Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J K Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Please read and review. Feedback is highly appreciated. Any constructive criticism is welcome. With that said, I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it.
Many thanks go out to cosettex for helping to beta this story.
Turn Back the Clock
:: Chapter Two : The Beginning of the End
Crash. The unwelcome sound of glass shattering pulled Hermione out of her dreams; she yawned, rubbed her eyes, and turned to look at Ginny. The redhead had been in the process of washing the potions out of her hair when her arm had swept the bottles on the nearby counter to the floor as she'd reached for a towel.
"What are you doing?" Hermione mouthed groggily, still half asleep. Her watch read five thirty.
Without waiting for an answer, Hermione sighed and pulled the covers over her head as she attempted to fall back asleep. She'd never understood how girls like Lavender and Ginny could spend so much time on their appearances when there were better things to be done—like finishing the essay Binns had assigned which wasn't due until next Friday, but it was always nice to get a head start.
They were pretty enough already, Ginny with her lustrous crimson waves and long lashed hazel eyes, Lavender with her thick blond tresses and perfect figure—the girls were the epitome of cosmetic beauty, and she envied them for it.
Hermione, with her bushy brown hair, uneven teeth—not the best advertisement for the daughter of dentists—and her boyish body had often wished for Ginny's straight locks or Lavender's airbrushed perfection.
"Wake up, wake up, Hermione," Ginny said, shaking a drowsy Hermione awake. "It's time to go down for breakfast."
Hermione blinked, reluctantly opening her eyes. Ginny's anxious face hovered over her, and the redhead let out a sigh of relief when she saw that Hermione was awake; she was clearly in a hurry.
Hermione rummaged through her trunk for a change of clothes, pulling out a fresh set of robes and skirt before padding to the bathroom. Ginny, standing in front of the mirror, finger combed her red locks nervously as she tapped one slippered foot. Her robes, though secondhand, were pressed and clean, and her face was flawless, the golden flecks in her eyes matching the sheen of her dusted cheekbones.
"Almost done?" Ginny queried. "That is … um … how much"—she amended with a sigh—"ah well. Never mind then."
"Nah. It's fine." Hermione shrugged. "You go—be there in a few," she called out from behind the curtain.
"You sure?" Ginny replied, not wanting to leave her friend behind but clearly a bit impatient with the delay.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Bye!" Hermione yelled over the sound of cascading water as she stepped into the shower.
"Bye!" Ginny said, the door slamming shut behind her as her footsteps receded down the hall.
"Bye!" Hermione called after her, but too late.
Hermione sighed, closing her eyes as she let the water wash over her, willing it to drum away the accumulated stresses and tensions of the past few days.
She glanced at her watch, tossed half carelessly onto a nearby counter not 5 minutes ago—in what one might almost deem an … absent minded manner, if, of course, it had not been Hermione Granger.
0700 hours. Hermione blinked, did a double take. 7 AM already! It sounded cliché, as she of all people would certainly be forced to admit, but oh! how time did fly.
Running a hand, slender and possessing of a certain lithe grace—finely wrought, like that of some great pianist of old, but calloused, battle hardened all the same—through her hair, Hermione wrapped a towel around the still damp curls as she attempted to dry off the water, lukewarm now, that had collected in rivulets along each winged collarbone and down her back. Sighing, she stepped carefully out of the shower and into one of those floaty, semi diaphanous cover ups like that a swimmer or some person or persons of that ilk might have occasion to don.
She felt for her wand, flicking it to dry her hair. The steam that had fogged up the mirrors dispelled, and the cold tiles warmed beneath her feet. Magic really was convenient.
Hermione shrugged on a ruffled top, pulling it over her head, and slipped into a pair of simple black flats. She straightened her robe, smoothing it over her skirt, and tugged her unruly waves back into a high ponytail, leaving a few strands down to frame her face.
Smiling half tentatively at her reflection in the mirror, Hermione secured her wand in its holster. It was standard Ministry issue, of course, the holster, but she and Harry had—Ron had taken a, albeit unwilling, pass on his—had a few … alterations done, courtesy of a few strings Dumbledore had pulled with some of his more, shall we say, highly placed Ministry contacts post DA. Or Dumbledore's Army, to those in the know.
The wand was new, too, well, at least so it'd been to her, thestral bone and basilisk venom. They'd, well, she'd taken it from the collection of Death Eaters'—former Death Eaters now, the whole lot of them, considering—wands the Order and those affiliated with the former had retrieved following the skirmish, bloodshed, whatever, really, at Hogsmeade not two days earlier.
She'd also … borrowed a second wand on the sly, granted, with Dumbledore's implicit consent, the latter carved of sphinx's claw with a core of crushed vampire fang.
Creative, huh? Hermione thought wryly. How … Slytherin. She shuddered. It sounded like something Voldemort of someone of his class would … would, well, you get the point.
And definitely dark, the wand. Wands, really.
Hermione couldn't help but be disgusted by these wands, but they were the only ones that would accept her, and it was doubtful that Ollivander's would be opening for business any time soon.
She turned around, picked up her things and slipped out the door and into the common room. The bushy haired brunette weaved through the deserted room, side stepping the stacks of books and articles of clothing strewn haphazardly on the ground as she headed for the flight of stairs that would take her to the Great Hall for breakfast.
As Hermione joined the crowd of students heading to the Great Hall, a couple of Slytherins elbowed their way past, and Hermione shot a glare at them, her hand twitching for her wand.
They laughed, rolled their eyes, and turned to go, leaving echoes of "mudblood" and "filthy scum" ringing in her ears.
She spotted Ron sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table with their friends, his trademark scarlet red hair a bright beacon for her eyes. Ron turned around, and their eyes—warm blue and clear amber—met; he waved, indicating the seat next to him.
Hermione slid in between him and Harry, waving hello to her friends. Harry spared her an affectionate glance before returning to his argument with Ron about Quidditch, Ron—as usual—defended the Cannons.
Harry's green eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and as Ginny leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek, Hermione couldn't help but wish that she and Ron could have the same loving relationship.
Sure, they were close and had their own private moments, but their relationship lacked the spark that their friends' had—they were too different. Hermione couldn't help thinking that maybe it was all a mistake, and she and Ron weren't meant to be, but every time she got around to breaking up with him, he would be going through yet another "crisis" and "needed her help".
She didn't want to hurt her friend; so she always ended up staying, and she couldn't help but feel sick of the whole routine.
Hermione piled hash browns and a waffle onto her plate, forking a couple slices of crisp bacon over the whole mess. She took a tiny bite of the waffle, washing it down with a sip of milk.
Hermione glanced at the Hufflepuff table and was surprised to see them glaring with obvious animosity at an oblivious Harry, who was currently attempting to placate Ron as he scooted away from where his friend sat. Their "friendly" debate about Quidditch had apparently escalated into yet another argument—what could one say, Ron was passionate about Quidditch, and especially defensive of his precious Cannons.
She wondered what Harry could have possibly done this time to upset the Hufflepuffs; she hadn't seen the likes of it since their hero champion Cedric had been beat by Harry during the Triwizard Tournament. Maybe he had managed to overtake the studious Ernie Macmillan in Herbology or whichever class it was that he shared with the Hufflepuff …
Behind the Hufflepuffs, at the teachers' table, Snape and Madam Pomfrey were arguing heatedly with one another. The nurse's face was outraged and her fork clattered on her plate as she pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.
Snape's face was carefully blank, one dark brow raised in sardonic amusement, but he said nothing and went back to eating his pancakes.
"Professor Snape!" Madam Pomfrey admonished, her raised voice clear in the now silent hall. The rest of her speech was drowned out as the students went back to their food; this was a daily occurrence, and the students had become so used to it that they hardly batted an eyelash.
The two had apparently gotten into another one of their many arguments; sometimes, Hermione thought that Snape just enjoyed riling up his colleague, but surely a Professor—any Professor—wouldn't be so petty!
The Potions Master stood abruptly, his dark robes swirling behind him as he turned to leave.
"Severus! Poppy!" Dumbledore called out from his seat at the head of the table; the ruckus had alerted him to what had happened. The two turned almost guiltily to look at the Headmaster.
"Sit, do sit down. And Severus, you simply must try these pastries. They're simply divine!"
Snape looked as if he would rather do anything but—his face was murderous, and a muscle twitched spastically in his cheek.
Madam Pomfrey looked appropriately chastened, but Snape just looked like he was swallowing a lemon, his expression was that pained, but he calmed himself with a visible effort. They sat down, lowering their heads and avoiding the other's gaze. Chinaware clinked as they ate, Snape shooting a poisonous look at the Headmaster.
He reached reluctantly for one of the pastries, if only to stop Dumbledore's yammering, but he had to admit that it really was good.
If one didn't know better, they would almost mistake the pair for lovers having one of their spats—except the two would probably never "make up".
The Ravenclaws, sitting to their right, were mostly studious like her, their books propped up against pitchers or empty platters as they ate. The other Ravenclaws were clustered about at the end of the table, conversing in loud whispers—they were doubtlessly planning yet more pranks to pull on Luna Lovegood whose blonde head was currently hidden behind an upside down copy of her father's Quibbler.
Just then, Luna stood up, and made her way towards the Gryffindor table, her radish earrings and butterbeer cap necklace clinking together when she moved. Her head was lowered.
Hermione smiled curiously at Luna, wondering what had happened to bring the girl over. Luna was a Seer, and the Gryffindor girl knew better than to ignore or laugh at her.
Luna handed her a folded note, the word "Hermione" written on the parchment in flowing black script.
"Hermione, listen to me," Luna said, a strange intensity in her words; her blue eyes were hazy, wide and unfocused. "You must read this as soon as you are alone. Promise me."
"I'll try." Hermione nodded, her amber eyes quizzical.
Luna left soon after, and as she neared the group of plotting Ravenclaws, they broke up and scattered, conversation and plans forgotten.
Well, Hermione supposed that her questions would be answered soon, so she shrugged it off, shaking her head slightly to clear it.
She scanned the Slytherin table warily, her eyes falling on Draco and his cronies as they huddled about, speaking in hushed tones. The blond glanced about nervously, looking away as he met Hermione's gaze.
Dumbledore had made her and Draco co heads this year, and neither had been much pleased by his decision. They had eventually formed a tentative truce to stop the fighting that raged between the two hostile Houses, and it had helped, temporarily.
She never thought she would be saying this, but Draco actually wasn't that bad of a person, once you got past the snobby attitude and pureblood mania.
Her eyes wandered over his lean, well muscled form and the softly mussed platinum hair that fell into his piercing silver grey eyes in carefully tousled white gold locks.
Draco had matured over the summer, and he was taller and more fit. Some called him the Slytherin sex god, and Hermione could almost believe those people—girls fell for him left and right, swooning at his feet, and Hermione could honestly see the appeal.
He had let his previously gelled blond hair grow out instead of slicking it back, and with his toned physique and chiseled features …
Hermione mentally slapped herself. It was Draco, for Merlin's sake! What was she thinking? God, she was dating Ron! Thank Godric that he couldn't read her mind just then!
Blushing furiously, Hermione pulled out a book, propping it up against a pitcher of orange juice and began to read, ducking her head behind the cover of the dusty old tome which Harry had gotten her last Christmas as a gift.
She harbored the faint suspicion that Harry had just picked out the thickest—and most boring, at least in his opinion—book in the store, probably from the most remote corner of the shop. She was grateful, nonetheless; after all, a book was still a book, and it was a very good one too.
Whoosh. Hermione looked up as the owls flew into the Hall, weighed down with copies of the Daily Prophet—the Quibbler for Luna—and packages of food and other miscellaneous items.
Hermione's parents were Muggles though, so she rarely received any mail—there was almost no point in checking. Hermione went back to reading her book as a sandy colored owl flew towards Harry. Probably another admirer. When would they ever learn? The girls never seemed to give up.
"Hey Hermione, there's one for you!" Ron poked her in the shoulder, indicating the tawny brown owl that was winging towards Hermione. The bird landed gracefully in front of her, regarding her impassively with its piercing golden eyes.
It held still as Hermione unfastened the letter from its leg, nipping a piece of bacon from her plate before it flew off, soaring up towards the Owlery with its wings outstretched, a feathered shadow against the sun drenched "sky".
Hermione loosened the red ribbon that had been tied around the scroll and set it aside. She carefully unrolled the crisp parchment, smoothing it as she began to read:
Meet me after breakfast today—at around nine or ten—and bring Mr. Weasley with you. I'll be in my office; the password is "chocolate frog". I'll see you there.
The note was signed simply, A. Dumbledore.
Hermione wondered what the Headmaster could possibly want her and Ron to do this time … Perhaps another "quest"?
She fidgeted nervously in her seat, tugging agitatedly at a strand of curly brown hair. She bit her bottom lip—it had been worried to a strawberry pink.
Hermione prodded listlessly at her food, piled high on her plate; she felt unable to eat another bite of it. The sight turned her stomach, and she felt vaguely ill.
"Hey Mione?'" Ron's voice startled her out of her musings. His eyes glanced longingly at her still full plate. "Your food—do you still want it?"
"No, I'm not really that hungry. You can have it if you want though." Hermione relented; she was never able to resist Ron's patented puppy dog eyes. His bottom lip trembled in a sad pout and his bright eyes filled with tears. The redhead looked as though he was about to start crying any minute now.
It was almost ridiculous the things he could get her to do with that face.
She hastily pushed the plate towards Ron, exchanging a mock exasperated glance with Harry. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry smiled sympathetically back. They both knew what Ron was like when he was hungry—which was all the time.
Ron had a bottomless stomach—with him, there was no such thing as too much food.
He had already snatched the plate of food from her—before she had even finished speaking—and was currently stuffing his face. Ron crammed a strip of bacon into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he chewed; a generous spoonful of her scrambled eggs went in next, followed by half a blueberry muffin.
Hermione shook her head wonderingly, her gaze affectionate. How could Ron eat so much? Actually, Hermione probably didn't want to know.
Ron reached for a piece of toast, buttering it through a mouthful of banana pancake. Ginny smacked his head, turning away from her brother in disgust.
"Ron, for Godric's sake!" She exclaimed, shoving a handful of crumpled paper napkins into Ron's greasy fist.
"Use them, please," Ginny exhorted Ron, her nose scrunched in annoyance. Sometimes, she really couldn't stand her brother.
"And how in the world do you eat so much?" Ginny asked rhetorically, voicing aloud Hermione's unspoken question.
Ron shrugged in response, buttering another piece of toast, and spreading some kind of orange yellow marmalade on it.
He reached for a napkin, wiping his mouth, and tossed it at his sister. Ginny recoiled from the food stained projectile, ducking as it flew over her head. It smacked into the back of an unfortunate Marcus Flint's head, and Ron cheered.
He wound up again, Seamus and Dean egging him on. Hermione smiled affectionately at Ron and his childish antics—her eyes were warm as she dragged a reluctant Ron away from the table. Seamus and Dean booed.
The students watched in amusement as Hermione—slim and petite—towed a weakly protesting Ron out of the Great Hall.
"Oy Mione," Ron said, attempting to tug his arm free from Hermione's iron grip. She wouldn't let go.
"Hush Ronald!" Hermione hissed under her breath. "I'll explain everything to you later. Promise."
Slightly placated, Ron allowed her to lead him away, but not before he had managed to snag a last croissant from the pile on the table.
"Okay," Hermione began tentatively as they walked along. She took a deep breath. "You know the letter that I got at breakfast? From that brown owl? You told me, remember?"
Ron nodded his assent, but his eyes were still quizzical.
"Right, so it turns out that Dumbledore sent me that letter, and apparently, he wants us to meet him in his office at around ten," Hermione finished, glancing at the watch she wore on her left wrist. It had been a present from her parents.
Ron frowned. "But what does that have to do with me?"
"He wanted us to meet him, not just me. I don't know why he didn't send you a letter too though," Hermione replied.
"Err, okay then," Ron said hesitantly.
Hermione relaxed, relieved that Ron had accepted her explanation.
They had reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office while they had been talking, and Hermione reached in her pocket for the Headmaster's note. She unfolded it while Ron looked on, confused.
"Chocolate frog," Hermione read, and the gargoyles slid apart to reveal a winding gold staircase. Hermione tucked the parchment back into the pocket of her robe and began to climb; Ron hesitantly followed her example.
The stone guardians closed behind the two with a bang. Ron jumped, but Hermione continued walking, tugging Ron along when he remained motionless.
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