the bag – her Muggle coat. The right pocket bulged slightly, and she pulled out the slim red box, inside which the time turner gleamed.
Thank the Gods!
The filigree chain slipped easily over her head, feeling cool against her neck. The glass rubbed against her stomach, the chain was so long.
Wrapping a Weasley-knitted scarf around her face like a mask, she pulled on the hood of her coat as a finishing touch. Over everything, she put on her all-weather black robe, adjusting hat hood as well, so that it came down over her eyes. Checking her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, she looked like a stout little witch, wholly unrecognizable from herself for all the extra layers. Stuffing the duffel and its remaining contents under the bedcovers, she grabbed her wand off the bedside table (Had Lucius returned it to her?) and slipped quietly out the door.
To her left was a long line of medical trolleys while lined the hall down to shiny double-doors labeled The Woodruff Oxford Ward for Spell Damage. To her right, the hallway expanded for about 100 meters. She put on a slight limp and started walking. The hallway opened up on the right after 30 meters or so, into a spacious waiting room, where secretaries and nurses were escorting visitors and patients to and from an array of twenty or so fireplaces, presumably connected to the floo network. Holding her breath, Hermione bowed her head and started for the closes fireplace. A young Mediwitch glanced at her in passing.
"Do you need some help, Ma'am?" she trilled.
Hermione grunted negatively and lumbered on, sweating under her cloak and robe. Gritting her teeth, she continued on, turning a corner around a row of plastic waiting chairs and tripped clumsily over the outstretched limbs of s fat old witch, garbed in a similar manner as she was, robe hood pulled low. Hissing under her breath, Hermione scrambled up while the older witch clutched the sleeve of her robe. Annoyed, she tried to pull free, but to no avail. Sticking out a bony hand, the witch shoved a hemp bag into at Hermione, her hand horribly disfigured by burns and blisters. Afraid that she was calling too much attention to herself, Hermione gave the witch a scathing look from under her hood and backed away, shoving the natty bag into a pocket in her cloak. Before the anyone had really noticed her, she had stepped into a fireplace and, dashing a handful of powder into the hearth, called out, "Hogwarts," unsure quite where she would end up.
Luckily, it wasn't Filches' office. The vague command had hurtled her into a spacious room which could only be described as a library or study. It was lined with books and broad, arching windows, allowing the orange rays of a setting sun illuminate the lush red and gold drapes which softened the room. The whole effect was one of regal, aged refinement. The books were all bound with leather and looked almost medieval. The window glass had a greenish tint. It too, seemed impossibly old. In front of the fireplace was a chaise longe. It was fashioned out of a curly iron frame, with a stuffed silk seat and back.
Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and took in the rest of her surroundings. In the middle of the room was a polished mahogany desk which she stepped towards instinctively. Its surface was covered in books and papers piled a foot high in places. Running a finger over the table, she notced that it was unblemished by dust. Either the room was still used frequently or the house elves cleaned it religiously. Hermione ran a hand through her hair.
I've never been anywhere in Hogwarts like this – or read about anywhere like this room. Is this even Hogwarts? Have I accidentally gone back in time?
Sitting down in the elaborately carved chair behind the desk she surveyed a sheaf of parchment on the desk. Picking it up in order to examine it further, she gasped when the papers turned to dust at her fingertips.
They weren't protected by magic.
Hesitant to touch anything else, she held her hand cautiously over the cover of a medium-sized book bound in dark green leather. The cover was worn, the title faded. She placed one fingertip gently on its surface, but it refrained from self-destruction. She tested its durability by running a hand over it, before carefully picking it up. She opened the book, the spine crackling as if it hadn't been opened for a long time. It seemed to have protected from age by magic – its vellum pages weren't even worn, though they were covered with writing and seemed to be a small diary. Hermione flipped to the first page, where a name was inscribed with black ink in small, cramped writing.
Hermione almost dropped the book as she read it.
Godric Gryffindor.
Godric Gryffindor's private study? Never had she ever heard of such a place! But perhaps no one else knew of it, either? Shedding her cloak and coat, she crossed the room to the door.
Where in the castle am I?
Opening it a sliver, she poked her head out but there was nothing to see; it was dark as pitch outside. Confused, she pushed the door open a little further, holding up her wand. "Lumos," she whispered. Still nothing, it was like a void. Stepping forward out of the room she entered the dark space. It illuminated slightly. Hermione could see candles lining the wall around her, an arm's span away on either side. She traversed the space until she reached an arched iron door. A ring in the shape of a howling lion was where the doorknob should be – she pulled on it and it swung open easily. She craned her head around and peeked outside.
With a rush of adrenaline she quickly shut it again, as softly as she could. The corridor came out on the seventh floor – she was, technically speaking, in the Room of Requirement! Returning down the length of the dark hallway she re-entered the study. The windows looked out on the lake, shimmering in the dusky evening light. Hermione walked once around the room to make sure there were no other ways in or out, then collapsed on the floor with her back to a soft wall drape, dearly hoping no one else knew about the room.
Ready for sleep, Hemione sighed, laying down on the chaise longe. The sun dipped over the horizon and the room darkened.
Suddenly, she realized that she hadn't even looked to see what was in the canvas bag the woman at St. Mungos had thrust upon her. She had jammed it inside her robes without thinking, escape having been foremost on her mind.
Sitting up, she fumbled for her wand and lit it, then groped for the little bag amongst the pile of clothing she was using as a pillow. She emptied the contents out into her lap.
There was a small green crystal bottle.
A roll of crisp parchment.
And a crumpled, thrice folded page of vellum parchment, torn out of . . . was it from the diary she'd just looked over?
She tried to flatten it out and read it, but the text was small and cramped. At the base of the page she caught sight of a scribble in green ink. Holding it closer, she read:
Kill Draco.
And the handwriting was strangely familiar.