A/N: Sorry if you got a double alert about this chapter. I had to edit since, apparently, I'm incapable of alphabetising surnames correctly. Doubly embarrassing since I used to work in a library..

Anyway, thanks for the reviews so far. FYI, I will answer all signed-in reviews, but I won't be giving away the future plot. You will just have to trust me :)

~oOo~

On the first day of September – in the year 1938 – Death apparated onto his doorstep at precisely 6.01pm. He had never been late home in his entire career and that was playing into his hands today. Awkwardly, he raised the iron knocker and rapped three times.

There was an intake of breath from someone who was obviously standing directly on the other side of the door, then silence. Outside, Death fidgeted, looked over his shoulder, and was just about to knock again when he heard the familiar sound of squealing metal. The door opened reluctantly, inch by inch. Death smiled.

"Good evening," he said.

There was a tremendous pause, in which neither party's expression could be gauged owing to their identical hoods.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he continued, once the waiting had become unbearable. The figure in the house retreated slightly to make room, then gestured with his hand. Death shuffled inside, removing his cloak out of habit. Everything in the anteroom was the same as he had left it 'yesterday', which served as a painful reminder of his monotonous existence.

"Who are you?" asked Younger Death.

"Dear me! You're as bad as that girl! Have some manners, man." Younger Death removed his cloak, too, which revealed his unimpressed expression. Older Death sighed. "I'm you, or rather you from some time in the future – and please don't ask any more obvious questions, you'll make this impossibly tedious."

"Prove it to me."

"Honestly, it would be the story of the millennia if someone could impersonate us!"

Younger Death crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. "I'm still waiting," he said.

Older Death sighed again, the wheels turning in his mind.

"Expecto Patronum." The shimmering raven erupted from Older Death's hand and swooped around to perch on his shoulder, ruffling its feathers proudly. This was clearly enough to convince Younger Death, for his demeanour changed instantly.

"Excellent! Sorry about that. Are you staying for dinner?"

"Dinner? Ah, yes, dinner… Yes, please. Ah, as a matter of fact, I – what I mean to say is – you see… I might be staying, you know… quite a bit longer than that."

"How long is quite a bit longer?"

"Well…" Older Death's expression became pensive. "To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure about some of the repercussions of my trip. But – to catch up to my origin – about sixty years."

"Sixty years? You show up on my doorstep asking to stay for sixty years and you've the nerve to tell me that I've got no manners?"

"Yes, when you put it that way, it is rather rich, isn't it? Still, never mind. What's for dinner?"

Younger Death threw his hands up in disbelief and stomped off.

~oOo~

Hermione and Professor Merrythought had just finished descending the marble staircase when the front doors swung open, revealing a large gaggle of children in identical plain black robes.

"You can join the others now," the Professor said quietly. "Good luck, dear." Hermione nodded and tried to smile back, forcing her feet to carry her across the hall under the weight of several dozen curious stares. She slotted into the pack at the very edge, trying to become as inconspicuous as possible. Before any of the others could turn to question her, a figure emerged from the Great Hall and strode towards them. Hermione's heart stopped beating.

Albus Dumbledore, perhaps in his mid-fifties, was very much alive. He wore a formal robe, dark purple in colour, with elaborate spiral patterns overlaid in gold. There was not a trace of white in his red-brown hair and his eyes were brighter and bluer than she had ever seen them.

Her former Headmaster must have been talking, for the group of first years was now shuffling into the side room Professor McGonagall had used to explain the sorting ceremony. She was vaguely aware of him speaking again, but she was not listening. Her eyes were flickering across the sea of unfamiliar faces, looking for something with the kind of fervour one only employs when one is desperate to ascertain that their quarry is not there.

Unfortunately, he was there.

It was unmistakably him, though she had never set eyes on his younger self before. Dark eyes in a pale face, neat dark hair and a haughty expression – his back straight, chin high, posture regal. Tom Riddle stood in the very corner, looking out across the small room as a king might look upon his courtiers. It was not the kind of bearing usual in an eleven-year-old, and had Hermione truly been eleven herself, she would have been strongly unnerved. Indeed, the other children were looking away quickly whenever their gaze fell in his direction.

Unobserved by Tom, she made a full study of his appearance while Dumbledore's soothing voice was telling the group about the sorting ceremony. He held himself immaculately, had combed his hair to perfection; however, his robe stopped an inch short of the bottom of his trousers, which themselves were an inch short of the heel of his shoe. Though the shoes had been polished to a high shine, there was obvious wear around the eyelets and in one small section the sole was just beginning to come away from the leather.

Looking at the rest of the group, she noticed the girls were wearing tailored dresses or smart skirts; flashy earrings and necklaces glittered in the torchlight. Many of the boys' immaculate leather boots were inlaid with gold or silver filigree, house motifs embroidered onto their bright white collars and cuffs. It was a brazen display of wealth and power. Poor Tom's shirt looked almost grey.

Poor Tom?

…Poor Tom?

It was no use, for no matter how hard she tried, she could not associate this boy – however strange, however cruel – with the snakelike monster who had recently tried to murder her. Tom, today, was simply a boy. A boy with worn out clothes, among boys brought up like princes.

"This way, single file, if you please," said Dumbledore, and the ensuing barging broke Hermione's trance. She stumbled after the others.

A spontaneous grin made its way onto her face as they reached the Great Hall, for all around her was the sound of forty identical gasps. Gasping had definitely been her reaction to walking into this beautiful room for the first time, too. Even Tom's eyes had slightly widened. I must have gone back at least half a century, but nothing has changed in here.

Professor Dumbledore led the line of first years up to the front, and Hermione felt the same twinge of nervousness she had felt all those years ago. The sorting hat – looking no cleaner or newer than in the future – sat on the stool as it always had done, ready to look into this year's offering of young minds.

She had never put much time into studying occlumency, despite badgering Harry about it endlessly, but she suddenly wished she had. At eleven, not knowing what was about to happen and not having anything to hide, the intrusion into her mind had not bothered her. Now, the idea of it was beginning to bring on another panic attack, which she had no desire to experience in front of the whole school. Get a grip, get a grip!

The hat's voice provided a welcome distraction and she gave it her attention.

Professors, Ladies, Gentlemen, new students! Welcome to another year at Hogwarts.

As most of you of course know, it is my job to sort students into the four Houses, which were created by the four illustrious founders of our school.

Gryffindor will be your destination if you are bold and courageous. To Hufflepuff go those of exceptional loyalty and tenacity. Ravenclaw is the home of wit and wisdom, while Slytherin accepts those of ambition and cunning.

Whichever your House, I wish you a happy and productive year. Let us begin!

The words were spoken, not sung, and Hermione had to pinch herself at the solemnity of it. Then she caught sight of Dumbledore, resplendent in his flamboyant purple robes, and understood. It was you! You, as Headmaster, with your brilliant-but-batty act. You brought the music to Hogwarts. She smiled.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, a length of parchment now in his hands.

"I will be calling you up alphabetically. Please place the hat on your head." The silence in the hall was absolute as everyone waited for the first name to be read out.

"Abbott, Titus." A small boy stepped forward shyly and took the hat.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" Hermione wondered if a House running in the family was an inherently self-fulfilling prophecy, and how many students asked for their preferred House. Titus scurried towards the table under the yellow banner.

"Bagman, Leopold." This boy looked more confident.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Gryffindors cheered, and Hermione felt her insides clench as the emotion of a thousand memories came flooding back. It was too painful to look at that table, filled with so many smiling but unfamiliar faces.

"Brenner, Jacob." Under his fraying robes, Jacob was wearing a suit which was clearly muggle. Hermione could sense the jeers from the Slytherin table without turning her head to look.

"GRYFFINDOR!" To their credit, most of the Gryffindors put on a good show of politely welcoming Jacob to their table. It was obvious he had noticed the bad feeling coming from across the hall.

"Bulstrode, Clarence." There was a longer pause than there had been before.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Burke, Conrad."

"SLYTHERIN!" Conrad smirked as dignified applause came from the green table.

"Campbell, Kenneth." Though his surname did not sound pureblood, Kenneth's neat robes seemed to spare him the same level of jeering as Jacob had endured. He still looked terrified.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Carrow, Belladonna." A thin girl made her way forward, her expression proud although her clothing and jewellery pointed to her family being poorer than some of the others.

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Diggory, Ernest." Again, the hat took a little longer to decide. Hermione wondered idly if he was Cedric's grandfather.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Dolohov, Antonin." She jumped at the sound of that name, and looked at the boy coming forward. Like the Carrow girl, it was clear that his family was not as rich as others, though his clothes were still new.

"SLYTHERIN!" No surprises there, then.

"Fawley, Cassandra." A murmur running through the hall put Hermione in mind of Harry's sorting. This girl was clearly well known, and perhaps her surname rang a bell, but she couldn't put her finger on why.

"RAVENCLAW!" There were enthusiastic cheers from the blue table as Cassandra went to sit down.

"Flint, Octavia."

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Flume, Ambrosius."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Fudge, Cornelius." Hermione nearly fainted as a nervous, chubby boy stepped forward. Fudge had grown up with Voldemort? It was taking a lot to shock her at the moment, but that did it.

"SLYTHERIN!" She had to consciously close her gaping mouth. Fudge shuffled up to the green table, where he was greeted with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

With a terrible sinking feeling, she saw Dumbledore's mouth form the words 'Granger, Hermione.' Gathering up her dignity, she took the hat and sat down. In the second before the hat reached her head, she frantically cleared her mind. Think of a lake, a fortress, a desert – anything, nothing.

Hello? – The hat was in her mind, and she could sense its confusion.

A natural occlumens, eh? That's rare. Open up, or I can't sort you. Hermione fought against the urge to respond and kept her eyes shut tight so as not to see the hundreds of gazes on her.

Or perhaps not a natural, then… But what are you hiding – no – why are you hiding? A brave act, to hide from me, quite Gryffindor… No, in fact, cunning like a Slytherin? How can I tell without knowing your motive..?

The hat had paused to think again, and it was getting harder to keep her thoughts forced down.

If you're determined not to let me in, the only thing I know is that you can occlude – a good mind, then. It'll have to be-

"RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione tore the hat from her head, inhaling hard as if suppressing her thoughts was equivalent to suppressing her breathing. She stood shakily and made her way to a free spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table.

~oOo~

"So, not only do you show up unannounced – wanting to stay sixty years – but you need me to take in some kid as well? This is preposterous."

"In my defence," Older Death bit out, rather tersely, "It wasn't exactly the type of trip one could prearrange."

Younger Death's glare remained firmly in place.

"Do you imagine we will walk around with our hoods up between June and September?"

"Ah, yes," conceded Older Death, "We will have to work something out, of course; all in good time. There is a more pressing issue."

"Good grief, there's more? Honestly, I preferred the solitude."

"Yes, well…. Here's the thing. What's happening to you right now… Never happened to me."

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the popping and crackling of logs in the fireplace. Younger Death surveyed Older Death from behind steepled fingers. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally speaking.

"You've already erased the future you came from. Time has diverged."

"Yes." Another pause.

"This is unprecedented – you ought to have erased yourself."

"Yes, I thought that might happen, but it seems my magic was stronger."

"Interesting." Younger Death pondered the implications, but there were too many unknowns to come to any conclusions. A different thought occurred to him, and he added, "They can't be allowed to find out about this."

"Odin's beard, no."

"We will have to keep you hidden; you must not summon them." Older Death looked a bit upset.

"Yes, I know," he said ruefully.

"I will carry on as always, doing our work."

"Yes, it's the only way… meanwhile, I'll probably turn into some kind of housewitch." A grin broke over Younger Death's face.

"Maybe I will enjoy this after all," he said.

Older Death refused to dignify that comment with a response, and kept resolutely staring at the wall. The tapestry – a rather whimsical depiction of the Ragnarök – had been removed in his future house to make way for his collection of frog cards.

"I've just remembered," he said, brightening up, "I've got a new hobby to show you."

Younger Death looked at him quizzically as he sifted through his pockets. He eventually withdrew a pair of pentagonal boxes and handed one over.

"Watch out; their first jump can be quite exuberant."

A companionable silence ensued while they both tucked in with equal abandon.

"Excellent fun," said Younger Death, "but you must be quite out of ideas if you're counting eating chocolate as a hobby." Older Death chuckled.

"Look inside the box again," he said. Following his own advice, he withdrew his card.

Ignatia Wildsmith (1227-1320) was an English witch who discovered the magical properties of the Floo plant, leading to the invention of Floo Powder. She was killed when experimenting with the use of Erumpent horn in Christmas crackers.

"Ah, I've got Ingatia," he said. "Do you remember that day – what a mess! You'd have thought she'd slow down a bit, at ninety-three, but like a true Ravenclaw she always had to try and improve on everything…"

Younger Death let out an undignified snort. "By the way," he said, "Where's your girl Sorted?"

"Oh, judging by her untimely demise, a Gryffindor to the bone."

"Pity. Still, they're always fun to get a rise out of. So predictable."

"Indeed. Who's on your card?"

Younger Death held up Unctuous Osbert. "One of the more forgettable of our esteemed Ministers."

"Ah, yes. Better luck next time. Incidentally, I've no idea how many there are to collect."

"I'm intrigued. Where do you buy them from?" Older Death smiled, realising his future supply had just been secured.

"A place in Diagon Alley. I used to get them from Hogsmeade, but it's a different shop there now, and they didn't seem to sell them."

"What tremendously poor taste." Older Death nodded his agreement with a degree of solemnity which was entirely out of proportion to the subject matter.

"So which hobby are you on, these days? I lose track," he said. Younger Death grimaced.

"Well, I've wasted a year trying to teach the thestrals to play quidditch, and they're frankly no better than they were before. The amount of quaffles I've got through – why they like eating them, I'll never–" Gales of laughter cut him off.

"Oh, dear me," wheezed Older Death, wiping his eyes, "I'd absolutely forgotten about that! That's priceless!"

"Yes. Well. Don't forget, you're making fun of yourself." It was a good point. They both smiled, and Younger Death got up to pour a couple of firewhiskeys.

"Perhaps this won't be so bad," remarked Older Death. He accepted the drink he was handed. "Cheers," he said.

"Cheers."

~oOo~