The Last Time Turner

Hermione paused as she knelt down by her suitcase, and wondered why she was doing this.

What made her nervous, above everything else, was the fact that neither Harry not Ron had any idea of what she was doing. But there was something about this mission that was private and intimate, something that couldn't be shared. Maybe it was because she felt that irrevocable bond with the Time Turner that Harry had never grasped and Ron had never had chance to. Perhaps it was because she felt that they would not approve of it. Something in the shocking simplicity of her plan repulsed her. And she was absolutely certain that if Dumbledore had not fallen to his death days ago, he would not approve either.

'It's for him,' she told herself, sternly. 'It's for Dumbledore's memory, and Harry and Ron that I'm doing this.'

Steeling herself, she unclasped her trunk and pulled it open. Inside, her clothes and other items were folded and kept with almost painful tidiness. Underneath her school cloak was a small rectangular box, covered in white paper.

Glancing behind to make sure the dormitory was empty, Hermione unwrapped the box and pulled off the lid. Inside, reclining against soft pads of cotton was the Time Turner that Hermione was supposed to have given back to Professor McGonagall at the end of the third year.

She did not know why she had kept it for so long. Rather, why she had not returned it. For some reason, it symbolized something personal to her- perhaps because it had helped them rescue Sirius. In the fifth year, when all the Time Turner's had been smashed in the Ministry, hers had seemed even more precious. But still she kept it secret and safe, hidden inside her trunk.

And now she had to use it.

It was at Dumbledore's funeral that she realized what had to be done. Seeing his body, wrapped in an elegant purple material, she had understood that this war had to be ended as quickly and unscrupulously as possible. Finding and destroying the Horcruxes were all very well. But she had an even better idea.

What would it be like,' she reasoned with herself, if Voldemort were to have died during his stay at Hogwarts?

What would it be like if he had never lived to create so much trauma and pain in the world.

There was something disgustingly primitive in the idea, but it had stuck. And there was the Time Turner, up in her suitcase.

It had merely taken her days to make up her mind. The plan was hysterical and desperate, just like her. Who knew what changes she would make, by changing the past so completely and abruptly. It was dangerous and risky.

But she had to do it. It was something like a personal accomplishment.

After she had made up her mind, the rest had been easy. It was a sunny afternoon, and they would be returning home tomorrow. The Common Room and dormitories were deserted it. It had been simple enough to summon Harry's Cloak from the boy's dorm, slip her wand into her pocket and now with the Time Turner in her hand, she had everything she needed.

She threw the Cloak around herself and the Time Turner. Holding it fast with one fist, she used the other hand to turn the Time Turner around. It took a long time, because she had to flip pack fifty years. But to Hermione, standing with the Cloak around and her palms sweaty and not knowing what to expect, it passed in a moment.

There was a swift spell of darkness, a confusing motley of shapes, a sudden pressure on her side, and suddenly, the world she was looking out of was different.

It was night time. She knew that immediately, because the dorm was filled with girls who were sleeping in their beds. In her own bed was a plump girl with brownish hair and freckles. She murmured in her sleep and turned over.

Hermione was filled with a deep sense of fear and elation at the same time. She was standing inches away from a strange girl, in a room full of sleeping people, some fifty years in the past. It was enough to frighten anybody.

But on the other hand, she had done it.

She felt a sense of confidence blossoming in her chest, and stowing the Time Turner in her other pocket, she pulled out her wand and adjusted the cloak so that her feet were well hidden. Then, she crept out of the dorm had walked down the stairs to the Common Room.

Not much had changed. The lamps were different- they were carved from rosewood and had large, white shades, but otherwise the armchairs and couches were exactly as they were today- or rather, fifty years in the future. A little apprehensively, she pushed open the portrait. The Fat Lady remained asleep, so she closed it and went on her way.

She knew approximately where the Slytherin Common Room was. Harry and Ron had told her in their second year. But Tom Riddle had been Head boy, and according to her calculations, this was his seventh year in Hogwarts. And so she had to go to the Head Dorms.

She was halfway down the stairs to the dungeons, where the Dorms were, when she heard a footstep and Horace Slughorn appeared. He was holding a lamp and looking distraught.

'Shouldn't have told him,' he muttered to himself. 'Shouldn't have told the boy. If Dippet finds out- no, no, I must simply deny it.' He took a deep, shuddering breath. 'Tom wouldn't tell a soul.'

Hermione's heart jumped, and she had a distinct feeling it had just crashed against her front teeth. Her calculations had been interspersed with a stroke of luck. It was the night of Slughorn's party- the night Riddle had first found out about Horcruxes. If only she could find him now.

She took a left turn, and found herself facing a portrait of a tall, black haired witch with an owl on her shoulder. Fifty years in the future, these rooms would be the Head dorms. Praying that they still were, she took off the cloak and looked evenly at the witch.

The witch had been sleeping, but the swish of the cloak awakened her. The owl opened yellow eyes and glared at Hermione, as the witch tilted her head to a side.

'You are not a student here.'

'Are these the Head dorms?'

'Head dorm.' The witch corrected, slowly. 'Our Head girl died a week back.'

Hermione felt her throat constrict. 'What- what happened to her?' she asked.

The witch shook her head. 'It was an accident.' She told her. 'Jennifer Townsend was a smart and talented girl. But she had an accident with a unicorn in the Forbidden Forest last Wednesday.'

Hermione felt tears brimming in her eyes. 'Unicorns don't hurt humans!' she protested.

The witch shrugged helplessly. 'It couldn't have been anything else.' She said, sorrowfully. 'She was gored through the back- it couldn't have been anything but a Unicorn horn. They found her body in a clearing.'

Hermione bit back a scream and hugged the Cloak to her stomach.

'I want to see Tom Riddle.' She said.

The witch shook her head. 'I can't let you in without a password.'

'Please?'

'No. Your journey will remain incomplete. Put on your cloak, and go back to where you come from.'

Hermione was silent for a moment. She was contemplating the sad-looking woman, when the portrait swung out from the inside, and a curious looking boy stood there.

Instantly, Hermione's heart leapt into her throat. She had no doubt that this was Tom Riddle. His face was pale and handsome, with a narrow nose, and watchful, intelligent eyes. He had a crop of dark hair that shone in the low lamplight, and a thin physique, with long shoulders and an easy grace that was visible even when he was standing still. It was difficult to imagine what he would turn into, in fifty years.

Riddle looked calculatingly at her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and yet confident.

'You're not from around here.'

'I came to see you.'

'You don't seem to like me much.'

Hermione started, and looked nervously at him. His eyes had pierced right into hers, and seen the repulsion and hatred there.

'I still need to see you.'

'Then come in,' with an eloquent gesture, he stepped inside, and she followed. He was wearing blue pajamas. There was something incongruous in seeing the to-be mass murderer in such attire.

As she stepped in, she saw that he hadn't been sleeping. His desk was littered with books. His eyes seemed alive with fire, and despite his calm exterior, she sensed that he was quivering with some kind of suppressed excitement.

Of course. He had just spoken to Slughorn about Horcruxes.

Suddenly, the thought of it overwhelmed her mind, and simultaneously she thought of the dead Jennifer Townsend and was suddenly furious. Through all his personal excitement, Riddle saw the anger.

'Why are you angry?' he asked. There was something smug about his countenance.

Wanting to shake him out of his confidence, Hermione said, 'I know about your plan.'

'Oh, really?' the smugness was even more apparent now. Hermione knew it would not show in his face at normal times. He had lost control because of the anticipation and fever he was feeling. 'And what plan is this?'

'The Horcuxes,' Hermione said, and immediately the smile was wiped off his face.

Hermione had her hand gripped tightly around her wand in her pocket, and now she pulled it out, expecting a repercussion.

'Oh, yes,' she said, recklessly, 'I know about your little discussion with Slughorn.'

'You were eavesdropping,' he said, blankly.

She shook her head. 'For once you're wrong.' She told him. 'I didn't hear it this evening at the party. I heard it fifty years in the future.'

Immediately, the inkling of fear in his face was gone. It was replaced by deep, profound excitement.

'You're from the future,' he said, breathlessly.

'Yes.'

'Fifty years?'

'Yes.'

'Have I done it?' he was feverish now, leaning towards her ghoulishly. 'Did I do it? Did I become powerful?'

'You became,' Hermione said, 'a murderer.'

Riddle dismissed that.

'I can live with that.' He said.

'You already are,' Hermione told him.

He looked curiously at her. 'How do you know all this?'

'Because,' she said, 'I'm fighting you. Because I'm trying to kill you.'

'A sixteen year old girl?' his amusement was apparent. 'You wouldn't be able to touch me fifty years down the line.'

'Funny,' Hermione told him, 'You seem to be a seventeen year old boy right now, and here I am.'

Riddle fell silent and watchfully observed her. His brain seemed to be working furiously.

'I get it,' he said, 'I realize now. You've come here to kill me. It makes things easier for you fifty years down the line.'

'Wrong again,' Hermione said, calmly, 'I've come here to kill you, because I hate you.'

She raised her wand, but before she could open her mouth Riddle's wand was pointed at her and she felt her arms stiffen, and felt herself keel backwards. He had petrified her. But before she could hit the floor, he caught her in his arms and carried her to his bed. Embarrassed and terrified, Hermione could only watch as he picked up her wand, the Cloak and the Time Turner which had fallen out of her pocket.

He inspected them for a while, and then laid her wand aside.

'An Invisibility Cloak,' he said, 'You must be rich.'

She could answer, so he continued. 'It's good quality. Tell me, are you a pureblood?'

He raised his wand, and suddenly she could open her mouth, though the rest of her was still frozen.

'Nope,' she rasped, angrily. 'I'm a Muggleborn. Mudblood to you. And proud of it!'

Her eyes were full of challenge. Give me back my wand she willed him silently, Give it back and let duel you. I want to kill you!

'A Mudblood,' he looked impressed. 'That's pretty brave of you.'

She didn't bother to reply. He had put her things to a side now.

'What is your name?' he asked her.

She might as well tell him the truth. 'Hermione Granger.'

'So, Hermione Granger, why are you trying to kill me?'

'Because of the Prophecy.' It was all over now, she realized. She was going to die trussed up on Tom Riddle's bed.

'Prophecy?'

'Harry was supposed to kill you.'

'Harry?'

'Harry Potter.'

'You're not making sense.' He told her. 'But since you're frozen on my bed, I'll forgive you. Now, Hermione-.'

He leaned forward, and she could feel a cold emanating from him. 'Let me show you,' he whispered, 'Why girls never dare to challenge me. Let me show you why they can never resist my touch.'

Hermione was suddenly filled with foreboding. And it didn't stop, not while his fingers, cold and soft, were skimming up her arms and playing with her robes. Not while his hands pushed her robes up and spread her legs. And definitely not while she felt the hardness of his body over her and inside her, pulling her to the pitch of pleasure and then bringing her back to earth again.

Feverish and swept by pleasure, she found herself succumbing, found herself murmuring his name over and over again in his ear. It was only when he was finished, that she felt her body judder against his, and heard the quickness of his breath in her ear, that she realized what she had done.

'No...' she whispered.

'You can't tell me,' he mocked her, as he stood up and straightened her robes with his own hands, 'that you didn't enjoy that.'

'I...' Hermione couldn't say anything.

No.

'And now,' he said, picking up his wand and holding it over her. 'I don't think there's much more to say, Hermione.'

She was sure he was going to kill her, but that didn't matter. The fact that he had just made love her to her didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except...

No!

He waved his wand, but she didn't die. It hardly mattered to her as he straightened her to her feet and gave her back the Cloak and Time Turner.

'Go,' he told her. 'Go back. I think we're at an understanding here.'

Staring at him, Hermione wanted nothing more to erase the words she had said and flee from the place. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing. She fumbled with the Time Turner, holding the Cloak at her waist. Only at the final turn did she look up at him. His dark eyes were triumphant and smug.

It was then that the full impact of what she had done hit her. She shut her eyes and willed herself not to cry.

When she opened them, she was back to her time, standing beside her empty bed. She threw herself down onto to it, and wept into her arms.

Her plan had been stupid, terrible, and she should have known it. Because now she knew why Voldemort, upon hearing the Prophecy, had set off to Godric's Hollow.

Dumbledore's own words echoed in her mind, the word's Harry had told them he said.

'But he chose you, Harry, and in doing so, marked you as his equal!'

And at the same time, masked with her own tears, she remembered the words she had spoken to Riddle moments, and yet years ago:

'So, Hermione Granger, why are you trying to kill me?'

'Because of the Prophecy.'

'Prophecy?'

'Harry was supposed to kill you.'

'Harry?'

'Harry Potter.'

It had been her fault, all along. Her fault that Voldemort had marked out Harry and her fault that Lily and James Potter were dead.

With another sob, Hermione picked up the Time Turner, which had tumbled to the bed. She flung it to the floor and with a crash it shattered into thousands of pieces.

But the harm had been done.