A/N: I'd like to apologize for the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Chapter I posted here previously. I'm much happier with this one, though not completely. What kind of person would I be if I was completely happy with my work? (I'd be a lot less stressed, that's for sure. And probably have a lot more time too. Must be nice.) There's so much more I want to say, but an A/N in a chapter isn't the appropriate place to do it. As such, I've started a blog where I'll be posting longer thoughts, if you're interested in viewing them. The link can be found on my profile page here on FFN.

Spells:

Enwrapture Curse: Tightens the cursed item around the wearer. Harmful to deadly when cast on jewelry.
Tellero Vellum: Shearing Charm. Intended for Sheep. Useful for Humans. Probably Welsh.
Tergeo Placidium: Cleans. Shampoos. Exfoliates. Awesome.
Vestio Breva: Clothes-Curling Hex. Self-explanatory. Slow-working.
Obscuring Charm: Auror-level. Effect is in the name. Surprisingly high skill requirement.

Disclaimer: I'm thankful for the opportunity to play around in the sandbox that is the Harry Potter Universe. Apologies to those authors whose ideas I have unintentionally incorporated.

Please enjoy the second-fifth installment of Of Fae and Fervor!

Chapter 5 – Time Stops For No Woman

The early morning passed at an inexorably slow pace. Hermione had closed the drapes around her bed and, for the first time in either existence, attempted to silence her small domain against the din of four young witches moving about the dorm far earlier than necessary. To her surprise, the spell fizzled out as soon as it landed, a sure sign that Hogwarts didn't look too fondly on any nighttime incursions, although why the broom closets were still charmable made little sense.

Hermione shook her head slightly in mock disbelief as she sat against her headboard. When has the magical world ever made a lick of sense? It's not like it stopped poor Sally-Anne Perks from getting pregnant and dropping out in fifth year.

As if on cue, Sally-Anne's soft alto rose above the racket.

"Lav," she teased, "if you're so worried about Ron, just go crawl into bed with him. I'm sure he won't mind. He's only been staring at your chest all year, and I'm sure he'd appreciate a couple more pillows."

Hermione heard a high pitched squeak, Lavender's, followed by two thumps and quickly drawn drapes.

Exactly the same as last time, she realized. The memory was surprisingly clear; Lavender Brown, half her long, flaxen hair up in curlers, a pair of gaping salmon lips contrasting lovely with scarlet flushed cheeks, blindly grasping Pavarti Patil's coffee-toned hand before diving into the privacy of her bed, crimson curtains tearing slightly at being pulled roughly together. Hermione couldn't help but giggle at the recollection.

A hushed pair of whispers and the sound of shuffling feet approached her sanctuary. "Hermione?" a light, feminine voice asked hesitantly.

Hermione's mind reeled at the address, searching for a face, a name to attach to the familiar voice. Who else was here? She knew she had four roommates: Lavender, Pavarti, Sally-Anne, and – and –

"Something happened to Ron. I'm coming in."

Hermione's mind connected just as a pale-skinned, blue-eyed, pixie-haired brunette pulled back the covering around her bed, memory flooding her vision.

Hermione and Harry could see the towers of Hogwarts peeking through the forest canopy. Traversing the Forbidden Forest probably wasn't the smartest decision they'd made, but they needed to get the Diadem, and that was in the castle. The plan was simple: get to the Whomping Willow, travel back to the Shrieking Shack, then to Honeydukes, and finally into Hogwarts.

They'd only encountered a couple of Acromantula packs, but a few well-placed incendios pulled them away. Thank Merlin for Invisibility Cloaks.

The pair breached the forest border and slowly made their way to the Willow under the cover of darkness. From a distance, the ancient tree looked ominous in the moonless night, twisted and gnarled branches hanging grimly, bathed in the dim orange glow of the castle. On closer approach, the true horror revealed itself. Buried within the still limbs of the Willow, dozens of corpses hung from ropes and chains like vile and twisted ornaments on a needleless mockery of a yule tree.

Before Hermione could stop him, Harry cast a dim lumos, revealing the closest body in all its macabre glory.

The body of Fay Dunbar.

Her naked corpse hung loosely from manacled wrists, her fair skin mottled with ugly purple bruising and congealed bloody wounds. A milky-white substance had trickled down from between her legs, her lips, and from two gaping incisions in her armpits, barely mixing with her own blood before drying, evidence enough of the poor girl's suffering. Her blue eyes, once full of life, were clouded, open wide with terror at the moment of her demise.

Hermione's knees weakened at the sight and she felt her stomach rebel. Harry, realizing his error, nox-ed his wand and managed to catch his companion before she collapsed.

Hermione snapped back to reality as she realized Fay was still talking to her.

"He's ok, Hermione," Fay continued. She must have missed most of what Fay had been telling her. Something about Ron? "Are you ok? You're looking a bit pale."

Hermione's stomach clenched again. This wasn't part of the memory anymore. With a look of apology to Fay, Hermione leapt from the bed, rushing past a concerned Sally-Anne to the washroom, just managing to hunch over the porcelain before she threw up.

By the time Hermione returned to her dorm, her roommates had thankfully all returned to their bunks. She managed to catch a few hours of precious sleep before rising with the sun, a feat helped along by her alarm pillow quite literally beating her awake. She rose quietly and began her morning routine, adding only the Shearing Charm, Tollero Vellum, she had learned from Luna that made personal grooming quick, simple, and painless. Hermione emerged showered, smooth, and ready to begin her first, second day as a fourteen-year-old third year witch whose only job was to save everyone she ever knew and loved from death, destruction, and darkness.

No pressure.

Alright, Hermione, she told herself. New timeline, new opportunities, and no one's dead yet. Keep your mind straight, you're lucky enough to get another shot at this. No more flashbacks like this morning.

She grabbed a few rolls of parchment paper and a no-fill quill she must have received from Scrivenshafts at some point and headed down the stairs. There were only a handful of upper years in the Common Room, and she received a few cursory good mornings as she loitered about, faintly hoping that Harry would perhaps wake early and she'd be able to catch him before the rest of Gryffindor rose and began their own day. Looking around the room, she spotted a cushy chair-and-a-half near the base of the boys' stair and plopped down, quill in mouth, pondering her next move.

Harry was certain the universe hated him.

How could it not? Nearly four months had passed since Ron had all but exiled Hermione from their group. In that short time he'd managed to arrest his plunging grades at just above Poor level and barely stumble through the Patronus Charm, not to mention his newfound apprehension for Grim-shaped shadows. He wanted – no, he needed Hermione back in their good graces, if only to return a semblance of normalcy to the daily insanity that was the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even Quidditch no longer felt the same, knowing that Hermione wouldn't be there to cheer him on or greet him after the match. Even though she said she had attended the match the night before last, he was fairly certain she was lying to him: her bookmark had to have moved at least two hundred pages while he was zooming around the pitch.

Harry smiled a bit at that. Hermione, for all her bluster about Quidditch taking up valuable study time, was a voracious Gryffindor fan and frequently put the rest of the house to shame in her fanaticism, even going so far as to help enchant flags and signs for anyone who asked.

Frankly, she put Ron and his Chudley Cannon-worship to shame. Not going to a match must have been killing her.

Harry shifted under his covers and looked at his trunk, where the Broomstick That Started It All rested quietly, locked, safe, and secure.

A Really Fast Broomstick, Harry's traitorous thoughts pondered. A really fast, really maneuverable, definitely-not-from-Sirius-Black broomstick. A broomstick that's apparently worth more to you than Hermione's friendship. Not that you needed that anyway. I'm sure you'd have been perfectly fine solving Snape's Potions Puzzle or discovering that a Basilisk was slithering though the castle pipes.

Harry snorted. In your dreams.

Harry's mind wandered, unbidden, to the few particular dreams he'd had over the intervening months: how he would invite the brunette witch to conquer her fear of flying with a slow evening cruise over the Black Lake, landing gently in a soft flowery meadow just inside the boundary of the Forbidden Forest, how she'd blush adorably whenever their eyes met, her deep chocolate eyes drawing him toward her, how those same orbs would darken with anticipation as she lowered herself down his body, a pair of luscious rosy lips wrapping themselves around his –

Friend! Harry visibly jerked as he plastered any thought that came to mind over the erotic images, attempting to disrupt the dangerous line of thinking he had kept locked away since early in their first year. Off limits! Ron!

Oily, straight ginger hair replaced the bobbing bushy brunette as light caramel skin morphed smoothly into a pale canvas marred with countless dark freckles, chapped lips now firmly clamped –

Bleach wouldn't be enough. Maybe Lockhart was taking visitors?

Harry rolled out of bed with an unwilling groan. The attack, if you could call Black turning Ron's bedcurtains into a doily 'an attack', had kept the dorm awake far into the early morning. Each room in the tower had been methodically searched, revealing only that Black had entered the Tower thanks to Sir Cadogan's penchant for new, complex passwords and Neville's sieve-like memory. Harry himself had barely managed enough rest to open the washroom door yet, impossibly, Ron was already awake, dressed, and headed out to the Common Room. It looked like he'd even showered, and it was only Monday!

Harry's thoughts whirled as the soap bar flew from his hands and plopped wetly on the tile shower floor for the third time that morning. Why would Black slash Ron's bed, anyway? he thought as he crouched carefully on the slippery tiles to retrieve the fallen bar. Everyone knows he's after me, and our names are literallycarved at the end of the bed. Maybe Azkaban took away his ability to read?

Don't be daft, Harry, said an internal voice that sounded remarkably like an annoyed Hermione Granger. How could he read the list of passwords then? And you've gone and dropped it again. Well done.

Harry could feel Imaginary-Hermione roll her eyes at him as he stared hopelessly at the offending soap, a trail of bubbles sliding slowly toward the shower drain.

Yep. Definitely hates me.

Luna was having a great morning.

Of course, 'great' was relative to how the rest of the day went, but it was certainly better than just 'a morning'. She'd managed to find enough clothing to put together a full outfit: a white button-down blouse and a pair of pastel polka-dot panties behind one of the sinks in the washroom, a pair of black flats, one lavender sock, and her blue-and-bronze Ravenclaw tie under her dormmate Anahi Ballard's bed, and a lime green sock and her lacy leopard-print bra between couch cushions in the Common Room. She upended her pillowcase, spilling her black workrobe and her grey woolen v-neck jumper and pleated skirt onto her bedsheets. Her pillow had disappeared only a few days into the Autumn Term, but Luna had slept on harder objects than woven wool on her father's expeditions. This was almost luxurious by comparison.

Thank Circe for small miracles though, she thought gratefully. The Nargles hadn't become bold enough to start stealing items from literally under her nose yet, although placing a temporary Enwrapture Curse on her outerwear seemed to keep them away.

Though Cho Chang's scarf did look a bit restricting a few weeks ago. Maybe the Nargles replaced her House Scarf with mine? That sounds like something they'd do.

Even her shower had been positively pleasant. She lingered in the lukewarm spray, a fantastic contrast to the ice-cold dribble that normally heralded her daily cleansing, long after she'd cast tergeo placidium and tollero vellum, the former an invention of her mother's and the latter a family trick passed down for generations, on herself.

Dressing smartly, she took the stairs two at a time, arriving with a thump to an unusually empty Common Room.

Luna's brows furrowed. "Hello?" she inquired to the vacant room.

The silence that greeted her was disconcerting. Where is everyone? she mused. Probably celebrating some holiday I forgot, or one they didn't tell me about. Or perhaps they're still excited that they lost the match on Saturday? Or maybe just that Harry Potter won?

Luna blushed lightly as she recalled the bright emerald eyes and beaming smile that had passed her gaze, searching the stands for a particular face.

Hermione Granger, probably. She blushed deeper as an image of the bushy-haired brunette sprang into her mind, chocolate eyes bright with intelligence and compassion, light caramel skin surely as smooth as acromantula silk. Luna felt her chest tighten and her stomach twist itself into a knot at the glowing visage.

She'd idolized the brilliant witch since her Sorting. The Gryffindor had established herself as one of the top twenty-five students ever in every class except Potions, and even then managed a respectable top one hundred under the well-known, biased tutelage of Professor Severus Snape. She'd even surpassed the legendary Lily Potter in Transfiguration and Charms, a feat that her father had been raving about for the entire summer before her own first year.

The Quibbler had been filled with articles about "The Fall of Pureblood Supremacy" and "The Age of the Muggleborn". There was even a small anonymous article that her father had managed to elicit from a recent Hogwarts graduate that claimed the term 'muggle' was an artifact of an age when non-magicals were considered no better than livestock, making the phrase 'muggleborn' little better than 'savage'. The author had put forth the terms 'no-maj' and 'firstborn' as an acceptable replacements, but her father continued to print 'muggle' and 'muggleborn' respectively, claiming that his readers wouldn't understand the distinction.

Luna suspected her father was actually worried about the blowback from established purebloods. She knew their benefactors were prominent Neutral families, likely Greengrass, Burke, or Fawley, but whenever they arrived at the Rookery she'd been confined to her room for the duration of their stay. She'd have to ask someone about which term they preferred. Maybe one of the upper years. Definitely not Granger. A rejection from her wasn't one Luna was sure she would be able to handle.

Shaking her head slightly to regain her focus, Luna returned to her concentration to the Case of the Mysteriously Absent Ravenclaws. She methodically worked her way around the empty room, looking behind couches and under chairs for her missing housemates. She'd stuck her head well inside the red-brick fireplace, craning upward to spot any feet dangling down from the chimney when a cough from behind startled her. She jerked upward and back, slamming her head painfully against the side of fireplace, a large sooty streak appearing from her cheek to her jaw.

"Looking for your friends, Looney?" the unmistakable taunting of fourth year Marietta Edgecombe punctured the silence. "Oh, right. You don't have any. You should be careful with your bum in the air like that, someone might take it as an invitation."

Luna turned to face the vile insinuator, eyes faintly watery from the goose egg she could feel growing on the back of her head. Marietta didn't miss it.

"Oh, don't cry already, Looney. I haven't even done anything yet!"

She looked around at the empty room, making sure they were still alone.

"Before I hex you," Marietta said thoughtfully, tapping her wand on her chin, "I should probably tell you that someone in Gryffindor was attacked by Sirius Black last night. No one knows who the target was, but I'm hoping that bitch Granger has a few more holes in her than she had last night. Would serve her right, stupid Gryffindors showing up us Ravenclaws."

Luna was petrified. Black had entered Gryffindor Tower and attacked someone? It couldn't be Hermione, he wouldn't be able to get up the stairs. He'd go after Harry then, right? Finish what he started all those years ago?

Luna felt her stomach clench again at the thought. I don't want either of them to be attacked, she silently pleaded, no longer focused on the bully in front of her.

"Tsk, tsk, Looney." Marietta's admonishment brought Luna's thoughts back to the danger at hand. "Off in la la land already? Ah well, I shouldn't be surprised, really. It's amazing the Sorting Hat managed to get anything at all out of that airy head of yours. Pay attention if you can. Ready? Vestio Brevia."

A bright pink spell shot from Marietta's wand and struck Luna's skirt, flowing completely over the wool before fading. Luna looked down, seeing the bottom edge of her uniform slowly begin to curl inward and wrap up on itself.

"Don't forget, Looney," Marietta taunted from the top of the spiral staircase leading out of the Common Room, "'skirts must be knee length or longer at all times'. Good luck!" she giggled as she left.

Luna shrugged to herself, sighing dramatically. Better than antlers or a tail, at least.

Maybe it was just a 'good' morning.

Hermione had only managed to write one word in the half an hour she'd sat waiting for Harry: Wormtail. Was it alright for her to take him out before Voldemort resurrected? How would that affect this timeline? Would he even still be around? Last time she'd found him cowering in Hagrid's milk jug, but that was a month and a half from now. Where did he go in the meantime?

A large orange ball of fluff leapt into her lap and Hermione absently stroked it. How in Merlin's name was she going to track down a rat in a castle, who also knew about the Map and the secret passages?

Crookshanks lifted his head and looked intently up at her, as if even he couldn't believe Hermione's daftness.

Hermione smirked as she answered her own inquiry. Of course. Her cat would know, right? He knew the rat was unnatural and had been trying to tell her that the entire year. How had she forgotten that so easily?

Oh. Right.

That.

"Crooky," she purred to the orange furball, "I need you to go find Scabbers for me, ok? Don't eat him, just bring him to me when you do. Please?"

Crookshanks looked at her blankly in response.

"Why do I even bother," Hermione whinged as she slouched back into the chair. "Just go find the stupid rat, ok?"

She picked the oversized cat off her lap and placed him on the floor, waving him away. "Go on, get! And no eating him!"

Crookshanks sauntered away, head held high as Hermione turned her attention back to the parchment, completely missing the third year ginger spying the end of her interaction with the part-kneazel.

"Hermy!" Ron said as he approached, Hermione visibly wincing at the despised nickname. She looked up quickly, spotting the lanky redhead striding toward her. Her mind flashed back, throwing a sadistic grin over his young features before she managed to force it away. That wasn't this Ron. Not yet.

Her internal struggle had the unfortunate side effect of eliminating any possible escape from the undesired encounter. She couldn't recall exactly what their relationship was at this point. Should she smile? Grimace? Frown? Flirt? Definitely NOT flirt, she shuddered. Ew.

Hermione took a deep breath and settled on what she hoped was a neutral expression as Ron came ever closer to her seat.

First test, Hermione. Don't fuck it up.

"Finally realizing that rat-eating monster is a nuisance, eh?" Ron said, flailing his arms about in an attempt to indicate a global opinion. Hermione had to dodge her head back slightly to avoid one particularly wild limb. "Apology accepted. Now, listen to this. Last night, in our dorm, there was an attack. By Black. On me." Ron stood proudly in front of her, waiting for some form of congratulation or concern.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the mentally challenged child in front of her. Ron missed the obvious gesture of annoyance and continued unabated.

"Me! Not Harry, me! Hermy, I'm gonna be famous! Move over, I'll tell you all about it."

Hermione made no such movement, yet to her continued horror the oblivious ginger made to sit next to her on the room-for-an-intimate-two chair anyway. She had no choice but to scoot as far over as possible to avoid Ron landing in her lap; that would have been unacceptable, even if he was getting a probably-undeserved second chance.

To her dismay, a crowd had begun to gather as more of Gryffindor woke and began their day, Ron's overloud voice drawing in the curious.

"So I'm just lying there, right?" Ron launched back into his 'harrowing' tale, addressing the assembly as much as his chair-mate. "And I'm having this great dream about winning the Quidditch World Cup, and all these beautiful girls are there telling me how great of a job I did keeping the other team scoreless. You were there too, Hermy."

Hermione visibly gagged at the thought, eliciting chuckles from the audience. If Ron had noticed, any response was quickly overcome by the taunting from unmistakable and identical voices in the back of the now rather large crowd.

"Oh, Ron"

"You're so great, Ron"

"Can I get you anything, Ron?"

"Will you let me suck your co–"

"So anyway!" Ron's voice cracked as he attempted to break through the laughter at the twins' antics, ears and cheeks burning a fiery scarlet.

Glancing to the back of the throng, Hermione spotted Percy hauling two protesting twins to the portrait, one ear grasped firmly in each hand, and pursed her lips. How much of Ron's jealously was Harry, and how much was his position in the family? It's is now, I guess, but that's something to consider. Can I save him from himself? Do I save him from himself? Her focus turned back to Ron as he managed to regain some control of the chuckling crowd.

"Anyway, I'm raising the Cup, right? And I hear this bloke behind me go 'I'm going to kill you slowly, traitor', so I spin around and see a dark haired guy with glasses."

Harry chose at that moment to appear at the base of the stairs, directly into Ron's line of vision. "Heya, Harry!" Ron shouted at the bespectacled wizard. "He looked just like you, actually. Just a bit older. Late twenties, early thirties maybe? Anyway, he's got his wand out, but I'm faster, and I expilliarmus it right out of his hand. So what does the bloke do? He hits me! With a fist! In the face!

"So of course I wake up, and standing over me with a knife as long as my forearm, is Sirius Black!"

"How did you know it was him?" shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.

"Oh, well, my dad works for the Ministry," Ron said proudly, sitting a bit straighter, "so we've all been given mockups of how he could change his looks, but really, he looked just like he did on the front page of the Prophet. Long, greasy, wavy hair, and a massive shaggy beard. So anyway, he comes down with the knife to take me out and I do the only thing I can think of: I shout 'Not today!' and throw my pillow at him, knocking him backwards. That gives me time to grab my wand, and I point it at him, and I say – I say 'One step closer, Black, and it'll be the last thing you ever feel'. He looks at the knife in his hand, then at my wand, and he runs off! Guess I was just too much of a warrior for him to handle."

Ron's invocation of the exact phrase he used before made Hermione's skin crawl. She had to get out of there, away from Ron, away from everything. Maybe she could get Harry away for a bit, see if maybe he'd come back too, or at least try and develop some sort of relationship? No. Not now. None of that mattered. She felt like her world was crashing around her; too many memories of things that only she would remember, wizards and witches that had died in her past-future, by her hand or another's.

Hermione's heart beat faster as the crowd seemed to push in toward her. Even Ron's animated gesturing appeared closer and closer, his hands and elbows just brushing her face, her hair, her clothing. Her mind reeled as conscious thought left her and an instinct honed over a decade of war rose to the fore.

She stood abruptly, knocking Ron slightly off balance. "Hey!" he protested, reaching out and grabbing her arm to prevent being knocked out of the chair. "Don't go yet! I didn't get the best part!"

The 'best part' would have to wait. Hermione, perceiving Ron's grasp as an attack, quickly determined that he was too close for a wand. She needed separation, and fast.

CRUNCH! Hermione's fist shot forward and slammed into Ron's protruding nose, knocking the undeserving ginger backwards over the chair armrest and onto the floor.

"My dose!" Ron cried from the floor, blood dripping from both nostrils. "Why'd d'ou do dat?"

The throng of Gryffindors stepped back at the uncharacteristic aggression from the third year witch, then took another as she brandished her wand, her eyes cold and lips drawn to a thin line. Hermione jabbed her wand down at her feet and a yellow fog rolled outward from the tip of her wand, cold, clammy, and completely opaque. She let the fog envelope her completely, then tapped her wand on the top of her head and vanished from sight.

The assembled students began to panic as the fog rolled towards them, clambering over each other in their haste to flee the clearly possessed witch. More than a few stumbled in their haste, knocked awry by some unseen force moving quickly toward the portrait hole.

"Granger!"

Percy Weasley had re-entered the Common Rom at the very moment Hermione had put Ron on the floor and been stunned like the rest at the brunette's actions. The yellow fog and panicking Gryffindors spurned him to action; he was Head Boy after all.

"Granger! What in Merlin's name are you doing!" he shouted, striding toward the billowing cloud surrounding Hermione's last seen position, drawing his wand to hopefully banish the unknown vapor. Waving his wand about, he managed to vanish a small cube of the haze, only to have it immediately refilled by its neighboring murk.

"She hid me in my dose!" Ron whimpered from somewhere in the fog. "I dink its broken."

"10 points from Gryffindor!" Percy said firmly, puffing his chest out slightly. "Get rid of this fog and I won't take anymore. Ron needs to see Madame Pomfrey."

Still Disillusioned, Hermione only saw another attacker coming at her, wand drawn, and took no chances, defending herself by firing an olive green bolt of magic through the fog at the obscured form. Her aim was true, and the Battering Hex struck the Head Boy between his legs, dropping the seventh year to the ground.

Percy curled into a tight ball, pain radiating through his body.

"10 points from Gryffindor," he squeaked.

Harry wasn't sure exactly what had just happened.

Seeing Ron surrounded by curious students, regaling them with a quite embellished tale of the Great Drapery Massacre of 1994, caused an ugly fire to burn deep within his core.

It definitely isn't because Hermione's sitting there with him; hips touching, lips parted slightly as she listens intently to the story, eyes only for the teller.

If his Imaginary-Hermione could roll her eyes, she would have. Denial's not just a river in Africa, Harry, she taunted.

Harry felt his cheeks flush, thankful for the small bit of anonymity Ron had unwittingly permitted. Still, his eyes never left Hermione's face as Ron continued his tale, concern growing for the brunette as he noticed the witch slowly withdraw into herself, panic building in her eyes. He lurched forward into the crowd, pushing through the mass of students toward his target.

He'd only just breached the edge of the circle when Hermione snapped.

Harry could only watch in horror as his friend, his best friend, laid out his other best friend with a single punch, then conjure billowing sickly yellow fog around her. Their eyes met as she tapped the top of her head with her wand, shooting a look of apology laced with … affection? pity? Harry wasn't sure. Before he could ponder it further, Hermione shimmered and vanished from sight, leaving him alone in the murk with a moaning Ron somewhere nearby.

Um, what?

Harry's brain attempted to connect the now invisible witch with an ability that only someone as powerful as Gellert Grindlewald should have, at least according to the Headmaster.

So, Harry pondered, staring blankly into the empty space where Hermione had previously been standing, does that mean that Hermione is, what, super powerful or something? Or Dumbledore lied? Or Hermione's dad is Grindlewald? Hermione IS Grindlewald?

Harry shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. I'm just confusing myself. Hermione would be able to straighten all this out. She's probably around here somewh—

Oh.

Right.

Ron moaned again from somewhere in front of Harry, snapping him out of his circling thoughts and driving him to action.

Ron first, then brain. Got it.

Harry crouched down on hands and knees and crawled toward the chair, searching the floor for the prone, injured Weasley. He could find Hermione later, hopefully. He was fairly certain she had broken at least one knuckle in the strike, probably two at minimum and perhaps a finger as well. She'd need to see Madame Pomfrey at some point, if only for a bit of Skele-Gro to quickly heal the damage. Dudley had done the same a few years ago; he'd taken a full month to heal, although Harry suspected he milked the recovery time a bit at the end.

Better to get it healed overnight than suffer through bandaged and braced hands, Harry mused and chuckled mirthlessly to himself at the thought.

Apparently the Dursleys were good for something after all.

Harry quickly found Ron just to the side of the chair, still clutching his bleeding and clearly broken nose.

"Come on, Ron," he said, shaking the redhead gently on the shoulder. "Let's get you to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey will fix you right up."

"Dose hurts. Can'd see," Ron complained from the floor.

Sometimes, Ron, you can be the biggest baby. "Here, I'll help you up."

Harry grabbed Ron's arm and stood, pulling the ginger wizard up with him. "We'll go slow until this haze dissipates. I'll lead."

They'd only managed a handful of steps before the curled and groaning form of Percy Weasley coalesced in front of them.

"Perce?" Ron said hesitantly. "Wha' happened do you?"

"Granger," Percy wheezed. "Bollocks. Fine. Go. Pomfrey."

"Uh, you sure, Percy? We can wait a bit if you need it," Harry said, concerned.

Percy rolled onto his knees and placed his forehead on the floor between his elbows. "Be fine. Go ahead. Without me," he managed. "Thanks anyway, though."

Harry gave a sympathetic grimace in response and pulled Ron through the fading smog toward the tower entrance, managing to only stumble into a handful of varying furniture before stepping through the portrait hole and into the hall.

Directly into absolute chaos.

The Hogwarts Rumor Pipeline had been running at peak efficiency all morning as the tale of Ron's now-miraculous survival of The Black Attack spread through the castle like wildfire. As a result, a majority of Hufflepuff and nearly all of Ravenclaw had amassed outside the newly-christened Tower of Terror for a chance to glimpse the Weasley-Who-Weathered emerging from the entrance. There were even a few green and silver ties sporadically intermixed with the tide of bronze/cobalt and canary/ebony, although when confronted they all claimed either morbid curiosity or attendance through "lost wanderings".

On the other side of the Fat Lady's portrait, Ron's tale had enraptured the vast majority of Gryffindor, most at least curious to the cause of the before-daybreak interruptions. The tightly packed audience, fearful of the mass-murderer Sirius Black, spellbound by Ron's telling, and witness to an Auror-level charm from a diminutive third-year witch, bravely chose life and fled the billowing yellow cloud toward the safest location they could think of in that miniscule of moments: the Hogwarts corridors.

The impatient crowd outside Gryffindor Tower surged forward as the portrait opened, hoping for a glimpse of the Stabbing Survivor, and were met in force by a wave of fleeing scarlet-and-gold trimmed students. Bodies impacted and tumbled together, robes wrapping, tripping, and twisting students of all ages to the floor as the two moving masses impacted. Hermione's overpowered Obscuring Charm followed quickly, flowing eerily through the portrait hole and enveloping the pupil pile in its sickly, sulfur-tinted haze.

It was to this turmoil that Harry and Ron found themselves presented. The haze had begun to weaken as it filled Hogwarts proper, giving the two third years enough visibility to pick their way through the struggling throng of students littering the corridor. They had just managed to clear the last few obstacles when a voice stopped them both in their tracks, its severe-faced owner appearing around a corner in front of the pair, flanked by a short-statured wizard and a squat, frumpy witch, a tall, black-and-greasy-haired wizard casually trailing behind.

The Heads of House had arrived.

"Misters Potter. Weasley," the unmistakable voice of Professor Minerva McGonagall pierced the din of bruised and bound students behind them. "What in Merlin's name is going on here?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond as the three other Professors strode past and began extracting students from the pile, then slammed it shut as Ron jumped in to explain.

"Id was 'ermione, Professor," Ron whinged, still holding his nose. "She brode my dose, then made some cloud. I 'unno afder dat," he shrugged, unwilling to mention that he'd spent most of the time after the hit rolling on the floor.

"I see," Minerva stated dryly, a raising a single eyebrow in inquiry. "Mr. Potter, anything else to add?"

Harry wasn't so willing to throw Hermione under the bus. She always had a good reason for doing what she did, even if he didn't always understand or agree with them at the time. He shook his head in denial.

"No, Professor," Harry lied, "I wasn't close enough to see much, and the cloud blocked everything else."

"I see," Minerva said again. "Very well, I'll have to ask Miss Granger herself. Mister Caldwell," she addressed a brown-haired fifth-year Prefect recently pulled from the pile. "Please inform Miss Hermione Granger that she has detention with me tonight. Any of the third-year schedules will do. Thank you."

She turned her attention back to the two third-years in front of her briefly. "You'd best get Mister Weasley to the Infirmary. I suspect there will be quite a queue this morning. I'll see you both in class this afternoon."

Minerva didn't wait for a response as she strode past the pair and began assisting in clearing the significant jumble of tangled students, leaving Harry and Ron to look at each other in confusion.

"Uh, did she jusd say 'any schedule' for 'ermione?" Ron began thoughtfully. "Aren'd dere, like, den differend ones?"

"I don't know, Ron," Harry countered. "Hermione's been acting strange all year. We'll have to ask her when we see her next. Come on, at least Madame Pomfrey can get you pronouncing 't's again properly. There's no saving that giant beak you call a nose."

Ron smiled and smacked Harry on the shoulder. "Dosser," he retorted.

Harry smirked. "It's 'tosser,' with a 't'. You'll get it right one day."

Despite Marietta's best efforts, or perhaps in spite of them, Luna's day continued to improve. She'd paid the Kitchens a visit earlier that morning and been served a surprisingly wonderful cantaloupe and strawberry omelet from an eccentric house elf named Dobby, a kind and hardworking creature who seemed just a bit obsessed with Harry Potter. Not that Luna minded, of course; she could certainly understand how someone could be obsessed with a wizard such as Harry.

Her best friend Ginevra was one such witch. Luna had spent hours upon hours, 537 to be exact, patiently listening as the poor redhead would whinge about how Her Perfect Harry Potter wouldn't even give her the time of day, then about how they'd get married and have eight perfect children, four boys and four girls, and they'd be the Couple of the Millennium, then back to how Harry wasn't interested in her because she was just Ron's Little Sister and who could ever fall in love with that? And people called her crazy!

Luna wasn't one to be obsessed over a boy though. Other witches, maybe, but not Luna Medea Lovegood. She certainly didn't know that Harry only drooled out of the right side of his mouth when he slept, nor that when he wrote his name, the second 'r' was both larger than the first and connected into the 'y'. She definitely wouldn't suspect that Harry always started walking with his left foot, even though he was right-handed, and couldn't possibly be aware that he'd worn his underpants inside out one day in first year because he didn't know how to get laundry to the house elves. And she absolutely didn't have a framed picture of him clutching the snitch after the Gryffindor-Slytherin match at the beginning of her first year that she'd bribed Colin Creevey for with three chocolate frogs, two sugar quills, and a Guaranteed O-grade Charms assignment.

And if she did know those things, well, her father did run a magazine after all. She was just practicing good journalism.

Luna's morning exploration took her far into the upper reaches of the castle, skipping lightly down the left corridor of the seventh floor and away from Gryffindor Tower. She'd already reached the end of the hallway and began retracing her steps, back toward the Grand Staircase. Just ahead and around the next corner hung a favorite painting of hers: Barnabus the Barmy and his Dancing Trolls. Luna, on more than one occasion, had attempted to help the unfortunate portrait teach the octet of trolls a simple plié, only to have the instructor launched via Club-Air into a nearby frame. Perhaps she'd have better luck today; it was a good morning after all.

A female voice greeted Luna as she approached the turn in the hallway, one that the young witch would recognize almost anywhere. Eyes wide and brows shooting into her hairline, Luna plastered herself against the wall and peeked around the corner.

Her ears hadn't deceived her; Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Darling, MuggleFirstborn Phenom, and Brightest Witch of Her Age, strode forcefully up and down the corridor muttering angrily to herself.

"Stupid," the bushy-haired witch berated to no one in particular. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. What the fuck were you thinking, Hermione? An Obscuring Charm? Really? People are going to start calling you the Second Coming of Morgana herself. Or Medea even. Or Circe! Fuck!

Luna's jaw dropped. She knew about that charm from her father's work; one of the many in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Spellbook that had fallen out of use due simply to a lack of ability among the Aurors themselves. A third-year witch casting such a spell was unheard of, even if the witch in question was Hermione Granger. Luna's brain didn't have time to parse the rest of the information as the bombshells continued to drop.

"And you just had to go and hit Ron. Ron! You couldn't let that go, even if it's not going to happen this time around," Hermione continued frustratingly, completely unaware of the blonde eavesdropper's presence. "Argh! Open up! You know what I need!"

Hermione paced back and forth a few more times before stopping and facing the wall, her back to the hallway painting.

"Finally. Thank you," she said sarcastically, before opening the newly materialized door and striding through, roughly closing it behind her.

Luna stumbled around the corner and down the hall toward the impossible doorway and the now vanished witch, her mind working overtime. Realizing her mouth was still agape, she slowly pushed it closed as she closely inspected the simple wooden door embedded in the otherwise normal stone wall. Luna knew this corridor fairly well, and there had never been a door here before. How did Hermione know about it, and more interestingly, how did she get it to appear?

Hesitantly, Luna raised her hand to knock on the door.

What do I say if she answers, though? 'Hi, I was just listening to everything you just said, but you didn't see me because I was hiding, and I just wanted to see if you wanted to talk about anything?' Real smart, Luna. You're already Looney Lovegood to most of the school, and with that kind of line you'll get a brand new nickname in Gryffindor: "The Stalker".

Luna lowered her hand and slowly sat, turning to lean back against the rough oak wood of the door.

It's not like she has time for a little second-year Ravenclaw, she thought sadly. You're not friend material anyway, especially not for someone as amazing as Hermione Granger. You're not even friend material for your actual friends; all Ginny wants to talk about is the Boy-Who-Lived, and she only comes to you because no one else will listen to her gush.

But that doesn't matter, Luna forcefully retorted. This might be the only chance you get to talk to her. If Daddy can go on expeditions to search for creatures no one's ever seen, you can talk to your hero.

Roughly wiping her damp eyes, Luna stood confidently. Okay, Luna. Turn and knock. You can do this.

The Ravenclaw spun, raising a closed hand to rap on the doorway, and was met with a solid, seamless, and grey stone wall. The portal, along with any opportunity she hoped to gain, had vanished.

Luna's confidence fled as quickly as it had arrived and her arm dropped to her side in defeat. Giving the blank wall a look of pure sadness, she turned and trudged away, down the Grand Staircase and toward a resurgent reality and her first class of the day, unsure of what additional disappointments lay before her.

She wasn't sure the morning could be classified as 'good' anymore either.

Striding through the door, Hermione grabbed the handle and pulled it behind her, backing up against the smooth maple and firmly closing the door with her body. Leaning her head back against the cool wood, she took a deep breath and let the frustration and adrenaline of the morning slowly melt away.

"Thank Merlin for the Room of Requirement,"she whispered gratefully to the empty room.

At least she'd managed to get here without being seen. Her disillusionment had faded just past the Grand Staircase at roughly the same time she'd managed to regain control over her own actions, thankfully away from prying eyes and ears. Every portrait she'd passed had been either empty or asleep, likely flocking toward the turmoil outside Gryffindor Tower, and what a disaster that was.

She'd even cast Homenum Revelio when she'd entered the left corridor to be absolutely certain there was no one nearby. She'd made some tweaks to the Arithmancy behind the spell a few years back and removed the 'swooping' feeling that accompanied detection. In its place, she been forced to add an immunity to certain targets, but only if the caster felt pure emotion towards them. It wasn't perfect, but in all her testing she'd only found Harry and Luna to be invisible to the spell; Love was apparently the only pure emotion it recognized. Either that or she'd not tested it on anyone she hated enough yet.

Regardless, Harry was on the other side of the Quad in the Gryffindor Common Room and Luna was either down in the Great Hall for breakfast or far away in the Ravenclaw Tower; even if the spell could ignore them, there was practically zero chance either of them were near enough to spot her entering the Room.

Hermione was definitely alone.

The bushy-haired witch slid slowly down the smooth wood to the floor, back still pressed firmly against door, and placed her head between her knees.

So much for 'keeping your mind straight,' Hermione. How are you going to get yourself out of this one?

She gently took a small hourglass set deftly inside a pair of interwoven rings out from under her uniform and peered intently at it, careful not to spin it lest she unintentionally fling herself backward in time. Again.

"With all the use you got this year," she said to the artifact, "you'd think I'd have a handle on this whole time-travel thing. I've only been back a handful of hours and completely screwed everything up. And poor Harry," she continued with a deep sigh, "the last time I saw that look from him was right after Bellatrix cursed me at Grimmauld Place. I guess I should feel good that this Harry seems to share my Harry's affection, but I don't know if I'll be able to keep from comparing the two."

Hermione tucked the Time-Turner back under her blouse and closed her eyes, laying her head up against the door once more. "How am I supposed to keep one person I've only known for two-and-a-half years straight with one I knew for more than seventeen? Not to mention I don't know anything about Luna."

Hermione's eyes slowly opened and she raised an eyebrow at the ceiling above.

"Luna," she said again thoughtfully, nodding slowly to herself. "Luna could help. It'll be like making a new friend. She never spoke about her time at Hogwarts, but it couldn't have been good. Alright, Hermione, maybe you haven't screwed everything up yet. Get this plan underway and track down Luna; Harry will come around eventually."

Her mood considerably improved, Hermione stood and fished the quill and parchment from her robes, eyeing the fireside chair in front of her.

"Oh!" she squeaked before she could step toward seat, smacking herself lightly on the forehead. "Stupid girl. Get rid of the door first. Merlin, Hermione, you're acting like a lovesick teenager all over again. Best nip that in the bud right quick."

Willing the door away, Hermione stepped to the chair, settled in comfortably, and began to write.

The hours passed quickly as the time-traveling witch worked diligently on her end-of-term and summer plans. McNair, Pettigrew, Crouch Jr would all see their last sunrise before the start of the next school year, with more to follow the following year. Hermione had left plenty of room in her schedule for more than just those three Death Eaters to meet their ends, but simply didn't have enough information on their whereabouts at the time. If she happened upon a few choice characters though, who would notice if a pureblood elder went missing now and again? Besides, the worst ones were still in Azkaban, and without Voldemort returning they should have no problem staying put.

She'd just finished inking the last table when her stomach growled irritatingly, a reminder she hadn't eaten since she woke this morning.

Probably should eat something before I head back. I really don't want to deal with the gossip in the Great Hall over breakfast.

Concentrating, she willed the Room to provide a breakfast of oat porridge laced with blueberries and a glass of orange juice; small, certainly, but she'd have time to eat lunch during the normal period.

Hermione frowned as an ornate mahogany end table appeared next to her, an empty porcelain bowl and a crystal goblet filled with an orange-yellow citrus liquid atop it.

Did the Room not do food? she thought, confused. She focused again, detailing the porridge as much as she could; how the oats puffed slightly and melded together, the berries staining the immediate area around them a dark purple. Still, the Room of Requirement refused to oblige.

Well, that's unfortunate, Hermione huffed silently. I'll just have to traipse down to the Kitchens and grab a bite before my first class. It'll just take one more turn than I originally planned.

Hermione quickly downed her juice and willed the exit back into existence, stepping lightly through the doorway and into the abandoned corridor. She strode quickly further down the hall, slipping into a dusty, unused classroom she recalled from years ago and took out her Time-Turner. Shaking her head again in disbelief that the magical world would entrust a thirteen-year-old girl, and a muggleborn no less, with a time machine, Hermione spun the hourglass a full five times and braced for the inevitable reverse.

Nothing happened.

Curious and a bit concerned, Hermione ran down what she remembered from the checklist. Yes, the chain was around her neck. Yes, she was in a place where she wouldn't see her past self. Yes, the place she was in existed in the time she was attempting to go back. Something about a five-hour maximum? She shrugged. Maybe four turns would do it. She might be a bit late to Muggle Studies and Arithmancy, but she could weather one disciplinary action in those classes, especially if she did as well as she did last time around. As long as she wasn't late to Transfiguration, she'd be fine.

Certain she was following the proper procedure this time, Hermione spun the hourglass only four times and again braced for the time-reverse. Nothing.

The Time-Turner wasn't working.

That wasn't the worst part, either. All her carefully crafted plans required a working Time-Turner. How was she going to free Sirius from custody without throwing suspicion on to Harry or Remus? Or save Buckbeak from Macnair's axe? Not to mention her coursework. People were definitely going to suspect something was wrong now. She could hear the rumors already; 'Hermione Granger's definitely gone mad. She attacked a pureblood and then started skipping classes!', 'She's just a crazy muggleborn. I knew she couldn't keep up with us real witches.' She was supposed to be flying under the radar, not dancing naked in front of the Wizengamot!

"AARRGGHH!" she screamed, yanking the Time Turner from her neck and throwing it against the far wall of the room in frustration where it bounced and clattered along the floor. "This is YOUR FAULT, Lilith! Send me back without my family, then remove the one tool I need to pull this off; I'm done. DONE. I'm grabbing Harry and Luna the first chance I get and we're headed to Australia, prophecies or deals be damned. We might not have been perfect, but we were happy, and you took that away from me."

Hermione glowered at the fallen Time Turner. Determined, she shouted her final thoughts to the Queen of the Fey.

"FUCK. YOU."

Snatching the offending artifact from the dusty floor, she shoved it into a pocket in her robes and stormed out of the room and down the hall toward the Transfiguration classroom. She'd just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Alone.

Joy.

A/N: There we go! Chapter 6 is a continuation of the day, which is why I've released it simultaneously. Thanks for reading!