Chapter Text
She hadn’t prepared for how hollow, how empty, how purposeless her life would be when it was all over. For the last seven years her entire existence had been so focused on Harry: getting Harry through the year alive, trying to get Harry to pay attention in lessons and develop his skills for the inevitable, spending hours in the library gathering knowledge that would help Harry along the way, helping Harry practice his spells so he was a better duellist. It had come and gone and now all that was left to do was recover and rebuild.
But nobody really wanted her -- or them -- to do anything other than be a nice face for the front of the Daily Prophet and utter a few words for some morale. Hermione had never known so few words to be embellished upon so much unless it was by Rita Skeeter’s quill. Days where they did not make any sort of appearance or statement didn’t deter them either: the newspaper was daily filled with recaps of their exploits over the past seven years.
To be fair, they had tried to find purpose, but it seemed that everyone was preventing them from doing anything further, despite their own expressed desires. Harry was desperate to help round up Death Eaters for the Ministry, but he was only asked to relay what little he had witnessed in the final battle. He was instead used as the face for “carrying on” for the wizarding community. Ron was a bit listless, in shock from the loss of poor Fred, and did his best to stick with Harry. When home, though, he seemed to be endlessly engaged in Wizard’s Chess or Exploding Snap with whoever would sit with him. Hermione did her best to try to involve herself with the rebuilding of Hogwarts, her home -- the place where she truly flourished and learned to be herself -- but she was always told she had done enough and no one expected her to do anything after they had done so much.
She didn’t expect the restlessness, the lack of occupation that came with the completion of their task. It had started soon after the Battle of Hogwarts, as soon as the dead were dealt with, and they didn’t need to appear at so many funerals or formal interviews at the Ministry. She felt like a worm on a hook: wriggling, always trying to free herself or find some occupation or something to take her mind away from itself. She couldn’t even settle with her beloved books. When she tried to sit and read, little bits of information that she wished she had known popped up or she was reminded of something she knew and lamented her lack of use of when surviving over the past year. Her one source of solitude was now a source of distraction and regret. It was infuriating.
Hermione didn’t expect the nightmares, either. She thought they had disappeared with the destruction of the Horcrux and the end of the conflict, but they returned with a vengeance. As soon as she closed her eyes at night, she kept finding herself in the midst of the final battle, staring at Harry’s dead body in Hagrid’s arms. Other times she would have Greyback in her face, his warm, rancid breath wetting her cheeks as he questioned her in the dark of the forest. Sometimes as she was drifting to the edge of consciousness, she could feel Bellatrix above her, the silver knife pressed against her throat, followed by the thousands of shards of goblin glass from the chandelier embedded in her back. The visions and feelings broke through the nightly doses of Dreamless Sleep that were offered to her. There were nights she woke up in terror clawing at her chest, her fingers trying to dig the Horcrux away from her only to find that there was nothing other than the trails of blood she left and her whole being filled with that voice whispering her name, every syllable of it sliding into her ears and eyes and through her brain and out her nose, filling every one of her senses with its tangy darkness. The healers she spoke to said they couldn’t give her anything stronger for fear of damage. Apparently only time would heal her wounds, no matter how invisible they may be.
And, worst of all, she didn’t expect to keep re-living Severus Snape’s last moments over and over. Her brain continuously cycled through the images of the enchanted cage, the snake, its fangs, the blood -- so much blood, and so many memories -- so much gluey silvery blue substance flooding out of him. They came to her when she least expected -- when she took her first sips of tea in the morning and allowed her mind to go blank, she was assaulted. When she stepped into the bath and gloried in the luxury of the warm water after camping for so long, her thoughts turned to her ex-Potions Master and how that would be something he would never get to experience again. Severus Snape, who had given so much of his life to the war would never get to experience a world without Voldemort. His death was such a waste. Such a horrible waste.
There were many injustices she felt from the war over the past few years, but this one struck her the most. How terrible to live one’s entire life trying to atone for a mistake. How awful to be so close to freedom and to have it snatched away. How dreadful to have one’s life end in such a horrifying way, caught between the orders of two madmen. Why did wizards like Lucius Malfoy and witches like Dolores Umbridge get to keep their life when men like Severus Snape no longer had theirs? No, Severus Snape wasn’t the most pleasant of men, but after the life he had lived shouldn’t he have been allowed to live the life he wanted? What would he have done with it had he survived?
And, most importantly, why hadn’t she tried to save him? She had potions. She had salves. She had carried them for months. She thought quickly enough to conjure a vial for Harry to collect those memories, but nothing for Snape. No dittany, no blood replenishing potions, nothing. Even if she couldn’t have done anything to stem the flow of death, she should have at least made the effort to.
The guilt hit her to the point where she found it difficult to breathe at times. Harry had been bitten by Nagini, and she used dittany right away -- she had saved Harry with it. Why of all things could she only think to conjure a bottle for Harry to retrieve Snape’s memories and not use any of the dittany or other supplies in her bag to help save him, little though they may do? What must he have thought of her while he was gasping for breath in his dying moments? She was a witch -- she had the resources at hand, but did not think to use them, and her failure in that bothered her deeply.
Hermione tried to seek solace from sources other than her books. She and Ron ended up sharing a few more misguided kisses in those few weeks after before they -- or at least she -- decided it wasn’t to be after all. She was looking for a distraction, and felt cruel because she knew she was using him to try to feel something rather than investing in any sort of real relationship with him. Despite years of wishing he would return her feelings, she no longer had an interest in sharing any sort of romantic relationship with him. She knew that she would never forgive Ron for leaving her -- them -- in the forest, despite the Horcrux’s influence. They all took turns wearing it, didn’t they? And she and Harry didn’t decide to run away.
Even worse was that people seemed to expect it of them. Harry sought comfort with Ginny, and it only made sense for she and Ron to turn to each other. However, as the weeks passed, they sought each others company privately less and less until they only really spent time together when Harry was in the room. Ron didn’t seem to mind. The fanmail that was delivered from the Ministry weekly seemed to lessen any sort of heartache that she thought he might experience. And it seemed to do some good for him -- the emotion that was missing began to return, and she began to see smiles on his face again.
As May rolled in to June, she did track down her parents in Australia. With Mr. Weasley’s connections at the Ministry, it didn’t take long. It wasn’t until she visited them under the guise of selling them a home alarm system that she discovered that memory spells were a bit trickier to undo than they were to cast. She had spent a considerable amount of time padding out her presentation, trying to discreetly cast spells at them to no avail. Her parents stubbornly remained Wendell and Monica Wilkins, recent retirees. In her desperation to send her parents into hiding, she had done her job a little too well, and had hidden their memories so deeply that they were having trouble being recovered. Hermione spent a few weeks in Australia, stalking her parents from afar, trying everything she knew to remove the false memories before eventually resigning herself to the fact that she did not have the knowledge or skill to do so. She was consulting with a healer at St. Mungo’s for the best way to go about recovering the memories and re-introducing her parents to their life in England. It wasn’t going well, but the healer assured her they would keep her abreast of any new developments.
When she returned, desperate for something to do, she had a sudden desire to redecorate Grimmauld Place, and posed the question to Harry. He was not opposed to it -- and actually seemed excited by it. The house wasn’t destroyed as they had feared after it had been discovered. That may have been the one positive thing that Bellatrix Lestrange had done. The house was too full of Black family memories -- an old pureblood family -- and too important, too vital to be destroyed. It appeared to have been saved to be released to her and her bloodline had Voldemort won the war. There were signs that she had at least made an appearance in the house in their absence. Now it was handed back to Harry once it had been cleared of dark magic by Aurors, a surprisingly quick release, no doubt sped by the fact that he had finally defeated Voldemort. One good thing the Aurors had taken care of was the portrait of Walburga Black. It was now mysteriously gone from the front entry, though it looked like a large portion of the wall needed to be removed to accomplish that feat. Mr. Weasley, having worked on the Burrow for years, stepped in to help them with any structural repairs.
And so their days went by, once again exploring all the dark cupboards and crevices of Grimmauld Place to remove any nesting doxies from the tapestries and expelling any boggarts hiding in cupboards. They sought to rid the house of anything the Death Eaters may have stowed away that the Aurors didn’t see fit to remove. It appeared that the permanent sticking charm that had attached the Black family tapestry to the wall was another thing the Aurors or the Death Eaters had solved -- it had been strewn across the floor when they first came across it. Harry was about to vanish the family tapestry when Hermione broke in. “How about tucking it away? Someone writing about the war may want to see it someday.” Harry shrugged and let her direct her wand toward it, carefully twisting and flicking her wrist so that it folded itself into a neat rectangle and placing a preservation charm on it. “You have plenty of rooms to set things aside in where you don’t have to look at them.”
The remaining Weasleys and members of the Order popped in every so often to help as well, though she thought the visits were more welfare checks on the three of them rather than really stopping by to help put the house back together. Their efforts worked, and, after a few weeks, the air of Voldemort and malice that had permeated the house had begun to disappear. New paint covered the walls, curtains were removed, and the dark rooms were transformed into welcoming spaces. Furniture was reupholstered to replace dark colors with light ones. Woods were transfigured from ebonies and darkened oak to light mahogany. Harry even let Ron decorate a room in violent orange to celebrate his love for the Chudley Cannons. It was a novelty for Harry, having so much freedom over his living space, and he chose to share it. He let her have reign over the drawing room, which she chose to decorate in light blues to brighten the room.
It was towards the end of June when she was in the middle of packing away some of the darker tomes of the library that Hermione was struck by a thought that took her breath away.
Why did Snape have to suffer the end that he did?
Why shouldn’t he be given the opportunity to live a master-free life?
Her brain never would have entertained the thought of something so ambitious, so impossible, but the past year -- making it through alive against all odds had given her the hope that maybe more impossible things could be achieved. Her heart took hold of it and wouldn’t let go.
Why not? Why not? Why not?
Why couldn’t she save Snape?
Why couldn’t she change the outcome? She couldn’t change what had happened -- of course not, but if it had already been changed, it would have already happened, wouldn’t it? How would she know if she succeeded if she didn’t at least try? Her brain kept cycling through these thoughts and she became a woman obsessed.
Hermione knew the consequences of playing with time -- she had learned all about it in her third year, and again at the Department of Mysteries. And she needed a bit of respite, she decided. Grimmauld Place was beginning to feel a bit constrictive. Australia would only frustrate her. She could still go travelling with Luna, but she really needed to be somewhere where she could use her time constructively. Where could she go where she could quietly influence the outcome of Snape’s fate and work on the problem of her parents memory?
She paced up and down the stairs and corridors of Grimmauld Place, mulling over her options. She had made her way up to the attic and caught sight of an old Gryffindor pennant of Sirius’ when Harry’s voice came to her unbidden, an echo of their first year, explaining that there was no safer place than Hogwarts. Hogwarts would be perfect… but when? Obviously not in the last few years. She didn’t want to risk it at any point while she was alive, really, she knew she would be too tempted to go spy on herself and her parents. That left a window of about eight years in which she would be able to attend Hogwarts with Snape, but the first few really wouldn’t do, would they? She was too old.
She crossed to a mirror and studied her reflection. Her face had filled out a bit over the past few weeks. She had regained some of the weight she had lost over the past year, but her eyes betrayed her. They were just a little too creased to pass believably for anything below a sixth year.
She did the maths quickly. She would need to go to 1976, and that meant she would just be leaving the peace from the aftermath of one wizarding war and jumping right into the thick of another. But she would have Hogwarts, safe and complete and whole, and she would be learning, her favorite pastime so far… That was it, then.
She was full of adrenaline, now, her thoughts were moving so quickly that she could feel them overlapping -- how to do it, how to explain her presence, how to discreetly warn Snape, how to begin to research helping her parents, and even then, how to return to actually apply that knowledge. Her mind was working constantly, trying to come up with solutions to these problems, and she moved through the house almost constantly like a ghost, always half somewhere else, only supplying non-committal noises to Harry and Ron when they asked her a question.
How would she do it, though? All the time-turners she knew of were broken at the Department of Mysteries. The Daily Prophet even reported it. And she highly doubted, considering her role in the destruction, that the Ministry would be quick to hand her another. It was possible that Dumbledore would have kept the one that she used in her third year, or even that someone would have had one illegally secreted away. Weren’t the Ministry still confiscating items from the homes of known Death Eaters? She had gotten her wand back once they had done a sweep of Malfoy Manor. If they had found that, they must have uncovered plenty of other interesting things. Surely there must be something somewhere...
Hermione tucked herself away into the redecorated drawing room, reacquainting herself with her books now that she had a purpose once more. She pored over anything that looked as though it might remotely relate to time travel. The Black family didn’t seem to be big collectors in magical time-travel, but what there was frustratingly pointed her toward time turners. Thankfully though, one of the books, Magical Inventions of the 19th Century, did discuss a bit of their creation, but other than the history, it didn’t give any details on how to actually create the time turners themselves. Then came the discussion of the different types of time turners: devices that transported one hour, five hours, seconds… The standard rule that one could only go back in time five hours without making a massive alteration to the timeline was gone through over and over again. One book in particular, Traversing Time for the Tired Traveller, led her to the discussion of the use of a magical object to transport oneself back in time, and the transference of the magic from the user of the object to the object itself. That discussion led her to a book about spells placed on objects that infused them with magic that allowed objects to be transported. Magical Movement and its Everyday Uses led her to research on transporting oneself. That led her to Portkeys, and their creation, which led her to --
“I got it, Crooks.” Hermione nearly jumped from her seat, kicking over the stack of books at her feet. Crookshanks sleepily raised his head and gave her a slow blink from his position on the sofa next to her.
She would create a portkey and adapt it.
Thinking it best to start with the basics, she first studied how to create portkeys. Nevermind the fact that she would be playing free and easy with the laws for their creation. The Ministry weren’t watching them too closely, and the debacle with Barty Crouch, Jr in their fourth year confirmed that there was no actual way to track any sort of unauthorised use.
Much like apparition, for the creation of portkeys there needed to be a destination and determination in mind that the object absorbed when the spell was cast. When she felt confident that she had more than a grasp on how to produce one, she cast her eye about her bedroom for something appropriate to charm.
No, not a book, she didn’t want to risk anything happening to it. And definitely not a chair, that would create too much noise when it landed. It felt as though it was the first time she had properly looked at her room in weeks. There was a pile of folded laundry waiting to be put away, and a trail of discarded clothes leading from the door to the bed that spoke of how her mind had been uncharacteristically elsewhere.
No time like the present for a tidy. Hermione waved her wand across the mess, taking pleasure in the flight of the various items of clothing as they folded themselves into drawers and tucked themselves away into cupboards. Surveying the room once more, a lone sock caught her eye, half concealed under the wardrobe.
Perfect.
“Accio sock,” she commanded, reaching out to catch it as it launched toward her. Small and light enough to not create a disturbance and substantial enough to hold, she found the item to create her first portkey.
Thinking very hard of transporting the sock to the drawing room, Hermione tapped her wand to it. “Portus.” She said the spell with conviction, careful to remember the slight twist of the wrist required at the end of the cast. The sock glowed appropriately and she had to stifle a whoop of celebration.
Taking a deep breath, she reached out to touch the sock, anticipating the pull below her navel that she had come to associate with portkey travel. However, when the sock glowed again and disappeared, she remained stubbornly on her bed, her hand stretched over an empty space of air. How inconsiderate of it to leave without her!
She jumped off her bed and ran across the hall to the drawing room to investigate. There was nothing on the floor at first glance, but as she took a few steps into the room, she saw the sock lying on the floor between the blue chintz settees, mocking her.
While not a complete success, it was not a total failure. She had the intention of transporting an object, and she had done just that. The problem was that she hadn’t taken herself with it. She kicked herself mentally as she went over her actions, realizing that when she cast the spell, she had been rather more intent on sending the sock to the drawing room than herself. She crouched down and tapped it again, imagining it transporting her to her bedroom with as much determination and deliberation as she could muster. It glowed once more and she reached down to touch it.
The missing feeling of tugging at her navel materialized and she barely had a chance to grin in satisfaction before she found herself falling forward on her bedroom floor, landing on her shoulder with a thump.
“Everything okay?” she heard Ron shout down the stairs.
She jumped up and opened her bedroom door, rubbing her shoulder.
“Absolutely fine -- sorry!” she called.
After that, Hermione couldn’t help herself from practicing repeatedly, tapping random objects with a destination in mind and uttering “portus”, receiving small rushes of satisfaction when they successfully transported her from the drawing room of Grimmauld Place or her room and back again. She highly expected that if Ron and Harry knew what she was up to, she would receive just as much ribbing for her actions as Fred and George did for apparating everywhere after passing their exam.
She doubted that it would work, but after a few days of success, she thought to try to create one that would transport her through time. It was the destination and deliberation, after all. If she thought of the appropriate time and place, in theory, she should end up there. So, with a deep breath, she thought about the kitchen downstairs ten minutes before, where she knew Harry and Ron were eating a lunch of cold roast chicken, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley. “Portus” she whispered, thinking with all her might about how much she wanted to be there with them and in the kitchen as well, and the book she had tapped with her wand glowed blue. She grabbed it, felt a tugging under her navel that she had grown accustomed to, and caught herself against the sink when she landed.
There was no sign of Harry or Ron with the exception of their dirty dishes left at the table. She flicked her wand at the plates in disgust, half at them, half at her failure, and levitated them to the sink.
It was no use. No matter how hard she wished, no matter her intentions, she would need to augment the spell, to add something that would allow it -- and her -- to go to the past. She would need some time sand, the one magical ingredient that allowed time to be manipulated. It didn’t use to be a difficult ingredient to come across -- it was after all one of the main ingredients in aging potions and though it was highly controlled by the Ministry, Hermione recalled using it once or twice in their potions classes at Hogwarts. She remembered Professor Snape making his way along the brewing stations, carefully counting out the grains of sand each student would need. However, because of their escapades in the Department of Mysteries, the Ministry locked their supply up tight until they could navigate the creation of more time sand, and it looked as though she would need to make a formal request for some of their supply.
A request that Kingsley Shacklebolt immediately denied, even when she coaxed Harry into asking for her.
“Are you mad?” came the reply, Kingsley looking shocked at the three of them as they dined together one evening at Grimmauld Place. Well, maybe she was a bit. Living under constant stress and then finally having nothing will do things like that to you. “It’s volatile. And we don’t want to risk anything.” He shook his head in disbelief as he speared a roast potato, shaking it at Harry in his explanation.
“But it’s for Hermione, I’m sure she’ll --” Ron began, looking to Harry for reassurance.
“No. No, absolutely not,” Kingsley interrupted, a note of finality to his voice. They did not dare broach the subject again.
Hermione felt a bit dejected at Kingsley’s refusal to even consider her request, but she was confident that there were other avenues for her to pursue. She just needed to find them.
Another opportunity unexpectedly presented itself a few days later when she was reading through the texts on travel once more. There was a familiar crack of apparition from downstairs.
“Hello?” called Mr. Weasley’s familiar voice. “Delivery!”
Hermione jumped up and stuck her head over the banister. Mr. Weasley was standing in the entrance, his travelling cloak dripping from a summer storm. His arms were laden with a massive hamper.
“Hello!” she greeted, nearly skipping down the stairs to meet him. “Just off work?”
“Yes, but Molly wanted me to drop this by. I’ll need to go back later. We’ve just got another tip on a property in Norfolk that needs to be searched,” he sighed, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Mr. Weasley,” she began, taking the basket from him, “The ministry raids… do you keep an inventory of things that are found?”
“Oh, thanks for that -- Molly sends her love. Er, yes, we do keep a record,” he answered, shedding his travelling cloak. He paused, raising his eyebrows at her. The action caused his glasses to slide down his nose. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if any time turners or time sand had been confiscated?” asked Hermione, doing her best to sound as nonchalant as possible.
She thought she did a reasonably good job, but Mr. Weasley’s face turned serious. “That’s a very specific question, Hermione,” he said, pushing his glasses back into place. There was an air of suspicion in his voice.
“It’s to do with my parents,” she lied, rushing to get the explanation out. She hated being dishonest, but found that the excuses flowed more easily off her tongue than they maybe would have at one time. And it wasn’t even an outright lie -- she would use the time to constructively for her parents. “I thought that maybe there was something I could try that might bring their memories back.”
It worked, though, and his face softened into a look of fatherly concern. “Oh, Hermione…” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder in a comforting hug, guiding her toward the kitchen as he spoke. “Kingsley had mentioned you were interested in some. I’m afraid to say that any that had been retrieved has been taken to the Department of Mysteries. Lots of old families had some in their possession. The Malfoys, for instance, and the Lestranges. I’m sure I even saw a vial of it in Dumbledore’s office at some point, but who knows where that ended up.”
Hermione nodded. It was a start. She gave Mr. Weasley a bright smile, and heard Harry and Ron’s familiar footfalls making their way down the stairs. She set the hamper on the table, satisfied with the thud that it made from the weight inside. “Dinner’s here!” she shouted.
Although not as easy as she hoped, it provided her with a place to start. The Department of Mysteries was completely out of the question. She had no desire to ever visit there again, and although she was sure she could infiltrate under the guise of pursuing employment, it would take too long. She wasn’t going to go tromping around the countryside again looking to comb over pureblood families secret treasure troves. Shops like Borgin & Burkes had quickly been shut down, so there would be no luck there. Even if she went in to ask -- who would sell something like that to one of Harry Potter’s best friends? So that left one place: Hogwarts. She knew she could look at Hogwarts.
The next day Hermione wrote to Headmistress McGonagall, begging for an opportunity to visit the school and have tea with her, hoping that she wouldn’t turn her down.
She had tried to visit the school on several occasions previously. Her prior letters to the Headmistress were met with pleas for postponement, citing that the school was too unsafe to visit. She had even thought to drop by unannounced to see exactly how dangerous it was, but she didn’t make it any further on the grounds than the Quidditch pitch. She was easily spotted without a hard hat and a hi-vis and quickly escorted back down to Hogsmeade by Hagrid. The sight of the school covered in scaffolding, pockmarked with damage that revealed a few of the many rooms inside had brought tears to her eyes.
She was pleased that it only took McGonagall a few days to reply, and that the response was warm.
Dear Miss Granger,
How lovely to hear from you. I’ll be delighted to welcome you on the morning of the fifteenth of July if that is acceptable to you? Ten o’clock should be perfect.
Also, please do call me Minerva. I appreciate the formalities, but I am no longer your professor.
Awaiting your reply,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
She would be going to Hogwarts, and she would be bringing time sand back with her if she had to comb the castle from turret to dungeon.