A/N: This is not my first rodeo, but I haven't written a fanfic in a really long time. So be gentle with me, okay? That being said, I would still appreciate questions, comments and the sort. As an FYI, don't expect super frequent updates. I just decided to start writing this and I don't really have a plot outlined yet...actually, this story is a remedy for procrastination. I figure, at least I'm doing something constructive! :D
It takes place at the beginning of sixth year, following all that's happened until that point. Obviously, it won't be following JK Rowling's awesome and undeniably superior plot...but I hope it'll be mildly interesting for you!
Disclaimer: I only own this very unoriginal plot. Characters, setting basically everything belongs to JK Rowling! Cheers.
Jane L. Doe
Irma Pince had retired from the library hours ago, seeking out the comfort of her private quarters. As much as she hated to leave her books unattended and, at the mercy of the irresponsible and reckless students, she knew only a handful of studious overachievers would be there later than she. While locking up her office for the evening and extinguishing as many candles as she could on her way out, she didn't see a single soul. There was an easy silence in the library.
Glancing once over the library once more, she saw nothing. She could be sure, though, that there was at least one student in the furthest back corner, a Miss Hermione Granger. If ever Irma Pince could relate to any one of the students, it would be that particular young girl. She shared a love and passion of reading that Irma Pince had never encountered in someone so young. Although, she always believed Miss Granger's youthful intent to be masking a greater understanding of the world, a wisdom far beyond her years. But that was just speculation. Irma Pince was not a conversational woman. She was thin, easily irritated and it seemed her lips were constantly pursed in an expression of distaste. She took little interest in the students that occupied her library. Her main concern was her books.
* * * *
It hadn't been the first time Hermione remained the only person in the library and it wouldn't be the last. Sixth year would be unbearably simple compared to the workload she would have next year, her NEWT year. That was if there would be a next year for her. Or for anyone, really.
Although it was only the start of the year and autumn has just begun to take its toll on the grounds, it had been a turbulent beginning to what she assumed would be a hectic year. Harry had seen Voldemort return to power, had seen Cedric Diggory murdered. Just this past year, he'd lost Sirius. They had all lost a dear friend. The Boy Who Lived was slowly beginning to lose faith and the Order of the Phoenix didn't have the answers. So Hermione threw herself into research, rushing through her studies to spend any time she could searching for answers. Although they all knew there was only one solution, Hermione had abandoned logic and reason. In some small way, Hermione had gone a little mad. Einstein had once said insanity was doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. If she wasn't insane, she didn't know what to call it.
Her worries aside, Hermione frantically flipped through a dusty tome concerning archaic methods of deflecting curses. The old wives tales were the basis of her essay for Professor Snape. He'd finally gotten everything he wanted, being the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor after years of applying to no avail. Harry was on edge, unhappy with Dumbledore's decision. It due, in part, to suspicion that Snape was Death Eater. No matter how much Dumbledore vouched for him, Hermione suspected Harry would always hold a personal disdain for the man.
The assignment wasn't due for another week, but the sooner Hermione finished it the sooner she could dedicate her efforts elsewhere. She looked for more evidence to support her argument, having flipped through countless books. It wasn't just her opinion that old magic remained a part of new techniques and new spells. There was proof. Magic was an ancient anomaly that was rooted in their history. It wasn't static and she could prove that the spells they used were based on outdated ideas. She had to prove it or else she would fail the assignment. Of all the professors to prove herself to, Snape was the only one she had to fight tooth and nail to impress. At time, she irrationally felt inclined to believe Harry's theory. Snape seemed far too prejudiced against her—and her alone—to be fighting for the Order. He was instilled with the ugly hatred that epitomized a certain pompous blonde someone Hermione loathed.
The seemingly impenetrable silence was shattered by a sudden crash. Hermione jumped so violently the book toppled off the side of the desk. It was only a dull thud in the wake of the horrendous sound of wood splintering. If she didn't know any better, Hermione would've said the shelves, staggeringly close together, toppled over like dominos.
Heart in her throat, beating erratically, she scanned her corner of the library. Everything was in place, she couldn't see the source of the sound from her vantage point. Constant vigilance. If there was anything she learned from Mad Eye, namely during their fourth year when he was held captive by the maniacal Barty Crouch Jr., it was that. Ever vigilant, Hermione's first instinct was her wand. She grabbed it immediately, her hand shaking slightly from adrenaline. As a child, she'd been in enough haunted houses during Halloween to know something could always jump out at her, always throw her for a loop. She recognized the fear, both rational and irrational as she was learning. Sometimes, things did go bump in the night. Voldemort and his cronies were living proof of that.
As far as she knew, she was the only one in the library. She had heard the customary sound of Madam Pince's modest high heels padding across the carpet and the echo of the heavy doors closing. No one had come into the library since. Assuming the sound came from another intruder, how did they get in? Hogwarts was one of the safest places in Britain, protected by every magical ward Hermione could fathom. It was nearly impenetrable to all kinds of magic.
Hermione slid out of her seat, careful to keep the wooden legs from shifting on the carpet or making any audible sound at all. If the intruder was here at this hour, they couldn't believe anyone else would be in here. And that was where they were sorely mistaken. Wand at the ready, Hermione edged herself around the bookshelves, peering around each corner, down each row of books. As she neared the other side of the library, where the sound had come from, it seemed her assumption was right. Pieces of parchment, or more precisely pages of books, were scattered along the carpeted isles. It looked as though shelves had simply collapsed. It was unlikely, if not impossible. Madam Pince would never allow such poor maintenance in her library. With each step, her resolve furthered. It had to have been caused by someone.
The pages progressed into books, strewn and tossed on the floor. She steadied her breathing and whirled around the corner to the centre of the mess. Two entire shelves had been decimated in what looked to be an explosion of sorts. The wood hadn't given out but had been smashed to pieces. In the heap of books and broken shelves was a man. Hermione would recognize that face anywhere, but it was remarkably different. It wasn't the face of the sixteen year old boy she'd seen earlier that day, but an older version. There was no mistaking the blonde hair. Now, though, the platinum sheen was replaced with mud and a rusty colour that looked like dried blood.
"Malfoy?" she breathed, too afraid to take another step.
She couldn't tell if he was conscious or not. Half his body was covered in books, his head turned away from her. He was wearing a white shirt that was filthy and cut to ribbons. His left hand, furthest from her, was a loosely-formed fist while his right hand was at his side. She let out an uncharacteristic curse when she realized he was all but holding his side together, keeping his insides...well, inside.
* * * *
Hermione had lost count of the number of scrapes her, Harry and Ron had found themselves in. But she had never seen so much blood. It made her stomach churn and the metallic smell assaulted her senses. She tried all the healing spells she'd perfected but none of them were strong enough. This was too much for her and she was way in over her head. She couldn't levitate him to the infirmary, she needed to keep pressure on his side.
She pocketed her wand and knelt down beside him, pitching books and chunks of wood over her shoulder. Clearing the debris off his crumpled body was much easier than lifting said body. Despite his sickly appearance, this Mafloy, whoever he was, weighed more than he appeared. She hooked his left arm over her shoulder and placed her free hand over his right one. A barely audible groan slipped out from beyond his cracked lips. That and the warmth his body radiated were good signs. If he wasn't conscious, at least he was alive.
"C'mon Malfoy," she groaned, using all her weight to get them upright. "Get up, wake up now."
Her knees almost buckled under the weight. Hermione wasn't athletic or physically capable and it took everything she had just to drag him to the library entrance. She hauled the door open and started towards the stairs. He wasn't much help, barely shuffling his feet. Hermione couldn't carry dead weight. An aggravated yell escaped her lips and she slid down on the stairs, leaning against the cool stone. She could feel his warm, sticky blood soaking into her side. She didn't like this feeling of hopelessness. Usually she was never alone, she had people helping her. The portraits, irritated at being stirred from their sleep, were now taking in the situation. Hermione told them to get someone, a professor, anyone. Whoever was closest. It didn't phase her that the third floor was Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"HELP!" she yelled, hoping the professors or prefects on duty would be somewhere close by. "Someone help! A student is hurt!"
From a dark corridor, Hermione could see a bobbing light growing brighter as the person neared. Although she couldn't sigh out of relief just yet, the sound of feet scraping against the stone floor was mildly comforting. But that relief was short lived once Snape's black cloak swung around the corner. His wand outstretched, tip illuminated, he stared at her with wide eyes. This was obviously as much a shock to him as it had been to her. She could imagine how it looked to him, her holding up a bleeding Malfoy. He probably though she had tried to do him in or something equally ridiculous.
"Professor," she gasped, keeping her hand pressed to his side as Malfoy's head lulled against the crook of her neck. "I found him in the library. It's Mafloy...but it's not...I don't think..."
There was a moment of silence where Snape seemed to realize the complexity of the situation. The Malfoy they were acquainted with was tucked safely into his bed, unaware of his other self bleeding to death on the stone stairs between the fourth and third floors.
"Quiet girl," Snape snapped. "Don't just sit there, get him to the hospital wing."
"We can't levitate him," she urged. "His side...I'm holding it together."
It was a strange sentence Hermione wished she never had to speak. This was like something out of a horror movie, not a part of her life. Snape glared at her and swept up the remaining stairs to them. Apparition was out of the question, so he resorted to the same technique as Hermione. She could practically feel the irritation rolling off of him in waves, having to resort to a slow, labor-some muggle task. As he helped Malfoy to his feet, she was suddenly aware of how odd the moment was. Alongside two of the people she disliked most at Hogwarts, Hermione felt their shared purpose created a ludicrous sense of understanding.
Snape told the nearest portrait to inform Madam Pomfrey they would be arriving with a gravely injured Malfoy. As soon as he mentioned St. Mungo's and the possibility that he might need more intensive medical care, the realization that he might die began to set in.
What would happen if this Malfoy from some other time died? What would happen to the Malfoy she knew?