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Chapter Two- The Saviour



Hermione hadn’t let the three boys out of her sight since she had woken up.

After she had told them her name (hesitantly, mind you- she still wasn’t too sure whether it was a good idea or not), they had somehow convinced her to climb back into bed.

Hermione hadn’t wanted to just lay down and be complacent, but Remus especially had seemed overly concerned, as he fluffed her pillow and fussed with the thin sheet covering her frail body.

They were still by her side, now.

Sirius’ eyes hadn’t left her face, so she pointedly ignored his gaze. This was harder said than done, as she could feel it prickling her skin. In any other situation, under any other circumstances, she would be blushing like a young schoolgirl at the fact that she held an attractive boy’s attention. But Hermione couldn’t revel in this.

James seemed too nervous to really look at her. Probably because she had greeted him with an unrequited familiarity and love, and had made him feel too uncomfortable. She didn’t blame him, to be completely honest, but she couldn’t help but stare at him for a while to calm herself down, before the novelty of his likeliness to her best friend wore off, and she was left feeling even more depressed.

Out of all of them, Remus was the one that Hermione felt closest to. That was ridiculous, of course. She had known the middle-aged Remus, not the teenage one. But it was close enough. He was shifting in his seat on her right, massaging the bridge of his nose.

Sighing deeply, Hermione dropped her head onto the pillow behind her. Remus’ head snapped to look at her. Sirius looked concerned.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly, sensing their worry. She almost laughed. Almost, but not quite.

Her situation wasn’t what you’d call amusing, and it felt silly to laugh. She needed answers. She needed to know what happened, and how she could get back to-

Tears filled Hermione’s eyes.

She nearly choked on the heartbroken sob that was crawling up her throat, but knew that if she reacted the boys would no doubt call for Madam Pomfrey and she would be subjected to questions she could not answer just yet. Luckily, she had somehow managed to persuade them that an hour or so of solitude would do her good, so they refrained from alerting the nurse of her state.

Hermione had grabbed hold of Sirius’ sleeve when he had first stood up and whilst the boy had looked shocked, he understood the silent plea in her eyes and had sat back down.
Stay. Please.

Now, though, she was left as a victim of her own mind and the thoughts from her last life.

They had been doing so well.

They had been winning.

How had it all just stopped? How had it just switched?

How had the Light been winning one moment and in the next, been spinning in a downward spiral of loss?

She didn’t know. But she did know one thing:

Harry had been a Horcrux.

Hermione had no idea how Dumbledore didn’t know and she felt confused, sure, but most of all, she felt angry. A red-hot writhing anger that burned her veins. How could Dumbledore selfishly condemn a child to death? The old man had left Harry all alone to fight for the entire Wizarding world, without so much as a point in the right direction. In the end, it had been Snape who Hermione felt obligated to thank. Harry owed him his life, and so she felt like she too owed him hers.
Harry.

She could remember her black-haired friend, although the image was hazy; like a memory in a dream, nothing more. His eyes haunted her. Every time she closed her own, the nightmare of green framed by black imprinted itself on the back of her lids. They looked sad and tortured and she hated herself for being here, for breathing, for living.

Because Harry was dead.

A stray tear fell and she cursed herself for crying. But she had the right to cry, Hermione argued with herself; her best friend was dead.



oOoOoOo



The Final Battle had been no closer to ending, even after Harry Potter had been declared dead by Voldemort. The Light side still fought on valiantly, but whilst they were determined, they were disheartened. Hermione had run to the only place she could think of in that moment; the Room of Requirement.

Thankfully, the last of the students had been evacuated out through Ariana’s portrait, and as she paced in front of the wall, the only thought that came to Hermione’s head was home, take me home.

The door had opened. And home turned out to be the Gryffindor Common Room.

It was unscathed; a state Hermione remembered only vaguely from the year previous. Had it only been a year? It seemed like much longer.

The floor was cluttered though, with the quirky miscellaneous objects that had been stacked up the last time she, Harry and Ron had been in the Room. She frowned.
Why was the room like this? It seemed as though it was somehow caught in between two different people’s requirements, and if she focused on one point for a long time, she could see it glitch between both existences.

It had hit her suddenly. She could remember the feeling of revelation, like she had been doused in cold water. If it was torn between two people’s requirements, then there must be two people to require.

“Hello Granger,” the voice drawled and Hermione recognised it instantly.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against the wall, looking cool and composed, but the paleness of his face gave his true feeling away. He was scared.

“Draco.”

The use of his first name noticeably threw him of guard.

“Don’t do that Granger,” he said lowly, detaching himself and moving to stand a few metres directly in front of her.

“Don’t do what?” Hermione asked, her voice soft, but her hand hovered over her wand.

“Don’t speak to me like we’re friends. You know we’re not.”

“Draco-”

“We are on different sides of the war, Granger! If we were two different people, then we would be killing one another!”

“But we’re not,” Hermione replied. “We’re not two different people. We’re still the same people, just older-”

“No, we’re not! We’re not-” he broke off, faltering. His face crumpled.

She felt for him then. That’s right. In that moment, Hermione Granger felt sorry for Draco Malfoy. Because she realised that he wasn’t a bad kid, he wasn’t a Death Eater; he was just a scared little boy. He hadn’t made the wrong choices; he was the one who never even had a choice.

She felt for him because, in essence, he was just like Harry.

A sound echoed outside, and a chorus of ragged voices followed. Hermione frowned, not recognising any of them. She didn’t have to wonder whether they were friend or foe, though, as Draco’s face became scared and his eyes darted to the doorway before back to her.

“-sure she came this way, Dolohov?”

“Positive. Can’t mistake that bushy bird’s nest of hers.”

Laughter. Malicious, cackling laughter.

“What does the Dark Lord even want her for? Why can’t he just settle for Potter and let us have our fun?” The voice sounded petulant. There was a crack, and an exclamation of pain. “Whatd’youdothatfor?”

“You know why,” the second Death Eater, Dolohov, snarled. “The Mudblood is a spoil of war! The Dark Lord wants her alive and unscathed because he has plans for her. She’s Potter’s best friend; think of how that specky little bastard would feel if his worst enemy defiled his prissy little girlfriend!”

Hermione felt sick. She knew what they were implying, and by the commotion outside, they were close to her. Too close for comfort.

She glanced at Draco. His skin had whitened considerably, which she would have thought impossible, but he looked frightened. He looked terrified. His wand was pointing at her, and she was alarmed at how he had managed to corner her without her knowledge.

“I-”

If Draco was the one who delivered her to Voldemort, then it sounded as though he would be gifted. She had let him trick her by playing the innocent card. How had she been so blind?

Hermione recoiled.

“How could you?” She asked, almost hurt.

Draco looked shocked, then bewildered, then wounded. “No!” He cried, putting his wand down. “No! Please, Granger! I didn’t know, I was already here! I didn’t know they wanted you, please!”

She felt suspicion settle in her stomach, although it was ebbing away by the distraught expression on his face. He wasn’t that good of an actor. No one could fake that.

“I don’t understand…” Hermione trailed off. “If you didn’t, then why-?”

“I-” He looked uncomfortable.

“Draco?” Hermione questioned. There was a softness to his features, and a tilt to his eyes and mouth.

“I-I lo-”

The door opened, and the voices became louder and closer. The two Death Eaters came into view.

Draco stopped speaking and shot a startled look towards them. His eyes were red and the skin of his face was blotchy.

After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion; the two men spotted Hermione and adopted a ferocious demeanour, Draco noticed and spun back to face her. His eyes had pleaded, and there was something in them that she couldn’t decipher. His lips mouthed something.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.”

A flash of purple light erupted from the tip of his wand and she let out a small ‘Oh’ before falling backwards, onto a pile of unusual items. There was a crack. An enraged scream. And Hermione felt herself moving and moving and spinning and twisting and turning and falling, always falling.

The last thing she saw was Draco Malfoy’s lifeless body hitting the floor; his last emotion printed on his young face.



oOoOoOo



“Hey,” Sirius said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Hermione was jolted out of her reverie by his fingers, which were gently wiping away the tears on her cheeks. She sniffed, trying to breathe and think clearly, but finding it too hard.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

And she did know. Whatever Draco had done had saved her life. Sirius smiled at her, and she really did feel better by the warmness of the gesture.

“Where’s Peter?” James suddenly asked and Hermione was thrown off. She scowled slightly at the mention of the boy that would betray Harry’s parents. She wanted to jump out of bed and shake James by the shoulders until he saw sense, but that was wishful thinking.

“I don’t know,” Remus replied. “I think I last saw him passed out underneath the armchair as a-” The word rat went unsaid, although Hermione knew. Remus broke off laughing awkwardly, shooting her a glance. “I could be wrong though, I was heavily intoxicated at the time, thanks to you two imbeciles.”

“Why, Moony! Are you purposefully bad-mouthing us in front of this pretty lady?” Sirius asked in mock-offence.

“You know, Padfoot, I think he is! And here, Remus! Mr. Because. I’m. A. Prefect. I. Now. Have. To. Listen. To. Teachers. And. Do. As. I’m. Told! You told me I was pretty!” James cried, leaning on Sirius’ shoulder as he pretended to sob. “He told me I was pretty!”

“I know, I know, Prongsie! Don’t worry your little head, you are pretty,” Sirius consoled, patting his friend on the back lovingly.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Swear it?”

“Swear it.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Pinkie swear-?”

“Merlin’s Beard James, you’re gorgeous! Now, please shut up!” Remus interrupted, sharing an exasperated look with Hermione who was deeply amused by their theatrics. “They are, at this precise moment in time, how you say ‘pissed as a badger’s fart’.”

“My, my. It seems my presence is not needed here. Mister Potter, Black, Lupin; you seem to be properly welcoming our guest.”

The voice had three heads shooting towards the doorway, from which it came. Hermione, on the other hand, looked down at her entwined hands, feeling conflicted about the new arrival. Remus blushed at having been caught cursing by the headmaster.

Albus Dumbledore strode over to her bed, accompanied by Madam Pomfrey. As soon as the matron was within two meters of her, she began bustling about, forcing as many vile potions down Hermione’s throat as possible.

She grimaced, pulling a face as the liquid scorched her throat. Sirius shifted uncomfortably.

The nurse’s attention became too much, she was obviously checking every inch of Hermione’s body for some sort of wound. She was inching closer and closer to the scar on her forearm, closer and closer to something that Hermione wanted desperately to hide. All the scars from the war were on the lower half of her body, thankfully, but Madam Pomfrey wasn’t finished searching.

Sirius and James were staring at Dumbledore, waiting to hear his verdict on the whole situation, but Remus’ attention was fixed on her. He could sense her discomfort, and her unwillingness at being fussed over. Hermione’s agitation increased as the matron went to lift up her dress sleeve.

“Poppy,” Remus spoke up, not realising he had used her first name (which he only knew from Sirius, who knew practically everything about every female in the school). “Poppy, stop.”

Madam Pomfrey did stop, but she did so with an affronted expression. Shocked, she glanced at Dumbledore. “Albus, I- Mr. Lupin, that is no way to speak to an adult! I-”

“No, Poppy. I believe Mr. Lupin here is quite right. The girl has obviously been through quite the ordeal. Perhaps we should give her some space.”

The nurse muttered under her breath, but otherwise stepped away, retreating to her office, rambling about some potion or other

“Miss-?”

“Granger,” Hermione supplied quietly, staring at her Headmaster for the first time in so long. Her throat felt clogged, and even though she did not trust him for the actions he had yet to complete, the familiar twinkling in his blue eyes made something inside of her wrench. She had to smile.

“Miss Granger. Of course, you would understand my surprise when I was informed that a young girl, about the age of a student, fell from the Gryffindor Common Room ceiling, looking as though she had fought in a war.” Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t miss how the girl’s shoulders stiffened at this. “How did you come to be in this state, Miss Granger?”

Hermione paused, mulling over her options. It wouldn’t hurt to tell him part of the truth. She was far too tired to think of a full excuse, and he would see through any lie she shot at him.

“I was in a war,” she said, in a soft tone of voice. Sirius stared at her. James gaped. Remus looked too alarmed to properly react. “But not how you would expect, Professor.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in that mild, only slightly interested way of his. “Oh?”

“I-” she broke off, eyes flicking to the three boys in the room. He noticed.

“Boys, if you wouldn’t mind. I think that it would be wise for Miss Granger and I to talk, alone.”

James looked at Hermione, silently asking if she would be okay. She felt touched, and nodded with a small smile. Almost reluctantly, they left the Hospital Wing. As soon as the door slammed to a close, Dumbledore cast a spell that she recognised as a sound-proofing one, and turned his full attention on her.

Hermione didn’t know where to begin.

“I find the beginning is a good place to start, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore offered quietly, almost reading her mind and offering her an encouraging smile. She nearly laughed at the irony.

“Well, if you want to be technical, then I suppose this is the beginning.” At his frown, she continued. “I was in a war, Professor. But you, of all people, should know that no war is currently taking place. At least, not in this time. In another, however…”

Hermione was glad that the Headmaster was an intelligent man, and would understand the riddle she presented, so that she wouldn’t have to admit aloud. As silly as it sounded, saying it aloud made it real.

“You are from the future.”

She nodded, closing her eyes.

He just made it real.

“Professor, I’m sorry. I can’t-”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Miss Granger, I do not wish for you to tell me anything now. You have quite obviously been through a traumatic tribulation, and I would not wish to make you relive that. However, you must understand the danger you will be in. If words gets out about your… predicament, many people will be after your knowledge, and will use less than savoury means in acquiring it… What I am trying to say is perhaps it would be best for you to remain at Hogwarts.” Whatever he was going to say, Hermione had not been expecting this. A rush of emotions overwhelmed her. Then, she felt sick. How could she go to school, and act as though everything was normal when she had just witnessed her friends and platonic family die in these very halls? “You have already met James, Sirius and Remus, who seem to genuinely care for your well-being…”

“Could I- Could I consider this? I mean, there have been many…” Hermione uttered, momentarily lost for words.

“Of course. I understand, Miss Granger. Until you have made your decision, I do believe your Hospital attire would make you stand out like a sore thumb, as dear Muggles do say. Not to mention, it would make it exceptionally hard for you to escape Madam Pomfrey.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile slightly, although it didn’t reach her eyes. Dumbledore waved his wand and the stationary dress transformed into a Gryffindor uniform. She felt the fabric, an onslaught of memories attacking her at once from the nostalgia of the outfit.

Swallowing, she nodded her thanks.

Gingerly, Hermione stepped out of bed, instinctively reaching for her wand, which was resting on the bedside table. She felt at peace.

And it was this thought that stopped her in her tracks. Guilt overwhelmed her thoughts, threatening to choke her. How could she be doing this? How could she be acting as though everything was alright, and as if she hadn’t just witnessed her closest allies fall before her, for a cause as corrupt as the man who led it?

The man stood in front of her now.

Hermione’s back stiffened.

Hesitating only a little, she began to walk out of the Hospital Wing, not finding the energy or courage to stay any longer with Albus Dumbledore. But he knew. Of course he knew.
"Oh, and Miss Granger," Hermione paused, mere inches from the door, looking back at him. "Bad things happen to those who meddle with time," Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he warned her lightly.

Hermione stared at him for a little longer, remembering the last time she heard those words, and wondering what the hidden message was in them. He always had a hidden message. He always believed that people could figure out riddles, even when they couldn’t. But she could. Oh, Hermione Granger was not known as The Brightest Witch of her Generation for nothing! She would show him she was capable.

But not now.

Hermione carried on walking, keen to get away from the situation as fast as possible.

"Whatever I have done, or will do to you in the future, I apologise. Surely you cannot condemn a man for something he has not done?"

Hermione froze. So he did know.

Dumbledore had registered her abrupt change in attitude towards him.

"With all due respect sir," she smiled politely, turning to face him, and she felt sad, "you are still the same man now as you are then. Forgive me for being weary of that information."

And she walked out of the Hospital Wing.