Chapter Text
It was dark outside the cave. Warm night air swirling slightly, winds teasing the atoms into spiralling patterns. Hermione couldn't see this of course but the way she sat at the mouth of the cave, watching the air, it wasn't hard to imagine she could. The wind tugged at her hair too, pleading for her to come and play. She didn't notice.
The dark lived in Hermine too now; Harry's death had been too big a blow followed too closely by Ron's. Her parents were gone too, lost to obliviation. The rest of the Order was in hiding or dead - that is if you could call it an Order. There were a few stragglers like her, but many had given up the fight.
She slowly brushed her hair back from her face and lay on her side. It was exhausting moving from place to place and sometimes she wondered whether she would rather just let go but her heart couldn't quite let her best friends’ memories be so disrespected. She sighed. At least it was warm now, she thought. The last six months had been hard on her, food and shelter scarce. The tent she'd camped in with the boys was tucked into her bag, shrunk into a charm around her neck. She only took out what she needed now as she'd lost precious medical supplies in an early fix-up while she lost the Death Eaters on her trail.
Sighing again she called for Kreacher. After the first few months she had been weak with hunger and tried the only thing she could. Surprisingly Kreacher had arrived when she called out for help and despite referring to her as "Mistress Mudblood" had nursed her back to health whilst grumbling about the state she had been in. Curious as ever, despite her weak body and soul, she had questioned his appearance. Apparently house elves recognised Hermione as Harry's kin, his sister specifically and so his death had left the elf in her care.
Kreacher appeared with a bow and a muttered greeting. When Hermione didn't reply he spoke up,
"Mistress Mudblood bes ill?"
The witch shook her head. A pause. She turned to him and he could see she wasn't quite herself, her eyes were duller than normal.
"I need help Kreacher. I have a spell." She took a deep breath, "I think I could go back in time."
The wizened elf looked puzzled, but he didn't question his mistress. He knew she was smart. She had been reading many books lately and she tended to mutter aloud on difficult passages. He remembered her saying things about time and frowning at her books.
"I have a spell that is effectively like a portkey. I don’t know if it will work. I've practiced the motions and I know that He will catch up to me sooner or later. I can't let Harry and Ron and everyone else die in vain."
She nodded still staring off into the dark. Kreacher knew he'd follow his Mistress anywhere despite her Mudblood nature. He knew no other elves bonded to one.
Hermione turned back to face him, her face set with grim determination.
"Do you want to come with me, Kreacher? I know you don't want to be free because of how it will affect your health, but I have no kin."
Kreacher nodded, snarling "Mistress Mudblood has none. Kreacher will comes. Mistress not ill with Kreacher."
Hermione smiled slightly. She had learnt that most house elves needed a bonding to maintain their health. It would be wrong to simply leave she felt.
"I'm hoping to go back to when he was young, at Hogwarts. Maybe we can change things. If fewer die, then I could live with that. Honestly, I'm not sure when we'll arrive but we can try it. If we rip apart space and time, then so be it."
Hermione was past the point of worrying about consequences of time travel. She considered almost any outcome better than the terrible war and she knew she couldn't bear to kill a man in cold blood.
She hoisted herself up and began to eliminate the traces of their presence using self-erasing wards she had invented. When she was satisfied they had everything and were both ready, she prepared herself to do powerful magic. She wasn't quite sure she had the ability without dangerously draining herself, but she couldn't think of a better option than this. Waiting for capture because it was inevitable at this point was not a real choice.
Steadying herself, she stood with Kreacher clinging around her neck. Her hair was wild. Her clothes were dirty, but she thought they were okay for the 1940s. She knew they were slightly more sexist than now. She knew she should care, protest that she was no weak woman, scream that her choice was selfish, and that time travel was wrong and riddled with problems, but she had long since run out of energy. She straightened her back and felt Kreacher dig his nails into her skin.
It was time for the spell.
She moved her wand about her in a complicated fashion, slashing and swishing and flicking it all in quick succession whilst muttering and picturing the year and place hard. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration. Eventually she felt a pull on her insides, like a more sickening version of a portkey. The world span. Colours floated tangibly in front of her eyes, a roaring sound her ears reminding her of the time turner she'd once used. Instinctively they stayed still regardless of the urge to touch the pretty colours until they slowed gradually, and the colours became a beautiful fade of sunsets and sunrises dragging across their vision. Hermione concentrated hard: September 1944.
They landed with a sickening crunch, a fading roar and an anguished scream. Hermione promptly threw up.