Poppy wasn't an idiot.
Nor was she naive.
She might remain fairly neutral when it came to politics – whether they affected the school or not – but she did involve herself in the transitory nature of caring for an ever growing, ever changing, and ever evolving student body. She looked after them, and hoped she never got to know any of them closely. Because she was a nurse. A mediwitch. Getting to know a student meant that they were ill or injured frequently, and it was against her nature to want that.
And while Hermione Granger wasn't one of her most frequent visitors, she had become one of the most memorable. Not only for the unusual afflictions she came in with, or more often the afflictions of her close friends, but also for a mystery that she brought with her that she, herself, was unaware of bringing.
The Mystery of the Duplicate File.
That was what Poppy called it in her head. Or The File for short.
Not long after Hermione's first sojourn to the Hospital Wing in her second year, Poppy went about filing away the girl's medical notes in the extensive floor to ceiling shelves of the archive room. Lo and behold, there was already a file with her name on it. At first, Poppy assumed it belonged to a witch with the same name. It happened quite frequently, after all. Family names that got passed down generation after generation among the purebloods. Even among the muggleborn children there were occasionally duplicates, particularly if they had common names, like John or Susan with equally uninspired surnames. But, It didn't take much reflection to consider this situation as something other than an odd coincidence. Hermione was not a common name, and neither was she a half-blood or pure-blood witch. Meaning she wasn't likely to have relatives that were alumni. While that didn't rule out an unlikely coincidence, pulling out the duplicate file and reviewing it made the idea that they were two separate people nigh on impossible to conceive. It had revealed possible answers but even more mysteries.
She had no memory of the girl in the File, who by all accounts, appeared out of nowhere in the beginning of term in 1976. The injuries and the extensive stay in the Hospital Wing would have meant that Poppy would have known the girl quite well. And given how unusual of an event having someone from the future fall out of time under her care, she should have very clear memories of Hermione Granger. But she had no recollection of her, and had kept no diary to cross reference with the events told in The File. Part of her wondered if it wasn't a prank. Those Weasley twins hadn't yet caused mischief for her in the Hospital Wing, but that didn't mean they wouldn't. Though, it did seem rather stupid to mess with the only nurse in the school, and the twins weren't known to be idiots.
It was fairly easy to dismiss the last bit of doubt that Hermione Granger in 1976 and Hermione Granger in the present were the same when in the girl's third year she was entrusted with a Time Turner. That year, Poppy finally settled that she possessed evidence of a time traveler's life in the past, and had half expected the events of the file to occur, despite Hermione's age not coinciding with the age in The File. But nothing happened that indicated that she had traveled back more than a few hours, let alone seventeen years. Even more frustrating, the Time Turner was returned to the Ministry at the end of the year, seemingly eradicating the possibility of further time travel.
The mystery lay in waiting. When? And why? And how? Those were the mysteries left. For nearly two years Poppy had to wait for any more clues. And finally an answer to one of the mysteries was presented to her and was, at that moment, glittering in one of her hands. Two circles of gold, one inside the other, intricately engraved with swirling runes. At the center was an hourglass with grains of glimmering, golden sand that shifted slightly as she examined it.
When the patients were ushered into the Hospital Wing in the middle of the night, Poppy, had instantly been in a flurry. The patronus that had reached her ten minutes earlier had given her a brief overview of what to expect and doubt had warred with concern. She only had two hands to work with, even with magic assisting her. Thankfully, when they arrived, the triage was relatively easy, as only one of the patients was unconscious and no one was bleeding out, her priorities were clear.
Whatever spell had been used on Hermione had caused some serious internal damage. Very familiar pattern of internal damage, Poppy noted, when she was casting the diagnostic spell. Down to the damage to the right ovary. She didn't stop to think about that, other than the passing thought that she had no better idea about what dangerous spell had been used than she did back in 1976. She kept her focus on the slowly eroding tissue. It looked like caustic burns that were incrementally spreading out, dissolving the organs.
It wasn't until after she had stabilized Hermione, and was making the girl comfortable on the cot that she noticed the device gripped in her hand.
She looked down at it now, the understanding that the events of the past were closer than ever. The small voice urging her to turn the Time Turner in to Dumbledore was squashed by a closely held grief and guilt.
Sirius had been a favorite of her's. He and his friends would get into the oddest of scrapes and were quite regularly in her care. When he wasn't in one of her cots, he would help her look after his friends. Like it was the most natural place for him, he would assist her in distributing potions or splinting a broken bone. He wasn't squeamish around blood, and would gather information around the Hospital Wing unconsciously. He fell into the roll of her aid like it was where he had always belonged. She didn't think it ever occurred to him to study medicine – having overheard him and Potter discussing their plans to become the greatest dark wizard catchers the world had ever seen – so, she made him think about it. She shoved an anatomy textbook into his hands and gave him homework, informally apprenticing him to her. Despite the shock, Sirius had taken to her lessons like a duck to water.
The war had dashed her hopes of him entering into formal training as a mediwizard, but she had been proud of him and the progress he had made in the two years she had him in her tutelage. She knew he had too much zeal in him to stay away from the fight, but it comforted her to have offered him a bit of protection in her own way. He was the closest to a child of her own she ever got to have, and though she never got to say it, she loved him dearly.
When the news of the Potters had reached her, and Sirius' supposed involvement, it had broken her heart. It didn't make sense to her that her student could ever turn on his friends. He was a boy of found family; estranged from shared blood by opposing ideals. How could he have turned out that way? How could he have murdered his best friends? He had expunged himself from pureblood imperialist ideas as much as he could from age eleven and never wavered from his self ostracization, and later exile. No pressure seemed to be able to sway him.
His conviction weighed on her. Years of her doubt were buried beneath the assurances and condemnations of others who were so sure of his guilt. It was so contrary to what she knew of him. So, antithetical to the boy who bent over the worn varnish of her front desk, sleeves rolled up, practicing sutures on bananas. He never complained, and even seemed to revel reading through the anatomy and medical texts she provided, never turned up his nose at the static images or science that so many magical folk deemed unnecessary to learn and understand. But, nearly everyone she trusted had staunchly believed his guilt. How could they not? Dumbledore would have fought tooth and nail for at least a trial if he thought there was any doubt.
At least she believed he would. He was Dumbledore. Greatest Wizard of the age. Truest and noblest.
Why then had she felt such a strong urge to keep The File to herself for so long? Was it that small faith that Sirius had been innocent all along that held her tongue? Or maybe she was just trying to absolve herself of guilt now that she was sure of his innocence. Now that he was…
Poppy shut her eyes. The image of a bright eyed boy grinned back at her from behind her eyelids. Her boy. Though maybe she had no right to think of him that way.
Her hand closed over the small device in her hand, the cold metal shifting against the pressure. She might have doubted him, may have turned her back on him unjustly– unknowingly or not– but this girl had not. Hermione had risked herself for Sirius. Very nearly died to save him. Who was she to meddle in their fate? Poppy might not have a single recollection of Hermione in the past, and maybe it was cruel, knowing the injuries that would lead her to the past, but Sirius deserved someone who would risk everything for him. There was something comforting in the idea that his story wasn't quite over, in its own strange way.
She tucked the Time Turner into Hermione's hand, wrapping the chain around her palm a few times to make sure it didn't slip out of her hand. With a pat to her loose fist Poppy gave the unconscious girl a sad smile.
"Be good to him, dear. I have a feeling he needs you," she whispered before turning around and walking away. She had other patients to see, and keeping busy would hold her grief away for a little while longer.
Poppy wasn't stupid.
Nor was she naive.
But she was hopeful.
In the few moments between waking and opening her eyes, Hermione felt a wellspring of panic and dread spread from her gut to her chest to her throat. The harsh thrumming of her heart washed over her whole body. The last thing she remembered was a cacophony of curses and echoing voices, and disorienting lights mirrored off of polished black marble, making the current quiet was jarring and full of possibilities.
After a heartbeat and a bracing breath, she pried her eyes open. The familiar buttresses of the Hogwarts infirmary greeted her, and reassured her that at the very least, they had pulled through and gotten out of the Ministry. She let herself relax for a moment, sinking into the pillow under her head and closing her eyes to breathe in the calm after the chaos of the DOM. The deep pulsing pressure behind her eyes receded. She didn't know how long she had been unconscious, but her last moments awake had been chaos, and the next thing she knew she was awake in the stillness of the castle. Safe, at least from bodily harm and imminent death.
Her peace only lasted a moment, before she started to feel uneasy. It was still too quiet. Things had happened while she was out. Whatever they might have been, good or ill, she meant to know. Who had made it out alive? Who else was injured? What sort of political ramifications might have occurred due to their rash actions? Was Sirius apprehended? Surely there had to have been enough witnesses that could vouch that he had been fighting with them, and not against them. Though, the appearance of other Death Eaters under Voldemort's regime, confirming his return, would likely take precedent in The Prophet. It was doubtful they could cover up the incident the way they had with the TriWizard Tournament. Too many eyes, too much noise, to be able to hide behind the idea of conspiracy theorists this time. But, there should be enough to legitimize Sirius' innocence regardless of the media coverage. Maybe something positive could still come from the catastrophe. It's nice to imagine him being a free man.
With another deep breath she began to sit up. The sharp pain across her abdomen was not unexpected but nonetheless shocking. It felt deep, like someone tied a piano wire tight around her insides. Whatever Dolohov hit her with hadn't been something with a quick fix. The sudden change in orientation caused lightheadedness that had her closing her eyes as she waited for the vertigo to go away.
There wasn't much to see once her eyes were open, as her cot was partitioned off from the rest. As she sat, she allowed herself to adjust, acclimating to the tenderness that bisected her abdomen. After a moment she carefully swung her legs over the side and set them on the cool stone floor. Curiously she felt a chain wrapped around her fist as she braced her hands against the bed. Lifting her palm up she examined the sloping curves and reflective metal of a Time Turner dangling down from the chain encircling her hand.
She knew where it came from. Remembered the barely thought out decision to snag one when she saw the glittering table filled with the devices. How did she still have it? Madame Pomfrey surely had seen it while treating her, did the nurse not know what it was? That seemed unlikely but it was the only explanation she could postulate at that moment with her muddled thoughts.
The curtain surrounding her was drawn back carefully– which didn't stop her from startling at the intrusion– to reveal an exhausted looking Lupin.
"You shouldn't be up, Hermione," he gently chastised. His smile was fragile with a bitter tint that curled around the corners.
"Professor." Relief at seeing a trusted friend blinded her to the obvious dolor of his mood. She curled her fist against the Time Turner, hiding it from view. "What's happened? Are the others okay? Sirius?"
The way his face fell at her question had her heart dropping in her stomach. The wire of pain seemed to tighten, and all she wanted to do is to lay back down under the covers and go back to sleep so that when she woke again whatever dark revelation that was about to slip out of Lupin's mouth would have been a nightmare – a product of her anxious mind.
"Harry, Ron, and the others are all fine. They had some injuries but they've recovered well. You were hurt the worst. You've been unconscious for the last couple of days, but the others have been released and are in relatively good health," Lupin said as he quietly ushered her back under the blanket, making her lay down. Stretching out initially made her wounds ache worse but once she relaxed her muscles, Hermione found that laying down did make her feel better. She hadn't realized the cold sweat that had broken out across her forehead until it started cooling. But that didn't distract from the two questions that Lupin had tactfully avoided.
"What happened to Sirius?" She didn't really want to ask. The answer shrouded behind Lupin's eyes was making her feel sick, her mind supplying conclusions that she willfully ignored. Assume; means makes an ass out of you and me, she could hear her dad saying in the back of her mind, a last handhold of hope holding her up from the gravity of grief. His voice was overshadowed by a screeching of despair and guilt in her mind. Her lungs felt shallow, her hands felt tingly and she barely registered them slowly seizing into tight fists. Time had slowed, or Lupin took his time. Either way she felt angonized in the silence. Torn between the hope that she was just jumping to the worst possible scenario and that everything was really fine, and dread that she already knew what he was going to say.
All too soon and all too late, Lupin answered her. "Sirius is dead."
The screeching in her head stopped. Her mind was curiously blank even as her heart dropped into her stomach once again. When she looked back on that moment later, she'd recognise it as shock. They were the words she expected, but words that she really didn't believe could actually be spoken.
"You're lying," the words tumbled out of her mouth without her consent. It wasn't rational to doubt him –to doubt his word when she had already guessed– but something had snapped in her. It didn't matter that she had anticipated his answer, it was wrong. That sentence was wrong. He was wrong. And if he was right, reality itself was wrong!
"I'm so sorry, Hermione." His voice was choked, like it was forced through a tight throat. She hardly noticed though. She was scrambled, unable to complete thoughts as she felt herself free fall through space. She felt outside herself, split in two. It was like watching herself in a dream, unable to control her physical self even as she analyzed the dream for absurdities, proof that it wasn't real.
"NO!" she shouted, the cold metal of the cot's headboard bit into her back as she flung herself back and away from him. It was a bad joke. It had to be a bad joke. Punishment for their recklessness. Retribution for her not convincing Harry to be more sensible and staying in the castle.
"I'm sorry," Lupin repeated. He reached out for her, ignoring her flinch away from him and drew her towards him. Her face pressed into his shoulder, the careworn softened knit of his sweater dampened with her tears and the uncontrolled wails that it muffled. He held her tight, repeating his apology into her hair, wetting her locks with his own sadness.
Hermione woke, with a headache. It was dark in the infirmary, moonlight cast against the buttresses, sending long, deep shadows away across the ceiling. For a brief moment she had hope that it really was a nightmare, she closed her eyes and breathed past the blockade in her lungs, expanding her chest fully for the first time and feeling her ribs stretch out their aches. A dream. That's right. A dream.
She pretended she didn't hear the soft snoring of Lupin sleeping in the chair next to her bedside. She pretended that she didn't feel the sharp ache of blood returning to the lines the edges the Time Turner had bit into her hand as she relaxed her fist. She pretended that she was calm, that the pounding of her heart wasn't strumming in her throat. She pretended that everything was alright.
She pretended that Sirius was alive.
