It came as a shock to everyone, even though everyone should have seen it coming. A few weeks after the battle of Hogwarts, when everything was finally starting to calm down, Hermione had some sort of breakdown. During lunch, just three friends out, no mourning, no planning, no anything, she had started to cry. Not pretty, gentle crying - uncontrollable shaking, sobbing, a red-faced mess of tears and snot whose legs didn't seem able to support itself. Harry and Ron had to rush her out of the restuarante. She sat with them in the for over an hour, unable to speak, until she finally calmed down. For Harry, it was terrifying. He had no idea how to comfort her, no idea what was wrong. Later, he wished he had taken her in his arms and held her, tightly, and not spoken a word. Instead, he asked repeated what was wrong, hands hovering near her shoulders or nervously through his own hair. Ron seemed embarrassed and confused, but at least he kept his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently until the episode passed.

It happened a few more times after that. Hermione refused to go out in public, but stayed in her room, alone. Ron left for Australia in search of her parents, hoping they might help. Harry spent nearly every moment at the table downstairs, fretful and jumpy, not able to read, work, do anything. Not able to work up the courage to be with her. He brought her food, she didn't eat it, and he took it away, all in overbearing silence that made him feel like an intruder.

She was jumpy too, nervous and unhappy, then suddenly strangely calm and at peace, but distant, drained.

And one day he came up with her breakfast to find her dead.

There wasn't a lot of explanation. Just a long apology, written in neat lines on a piece of scrap paper, left on the floor. She couldn't cope with the deaths of others, she'd said, and hated herself for doing 'this' to the people she loved. But she could not bear living anymore. She'd gone out the Muggle way - no potions, no spells, just a length of rope, the ceiling fan, and a folding chair.

When he saw her body, he'd broken down too, just the way she had in that restuarante. He'd dropped the food and tea he'd taken her on the floor, shattering the cup, falling on his hands and knees. He didn't cry at that moment, just lost his breath. Then he was all movement, all hope she might not be dead yet, call an ambulance, call Ron, call Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny and everyone, don't take the time to even tell them what's wrong, take the noose from her neck, lay her down, healing spells on her corpse.

It was several months later now. Just as he'd initially expected, she was very much dead and not coming back. He'd been speaking to Muggle psychiatrist, trying to make sense of it. The man always wanted Harry to talk about what he felt, but Harry mostly just asked questions and the psychiatrist did his best to reply.

"Some people..." The man said, trying to very gentle, "Just can't cope. So they take what they see as the easy way out."

"But what couldn't she cope with? Why?" Harry asked.

It took him two months to feel he knew why.

He would not live without her. That was certain, he would not live without her. In a matter of seven months, he researched enough into the works of Cult Quo to attempt an extremely complicated ritual with the goal of traveling back in time. Mr. Cult Quo and all his diciples had dissappeared after these rituals, they believed: to another world, identical to this one, but earlier, newer. Others believed: to dust.

Maybe it wouldn't work. In fact, it likely wouldn't work. Almost definitely wouldn't work. Had anyone else been allowed to find out about what he was doing, they'd say it surely would not work and please see your psychiatrist again. Harry was ready for the outcome, one way or another. He would not live without her.

As soon as the ritual started, he knew it worked. He did not have time to celebrate or even think, there was an imediate, searing pain and the madness of thousands of images flashing before his eyes, thousands of voices and sounds. Himself, his friends, the ghostly faces of his parents, images of happy places, the school, the Burrow, the air. Hermione, mostly, because his mind kept straying to her. After a while, he started to lose his sight. The images started going white, started going blurry. The sounds became muffled and quiet. And he was tired, oh so tired. Where was he going? A single voice rang out again, this time clear as day, calling his name.

"Harry! Wake up, you little freak!" Screeched his Aunt Petunia, not a voice he was normally fond of hearing. Today, he jumped out of bed with a huge smile, hitting his head on the underside of the stairs in his enthusiasm. He looked around. Strange, it was both dark and blurry. He reached beside him and put his glasses on, then poked his head outside the door.

Yes, the hallway was most certainly familiar. He was back in Privet Drive, back under the stairs. He scurried out of the cupboard and into the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum, the sensation of being alive. He'd left those in his world thinking he was dead. That was cruel. But for knowing that, Harry still could not bring himself to feel guilt or anything other than absolute elation. Because he wasn't the only one who was alive. Hermione was too.

He cooked breakfast at break neck speed. He hadn't known when he'd come back, could only estimate. He certainly felt young.

"Bah! More letters!" Cried his uncle.

More letters? Harry spied around the corner. Yes, they were from Hogwarts, they were the letters he'd been denied until his birthday. So he was ten, almost eleven, and not yet aware of magic in any capacity.

He had no wand and seven years of Hogwarts had not very well enlightened him on wandless magic. He was capable of Apparation. He could apparate right to Gringotts bank.

Harry wouldn't do anything without thinking it over first. If he dissappeared, he would be missed - there were chores to be done, there was Arabella Figg watching the house. If he dissappeared to Diagon Alley, he would instantly expose himself as not an ordinary child. He likely would not be able to return here and would be on his own. He could stay here, wait until he eventually met Hagrid, progress through life keeping himself secret. Would be sneaky or would be brave?

The place certainly held no fond memories for him. On the other hand, he would endure any suffering to meet his goal - he would create a world where none of Hermione's friends ever died, where she never met battle, where nothing happened that she might break. Voldemort would have to be killed in a far less grandiose manner than last time around.