Dying is a Delicate Moment Chapter 30: SIGN OF THE TIMES, a harry potter fanfic

"Dying is a Delicate Moment"

A fanfic by Agara

CHAPTER THIRTY: SIGN OF THE TIMES

Song: Sign of the Times by Harry Styles

25.12.1944 :

The Black's party had finished an hour ago. They had just arrived at Abraxas's townhouse in Marylebone. The lads had entered first and had gone directly into the living room. Avery had opened a bottle of firewhiskey, Abraxas had lit up the fire. They were now all chatting among themselves, beginning to plan eagerly the downfall of Balthazar Zabini.

Tom was standing next to the door, staring at the glass in his hand. He didn't even remember how he got it, maybe Avery had given it to him. Tom's anger, initially directed towards Zabini, had now shifted towards himself. He wondered how he had not thought this man would betray him. If he were in his shoes, he would have done the exact same thing. Tom was mad that he hadn't planned that, that they hadn't planned that. He felt the anger slowly rising in his guts. He downed his drink in one go and slammed the glass on the nearest table. The lads' heads all raised towards him.

"What do we do?" Thorus asked.

"Not tonight," Tom firmly replied. He briefly scanned the room and noticed that she was not there.

"We have to-"

"I said not tonight," Tom repeated. "Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, we plan".

The lads didn't move, as if they were not sure if he was kidding or not. Tom took the bottle of firewhiskey and poured himself a drink. He raised the drink in the air, waiting for the lads to follow. He saw, from the corner of his eyes, Grace coming down the stairs, her long satin dress flowing at her every move. He looked back at the lads in front of him.

"To plan which backfires," Isodor rose a toast.

"And to the men who fix it," Tom finished. From the looks in the lads' eyes, he knew the lads were not worried. They knew he was on top of it. They were on top of it.

They all downed their drink and the lads went back to chatting enthusiastically, music blasting on the phonograph.

Tom put down his drink and noticed that Grace was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. He briefly looked around him, none of the lads had noticed. He slowly approached her. She was looking at him, she seemed angry or anxious. Tom couldn't tell.

"Do you want a drink ?" He simply asked.

"No," she replied, "but you might pour another one for yourself."

Tom frowned, not fully understanding. Grace looked upon his shoulders, at the lads, before setting her gaze back on him. She seemed cold and was looking at him in this weird way.

"What's wrong ?"He asked.

"The Department of Mysteries is planning an inventory", she stated. Tom didn't reply, expecting her to continue. Grace's eyes fell onto her left hand, closed in a tight fist. Slowly, she opened it and revealed a broken time-turner.

It took a second for Tom to remember where he last saw this artefact. Then, he got a flashback: Grace leaning against the handrails in the ballroom of the ministry last Christmas, her dress ripped at the shoulder and him showing her what he had found in his pocket.

"We have another problem," Grace said.

31.12.1944:

"It was a real pleasure, Sir," Hermione smiled as she stood up from the large wooden chair.

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Hortense" replied the man behind the large desk in front of her.

Filmont Waterhouse was in his mid-forties. He had an easy smile on his lips and slightly greying hair. He was wearing a suit, an expensive one Hermione guessed, navy blue. Hermione's eyes then fell on the small pin, hooked to his vest, the one she had seen more in the last two and a half years than she could have imagined, the one all men from the ministry wore proudly.

The man also stood up and extended a hand Hermione gladly shook.

"You, Miss Hortense, are the proof that our future is in good hands," Filmont praised her. Hermione pretended to be embarrassed by the compliment. People liked modesty. "The Ministry would greatly benefit from someone like you." This could have been a great compliment to Hermione, she could have loved to hear someone with his status telling her that. If only Filmont Waterhouse wasn't telling her that she would make the perfect secretary, making coffee and organising stationery. Hermione sometimes forgot the era she was in. "You will hear from us very soon," he added.

They both reached the door, Filmont opened it and with a last charming smile, Hermione bid her goodbyes and disappeared in the sea of corridors.

Her heels were resonating in the empty hallways. As expected at this time of year, the corridors were almost empty. Every once in a while, when she crossed paths with someone, she always smiled and slightly nodded her head to greet them. Her walk was steady, confident.

"Ready?" She heard behind her. Hermione quickly looked over her shoulder and saw Tom walking towards her. He was wearing a black suit underneath large wizarding robes. His hair was impeccably styled, slightly wavy, and gently falling on the side of his head. Even if Tom's look was always well-prepared, Hermione could see that he had put in extra effort this morning.

The last few days, spent in London, away from the castle for the holidays, had been hectic. She remembered waking up, taking her coffee with some of the lads and then either planning for this day or running errands around London. She also remembered the way Tom would approach her during the day, trying to talk to her, and how she would always find an excuse to get away. It had been tiring the last few days. But Hermione knew that this, what was about to happen right now, was much more important than anything else.

Tom took one last step towards her and gently, he took her hand. At the touch, Hermione tensed a bit. They were both well aware of the tension between them, but they also knew that from the outside they would look like a cute couple.

They began walking, hand in hand, through the maze of corridors, knowing exactly where to go. Finally, they arrived. There it was, the dark blue door, with a large silvery knob. From the outside, it looked like every regular door, but Hermione knew better. She took a large breath, preparing herself as Tom was warily looking around them, making sure no one was arriving.

After giving Tom one last look, Hermione slowly approached the door and with a trembling hand pulled it open.

She was welcomed by darkness, frightening darkness. She heard the soft thud of the door closing behind her. Without a second of hesitation, she ripped her hand away from Tom's.

Suddenly, the room lit up. Hermione slowly raised her head and saw dozens of candles floating in the air. When she looked back down, she could finally see what was before them, twelve similar large doors. It was so silent that Hermione could hear her heart hammering in her chest. She stayed there for a couple of seconds, just taking in the sight in front of her. Then, she gently turned her head to the right, to where she knew he was standing. Tom seemed as intrigued as she was by the room. His brows were slightly furrowed. Hermione wondered if he was expecting something else, something more maybe? He slowly turned his head towards her, she held his gaze.

Tom opened his mouth to speak but Hermione cut him off, "they store them behind this door". She was pointing at the one on the far left. Tom took a step towards her, he was now looking at the said door. He looked at her and without a second of hesitation replied "lead the way".

Hermione walked towards the door. She pushed it open and was welcomed by a familiar sight. The room was just like the last time she had been there, a year ago. It was a long room and almost seemed like it was never-ending. The walls were covered by large shelves, some full of magical artefacts and others still empty.

In the middle was a table, going all the way to the back with small lamps barely lighting the room. Hermione took the first step inside, quickly followed by Tom. The latter approached the shelf on the left side, upon which were stored brains in jars.

She knew what he was thinking. He was intrigued. As she was the last time she had gotten there. If he could, she knew he would like to study every single artefact in the room. If he could, he would spend hours trying to learn everything about them. However, they were here for one thing only and Hermione couldn't help but want to get out of there as soon as possible.

She was rushing down the room, looking at every shelf, desperately trying to find the one she was looking for. "There," she finally said, recognising from afar the shelves where she retrieved the time-turner from. Hermione picked up the pace at the same time as she searched through her purse to retrieve the time-turner. They had cast a reparo on it the night before, to make sure it looked like the other ones even though it was not working. But as soon as she arrived where they were supposed to be, she stopped in her tracks.

The shelf was bare.

In a hurry, she put her bags on the table behind her and began searching through the adjacent shelves. Last time, there were hourglasses, watches, and flowers underneath glass domes experiencing time at full speed. But there, in front of Hermione's eyes, the shelves were empty.

"They have not been moved yet," she heard right by her side. Hermione was startled and saw Tom, who must have climbed over the table, right next to her. In his right hand was a small sticky note, upon which was written "time-related objects to be retrieved on the 2nd of January from the Time room."

Hermione's eyes were stuck on the small piece of paper, letting her brain fully understand what this meant. Her heart began racing in her chest. Slowly, she looked up to him. They stayed there, in silence, fully aware of what they had to do.

Tom put the Post-it back, Hermione retrieved her bag from the table and they left the room, silence weighing heavily around them.

They were back in the antechamber, staring at the twelve doors. Hermione could feel her legs slightly shaking, tingles in her fingertips. Her mind was racing, imagining every worse scenario. Right next to her, Tom seemed almost unfazed. He was looking at her. "Just like we said," he simply said.

25.12.1944 :

Hermione was leaning against the cold guardrail of the window, a cigarette in her right hand. She could feel the freezing breeze on her bare back.

She was staring at Tom. He was leaning against the wall on the right, his arms crossed upon his chest. He had gotten rid of the black blow and had unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His hair was ruffled from the long night they had had. He looked tired, he had light dark circles underneath his eyes. She must have looked the same. She was barefoot, her feet sinking into a soft rug, her hair falling gently on her shoulders.

She put the cigarette between her lips and inhaled. The lads, in the living room downstairs, were loudly chatting, laughing, and sometimes even singing. The contrast between the atmosphere down there and in the room they were in was blatant.

"What if we do not go?" Tom asked.

Hermione's eyes fell on him. She simply stared for a few seconds. She wanted to ask him why he had Belone follow her around, why he was still not trusting her. But she knew this was more important. So Hermione took another drag of her cigarette before replying "they would launch an investigation." She put out the cigarette. "A time turner is not like any other artefact. It is tracked and if one is missing they have to know why," she explained. "We cannot afford an investigation when the trial is ongoing."

Hermione finished her cigarette and began explaining to him how she retrieved it last year. She told him that she had gotten into the inventory room and rapidly found it. She told him that she never had that much luck in her life.

"What if we are not that lucky?" Tom said. "It is not like luck is on our side right now."

"What do you mean?"

"What if we cannot go into the room? What if they have not been stored yet?"

Hermione stared at him. She knew exactly the answer to this last question.

"If the inventory has not begun for the time turners, then they are still in the room where they are created," she said.

"Alright, where is that?"

"In one of the eleven other rooms."

Tom looked at her. He must have seen the anxiety in her eyes because he just snorted. "Let me guess," he began, "you have no clue which one it is."

–-

31.12.1944:

"Just like we said," Tom said.

Hermione took a deep breath. "Remember," she began, "no peeking, we have to walk through the room to exit it. We don't touch anything," a bright flash came to her mind, Ron touching a brain, him screaming in pain. "If we hear something, we don't follow the noise," Hermione remembered Harry being pulled towards the veil, hearing voices.

Tom approached the second door and turned his head to look at her, silently encouraging her to join him. She didn't move though. She was simply standing straight, looking at the dark tiles on the ground. She didn't want to go. She thought about retrieving the broken time turner from her bag, shoving it in Tom's hand, and letting him go by himself. "You can do it alone," she would have said, "you just have to go through the room, I will stay here." Hermione wished she could tell him that, she wished he would ask her to stay behind.

Tom sensed the panic rushing through her entire body because he approached and looked deeply into her eyes. "Grace, you cannot panic." His voice was firm, cold.

Hermione didn't move, she kept taking deep long breaths and looking straight ahead.

"Grace," Tom's voice was a bit more angry, his patience wearing thin. "Is there something you are not telling me ?"

This pulled Hermione out of her transe. Of course, they were things she was not telling him. She had not told him that they could die there, that they were about to go into the unknown. And of course, she had not told him she had had nightmares of this place and that she was currently petrified to even go back there.

She hadn't told him and was not about to. So, she looked back at him, her eyes fierce and back straight. "Let's go," she finally said.

Hermione was the first one to enter the room, it was pitch dark. Hermione felt her heart racing. She was beginning to panic. Then she felt Tom's hand taking hers, as if to say "I am here. Do not panic". Even if Hermione wanted to snatch her hand away from him, she didn't. It was reassuring and she was indeed panicking.

They stayed there for a few minutes, not knowing what to do. It was terrifying. Then, a flashing light hurtled right next to them to disappear seconds later in the darkness. Hermione was startled and spun around, freeing herself from Tom's hand. As their eyes became slowly acclimated to the darkness, they began discerning small balls of light. They seemed to be kilometres away.

There, another light rushed a few metres away. It only had time to lighten up Tom's face before disappearing into the darkness. Hermione was able to see his frown, his eyes slightly panicked. They had no idea where they were, no idea what could happen in this room. They had no idea where the end of the room even was. They didn't even know if it was ending somewhere.

Then they heard a loud thud and a few seconds later, a bright light from above startled them. Hermione slowly raised her head to the ceiling and let out a breath. There, right above them was a galaxy. It was breathtaking. Hermione had never seen anything like this before. The panic she felt a few minutes before seemed to have disappeared in front of this mesmerising scene.

Tom, right in front of her, was also looking at the millions of constellations, planets, and stars flowing in the distance. They didn't move for a few minutes. They just took everything in, getting lost in the immensity of the universe. She could stay here for days, it was calm, it was beautiful, it was peaceful.

"It is up there," Tom's voice brought her back to reality. She looked at him and coked her head to the side, inviting him to tell her more. Tom simply pointed at a staircase going up, spiralling around the universe.

Silently, they began walking up, slowly. Shooting stars were still rushing past them. Hermione was awed in front of such a scenery. As they went up, they were getting closer to the planets. They seemed so far away when they were still on the ground. Now Hermione felt like she could almost touch them.

She remembered this room from her fifth year. She remembered Luna floating in the air, casting reducto at Pluto. She could almost see the sparkles in Harry's eyes as he was looking at the constellations. Then, as a large planet went past them, Hermione felt her heart clenching.

"Harry, we saw Uranus up close!" she remembered Ron saying, giggling. "Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus."

Hermione didn't mean to let out a chuckle. Tom, a few steps in front of her stopped in his tracks and turned towards her, confused. "What is funny?" He asked.

Hermione slightly tensed at the question. She didn't want to talk to him, even less when she was thinking about Ron and Harry. In the end, she didn't reply, she simply kept going.

Hermione could feel Tom getting increasingly annoyed by her silence, as he had been for the last few days with her avoiding him. She could feel him looking at her from time to time as if he was trying to get her to talk.

"Are you really still not talking to me?" Hermione was looking around her, at the stars rushing past them. She stayed silent still. "You are ridiculous," he finished.

"Oh I'm well aware you think I'm ridiculous," Hermione murmured. Tom stopped and looked at her, obviously not understanding what she meant.

"Pardon me?"

Hermione stopped too. "Is it really what you think I'm worth? Making coffee and organising stationery?"

Then, Tom finally realised she was talking about the interview she had prior. He had been the one getting her this interview, he had told her that this would be perfect, she would be close to the Minister's cabinet.

"Grace, you would be working in the Minister's cabinet," Tom stated.

"Making coffee!" Hermione was pissed. Tom resumed walking up the stairs. Hermione kept looking at him, taken aback by this.

She was fuming inside. This morning's interview had been the cherry on the cake for Hermione. She couldn't comprehend how Tom thought this would be the ideal job for her. He had never been the one to underestimate her. She knew she needed this interview today to be in the ministry, but still, it was pissing her off.

Hermione closed her hands in a tight fist, trying to defuse the tension building up in her body. Then, a star came flashing right next to her, she felt the heat.

"You told me this position would be perfect for me," Hermione called out to him. At that, Tom turned around. He was a dozen steps above her. He tilted his head to the side.

"You do not get it, do you?" He rhetorically asked. It was patronising and Hermione despised him at this moment. "You would be close to the Minister of Magic, you would be aware of all the people he meets," Tom kept talking as he walked back down to meet her, "you would be able to hear, see, read everything!" He had stopped on the step right above her and was looking down upon her.

There, another star passed right by them. They were both startled. It was closer than before. Hotter.

"You would be among high society," Tom kept going. "We need to stay in the highest sphere of power, Grace. We may be invited to parties now because of our status at school. Once we leave, we need to stay there."

Hermione frowned. He didn't make sense. She looked at him and wondered how he could think that. Sometimes, Hermione wondered how Tom could be so intelligent, so sensible to intricate matters, but yet so blind on such important topics.

"Tom, you don't get it, I will always be among high society," she declared. It was so obvious to Hermione. "Men stay in high society, if not by birth, by working. Women stay in high society through marriage."

Hermione had known what was expected of her. She saw the other wives at school. Walburga was on the verge of getting the ultimate power of being the hostess of the House of Black's parties. This, right there, was the power women were holding. Women were playing an essential part of power, most often not seen by men. But they were the ones with precious information they gathered at those gatherings, gossiping with other powerful women.

Hermione knew what she had to do and she was already keeping a list of potential suitors that would give her this power.

Hermione didn't have time to see Tom's reaction that another star came flashing right past them. It made Tom stumble forward, crashing into her. Then, another one and another one. Hermione, slightly panicked, looked around her. The peaceful atmosphere that was there at first was far gone. When did this happen? The galaxy above them had turned a slight shade of red, the planets were getting large and the stars were shooting erratically around the room.

They looked at each other, well aware of the predicament they were in. Without talking, they rushed up the stairs, trying to avoid anything that would potentially hit them. Hermione was out of breath, the panic was fully back.

Finally, she saw the door from afar, she pushed through the pain, her breath ragged. Tom arrived a few seconds beforehand and pushed the door open. Hermione rushed through it and closed it shut.

They were silent, trying to catch their breath. They had been reckless. Hermione finally turned around and looked at Tom in the middle of the atrium. How could they forget, even for one minute, where they were? Tom finally looked up and she saw that he was thinking the exact same thing.

They didn't need to talk. They knew they had to quickly go to the next room.

–-

As soon as she stepped a foot inside the room, she was taken aback. After what they had just seen, Hermione was not ready to be welcomed by a warm and welcoming aura.

The room was unexpectedly bright, the floor and walls were white marble, and there were large windows on each wall through which the sun was shining, contrasting with the darkness of the room they had just been in. Hermione wondered how it was possible given that they were underground. She didn't remember this room from her 5th year.

Were the rooms different in 1944 or did you just never enter this one back then Grace?

The room layout was also completely different. They were small alcoves with comfortable-looking sofas. Tom walked past her, wearily, as if anything could jump onto them. Hermione followed Tom closely as he entered a small corridor leading to what appeared to be a larger room. With every step she took, a certain smell became stronger and stronger. Hermione had a weird feeling, how could she be in a room she had never been in before and still feel like she was at home?

The smell became almost overwhelming, it was so familiar. Then, she saw it. In the middle of the room was a large fountain with pearly-looking water flowing out of it. They both approached. They perfectly knew they were not in the right room. They were both well aware of what was before their eyes. Amortentia.

She looked at him for a couple of seconds, the way the love potion in the fountain below him reflected on his skin, giving him an almost glowy look. What a weird sight it was.

"It's not in there," she said. "Let's not waste time." Hermione was about to move towards the end of the room. She was only eager to leave this room, the smells were becoming too powerful.

Hermione could distinguish three separate smells. The first one was Abe's bar. It was obvious, it was the wooden bar, the firewhiskey, the beer on the floor. It was the warmth of Abe, the fact that she could be herself with him. The second was freshly mowed grass. She remembered smelling that back in her own timeline, during Professor's Slughorn lesson. This smell reminded her of her camping trips with her parents around England and France. But the third one was bugging her. She couldn't put her finger on what it was. She smelled fire, but a soft fire, the one that was almost put out. She smelled books and parchment. She smelled sweets and hot chocolate. She smelled leather, old leather. Hermione tried to focus on this one. It also smelled like broom polish and wool. The same wool Molly Weasley used for her jumpers.

Then she remembered. It was the Gryffindor common room and most importantly it was Harry and Ron.

Hermione felt like she had been slapped in the face. The three smells came back rushing through her nose and she felt sick.

"No," she heard behind her. She turned around and saw Tom, still next to the fountain looking around him. He too seemed a bit overpowered by the smells. His hand was firmly gripping the fountain. "We do not even know if it is not there," he kept going, almost out of breath.

"Tom, it is a fucking love potion room," she snapped. She needed to leave this place.

"Are you 100%?" He snapped back.

She was. She was sure it wasn't in there.

Hermione had not been honest with Tom when they had planned this after the Black's Christmas party. She had not told him that during their escapade at Borgin and Burkes last Valentine's Day she had stolen a book on time. One she hoped would give her answers on how to get back. Obviously, she had not told him that this book talked about the time room in the Department of Mysteries. But Tom could never find she had an interest in time travel.

Hermione exhaled. "Well," she said, "you take this side of the room," lifting her chin towards the right side, "I'll take the other one."

She turned around quickly and approached the first cupboard. She began rummaging through it. There were books, ingredients, hundreds of hand-written notes. The smells were beginning to make her sick. It was hard to focus. She shut her eyes, trying to regain some composure. She put her hands flat on the wooden cabinet. Then, she felt as if it was sticking as Abe's bar could sometimes when the night had been long and butterbeer had been spilled.

Hermione opened her eyes and snatched back her hands. Was she hallucinating? Sweat was pearling on her forehead. She briefly glanced at Tom and saw that he had taken off his vest and rolled up his sleeves.

The room, which felt welcoming at first, began to feel like a trap. Hermione leaned against a small table, next to one of the large windows. She was looking at Tom, a few metres away. His hands were slightly shaking, it seemed like he was struggling to focus too. He kept taking long deep breaths. Slowly, Hermione let herself sit on the floor. Even if she knew they had just gotten into the room, it already felt like an eternity.

Hermione was about to say something when Tom opened what seemed to be a large wardrobe. Tom stumbled back "bloody hell," he let out. Hermione caught a glimpse of it. There, inside the wardrobe, was a wooden chair, bolted to the ground, with large leathery strapped on both armrests. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight.

They are not studying love. They are experimenting with how to weaponize it.

Hermione hopelessly stared at the chair in front of her. She felt disgust pooling in her throat. She then closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breath. It has become almost impossible to breathe properly, with all the smells, the fumes.

She stayed that way for a few minutes before she reopened her eyes and saw Tom swaying, a few metres away from her. She knew he was feeling as bad as she did. She knew he was feeling lightheaded like he couldn't take a full breath.

He began slowly walking backwards until he reached her and let himself fall right next to her, shoulder to shoulder.

Slowly they both turned their heads towards each other. Tom was sweating, his hair slightly sticking to his forehead. His scar was glistening and redder than usual. She could see the panic in his eyes, the same one she was sure he saw in hers. They kept looking at each other, they didn't speak, they didn't move.

Hermione couldn't tell how long they stayed there, against the wall, simply looking at each other. But as she kept Hermione staring into his eyes, she felt like a weight was slowly being lifted from her chest.

Gradually, she felt like she could breathe a little bit better. It seemed like the smells were slowly fading away. All except one. The smell of freshly mowed grass was still there, but it was not overpowering. On the contrary, it was almost calming. She noticed that Tom's breathing was also slowing down.

Suddenly, the memory of her camping trip with her parents seemed far away, and not exactly what she was smelling. The scent turned into something else, something clearer. It wasn't freshly mowed grass from anywhere she smelled. It was the one from the Quidditch pitch at night, from the bleachers. It was him she was smelling.

It was almost as if being in the presence of one of the smells was counterpowering the effect of amortentia. Ironic, wasn't it?

Then, Hermione saw in Tom's eyes that panic was slowly fading away. His breath was getting back to normal. As they kept looking at each other, Hermione knew he had come to the same realisation. He was smelling her.

–-

They stumbled out of the room. Hermione's mind was rushing with thoughts. On the one hand, her brain was screaming for her to run, as far away from him as she could. But on the other hand, when she looked up and saw him already looking at her, she froze. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe.

From the way he was looking at her, it seemed as if he was struggling with his own thoughts. Hermione didn't know what to make of what had happened in the room. Was this all real? Was this a collective hallucination from the fumes in the room? Her heart was pounding in her chest. Then, from the corner of her eyes, she saw him approaching. She saw his hand slightly twitching as if he wanted to reach out. Hermione didn't move, she couldn't move.

Suddenly, the main door of the atrium, the one they entered through crashed open. They were both startled.

There, right in front of them, were Dolohov, Lestrange and Cassandre, fully panicked, out of breath.

What the fuck?

"Someone's coming," Lestrange let out.

31.12.1944:

Dolohov was lounging in a leather chair. It was quite comfortable. He was bored out of his mind. He looked around him and began analysing the small office he was in. There was a small desk right next to him, mountains of papers and quills. Behind it was a small cabinet, locked. Above it, on the wall was a large painting of the English countryside, with horses running in the background. Antonin found it profoundly ugly but Margaret loved it. Another thing he couldn't stand about her was her lack of artwork taste.

He almost forgot she was there too. She was rummaging through her files behind him. She was talking to him. He had tuned her out ten minutes ago. He was so fucking bored.

He felt the small vial in his inside pocket, screaming for him to take it. He could almost feel it burning through his dress shirt. Antonin quickly looked behind him and saw his wife focused on her work. Slowly, he retrieved the vial. He looked at it for a second, the fog swirling inside of it. Without a sound, he uncapped it, brought it to his left nostril, and deeply inhaled.

In less than a second he felt the rush crushing his entire brain. Antonin closed his eyes and let the drug work its wonders. It felt good. He didn't know how much time had passed but the next thing he remembered was Margaret shaking his shoulder. Antonin's eyes snapped open.

"What?" He drowsed.

"Someone is coming," she said, holding a missive in her right hand. Antonin didn't get it right away. He simply stared at the letter at first. Then, he bolted out of his chair, as if he had remembered what he was doing in this office, in the ministry today. Without thinking, Antonin snatched the letter out of his wife's hand and ran out of the office.

Dolohov found himself in a large corridor, with green tiles on the walls and with marble floor. He kept running until he saw, from afar, Lestrange casually leaning against the wall. The lad must have heard him running because he turned his head to the side. As soon as Edgard saw Antonin running towards him, he pushed himself off the wall.

"Someone's coming," Dolohov let out, out of breath. "Someone's getting into the department of mysteries for a round."

At those words, Lestrange went into full panic. He looked around him, obviously not knowing what to do.

"What the fuck do we do?" He asked, finally looking Dolohov in the eyes. He stopped for a second, squinting. "Really?" He spat, "are you fucking high right now?" Lestrange put his head in his hands, looking around in panic. He froze for a second as if he had realised the mess he was in before he pushed Dolohov in the chest. "Are you fucking real right now? Are you really high on the job? Tom's gonna fucking murder you."

"Not the fucking time Edgard," Dolohov growled, "how long have they been in there?" He asked while looking at the dark blue door, at the end of another corridor perpendicular to the one they were standing in.

They had no fucking clue what to do. They had received one and one order only: making sure no one got into the Department of Mysteries before Tom and Grace got out. They didn't even know what they were doing inside. This infuriated Dolohov.

Then, they heard footsteps coming their way. "Someone's coming," Lestrange pressed. Dolohov, still high, had trouble focusing. He looked at the letter he still had in his hands.

"We stun him," Antonin finally said in a rush, "we put him in Margaret's office until they get out and then we obliviate him." He looked back up and saw Lestrange looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.

"No!" The other boy replied, "we're not gonna stun a ministry official inside the ministry!".

The footsteps were getting louder and louder.

"What are you doing here?"

Dolohov and Lestrange jumped at the sound and turned around to find Cassandre Parkinson looking at them.

"It's only you," Dolohov whispered, relieved. Lestrange shoved him in the ribs. Cassandre was looking at them in this weird way, suspicious of their presence in this part of the Ministry.

The three boys kept looking at each other in silence for a few more seconds before Cassandre spoke up, "The Wizengamot is wrapping up their morning session." He still bore this suspicious look, yet he kept going. "There should be dozens of officials coming down this corridor in a few seconds. I don't know what you are doing there, but I think you should leave before they arrive."

Dolohov and Lestrange share a look, well aware they couldn't move. Even if the entire Wizengamot was about to arrive, they couldn't leave Tom and Grace in there, knowing someone was about to go inside. So they didn't move and were simply gazing at Cassandre. He, on the other hand, was looking at them in this weird way, fully aware they were plotting something.

Then, they heard loud chatter. They didn't have the time to think anymore. Dolohov and Lestrange looked at each other, and without saying a word they knew what they had to do. Lestrange was the first to run towards the blue door. Dolohov hesitated for a second before grabbing Cassander's forearm and following Lestrange.

The three of them stumbled into the Department of Mysteries and were faced with Tom and Grace.

As Dolohov looked at them he wondered what could have happened in the last twenty minutes they were gone. This morning they were both looking snatched. Now, they were both sweating, eyes wary, out of breath. What the fuck had happened in the last twenty minutes?

31.12.1944:

"What do you mean someone's coming?" Tom pressed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Grace snapped. Tom finally realised that Cassandre Parkinson was standing right next to Dolohov. He wanted to shout at the two, shove them against the wall for bringing someone who wasn't supposed to know about this.

Lestrange and Dolohov had been given one simple mission and yet, they had fucked it up.

"Someone's coming," Lestrange quickly explained. "We need to leave now."

"We're not done yet," Grace argued back.

Dolohov frowned at that and took a step towards her. "What the fuck are you even doing here?" He looked out of his mind. He was looking at her as if he were about to jump on her. Tom instinctively walked between them. Without hesitation, Tom grabbed Dolohov by the chin, his finger digging into the flesh, tilting his head backward to look into his eyes. Antonin looked scared. As he should. He was high, and Tom was beyond mad. Tom felt rage slowly bubbling in his stomach. He was ready at any moment to shove him against the wall and yell at him that he was mad for getting high while on the job.

Tom then felt Lestrange pushing him away, "stop!" he urged, "now is not the time."

Lestrange was right. As soon as he said that they heard someone on the other side of the room, about to enter. They didn't have the time to think that they were all already rushing through the nearest door. Tom was taken by the arm by Lestrange dragging him into the fourth room. Just before he disappeared inside the room, he saw Grace and Dolohov entering another door together and Cassandre another one, alone.

31.12.1944:

Cassandre had no idea how he found himself there, in this room, in the Department of Mysteries. He had simply accompanied his father to this ministry this morning. He simply wanted to get out of the house.

He had planned on walking around the ministry. Yet, here he was, trapped in the Department of Mysteries, not knowing what he was doing there and most importantly how to get out.

He was in a large room that seemed to be lit by the moonlight, yet Cassandre couldn't find any source of light. He was all alone. He turned on himself, his heart hammering in his chest, trying to figure out what he ought to do.

The room was completely empty. There was absolutely nothing around him. Cassandre remembered what his father had told him about the Department of Mysteries when he was younger. It was where the ministry was experimenting, where dark things were happening.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what Tom and the others were doing there.

Then, he heard footsteps in the distance behind him. Cassandre spun around alarmed. Wasn't he alone? Should he speak up? Was it the unspeakable? Was it something else? Cassandre started walking away from the noise, slowly, afraid anything would jump on him at any moment.

The room suddenly turned cold. Cassandre felt shivers running down his spine. There, another sound. It was still those footsteps, but it seemed to be getting closer and closer. He kept walking backwards. The floor, which was smooth when he entered the room, has turned cobbly. He looked down at his feet but couldn't see anything different. Yet, he felt like he was walking on cobblestones.

Other noises came to his ears, it wasn't only footsteps. Now it was indistinguishable chatter, very faint. He wasn't alone but he couldn't see anyone else.

Cassandre then felt a droplet of water splashing onto his forehead, gently gliding on his nose. He raised his head, there was no rain, nothing. Another one and another one, until Cassandre felt like rain was pouring over him. If Cassandre was panicked a few seconds before, he was now terrified. He couldn't understand what was happening, what he was hearing or feeling.

Then, he heard a voice.

"Is it everything you ever wanted?"

Cassandre's blood froze. He felt like his soul had left his body. He felt like someone had dug a knife deep into his guts and was twisting it inside. He knew this voice. He knew it perfectly.

"Is it as brilliant as you thought it would be?"

Cassandre turned around and around and around, hopelessly trying to find him. He began running through the room, not even caring anymore.

"Have you finally gained father's approval?" the voice was right behind him. Cassandre spun around and, at the sight, fell on the ground. His body was entirely shaking. Slowly, he raised his head and finally looked at him.

He was wearing his school uniform, but it was ripped, bloodied. His hair, usually dishevelled, was damp with rain, sweat and blood. His face, usually playful, was ghastly. His left eye was half-closed, swollen, and his lip was ripped, abundantly bleeding. He was there, right in front of him.

He was there. Pollux was there.

Cassandre knew deep inside of him it was not real. It couldn't be. He had killed him. Yet, he had this small voice of hope in his head telling me "what if?".

Without realising Cassandre began crying, hopelessly looking at his brother, unable to form a word.

"Did you really think it would change something for you?" Pollux kept going. He was still standing straight, not moving, just looking into his eyes, emotionless. Blood was dripping from his mouth at each new sentence. Cassandre was frozen in place.

"What were you expecting?" Pollux almost spat. "Were you expecting to be in his little ranks after you've killed me?" Cassandre automatically curled up at the words as if he had just been punched. "Riddle doesn't give a shit," Pollux continued, "you were just a means to an end. Were you expecting Father to treat you like he treated me? Like a real heir, like a son? He doesn't care, a title won't change that."

Cassandre put his head between his knees, tightly closing his eyes. His body was entirely shaking. "You're not real," he kept whispering to himself. In the background, he could still hear Pollux, so he simply kept going "You're not real, you're not real, you're not real."

"You're a murderer Cassandre," Pollux kept saying in the background.

Cassandre put his hands on his ears trying to block out the sound of his brother's voice. He didn't know how long he stayed in this position, curled up on the ground, crying. At one point, everything seemed more silent. Wearily, he stopped his mantra, dropped his hands from his head, and was met with silence. He realised the ground underneath him was smooth again. Slowly, he raised his head. The room was back to being empty. He was alone.

His heart was still hammering in his chest, his cheeks were still wet from the tears.

From afar, he saw a door.

31.12.1944:

The door closed behind Tom. The room was high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty, glass orbs. They glimmered dully in the light issuing from candle brackets set at intervals along the shelves. Their flames were burning blue.

The room was very cold. Ghastly and cold.

Lestrange, was a few steps ahead, looking, mesmerised, at the room. It was, indeed, quite a sight. Even if Tom's curiosity kept telling him to look around, he knew what he was looking for was not there. He had come to understand that each room had a specific topic. This was not about time. And most importantly, he needed to get out of here. He pushed past Edgard, walking through the hundreds of shelves.

"What the fuck are we doing here, Tom?" He heard Edgard chasing after him. "What is this room? What are we eve-"

"Shut it," Tom snapped. He didn't have neither the envy nor the patience to be pestered by one of the lads. "We need to get out of here, now."

Edgard had finally arrived at his level and they kept walking alongside the never-ending shelves.

"You had one fucking job," Tom's voice was dangerously low. "And yet, you managed to fuck that up." Next to him, Edgard lowered his head, ashamed. Tom glanced at him, he looked like a child.

It seemed like this room was never-ending. Tom briefly looked around him and saw, at one intersection, thousands of shelves, as if the room was infinite. Tom didn't want to panic, it was not the time, it was not the place and most importantly he was not alone. So, he focused his eyes back in front of him and kept going.

Then, he saw Edgard coming closer to the shelves. He was trying to decipher the names written on each of the orbs. He began naming some of them. "Victoriana Holpert, Maximilian Greydown, Aristotle Flisburg, Hermione Granger, Corvus Wellington-Mountbatten, Fir-"

"Are you done?" Tom cut him off.

"I think those are prophecies," Edgard declared.

"As long as those prophecies don't come crashing on my face, I do not give a shit about them."

They kept walking for what seemed to be an eternity. At one point, Tom even wondered if there was an end or if they were stuck in this room. But finally, from afar, he saw a door.

He picked up the pace. Even though the logical part of his brain knew he had not been in this department for more than an hour, Tom felt like it had been two days since he had been stuck there.

Everything seemed fucked up. He was tired, frustrated and most importantly angry. At Dolohov for being high, at Grace for not talking to him and for picking up this fucking time turner in the first place.

He needed to get out of this room. He needed to get back to her. She was currently in a room stuck with Dolohov, a high Dolohov. He almost ran out of the room.

31.12.1944:

Hermione had not meant to follow Dolohov in this room. She had moved out of panic. She ran after him and squeezed through the door before it closed behind her, crashing unwillingly into him.

Dolohov turned around. Hermione felt almost scared. He was looking enraged, his eyes bloodshot and his breath ragged. She needed to get out of here. She pushed past him and began walking the long corridor in front of her. She heard him following her, she could feel the anger rising within him, she could hear his loud respiration.

At every new step she took, Hermione felt a weird feeling slowly pooling in her guts. Had she been in this room before? They kept walking in silence for a few seconds before she could finally distinguish a large room at the end of the corridor. Slowly, she approached before she abruptly stopped.

She was faced with a large circular room, dimly lit. Kept in the centre of a raised stone dais in a sunken, stood a great stone pit some twenty feet deep, with benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheatre. Hermione was surrounded by cold air and complete stillness.

She froze. She remembered this place. Her mind was begging her to turn back around, to run away from this place.

"What the fuck?" She heard from behind her. "Don't fucking stand there!" He walked into the room.

She couldn't move, she couldn't follow him. She was petrified. She closed her eyes and saw hundreds of flashbacks flashing through her mind, she saw Harry, Remus, and Neville.

"Dolohov," she slowly said.

She saw spells cast away in a hundred directions, she remembered the screams, the terror. Her eyes shot back open and were now fixed on the arch, the veil. She couldn't help but remember Sirius, slowly falling through the veil, and Harry's screams.

"Dolohov," she reiterated slightly louder this time, as she finally began slowly walking. She knew not to get too close to the veil. She only had to go to the other side of the room, find the door and leave. Simple, wasn't it?

She was walking gingerly down the stairs, her eyes hopelessly looking for the exit. A few metres away, from the corner of her eyes, she saw Dolohov looking around him, sometimes spinning around, startled, as if was trying to find someone.

"Dolohov," she snapped, "we need to get out of here!"

The boy didn't move, didn't even acknowledge what she had just said. He just kept looking around him. She increased her pace, feeling the need to get away from here as fast as possible. She was almost running down the stairs.

Hermione looked back and saw that Dolohov was still not following her. His eyes were locked on the veil. He stopped for a second. "Mother?" She heard him say. Then, he began walking towards it.

"Dolohov!" She screamed. He didn't budge. He just kept slowly walking towards it. She kept calling his name until she finally let out a loud screech "ANTONIN". At that, the boy stopped. He looked over his shoulder, right at her, his eyes frantic. He looked like he had just remembered she was here. Something flashed through his eyes.

"Hortense," his voice was hoarse, "she's there." She had never heard him like this. "We need to help her." Dolohov kept telling her about the voice he was hearing, about the fact that his mother was begging him to come with her, and that she seemed scared. His voice was trembling, his eyes were glassy.

She didn't move, she didn't know what to do. His head snapped back towards the veil. She saw his hands slightly shaking.

"Dolohov," she said wearily, "we need to leave."

"It's my mother!" He almost yelled, "we need to help her!"

Hermione wanted to shake him off, tell him that this was not real, that the voice he was hearing wasn't real. She wanted to take him by the shoulders and yell at him that his mother was dead and that she couldn't talk to him. But the longer she stayed there, the closer she came to hearing voices too.

"Dolohov, it's not real!"

"It's her, I hear her voice, I-"

"She's dead Dolohov! We need to get the fuck away from here. We're leaving now."

Hermione looked at him and knew he would not move, he would not leave this place. She could have come towards him, she could have taken him by the arm and pulled him towards the exit, but she knew she couldn't.

Then, it happened, she began to hear a low murmur, right next to her ears and she knew. She recognised in half a second the voice, even if it was faint. Hermione had to get out of here, she couldn't stay any longer. She didn't care about leaving Dolohov behind, she didn't care if he walked through the veil.

She looked one last time at Dolohov, as the boy had begun slowly walking towards the veil, in a full trance. She looked one last time at him then spun around and began running towards the exit. In the background she could hear the boy talking to his mother, begging for her, crying to her. Hermione didn't care, she didn't feel sympathy or pity toward him. She had tried to tell him to get out, he hadn't listened. Hermione didn't care if Dolohov died. Actually, this would solve a lot of her problems, he wouldn't be whispering in Tom's ears anymore, he wouldn't be antagonising her at every opportunity, he wouldn't pick a fight every time she spoke up.

But, he will be there, Hermione.

Something clicked in Hermione's mind. Fifty years from now, in this same room, Antonin Dolohov would indeed be there. And he would curse her. Hermione felt the scar on her thorax slightly tingling at the thought. Hermione stopped abruptly.

Time was a loop, wasn't it? She remembered what she had told Abe back in October when she had needed him to vote against the bill allowing muggle to work for the ministry . "Time is a loop, Abe, everything I'm doing now has already been done in the past. Everything I say, every move I make, I've already done it. I know what needs to happen."

Hermione was at arm's reach of the door, she was so close to getting out. Yet, she slowly turned around and looked at Dolohov as he was still walking towards the veil. She hesitated, for a few seconds, wondering if maybe someone else would barge in there and be the one to save the boy. But the more she thought of it, the more she knew no one would come to help him.

The low murmur she had begun to hear was getting stronger. She knew the longer she was to stay here the louder it would become. Hermione braced herself, began singing in her head, a muggle song she remembered from her parents to try to block out the voice, and ran towards him.

As soon as she arrived at his level, she automatically felt drawn to the veil. She felt this inexplicable force pulling her towards it. The murmurs were getting louder and the song in her head became harder to sing. She grabbed Dolohov by the arm and tried to pull him off the dais but he wouldn't move. He was pulling back, trying to shove her off. Hermione let go of him and rushed to get right in front of him. She put both of her hands on the side of his head, forcing him to look at her.

His cheeks were wet from the tears he had shed, his eyes were still bloodshot, but redder, and his pupils were dilated. He was out of himself.

"Snap out of it," Hermione firmly told him, "this is not real, she's dead, Dolohov!" Hermione hardened her grip and continued "and if you stay here, you're dead too."

At that, the boy violently snapped, his eyes turning hyper-focused. And without understanding, Hermione was violently pushed on the ground, her head hitting the floor, hard. Everything turned black for a few seconds, she couldn't hear anything but a loud buzz in her head, she couldn't breathe. An excruciating pain spread throughout her entire body and Hermione felt like dying. She felt a wetness spreading at the back of her head. Slowly, she blinked, her vision blurred. Hermione laid on the floor, in agony. She had her mouth open, desperately trying to catch a breath, in vain. On top of the pain in her head, she felt a sharp pressure on her stomach and hands closing around her neck.

Hermione's eyes snapped completely open and saw Antonin right above her. His eyes were not human anymore, they were bestial, bloodthirsty. As she looked into his eyes, she saw pure hatred. There, in this room, at this precise moment, Hermione knew he was ready to kill her. Hermione had been scared in her life, she had been close to dying but she had never felt like this.

Survival instinct kicked in. She tried to move her body to the best of her ability to get him out of her. Dolohov was too heavy and she was too weak. Hermione then put her hands on top of his, trying to hook her finger to his and pull them out. She felt her nails digging into his hands, she fought as best as she could. Her breaths were becoming shallower and shallower, from the pressure on her neck and the weight on her chest.

She realised she couldn't do anything, she was terrified. She could feel tears running down her cheeks. She could only imagine what she must look like, frail, hopeless, scared. Slowly, she saw a small rictus growing on his lips. This gave her a last burst of strength to put her hands on his face, trying to push him away. She dug her nails into his lips and felt the skin bursting underneath the pressure. She heard him scream, but it felt so far away. She dug deeper and deeper until she felt his blood splashing on her face, blinding her for a few seconds. She then pulled her finger up his face, tearing the skin off.

Don't die. Don't die.

Her mind became blurrier. She felt weak, her fingers shaking. Was it it?

Not like this.

31.12.1944:

When Tom reentered the atrium, only Cassandre was there, sitting on the floor trembling. He looked up and Tom saw the fear in his eyes. He looked frail.

"Where are the others?" Tom pressed.

"I don't know," the boy replied with a shaky voice. Lestrange approached the boy, crouched down to his level, and asked him what had happened.

Tom didn't care about what may have happened to Cassandre for him to be this way. He could only care about one thing only, where Grace was. Tom began looking at the door in front of him and listing the possibility as to why Antonin and Grace were not there. The first option was that the unspeakable had gotten to them, the second one was that they had found the time room and were putting the time-turner back. But the last option, the one that felt right in his guts, was that they were still in the room he saw them enter and something had happened. Something bad had happened.

Without thinking Tom headed towards this door. "What are you doing?" Lestrange asked him. Tom stopped and turned around to look at him.

"Going after them," he simply replied.

"No, we need to get out of here," Cassandre pleaded. Tom looked at Parkinson and knew something bad had happened to him.

Tom took a step toward the boy, towering over him. "I am going in," he said in a low voice. "You can leave if you want." Tom then looked at Lestrange, letting him silently understand that this didn't apply to him. Cassandre Parkinson wasn't part of the lads, he was there because Antonin and Edgard had fucked up, but he didn't need to stay. This had nothing to do with him. Tom also knew that the boy wouldn't talk.

Lestrange rose, ready to follow Tom into the next door when Cassandre got up too, slightly hurdling on himself, and nodded. Tom didn't know if Cassadnre was too scared to stay by himself in the atrium or if something had clicked in his mind to make him follow them. Yet, here they were, all three of them approaching the door. Tom put his hand on the handle, pulled it open, and they all entered.

As soon as the door closed behind them, they were surrounded by complete silence. They prudently began walking down the long corridor. Tom had this feeling inside of him, this thing telling him that something had happened. Why was this room so silent? Why was the atmosphere so dense?

They kept walking for a few seconds when they heard a loud scream. Tom recognised Dolohov's voice. It felt like he was being tortured. The scream was so deep and cutting that the three of them stopped, taken aback. They all took their wands out, ready to fight everything they might face.

Tom began running and running and running until he reached the end of the corridor. He stopped abruptly. At the sight of the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, his mind short-circuited.

In the middle of the room, on a dais in front of a large archway was Grace laying still on the floor, Antonin above her, his hands around her throat. It felt like a scene from a Greek tragedy, the two of them on this dais, in the middle of this amphitheatre. Tom couldn't take his eyes off her. She was not moving, she was not fighting. There was blood everywhere, on her face, underneath her head, on her dress. The only thought that crossed Tom's mind was that she was dead.

He couldn't focus on anything but the rage spreading through his entire body. Without realising, he was running down the stairs.

Don't be dead. Don't be dead. Please don't be dead.

A few feet away from her, Tom raised his wand towards Antonin, a crucio ready to slip from his mouth at any moment. Someone beat him to it. A red spell flew past him and came crashing into Dolohov ribs, throwing him away from her. Tom kept running, his lungs burning, until he reached her. He dropped on his knees and without thinking gently cradled her face in his hands. As Grace's eyes slowly opened and she took a painful breath, Tom felt like he too was taking his first breath. He closed his eyes, feeling relief flood his body.

Beneath him, Grace was shaking, trying, as best as she could, to shove him away.

"Shh", he gently murmured to her, his voice slightly shaking, "it's alright, it's me." His speech was rushed.

As his voice, Grace's body slightly untensed and she looked up to him. He could hear rumbles in the background but he couldn't care about anything else but her.

With his right hand, Tom gently wiped the blood away from her eyes, letting his thumb delicately graze her cheeks. Grace broke down, tears flooding from her eyes, but the sound coming from her was weak, broken. Tom carefully put his hand underneath her head, to coddle her against his chest when he felt a hot wetness on his fingers. Gingerly, he withdrew his hand and saw it covered in blood, fresh blood.

Tom finally took full consciousness of her state, the paleness of her face contrasting with the crimson red blood, her hair matted with the blood that was gushing out of her head, her hands battered and bloodied, showing him that she had fought. Then, Tom's eyes fell on her neck and saw one large bruise. He could discern Antonin's fingermark on the side of her neck, where the bruise had already started turning purple.

Dead. He's dead.

His hands began to shake. He gently lowered Grace's head back on the floor.

"It's going to be alright," he repeated, trying to reassure her. "Lestrange!" he had slightly raised his voice for the lad to hear him. "You're alright," he kept reassuring her, wiping away her tears. Tom had never seen her like this, this scared "Lestrange!" His voice had gotten louder.

"What do you want me to do ?" Tom raised his head and saw Cassandre Parkinson, kneeling next to him. His eyes were focused, his hands were steady. The boy who had looked scared back in the atrium was gone. Tom was face to face with another Cassandre, assured, ready, and calm.

"You stay with her," he ordered him, in a stone-cold voice. Tom then looked back at Grace "he's going to stay with you, you're not alone alright," his voice was strained.

Tom was about to get up when he felt Grace tensing beneath him, sobbing. Tom gently caressed the crown of her head, "I'll be back in a few seconds." He shot one last glance at Cassandre and gently put her head in his hands. Finally, he got up.

Tom slowly turned around, his mind blinded by rage. When he was with Grace, Tom had blacked out the noise and chatter coming from the two lads. Now, he had blocked out Grace and was focusing his furor on the man on the floor, a few metres away.

Dolohov was trying to sit up. Tom took a good look at him, his upper lip was slit open up until his right nostril. He could see the flesh poking out. Tom saw the scratches all over his cheeks where blood was pearling. She had really fought. Next to the boy, was Lestrange, crouched down. As soon as he saw Tom looking at them, slowly approaching, he stood up and settled right in front of him.

Edgard could see in Tom's eyes that he was ready to kill Dolohov because he put his hand up and began talking "he's hallucinating, he's hearing his mother, Tom, he's high out of his mind". Edgard's speech was rushed, panicked. "Don't do this, we just need to le-"

"Move Lestrange," Tom growled.

"Don't do this, this room," Edgard gulped, "it's making him crazy."

Tom couldn't care less what Antonin had heard, what he had thought, what the room had made him do. His eyes had not wavered from Dolohov, still sitting on the floor, crying and murmuring to himself. Lestrange didn't move so Tom simply shoved him to the side and without a thought grabbed Antonin by the collar and punched him in the face.

At this moment, there was no rationality. Tom could have used magic, he could have tortured him, he could even have killed him with a simple spell. But he didn't, he just followed his first instinct, which was to only beat him up until he was begging on the floor, unrecognisable. As he kept doing, Tom's hand turned red from the blood coming out of Antonin's mouth. Tom couldn't think about anything but to keep punching him. He couldn't, until Cassandre's voice snapped him out of it. "Riddle! She needs to see a healer."

Tom's head snapped around, his right hand still fisting Dolohov's collar and his left hand hovering above his face. Grace was even paler than she was a few minutes prior. Cassandre was pressing against the back of her head, trying to slow down the bleeding. Tom shoved Dolohov on the ground and abruptly stood up. He saw Lestrange approaching him, Tom seized him by the arm "get him out of here before I kill him," he ordered. Edgard simply nodded.

Tom rushed to Grace's side. "I do not know any healing spells," Tom simply said as he kneeled back next to her, not even caring about admitting his lack of knowledge on a topic.

"I do," Cassandre said. Tom's head snapped up and he looked at the boy. "But I cannot use magic outside of school."

"Teach me," Tom replied, without any hesitation.

Parkinson spent the next five minutes carefully explaining how to mend her head wound. As Tom listened to him, he remembered that Cassandre Parkinson had grown up with a reckless and alcoholic brother, whom he had taken care of for years, and mended his wounds.

Cassandre rushed through an explanation that the spell would only close up the wound on her head and maybe heal her broken vocal cords. He reiterated that she needed to see a healer, that this spell was just a quick fix, that she needed blood replenishing potion, and that she would be out of it without it. In all this violence, all this mess, Cassandre Parkinson had kept calm.

Tom took his wand, rehearsed one last time the spell in his head, and finally cast it.

As the blood gradually stopped pouring from her wound, as Grace came slowly back to her senses, Tom finally took a deep breath. As he looked at her, he began hearing small murmurs coming from the veil behind him. He couldn't discern the voices, he couldn't make out what they were saying. He knew, at this instant, they needed to get out.

–-

Grace was seated in the atrium, leaning against a wall. She was feeling better but still out of it. Tom's eyes were flickering between her frail frame and Cassandre, standing in front of him.

"Are you sure you need to do that now ?" Parkinson asked him. "At least, let her come with me, she needs to see a healer."

At that Tom's heart clenched. He could not even fathom the thought of letting her out of his sight. His eyes settled for a couple of seconds on her, her eyes half closed, her chest rapidly going up and down, as if she was still trying to catch a real breath. "No," he simply declared, his voice stern, not letting any room for Parkison to argue. The boy simply nodded. He stayed silent for a bit before he looked back at Tom

"What do you need me to do?" Cassandre then asked. Tom took a deep breath, thought about it, about what he really needed at this moment, then answered, "you do whatever you need to do, but you get the unspeakable out of here," he ordered. Tom cast a quick scourgify on the boy, to get rid of all the blood.

He then turned around and approached Grace. He kneeled in front of her and put his right hand on her cheek to make her look at him. She was feeling a bit stronger, she was still as pale as she was in the room, but she was slowly coming back to her senses.

"We are almost done," he whispered to her. Grace closed her eyes, a tear falling on her left cheek and she slowly shook her head no. Tom knew she was tired, exhausted, scared, but they needed to finish what they had started. "It will be alright," he tried his best to reassure her. His voice was soft. "It will be just you and I," he kept going. "In and out, just like we said."

Tom slowly raised and put his arm around Grace's torso to pull her up with him. Cassandre was still in the middle of the room, looking at the two of them. Tom approached the next door and before putting his hand on the handle he looked one last time at Cassandre. The boy nodded solemnly, fully understanding what he had to do. Tom nodded back and pushed the door open.

–-

Grace was leaning against him as they walked through the next room. From the way she was walking, Tom knew she was gradually becoming less groggy. Yet, she was still out of it. The room was long, grey, and cold. Tom couldn't focus on anything but her. As he kept looking at her, Tom couldn't shake the worrying frown between his eyebrows. Even if he was relieved to see her alive, against him, he couldn't shake the images still flashing through his mind of her laying still in a pool of blood.

This room was unexpectedly uneventful. There were shelves on each side of it, filled with small vials, potions bubbling here and there. He didn't know exactly what the Ministry was studying here, nor did he care. The only thing he knew was that this was not about time. From time to time he could hear Grace try to talk, she was murmuring to herself. Was she trying to talk to him?

At the end of the room, he saw a small wooden door. Tom slightly picked up the pace, Grace struggled to keep up with him, groaning as every new step she took. Finally, they arrived at the end of the room. Tom secured his arm around her waist, making sure not to squeeze too hard, afraid he might hurt her.

They were back in the atrium. Cassandre was gone. It was silent. Tom looked at the remaining doors in front of him and felt like this was never-ending. He, too, was tired. He, too, wanted to leave. He looked at Grace and brushed the few hairs out of her face. "One more," he whispered to her. "In and out."

"One more," she whispered, her eyes half closed. Her voice was so weak. Tom knew it was hurting her to talk. "In and out," she finished in a murmur.

As Tom let them into the next room, he prayed this would be it. He hoped that this would finally be the right room. But as soon as the door behind them closed, he took a good look at what was around.

This one was small, at least smaller than the one they had been in before. It looked like an office, large bookshelves covering each of the walls. It was dimly lit, as if a chimney was lighting up the place. In the middle of it was a large wooden desk, with candles, books and parchment spread on top of it. They stayed there for a second, taking in the sight. It felt calm.

"It's warm," Grace drowsily said. It indeed felt warm inside the room, contrasting with the cold emptiness of the others. Tom finally realised that his hands were freezing cold as he felt them slowly warming up. Tom pressed Grace against him and began walking them further inside the room. As he looked around him, he saw a symbol had never seen before. It was everywhere, on the books, the shelves, the parchment, the walls.

"What is that?" He whispered to himself. Next to him, he saw that Grace was too looking around, her brows were slightly furrowed.

"Tom," her voice was frail, sleepy, drowsy. "You're obsessed with it," she said in almost a whisper. Tom looked at her, not understanding. Grace was not looking back though, her eyes were still roaming around the room. She looked out of it. He wanted to tell her to repeat, maybe he had not heard it right, but he knew she was not in her right mind, that she was probably not even aware of what she was saying. So, he simply let go and kept walking towards the exit.

As they were about to leave the room, Tom looked one last time at the symbol, a straight vertical line with a circle on top of it and a triangle enclosing both line and circle.

When they walked back into the atrium, Tom was met again with silence. He hoped that Cassandre had managed to get the unspeakable out of the department.

"I'm tired," Grace told him in a small voice. He looked at her and saw her already looking back. He saw the tiredness in her eyes, the dried blood on her forehead, the bags underneath her eyes. If he could have let her go, he would have. But Tom knew it wasn't a possibility. He couldn't not feel her next to him, feeling her heartbeat, her shallow breath on his chest, knowing she was alive. It was simply possible.

"One more," he once again said. Grace's head gently fell on his shoulder and he felt her warm breath right below his neck. Simply impossible. In one delicate gesture, Tom put his right hand on top of her head, gently stroked her and pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

They stayed there for a few , Tom gingerly pressed her against him, silently telling her it was time to move. In five steps, they were standing in front of the next door. He pushed it open, and they were in.

It almost looked like a cupboard. It was small, intricate with light-wood shelves and green plants scattered everywhere. Tom couldn't say that the room was bright, but it wasn't dark, it had this weird aura to it. A small rectangular table was standing in the middle of the room, with one single candle at the centre. At the back of the room was a small velvet loveseat in a warm mustard colour.

Tom realised they were in the right room. The shelves were full of clocks, metronomes, sundials, diagrams with moon phases, hourglasses, and watches. So many watches. He couldn't really see all the objects as the room was unbearably messy. He couldn't see any time-turners.

Tom began looking around him, trying to see if there were anywhere. On his right, Grace was increasingly lounging on him, as if she was falling asleep. Tom crossed the room and slowly made her seat on the loveseat. He crouched in front of her. She was lazily blinking at him, trying her best to stay awake.

"I need to put the time turner back," he explained to her, "you stay here, alright?" Grace didn't answer, she just kept looking at him with hooded eyes. He saw her lounging back into the seat. "And then we are gone" he kept going. He saw her eyes slowly closing. He seized her hands. "You cannot fall asleep", he told her, firmly but gently. "We need to leave soon, we do not have time."

Grace huffed at that, her eyes half closed. "We have all the time in the world," she sluggishly replied. Tom frowned. "Time doesn't pass where it is created."

"What?"

"That's what he wrote." Her voice was barely there as if she was already asleep. "In his book."

"What are you walking about?" Tom couldn't understand what she was telling him. What book? Who was she talking about?

"Octavius Basilton," she had now closed her eyes, her head resting on the backrest, exposing her bruised neck which made Tom's heart clench. "You know the book," she kept going, "the one I stole from Borgin and Burkes."

After that, Grace stopped talking. Tom knew she had fallen asleep. He didn't move though. He stayed there, crouched in front of her, his eyes riveted on her face, on her neck. He couldn't shut his mind, he couldn't keep her last words out of his head. The one I stole from Borgin and Burkes.

Why had she never told him she stole a book where they were in the bookshop, last February? Why had she never told him she was reading a book on time? Since when was she even interested in time?

31.12.1944:

A sharp pain inside her head woke her up. She felt like someone was hammering her brain. She winced and gulped. There, another sharp pain, all over her throat. Every time she swallowed, she felt as if it was on fire. All of this pain was contrasted by gentle hands carefully caressing her hair. Hermione then realised her head was resting against a warm chest, slowly going up and down. She could hear a steady heartbeat.

Slowly she opened her eyes. The light, even though it wasn't bright, attacked her brain. Everything was too much.

"Easy there," she then heard. The voice was soft, warm, quiet. Hermione painfully rose her head and saw Tom. He had his eyes stuck on the opposite wall, his hands still caressing her hair. As she looked at him, Hermione wondered how long she had been out. Suddenly, another sharp pain exploded in her head. She hissed, closing her eyes. She felt Tom moving against her. When she reopened her eyes she saw that he was already looking back. There was this softness in his eyes, something she had never seen before. It unsettled her but Hermione didn't feel well enough to dwell on that information.

"What happened?" She asked. Hermione began to panic. She felt her lungs compressing in her chest, preventing her from breathing. Then, bright flashes came crushing her brain. She saw Antonin on top of her, with a feral look. His eyes were mad, completely mad. Suddenly, she saw the same Antonin fifty years from now, with the same deadly eyes, casting a purple spell right at her. Hermionés eyes then fell into her hands and she realised the state of them. They were covered with dry blood, crackling every time she moved her fingers. Underneath her nails, she saw skin and flesh. She began trembling, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Shh," she heard. Tom pressed one hand on her cheek to make her meet his eyes. Through the tears, she looked into his eyes, they were not scared.

"You are safe," he said, "it is over."

Hermione slowly raised her head, feeling the burning pain spreading through her entire body. She squinted her eyes to decipher the room they were in.

"Where are we?" she asked. It hurt to talk. It felt like every time she tried to get one word out, she was swallowing glass.

She looked around and in less than ten seconds she knew exactly where she was. She was in the time room. She was in Octavius Basilton's office, the wizard that created the first time-turner, where time didn't pass. And she knew all of that because she had read his journal. She remembered the moment she saw it in Borgin and Burkes on Valentine's Day. It was handwritten, the only copy out there. The moment she had come back to Hogwarts, she had opened it and skimmed through every line, every sentence, every word.

"I never realised you were that interested in time," Tom said. Hermione's heart clenched. What did that mean?

She looked back at him, slightly alarmed. He was still calmly stroking her head. There was not one ounce of anger in his features. He was not mad, he was simply stating a fact.

Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest. What did he mean? What was he on about? What has she told him? The last thing she could remember was the cold ground, the blood pouring out of her head and Dolohov's eyes. At the thought, her heart started hammering back again. What had happened since then?

"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice strained, barely there. Hermione knew that, at this moment, she was an open book. She had no strength to hide her emotions from him, to try to put on a mask of indifference.

As Tom didn't answer, Hermione decided to keep going, as if it was the most normal conversation. "I've always been," she continued. She was not lying per se. Hermione had indeed always been interested in time. Especially since her third year when she had been given her first time-turner. Tom hummed, to acknowledge her answer. He was so calm, it was almost unsettling.

"Aren't you?" She kept going. "Wouldn't you like to know where you will be in ten, twenty, fifty years?" Hermione didn't know what she was expecting him to reply. She wasn't sure she was even expecting something. She knew exactly where he would be, what would happen in fifty years.

Tom didn't reply right away. He seemed lost in his thoughts. Then, he looked back at her. "I know where I will be."

Hermione cocked her head to the side, silently inviting him to keep going. He did. "In Dippet's office, well, my office. I would have placed the lads within the Ministry. We would have everything we are currently working for." His voice was calm, serene.

"What about me?" Hermione had to ask. At that, Tom looked at her, his hand on her head stopped for a second before gently continuing.

"What about you, Grace?" He simply repeated. "Where do you see yourself in the future?"

She knew exactly what would happen in the future. Yet, at that moment, she didn't know where she would be. Hermione didn't want to think about that, not right now, not when Tom was looking at her that way. So, she simply buried this thought and told him what he expected.

Hermione took a deep breath and swallowed before opening her mouth "I will be able to shape the political ecosystem from the comfort of my house," she stopped for a second, feeling her throat burning. "I will mingle within the high sphere of society," she kept going. Every word hurt like hell. "I will be organising parties with Ministry's officials, I will be able to get the latest information, the latest gossip, as I will be expected to as a wife."

"Expected?" Tom snorted and Hermione was a bit taken aback by his sudden playfulness. "There would be no such expectations when we will be married."

When we will be married. The words were resonating in Hermione's mind. We will be married. Tom had said it like it was the most natural thing ever. Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. Had he thought about it? Had he found himself thinking about her as his wife? If so, how often? Hermione couldn't say she had never thought about this, it had briefly crossed her mind, but she knew it wasn't a possibility.

So, Hermione just looked at him. Slowly, she put her right hand on his cheek and saw his eyes briefly closing at the touch.

"Tom," she said.

"Hm?"

"I can't marry you."

Even if her voice was so small, so strained, so hurt, Tom heard her right. At that, his eyes snapped to hers, confusion written all over them. He opened his mouth as if was going to reply to something but he didn't. He was carefully examining her face. Her hand was still resting on his cheek, she could feel the heat of his skin, the softness of it.

"You have hit your head, you are not thinking straight, you-"

"Tom," she cut him off, "that's not how it works, that's not what we do." At the end of this sentence, Hermione felt like she had just lost her ability to talk. Every swallow was torture. But as she looked into his eyes and saw his confusion slowly turned into frustration, she kept going. "Don't fool yourself, I need to marry strategically, and you need too. You've already placed all the lads into convenient marriages for the caus-"

"I am the cause!" he said, in a stern voice. "I can do what I want."

It was the first time Tom acknowledged he was indeed the cause. Even if Hermione knew, it still felt particular hearing it.

Her hands slowly dropped from his face to settle on her lap. She straightened her back, slightly wincing from the pain pounding in her head. Something flashed inside Tom's eyes. He knew she was right, she could see it. Yet, it didn't stop the frustration from building within him.

"We can't always get what you wan-" she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word, unable to speak further. She simply looked into his eyes to let him see what she couldn't tell him.

–-

They had gotten out of the room. They had done what they had to do. The time-turner was back in the right place, ready to be inventoried. They had looked at each other in the atrium. Tom had cast a scourgify on them, to get rid of the blood and a concealment charm on her neck. He had gently replaced one of her hair behind her ear.

When they had left the Department of Mysteries, they had not talked. They had simply walked into the Ministry, as if nothing had happened.

When they had left, it was not even past noon.

–-

Hermione shook the healer's hand, thanking him for coming here and for the potions he had given her. She gently closed the door to her room, well the room she slept in Malfoy's townhouse, and laid back down on the soft bed. She went back to sleep immediately.

She woke up a few hours later. Her head was still pounding, but it was manageable. She drank another blood-replenishing potion and sat on the edge of the bed. Gently, she put her hand on her throat, and let her finger graze the bruised skin. She closed her eyes and was welcomed with the same disturbing images of her in the veil room and of Antonin. Then, the flashes showed her Tom, she could almost feel the softness of his touch on her hair, his lips gently grazing the crown of her head.

She could hear chatter coming from downstairs. Slowly, she got up. She stayed still for a moment, gathering all her strength to walk out of the room. When she opened the door, the chatter became louder. She put her hand on the stairs guardrail and went downstairs.

The lads were gathered in the large living room, on two large couches, drinks in hand, light music playing in the background. The room was lit by the large chimney. Hermione could see snow falling outside, even though it was already dark. She could also hear fireworks being let off outside. She had forgotten but tonight was New Years' Eve.

As soon as she stepped in, the chatter died down. They all looked at her. Milton, Thorus and Avery were on the one directly facing her. They were anxiously looking at her, their gaze sometimes falling onto her neck, on her bruise. On the other couch were Lestrange, Rosier and Abraxas, looking at her too. Without saying a word, she sat next to Malfoy.

Gradually, they continued their conversations. None of them talked about what had happened today. She didn't even know if they were all aware of every detail. As her eyes scanned the room, she realised Dolohov was not there. She felt relieved. She didn't know how she would react if he was there. She also realised Tom wasn't there either.

"I thought the healer told you to stay in bed," Abraxas told her. Hermione knew he wanted to be harsh, but it came out almost worrying. She looked at him and opened her mouth to reply but the blond stopped her. "You're not supposed to be talking either. You need to rest your vocal cords," he chided her.

Then, she heard footsteps coming their way. Tom arrived in the room, quickly followed by Cassandre Parkinson. At the sight, Hermione frowned. What was he doing here?

As soon as Tom walked in, his eyes directly fell on her. They looked at each other for a few seconds before Tom settled in front of the couches and Cassandre sat next to Avery.

Hermione's eyes roamed around the room before settling at the large wooden dinner table, right behind the couches. There, around it, were ten chairs. Hermione's mind quickly did the maths and her eyes flew back to Cassandre.

"This year is coming to an end," Tom finally said. The lads immediately stopped talking. They all looked at him expectantly. "We have worked hard to get where we are, we have done good." He was looking at each one of them. "What happened on Christmas' Eve is not a step back, it only is a slight detour. It simply shows that what we do is worthy and that we are a force to be reckoned with." Tom took one glass from the coffee table. "This year, we infiltrated the ministry. Next year, we will take over it." He raised his glass. "To this new year."

The lads all cheered at the little speech. Isodor then got up and mirrored Tom's position.

"To plan which backfires," he said, a large smile on his face.

"To the men who fix it," Milton replied as the other boys cheered once again.

"To the future," Thorus added.

Hermione felt Tom's gaze on her. She looked at him. He still had his drink raised, a small smile on his lips.

Hermione saw his lips move, she saw him speak. Then, the seven other boys were all looking at her, at them, all clapping. She saw Rosier coming towards Tom and clapping him in the back. She saw Thorus congratulating him. Hermione felt like being in a trance, everything seemed to be in slow motion. She saw Abraxas popping a bottle of champagne, not caring that it was dripping on the priceless rug.

"To my future bride," Tom repeated, still looking at her.

Authors' note:

Hi. Sorry for the 2-year delay. See you in 2027?

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