29 September 2004

Hermione used one foot to kick shut the door of the Shoreditch flat she shared with Ron Weasley, and she let out an undignified noise. She looked about the empty sitting room and called out,

"Ronald! Come and help with the shopping, will you?"

Ron came ambling out of the bedroom, and Hermione scowled to see that he was still wearing pyjama trousers and no shirt. She adjusted her hold on the canvas grocery bags from the Pepper Pot and huffed,

"It's half past ten."

"Yeah. Late night last night," Ron yawned, quite obnoxiously. Hermione set the heavy bags of food down on the ground and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm aware it was a late night; I was there, too," she pointed out. "I managed to be up at seven, showered and out the door by eight… I went to the bookshop and got myself a copy of Benton Carson's new book on the integration of Muggle technology in the wizarding world, and I -"

"Did you get a copy for my dad?" Ron asked, scratching at his messy red hair. Hermione tossed her hands up in frustration.

"Did I… I'm sorry; what?"

"You got a book about Muggle stuff in Diagon Alley. Sounds like something my dad would like," Ron said. "Did you get him a copy?"

"No. I didn't." Hermione was not certain whether she ought to feel frustrated or guilty. Both, probably. She pinched her lips and shrugged. "I'll go back, or give him this one or something. Anyway. I went to the Pepper Pot, and they were all out of the sort of beans you like. Which is fine by me, since they make you so gassy I can scarcely breathe in here after you eat them."

Ron scoffed and bent to pick up the bags of groceries. He hauled them into the kitchen, and Hermione put her hands on her hips as she watched him put little bags and jars into their cupboards.

Hermione and Ron had been married for four years now. She was working at the Ministry, still in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, though she had an interview coming up for a position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ron had left the Auror force and now worked with George to help make Weasley's Wizard Wheezes a bigger success than ever. Ron and Hermione often socialised with Ginny and Harry, who had just had their first son, James. In fact, the night before, Hermione and Ron had been at the Potters' townhouse talking whilst James slept - periodically waking for a feed. They'd stayed until eleven or so, until Ginny had finally told her brother that it was time to go home.

A late night, perhaps, but nothing that justified sleeping until half past ten, Hermione thought a bit crossly. She swallowed hard and scuffed her foot, mumbling,

"Sorry about that comment. The beans. I didn't mean it."

"You did; they make me tremendously smelly." Ron smirked at Hermione as he shut the cupboards in the kitchen and shoved the empty shopping bags into a drawer. He shrugged. "Just the same. Listen, I'm meeting with George this afternoon to talk about another shop location."

"A new location?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Where? Ron, this is big news. A huge investment of time, money, energy… don't go leaping into -"

"Sorry; do you not want the business to be successful?" Ron asked, and Hermione was slightly taken aback as she choked out a little noise and said,

"Of course I do. But where are you going to put another Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"Hogsmeade, of course," Ron said. He opened a cupboard and pulled out an apple. He bit into it and talked through his chewing. "We make loads of money off the Hogwarts kids before they go off to school, when they're home on holidays. Zonko's used to rake it in, but they closed during the war and never reopened. There's a huge opportunity."

Hermione hesitated. "If you and George are prepared to put in the money, and the time, and the effort, then you know I'll support you. I only hope it's the right move."

Ron slammed down his apple, sending a spray of juice onto the wooden countertop, and swallowed his bite. He pointed a finger at Hermione and said,

"I have been nothing but happy for you about the new position at the Ministry."

"I haven't got the position yet," Hermione said helplessly. "I still have to interview for it."

"Come on. You know you'll get it." Ron rolled his eyes and picked his apple back up. Hermione felt her cheeks go hot. She crossed her arms and demanded,

"Why? Because I'm Hermione Granger, war heroine? Because I'm famous? They'll just hand me the job?"

"No! Because you're bloody brilliant, that's why!" Ron was spitting out little bits of apple now, and Hermione suddenly felt a bit embarrassed at having accused him. She gulped.

"Oh."

"So the least you could do is be happy that George and me are hoping to open a new shop," Ron said angrily.

George and I, not George and me, Hermione thought, but she didn't say anything. She sighed and said to Ron,

"If it's the right thing for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to make a move on the old Zonko's location, you know I've got your back. I've always got your back, Ron. One hundred percent."

"Have you?" He narrowed his eyes at her, and she tipped her head.

"Well, what does that mean?"

"Last night, Ginny teased you that your clock was ticking, and you slapped my shoulder and told me to get on with it. With having a baby." Ron swiped his wrist across his wet lips and sniffed. Hermione shrugged and said,

"I don't suppose Ginny realised that that joke was in poor taste. Sometimes Ginny says things without realising -"

"You played along with her," Ron said. "As if we haven't been trying for almost a year. Told me to get on with it, right there in front of Harry and Ginny."

"They don't know, Ron," Hermione hissed. "They don't know that every month I bleed hurts like a knife going through us. They don't realise that. Ginny thought she was being funny."

"I didn't think it was funny," Ron complained, and Hermione let out a long breath. She walked closer to him and whispered,

"Well, I'm sorry I played along. Sorry I told you your favourite beans make you smell bad. Open your new shop. I'm sorry."

Ron wrapped his arms around Hermione and kissed her forehead. He left his lips there for a long moment, and then he asked against her skin,

"Are you in love with me, 'Mione?"

"Of course I am," Hermione answered numbly, but her stomach coiled coldly. Ron rubbed between her shoulder blades, and she felt odd. She didn't feel the comfortable intimacy she ought to feel with her husband, she realised. She felt like she was getting over an argument with an old friend. She raised her eyes to Ron and searched his gaze, but in his eyes she could see that he knew, too. He nodded and took a step back, sniffing a little as he said,

"I'm going to get dressed and cleaned up. So I can meet with George about the new shop."

"Right." Hermione drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter as he walked away, and she shut her eyes tightly.

29 September 1968

Tom Marvolo Riddle had left England for the Continent with the intention of learning the Dark Arts to the fullest extent anyone had ever studied them. He went to Saint-Malo in France and studied bone magic, the art of utilising every part of human or animal bone in spellwork, potions-making, and the cursing of objects. He went to Sopron in Hungary and studied pyromancy, examining the many ways fire could make its way into his magical arsenal.

Next, he went to Transylvania and studied blood rituals with Vampires. He then went to Norway and studied the use of Ancient Runes in Dark Magic. Next up was Spain, where he learnt to harness the weather for nefarious purposes. All the while, he read book after book, combing through private libraries in the homes of Dark witches and wizards as he studied ancient rites, learnt spell after spell, and became proficient in the ways of the Dark sorcerers who had come before him. He had made Horcruxes, and so death and darkness were no strangers to him, but after years on the Continent learning the most forbidden knowledge the wizarding world had to offer, he was a changed man. After that time on the Continent, after all that study, Tom Marvolo Riddle was gone.

Lord Voldemort returned to Great Britain in the early spring of 1968, looking haggard and worn but flush with power he had never possessed. His features, he knew, were chipped and blurred by the creation of his Horcruxes. One dark eye drooped a little. One cheekbone looked like it had taken a few too many punches. His skin was very pale, and his lips had a scar running vertically down one side as though someone had sliced him open. Gone was the handsome young Tom Riddle after whom all the girls at Hogwarts had pined. In his place was the vividly dynamic Lord Voldemort.

He began meeting with his old school friends straight away upon his return to Britain. Abraxas Malfoy was the first to welcome him, even inviting him to stay in a suite in Malfoy Manor. Voldemort gladly accepted the offer, as the accommodations were more than comfortable and he needed time to build up his finances. Malfoy helped host gatherings of the old crowd - Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Rookwood, and all the others who had once been a part of Tom Riddle's gang. New friends clamoured to join in, including the Russian Antonin Dolohov, and Cygnus Black III introduced his eldest daughter, Bellatrix, whom he claimed possessed a keen interest in ideas like Voldemort's.

No one seemed quite sure what to call Lord Voldemort by the time autumn rolled around. It was clear by September 1968 that Tom Riddle was a name no longer in use, and most of Voldemort's friends had accepted his new title as his name. They mostly defaulted to calling him 'Sir' in person, though of course he would have preferred something substantially more deferential. For now, 'Sir' would do.

Today, the twenty-ninth of September, Voldemort sat at his desk in the office Abraxas Malfoy had granted him. It was a stately room with wood paneling and a window that looked out upon the perfectly manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor. There were books filling the shelves along one wall, and there was a drinks cart stocked with firewhisky and gin and Elf-made wine. Voldemort sat at his stout desk and turned his attention to the stack of letters that had come by owl for him to the manor this morning and had been smoothed out upon the desk's surface. He sniffed a little as he read the first.

Tom,

I am troubled to hear of the tone you have been taking since your return to Britain. It troubles me to think that you have been hosting parties and get-togethers with blood purity extremists. This is particularly troubling to me since I remember well the boy in the Muggle orphanage. Please do not let this hypocrisy cause any harm, Tom. Consider your actions carefully.

Albus Dumbledore

Voldemort pinched his lips and picked up the letter, tearing it in half and then tearing it again. He tossed the pieces into the air and swiped his hand at them, nonverbally and wandlessly Vanishing them into Nonbeing. He loathed Albus Dumbledore more than he loathed just about anyone else in existence. Perhaps he'd loathed his Muggle father more. Perhaps not. It would be a close contest.

The next letter was from Bellatrix Black, stating that she would appreciate the opportunity to speak with Lord Voldemort himself over the Christmas holidays about a potential place within any organisation he was forming. Voldemort frowned and pulled out a parchment, dipping a quill into ink and writing,

Miss Black,

I shall be more than happy to meet with you at Christmas. Kindly exercise more caution and discretion in future communication.

LV

He set the letter to Bellatrix Black aside to send off to her and Vanished the one she'd sent him. He pulled out the last letter and noticed that it had been enchanted. A decorative scroll weaved itself repeatedly around the perimeter of the parchment, and the words bled up from the page and then shimmered in metallic black ink.

The Avery Family Requests the Honour of Your Presence

at a Masquerade Ball to Celebrate Autumn

Saturday, the fifth of October, 1968

at 7:00 in the evening

Avery Hall, Yorkshire

Kindly come Masked

Voldemort snorted rather loudly as he read the invitation again. He sighed. He did not care for large parties. They were boisterous. People got drunk. There was always the expectation of dancing, and that was always awkward. But he knew they were important, too. Over the summer, there had been a few weddings to which he'd been invited, and he'd used them as opportunities to reintroduce himself to the Pureblood community as Lord Voldemort. Now he had another chance to show himself off as a powerful new force in the wizarding world, one to be taken seriously.

Of course, he'd have a mask on the entire time. Still.

He filled out the little attached RSVP card and noted that he'd be coming without a guest, and he set it aside with his letter to go off to Hogwarts. He blinked and dragged his teeth over his lip, supposing he ought to make his way to Diagon Alley for some proper party attire before everyone else made off with the best fashions.

"Hermione? A parcel was just delivered to the departmental desk for you." Igraine Hartwick, the secretary for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, appeared at the open doorway of Hermione's small office. Hermione looked up from the book she was reading - a tome about humane infestation management - and smiled weakly.

"A parcel?" she repeated. "Who from?"

"Actually, the wizard who delivered it didn't say who it was from," Igraine told Hermione. Suddenly Hermione found herself more than a little suspicious. She eyed the small package, wrapped in brown paper, in Igraine's hand, and she asked,

"What did the wizard look like? The one who brought you the parcel?"

"He was an old man. I dunno… looked like an old man." Igraine was not exactly the brightest creature. She twirled one of her pigtail braids and shrugged. "He had, you know… white hair. Glasses. Wrinkles."

"Yes. Thanks. Can you set it down? I'd like to check it for Curses." Hermione cautiously pulled out her wand. Igraine set the parcel down on Hermione's desk, and Hermione aimed her wand at it. "Basorium Revelio. Hexium Revelio. Calumnus Revelio."

When her incantations turned up nothing, Hermione swallowed hard and said to Igraine,

"You can never be too certain. I get targeted, you know. By people who are still bitter about the war."

"Of course." Igraine nodded vigorously. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Hermione watched as Igraine walked away. Hermione aimed her wand at the door and nonverbally cast a Colloportus spell to shut and lock it. She had no idea what was in this parcel, but she had an odd feeling that she needed to open it in private. She pulled at the brown paper wrapping up the package until it tore and gave way, and from inside, a piece of strange-looking jewellery thunked onto Hermione's desk.

Only, she realised at once, it wasn't jewellery. It was a Time-Turner.

This one looked like a capsule, a slick cylinder of shiny silver with filigree carving decorating it. In the centre of the capsule was a tiny hourglass filled with white sand. The entire thing was suspended on a delicate silver chain. Hermione's heart began to race, and her stomach felt sick. Hadn't all the Time-Turners been destroyed? Or, at least, they'd been made useless. Where had this one come from? And why was it being delivered to her by some mysterious old wizard? There was a folded letter inside the parcel, she saw. She pulled it out and began reading the neat script on the parchment.

Dear Hermione,

You must be wondering where this Time-Turner has come from, and why you have it. This Time-Turner, unlike the one you used to attend Far Too Many Classes (and to save a very fortunate hippogriff) is a device of the truest sort. You see, this Time-Turner has been specifically crafted for you using magic never before put into action. Every single rotation of this Time-Turner sends the traveller back in time exactly one year.

There's only one catch. In the making of this Time-Turner, its creators were unable to find a way to effectively and safely travel forward in time without repercussions to timelines and bodily harm. Therefore, this is a one-way Time-Turner. Each rotation goes back a year, and the traveller will never, ever come forward again.

You have been given this Time-Turner, which is unique and very dangerous, with the belief that you are the only witch alive who possesses the capability to use it properly. During the Second Wizarding War, you made endless sacrifices for the good of the community, for the people you loved. We, who created this One-Way Time-Turner, are asking you to make the greatest sacrifice of all… transferring your future into the past for the betterment of us all.

Think of Molly Weasley, who grieves her son Fred and her wounded sons Bill and George. Think of the students killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. Think of the innocent Muggles turned into Inferi by Lord Voldemort. And then ponder to yourself, 'What if I could keep all of that from happening? What if I could change the past for the improvement of the future?' Would you, Hermione Granger, give deeply of yourself for the wizarding world again?

On the 5th of October, 1968, Lord Voldemort will be at Avery Hall in Yorkshire at a Masquerade Ball. Go there and introduce yourself to him. Ingratiate yourself to him; he will be looking for interesting friends and allies. You may surprise yourself, Hermione, with how much change you can bring about from within.

We beg of you to use our creation. We are sorry to ask it. We are grieving our lost. You are our hope.

One year for every turn. 1968.

Very sincerely,

O.S. and friends

Author's Note: Woo hooooo! New Tomione story! I'm so excited about this one, guys. I have so much action, intrigue, and, of course, Tomione (Volmione?!) goodness in store for this one. For those joining me from Inimica, Amator - thanks for sticking with me! I hope you'll enjoy this one. Please do leave a review. They're valued like Galleons. :)