In this short Life that only lasts an hour
How much - how little - is within our power
- Emily Dickenson, 1292
CHAPTER 2: ERRANT STRANDS
Fenrir Greyback, the most savage werewolf alive, loomed before Hermione. His eyes glinted with predatory hunger as he clutched her scarf tightly to his nose, savoring the scent. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but she was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear.
"'Ello, girly," he snarled, his voice dripping with malice. The sound of it cut through her like a knife, making her heart race.
Before Hermione could react, a red spike of a Stunning Spell struck her squarely in the chest. The impact sent a numbing shockwave through her body, rendering her helpless and gasping for breath.
Greyback lunged, his claws poised to strike, but then something extraordinary happened. The world around her began to hum with a deep, unsettling vibration. Greyback's figure blurred, then jerked backward at impossible speed, as if reality itself was being rewound.
Her eyes fell to the time-turner around her neck. Panic surged through her as she realized the central dial, meant to be turned only five times, was spinning uncontrollably.
Time flickered around her in rapid succession—day became night, then night became day. The force of it was suffocating, pressing down on her like a vise. She struggled to move, to stop the time-turner's wild spinning, but was trapped in a whirlwind of temporal chaos.
The time-turner burned fiercely against her skin, its heat unbearable. The spiraling dials warped and twisted, threatening to snap under the strain.
Suddenly, a small form crashed into her, and two hands gripped her tightly. A mop of blonde hair whipped across her face as she looked into a pair of wide blue eyes, filled with fear. Someone—something—was clinging to her amidst the temporal storm.
The blurring light and shifting shadows became a relentless barrage, each transition more violent than the last. Her new companion became her only anchor, a tether to reality.
In a blinding moment of clarity, the time-turner exploded. The charm disintegrated in a fiery blaze, unleashing a shockwave that tore through the forest.
Hermione was hurled backward, her body and her companion slamming into the ground. The world spun out of control before coming to a jarring stop. Her head pounded with a migraine, her vision a kaleidoscope of black dots and blurred shapes.
When she could finally focus, she saw she was still at the base of the great oak tree. The steel shelter was a wreckage of twisted metal and shattered wood.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to process the chaotic events. The time-turner was gone, its remnants scattered like shards of broken glass.
Clinging to her was a witch, no older than Hermione herself. Her face was wild and tense. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, both too stunned to speak. Then, as if suddenly realizing her position, the girl released Hermione and stood up, her expression hardening.
Hermione's instincts kicked in. She had to act fast to secure the girl and understand what had just happened. With a practiced hand, she began the incantation. "Obliv—"
Before she could finish, the girl's fist collided with her face. The blow was more forceful than Hermione had anticipated, causing her head to snap back. Pain radiated through her jaw and neck.
"You're setting traps for us now?" the girl spat, her eyes blazing with fury. She stood over Hermione with a fierce defiance.
Dazed, Hermione shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in her ears. "Wait—" she gasped, desperation in her voice. She needed the girl to listen; time was running out.
"Let me make this clear: I will never—not today, not tomorrow, not ever—sign your registry," the girl snapped, her voice laced with venom.
Registry? What registry? Hermione's frustration surged. She didn't have time for this. She had to complete her mission.
"Listen, you need to come with—"
"Are you deaf? I'm not going anywhere with Ministry scum!" The girl spat.
The witch's eyes flicked over Hermione's appearance—torn jeans, a hoodie. There was a bitter contempt in her voice. "What's this? Trying to blend in with us?"
"RIGHT—" Hermione began, but her protest was cut short as she was knocked off her feet again. The air was forced from her lungs when she hit the ground. Before she could react, the girl fell on top of her, and ropes attached to heavy rocks lashed around both their legs.
Above them, a dozen centaurs loomed, bows drawn, their faces stern and unreadable.
Hermione's heart sank. Centaurs were creatures of honor, but their sense of justice was unpredictable. She had narrowly escaped their wrath before when they were focused on other matters. This time, she wasn't confident in her chances.
Her new companion held her head high, defiant if the fierce glare she leveled at the leader was any indication.
Hermione's urgency grew. She could feel time slipping away, each moment a drop in the hourglass. Her head throbbed with pain, the aftereffects of the time-turner's destruction still reverberating through her. Five hours. That's all she had left. If she didn't act fast, Harry would be lost forever.
"These are not your stars, witchling," one of the centaurs said, his deep voice resonating as he addressed Hermione. His gaze was piercing, as if he could see through her very soul.
Beside her, the girl stiffened, her defiance faltering for the first time.