Chapter Text
“It’s not shameful not to know. It’s shameful not to ask.”
-Proverb
“How can I be of assistance, Mr. Dumbledore?”
The words poured from her numb lips on their own. An attack— her ears rang — annihilation— her mouth tasted sour.
Hermione’s mind raced. She’d never been so terrified in her life. Terrified, yes…yet her heart beat a mile a minute with something that almost resembled hope. She was sick at her own reaction but with the sweet taste of long-sought-after answers on her tongue… It was impossible to stop excitement from mixing with dread in the pit of her stomach.
Oh, she was a horrible, wretched person. She truly was.
The power rumbling under her skin had tormented her with accidents and episodes since she was a little girl. It excluded her from normal social interactions and paralyzed her with the fear of being discovered and locked away in an institution for the mentally unstable. Her veins buzzed with the desire to explore, learn, and understand. She hungered to know the hated half of herself that terrified her most.
Some part of her was utterly petrified of the war and the impending attack on her fellow nonmagical people — Muggles. Her heart pinged in her chest at the mere thought of her parents or Thom being hurt. She wasn’t heartless or unfeeling like many of her colleagues at the University presumed when she failed to make a real human connection with anyone in the faculty or refused one too many Friday outings. No, she just much preferred guarding her heart against the inevitable whispers about her weirdness. She always filtered her life through the prism of logic.
Hermione channeled that unbreakable logic now, and it told her the Orden needed her and would do anything to get her on their side, including teaching her how to harness her turbulent power and maybe even helping her stay sane without a cocktail of meds in her system. Ah, the dreams.
Decided, then. She will help these people she’d just met to stop the war. She will keep Muggles safe. She will keep her loved ones safe. And she will bloody well be compensated in spades for the trouble with the knowledge she so desperately craved.
With her mind made up, she lowered herself back to the edge of the chair next to Mr. Malfoy. He kept staring at her intensely ever since the words left her mouth. Her focus was, however, on Mr. Dumbledore. The old man was leaning back in his high-backed chair, hands resting on his middle, appearing deep in thought.
“Thank you, Ms. Granger. That would be much appreciated,” He replied to her question.
She nodded. “What do you need me to do?” She’d crawl through tar and duck feathers if they promised her the answers. But they didn’t need to know just how desperate she was. Not yet.
The headmaster lowered his chin. “Go back in time, of course.”
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came. Go bloody where? She’d be less surprised if he sent her to hell to bargain with the Devil herself.
“C-come again?” She managed through her shock.
Magic was one thing, but time travel? She turned to Malfoy, hoping to find him cracking up at the blind man’s joke, but his sharp jaw was clenched in a way that suggested he was grinding his teeth to pearly dust.
Oblivious to Hermione’s gawking, Mr. Dumbledore continued. “Come morning, you and Mr. Malfoy are to use the Time Turner and go back to the summer of 1991. You will find Ms. Granger’s letter and deliver it to her family house’s doorstep, thus fulfilling the prophecy.”
Hermione blinked at the old man, speechless. Say what again? “A Time Turner?”
To her left, Mr. Malfoy heaved a long sigh you’d think the world’s fate was resting on his shoulders. “A Time Turner is a rare magical device — the only way for a magical person to travel through time.” Hermione felt like her mind was spinning.
“Owning to the greatest sacrifice of the brilliant Professor McGonagall, who protected it with the cost of her life, The Order is now in possession of only remaining Time Turner in the whole of Europe.” Malfoy’s robotic voice didn’t match the magnitude of the brave woman’s sacrifice. But the way his Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow…Yes, they all sacrificed; they all bled for this war. Was it her turn?
Her palms started to sweat, and she wiped them on her jeans. “Cool, cool, go back in time…No biggie-Wait!” She jumped in her chair as an idea struck her. “If you have the means to travel back in time, why not just, you know,” She mimed, slitting her throat, “that Black Lord, and be done with it.”
She wasn’t usually that violent, but the question offered an utterly logical solution to their pain, so why not? Malfoy pivoted in his chair to stare at her as if she was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen.
Dumbledore, however, looked calm and understanding as if her casual murder offer was no stranger than offering eggs for breakfast.
“Ah, of course, Ms. Granger, a curious mind like yours would eventually stumble upon the idea, like many of us.” Again, he nudged his half-spectacles up the bridge of his crooked nose, which Hermione thought was hilarious in a morbid kind of way. “It would be a lie to say we aren’t desperate enough to try. We did try. With the new abominable way the Dark Lord continues to split his soul, creating infinite Horcruxes, our situation, I’m afraid, is graver than we let you know.”
Wow, they did try to murder a man in the past. She swallowed, rasping out. “What happened? When you tried, I mean.”
“We were swiftly reminded of our place as guests in her house.”
“Who?”
“The Time, of course.”
“I- I don’t understand.”
Another wise nod. “Happens to the best of us. Perhaps this would help.” Sensing the knowledge the old man was about to drop, Hermione scooted closer to the edge of her seat. “The single truth you must always remember about the time is that it wishes to remain undisturbed. Always.” Hermione’s arms pebbled under the sleeves of her dirty blouse.
“The first time we sent an Auror back in time to kill the Dark Lord in his orphanage, he simply couldn’t get close enough. The time won’t allow it. A killing, you see, a loss of life, it’s dropping out of the faith’s tapestry leaves a hole so big it can’t be sewed together. Every time we sent Order agents, the time would fight back. We lost more brave, honorable people than you can count. Molly Weasley still sits by the window, waiting for her twins to return from the mission where the time separated them from their Mission leader carrying the Time Turner. Lost in the past, they were never recovered.”
Hermione’s back hit her chair, thinking through everything she’d just been told.
“If the Time separated people, how can you expect-”
“This,” Mr. Malfoy, content to let the headmaster explain until now, slammed a glinting silver ring on the worn wood of the table before Hermione. “The rings are charmed to keep us together, no more than ten meters apart.”
Hermione’s jaw hit the floor. “That’s presumptuous! I’m not being tethered to you for God knows how long. You-You’ll lick me to death!” She exclaimed, indignant.
Malfoy’s leg, crossed at the ankle over his bent knee, hit the floor with a thud.
“Muggles will start flying sooner than my tongue touches you again-”
Hermione’s palms slammed onto the table hard enough for the ring to jump on its surface. “They already fly, you absolute prat. Never heard of planes? Jesus-”
“I see you already get along just fine.” Dumbledore’s amusement broke the fight in two like a dry twig, leaving Hermione and Malfoy panting for breath.
Hermione recovered first. Smoothing her blouse with her palms, she lowered into her chair as if it would fall apart under her weight.
“Apologies, Mr. Dumbledore. I-ah,” she raked her brain for the questions, “Why would it do that? Try to separate us.”
“The time seeks always remain undisturbed. The presence of two or more un-belonging wizards or witches in one timeline is too much risk to undertake. The Time’s wise, it’s been around.” A small secret smile touched his weathered lips.
They were silent for a long moment. The questions in Hermione’s head are too numerous to address.
Like plunging off a cliff, she chose the one she dreaded most. “And you think I could fix it?” She whispered. “Deliver a letter, and all of it, the war and the pain will puff go away?”
Dumbledore laughed. Laughed! A fond sound of amusement only youth can deliver to old. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t be so bold to claim such a thing.” She felt her cheeks heating, daring a glance at Mr. Malfoy, whose frown betrayed his confusion at the old man’s words.
“You’re just one person, Ms. Granger.” He continued, “An important one? Without a doubt. But almighty? I can’t imagine how you can be.” Something in Hermione’s chest unclenched.
“You can’t stop the war or the pain it will inevitably rain on our nation. What you can do is follow your fate.” Mr. Dumbledore leaned forward as if to reveal a mighty secret. She did the same. “Be kind to a lost boy with a scar on his forehead. Be clever, brave, and resilient. A good friend, a hand outstretched, a hopeful heart.” The words sank into her like a salve to her wired nerves.
“At the end of the day, it is all we hope to be.”
With these parting words, the blind man lifted to his feet and glided out of the door, not once requiring assistance from Mr. Malfoy.
“You’ll stay with Jinny tonight,” Mr. Malfoy got to his feet, calm and collected, with no white-blond hair out of place. As if their little spat never happened. “See you in the morning. Wear the ring.”
Before she could snip at him about the worst proposal in the history of unwanted proposals, he called, “Kreacher!”
The wrinkly, oversized, bat-like creature popped into existence beside the wizard. “Master Draco!” Its nose scraped the kitchen floor when it bowed.
“A bath, make it extra hot.” Malfoy smoothed out the lapels of his black rope. His every move, every gesture, measured and assured in a manner that screamed Old Money. He shook his head. “The things I have to deal with here.”
“Yes, Master,” Another bow, “As you wish.”
Malfoy was by the door when Hermione’s curiosity got the best of her. “House Elves, are they slaves?” As hard as she tried, she couldn’t look past the simpering behavior of the ancient Elf. As a history professor and a decent human being, Hermione Granger decidedly was not okay with slavery.
Mr. Malfoy paused his hand on a door handle. “They are servants of old wizarding families,” His grey eyes were dark in the candlelight. She thought she saw his shoulders stiffen.
“So they are compensated for their labor?” She pressed.
“Their compensation is the job well done.”
“That’s barbaric-”
“Says a person whose people burned so-called witches on stakes-”
He had her there. Still, she couldn’t, wouldn’t let it go. “Enlighten me, then. How is it different from slavery?”
The blond wizard let go of the handle, leaning his back against the door instead. His head hit the wood in a move that communicated that he’d rather be on a battlefield than here explaining the simplest things.
“Kreacher!” He called again; the Elf appeared with a crack.
“Master!” A simpering bow.
“This witch thinks you’re better off as a free Elf with a paycheck for your hard work. I’ve decided to set you fr-”
The Elf exploded. Its bony knees hit the floor hard enough for Hermione to wince. Its spindly fingers latched onto Malfoy’s robes, and his wails, tearful and miserable, filled the air.
“Master Malfoy, NO! Kreacher serves the honorable House of Black! Oldest and purest of Houses!”
Hermione was on her feet, running towards the poor creature before she could think. She barely touched its shoulder as it sprang away as if burned. Curses and unidentifiable mutterings on its yellow tongue.
“-dare touch Kreacher-dirty Mudblood-”
“Kreacher,” Mr. Malfoy said in a steely voice. I’ve changed my mind; you can stay.” Before the Elf could melt into a grateful puddle of tears and saliva, Malfoy snapped, “My bath, now.”
The silence after the crack of the apparition rang in Hermione’s ears. In her wildest dreams, she couldn’t have imagined the damage to the creature’s psyche so deep; it wanted to serve and was proud to serve.
“Now you understand, Ms. Granger. The gravest assault for a House Elf is to offer them freedom. Next time you want to fix something, make sure it needs fixing.”
Chastised beyond belief and by no other than Mr. Kidnapper himself, Hermione held her chin high and met his steely gaze.
“It’s not shameful not to know things, Mr. Malfoy. It’s shameful not to ask.” She swallowed, balling her fists. “And I'm asking. Will you will teach me?”
“Will I now?” Was he…amused? The corner of his mouth might have lifted.
“You bet you will. And-and I’m keeping the stick.” She added, rushing the words.
Malfoy cocked his head as if studying a bizarre animal. “And if I refuse?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Then I suppose nothing stops me from catching that flight to Australia after all.”
Malfoy’s lips thinned. As good of an agreement as she’ll get. “Don’t forget the ring.”
He was gone, and the smugness Hermione felt for a brief moment was replaced with exhaustion.
She stood in an empty kitchen, trying to rain in the mess of her thoughts.
“I’d kill for a Cranberry Vodka right about now.” She tried to ask the ceiling. Nothing. Some servants, huh? With a sigh, she turned to the kitchen door.
She was going to travel into the past to find her lost letter. She was going to be a witch.