For an impossible moment, Eve felt like she was floating.
It was unlike anything she'd ever felt. Not like flying on a broom, no—there wasn't anything solid supporting her body weight, but it was a completely different feeling from when she'd fallen into the Pensieve. She wasn't falling down towards what felt to be a destination—she was simply just floating in place.
She couldn't feel her limbs; she felt noncorporeal. A wave of light cascaded over her, and she squinted as brightness encompassed her vision, surrounding her and enveloping her in a cocoon of light, as though she was somehow being rebirthed from limbo. It felt like she'd closed her eyes—she couldn't necessarily see anything, but she could see the refulgence, like she was viewing a brilliant light source from behind closed eyelids. She had the urge to squeeze her eyes shut tightly.
All of this happened within the span of a second—it was like time slowed down around her, transformed into tangible radiance.
Then—
An explosion of colors materialized before her eyes, and she met solidness again.
Her vision was swirling, as though she had dropped into the eye of a hurricane. Everything quickly faded out, the colors disappearing as quickly as they came, victim to the onslaught of dizziness that suddenly washed over her. Her vision went black for a few moments, and she stared at a fixed spot somewhere to her right, eyes blinking in quick succession to work off the attack.
Her head was spinning, yet she was suddenly devoid of any thoughts. Vision still blind, her sense of kinesthesis kicked in with full force. She categorized her position—she was still in the same one she'd been in just seconds before, kneeling on the floor. She felt solidness beneath her knees and hands—the stone beneath her palms was cool to touch. Her hands were still stretched forward, grabbing for—grabbing for the Time-Turner sand.
SnapeanticipationnervousnessknockingsurprisefumblingTimeTurnerslippingfallingcrashingshatteringglassandsandflashoflight—it all came back in a rush. Immediately, Eve launched forward on instinct and muscle memory, her blood pounding in her ears as her hands swept across the floor, fingernails scraping against the stone, grasping desperately for the . . . sand?
She stared down at the stone, vision having now cleared and mind now reeling.
There was no sand on the floor. It was a perfectly clean slate of beige and tan stone slabs, slightly gleaming from what must have been recent polishing work.
Eve slowly fell back, seeing but unseeing, her palms clutching at phantom granules. Her brain was running backwards, trying to make sense of the illogicality she was experiencing. Was she going crazy? Was this a side effect of staying inside of a memory for too long? Was this her vision playing tricks on her?
No—her eyes were fully adjusted now, and she could see perfectly that she was still in Dumbledore's office. The pattern of the stone was still the same; she looked to her right: the two latticed windows shined brightly, sunlight streaming through and hitting the red rug by the wall. The small clock on the windowsill ticked on.
Eve looked back down, staring at the floor in front of her, vision sweeping the vicinity as a mix of panicked confusion and trepidation rapidly rose within her chest. Nothing. Not one single granule of sand or shard of glass in sight. Everything was the same except for the Time-Turner—it was as if it had never been there in the first place, all evidence of its existence destroyed. Like every single event that had happened in the past minute had been a figment of her imagination.
She hadn't realized that her head had begun to pound hard; she brought a hand up to her temple, mind jumbled in an array of bewilderment and panic. She hadn't imagined the Time-Turner's shattering—she hadn't! She'd felt it, felt the hourglass slip through her fingers, saw its burst of demise. She'd even cut her finger on a piece of glass.
She raised her trembling hand and turned it slightly. There, on the skin of her pinky, right above the knuckle, was a thin graze of red.
Eve felt an existential crisis looming on the horizon. She wasn't crazy. She wasn't crazy! What just happened? What was happening? She felt like someone had hit her over the head with a cauldron: her mind was whirling with innumerable questions, but she couldn't focus on a single one.
She sat there, gazing at the floor unseeingly, empty of knowledge on how to act or what to do next. Her mind felt like it was lagging, catching up with her current situation: her Time-Turner had crashed onto the floor and exploded, there was a burst of bright light that had made her feel like she was floating, and then she'd physically returned back to the memory, where everything was exactly the same bar the fact that the remains of her Time-Turner were nowhere in sight and she didn't know what to do and she felt like she was going crazy and nothing made sense because how could it just disappear and she was literally just reaching for the sand and what was that light and she was still stuck in a memory with no way out and—
"Hello."
Eve whirled around, the tornado of confusion in her head temporarily pausing, and then she proceeded to whirl right back, turning her head left and right as she looked for someone behind her.
Because Dumbledore had spoken from where he was sitting at his desk, and he was looking right at her.
Eve frowned, staring at the wooden office door, which was located conveniently behind her. There was nobody there. Had there just been a ghost behind her? Dumbledore wasn't going senile, was he? Talking to himself?
Oh, the knocking from only seconds before.
Eve clenched her hands into fists, staring down at the ground. The knocking—the catalyst for everything that had just gone wrong in the past minute. She'd forgotten about it for a moment, too preoccupied with the consequences of said knocking that her brain was still struggling to catch up with the current events. The slow motion play-by-play of the Time-Turner's destruction flew across the forefront of her mind: the THUMP THUMP THUMP from the other side of the door in the memory, the slip of her fingers, the fall of the hourglass, the shower of glass and gold that followed.
Whoever had knocked was probably patiently waiting outside the office at this very moment, unaware of what exactly they'd just caused. Eve swallowed down a sharp spurt of bitterness, averting her gaze from the door and suppressing the urge to internally blame said person on everything that had just gone wrong. Only she was at fault—she was the one who didn't have a tight-enough grip on the Time-Turner, and thus had let it fall and shatter. She was the one who wasn't vigilant enough and let her guard down in a bloody memory. She was the one who was drawn in by the Pensieve and stupidly chose to investigate it. Actually, she was the one to even agree to steal that bloody sword in the first place.
She inhaled, shutting off the self-blame and shoving it inside a spare compartment in her brain. No use for that now. Again, she glanced at the door, which remained unopened. Wasn't Dumbledore supposed to say something like, "Come in!" now? Or flourish his wand and magic the door into opening? Or maybe get up and open the door like a normal person? Saying "Hello" from the opposite side of the door to invite a person in was a bit odd—but, granted, this was Dumbledore, the man who'd started off Eve's first year at Hogwarts with "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" The man basically spoke the language of odd.
Eve shook her head and reached up, anxious hands making contact with her chainless neck. She desperately eyed the cracks and fissures between the stone plating on the floor, scanning for any evidence of her Time-Turner's existence at all. Whatever was happening in the memory didn't matter. What did matter was the shattering of her Time-Turner, the object she relied on and depended on—just gone and destroyed; that strange floating sensation coupled with the bright light—which she hadn't even gotten around to stressing about yet; and the sudden disappearance of the Time-Turner's remains, which was just unexplainable—how did that happen?.
With numerous questions burning through her brain and possessing an answer to absolutely none of them, Eve was lost in her efforts to comprehend what exactly had just transpired. In fact, she was so distracted that she barely heard the slight shuffling and movement from Dumbledore's desk, only registering something when the sound of even footsteps became audible, growing louder and louder.
Eve, with her eyes still fixed on the floor, saw through her peripheral vision a pair of fluffy–slippered feet draw near. They slowly made their way forward, getting closer and closer to where she sat on the floor.
That'll be Dumbledore finally going to open the door, then. At least there was that. As much as she tried to repress the curiosity, Eve wanted to see who was on the other side: who had—inadvertently—caused her to drop her precious Time-Turner. . . . Sort of.
She pressed her hands against the stone floor again, swiping them around and seeking for even the slightest bit of bumpy, grainy texture below her skin. Her palms felt only smooth, cool stone.
The slippers stopped a few feet from Eve's hands. She froze, breathing suddenly paused, refusing to acknowledge the sudden bout of strange trepidation crawling up her spine.
Then, a clearing of the throat.
Eve looked up and met the twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore.
"Who are you?" he asked politely, hands clasped demurely behind his back.
There was a beat of silence. Eve simply stared up at him, mind malfunctioning.
Ooookay. Definitely going crazy.
Before she could unglue her jaw and utter a single word (that is, if she could even do so in the midst of a tidal wave of shock and confusion), the knocking on the door from outside resumed, this time a bit quicker in succession.
"Professor? You wanted to see me?" came a slightly muffled male voice from the other side of the door.
Dumbledore (nope—memory-Dumbledore) removed his gaze from Eve and turned to the door. "Ah—I apologize, but there seems to be a new . . . development that I must sort out first. Please come back in—say, forty minutes."
A few seconds of silence, then: "Yes, Professor." There was the sound of footsteps, which slowly faded away into oblivion. Then silence again.
Dumbledore turned back to Eve.
"Now." He stared down his crooked nose at her. "Miss—?"
My name. He's asking for my name.
"Laurence. Eve Laurence," murmured Eve, still dazed and staring up at him, mouth slightly agape in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. She was definitely dreaming.
"Miss Laurence. Why don't you stand up?"
Eve stood up.
Dumbledore waved his wand, conjuring up two velvety, Gryffindor-red sofas. They popped into existence in midair, twisting slightly and landing softly onto the stone floor to face each other with a simultaneous clack! from their wooden legs.
Dumbledore took a seat on one of them and gestured towards the other. "Have a seat."
Eve sat.
With another wave of his wand, Dumbledore summoned a small item from his desk drawer, the familiar object zooming into his hands. He held open the tin can and reached over, offering it to Eve. "Sherbet lemon?"
Eve took a sherbet lemon. She placed it mechanically into her mouth.
"Now." Dumbledore leaned back, one sherbet lemon resident in his own mouth, and laced his fingers together. "How did you get in here, Miss Laurence?"
It took Eve around ten seconds to comprehend his question. Her hearing had suddenly ceased to function, as though her head had been dunked and held underwater. Everything sounded and felt very murky. Her limbs felt sluggish. She felt robotic, like her mind had stopped all processes of thinking and analyzing. She was just . . . there.
"Miss Laurence?"
"Yeah. . . . I—I don't—I don't . . . what? You're Dumbledore."
"I am."
"But . . . you're talking to me."
"Indeed I am."
"But . . . you can't."
"I am afraid I do not know what you mean."
"You—you can't talk to me! You can't! How is this possible? I'm hallucinating!"
"Miss Laurence, calm down. You are not hallucinating."
"Then how come—oh my god, what is happening? What's happening?" Eve shook her head, burying her hands in her hair as she leapt up from the sofa and swiveled around frantically, the shock of memory-Dumbledore talking to her having worn off and panic having finally set in. She whirled to face the auburn-haired wizard in front of her and instinctively reached into her pocket, drawing her wand and pointing it at him without a second thought. It was like a wave of something foreign had washed over her, the talk of hallucinations only muddying her mind further on the topic of whether any of this was real or not. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Her breath was suddenly labored, despite her having only stood up.
Drawing my wand on a defenseless Dumbledore. Snape would be so proud.
That thought alone was enough for Eve to snap out of it and instantly drop her wand, the wood falling through the air in a fashion almost reminiscent of the Time-Turner. It clattered onto the floor, rolling a few inches away.
What was she doing? She looked around frantically, sliding her hands into her hair again and clenching roughly, closing her eyes, trying to find purchase on anything because she just needed to grab at something, to ground herself, to find a solid anchor, because she felt so confused and panicked and scared and what was going on—
This is a dream. This is a dream. I will wake up and open my eyes, and everything'll be back to normal.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
Eve opened her eyes, holding her breath.
Dumbledore was still sitting on the sofa, observing her with a neutral expression, hands resting comfortably in his lap.
Whoever had orchestrated this sick prank . . . it was messing with her head.
Whatever this is, I can't do this.
Eve bent down and reached for her wand again, clasping it firmly, ready to Apparate out of here—wherever here was. A memory? Her mind? She didn't know anymore. All she knew was that none of this was right, and she was getting out. Screw the consequences—she could get splinched for all she cared. Screw the fact that nobody could Apparate inside Hogwarts—she was going to damn well try (and was this even really Hogwarts? Or still a memory? Or was she inside her head?). She couldn't handle this disarray anymore.
Eve concentrated, painting a portrait of the Room of Requirement in her mind. Her version of it, that is—red walls and golden emblems, roaring lions and crackling flames, the warmth of a safe haven. Throw pillows—those big, fluffy ones—and fuzzy rugs. Books lying haphazardly around the vicinity, piled atop one another in precarious towers that were on the verge of fa—
"Miss Laurence, is the sherbet lemon sour?"
The portrait in her mind cracked down the middle, red and gold collapsing to reveal a calm, auburn-bearded wizard again.
"I—what?"
"The candy inside of your mouth right now. What does it taste like?"
Eve blinked, caught off guard momentarily by the random question.
The candy in her mouth. . . .
Sour.
Sour beyond belief. And—a fizz. The slight fizzling of the sweet, lemony center met Eve's tongue in an explosion of taste.
It was flavorful and . . . real.
"I—you're a memory," she muttered weakly from where she was still crouched on the floor, which was still stone and very real. She brushed her fingertips against a slab, feeling the coolness and smoothness of it. "I think I'm dreaming." Despite the contrasting, dawning belief of a thought she didn't want to acknowledge yet, Eve pinched herself on the arm. It hurt.
"A memory?" Dumbledore was now sporting a look of intrigue, his first expression that wasn't bland politeness since Eve had entered this memory-now-turned-real-life, for lack of a better term.
Eve's legs were beginning to cramp. She straightened up shakily and, with a quick glance towards Dumbledore, who still wore his expression of interest, hesitantly reclaimed her seat on the empty sofa (which was still very velvety and very real), this time perching precariously on the edge, her back straight and hands wringing.
She stared at Dumbledore for a few seconds, still taking everything all in, her fingers fidgeting and her hair sticking to her neck, not sure what exactly to say in such a situation without sounding insane. "Um, I don't—I don't know how this is even happening." Her voice was shaky. She adjusted her robes, hand reaching up to toy with the sewn Gryffindor patch on the breast pocket. She noticed that Dumbledore's eyes followed the movement. "You can see me."
He regarded her curiously, the piercing blue of his eyes fixated on her face once more. Eve fought hard not to squirm. "Am I not supposed to?"
"No! You're—you're a memory, like I said!" She didn't know where to begin. "I fell into the Pensieve, the one in the Headmaster's office—I don't know if you know about that yet—and I saw you! This you! The you in front of me right now! But you were from a memory from inside the Pensieve, a memory that I fell into, so you aren't supposed to see me, o-or talk to me, or ask me questions, or give me sherbet lemons!"
To Eve's credit, Dumbledore was now also looking a bit perplexed—his eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his gaze the tiniest bit clouded. He leaned forward. "So this . . . current situation of mine was a memory you were observing from inside of a Pensieve?"
"Yes! I know that sounds crazy, Professor, but I really accidentally fell in—that's another story—and I was stuck inside the memory, watching you grade essays for an hour, and I'm sure you couldn't see me then because I even made sure to wave my hand in front of your face really fast, and you didn't even blink," Eve babbled, hyperventilating and tripping over her words, "and then my Time-Turner—please don't report me, Professor, I can explain—cracked onto the floor, and it—it exploded, and I was trying to clean it all up, but then there was a huge flash of light, and suddenly I was floating, and then I was back here in the same position, and you were suddenly talking to me and now I don't know what's real and what's not because this is a bloody memory but you're talking to me and the sand is gone!"
God, she sounded like a madwoman.
"Miss Laurence." Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles in a very calm fashion. "Take a deep breath. I understand that this is very confusing and scary for you, but do not worry about the what-if's or the why's of the situation right now. I would like you to return back to the very beginning and tell me everything once more, with as many details as possible. I cannot help you if I am uninformed."
Eve stared at him, breath labored. He looked back steadily, though she noticed him wince a bit by the mouth, presumably at the sourness of his sherbet lemon.
It was a small detail, an imperceptible flaw, but it inexplicably calmed her all the same.
And so, with no other choice and a desperate desire to understand her current predicament, she composed herself as best as she could and did just what he asked, relaying everything to the man (or memory of the man?) she knew of as the greatest wizard of all time. She explained the series of events that led up to the current present, even taking care to describe the process of her Time-Turner acquisition. Anything that offered the slightest bit of context, she brought up—even down to the tiniest details about her blood status (half-blood) and least favorite school subject (History of Magic).
Something told her to omit most details about Voldemort and the state of affairs back at her Hogwarts ("—its 1997, and this really evil wizard and his puppets basically corrupted the Ministry and subject us all to hell—sorry, Professor—and so I—"). It didn't feel right to describe the specifics of the future's grave situation to someone who, despite being only a memory, lived in the past of that future and would thus possess knowledge about it without any of it having even happened yet.
Throughout her long monologue, Dumbledore stayed silent, listening attentively. He never once interjected, allowing her to mow through everything without interruptions, his sharp gaze never leaving her face. It was steady enough to border on being unnerving, but Eve found the observant stare to be emboldening instead, to be energizing in a way.
It felt . . . unburdening to explain it all out loud. The events of the past—what? Hour? Two hours? She'd lost count. These events—explaining such occurrences was like explaining absurd dreams to someone whose life philosophy excluded the silliness of imaginative affairs but who still listened attentively. Eve couldn't get any of her words out without giving into that absolute need to rationalize herself, whether that be through an "I know this sounds crazy, but" every few sentences or an "I know I sound insane, but" interjected every once in a while, all while Dumbledore listened observantly.
Despite all that, once she'd started, she found that she couldn't stop. The stories and explanations flew past her teeth, sliding out of her lips like melted butter. She described every single aspect of every event or person or situation that felt even slightly relevant to her explanation as a whole. It was almost therapeutic in a way.
Dumbledore, once Eve had finished talking and finally fell quiet twenty minutes later, stayed silent, brewing in thought. His spectacles had slid halfway off his nose in the middle of Eve's explanation, but he hadn't bothered to push them back up. They were there now, dangling precariously, the frames tilted and wobbling, not unlike Eve's own state of mind.
She herself sat quietly, having finally exhausted herself of explanations to tell. Despite that, her mind was still turning in circles. Spilling everything out loud and establishing it all to a second party had left Eve with a feeling of uncertainty, like her entire body was holding in a breath as she waited for Dumbledore to say something illuminating.
At least she was loads less panicked now, having had the time to calm down a bit while she talked. As much as her words had been to aid with Dumbledore's understanding of her situation, they had inadvertently been just as beneficial to herself—explaining thoughts aloud was extremely different from her jumbled thinking of them from within the confines of her own brain.
She looked over at Dumbledore, who was still silent, musing over whatever his genius mind was musing over. She squirmed a bit—a thought had surfaced in her head during her explanation, and she was itching to release it.
"Um—professor?" Eve asked tentatively. Dumbledore raised his head. "What if . . . this probably doesn't make sense, but what if I was transported into this memory?"
She paused, feeling suddenly doubtful and awkward. There was a phenomenon she often experienced in which she would have the perfect explanation to something within her head. Then, she'd try to solidify it into words, and it would escape her lips as jumbled, unorganized thoughts. She didn't understand how some people could be put on the spot and just utter the most brilliant of explanations or ideas, precise and understandable and to-the-point. Sometimes, it was just hard to put things into words, and she'd feel frustrated at the English language, as though it didn't contain enough letters or words or phrases in the world that could help her verbalize her thinking.
"Well, you were, Miss Laurence. By the Pensieve. I assume this is what you mean?"
She forged forward."I—I don't mean by just the Pensieve—I mean transported into the memory from inside of the Pensieve somehow? What if we're both inside of this specific memory right now? And you and I don't know it—we just aren't aware? Because maybe it feels just like how real life feels, except we're just inside of an actual memory, like—like how portraits feel real and alive but are just—portraits."
Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully, one hand stroking his beard in an incredibly cliché movement. "That is a perfectly reasonable theory. Quite imaginative. It almost makes me question why you are not a Ravenclaw." He inclined his chin towards Eve's Gryffindor robe patch with a small smile, and Eve was painfully reminded of her friends' old banter on the same subject matter.
He then continued, looking pensive: "Anything is possible, I suppose, though I can assure you that that is not the case here. We are most definitely living in real life and not stuck inside of a memory—at least not anymore for you—so there is no need to delve into such technicalities and confuse yourself even more than you are now."
"How can you be sure of that though? I—I mean, I somehow was transported from a Pensieve memory to—to real life, as you say. Which I still need an explanation of because how is that possible?"
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Then: "I have memories of myself as a child, adolescent, and young adult—if we are to compare our situation with portraits, then it is vastly different. Portraits possess only the knowledge their painted selves possess. Those counterparts have limited spans of knowledge, yet they do not grow physically old because they are permanent and not living. I am living—I grow older by the day; my wrinkles become more pronounced, my skin gets saggier and my hair less lively. Why, this beard was the color of a healthy, full-grown phoenix only five years ago." He ceased his words. "Or was it twenty? Nevertheless, memories exist, but they are not tangible—they live with limited lifespans within our minds. Life is tangible in a way in that we live in it and exist in it and grow in it. To be logical—it is simply not possible to feel or live or exist inside of a memory unless operating through a third party, such as a Pensieve, because memories do not offer palpable means for doing so. Memories exist because of the people and experiences inside them, which make them what they are, so existing in a memory as a person but not necessarily be a part of it would be counterintuitive."
Somewhere during the middle of Dumbledore's monologue, Eve's jaw had unhinged and dropped open on its own. This was exactly what she'd meant—his impromptu explanation had sounded like something recited straight out of an academic essay, textbook-esque enough to rival Hermione's usual educational tangents. How do people do that? No wonder Dumbledore was considered the greatest wizard of all time. She'd just felt like she'd been whisked back to the classroom, listening to just another lecture.
"I suppose that-that makes sense," she murmured, her brain overheating as it tried to catch up with the logic. And it did make sense—although she supposed she'd believe anything Dumbledore said to her, his way with words being exceptional and all. There was no way she was literally inside of a memory right now—it was simply impossible. Memories couldn't retain raw, real life forces.
It still left the big question, though:
"But Professor—what happened? So I'm in real life and not a memory now, but—where exactly am I? Is this an alternate universe? It has to be, right? Because where I come from, you're—you're dead." Eve winced at the directness of her words.
Dumbledore didn't seem affected by the revelation. Instead, he pushed his half-moon spectacles up on his nose, the glass of the lenses glinting almost unnaturally. "This is the interesting—shocking, perhaps, for you—part." He leaned forward and fixed Eve with an indiscernible stare. "It is not a matter of where, but when."
Eve stared back at him. The ticking sounds of the clock by the windowsill seemed to suddenly grow twice as loud, pervading the silent room and weighing it down with something unexplainable.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
A breath, then two. "What?"
Dumbledore folded his hands together, regarding her closely. "Miss Laurence, I believe you have time traveled to this current time."
Time traveled.
The words sounded wrong. They sounded foreign, despite the fact that it was a concept Eve was all too familiar with.
Maybe that's why it felt like some sort of ironic joke. Was Dumbledore toying with her? In the midst of everything, Eve hadn't stopped to ponder the possibility of time travel, because who would've? She didn't even think about it in the first place, never thought it could be a possibility at all. Time traveling through a memory? That was unheard of.
Eloise Mintumble. The name suddenly flashed through Eve's head, bringing her back to a spiel of Hermione's from a random day in fourth year.
"—not possible! Honestly, Ronald! You can't just go back in time and murder infant You-Know-Who! Have you not heard of Eloise Mintumble? She was experimenting with time travel in 1899, and she managed to develop her own time travel technique, one that would surpass the five-hour limitations of Time-Turners. No, Harry—she kept her invention from the public. It's assumed to be some sort of physical device, but we'll never know because the woman died! She became trapped in 1402 for five whole days and, when she returned to her original time, her body had aged five centuries. So, obviously, she passed away, and with her death came the ubiquitous hesitance to explore the vast unknown of time travel. There haven't been any time travel experiments since then—now, it's just research at the Department of Mysteries which, frankly, doesn't seem to be progressing anywhere."
Eloise Mintumble had defied the laws of time travel and traveled more than five hours into the past, coming back and dying as a result. Eve stared at Dumbledore, at his auburn hair and relatively-smooth skin, strangers to the aged Dumbledore she'd been familiar with.
This was definitely not October 31st, 1997—which meant that, if she really did somehow travel back in time, she'd gone way past five hours. Which meant that she'd somehow surpassed the known limitations of time travel. Which meant that her predicament was now the same as Eloise Mintumble's had been.
Which meant that, if she attempted to return to her own time, she was going to die.
"I—I don't—" It was too much all at once. Maybe she was just overthinking. Or not. Eve suddenly had no idea what she was thinking. Everything felt like a jumbled mess.
There was now visible sympathy in Dumbledore's eyes. "I understand that you feel overwhelmed right now. Would you like me to explain why I believe you have time traveled?"
Those two words again. She didn't like hearing them. It felt like talking about a stigma—like uttering the words sex or Voldemort out loud.
Still, she heard herself say yes, because what else was there to say? Her voice sounded like it came from somewhere far away. There was a distant buzzing in her ear, as though her hearing was disconnecting. She felt like she was dissociating; a hazy sort of stupor had settled itself over her—an invisible, dream-like blanket.
What was worse was the fact that somewhere deep inside the recesses of her mind, Eve knew she'd already inwardly accepted it, despite her outward state of suspended animation. Already accepted the fact that she'd time traveled.
It was surprising—she wasn't an exceedingly stubborn person, but she'd have expected her own conscience to put up a more of a fight against such an absurd idea. But no—an image of shattering glass and sand flashed before her eyes, along with an unspoken, dawning revelation—no, it wasn't absurd at all. The pieces were already pieced together, glued tight and unyielding.
No matter how many times she'd doubted her own sanity within the last half hour and, despite the fact that reality and fantasy had been chasing each other in a never ending, ambiguous loop, Eve just knew. It was just one of those inexplicable feelings that one is suddenly struck with, that one feels deep in their gut. It was almost instinctual in how she internally yielded to the proposition of time travel, a fast acceptance not unlike how she realizes she's hungry, or that she's thirsty, or maybe sleepy. It was just like a snap, and she just knew.
"You are correct in your previous words," Dumbledore was saying. "I am not supposed to be talking to you. Right now, I should be unaware of your presence, and you should be viewing me as an outsider to this particular time—in your case, what should be a memory to you. However—and I say this with no prior experience to such a circumstance, so it is merely conjecture—the most unique phenomenon occurred when your blood touched those sands of your Time-Turner, and whatever that connection fostered brought you to this time."
Eve was jarred out of her dazed trance. "My blood? What does it have to do with this?"
"When you were explaining your situation to me, you made a passing comment about how you cut your finger on a piece of the Time-Turner glass. That cut on your finger—the blood must have made contact with the sand."
Eve's hand twitched, foggy remembrance of a dark-red droplet splattering onto golden granules coming into clarity. The graze on her pinky, which had stopped bleeding a while ago, suddenly seemed to sting again, reviving itself.
"Blood is a very personal thing, as nauseating as that may sound, and, in many cases, it is magically binding. You may know of blood pacts." Dumbledore scanned Eve's face for any sign of familiarity, but she gave none. She'd never heard of the term. "In the case that you do not, they are magically binding agreements between two parties who shared their blood with one another. They are also impossible to destroy, which speaks volumes about how powerful blood can be in certain situations."
He paused, running a slightly-wrinkled hand over his beard as unruly auburn eyebrows pulled low. "I have personally . . . encountered such a situation, and I can vouch for its power. In your predicament, I believe blood—your blood—demonstrated this power at a crucial point—it was what caused your time travel. The shattered Time-Turner laid the groundwork, your setting in this specific memory served as a base point for where, and your blood facilitated the actual happenings, providing something personal to link the sand with you. I am certain—I do not know the technicalities of it all, no—but I am certain that this amalgamation somehow thrust you through the fabric of time and to the actual time and setting of the memory that you were observing. The floating feeling that you mentioned experiencing was most likely your body bypassing the past and traveling to this set time in your past, now your present."
Eve was at a loss of words, her facial muscles slack, unable to function all of a sudden. Dumbledore's monologue now over, she didn't know what to think—his explanation made so much sense, but it also didn't. How could such a thing happen? Time traveling back years from within a Pensieve through a mixture of sand and blood? It was unlike anything she'd ever heard of.
"And, while I did say this is conjecture, I believe it to be true," said Dumbledore, picking up from where he'd left off. "It is the only plausible explanation based on your story, and it is reasonable by association of the objects involved. Time-Turners affect time, clearly, and the destruction of one at your hand could have only exposed you to the unknown dangers and possibilities of time that have yet to be explored, both in your time and mine. Whatever those could be, they may not have been able to affect you had your blood not been spilled upon the sand from the Time-Turner. This occurrence of a piece of you mixing with the sand, pieces of an object affiliated with time itself, must have somehow triggered the sand into motion."
The ticking of the clock upon the window sill was now a resounding mantra within Eve's head. Her head—it was spinning in all directions, which seemed counterintuitive given the fact that everything lined up: Dumbledore's reasoning of the events, his logic behind the words, his consideration of external factors. Perhaps it was his simplification of the process that lent a logical hand to it all: enter a memory inside of a Pensieve, crack a Time-Turner, mix blood with the sand, and bam! Time travel!
Well, she wasn't going to pretend to understand the process. Maybe it simply was just that easy. Despite the hours of research she'd done on time, time travel, and Time-Turners when she'd first acquired her Time-Turner, Eve possessed barely a fraction of knowledge on the topics. The subject of time was not a widely-discussed one, its research secretive and heavily guarded by the Ministry. The Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries were named so for a reason. Even if Dumbledore's predictions regarding her situation were true, Eve had no way to confirm them through the utilization of her own intellect.
A moment of silence passed before Eve realized that Dumbledore was waiting for her to say something. She swallowed, then cleared her throat, staring at a stone slab on the floor. "I . . . I mean, I don't really know what to say, sir. 'I'm confused, scared, panicked, and I don't know what to do' would be an understatement. I feel like my mind is just sort of . . . blank right now." She looked up at the professor. "If you say that's what you think happened to me, then so be it."
"You are taking this very well," he observed, eying her.
Eve breathed a sardonic laugh at that, the contrast to those words evident only half an hour ago, when she'd been half-mopping the floor with her hands in panic. "Not at all, sir. I'm just really tired and over being stressed and confused. I mean, I am stressed and confused, but . . . I don't know. I don't know about the whole time travel logistics thing any more than you do, sir. None of it really matters, anyway—I'm stuck here regardless for now, aren't I?"
"So you acknowledge that you have time traveled?"
"I . . . I suppose so. I mean, there's no other option." Despite everything, Eve mustered enough energy to raise a brow at her former (or future?) Headmaster. "If I could take away one thing from attending Hogwarts for over six years, it's that magic has a way of being strange and unpredictable."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I would have to agree."
They both sat in the following silence for a few seconds, thinking.
"So. . . ." Eve fidgeted slightly, eager to get her next question out of the way. "How long will it take for you to find a way to help me return to my time, sir? A week?"
Immediately she regretted her words, as Dumbledore's brows furrowed, and she quickly backtracked, heart sinking as she felt heat flow to her cheeks. "Oh—I'm sorry, sir. That sounded really demanding. I didn't mean to assume that you'd use up any effort on this, of course."
The professor quickly shook his head in reply. "No, Miss Laurence, you misunderstand. I would be happy to help. It is just that—well." He looked troubled now. "It is just that I am not sure if I can find a way to send you back."
Eve frowned questioningly, a silent gesture for Dumbledore to explain.
"Well. Ah." She thought she saw a flash of pity in his eyes, and she felt a sudden stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. "Time magic—it is difficult magic, governed only by natural laws. It is the field of magic that has been present for the longest time in history—the earliest to exist—but it is also the most unexplored. There is no trial and error with time; it is not something that can be studied and expanded on through only theoretical means." He sighed heavily, and it resounded around the room, burrowing itself right into Eve's heart like a thorn. She didn't want him to say whatever he intended to say next, but he didn't stop: "As much as it pains me to say, I possess neither the knowledge nor resources to guarantee a secure and safe procedure for you to return to your time."
"But—you're Dumbledore! The greatest wizard of all time!" Eve had somehow half-risen in her seat. Her voice shook, sounding foreign to herself. In the moment, she didn't care one ounce for how desperate she sounded, for how childish or stuck-up her words were. "You—you can figure something out, right? You have expert connections, right? A vast library of books? Your brain? Surely you can find something!"
Dumbledore only looked at her sadly. "You place too much faith in me, Miss Laurence. All the resources and connections in the world would not give me the knowledge that is needed to achieve what you ask of me." He suddenly looked very tired. "To extract knowledge on time magic, experimental practice is what is necessary, which only means that we are stuck within a paradoxical situation. Such contradictory factors prevent an assured way out—we cannot experiment with time, so we cannot gather research. We cannot gather research because we cannot experiment with time. We are stuck—it is only human nature to harbor a fear of the unknown. There has not been a willing volunteer for time travel experiments since the failure of Eloise Mintumble's personal one, if you have heard of her." Despite the conflict of feelings whirling around in her chest, Eve nodded silently. "We are at a stalemate with time."
If Eve could've marked one point in her life when she'd felt truly speechless, it would've been this moment. She felt tears sting her eyes, pooling by the corners and threatening to spill over. If Dumbledore couldn't provide a solution, then there was no chance for her to ever return to her time. She blinked quickly, trying to digest the tsunami of new information that was currently crushing the last vestiges of hope she was grasping onto.
God, she was so foolish. She'd stupidly assumed that Dumbledore possessed the knowledge capacity and key to fix her predicament, and it wasn't even that stupid—it was Dumbledore, for god's sake!
She'd even reasoned with herself on the vast unknowns of time when she'd been researching about it—scholars like Dumbledore, natural geniuses with brains that worked wonders, had a whole world of subjects and topics at their fingertips for them to focus their intellectual abilities on. The topic of time didn't rank highly on any of their priority lists, and that was fine. The capability was out there, she'd told herself, and that was all that mattered.
Now, she felt cornered. She felt numb, felt drained. She didn't even have the energy to talk anymore. Any hope she'd harbored about her situation had shriveled up and vanished. Half of why she hadn't been too freaked out with the whole revelation of having time traveled in the first place was because of this set internal belief she'd had in Dumbledore to somehow find a way to fix everything. This belief in people who possessed such brilliance in general—she'd have never guessed that such indestructible obstacles were present in their lives, ones that guarded against loopholes.
She'd been foolish to have not. In the end, people were just people. It seemed like everyone had limitations after all, the greatest ones being those facilitated by the root of everything, the principle that governed them all: magic.
"I am sorry, Miss Laurence." Dumbledore graciously didn't acknowledge Eve silently wiping at her eyes. "I wish there was a way for me to just flick my wand and discover a safe and effective procedure for you. Regardless, I will try my absolute hardest to find a way for you to return to your time. I will consult all the theoretical knowledge on time that exists and utilize every resource I have at hand." He regarded her sympathetically. "I just cannot promise any guarantees."
Eve sniffed, the sincereness of the professor's words like a coating of reassurance over the helplessness present within every pore of her body, distracting her momentarily from her internal distress. "Thanks, Professor," she said quietly. "Thank you. Sorry I kind of yelled at you earlier. I didn't mean to sound so harsh."
"Do not apologize, Miss Laurence, for natural reactions." Dumbledore gave her a small smile. "As for myself, I meant every word I said. I will try to help you to the best of my ability. I am not sure how long it will take for me to discover anything of substance, or—and I will once more be honest with you—if I will discover anything at all."
Eve thought of Neville, Ginny, and Luna, who were anxiously waiting for her back in 1997. She thought of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were somewhere on the run, risking their lives for the smallest possibility of destroying Voldemort. She thought of her mum, alone in their Tinworth cottage. They were in the future now—and, technically, the future hadn't happened yet. Her loved ones were frozen in time—her friends weren't depending on her retrieval of the Sword of Gryffindor. Her mum wasn't currently alone, eaten up by worry for her only daughter and family.
Eve just had to find a way to return to her old present time, and everything would pick from where she'd left it. All would be fine.
A sliver of invigoration and hope blossomed in her stomach and, although her cheeks felt numb, she tried to flash Dumbledore a small smile of her own—though it most likely came out as more of a grimace. "Thank you, sir."
"It is the least I can do," he replied kindly. "Though, I must say—this is quite a strange phenomenon. In my entire sixty-three years of living, I have never encountered such a situation. It is simply unheard of." He exhaled, reclining back. "Then again, there is a first for everything, no? You are a part of history now."
Eve tried to suffocate the urge to spill out the fact that she'd literally been living during the reign of a crazed madman who'd nicknamed himself Voldemort. She'd had enough of 'being a part of history'.
Instead, she voiced a question that was long overdue:
"What year is it right now?"
"Ah." Dumbledore straightened. "We have been here for so long, but I have not even told you that." He looked over at her. "It is 1944. September 4th, 1944, to be exact."
Oh, okay, she thought faintly. She hadn't been too far off—she'd predicted around the 1950s, but 1944 was close enough.
Still—1944. It was jarring to hear it verbalized, to hear the confirmation of just how far she'd traveled into the past.
At least she wasn't crying or anything about it. Eve cringed, pushing that thought away, along with memories of the last minute. She'd just shed tears in front of Dumbledore. Embarrassing.
"Oh. Okay. Fifty-three years into the past. Wow." She glanced around the room, desperately trying to maintain her calmness for as long as possible as she focally observed her surroundings.
The difference of the simple office from the grandiose Headmaster's office that she knew Dumbledore would possess in the future really was significant. "So, you're the Transfiguration professor in 1944?" she asked, trying to distract herself from her thoughts.
"I am," Dumbledore confirmed, nodding. He gestured over to his desk. "Those essays I was grading were essays assigned to my seventh year N.E.W.T. class, which I assumed you will be joining. Unless you would prefer not to take the N.E.W.T. Transfiguration course?" He looked at Eve expectantly.
"Uh—what?"
"Ah—apologies." If Dumbledore had the capability to look slightly abashed, then it was what he currently looked like. "I have not explained what I have in mind for you going forward from now on."
"What do you mean?" Eve leaned forward in sudden anticipation at Dumbledore's words, her heart hammering against her chest. She felt the crease between her eyebrows pronounce itself, and she tried to relax her facial features.
"My research to help you will most definitely not be a short-term endeavor," Dumbledore explained. "Therefore, you will need a place to stay and a cover to uphold as you wait for me to—hopefully—uncover results. Clearly, the best option would be to have you enroll in Hogwarts as a seventh-year."
Eve's eyebrows jumped up as she processed the idea. Enroll in Hogwarts? In 1944?
"As you mentioned to me before, you had only been two months into your seventh year in your time, so it would not be too much of a discrepancy. You can reside as a student here and continue your studies in a safe and familiar environment, and you will be conveniently close to me in case I need to question you or relay information to you regarding your situation." Dumbledore regarded her closely. "How does that sound?"
"That . . . sounds great." It wasn't too hard to agree. Eve was immediately on board—the convenience and familiarity would be appreciated—and the ability to attend a normal Hogwarts again? One free of corruption and torture and Cruciatuses? Her heart gave a hopeful pang at the thought. She didn't need any more convincing. Who was she to refuse the only good thing that came out of this entire situation?
She frowned suddenly, another thought to consider invading her mind. "What am I supposed to say when people ask me about my origins? Like where I'm from, why I came to Hogwarts, and things like that." She picked at her nail, mind running at full-speed to brainstorm a solution. "People are going to be curious about the new student who suddenly shows up to Hogwarts at the beginning of seventh year."
Dumbledore nodded reassuringly. "Yes, I was thinking about that while you were explaining your situation. Crafting your backstory requires careful consideration of the many factors that come into play: We must make sure that anything you say about your supposed life cannot be traced and disproved as lies." He stared at a spot on the floor. "As you may know, a powerful wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald is currently active."
Grindelwald. Eve started at the name. She wrung her brain, pulling out everything she remembered about the historical wizard from learning about him in History of Magic. If she remembered the dates correctly, then the global wizarding war was currently happening, and Grindelwald was at his peak in power, terrorizing continental Europe with his army.
Wonderful, Eve thought mildly. So, she'd basically just escaped the time of one evil wizard and plopped herself right into the one of another.
Dumbledore saw the recognition on her face, and he continued: "The war has been ongoing for over twenty years, and Grindelwald's army has yet to cease its ruthless murdering of innocent civilians across the globe." He sighed heavily, any sparkle absent from behind his half-moon spectacles. "I do not like to use their unfortunate tragedies to our advantage, but the situation offers a backstory that is both believable and untraceable. I am suggesting that you pose as a victim of the war, orphaned from one of the many violent village pillagings of Grindelwald's army. You were on vacation in France for the summer, and tragedy struck—the army plundered the village you were staying at, and your parents were killed. You played dead, and miraculously survived the attack. Now, you've returned back to Britain, and you've enrolled into Hogwarts, as you no longer have the option of your parents homeschooling you, which had been your form of education all your life."
"And," he added as an afterthought, "best to identify as a pure-blood if anyone is to ask. A half-blood—as you are—is perfectly fine, but . . ." He looked troubled. "For your safety, identifying as a pure-blood would draw less attention to you in the long run."
Eve looked down at her lap. It wasn't hard to recognize the parallels between the ideals of this time and those of Voldemort's reign.
Dumbledore was wearing a similarly grave expression on his face, but he carried on. "As for your name—the most covert option would be to go by a new one entirely."
Eve's discomfort at the idea—which had materialized within her as soon as Dumbledore had finished his sentence—must've been plain on her face, because Dumbledore quickly backtracked, pondering for a second before offering her a possible alternative: "Or, if you would prefer, you can most likely just keep your name as it is. Were your parents both magical?"
"Yes, but that's not really a worry," she said quickly. "My father grew up in America and went to Ilvermorny—he has no roots here in Britain. My mother's family is from here, but that won't be a problem considering my last name is my father's. I can go by Eve Laurence, and nobody would bat an eye."
"Then that shall be your name," confirmed Dumbledore, looking satisfied. Eve nodded, relieved, cheering inwardly.
Maybe it seemed a bit silly—in the grand scheme of things, her name was a trivial element. It wasn't that big of a deal, but . . . she didn't want to change everything about her identity. Maybe it was foolish, but she'd just time traveled fifty-three years into the past, to a time of war and unfamiliarity—she wasn't about to lose her name as well.
"It is settled, then. I will take care of your actual enrollment and class schedule. It will take just a few tweaks and forged documents." Dumbledore winked at her. "Specific details regarding all that will need to be discussed with Professor Dippet, our current Headmaster, in the Headmaster's office. You will also need to be Sorted—that is, Resorted—to maintain your identity as a student new to Hogwarts."
Eve wasn't surprised—she'd guessed as much. She looked down, toying with her Gryffindor patch. She wasn't worried. She was just going to be Resorted into Gryffindor again.
A thought suddenly struck, and she jerked up quickly, wide eyes swiveling back to Dumbledore. "Professor! Speaking of the Headmaster's office again—what if I were to extract my memory of right before I'd entered the Pensieve in my time and view it in the Pensieve in the Headmaster's office here? And then smash a Time-Turner onto the floor in the memory, scrape my finger to draw a bit of blood, and repeat the exact procedure that got me here in the first place? What if it transports me back to my original time?" Her shoulders sagged a bit. "Of course, I'd have to obtain another Time-Turner somehow, and I don't know if the Pensieve would work with going forward in time, but . . ."
Dumbledore squinted thoughtfully as he processed the idea, then gave a miniscule shake of his head. "Again, Miss Laurence, I am puzzled as to why you do not bear the emblem of Ravenclaw on your robes." He chuckled good-naturedly before sobering up once more. "However, many other individuals just as clever as you ask the same question: 'What if?' The uncertainty of time travel is exactly what limits it—nobody is willing to take a risk while operating on unpredictability. In your case, we are not familiar with the procedure that got you here in the first place. What we are assuming happened is just my conjecture, so it would be unwise to try and imitate it. Best not to go about things without a clear understanding of them.
"Furthermore, there is a chance that you would be duplicated if you tried what you described. You luckily time traveled here with no problems, because you hadn't been viewing a memory of your own to begin with. However, if you attempt to do so now, you may end up existing at the same time as the you from the viewed memory. There is a possibility that there would be two Eve Laurences living at the same time."
Eve deflated. "Okay, nevermind."
"Do not worry too much, Miss Laurence." Dumbledore reached into his robes and retrieved his tin of sherbet lemons again. The candies inside clattered around. He opened the tin, leaning over and wordlessly offering another one of the hard candies to Eve. She glanced at him before murmuring a thank you, reaching forward and plucking one out, popping it into her mouth and letting its sourness hit her right in her core. They both sat in silence for a few seconds, sucking on the sherbets.
Dumbledore was the first to break the silence. "Although speaking about the future is not permitted within the unspoken rules of time travel, I must ask—" he started after he'd stowed the candy tin back into his robes. He eyed Eve curiously. "Is gray the preferred hair color in the future? Or is it just a passing fashion for the youth?"
Eve raised her eyebrows, confused. "Um . . . gray hair? No? Why do you ask, sir?"
Dumbledore stared at her for a few seconds. He reclined back, fingers stroking his beard distractedly. "How interesting," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Sorry—is it some sort of trend in this time?"
"No, not at all. I have never seen a young person with intentional—or unintentional—gray in their hair." Dumbledore's stare swept to some point beside Eve's eyes. "You are the first."
Eve gaped at him, letting his words hit her. "What?" She snatched her wand up from her side, brandishing it in the air and conjuring up a thin, jewel-encrusted mirror, whose handle fell cleanly into her waiting palm. She didn't even notice Dumbledore's impressed expression—she tilted the mirror towards her face, trepidation at its peak, and then almost dropped it in shock.
Green eyes, still a bit rimmed with red, cast shadows upon already-dark under eye circles, sunken with stress and exhaustion. Her skin bore a pale, unhealthy tinge. Her reflection shone back the image of a tired, worn-out girl, fatigued by the turn of events in her life that she'd suddenly found herself amidst.
None of that was the main focus of Eve's attention—instead, she gaped in disbelief at the two prominent streaks of gray buried within her hair, the strands visibly mixed amongst each other. They fell by her temple, the growth of the strands perceptible at the edge of her hairline, right at the central area above her forehead. The two streaks, both around an inch wide, fell on either side of her face—framing pieces, perfectly symmetrical.
Her bewilderment at an all-time high, Eve gripped the mirror handle, reaching up shakily and running a finger through the strands to the left of her face. "Wha—why did my hair turn gray?"
"I take it you did not have gray hair before your journey through time?"
Eve shook her head mutely, unable to tear her eyes away from her reflection. It was like she was looking at herself, but . . . not. She stared closely at the gray ends, wondering if there'd been a permanent change to her hair's roots, or if the gray served more like a temporary dye job. Something told her that it was the former.
"Professor, this doesn't make sense." She set the mirror down beside her, her index finger still idly running through the gray hair as she frowned at Dumbledore. "Clearly this is an effect of the time travel, but . . ." She paused, recalling the facts of the only time travel experiment she knew of. "I'll go off of Eloise Mintumble's story here—shouldn't aging effects occur when I try to travel forward in time? Like when Eloise tried to return, and her body aged through all the years she bypassed? If we're to base my situation off of her's, then it would be counterintuitive for me to experience aging effects after traveling back in time. Technically, that's me getting younger, not older."
Dumbledore was nodding in agreement. "I completely concur with your logic, Miss Laurence." He heaved a sigh, placing his hands on the arms of his sofa and rising up. "Unfortunately, as with everything else involved, I cannot give you a straight answer." He stood, smoothing down the front of his robes, the silvery stars upon it rippling with the movement, and looked at Eve. "Of course, I will add this strange occurrence to the list of topics I plan to research."
Eve rose from her seat as well, recognizing that they were nearing the end of their discussion. "I understand, sir. Thank you." She retrieved her wand from where it had rolled into the side crack of the sofa and muttered a quick "Evanesco!" at her mirror, which promptly disappeared into thin air.
Dumbledore glanced over at the small clock on the windowsill, which displayed that an astounding whole hour had passed since he and Eve had first sat down to talk. The two tall, latticed windows on the wall exhibited a cool evening view beyond the glass. The sun was no longer glaring brightly into the room like it had been when Eve had first materialized in—instead, it had toned its flare down a bit, the glow now just a soft hue of light.
"I apologize, Miss Laurence, but I am afraid that we have been here for much longer than I intended," said Dumbledore, who had glided over to his desk. He pulled the chair out from beneath it and gathered up his navy robes, taking a seat. He smiled at Eve from the center of the room. "I will send for you later, and we will rendezvous in the Headmaster's office for that meeting with Professor Dippet. For now, you are welcome to roam around the castle and"—he winked at her—"explore your new home." He picked up his wand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must call up my previous appointment. The Head Boy, in fact."
Eve's fingers twitched, her nervousness and eagerness at the prospect of experiencing the Hogwarts of 1944 swirling within her. "Okay. Thank you again, Professor. I really appreciate everything." She turned around, placing her hand on the door handle before pausing at Dumbledore's next words from behind her:
"Best to take off those Gryffindor embellishments of yours as well. After all, you are a new student."
Eve exhaled, looking down at her person and quickly waving her wand to extract her Gryffindor patch from her breast pocket. With another quick movement, she loosened her red-and-gold tie, removing it from around her neck. She glanced down at both the patch and tie fondly before shoving them and her wand inside her robes.
She pushed down on the door handle and, with a quick peer and smile behind her shoulder at Dumbledore, opened it, stepping outside and closing the door lightly.
Eve found herself alone in a secluded hallway with no windows and minimal portraits. She gazed around, realization settling in when she recognized that this was a quiet corridor on the first floor of the Hogwarts Turris Magnus tower. She'd been through this corridor loads of times, usually when she was running a bit late for Defense Against the Dark Arts and needed to go through a shortcut.
She gazed at the stone walls around her, contemplating. She knew that she had to turn the corner, pass three more corridors, and then descend the staircases to reach the Entrance Hall. Yes, she'd go there first, and then maybe pretend to explore the Great Hall. Or then walk to the library. Or maybe even take a walk outside on the grounds, something she'd missed dearly. The opportunities were endless.
She took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped, her heart suddenly picking up pace to beat at full speed. She was really doing this.
Get a grip, Eve! Act casual and confused. You don't know this castle.
Steeling herself, she took a few deep breaths, silently commanded her arms to swing normally by her sides, and resumed her pace. Luckily, this corridor, which consisted of only offices and empty classrooms in her time, was mostly unfrequented by students then, and it didn't seem to be any different now.
Eve felt a small spike in her confidence as she strolled down the corridor in what she hoped was a casual manner. She was nearing the corner, and she could hear the faint sound of chattering and footsteps from around it. She held her head up high, pasted what she hoped to be an expression of slight confusion and awe mixed together onto her face, laced her fingers together, and extended her arms outwards, ready to crack her knuckles and do this.
The knuckle-cracking never happened. Instead, Eve's outward-facing palms collided with rough fabric, and she stumbled a few steps back into the wall, nearly tripping. A portrait of a wrinkled old man on the wall yelped as Eve's head narrowly missed bumping into his frame.
"Oh, I apologize," came the sound of a smooth baritone voice somewhere above Eve's head. "Are you alright?"
Eve swiped her hair out of her face, straightening and looking up at the person she'd bumped into. "Yeah, than—"
Oh my god.
Smooth, pale skin stretched over carved cheekbones and a high, aristocratic nose, the proportional facial features bordering the perfect precipice between sharp and smooth. Shaped dark eyebrows extended from the center of the face to tips near the edge, framing equally-dark, piercing eyes. Inky black hair was styled in pristine waves, though a few strands had fallen from the formation and onto the forehead below, brushing against the eyebrows.
It all extended downwards to a tall body clad in all-black robes, sans a golden badge and green-and-silver Slytherin patch, both on the breast pocket. A tie of the same green and silver colors as the House patch was slightly visible, peeking out from below the robes. Long, slender fingers emerged from the sleeves, the digits holding onto a small blue book with the words "Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration" printed across its cover.
The young man in front of Eve physically embodied every characteristic of a carved marble statue. She'd never seen such a good-looking Hogwarts student.
Was this how 1940s boys looked like? If that was the case, maybe she never wanted to leave this present.
"Are you alright?" he repeated, his voice wrenching Eve out of her reverie. She felt heat rush to her face. God, she'd been gaping at him like a fish out of water.
"I—uh, yes!" She straightened, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. She settled on placing them by her sides awkwardly. "Sorry, I should be the one apologizing! I wasn't looking where I was going and bumped into you." She smoothed out a wrinkle on her left robe sleeve, staring at his right eyebrow. She couldn't make herself meet his piercing eyes, lest she combust into flames after doing so.
He simply smiled down at her, his lips pulling up evenly. She thought she saw his eyes linger on the sides of her face, where her gray hair fell in strands in her peripheral vision. "It's no worry. Have a good day." Another smile, and then he brushed past her, striding into the corridor she was just leaving.
Eve counted exactly three seconds before she immediately turned the corner, making sure that she was out of his possible vantage point before leaning against the adjacent wall and groaning to herself in embarrassment.
What the heck was that? A rare interaction with an attractive guy (and her first interaction with anyone other than Dumbledore in this time), and it had gone like that. She wanted to rip her hair out.
She sighed resolutely, internally slapping herself. This was not the time for this. With a small shake of her head to clear her mind, she pushed off the wall, squaring her shoulders and her mind. All she had to do was pass three more corridors and descend down a staircase, and then she'd be mingling amongst all the other Hogwarts students of 1944.
Her new life was only a few minutes away.
—
No matter how much she tried, Eve just couldn't stop her eyes from wandering.
She was sidled against the side of the wide, sweeping marble staircase that led to the front of the enormous Entrance Hall, which was visible below. Innumerable portraits of gleaming golden frames adorned the high, expansive stone walls of the room. They expanded upwards towards a ceiling too high to make out, their inhabitants occasionally waving to the students below. Opposite Eve's view from the top of the staircase were giant oak doors, the entrance into the castle. The paned windows beside them rippled—as if the glass was liquid—as a few rays of sunlight filtered through from the day outside (which was on the cusp of evening), their glow blending with the omnipresent gold luminescent within, courtesy of the flaming torches lit upon the stone walls and their countless candelabra neighbors.
Eve clutched the banister tightly, her robes sweeping against the ornate carvings of the staircase's balusters. She must've been caught in some sort of student rush hour—hordes of students were traveling up and down the staircase, robes billowing and book bags stuffed full. Floods more kept pouring into the Entrance Hall below from adjacent corridors.
It was like drowning amidst a sea of coiffed hair and bobby socks. Everywhere Eve looked, she saw evidence of just how far through time she'd really traveled—neat, pinned-up hairdos; startling red lips; and tall, ankle-length socks occupied every bit of her vision. Boys sported what seemed to be a popular hairstyle of pomade-smoothed hair, combed over and then back to create a wave. Thin eyebrows adorned the faces of girls, the bright rouge painted on their lips balancing against the abundance of pin curls in the vicinity.
It wasn't just the physical elements that were unfamiliar to Eve. As students brushed past her, moving to or from the Entrance Hall's ground floor, she was exposed to the foreign speech mannerisms of the 1940s. She caught snippets of slang amongst passing conversations: schnook and crummy were heard more than once, and she even heard what sounded suspiciously like "khaki wacky" from a passing group of girls who'd been giggling amongst themselves.
She even heard distant music floating around—the jazzy sort of music that made one inwardly feel much older than one was. The whole environment just exuded an aged, classic spirit, like Eve had somehow dove head-first into one of Lavender's vintage fashion magazines.
Okay, maybe she was exaggerating just a bit. Although the prevalence of the 40s' vibrancy was undeniable, there were similarly just as many students who physically looked completely 'normal' in the context of Eve's familiar 1990s standards, as if they'd time traveled from the 90s as well. Eve saw hair thrown in casual ponytails, braided down backs, and haphazardly sitting atop heads. Red-shaded lips and cheeks mingled with bare, blemished faces—in fact, there were more than enough heavy eyebags to rival her own. It seemed like wherever—whenever—Eve went, the tiredness of student life was ubiquitous.
Still, she felt self-conscious, like something she was wearing would give her away for not belonging here. Luckily, she was prevented from standing out like a sore thumb too much by the fact that the uniforms of this time didn't look too different from the attire she currently had on from 1997—students wore standard black robes, their House patches sewn upon them and House ties knotted around white Oxford collars beneath. The female students' bobby socks and black pleated skirts, which hung just above the knees, opposed the smooth black trousers of the male students. Black dress shoes were everywhere.
Eve wouldn't count herself as a terrible actress, per se—she'd done her fair share of dry-heaving to skip class and on-the-spot lies to get out of draining social activities. However, as she looked down upon the ocean of students swarming the staircase and Entrance Hall, she suddenly found that her bones had locked up and her lungs had gone dry. The prospect of moving through all those people as basically an intruder to their time was scary enough—what if somebody realized that she was new and stopped to question her? What if they ask something she and Dumbledore hadn't prepared for? What if they referenced a "khaki wacky?" She didn't even know what that meant!
However, Eve knew it was inevitable that she moved. She'd already been standing near the top of the staircase for a good two minutes, and doing so for any longer was only going to draw attention.
She inhaled, then exhaled. I'm overthinking. All she had to do was get down to the ground floor of the Entrance Hall, look around for a few minutes like the new student she was, and then continue on her way. Simple.
She slowly descended down the staircase, taking care to stick to the side. She felt her palms sweating; she removed her left one from the banister and wiped it discreetly on her robes. Her eyeballs were getting a workout from how fast they were swiveling—her body was tense and her posture ramrod straight as she stared directly ahead while moving down the stairs. She just couldn't help her eyes from darting in all directions, both from alert paranoia and her attempts to continue taking in the new environment. She had to fight against looking over her shoulder every few seconds, a habit developed from her time that she needed to shake off.
It wasn't until a young boy passing by eyed her too-stiff shoulders and gave her an odd look that Eve forced herself to relax her body. She'd reached the bottom of the staircase anyway; she was free to just roam around now.
Once in the center of the Entrance Hall floor, she turned. Despite her state of nervousness, Eve couldn't help but let real awe make its way onto her face as she gazed upon the magnificence of the hall as a whole. Here, staring upon a warm, welcoming Entrance Hall for the first time in months, she was reminded of just why she'd considered the castle basically her second home. Hogwarts—not just its brilliant architecture, but its homely ambience as well—never failed to take her breath away.
Surprisingly, she felt wetness gather by the edges of her eyes. This time, however, she didn't even bother to feel embarrassed—she'd just missed this Hogwarts. She still couldn't believe that she could just walk around freely like this in the castle—even going down the staircase had felt like a fever dream; despite lingering feelings of vigilance, she hadn't felt so mentally free in so long.
Now, with the lively chatter and upbeat students around her, everything felt alive again, a feeling she'd desperately missed. Everywhere she turned, she saw students milling around, happily chattering and laughing with friends as they headed for the library, or to class, or to their dorms, or outside to enjoy the nice weather. The relaxed atmosphere was a stark contrast to the fear and gloom that had pervaded her Hogwarts and had dominated not just her school life, but personal life as well. Here, there weren't possible torture sessions or Voldemort supporter–professors to worry about. For these students, to worry about what the future brought meant looking at job prospects and career plans, not planning to advance rebel societies and fight against Death Eaters' oppression.
Even if her stay in this time was temporary, Eve was at least glad to experience the Hogwarts that she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to experience again one last time.
She looked to her right, where the double doors leading to the Great Hall stood just the same as they had in her time. Layered ivory archways, carved with archaic designs, crowned the top of the doors, and suits of armor embellished the walls to their sides, the insentient knights standing grandly upon stone ledges.
She turned to the left, observing the other side of the Entrance Hall. Students were entering the hall from the narrow stone staircase that led to the dungeons, and a few were coming from the corridor leading to the classroom in which Firenze's Divination classes were taught in her time.
Eve backed up, standing by the gigantic oak doors, vision still scanning her surroundings as she continued to take everything in. She observed the expanse of wall between the Great Hall and the marble staircase, where only a few students were lingering. It was one of her favorite parts of the hall; a vast amount of portraits hung there, their occupants having been the first people to greet Eve when she'd entered Hogwarts on her first day of first year. It had been a memorable welcome and, for the next five years after that, she'd taken care to wave at them all whenever she'd pass by, usually on her way to dinner from class.
The portrait of the man upon a boat at sea was there on the wall, his frame almost touching that of the portrait beside him, one of three young girls, all of them wearing horrendously poofy dresses. Above them was a sharp, hawk-eyed woman, and her portrait couldn't be any different from the one next to her, which housed a fat, jolly old man, who was currently waving at a passing group of students. Dozens more familiar portraits littered the wall, and Eve's heart soared higher and higher as she viewed each one, recognizing them all.
She reached the portrait of the Herbologist, muffling a laugh into her fist when the plant he was tending to leapt up from its pot and scurried away, causing the poor man to shriek and chase it around inside the frame. The Herbologist's portrait was the last portrait of the wall, and the one that was most entertaining—it seemed as though his plants were always going berserk and running away from him. Eve felt a bit bad for him—his neighbor to the right, a wizened old man, mostly slept the days away (Eve had never seen him awake) and, with no neighbor to his left, it must be a pretty boring life for the Herbologist, chasing plants around all day.
Wait, no—
Eve squinted, trying to make out what the momentary gleam she'd just seen from beside the Herbologist's portrait had been. She'd just been shifting her feet a bit when she saw something—it had been small, but she'd seen it: a glint of gold within the shadows next to the Herbologist—to his left.
She glanced around surreptitiously before stepping forward, casually cutting across the hall as she made her way over. No, she hadn't seen wrong—the closer she got to the wall of portraits, the more she could see of another portrait, one she wasn't familiar with. It came into view slowly, its gold frame glinting visibly. From where Eve had been standing by the entrance of the hall, it had been partially obscured by the shadow of the staircase above. Now, however, it was clearly a portrait—and one she'd never seen before.
Even more mysterious was the fact that it was empty. Now that she was standing in front of it, Eve could see that it was blank. There were no living or inanimate occupants inside. It was simply a canvas of gray nothingness, the color bordered by a simple gold frame.
She frowned, staring up at it. This portrait wasn't here in her time—she was sure of that. She was familiar with this wall's portraits—she knew every single one of them from her excessive daily waving. She'd never seen this portrait in her entire life—she was sure of that. The Herbologist never had a neighbor to his left.
Maybe it had been removed by the time she started attending Hogwarts? But that was strange too—the instances of a portrait being removed from Hogwarts' walls were rare, as the excuse to do so had to be legitimate. She only knew of one example, which she'd read about while researching Horcruxes with Harry, Ron, and Hermione: the removal of Herpo the Foul's portrait centuries ago by Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff. Apparently, the portrait had hung somewhere in the castle, courtesy of Salazar Slytherin—that was, until Slytherin had his feud with the other founders and chose to leave Hogwarts. Once he'd left, the three other founders had removed the portrait of Herpo the Foul, citing the reason as Herpo's evil identity as a Dark Wizard, the creator of the Basilisk, and the first known in history to create a Horcrux.
In any case, this portrait was foreign to Eve. And to be completely empty on top of that? She felt goosebumps rise on her arms. Portraits almost never left their own frames without good reason—their frames were their lifelines, the items from which they derived their sentience. It was too big of a risk—unless a portrait had another frame somewhere else, they rarely ventured out-of-frame.
"Ah, that's the Unknown."
Eve jumped at the unexpected voice, which had originated from behind her. She spun around, shoulders tensing and hand instinctively reaching inside her robes to grasp at her wand.
"Woah, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you." The boy in front of her raised his hands, taking a step back.
He looked . . . normal. There was none of the pomade that seemed like all the craze on his hair—instead, messy, dark-brown waves fell over his forehead, giving him that classic 'casually-attractive' appearance. Just like her, he wore black robes, though his bore a blue-and-bronze badge with the word 'PREFECT' etched on it. He had a brown book bag slung over one shoulder; it was overfilled with books and looked to be on the verge of splitting apart.
He regarded her curiously, gray-blue eyes dropping to stare at the breast pocket of her robes, which was devoid of any House patch. "Are you new here?"
Uh oh. Here it was.
Eve swallowed. "I—yeah, I am." She braced herself, anticipating the inevitable.
"Cool, I thought so. I've never seen you around." He stepped forward next to her and looked up at the empty portrait on the wall. "Yeah, so this is the Unknown. It's always been empty."
Eve, who'd been standing there, rapidly drafting automatic responses to what she'd assumed was an inevitable bombardment of questions about her identity, almost didn't catch his last few words. "Sorry—what? Unknown?"
"The Unknown," he repeated, looking down at her. "Everyone calls it that because nobody knows anything about it. For as long as anyone knows, it's been empty. Nobody knows why it's hanging here and if it used to have an occupant—and, if it did, why they're gone. I've even asked a few professors who attended Hogwarts, and they all said that it was empty when they were students too." He shrugged. "It's strange, but that's that. There's not much reason to remove it either, so it's just been hanging here."
Eve frowned, the mysteriousness of the portrait both interesting and a bit unsettling. "Nobody knows anything? What about the portraits by it? Do they know anything?" She glanced at the Herbologist, who was still scuttling around in his frame, chasing his hopping plant.
The prefect shook his head. "Nothing. Portraits don't have good memory retention, anyway."
They both stared up at the Unknown silently for a few moments.
Then, he turned back to her. "Anyway, what's your name?"
"Eve. Eve Laurence," replied Eve. She pretended to adjust the sleeve of her robes, unsure of what the proper etiquette for introductions in the 1940s was. Was she supposed to shake his hand?
Luckily, he only smiled at her, hoisting the strap of his book bag upwards with one hand. "I'm Logan Jean. It's nice to meet you, Eve."
Logan Jean. That was the name that had been written at the top of that Transfiguration essay, the first one Eve had read over Dumbledore's shoulder when she'd still been inside of the Pensive memory. Dumbledore had given him an 'O'.
"Nice to meet you too." She smiled back.
Okay. So far, this wasn't going too bad. He hadn't asked her any questions she couldn't answer yet, at least.
They started walking away from the wall of portraits. "What year are you in?" Logan inquired.
"Seventh." At the raising of his eyebrows, Eve gave a small laugh. "Late, I know, but . . ."
She paused mid-sentence. Oh goody, I've led myself right into a trap.
Eve wanted to smack herself. The less she talked about her supposed past, the less information anyone had on her, however fake said information was.
". . . reasons," she finished lamely.
Logan only nodded, and Eve was grateful for his choice to not pry. She'd known him for less than three minutes, but he already seemed like someone she'd want to keep as a friend.
"I'm in seventh year too." He patted his stuffed book bag. "Which is why I carry all these books around. N.E.W.T.S., you know." He gave a dramatically-heavy sigh, then changed the subject. "You haven't been Sorted into any House yet, right?"
Eve gazed upon a gaggle of young Gryffindor boys passing by who were shoving each other and laughing boisterously. "No, no House yet. I have to meet with Dippet in a while to get Sorted, though, and to get all my other stuff figured out, like which classes I'm taking."
"Well," Logan grinned, tapping his blue-and-bronze prefect badge. "I hope you get Ravenclaw. It's the best House, and we have our own library in our common room." He paused. "Okay, there's me playing into our stereotype of being nerdy smart kids. But seriously, it's pretty amazing."
Eve laughed, the pocket inside her robes that housed her Gryffindor House patch and tie suddenly burning. "We'll see," she teased. Then, just to keep up appearances, she pointed at his prefect badge, pasting a look of curiosity onto her face. "What's a prefect?"
And with that question, she cemented her fate. The next half hour saw her and Logan, who genuinely played up to his prefect role and self-assigned himself as her Hogwarts tour guide, roaming around the castle randomly, him explaining various aspects of the school and pointing out locations ("—and this is the Charms classroom, and that corridor leads to the staircases—") while she listened intently, pretending as though she was new to it all.
Most of the information that he detailed she already knew, but she did glean some insight on 1944-specific particulars: Professor Beery, the Herbology professor, was always cranky if he didn't have a cup of coffee clutched in one hand; Dippet was rumored to have fallen in love with a portrait of a former Headmistress in his office; and Joey Furnell, this year's Gryffindor Quidditch Captain and Keeper, would swallow a raw egg at breakfast in the past years whenever it was the day of a game (Eve was reminded greatly of Oliver Wood).
She could see why Logan was a prefect—he was self-assured in the best way possible. He possessed none of that Percy Weasley pretentiousness—instead, Logan's laid-back and easy-going attitude seemed to be contagious, as Eve felt herself finally relaxing into her situation only five minutes after she'd started talking to him.
Not only that, but he seemed to be popular as well. No less than a dozen people waved or greeted him when he and Eve passed by, and he reciprocated just as enthusiastically. Eve herself got more than a few curious stares, no doubt from people wondering why a nameless partially gray–haired girl was tagging alongside the popular Ravenclaw prefect.
They were in the Middle Courtyard now, sitting on a stone ledge by the side, safe in the shade. Small clusters of students sat upon the grassy open area of the courtyard, chatting amongst themselves. A group of what looked like first-years sat under the large tree in the center, playing Gobstones. The sun, which was starting to hang low in the sky, cast a glow upon the courtyard, its warmth balanced by the perpetual cool breeze that blew past, causing the grass to ripple.
"—the kitchens," Logan was saying. "Us students aren't supposed to know about it, but you just have to tickle the pear—literally tickle it, and then it turns into a great big door handle."
"Tickle the pear?" asked Eve incredulously, as if she hadn't done that a thousand times already.
"Yeah, like extend-your-fingers-and-wiggle-them-on-the-painting tickling. It's kind of weird and awkward when you do it for the first time."
"Wow."
"Yeah. As a prefect, I'm not even supposed to condone these kitchen visits, much less make them myself." He shrugged nonchalantly. "You can't always help late-night cravings, though."
He then pulled up the sleeve of his robe, turning over his arm to peer at the small gold watch he had fastened around his wrist. Eve, who'd been gazing at the first-years' Gobstones game while listening to him, saw the action out of the corner of her eye and immediately straightened up, turning to him.
"Do you have somewhere to be?" she asked worriedly. "Sorry—I've been wasting your time, haven't I?"
He shook his head, smiling at her and lowering his sleeve. "No, it's alright. I was just checking the time. You haven't been wasting my time at all—my classes for the day have ended anyways, and I would've just been bored for the rest of the day if you hadn't come along." He stood up, lifting his book bag onto his shoulder, and offered her a hand. "C'mon—want to go tickle a pear and take a tour of the kitchens?"
The word yeah was halfway past Eve's lips when she shivered, feeling a cool whoosh of air sweep past her body. It was a stream of silvery-blue light, and it stopped right in front of her, its brilliance shifting in the air as it materialized into a grand phoenix, its wingspan wide and impressive. It opened its beak, and Dumbledore's voice poured out:
"Miss Laurence, please meet Professor Dippet and I in the Headmaster's office." Dumbledore's voice then dropped conspiratorially, and the Patronus whispered (Patronuses can whisper?), "The password is 'education'."
It then vanished in a swirl of light, its message conveyed and purpose complete.
Eve looked around the courtyard, which had suddenly quieted down significantly. She imagined it wasn't everyday these students saw phoenix Patronuses soaring through the corridors. The first-year Gobstones players had paused their game and were staring with open mouths at the spot where the Patronus had just vanished.
"Okay, I think we're going to have to postpone that kitchens tour then," joked Logan, who'd also been staring at the Patronus in surprise. He pushed his hair out of his face with one hand, looking back down at her in concern. "Do you need me to walk you to the Headmaster's office, or do you remember where I told you it was?"
The vigor of the courtyard had slowly resumed. A little first-year girl let out a cheer when her Gobstone squirted liquid at the opponent sitting opposite of her.
"Go to the second floor, turn the corner from the second-floor corridor, and the office will be right behind a big gargoyle statue," Eve said, repeating back some of Logan's earlier words from when he'd been giving her a verbal tour of the castle, and he gave a hum of approval. She stood up and turned to him, sighing. "Guess I have to go now. I was really worried about getting lost around here, but I think I'm good now." She shifted on her feet. "Thank you for showing me around—everything was really helpful."
"Not at all," he replied modestly, waving off the gratitude. "It was really fun—we don't usually get new seventh-years." He checked his watch again. "I'll see you at dinner?"
"Yeah, see you." Eve gave him a small, farewell smile before turning around and trudging away from the courtyard, her black dress shoes clipping against the stone below them.
"If everything goes as I hope it does," Logan called from behind her, "you'll be sitting by me at the Ravenclaw table." Eve heard him laugh good-naturedly.
"Don't get your hopes up!" she yelled over her shoulder in response, shaking her head and smiling to herself. She turned the corner, starting for the staircase to the second floor, her smile fading when she saw how congested it was with students.
'Education', she thought as she squeezed her way up the steps. How boring.
—
Dippet's office was . . . bland, to say the least.
The entrance area was devoid of any fascinating items—just a wide space of empty stone flooring. The glass cabinets by the walls weren't as full as Eve remembered them to be from when she'd last seen them, and the bookshelves further into the room had quite a few bare shelves. The fireplace by the corner was cold and empty. Portraits of former Headmaster and Headmistresses littered the walls, but most of them looked to be asleep. The center chandelier was currently off, and the mahogany desk below it was featureless: no lamp, no quill—nothing. Just a blank expanse of wood.
It wasn't any more brilliant further into the room. Despite the grandiose architecture of the two curving stairways in the back, they both exuded an unexciting feel, as if they hadn't been used in years. By the platform above, the large windows, which might've been shining warm sunlight into the office earlier in the day, only exhibited a colorless sky now, as the sun had traveled to the opposite side of the castle. Even the large, globe-like ball on the platform had a dull quality to it.
The whole office had the atmosphere of a temporary habitat, as though Dippet had decorated it with the intention of picking up and abandoning the place any day. Eve was sorry to admit that the room had been (will be) more impressive even in Snape's possession.
She drew out of her thoughts, returning back to her present situation. She was currently seated on a hastily-conjured chair in front of the central mahogany desk at which Dippet himself sat, leafing through a pile of papers on his desk. Dumbledore, dressed in his navy, silvery robes, stood by Dippet's chair, his arms resting behind his back as he smiled pleasantly.
Armando Dippet himself was—like his surroundings—unremarkable. He was an elderly man, with a short stature and frail-looking build. He radiated a feeble sort of energy, which was only intensified by the drab gray robes he donned. The balding taking place upon his scalp seemed to occur at the most unfortunate spots—he only possessed a few wisps of white hair, which sprouted near the back of his head.
In all honesty, he seemed like the type of wizard who'd easily fall for the scams Eve's mum occasionally received by owl post.
"Hm," Dippet murmured, flipping through the papers laid across his desk. They were falsified documents that Dumbledore had forged and given to Dippet—Eve had no idea how he'd managed to do so, but she wasn't too surprised. After all, it was Dumbledore. She spotted a forged O.W.L. grade report amongst the papers and another document of what looked to be a fake birth certificate.
"Professor Dumbledore has already explained your circumstances to me, Miss Laurence," said the wizened Headmaster in a warbly voice, pausing his shuffling and peering over at Eve. "We would be glad to accept you as a seventh-year here at Hogwarts."
Eve looked down at her lap, trying to convey an outward appearance of meek, emotional gratitude. If she could fake cry, she'd have employed the skill in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, she'd never been able to master it, no matter how many times Ginny—who had a spectacular fake cry—had tried to teach her.
Instead, Eve opted for a shaky "thank you, sir." She fidgeted with her fingers, adding a few sniffles for effect. "I appreciate it very much. It's been very hard dealing with everything I've been going through, so I'm glad you've allowed me to stay." One more loud sniffle.
She looked up. Dippet had a deeply uncomfortable expression on his face, while Dumbledore had his genial smile still on his face. His eyes twinkled at her.
Dippet cleared his throat loudly. "In any case, we will need to sort out your class schedule for the year." He picked up the forged O.W.L. grade report, examining it closely. "You have very outstanding O.W.L. scores—have you thought about which N.E.W.T. classes you would like to take?"
Eve considered the question. Back in her time, she'd been taking Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Herbology at the N.E.W.T. level, along with regular Astronomy, Arithmancy, History of Magic, and Ancient Runes. It had been a well-rounded schedule, one she'd been advised to create by McGonagall when they'd met for Eve's career appointment in fifth year.
She honestly hadn't known (and still didn't know) what her career aspirations were. She knew the subject fields in which she excelled and the ones in which she struggled: Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms were her best subjects, as they were the two classes that focused the most on hands-on, practical spellwork. She'd participated in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries and had always felt her in element whenever she'd attended D.A. meetings—not to mention having run around with Harry Potter for the last six years of her life—so defensive and offensive magic almost felt like second nature to her.
She was alright at Transfiguration, Astronomy, Herbology, and Potions—nothing too spectacular. Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, while difficult, were interesting subjects that she honestly enjoyed learning about.
Her grades in History of Magic had meanwhile always been abysmal, of course, but she'd given up on the course a long time ago.
Even though she excelled at practical spell-casting, Eve didn't desire to enter any empirical spellwork careers, such as being an Auror. She didn't prefer the battlefield—unlike Harry, who thrived when in the way of direct conflict, she favored much more implicit work, where she could employ her skills through different means. She'd had more than enough of that head-on experience to last a lifetime.
Other than that . . . well, Eve liked to read. She was different from Hermione, who'd confessed to Eve before that she didn't like to read, per se, but did so frequently because she liked the acquisition of knowledge that it gave her.
No, Eve liked to read. She liked fictional works the most—they were the most creative, the most engrossing, the most enthralling. She felt alive when she read, like she herself was being absorbed into the stories—anything could happen in them, and she often read the most wonderful and imaginative tales. She'd even read a plethora of Muggle books, courtesy of Hermione—The Great Gatsby (Eve's personal favorite), The Secret History, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, to name a few. Reading was her source of escape, her ivory tower.
Then again, it was only a hobby, something she didn't want to pursue as a job. No matter how much she had brainstormed and how many pros and cons lists she had made, she just hadn't found a career option that had appealed to her. So, McGonagall had advised her to just take a wide variety of N.E.W.T. and extracurricular classes, and she'd followed through.
Eve sighed, her uncertainty towards her future aspirations just as prevalent here as before. She might as well just go with the same N.E.W.T. classes she'd been taking—there was no point in changing them.
"N.E.W.T. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Herbology," she told Dippet, who marked down her selections onto a blank piece of paper, "and regular Astronomy, Arithmancy, History of Magic, and Ancient Runes."
She watched Dippet then scrawl a few sentences onto a small notepad before ripping the paper off and waving his wand in the air, duplicating it into eight more copies. He then did the same to the piece of paper that had Eve's class selections written upon it, until eight sets of two pieces of paper floated around in the air above their heads. With another flourish of Dippet's wand, they disappeared, vanishing into thin air.
"I have just sent your class selection requests to the appropriate professors for approval," explained Dippet. He coughed. "Once they have been approved—as I'm sure they will be, based on your O.W.L. scores—your official schedule will be sent up to your dormitory. You will then begin to attend your classes starting tomorrow morning."
Eve blinked. Tomorrow morning. Time flew by so fast—it felt like only yesterday when Eve had been with Neville, Ginny, and Luna, planning her excursion to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. It was unbelievable.
In real time, she nodded, thanking the Headmaster again before asking nervously, "My dormitory? That's based on what House I'm Sorted into, right?"
"Ah, yes—you need to be Sorted." With a quick flick of his wand, Dippet summoned what looked like a pointy brown rag from behind him—the Sorting Hat, Eve recognized. It sailed through the air from a shelf below the twin stairways—the same place it had rested in Snape's office—and landed softly onto Dippet's desk.
"As you may know," he continued in a flabby voice, "we have four Houses at Hogwarts: Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff." He gestured to the Sorting Hat. "Place the Sorting Hat here onto your head, and it will determine which House you belong to."
Eve stared down at the wrinkled, dusty hat, which was currently inanimate. It was a battered old thing, patched and frayed and extremely dirty, just like how it had looked in 1997. Despite its shabby appearance, she couldn't help it—her heart was suddenly beating at a mile a minute. This was the moment of this meeting that she'd been most anticipating.
She reached forward, hesitantly gripping the edges of the Hat with both hands. She lifted it into the air, pausing only for a second before placing it onto her head. She held her breath; she felt both Dippet and Dumbledore's eyes on her, so she elected to stare down at Dippet's desk, waiting for the Hat's inevitable House selection for her.
Please Gryffindor, please Gryffindor, please Gryffindor.
Gryffindor, eh?
Eve jumped slightly, startled by the unfamiliar voice that suddenly infiltrated her head. She gripped the armrests of her chair tightly.
You've been Sorted before, the Hat observed, its voice seemingly occupying every bit of free space in Eve's mind.
It hadn't talked to her when she'd been Sorted as a first-year—McGonagall had placed it onto her head, and she'd been Sorted into Gryffindor no less than five seconds later. Harry had talked to her about the conversation he'd had with the Hat during his Sorting, though, and about how it had even catered to his request to not be Sorted into Slytherin. She had hope.
Yes, into Gryffindor, she clarified. Sort me there again. Please.
A few beats of silence, then: Yes, you would do well in Gryffindor. . . .
Eve felt her heart swell with hope.
But . . .
Her heart deflated. What do you mean "but"?
You have potential as a Gryffindor, yes, but you would be much more suited for a different House.
No, I wouldn't!
The Hat ignored her. Hm . . . very logical, well-organized mind. Loyal, yes, and very brave. Intelligent and witty. Clever. Very determined. This is hard, very hard.
No, it's not! Just place me in Gryffindor! You said I'm brave!
Yes, the Hat agreed, but you see, every Hogwarts student embodies some part of every House. It is my job to determine which House traits are the most prominent within them, to determine which House they would excel in the most. For you, I see a very balanced mix of all four. . . . However, I think you'd do very well in one particular House, and that would be SLYTHERIN!
It took Eve a few seconds to realize that the Hat had exclaimed the last word out loud. She looked up—Dippet was clapping his hands politely, while both of Dumbledore's eyebrows were raised high. She stared back down at the desk unseeingly, trying to comprehend what just happened—because if she'd heard right, she was just Sorted into Slytherin.
How in the world could that have happened? She took off the Sorting Hat silently, placing it back onto Dippet's desk and giving it the most intense glare of disbelief she could muster. During the Hat's spiel about how "every Hogwarts student embodies some part of every House," she'd started to get scared. When it had said something about how she had "a very balanced mix of all four," she'd started looking at other options: okay, maybe she wasn't getting Sorted into Gryffindor. Maybe Ravenclaw? She'd even considered Hufflepuff. Slytherin had been the absolute furthest guess from her mind.
How had she been Sorted into the House of Draco Malfoy? Eve wanted to rip apart the Sorting Hat seam by seam.
Instead, she tried to wipe what she was sure was a miserable expression off her face as Dippet muttered, "Wonderful, wonderful" under his breath, returning the Hat to its spot on the shelf with a wave of his wand. "A fine House, Slytherin. Now, your dormitory will be—"
He was interrupted by three even knocks on the door.
"Ah!" Dippet exclaimed, clapping his hands together before Eve could even utter a word and request another go at the Sorting, because Slytherin was most definitely a mistake. "That'll be our Head Boy, who I called up to assist you with settling in. Our Head Girl is out sick, see, but this works out perfectly because our Head Boy is in Slytherin as well!" He then raised his voice to address the person behind the door. "Come in!"
The door creaked open, admitting a tall, black-robed individual into the room. He turned around, and Eve saw familiar inky black waves and dark, piercing eyes. A golden badge glistened from where it was pinned onto his robes, right next to a green-and-silver House patch. This time, he wasn't carrying a Transfiguration book—instead, a pale, bone-like wand was held loosely in his hand.
Dippet stood up, smiling and gesturing at the newcomer. "Miss Laurence, I would like you to meet our Head Boy, Tom Riddle."
