Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings
Author's Note: All those questions that you might have will be answered. . . in the last chapter. But I'm sure many of you have guessed what is going on.
Enjoy!
IV
Hogwarts
Nineteen Forty
She was falling.
Something didn't feel right.
Tumbling.
Heat engulfed her.
It burned.
Too much.
She fell into angry darkness.
.
.
.
It was cold. And hot. She didn't quite understand. Freezing toes, burning fingers. And Tired. So very tired.
Beyond exhausted, really. She felt empty.
"—iss Granger? Can you hear me?" A voiced asked her, sounding far away.
She managed to dignify the question with a groan.
Slowly, she cracked open her eyes, barely registering Albus Dumbledore's concerned face. She idly glanced around, frowning; she was in the Hospital Wing.
"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired again. "Are you awake, my dear?"
Awake?
She had never been unconscious for a travel before. She could handle the violent, painful, manhandling of whatever had brought her here. But it had felt different—darker— last time.
Hermione slowly shifted her gaze back to her younger Headmaster.
"H-how long hav—" she was cut off by an aggressive shuddering spasm of her body. Her fingers clutched to the sheets desperately and her jaw locked. It was not a travel; more like the rioting—protesting—of her magic—which was something that was always happening as of late, but this felt worse—She managed to gulp in some air before the outburst just faded away, like it was nothing. The wizard next to her had placed a vile to her lips and she drank it greedily. At once, her body sagged and her racing mind was slowing down; Calming Draught. It seemed that Dumbledore knew what she needed.
"You've been unresponsive for about four days—"
Days?
The witch didn't hear anything else from the Professor's mouth. Four days. She had never been in a time for as long as that—the time between travels were hours.
Suddenly, she sat up quickly, starting Dumbledore, and her brain, from the way her head swam.
"Wh-what's the date," her hoarse voice whispered urgently. The Professor gazed at her with his knowing twinkling eyes.
"December 20th, 1940," he stated rather calmly. "It seems to me that you have been on quite a trip." He reached over and gently patted her hand. "Come to my office when you are well and ready. I trust you know the way?" She could only nod mutely. When he had turned away, Hermione licked her lips nervously and opened her mouth.
"Professor. . . is," she paused for a moment as he turned to inspect her. "Is Tom Riddle here for the holidays?" She asked quietly. Dumbledore only rose a brow.
"I do believe so."
She took a deep breath. "Would you please send for him?" Her voice was meek. She understood that the two had obvious tension, but she was desperate.
He was the only solid being that she was at ease with—that she found comfort in.
Voldemort.
She needed Tom Riddle. He was there for every one of her 'travels.' It must have been a sign. It was the only concrete piece of information she knew.
Those twinkling eyes were no more as he regarded her coolly. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. "Of course, Miss Granger."
.
.
.
The last thing on Tom Riddle's mind was the festivities. It's not like he received any Christmas gifts.
But the front, and foremost prominent—dominating— thought was her. Hermione.
It had been two months since he had seen her. How long was it going to been when he saw her again? It had been six gaping years since she returned to him in this damned place. The only person who had cared for him— the only person he was happy to see. And she was gone. But for how long? Another six years? Why didn't she remember him?
'I don't know you, but maybe that it is because I haven't met you yet.'
Those damn words haunted him for countless nights. He remembered the orphanage, seeing Hermione there, comforting, telling him he was wonderful. And then she faded to the confused, bleeding woman in Potions, claiming he was mistaken. Then those blasted words would echo against every thought of his mind. The boy had thought of countless ways how—bloody how—does he make her stay? Stay with him in one, consistent year. How does he make her remember? He needed to control his—
A knock on the dorm room's door interrupted his thoughts as a sixth year Perfect stuck his head inside.
"Riddle?" He called out. "Professor Slughorn says you're needed in the Hospital Wing."
His blood ran cold.
What?
But he hadn't done anything to anyone—
"Said it was rather urgent, he did" the Perfect continued, and then he scrunched his face a bit, like he was trying to remember— "Said something like Hermit was asking for you."
Tom's dark eyes widen.
Hermione.
.
.
.
Swift, rapid foot falls caused the witch to raise her head from her book a wonderful house elf had fetched for her. A small smile curled on her lips as Tom, a bit disheveled from his run, filled the arch way of the Hospital Wing.
He stared at her; panting and frozen on the spot.
She let her eyes roam over him: long slender fingers stained with ink, wavy soft looking hair a mess, dark eyes wide and trained on her.
"You're back. . ." he whispered.
Her warm smile only grew. "Hello Tom." There once was a time she would have spat in his face if she had the chance, and danced on his grave, perhaps even killed him herself—but not anymore. Not if she was changing him.
The boy slowly walked over, slumping into the chair Dumbledore had just occupied. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.
"How are you feeling?" He asked awkwardly; his eyes lingering one of the marks he had given her in 1945—well, the older Tom.
"I'm alright, just tired," she mumbled. "But I wanted to at least see you, before I, erm, leave again. I can imagine you must have some questions and I can try my best to answer them."
Tom was quiet for a moment; jaw locked, eyes questioning, posture too straight, leaning away—
"Are you—" he looked down. "Are you really Hermione?"
The witch nodded. "Yes, but not in the way you remember me," she took a deep breath and exhaled. "I suppose I've already told you," she mumbled under her breath, thinking of the Tom in 1942—she didn't know how she was keeping them all straight. She looked up to him with determination. "I think leaping through time," she whispered quietly, keeping her eyes locked with his. "The sequence of how you've met me are out of order of how I've met you. Does that make sense?"
Tom seemed ridged, but then nodded sharply once.
"But those who tamper with time— Tom, the consequences are unimaginable, but without a doubt unpleasant," she paused. Perhaps that was why her traveling felt much different—harsher—than it had before. It was evident that she was changing the time line—changing Tom himself. She smiled a little at that. It felt as if she was saving him.
Her eyes were slowly drooping; the Calming Draught the Professor had given her was finally forcing her to succumb. When Tom had noticed the change in her, he was on his feet in an instant.
"You're leaving? No, you just got here—"
Hermione actually laughed.
"No, no. I'm just so tired." Her drowsy gaze lingered on him. "I wanted to see you, just in case I moved to a different year." Her finger brushed his knuckles, before she was snuggling herself against the hospital cot and yawned. "G'night Tom."
Tom's stare lingered on her.
She ignored the way her magic rioted around her.
.
.
.
When she had awoke Merlin knows how long later, Tom was gone. Apparently by the mumbling of Madam Pomfrey, the Slytherin had tried to persuade her to let him stay until Hermione woke up. But she had managed to shoo him off to class.
Slowly, Hermione sat up, her body stiff and her magic was simply humming around her. She groaned, holding her head as she slipped off the cot.
"And where might you be off to, Miss Granger?" A voice gently called out to her.
Jumping slightly, the witch turned to find Professor Dumbledore peering at her through half moon speckles.
"I had realized that I had failed to give you a time for our meeting," Dumbledore was saying casually, his hands tucked into the long sleeves of his bizarre robes. "Is now a good time?" Dumbledore didn't seem to wait for her to answer as he turned on the spot and was on his way out of the Hospital Wing. Hermione could only follow him silently. She didn't know when she was going to travel again, and if there was a way to get her home permanently then Dumbledore would know.
At least she hope he would.
They had walked down to the Transfiguration class room— more like Hermione hobbled and the Professor walked patiently slow along with her. Once they were inside his office, she had slumped against the chair across his desk and sighed. She felt stiff from being on bed rest and it felt wonderful to move—
"I trust you are feeling well?" the Professor asked, sitting himself in his own seat. When she nodded, Dumbledore continued. "Then, perhaps, you can enlighten the situation?" He pushed forward a small glass jar of yellow rounded, what she believed as candies, towards her. "Lemon drop?"
Hermione shook her head with a slightly amused snort. "No, thank you." She then took a deep breath. "Professor, this is going to sound preposterous, but I need you to believe me—no matter how impossible it may sound." She fixed her only Headmaster with a grave stare. "I am from the year 2001, and I have absolutely have no idea how I ended up here." When the old wizard only stared at her for an uncomfortable passing of seconds, Hermione's notorious big mouth launched into random facts in hope that he will believe her. "I was accepted into Hogwarts when I was eleven in 1991 and sorted into Gryffindor. I am a Muggleborn, completed my O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s," she didn't mention the war, but scrambled for any information that was safe to give him. "My best friends are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and my patronus is an otter. Honestly, sir, I don't know what is happening but the only thing I do know is that I'm going through time, and possibly changing it," she whispered that last part, ending up biting her lip again. "I was hoping you would know something, Professor. Help me in any way to get me back home. Back to my time."
If it still exists.
Dumbledore was quiet for some time, and Hermione thought he didn't believe her for a moment. She was about to open her mouth again and spew out the most random facts about himself—
"I'm afraid you overestimate me, Miss Granger. I certainly will try to help, but the results might be disappointing," he finally said. She blinked, simply staring at him for a beat or two and then sighed in relief. He believed her. But she couldn't help that her heart plummeted when he spoke those words. There might be nothing he could do. "It appears that you are not included in our wards, since these last few times you have entered and left without a trace. I hope you don't mind, but I had explained to Headmaster Dippet that you were an Auror with a malfunctioning portkey."
Hermione found herself smiling. "I don't mind in the least," her smile had faded. She slumped in her chair, leaning her elbow on the mahogany wood, and her face in her hand. "But are you sure there is nothing you can do?"
"Was it a time turner?" he asked instead.
"I. . . No. At least I don't have one with me. The travels are at random and can happen at any time without my control."
He was silent for a moment, pondering. "What were you doing before all of this had began?" Dumbledore simply asked. "Perhaps something you have done in you time had cause a trigger to send you here," he elaborated.
She wanted to roll her eyes and scoff at him in frustration. This wasn't how she planned this conversation to go. Of course she had already thought—
Hermione suddenly sat straight up in her seat.
What was she doing before this?
Her breaths were increasing quickly as she tried to grip a solid, decent memory—
"Deep breaths, Hermione," Dumbledore said calmly. "How about starting with what you do remember." He popped a rounded lemon sweet into his mouth.
Trembling, Hermione shut her eyes, taking in air through her nose, sorting out the mess her mind was in.
She remembered Harry. She remembered Ron. She remember horcrux hunting with them. She remembered the Final Battle, finally ending that war Voldemort had reign. She remembered helping to rebuild Hogwarts. She remembered attending for her Seventh year. She remembered restoring her parents memories. She remembered becoming an Unspeakable. She remembered her first case. She remembered solving it. She remembered. . .
What happened after that?
Suddenly, the painful grip around her caused her to choke in a breath, her body shuddering violently. Dumbledore, looking alarmed, rushed to his feet, wand out—
—and then she was falling.
.
.
.
Hogwarts
Nineteen Forty One
Her back collided with a dull thud against the ground. Her magic was rioting, buzzing—warning—
"Stupefy!"
The witch's instincts immediately had her rolling away quickly and on her feet. Her body was shaking—spasms— from her jump through time as she gasped for her breath. In front of her was the Professor that was glaring at her with hatred from 1942. She blinked in disbelief when he gave her warm, welcoming smile.
"Oh! Auror Granger! My, my! You gave us all quite a fright, appearing as you did."
She just gaped at him, jaw a bit unhinged and her brows furrowed.
Briefly, she scanned the student's all around her, and then she had noticed she was on a dueling platform. She caught Tom's eyes, which were alight.
"Well, don't just stand there, dear," the Professor's voice forced Hermione to focus back to him. "Up you go. Are you well? Shall we demonstrate for the students?" He started to shoo the children away, talking merrily just like Professor Slughorn. Once the students were all a 'safe' distance back, he had turned back to her. "Wands up!"
Hermione sputtered. "W-wait. I don't hav—"
Another round of stupefy soared in her direction with precise accuracy and speed.
With wide eyes, she leaped out of the way again. Her magic was bubbling by this point, and Hermione's fingers twitched. Accio wand!
The wands had answered back to her magic's aid and she called the most immediate one in range. Quickly leaping out of the way, Hermione's hands wrapped around a wand. Swiftly, she threw up a shield against another round of his relentless attacks. Gods, she didn't even know who this man was. But he was fast—very fast— and well aimed harmless jinxes. She could just barely keep up in her sluggish state. Being on the run, and fighting for her life was a bit different than throwing tickling hexes at each other. She kept her eyes on his wand work, narrowing when she notice him slipping spells after spells.
She rolled her eyes.
He was just showing off.
Quickly, the witch changed from her defense to something a bit different.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The light that erupted from the wand was far too bright—unnaturally so.
The professor blinked as the white light swallowed him, blinding him. As her silvery otter swam around the Professor, she quickly launched.
Avis! Oppugno!
The flock of angry birds followed suit of her patronus, swarming the bigoted man.
She when slashed her arms, aiming for the Profoessor's legs. Tarantallegra!
She brandished her birds, and her otter dived into the sea of students, who were giggling of their spontaneously dancing professor. His face was probably the most comical. Wide eyes, face red, mouth sputtering. She decided to show him mercy. Finite!
"I think that's all for now, Professor. It's been quite a trip."
The man, who was now out of breath, stared at her. "Well," he cleared his throat. "That's rather impressive for a half-blood. I am indeed getting old!"
Hermione froze.
What?
Her eyes somehow glanced around the crowded students, some looking down in shame—
She bristled.
Impressive for a half-blood.
The Professor had clasped his hands together, speaking to the students like there was nothing wrong with his comment, but she didn't hear a word of it. Her magic buzzed around her again—warning— as she glared at him. She vaguely heard him dissmiss the class and Hermione sent the wand back to it's Ravenclaw's owner. Tom lingered in the room, his dark eyes trained on her, but she didn't noticed him. All she had the sight for was the Professor. A student in Slytherin robes walked in, not even gracing her with a glance in her direction and started a haughty conversation with the man.
She felt Tom's hand on her shoulder.
"Hermione," his voice hissed.
The Professor laughed at something the older student had said.
"—and the mudbloods—"
She saw red.
Her body was quaking.
And the very next moment with very little thinking on her part—the Gryffindor in her—suddenly opened her supposedly notorious big mouth. "Excuse me, sir," she suddenly called out, effectively halting the man's preach. The two looked down at her, eye brows furrowed. She could feel herself slipping again, but she was gritted her teeth defiantly.
Not yet.
She ignored Tom's squeezing fingers.
"I believe you had just lost a duel to a mudblood—"
Her magic soared.
And then she was falling.
.
.
.
