I've been working on this project for a very, very long time, and I'm so excited to finally post it! I hope you enjoy.

Updates are in the early CEST afternoon of Tuesdays & Saturdays.

If you are a proficient English speaker, native and otherwise, and can pinpoint the lingering grammar or syntax mistakes in this (and explain them to me), I'd love you forever. Grammarly is confusing and English isn't my first language, though I did do my very best. Cross-posted on the Archive.

It had begun with a plea. A desperate plea, from the chapped, bloody lips of her best friend; his nose had been broken, and he hadn't had the time to fix it just yet. War was raging and overwhelming and she had never felt so alive, so fragile, so mortal. They were outnumbered, underprepared, and woefully young; among the dark cloaks of their enemies, their faces stood out, juvenile, pale, bloody and scared. She supposed that was why Death Eaters wore masks, so that they wouldn't show any emotions to their opponents. Really, some of them were probably very young too. Still, it was a blessing, in a way; it was easier to kill them if they wore masks. Theodore Nott's mask had been kicked out in the battle, mere seconds after she'd killed him, and his face would haunt her for many, many years.

Ron had been the first, an hour or so before the end. The hour had stretched out, but it was still sixty minutes, three thousand and six hundred seconds. Since Ron's death. She had refused to allow herself to think about it, despite the anguished scream that had crossed her lips. Ron had been the first of their own to die, and Hermione would sometimes reflect on that. He who had been so eager to stand out, to be the first, not realising his own strength until it was all necessary and bloody and a matter of survival. Until he hadn't been able to enjoy being good, really good at things.

She had focused because that was what she did. She had started by stunning her opponents but, when it was no longer logical, no longer efficient, she had started killing. It wasn't very hard, despite what she had thought for so long. She bore enough hatred for the green spell to be mechanical, thoughtless, in the heat of the moment. It became easier and easier, too, with each fallen foe.

She had been injured, of course. Her arm had been lacerated and quickly fixed behind an alcove in the castle; it would scar, she knew. Two of her ribs had been broken when she had been thrown by a blasting curse, so high that her fingers brushed the ceiling; fortunately, she had been able to push the pain back and get up, and fight some more. She had never been much of a fighter in class, but she was a sight to behold in actual battle.

Stubbornness can be like that.

But, as we said, it had begun with a plea. A desperate plea. One Hermione heard despite the chaos surrounding her, one that part of her had always expected.

Voldemort's body was finally on the ground, lifeless and still, and elation bubbled in her chest before deflating instantly, replaced by shock and dread and cold that seized each of her limbs in its icy grip.

They had been losing, of course, but then Harry, brave Harry, formidable Harry, had taken Voldemort down. And was now losing. His face was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was in immense pain and almost seizing when she crouched beside him and allowed herself to panic.

But then, she'd always known, hadn't she? It was just that her brain hadn't allowed her to really understand. But the facts had all been there. The connection, the weird nightmares, the flashes of rage. It had all been there, and she should have realized.

She was punished enough for her oversight.

What he was going to ask of her was obvious, and he didn't even have to say it. The "please, please, Hermione". The pain in his green eyes that were turning red. The way his hands squeezed her, almost crushing her thin bones, the litany from his lips that turned to white noise as she levelled her wand on him with her trembling right hand.

She had to try three times before it worked, and the cheering around them as the Death Eaters were fleeing slowly turned to gasps and screams of despair. "Traitor!" screamed Dedalus Deagle, his gaze accusatory. Hermione faced them, the wands that slowly levelled at her. Most Weasleys were dead, including the parents, but Percy and Bill looked at her too, dismayed. Bill, she noticed idly, had lost an arm, and the healing spell had been poorly cast; blood was seeping through his torn shirt.

She couldn't understand what they were saying, the words they shouted mingled in her mind in a cacophony of accusation. Harry had pushed something in her hand, and she looked down at it, shock still causing an annoying ringing in her ears. It was, she noticed immediately, the Resurrection Stone.

She spun it because anything would be better than what was happening. And, to the utter astonishment of everyone present, she disappeared. So did the Invisibility Cloak, tucked beneath Harry's lifeless body, and the Elder Wand that had still been in Harry's hand.

As for Hermione, everything went dark.

"Hello," said a raspy, metallic voice.

Hermione opened her eyes. Her head, which had been painfully pounding moments before, was completely painless. Her ribs had stopped killing her with every breath.

In fact, she noticed, she was not breathing at all.

Just as she thought that, she inhaled deeply, her lungs filling with air that was not really air as she took in her surroundings.

She was on her feet, in a deep, black void. There was nothing. Not even a ground under her. No sky above her head. Nothing, nothing, nothing except for a very strange, cloaked figure in front of her. It was carefully watching her and had a scythe clutched in skeletal fingers. "I'm Death", the being added helpfully. Hermione wished for light to be there, and instantly a soft glow began emanating from everywhere at once, and she could see under Death's hood.

Of course, there was a skull there.

"Am I dead?" Hermione asked, her voice calm and measured. Weirdly enough, she couldn't feel panic. Nor fear. There was just acceptance, resignation, and relief.

"No," Death replied plainly.

"Okay," Hermione replied, puzzled. "Then… Am I alive?"

"Of sorts," Death replied with a hint of dry amusement. "Can you guess what you are, and why I am here?"

Hermione paused. She felt suddenly very tired, and her brain felt sluggish, slow to jump to conclusions that would have usually taken much less time for her to make. "I'm… Oh. I'm your Mistress, aren't I? I thought that it just meant – when I read the tale, I had thought that being the Master of Death was just a metaphor for, you know. Not fearing Death. Accepting it. And now, I have the Hallows, so… You're my servant?"

"Of sorts. Though I prefer the term 'companion,'" Death said dryly.

"Well. I don't want it," Hermione replied promptly. "You can have them back. I don't want to be there. I don't want any of this."

"What would you rather have?" Death asked in puzzlement.

The question surprised her and Hermione just looked at the fabled figure. "What?"

"Well, if you don't mind me saying it that way, your friends are dead. Most of the ones that fought with you now think of you as a traitor, a Dark Lady, or both. What do you have in your world to go back to, exactly?"

Hermione then felt sadness, for the first time since her arrival in this bizarre void. Her heart felt pinched, squeezed, and she had trouble breathing. "I –" she began, because she talked, that was what she did, but no words came out. "I don't know. I don't –"

"Calm down."

The command was firm, and it worked. Hermione felt her lungs relax, and she sat down on nothing, looking down at nothing. "I don't know," she said miserably. "I don't want anything. I'd just like to die, I think."

"You can't," Death said, not unkindly. "Well, you could, but it would take an acceptance of the concept of dying that you don't have yet. Something in you knows there is too much for you to live through before you die. Knowing you – because I know you, Hermione Granger, as I know everyone – it's that never-ending love for knowledge and justice. It hurts, I'm sure, but simply not enough for you to lose all will to live. Do you understand?"

"No."

"You will," Death replied.

Hermione felt like a child, and Death emitted a bizarre, metallic sound that almost felt like a laugh. "Of course you are a child, my dear. You're just over twenty. You are a child that suffered a lot, I will grant you that, but you're very juvenile still."

"So you can read my thoughts, too?"

Death didn't reply.

Hermione felt too tired to care. She curled up on nothingness, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

"So, can you read my thoughts?"

Death clicked their otherwordly sounds which were not quite a laugh. "You are really persistent, aren't you?"

Hermione frowned. "No, but really. Can you?"

"I cannot."

It was reassuring, in a way. She didn't really like the idea of having someone in her head. That had been the reason why she had studied frantically Occlumency when they had been on the run, reading the pages relentlessly and training over and over again until she was almost sure she had mastered the basics. Until she was almost sure she could at least notice if someone was infiltrating her mind. The skill had never been tested, though, and she had been vexed when she had thought Death had so effortlessly slid into her psyche. Although she supposed she shouldn't have been; Death was, after all, a superior and immortal being.

Hermione stirred her tea and took a sip. It was hot, almost too hot but not quite, and strong, exactly how she had learned to like it during the war. Bitter. Giving her energy.

She conjured scones on a whim and noted distantly that Gamp's Law didn't seem to apply here.

When she had awoken from her nap, she had been alone. In the glowy dark that she had fallen asleep in. She had not taken long to realize that she could conjure everything she wanted, and set on building things directly from her imagination. She had built two castles and a half before boredom claimed her, and settled on the second one; it was big but not too big (her first attempt had been absolutely excessive), and reminded her of Hogwarts. It was not really a Gothic castle, but close enough, and it was her home.

She'd thrown herself from the highest tower of her construction, trying to find a thrill, an exhilaration, the fear of dying. Anything that made her human.

As she'd soared through the not-sky, she'd felt nothing.

Death threw what was probably an annoyed glance at the sun she had willed into existence. "Tone that down, please?" they asked amiably.

Hermione rolled her eyes but waved a hand, and the sun settled itself inordinately fast into a gloomy twilight that, she supposed, was more appropriate. They were sitting in the gardens, and as she had replicated the sky – really, dark emptiness was dreadful and she couldn't understand how Death had lived like that for so long – she had also made beautiful flowers and trees, casting shadows and emanating a sweet scent. The small tea table and outside chairs were directly taken from her memories of her grandmother's garden, her favourite place as a child.

Really, being an immortal entity didn't really prevent one from a taste in aesthetics. Someone had to see to that.

"So," she said after a while, setting her teacup down. "We should talk about what I can and cannot do."

"Well," Death replied, crossing their skeletal legs as a human mannerism that was uncanny, "there is not much you cannot do, really."

"Can I leave this place?"

"Of course."

"Can I stay in this place?"

"Yes, I assume so. Although I wouldn't advise you to stay too long. Time is… well, complicated. It doesn't run normally here. Well, it doesn't run at all." Death seemed to catch herself before going on. "And you need to see people. Not only be in my company, you understand? I'm not fit for being the sole interaction a human has."

"I don't want to see anyone," Hermione replied, unbothered. "What do you mean, doesn't run normally? Is this a pocket dimension?"

"Of sorts. You'll figure it out, eventually. I have never been that interested in the way it works, it just does."

"I don't believe you."

The fact that Death seemed able to throw disapproving glares with only empty eye sockets under a black hood was a miracle and a mystery in itself. "I don't lie," Death said huffingly. "I'm not a human."

"Not the best way to insult me, dear," Hermione said dispassionately. "Still. What should I do?"

"Go outside. Explore the world."

"But my world is gone, Death," Hermione said flatly. "There is nothing left to explore, not for a traitor."

"Then go back. Or need I to explain again?"

"Back?"

"And here I thought you were smart," Death said harshly. "Look at your library. Figure things out. I don't spell things out for anyone, dear."

Hermione frowned again, partly because she hated when people didn't answer her questions, and partly because she knew Death was right. She loved problems, loved solving them, and hated being handed out easy answers, even though she could plead and beg all day long for them. Her parents had figured it out early on and had always preferred giving her books to find the answers she sought in, to her delight and displeasure. She had loved pouring into the books to find the answers and had always felt proud of herself afterwards, but had hated the smug and loving smiles on her parents' lips when she caved (she always did) and went to them with her pride. Wanting to be praised.

She noticed, somewhere in the back of her mind, of her heart, how dearly she missed those smiles now, condescending as they were.

She made small talk with Death for a little while longer and then excused herself to the library. Death had made a joke about never being short of a job and being perfectly able to occupy herself, which had made her laugh – and it was good to laugh, even though the sound felt empty – and then Hermione had lost herself in the marvellous place she had created for herself.

It was enormous. Bigger than it should have been – Hermione had realized while building her second castle that she could at least try to make rooms bigger on the inside, quite like the telly show she had loved so much as a child – and inside were rows after rows of shelves, not unlike the Hogwarts library only with more light and more comfortable seats. The ceiling was made of glass, and a gigantic crystal chandelier was casting eerie lights above her head. The chandelier was quite similar to the one that had been destroyed in Malfoy Manor at first, but she changed it quickly afterwards because being reminded of Dobby still left a pang of sadness in her heart.

Hermione had conjured the best chair she had ever sat into, which had been originally in her aunt Mabel's living room, and had installed it near a tall window with a small nook – a hiding place, really. When she had wondered, after the flat basis of the room had been designed, what she could fill the space with, she had experimented. And had discovered that she could conjure any book in existence, whether they had been published or not, written in her time or not – there were treaties of very advanced science she knew for a fact had not been written while she was on Earth – and had immediately left all library furbishing enterprises to lose herself in Jane Austen's private diary for a few hours.

But now, she was on a mission. She sat down in her chair and conjured a big table nearby, where she made books about time travelling appear.

Soon, she had to be more specific. The first and second book she read were about paradoxes, and it was quite similar to the ones she had read while at Hogwarts, frantically pouring over texts about time travelling because she was so, so afraid she would make a mistake back in third year. She moved on to more recent treaties, and read in a thin, unremarkable book from 2078 that the Department of Mysteries had developed a new Time Turner that could go back for centuries and promptly tucked it away in a vault guarded by lethal traps because there was 'no way we can let that come into the hands of anyone.' Why they hadn't destroyed it, she had no idea, but she still conjured that immediately.

It was very similar to the one she had in third year, only the sand was blue and iridescent. The runes graved on the gold case were simple to understand with a bit of help from her new favourite tool – her library – and she was sure it would work.

Only, when she delicately turned the knob at the side of the intricate hourglass, it didn't.

"Of course it wouldn't," a raspy, metallic voice said from the entrance of the Library.

"Don't do that!" Hermione shrieked, jumping. "Why?"

"Because I don't need human trinkets to travel about, and neither do you."

Death sounded very much amused, and Hermione felt like a very small child. "Then how am I to travel back in time, then?"

"You ask me."

"And what about the paradoxes?"

"Oh, so you've not read about that yet. Fine." Death seemed aggravated by the fact that they had to actually explain. They glided over to her, eyeing her critically, and Hermione rolled her eyes, prompting them with a raised eyebrow. "Paradoxes don't exist, despite what humans think. Think of the world as some kind of tapestry, Hermione. Every thread woven to make this fabric is a timeline, a reality. Yours is one of them. In each and every one of them, people make choices."

Death conjured a weaving stand to make her point, and Hermione stood up to join her, fascinated. "You see, here is you."

One of the threads became a vivid red instead of a dull grey, and Hermione could see how it serpented in the fabric, part of it but also independent in its own way. "You see, every knot? Every time there is a knot, this is a choice. You have made countless choices in your life. Every little change, sometimes decades before you were born, makes a split in the fabric and thus, another reality. Imagine there was one time when you were very sick in the morning, but your mother wanted you to go to school anyway; you pushed through and went to school and continued your life. But there is another Hermione that chose not to go to school, somewhere in another reality. They are countless. It's a three-dimensional monstrosity, existence."

"This is incredible," Hermione whispered, tracing the red thread with her fingers. "Are you saying there is a reality where my friends didn't die?"

"There are countless of them. An infinity."

"I want to go see."

"What for?" Death asked, not unkindly. "You exist in most of these realities, too. You could go and check, of course, but you would shortly realize that there is no point. Those people are not the one you grew up with. Sometimes they're close to the ones you've known, but sometimes they're not. And regardless, what good would it do? You would just be a spectator. Can you imagine introducing yourself to them? They would think you crazy, would think themselves crazy. There is simply no point and nothing would come from this enterprise but sorrow."

Hermione felt a dull sense of despair sitting in her belly, not quite strong enough to make her cry or lash out but uncomfortable, distracting. She felt uneasy, and sat back down, looking at her feet. "Then what do I do," she whispered.

Part of her still wanted to see them, to try, but Death made a very good point. It was not doable. The first rule of time travelling was: do not show yourself to anyone who might recognize you. And Hermione now understood why – even if the Department of Mysteries knew that they could not permanently damage their reality with a paradox, they would also know how dangerous the possibility would be for a human being. How sad it would be, not being able to interact with your loved ones, watching them from afar. Because whoever you were, you weren't the you they knew. You could never be.

She idly thought that it would be quite like being a ghost, really, and ghosts had saddened her beyond words during her time at Hogwarts. She had been uncomfortable and had not sought their company after the Death Day Party of Nearly-Headless Nick; even though they shared their world, they would never be alive, no matter how hard they tried. Seeing them try and eat by drifting through rotten food had broken her heart, and though she had toyed with the idea of helping them, she had been too saddened by the concept and had not tried to talk much with any of them after that. Nick was nice and helpful to the Gryffindors, but he didn't really change, couldn't change, and his personality was set in stone, just as his immaterial body was unable to be altered in any way. They were immobile, would always be, and she had often thought, late at night, about Moaning Myrtle, forever trapped in the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl, depressed and suicidal. She had wondered how many times she had thought about killing herself, as a reflex and response to her immense sadness, only to realize that her only escape from the world she was in had been stolen forever by Tom Riddle and his pet snake.

On the table, a few books appeared, conjured by her mental note to try and look into ghosts some more. She wanted to know if, eventually, someone had discovered how to help them move on, or if Nearly Headless Nick and his peers would be forever trapped on Hogwarts' grounds, even centuries, millennia after the castle's ruin.

Death sat near her on a rigid, wooden chair, uncomfortable but apparently trying to give companionship. Death hummed a strange song under their breath, and Hermione found it very calming. She glanced up at Death, and smiled, because really, Death was her only friend in the whole world at the moment. "You need humans," Death said comfortingly, knowingly. "You need to live. To grieve. To experience again what it is to be with your peers. You will always have a safe haven here, and you can always come back, no matter what; but you need to see people, and to talk to them, and reconnect with your emotions, Hermione. You can go wherever you want, change locations at any point; you can travel across realities, and my hope is that someday you will find a reality that suits you, that you feel happy in. That is the gift given to the Masters and Mistresses of Death, the ability to live an endless life, among their peers, to choose the moment of their death, and to experience all they want. This is not power, this is knowledge. Opportunities to learn, to experience, given only to the brightest, most perseverent minds."

"Or luckiest," Hermione said bitterly, thinking about how she had been entrusted with the Hallows. "Of course, it depends how you look at things, doesn't it? I don't consider myself lucky. I would have rather died with them."

"I think you should talk to your friends."

"And I think I shouldn't. I don't want to bring other ghosts into the world. I've read your tale. The second brother's fiancée had been sad, and the brother has eventually killed himself."

"They would not stay," Death said consolingly. "Not unless you forced them to."

"No. I don't want to see them. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"Survivor's guilt, I think." Death glanced at the table and new, pristine, Muggle books appeared on the table. "You should read those. They're apparently the best there are in the field, and they might help."

She waved her hand and one of the tomes lazily flew to her lap. The title said, very simply, Grievance and sorrow, which Hermione thought unhelpful. She had not been very knowledgeable in psychology – she simply hadn't had the time – but had wished she was, while on the run with Harry and Ron. The emotions running so high in their tent – it had been exhausting. Hermione and Ron had had a fling together, seeking solace and relief in each other's arms, only to have it backfire spectacularly, and had decided not to pursue anything until the war was over because the stakes were too high. They had to stay friends, to stay united, in front of the immense adversity thrown their way; they simply didn't have enough energy for stupid disputes about their feelings. It had been a mutual decision, and all perspectives of a future relationship had been cut short by his gruesome death.

She thought of the good times, though. They were mainly Harry and her because the blasted Horcrux had affected Ron more than them, and for the few months between stealing the Locket and Ron's leaving, all of their sentences had been clipped, wary, or both, terrified of something tearing in their friendship and leaving nothing but ashes and sorrow.

But Harry – Harry, free of the influence of Ron's emotions and how to navigate them without making him explode, had somehow thrived. Oh, there was still worry and sorrow and hunger gnawing at their bellies, but there had been laughs, too, a brilliance she'd found in him. Their conversations, snuggling near the fire, about advanced magical concepts had been enlightening and somewhat humbling. Harry hadn't had the opportunity to learn as she had; his household had seen to that. And yet, he was naturally adept with magic, grasping on a whim on the most complicated nuances between some spells without even realising his feats. Harry always did the most amazing things all the while thinking it was within everybody's abilities. All the while thinking he was nothing special, when he truly, truly was extraordinary, regardless of prophecies.

She missed him. Missed all of them. But she couldn't face them. It was like a block in her mind, a dam preventing her from collapsing. Seeing them would make everything so real, she supposed. While she was in Death's realm, she was on hiatus, suspended in time. She had infinite books to read and would maybe get a film room where she could catch up on every good movie and TV show in existence. She didn't want emotions. Didn't want overwhelming. Just to rest, research, and take care of the garden that existed only there.

"Stubborn," Death tutted before getting up and leaving. Hermione felt as if she had disappointed them, but buried the emotion before it could do too much damage. Resolutely, she put the psychology book away and left the library.