QLFC Round 1
Ye glittering stars that float in liquid air (slower, slower)
Kenmare Kestrels
Beater 1
Main prompt: Fast Radio Bursts
Optional prompts:(object) message in a bottle, (setting) Astronomy Tower, (dialogue) "There has to be something better than this."
Word Count: 294
A/N: Time travel AU, Hermione Granger/Walburga Black
Hermione Granger rested her arms on the ledge of the Astronomy Tower and tilted her head back to look up at the stars. Sometimes, if she stared long enough, she could almost swear that she could see the minuscule movement that marked the passage of time. It was impossible, of course, but she'd been sensitive to time since Professor McGonagall pressed the delicate glass of the Time-turner into her palm. With every spin, every moment replayed, every grain of sand dropped, she'd become more and more aware of the ebb and flow of the unstoppable force around her. There was always a wake, a current, a thousand branches that moved forward.
The Battle at the Department of Mysteries only heightened her awareness-– the Time room with enough Time-turners to fill a beach shovel full of sand, the shining glass of the bell jar, the urge to let the minute grains slip over her fingertips. The golden motes clung to the corners of her eyes, tingeing her vision. Even after the purple fire cut her in half and everything drained of color, the Time room was utterly destroyed; flecks of time clouded her vision when she opened her eyes in St. Mungo's. Nothing was quite the same after that.
It was during her first proper bath after being released from Mungo's that the first mysterious bottle appeared. It rose from the bottom of the tub like a sudden gasp for breath, startling her into a pained hiss. The color was strangely reminiscent of her bluebell flames, and it was barely larger than her pinky, reminding her of the tiny bottles of perfume samples her mother kept neatly lined in her makeup box. She could not resist popping the glass stopper, despite the potential danger. It was very clear to her that she was going to die anyway with the way things were going. She simply refused to do so until she left the mark she wanted on the world.
A single grain of time slipped into the bath water as a very tightly rolled piece of parchment fell into her waiting palm. You're late! it read in a very emphatic hand, the dot of the exclamation mark barely more than a vicious jab into the parchment. Nothing else.
She didn't recognize the handwriting. Nothing lingered except a faint scent she couldn't quite discern over the bathwater. She kept the bottle and its message and mentally filed it under 'Unexplained Magical Incidents' such as when she was able to practice spells all summer without getting an owl from the Improper Use of Magic Department or when Neville exploded his potion using Siberian Redcap Moss, despite there being none in the ingredients cupboard. Or the fact that the Twins had to have seen Ron in bed with someone named Peter Pettigrew on the Marauders' Map and hadn't ever said anything. Even Percy, too, depending on when exactly they found it.
The bottles kept coming. They drifted to her in the Prefect's bath, washed up on the shore of the lake when she was studying, bounced off her curls in the rain, fell into her cup when she poured hot water for some tea. And later, when they were running, they even found their way into her boots as they trudged through the bog. Hermione knew very little about the sender. The handwriting gradually changed as if time had passed for them. The notes smelled lightly of orchid, blackberry, and vetiver. The parchment was of a very high quality, nice and creamy to the touch. The messages were always short and demanding. Where was she? Why was she late? She needed to hurry. She owed the sender black licorice wands and acid pops. They demanded diamonds, a silver-painted hippogriff, two hunting crups, a poem written in their honor, a hair ribbon, a response, an apology. Once, there was no parchment at all, just a single lock of black hair wrapped in silver ribbon. It made Hermione ache to see it, to know that somewhere there was a person, most likely a young woman, sending notes to her beloved and they were making their way to Hermione instead. It seemed terribly improper to simply throw it away. Hair, after all, could be made into some very tricky potions, so she transfigured it into a simple band she wore around her pinky instead. Motes of time occasionally stuck to it, glimmering even in the noon sun.
After watching from the Astronomy Tower as Professor McGonagall was nearly killed, after the Dark Mark hung over the Tower as Professor Dumbledore fell to his death, after her parents ceased to exist, the Horcrux Hunt dragged on even more devastating than all the events before it. When starvation and despair began to dig itself deep in her bones, the bottles and slips of parchment that mingled in the bottom of her beaded bag and the slim black band on her finger became the only reminders that there was life still out there. Somewhere, there was a very prideful and demanding young woman sending scented letters to, and not giving up on, the person she loved. Sometimes, when Slytherin's locket wasn't hanging like a burning anchor around her neck, and the memories of Hogwarts didn't twist like Fiendfyre in her mind, she imagined the sender as a mix between Malfoy and Parkinson, with a dash of Greengrass's elegance. Once, she'd even dreamed of a faceless girl with so much pride that the hippogriff in front of her bowed to her first. Even after Ron's disappearance, Bathilda and Nagini, Harry's sullenness, feeling vulnerable without her wand, and weeks slipping by without a single bottle bearing far more sass than any tiny bottle should, she held on.
Then Ron came back, Harry's temper and mouth refused to be contained, and the Snatchers descended on them like a hoard of angry Acromantulas.
The Cruciatus felt like a paper cut, like a Billywig sting, like undiluted bubotuber pus, like a line of cursed flame wrapped around every single nerve ending. Breathing felt like drowning, like swallowing sand, like drinking fire, like slow petrification, like turning her back on her childhood home. Then strange Bellatrix with her dark, dark eyes and her dark dagger that dripped and dripped and dripped. Time flickered around the room and gathered in the corners like phantom rabbits before they leapt together into a rushing stream. A few rogues stuck to her ring like insistent fireflies. With the last twitch left in her, her fingers stretched toward it.
This led to this moment on the Astronomy Tower, warm robes marking her an apprentice Charms Master wrapped around her as she waited for whom she was certain was Miss Walburga Black, seventh-year Slytherin, a close friend of Mister Tom Riddle. A Tom Riddle who had his family ring, but also had all of his soul. Who knew that sending a terrified fifteen-year-old into the Blitz with extra food from the kitchens and several protection charms capable of withstanding a Bombarda would influence him to focus on spell crafting and invention instead of seeking immortality? Or that Orion Black was very smart but surprisingly fragile, hiding behind the skirts of all of his older female cousins? Or that Dorea Black was a champion fencer who beat Charlus Potter so soundly that he proposed on the spot. And how could she possibly have fathomed that the Weasley family was so prolific that the current third year of Hufflepuff was entirely made of Weasley cousins?
Two years ago, she had been worried about destroying lives and timelines when she woke up in the 1930's, bleeding out in the middle of a very startled Advanced Astronomy class. So afraid that she didn't speak for the first month. But time still flowed and danced in and out of her vision and she quickly realized that time would be what it wanted to be, that being back in the past wasn't an unexpected dam in the river; she'd simply ended up in a different branch of the stream. So she'd lived, and recovered, and did the things she wanted to do, interacted with people without guilt, because time would take her where it wanted and when it wanted and it wanted her here.
Walburga Black had sharp grey eyes and held herself like Narcissa Malfoy, but hid a playfulness that reminded Hermione of Tonks. She had Sirius' smile and Draco's confidence. Unlike Draco, however, she could back it up with her own wand. The Walburga Black in the portrait at Grimmauld looked like this Walburga only if she was turned inside out and then forgotten on the drying line outside. Strong-willed, she got what she wanted when she wanted it and never raised her voice unless she was about to send someone to the Hospital Wing. Which she had, several times, in the brief amount of Hermione had been here. As interesting as it was, Hermione had been content to stay out of any sort of adventures until she was reading student essays and recognized that Walburga Black's penmanship looked hauntingly familiar. Until she deliberately passed closely behind the witch and her lungs had nearly ceased because of the familiar smell of orchid, blackberry, and vetiver. Until she noticed a lock of hair missing from Walburga's temple. And then she absolutely couldn't avoid it anymore when her Charms Master recommended she study charms that were falling out of use thanks to distrust lingering from the last war.
Amid various communication charms, including something very similar to the charmed mirrors Harry and Sirius once had, she found an old charm, supposedly popular in pureblood circles that someone with a very strong will and enough magic power could send messages to their best match wherever in the world they were, in hopes of finding them. It was falling out of use because of the number of people who died in the war and the despair of never having a letter answered because that person never existed. There were also worries that an enemy could be on the other side. That night, Hermione had cast the spell on an empty inkwell. The next morning Walburga was on a rampage because someone had magicked an inkwell into her favorite cup.
Hermione didn't believe in fate, but she did believe in time, and the sand that spilled one grain at a time out of little crystalline blue bottles and gathered on the lock of hair around her finger. She believed in the demands that still rustled in her bag and kept her going over many long months.
Finally, Hermione heard quiet footsteps and turned around, watching quietly as Walburga appeared. The witch was taller than Hermione and struck an imposing figure in her finely cut cloak, her eyes searching with an intensity that Hermione had only ever seen in a Black's eyes. In her gloved hand, Hermione saw the reused blue bottle and bit of parchment she had sent her this morning using the charm. Her message had been simple. Astronomy Tower. 10 o'clock. After several moments of watching her and reconfirming her decision, Hermione stepped out of the shadows.
"Miss Black."
Walburga whirled to face her, disappointment flashing briefly in her eyes.
"Apprentice Granger! I didn't see you there. Have you happened upon Lucretia's scarf? I'm afraid she leant it to Orion, and he misplaced it."
Hermione was impressed by the sheer confidence the Slytherin could muster while lying straight to her face. "No lost scarves, I'm afraid. Do you always keep track of all your cousins?"
"Family is one of the most important things to any Black worthy of the name," Walburga sniffed, "And someone has to herd them in the right direction."
"I know that feeling well," Hermione replied, thinking with a pang of sadness about Ron and Harry.
Walburga looked around the Astronomy Tower one last time before dipping her head politely. "If you'll pardon me, I'll return to the dungeons." She whirled around toward the stairs.
"I won't," Hermione said plainly.
The Slytherin stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder. "Pardon?"
"I won't," Hermione repeated, "Pardon you, that is, if you return to the dungeons."
"Apprentice Granger?" Walburga asked cautiously, facing Hermione again.
"It's terribly rude," Hermione continued, "To arrive at a planned meeting and then leave without any proper conversation."
Walburga's brow furrowed and Hermione watched as her hand flexed over the message she'd sent earlier. She turned her face toward the sky again.
"There has to be something better than this," she mused, "Something greater than all the stars and all the magic that holds Hogwarts together. I think I'd like to experience it."
She could hear Walburga shuffle one step closer. "Are you feeling unwell, Apprentice Granger? Shall I walk with you to the infirmary?"
Hermione couldn't help the amused smirk that curled the corners of her mouth upward as she returned her gaze to the Slytherin. "That is unnecessary, Miss Black." Fishing deep into her beaded bag, she pulled out a well-worn stack of parchment. "I do apologize for being unable to respond in a timely manner to your letters, but I will respond now."
She cleared her throat and started with the first message she ever received. "I am not late, in fact you were incredibly early. I was in the bath. Studying by the lake. Attempting to make tea. At a funeral. In a tent in a forest with boots that never dried and hunger that never left. Once again, I was not late, you were decades early. No one can rush time. As an apprentice, I haven't had much time to go to Hogsmeade to purchase licorice wands or acid pops. And I certainly do not have enough money to buy you diamonds, unless you don't mind if they're transfigured."
Hermione watched recognition slowly ignite in Walburga's eyes.
"Only a fool would attempt to paint a hippogriff, but I might be able to make you a lovely little model of one. You don't need any hunting crups here at Hogwarts, but I'm willing to negotiate once you graduate. Poems give me nightmares," she admitted thinking back to second year, "But I did my best and if you hold your invitation over a nice hot cup of lemon tea, you'll be able to read it. And unfortunately, I lost the lovely ribbon you sent me. It disappeared during an attack and a very regrettable case of splinching."
Hermione tilted her chin upwards in a bout of stubbornness. "I don't believe I owe you any apology except that it took me over a year to put the pieces together and recognize you after I settled in here. As for the lock of hair you sent…" Hermione held up her hand, showing off the ring. Briefly it rippled into its original state before reforming. "...I haven't taken this off since I transfigured it. It's been a great comfort to me through some of my hardest times. There were times when I thought I would die. Times where I thought, Anything would be better than this. If you give up it will all be over and the pain will stop. It will all stop. But then I'd feel this ring on my finger and…"
Hermione shook herself, trailing off. She took note that Walburga's whole demeanor had shifted. Her confusion and uncertainty were gone, replaced with something piercing and intent.
Hermione slipped the parchments back into her bag. "Let me be abundantly clear, Miss Walburga Black. I am a Muggleborn, though I no longer have ties to that world. The only possessions I have to my name were given to me by my Master or are currently in this bag. I have no hidden wizard relatives and I am not the heir to some long-lost title. I have terrible scars all over my body and there are times I wake up screaming, others when my entire body shakes."
She stepped toward Walburga and stopped only when they were shoulder to shoulder. She looked upwards, meeting her eyes. "I'm a know-it-all. I have a temper that's rather vengeful once it's triggered. I hate pranks, idiots, and the Chudley Cannons. I'm painfully loyal. I've brewed illegal potions, faced werewolves, sent a woman towards a hoard of centaurs in hopes she would disappear, and kept another transfigured and locked in a jar for several weeks with nothing but a stick, a leaf, and an occasional spritz of water until I was satisfied she would do exactly what I wanted her to do."
She held the Slytherin's gaze for several moments, letting her words settle between them. Walburga finally blinked and cocked her eyebrow, something unbearably smug in the curve of her mouth. "Apprentice Granger, you do realize that, for a Black, that was far more attractive than any poem or love confession could ever be."
Hermione huffed a laugh. "Well, if you're properly interested, I like sugar quills and dark chocolate. I suppose you have until graduation to make a decision and convince me." She resumed walking toward the stairs.
A gloved hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her. Hermione tilted her head back towards Walburga.
The witch's eyes burned with haughty amusement. "The Black family motto is Toujours Pur. Pure power, pure talent, pure will, pure sense of purpose. I find it terribly adorable that you think it will take me that long to convince you, Hermione."
"Oh, Walburga." Hermione grinned, patting the hand on her wrist. "You thought one inkwell was troublesome; I have a whole bag full of your notes. Do you know how irritating it is to walk outside and have a bottle hit your head in the rain and then slide down the back of your shirt? I would start with the sugar quills."
Sliding out of Walburga's grip, she started down the stairs. She waved over her shoulder. "Don't forget to return to the dungeons!"
Just because time brought them together didn't mean that Hermione couldn't make her work for it.