I own nothing but the plot, but it's obvious.

The dungeon was cold and dark and the incessant drip of leaky pipes echoed in Hermione's head. How much time had passed since they threw her there, covered with cuts and bruises, bleeding, and who knows what else? She had not lost hope, not yet. She didn't think there was no alternative, no way to come back. But she was almost there.

The screams of joy from the Death Eaters haunted her, her mind repeated them as if it was against her. The screams of pain from her friends, the images of their bodies, the cries of others and the whispered names ...
None of this helped, too.

She was tired, cold and hungry, and images of the Final Lost Battle didn't stop dancing in front of her closed eyes. Everything was lost, everything, everything, everything... There was nothing for her there or in that world and she could not understand why the heck they kept her alive. She just wanted to die, it wasn't too much to ask for to those who killed thousands.

Sighing, Hermione ran her hands through her dirty hair. It was a mess. The cuts on her arms and her legs burned and her legs would not support her if she was standing. Everything seemed so good, so well articulated and planned, she couldn't know what had gone wrong. It was something that her mind could not process, and that she could not accept.

Hermione Granger knew. Period. She knew, no matter what, Hermione Granger always knew. She always understood.
And then this part was missing. No, it could not be. She doesn't miss anything.

"It must have been Ron's fault. Or even Harry's. I'm sure there were no holes in my theory, it was their fault "

She felt so guilty for thinking of her dead friends that way, but she couldn't deny the truth. And there had to be a truth.

Hermione was quite sure that Harry Potter was a Horcrux. Therefore, he should die. It was sad, it was unfair, was unexpected and horrible, but it was the only way. And she would not risk her friend's life if she was not sure of what she said.

But when Harry's dead body fell on the floor of Hogwarts' Great Hall and Neville threw the Death's Curse on the Dark Lord, he remained standing, victorious. And the ground seemed to vanish.

Then the Dark Lord looked at her in a very strange way and she felt her stomach loop. She felt that it was all her fault but her logic side said that it was ridiculous. She had never even spoken with him or his followers; it could not be her fault.

Maybe he was mocking her. Saying without words that she had lost, that she was pathetic, and now she would see it. The bastard. That was something he would do, for sure. A thought almost painful came to her mind. She had a time-turner in her pocket; she stole it when they went to the Ministry "to save Sirius". It was wrong and Hermione were not used to do wrong things. She felt her hand heavy, as if instead of a fragile time-turner she was holding the hope of the entire world, magic and muggle.

And she knew it was more than just a feeling.

Hermione heard a noise outside the dungeon and jumped, but then ignored it. She needed to concentrate on her decision.

Before, she had to remember everything. They arrived at the castle, took the diadem, the diadem was destroyed ...

Harry was killed, the Light side was hunted, she was captured, Malfoy looked at her with fear, everything went black ...
Malfoy made her intrigued, but she could not think about it. She had to decide. She could return to the Final Battle and save Harry. She could tell him that her theory had holes - which it had, indeed - and then they would have one more chance.

It was terribly wrong, yes. It could end life as everyone knew, of course. But she had to try.

She turned the time-turner six times.

And that was when everything went wrong. Very wrong.

The first thing that made her feel desperate was the sand of the time-turner running through her hands while the scenario around her began to retrocede.

Way too fast.
Everything went backwards so fast that Hermione was sure that it was too much to happen in just six hours. Or six days. Or six years.

Maybe in six decades.

No, no, no, no, no ...

No, that could not be happening. She would be caught, would be arrested, would be killed, would suffer horrible things for stepping into a time when she was not even born. It just went against the natural order of things. It was not right.

She held her tears. Crying don't help at all, it was a coward attitude of those who want to make their fear overflow trough their eyes. She was a Gryffindor and she should act as such. Face the situation with her head high.

She thought that way until she looked in her pockets, searching anything that could help her out of there, even if she knew it was in vain, and found a piece of paper.

Her blood turned cold.

She was pictured in a photo that she didn't remember of. But okay, that was not what haunted her. It can happen. How many pictures a person takes in life? They could have taken a picture of her without her knowing or she might have forgotten a picture she took. Normal.

But she was pictured in a photo that she didn't remember of, doing something she knew, and was quite sure, that she had never done.
She had never kissed that tall, pale, dark-haired boy.

With shaking hands, she turned the picture that showed again and again the moment her lips touched the lips of a boy she's never met. Written in an elegant calligraphy, Hermione read:

Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle, 1943.

And then she knew it was all her fault.

.

I don't know if it makes sense at all... I think I translated it poorly :x

But I hope it's at least understandable ._.

You can review if you want to say you liked it or if you want to throw rocks at me =)

kisses ;**