Disclaimer: This fanfiction is a work of transformative fiction based on the Harry Potter franchise, written by J. K. Rowling. It is written for enjoyment and makes no money, nor does it claim ownership of the characters, world, or anything relating to Harry Potter.

The room was dark, and very quiet. A faint hum of magic, only visible to the careful eye, was the only indication that the place was fit for living at all. A large archway stood in the center of the room, otherworldly mist drifting between it's stone frame. This room, the room that contained the Veil of Death, was the only remaining room in the entire Minsitry of Magic. And there were only two Wizardfolk in the room to appreciate it before it was to explode, never to be used again.

"You ready, Granger?" Draco drawled, breaking the heavy silence. He sneered her name, and for a moment looked more characteristic of his younger self than the man she knew. Hermione knew better than to take that seriously, even if she could (he looked far less intimidating with three teeth knocked out and a stub for a hand).

She knew she didn't look much better. The side of her face that Draco could see was clearly maimed beyond repair (Dolhov, again. That man needed to learn how to die). "As I'll ever be." She held out her four-fingered hand, and he wrapped his handless arm around it.

"Redite praeterito!" They chanted. "Redite praeterito!" The Veil of Death, in the last standing room of the old Ministry, started glowing. They locked eyes. At least they would die with their last friend, if it wasn't going to work. At least they'd die together, and not suffer the slow torture of Voldemort's reign over Great Britain.

"REDITE PRAETERITO!" They screamed, and Hermione ran straight to the Veil of Death. She turned around in horror, as she saw Draco trip and lie half in, half out of the Veil. And as the world disappeared around her, she saw the Veil start to explode, stone flying outwards until the room was no more.

Hermione had a strange dream. She dreamt that she was floating through an underground city where everything moved backwards – a great building was constructed around her, and then the world started to slowly age older and older, until it looked like a scene from a fairy tale. Quaintly, a little brook bubbled and flowed. She followed the brook, floating as if she were a ghost, and came to an oddly familiar cottage. Vines fell slowly off the sides, swirling back into the earth, and the cottage became more and more shiny, like it had just been built.

And suddenly, the house started falling apart. Not like it was being crushed or burned, but it was being taken away, piece by piece, brick by brick. Hermione hardly paid it any mind, for the brook called her onwards. She stared at the crystal-clear waters of the stream, not noticing that the trees were shrinking at a fairly alarming rate around her. There was a decrepit castle, suddenly, up on a hill. As she watched, the black stone turned a fiery red. Just as suddenly, it turned a cool grey, and started to piece itself back together.

A clock tower's gong! made her jump – it kept going, incessantly drumming into her brain, making her cover her ears in shock – she closed her eyes, and before she could process anything else, she was brought to a halt. She shook her head to clear it of the confusing events, and peered around herself.

Hermione was in Hogwarts. She saw a student walking away from her, seemingly frozen mid-step. Another student was casting a spell, mouth hanging open and a beam of purple light gathering at the tip of his wand. They weren't moving, and suddenly Hermione considered that something had gone very, very wrong.

Her ghostly form wandered further into the castle; she was on the third floor, she realized, and not far from the infirmary. Maybe Poppy would be there?

Hermione glided onwards, past a frozen Peeves (holding water-balloons over some firsties), past Minerva (clearly in the process of lecturing him), and straight through the doors to the hospital wing.

With a gasp, she realized what had happened – this moment was one she could never forget. A 14-year-old Hermione Granger stood frozen, with one hand on a golden necklace and the other clutching Harry's robes.

Harry, her Harry, sweet, brave Harry, was here! She had done it, she'd gone back in time and now she could make sure that future would never happen again. Unable to help herself, she brushed a hand across Harry's cheek. It was warm, but still as death. No heartbeat passed through those veins, no breath rose and fell from his lips. How to get time moving? She looked at her former self: that innocent girl who she barely recognized. Instinctively, she grabbed the time turner, and reality shattered in on her.