Chapter XIV

The Faults in Our Selves

Living under the aura of dementors was exhausting. The professors erected all sorts of wards and cheering charms to counteract their effect, but it bled in all the same. The few students capable of maintaining any sort of patronus became beacons of safety and popularity, attracting crowds to their bolstering vicinity. Hermione might have shared in that experience, had she been able to muster the charm for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then again, to hear Patricia complain of being constantly mobbed in the library, maybe it was better that she couldn't. The occasional flash of it to lift her own spirits was enough to get her from one part of the day to the next. Also, had she been sought out, she would never have managed to step up her turner regimen the way she did.

She hadn't intended to start using it more; it just sort of happened. Any time she found a spot the icy chill didn't permeate, she doubled herself up to enjoy the peace twice as efficiently. Tiredness was best combated with napping, and to fit the extra hours of sleep in she simply added those hours to her day. Four to five hours of turning subtly but surely became seven or eight, within a fortnight.

A consequence she was not anticipating of the new patrols was finally learning who had started those damned rumours McLaggen had been so quick to believe. With tempers fraught lips became loose, and soon enough she overheard an argument amongst the Slytherins of her year; one in which Draco very clearly admitted to being the mastermind behind the latest campaign of slander and libel.

With her own temper as aggravated as everyone else's, she made the snap decision to confront him about it. What she failed to account for was that Draco was flanked by his goons, unnoticed by Hermione because up until then they hadn't summoned the brainpower to say a single word. She further failed to appreciate how morally corrupt the pair were until the first pudgy fist connected with her stomach.

"How pathetic," Draco drawled over her as she lay curled up on the hard flagstones. "How could anyone think you a dark lady in the making? Where is your terrifying magic now, hmm? No snake fighting your battles for you? No Potter to rush in and save the day. Nothing but a helpless mudblood getting her worthless blood all over my shoes. I should make you lick them clean, like the dog you are, but who knows what other disgusting diseases your saliva carries?" He kicked her once more. "Give her wand back, Goyle. She clearly doesn't have the guts to use it. What a disgrace, that magic chose to bless you."

Her wand clattered on the stones in front of her, and she snatched it to her chest. She desperately wished there were some spell she knew to bring them down, but there were too many; surrounded by a half dozen adversaries she couldn't even see, her only chance to get out without further injury was to stay still and wait for Draco to tire of his game, or else for someone to stumble upon them. Not that the latter was likely; the snakes had chosen a less travelled part of the castle to hold their heated discussions.

Stupid Hermione. Stupid. Why didn't you leave them to it? Why couldn't you-

A coldness gripped her mind, cutting her self-chastisements short.

"Would you look at that? Looks like we found the one thing that might deign to kiss the ugly mudblood. C'mon boys, let's leave these two to it."

The flagstones were growing icy; the pain in her stomach flared up unprovoked; and the ground beneath her began to spin.

"No, please," she begged - begged. I truly am pathetic - but the Slytherins' cruel laughter was already fading into the distance.

She was alone. Almost alone. Weakened as she was, she was helpless. She tried to cast the charm, but her fingers were numbing; she could barely hold her wand. Her state of mind was shattering, her grip on reality slipping: The ice around her felt more like a puddle now; the tinkle of laughter became a dripping of water; the tightness of her bruised gut was pushed upon by the phantom pressure of a friend's corpse growing cold in her arms.

"Miss Granger, what are you doing on the floor?" a voice enquired, unkindly.

"De-dementor," she gasped.

"The ministry appointed guard," - the sarcastic drone told her it was, of all people, Professor Snape who had found her in such a way - "is only doing its job, I am sure."

"Help," slipped from her tongue before she could stop the traitorous word.

"Cease your theatrics, Granger, and get to class. The dementor is no more interested in your antics than I am. And put your wand away; no casting in the corridors."

Indignation did what anger and fear could not; it got her back to her feet. Snape was seemingly correct though, as the dementor's aura was weakening as it moved on without a care for her existence - or was it only looking for an easier meal now she had a grip on herself? Either way, so long as it was gone, why should she care?

"Run along," Snape ordered, but she ignored him, leaning against a wall to get her strength back and mentally check herself over. Her gut ached, but the pain was not sharp, nor worsening. Her lip stung and her jaw was tight, but her tongue found all her teeth firmly in their rightful places. Her unsteadiness was fading and the world had stopped spinning a while ago. Still, with any other teacher there, she would have asked for medical assistance. As it was Snape, she would get to the infirmary under her own power. In a minute. Give it a minute.

The greasy bat tutted, then thankfully left her without further comment. She wiped a drop of blood from her lip as she pondered the thugs who had put it there. Was the blood from her veins not the same as theirs? Did it not carry the same metallic tang? They had no reason to hate her on principle, and no reason to hate her specifically, save that she was better than them. To act on such a hatred was the height of lunacy; they were picking a battle they knew they were unlikely to win, because they knew they would not win it.

All it would take was for Hermione to fight back. A word; a mere thought; could be their demise. Had she only been the first to attack, the one to dictate the fight… They were relying on her goodwill, even as they eroded it. They were relying on her being a pushover who acted as they saw her; as an underling.

'Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.'

Hermione was sick of acting an underling. Sick of even listening to authority figures who failed time and again to protect their charges. Sick of conforming in a world eternally stacked against her for reasons she could not help nor change. The rules existed for a purpose, but it was clear to anyone with half a brain they were failing. A quick episkey did more to help her than Professor Snape had.

If she could not trust others to do what was needed, nor the stars and fates to see it so, then she would simply have to take it upon herself. Every time. Time to stop being an underling, Hermione. Time to master your own fate. Time. She rolled the turner about in her hand, a twitch away from winding the glass. A tiny motion to tear the universe asunder, to gain an hour to use as she pleased.

Time itself had been given to her, and she finally understood what that meant. Thirty-two-hour days were all well and good, but why stop there? Why limit herself to eight extra hours? Why not ten? Why not a hundred?

Why limit myself at all?

"What was with you today?" Wood demanded as the exhausted team trudged into the hall for breakfast.

"I told you, it's those damned dementors!" Harry bit back.

"Yeah, we're all under it y'know, but you don't see it stopping Alicia or Katie do you?"

Harry had been putting up with Wood's whinging since dawn, but that comment did it. He massaged his head, to give his hands something to do other than throttling his quidditch captain. "Alicia and Katie don't have headaches from the constant screaming."

"What screaming?"

"In my head, Oli! In my fucking head, every fucking time one of those things is anywhere near me, which is all the God-damned time, all I can hear is her screaming, so can you lay the fuck off and leave me be?"

"Sheesh, sorry. You gonna be alright for the game?"

He stared at Wood, letting his disdain show on his face. How thick is he? "Will there be dementors flying about?"

"Yeah."

"Then no. No, I won't. Ginny's aching to fly anyway; give her my spot. And she can keep it 'til those creatures are gone."

"Harry?" Luna piped up as she came across the hall from the 'Claws, "you've been having headaches?"

"It's nothing."

"Do not lie to me, Harry James Potter," she said, soft as she was stern. "Come sit down, we'll sort it out."

She guided him to a seat away from the protests of Wood, and the bustle of everyone else, and slid him a cup of coffee as she alighted next to him. "Talk to me?"

He cupped his drink, sipped it a few times, and haltingly obeyed. "It's like on the train. It's like that, only that was more like my boggart, and this is… screaming. Just this horrible, terrible screaming."

"Who is it?"

"Dunno. It's someone I know, I can tell that much. Someone I care about, and… and I'm pretty sure it's an actual memory." He took a long pause; talking about it was helping already, but it was taxing, even with a listener as good as Luna. "That's what dementors do, isn't it? They drag up the worst memories. Only I don't know where this one is from. A memory I don't remember. But they're in so much pain. I think it must be my mum, the day she, y'know."

"That sounds awful, Harry, but it is only a memory. Please don't let the past hurt you, or you'll ruin your future too. Now, these headaches…?"

Harry shrugged. "Stress? Lack of sleep? My scar being weird; that's where the pain seems to start."

Her eyes flicked back and forth across his forehead, before she squinted and looked into the middle distance through him. It was the same routine she used to check for snorkack trails. "Which scar?"

"The one everyone's obsessed with."

"Not everyone."

Harry let out a long breath, one he'd been holding since he couldn't remember when. "Thank you," he said, with a smile more genuine than he'd thought he could muster.

"Whatever for, Harry?"

Tough question - should be easy, and yet...

"Being there?" he tried. "Being brilliant. Just sort of getting it, you know? Always knowing what to say. You're really… unique."

Harry didn't think that was the right word; it didn't feel big enough to describe her. Found wanting a dictionary. Sorry Hermione; didn't take me long.

"I'm not the only one who's here for you, you big dummy."

"I know. But it's different with you." - a dementor brushed past the windows, and Harry focused even harder on Luna to block it out - "Everyone else has their own shit, or it feels like they're judging me, but you… you just listen."

"That's what friends are for."

"Is it? Cause if so, I think a lot of people suck at being friends." Myself included.

"I'm afraid you may be right," Luna sighed. "Even the best of us can go wrong."

She pushed a bowl down the table. He hadn't noticed her putting it together, being too focused on her face, but now he saw it was a collection of all his favourite porridge toppings - no porridge, just the tasty bits. He didn't have the appetite for oats right then anyway.

"Not you though." He pointed at his breakfast, made just how he needed it that morning. "When do you ever mess anything up?"

"More than-"

"When have you been anything less than perfect?" he asked, leaning on the table in earnest as he popped a raspberry into his mouth.

"Many times," she contested. "No one is perfect, Harry."

"You are, with me. Wish I'd given that hat a better talking to."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I tried convincing it to put me in Ravenclaw. When I saw them ignoring you, I wanted to follow you. I… I wanted to be with my friend. That was the first time I ever felt I had a friend, and it was you."

"What about Ginny?" Luna asked with an adorable puzzled look on her tilted face.

"Gin's alright, but she's not really my... type of person?"

"Too bold," Luna said with a knowing nod. "Hermione?"

That was a better call, but Harry was not about to let Luna put herself below someone else. And Hermione had her faults, for sure.

"Sure, but who was it convinced me to be her friend? Without you, I wouldn't have her. Without you… seriously, where would I be without you?"

"Your wrackspurts are angry Harry. Here," she said, producing a set of bangles which he gladly let her slide onto his wrist.

He took her hand before she could move it away. "What does angry wrackspurts mean?"

"It means you're very confused, but not for long." She played absently with his new bangles. "There's something you're struggling with, but you're about to figure it out; they're angry because they're about to lose their host. They'll try to keep you confused, and you mustn't let them."

"How do I do that?"

"Trust yourself. When you make your decision, be sure. And once you find your answer, you believe in it."

Harry let her take her hand back (before a snorkack got her fingers). "Those wrackspurts won't know what hit them. Not with you helping me."

"It's my pleasure. Any time, Harry."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"How's the headache?"

Harry had forgotten the reason he was speaking to her; not that he needed a reason. "Almost gone."

A smile lit up her face. "Hopefully, your wrackspurts will take the rest of it with them when they leave."

She was beautiful when she smiled. She was pretty when she didn't, too, with her brilliantly blond hair; and those piercing blue eyes; and why does thinking about her like that suddenly make my stomach feel all funny?

…Oh.

He gulped; talking to Luna had all of a sudden become much more… Enjoyable? Stressful? Complicated; but in a good way. He was glad he had let go of her hand, so she couldn't feel how clammy his was getting. He was distraught he had let go of her hand, because it fit in his so naturally.

"I think they just did."

He smiled at her; it was probably the most heartfelt smile he'd ever given her, yet it was strained; he was having trouble making his face make the right movements. Somehow it was taking concentration he didn't have to spare.

His wrackspurts were gone; in their place, a joyous sort of terror.

Hermione stood in an abandoned classroom not far from the library, going over her plan one more time. It all worked, she was certain of that, if you looked at it from the right perspective - which seemed to be the trick to travelling through time. With no absolute frame of reference, choose one that works for you and commit to it. That was the other trick: Committing. You could meddle with the future all you liked, but never the past, so you had to get all your meddling in order before making that first wind. Once the glass was turning, things you set in motion would continue inexorably until it was done.

She was counting on it.

So, she recited the plan. Again. She willed the universe to accept her intent, to accept that from a certain point of view, everything she was about to do was yet to happen, and from another it would already have happened, and that nothing in the middle violated the laws of cause and effect, even if, in hindsight to an outside observer, she was about to intentionally set up a grandfather paradox. The paradox does not matter; all that matters is it is going to happen. To have happened.

With a deep breath, and more than a little apprehension, she gave the glass a turn. With a soft pop, she materialised in front of herself. Which meant the universe had not taken offense and killed her for her troubles. Not on the first turn, anyway.

Hermione held out her hand, palm up, and when a leather book was placed upon it she could have screamed her exhilaration to the heavens. The future was set, now all she had to do was live it, and deal with whatever else may crop up along the way. Easy, right?

She set a magical alarm for fifty eight minutes into her own personal future and got to work; almost. She should have moved immediately, really, now she was on the clock, but she lingered until she heard the clink of a turning glass upon a chest not yet her own, and the pop of another Hermione Granger displaced in time. Another not lost to Time's ire. Just for a second she stood thrice-over in that classroom, none of her daring to say a word, to transfer back in time more knowledge than was strictly necessary for the plan to work. Then she was away, striding on a carefully rehearsed course to the library, the book she wanted in hand, ready to be returned to the shelf where it currently sat waiting for her to pick it up.

The first hurdle was getting into the restricted section. For some, her having the book would have been enough; Pince was not some. However, after a day of the Weasley twins mucking about in her sacred domain - something Hermione would swear to her grave she hadn't arranged, so long as no-one ever asked her with the help of veritaserum - the hope was Pince would be more pliable than usual.

"Do you need something Ms Granger?" she challenged as Hermione approached the desk.

"Returning a book," she said, keeping her voice deliberately chipper.

"Does that require my assistance?"

"It's from the restricted section."

"And what exactly is a third year doing with a restricted book?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. Professor Lupin asked me to drop it back for him, as he's very busy today. I haven't read a page of it." Yet.

"Alright. Drop it there, I'll… get round to it."

"If you're awfully busy, I could return it to the shelf for you?" It was hard not to sound too eager, and Hermione want sure she pulled it off. "It's no bother for me, really."

"Busy?" she scoffed. "Why would I possibly be busy?"

"I heard the Weasley twins bragging about something to do with the library. I'm guessing it's a warzone in here right now?"

Pince let out an exasperated sigh. "Those mavericks. Here's the key; the charm I taught you will work just fine, so no reason to go anywhere but that book's space, you hear?"

"Of course, ma'am. I shan't touch any book but this one," Hermione replied, with perfect honesty.

"And be sure to leave your special quills outside; the new wards will strip them bare."

"I know; you've said."

Hermione had been warned by several members of staff that her transcribers had been explicitly added to the wards Pince had demanded after she discovered the Twins' little passageway; it was almost as if they expected the school's most notorious bookworm to try getting to the books on the other side. Imagine. Her bag, full of quills and parchment, she had left in the classroom with her time-clones.

In the restricted section Hermione had the unique experience of having to search for a book she was already holding. It wouldn't do to simply use the copy she had already - that would turn a questionable grandfather paradox into a definite bootstrap paradox, and she knew which of the two she would rather invoke. She had to take the book off its shelf at some point, otherwise how could she be holding it?

Finding the book, confirming it was the right one by comparing the feel, even though it must be the same, because it was the one she was picking up, she swapped them over. One book taken from the shelf, one returned to its place. Paradox satisfied. Then she retreated into the farthest corner, just in case, and turned the glass at her chest.

With a pop and not a word, she arrived from the future; she exchanged identical books with herself (strangely important, that) and sat down to wait. She hated wasting so much time on nothing, but there really was no work around to the quill exclusion; she had to take the book to the quills. For forty minutes she sat nervously, expecting at any moment Pince to come looking for her, but she never did. Hermione could only hope that was because Pince would never know she needed to look, not because something has gone horribly wrong elsewhere - elsewhen? - in the plan. When her alarm went off she had to bite her tongue not to draw attention. Clutching the book tightly, she braced against the familiar feeling of four dimensions twisting about her.

On landing, she heard a soft, relieved sigh from her throat which she didn't even remember making. Smiling at her own earlier uncertainty, she handed the book over to her younger self and turned her glass again. The pop sounded, as she had heard it do last time through that classroom, and the door creaked shut as younger Hermione left. Her older self handed her the book and she set her alarm once more. Elder Hermione exited soon after, leaving enough time to not be seen twice.

From her bag she took her quills and set them to work. She had about fifty-six minutes; plenty of time to copy a book, with the speed of the charms. Thank you, Flitwick. Once the first page was done she started reading, for lack of anything better to do. She had not found anything helpful to her - unless she wanted Malfoy to literally cough up his guts - by the time her alarm went off and someone opened the door. Not a word was said, because not a word needed saying.

The quills were left scribbling away on the table. Hermione grabbed the book and time bent once more to her will, depositing her in the stuffy air of the library. She swapped her copy of the book with the girl in front of her (strangely important, that) and took a few seconds' breather. She needed it; right after those precious seconds she was torn from the fabric of reality once more, this time greeted by an urge to vomit which she barely suppressed, and the creaking of a classroom door closing. She passed the book off to herself, waited a minute so as not to be seen leaving the room twice, and went on her way, legs shaking.

Just outside the library she had to sit for a moment to regain her composure, her legs and ears telling her to rest or fall. Timing dictated she wait a while anyway. When her body finally got over the discombobulation of back-to-back rewinds she pushed to her feet, entered the library and went to Pince's desk, making sure to approach from the direction of the restricted section. By her calculation it would be four minutes or so since Pince gave her the key; just enough time for a blind girl to navigate an unfamiliar set of shelves. She handed over the key with her most innocent smile and scurried from the scene of the crime.

Half an hour she killed simply being seen about the castle, establishing an alibi, before returning once more to the classroom, this time by her own legs' power. Hermione opened the door to the sound of a magical alarm gently chirping, and the faint whirring pop of herself departing; then she was alone with a set of quills finishing off the transcribed notes. Into her satchel they went, and she was off. No more turns, no more rewinds. She felt a brief, rare moment of absolute contentment; a whole book of forbidden knowledge - Darkest Curses and Their Counters - rested in braille at her hip, and all it had taken to obtain was the bending of time and space to her will.

A feat so trivial it was accomplished before it had truly begun.

Hermione was at breakfast the next morning, following several nights of study, poring over her notes and findings as her bacon and eggs went cold. Most of the curses were useless to her - cruelty was the name of the game, not effectiveness - but the few that showed promise were dripping with it. Even then, one stood out as everything Hermione was looking for in a worst-case contingency spell.

The spell in question could - would - seek out targets on its own; seemed almost impossible to counter for anyone but a duelling master; and, although technically a charm, drew its strength directly from the caster's intent. It could be a little less lethal, though.

Her moment of trepidation died as the oppressive chill of a dementor permeated the hall. With her life under threat from dementor and peer alike, she had no choice; Hermione needed to learn Fiendfyre.

Re-reading the author's extensive notes on the dangers of the spell, she was interrupted by the flutter of an owl before her. It dumped something on her plate and made a little popping noise - Hermione recognised the feeling of a conjuration cutting out abruptly. Fake owl, late delivery… suspicious much?

Going to McGonagall would have been the intelligent choice, but for the twenty-something turns (Thirty-something? However many, none of them had been for sleeping) made the night before; Minerva would be sure to notice her exemplary student so far from her best, and most likely figure out why. Then she would take the turner away, meaning no more extra study, no more restricted books, no time to learn the patronus or fiendfyre or, or-

Hermione unclenched her hand from around the turner before she crushed it. No, Minerva doesn't need to know. I can handle this. I need to be able to handle this.

Every diagnostic charm she knew turned up nothing but a weak notice-me-not charm on the delivery. Her magical sense, for all the practice she'd put into attuning it, was quiet. A quick finite incantatum stripped off the notice me not, but met no other resistance.

So, after covering herself in her standard protective charms - it boggled her mind that her peers still went into potions class with bare skin and unfiltered breathing - she reached out and touched it. An envelope. Hefty for a letter; too light for anything more.

With a shrug, and the tensing of other muscles, she slid her finger under the seal and opened it. Any question of it being meant for her was quashed by the texture of the paper inside; it was dotted in messy and oversized but ultimately legible braille. The paper was obviously not meant to hold braille print; it was too crinkly for as start, and by the creases and faint smell of glue she would say it was a scrap piece, repurposed to carry a message. Who doesn't have a slip of decent parchment laying around?

She got her answer when she traced her fingers across the letters.

'have weasley boy want map

trade

in filch office looks blnk isnt

bring to shack naxt f moon

tell noone, will know

s black'

Hermione read it again, then stuffed it into her pocket before anyone asked her about it. Had they, she wouldn't have known what to say; too many questions raced about her head.

Why does Sirius want a map? What map?

Why contact me?

Where do I know that glue-scent from?

Why meet on the full moon? Is he really a werewolf after all? Is he trying to scare me? Why arrange a meeting, then scare the other person into not coming?

'Shack'? The shrieking one?

Seriously though, that glue?

And why me?

She considered her options. Going to the faculty was the sensible call, assuming one had any level of trust in their ability to resolve dangerous situations - so that was out. Telling her friends was risky, because they were Gryffindors, and prone to doing something rash. Plus, Sirius claimed he would know - did he have a spell which would tell him, or was that a bluff?

What about meeting Sirius? He was a criminal on the large, but he had previous of encountering students and not killing them, and there was no reason he would want to hurt Hermione in particular. She was increasingly doubting that he even wanted to hurt Harry, or anyone really. Except maybe Ron, but that was more like the boy getting his karmic dues.

The biggest problem with going was the map; to get it, she would have to break into Filch's office and find a blank map that wasn't. Not that the description helped her much; every scrap of parchment in there would be the same. Accio map probably wouldn't work; anyone with the sense to protect their map with concealment charms would surely ward against such workarounds.

On second thought, the biggest problem would be if Sirius did intend to kill her. She wasn't ready to face a dark wizard on his chosen turf - not by a long shot. If she could learn fiendfyre before then… but based on her efforts with the patronus, a strangely similar charm in its methodology, that could take months. She had months if she needed them; what she lacked was a space safe and private enough to practice casting. No amount of turning would generate something like that, and for all the abandoned classrooms and quiet corridors in the castle, she doubted such a place existed. The forest would be better, but… fiendfyre. Maybe not; looks like fiendfyre is going to have to wait.

With that decided, the question boiled down to a simple one: Meet a potentially deadly, probably insane possibly-dark wizard for a clandestine ransom exchange with no real weapon, no backup and, short of a miracle, no ransom; or leave Ronald Weasley to his fate.

The answer was as obvious as it was illogical; once again she stood at the edge of that cliff of metaphors, and once again it was time to be a Gryffindor about it. Much as she wished she could not.

Ronald had better appreciate this.

A/N:

Had to draw three diagrams to figure out the library time-heist, but I assure you it checks out from Hermione's, the book's, and an absolute perspective.

And meanwhile Harry goes and falls for the wrong? girl. Oops?

Thank you reviewers for the speculations, great to see that level of engagement. All will be revealed... eventually. And resolved... potentially.