Time was an aspect of waking reality that would halt for no being; beast, muggle, or wizard. It could be manipulated certainly and abused but it could not be conquered. Time, it's temporary control or otherwise, marched onward with little interruption nor care for those that ceased to exist within its line. It held no emotional attachment to life lost as it slugged forward and it didn't pause to reset if grave mistakes were made. One could still claim mastery and design some barely perfected theory to disrupt its continuous flow, but the dangerous risk involved in the venture was insurmountable. Time-turning was a fickle magic, as wild and unpredictable as a potion-induced storm-should one choose to travel back without being aware of the hard rules that governed its hardly absolute control-and supposedly impossible to achieve since the incident that took place at the Department of Mysteries. So there was no true way to return to a more innocent benign time nor correct the irreversible choices made so many years ago on a fateful evening at the crumbling rubble of the former Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Instead, she had to move forward, shoved along by time and a fate she had-originally-misunderstood. She'd always known that prophecies were fallacies, just simple guidance too cryptic to understand until the very last minute when everything was already falling apart and shifting through desperately grasping fingertips like so many grains of sand. She had firmly, indisputably, believed in a well-earned and proper ending to the Second Wizarding War in her youth, one that would have assuredly ended with The-Boy-Who-Lived blanketed by the roar of victory and the hope of a people who'd refused to be oppressed. Perhaps, she'd been blinded by a sense of naivety. In the Muggle stories she'd read as a child the 'bad guys' always fell to the manifested power of love and determination. Good people won because they were good. Bad people lost because they were bad. In reality, there hadn't been enough clarification to blindly access that they were good enough to be assured their victory and that they had been bad enough to fail without contest.

It had all been rather anti-climatic actually, their loss at the hands of His army. His numbers had been nearly insurmountable after all, but they had been filled with hope and drunk off the determination that he-who she tried not to think about, not now when paranoia clung to her flesh and her waking reality seemed too surreal to be real-had been the Chosen One. It seemed incredibly unlikely, despite the obvious lack in their original numbers, that they could falter here. Yet, they had been children, children forced to battle against some of the most esteemed of His Inner Circle, some of the most experienced, ruthless, and madness-stricken. When she thought about it, her youth, her admiration, her blind faith, and unwavering loyalty seemed ludicrous in the face of highly predictable odds.

She considered herself a rather bright witch, supposedly the brightest of her age, but the fact that she had been unable to see such an outcome was a contradiction to that admission.

"Hermione."

The voice that echoed from her front was enough to disturb her thoughts, it's gravelly tone-tired yet firm-was an instant pull to her consciousness. It had her undivided attention, despite the slight press of her lips into a hard thin line and the repressed grimace she refused to express in the face of this haggard older man.

"What are you still doing here?" The question wasn't barked, not like it might have been in the past, not since she proved her worth some odd years ago. The hard glare that would have been directed toward her is gone, either destroyed by her obvious display of value over time or wiped away at the idea that he wouldn't be hunted down and slaughtered from employing her.

It's been six years since He won, after all, and the first few into His rule a great deal of the wizarding community had been struck with concern over such matters.

"I'm packing up." She answered, though her words didn't match up with her intentions. Packing up had been the last thing she'd been doing and it was made rather obvious by the scattered parchment, half-full vials, and other such tools that still surrounded her in a haphazard fashion. "It's taking some time."

"Mhm." Her superior was not amused by her statement, but the slow roll of his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. He's in no mood to refute her claim, and perhaps doesn't find the energy worth questioning her statement a good venture of his time. Still, he seemed unwilling to move on and for a time merely stared at her collection of miscellaneous magical doings until the silence around them became too much for Hermione to bare comfortably.

Wordlessly she began to collect her organized mess, only taking a few moments in between softly mumbled cleaning spells upon oddly colored vials to toss her superior, in his stained wrinkled robes, a look of exasperation. She did not need to be babysat, she was no longer an undesirable and despite His reign her life had been somewhat… favorable.

She had not expected to work for St. Mungo's after all. Not once the pure-bloods had claimed their superiority over everyone and everything. Not after He had risen to the ultimate authority and reconstructed the Ministry and the laws that governed it. Yet, His view had not been the exaggerated evil of cartoon villainy The Order and Dumbledore had claimed it to be. He had not taken to slaughtering Muggles and Muggle-borns out in the streets-though he had placed great restrictions on them, Muggles that is, and their involvement in the wizarding world. Great Britain wasn't burning and the blood that had washed through the streets in the aftermath had only belonged to those who refused to bow.

At first, she had thought it noble to die. She'd been idealistic, determined, unyielding, and terrified to live in a world of His design but she'd been considered a child swept along by Dumbledore's paranoid fanaticism to the Light and manipulated beyond belief by prophecies and older wizards into a war that had, ultimately, been beyond them. Still, there was no denying her contribution to the side she'd been involved with. She assumed it had been her intellect that had kept Him from outright destroying her, or maybe her prowess at magical manipulation and studies. Ultimately, it didn't matter. She hadn't asked when she'd stood before him, expecting to perish with nothing to show for her efforts other than the always hidden slur carved into her flesh. Yet, he had a plan and she'd had… nothing.

They'd run, the bulk of them, The Order. She hadn't seen them in the chaos. She hadn't seen them when she'd been dragged before The Dark Lord for judgement of her crimes and didn't know what had happened when she'd been tucked away in some dark silent place while the world kept turning and the Ministry politically imploded. Ron was missing, and The-Boy-Who-Lived was… dead, perhaps? She couldn't be sure, information had been denied her those first few weeks and the only company she'd kept had been the endless fantasies of going to Azkaban or the torture she'd no doubt receive once The Dark Lord celebrated His victory and dangled her before his rabid followers like the slab of meat they'd always viewed her as.

None of that came to pass, of course. She was released, pardoned ironically from her 'crimes against His Most Magnificent', and told to prove her value to Him, lest she find herself alongside her less manageable and more dangerous companions that had not been given His mercies.

So she lived, surviving only on pragmatism and a sense of twisted Gryffindor bravery-she wouldn't let them destroy her, she would not submit to despair-as the survivor's guilt that had once chewed at her faded, and the chaos she'd assumed would consume them failed to come to pass. She waited, of course, hopeful that The Boy was not dead and that Ron would return-certainly, he wasn't dead, softly spoken rumors seemed to confirm otherwise. She'd heard them whispering once, two of the social elite that had come to inspect her humble home for 'traitors' and 'propaganda against our Lord'. They thought she'd had him, the blood-traitor, but she hadn't seen him nor heard from any in his family since the war and her immediate capture afterward-but the flame of her hope had dampened, replaced by an unsteady and strange sense of content and surprise at His actions.

Muggles were soon banned from their world but the Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and other magical beings of once questionable status were left to their own devices. There was an odd distinctive lack of outright prejudice against her. No one screamed Mudblood in the halls and more than once the Daily Prophet spoke of Muggle-born achievements. Not her own, of course. Her discoveries and master potion-work was always a missing feature, of which she blamed Rita Skeeter for purposely not including, but others were unnaturally visible among more pure-blood driven news and escapades. Though the news always concluded with a familiar phrasing, that all would prove their worth for The Dark Lord, or forfeit their freedom. Hermione had a feeling that, despite it being left unsaid, blood status wouldn't matter if He grew weary with any beings performance.

"The longer you take to clean up the longer it takes the next person to set up." His grumpy voice broke her recollection, but she didn't fault him for his rush. He wasn't wrong, her dalliance was a hindrance to the efficiency of the next potioneer based mediwitch and despite her proficiency in the field he had never shown any sort of patience toward her slow crafting.

"I apologize, sir." She mumbled softly, though knew it meant little to him considering she said it so often.

"Don't dally next time, Ms. Granger." He replied, but there was a lack of conviction in his tone. Frustration yes, but no firm warning. This wasn't the first time he'd said something of this nature and he knew it wouldn't be the last. It saved him more time to bother her than it did to put effort into making any particular warning of his actually stick. Knowing this he left her to her clean up but not without tossing her another weary glare.

Maybe he really did believe she needed babysitting but any sort of activism she would have engaged in died the moment she'd accepted her place in the new reign. Certainly, once upon a time, she'd allowed thoughts of such a nature to slither in among her more mundane ideals, but she was always watched and without a sure structure of resistance such fantasies seemed…. silly.

She was an adult now, a realist. Survival came before fantastical ideals of heroism in a world that no longer needed them.

With a deep bow she swept the bulk of her tools into a simplistic black satchel enchanted to carry a great deal of items and lighten them so leaving her small lab was not problematic or difficult when she needed to take her work home instead of leaving it to fester. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Then, without waiting for a response-though he never gave one anyway-she left the sterile white environment of St. Mungo's potions division and swept down the halls with only the click of her boots and the fluttering sound of her green work robes to echo behind her.

Her superior hadn't been wrong. It was late, much later than usual. With the setting sun as her only immediate acknowledgment of the time she had to admit that she'd lost herself in theories and research for a potion that would cure rather large gaping wounds while effectively replenishing blood. She enjoyed the idea of experimentation and creating hypotheses based on abundant need even if it seemed unrealistic to attempt. That was the meaning of discovery, anyway. To utilize a combination of imagination, information, and skill to create the once impossible but she doubted her superior would have found the beauty in her alchemy. After all, her job was to recreate potions that already existed, stocking the storages and keep the healers constantly replenished. Using work materials and substances to further her own undeniable need to seek fulfillment in new knowledge would not have been taken very well among her more stoic colleagues

In reality, she wasn't even sure if she could discover anything new without being discovered herself. How would the new wizarding world take to the advancement of magic of any form by a former traitor turned Muggle-born potioneer? Despite the relatively peaceful six years she had spent in His world it seemed somewhat risky to indulge in her more curious nature should it be determined she was being sneaky and suspicious.

Yet, goodness it felt damn good to do it.

With a few mumbled goodbyes she headed toward the nearest fireplace, one among many that were scattered throughout the grounds, and dipped careful fingers among the light colored powder that rocked in a simple gold plated cup bolted over the mantle. Despite her license in Apparition, it was less jarring to use the Floo Network during mundane moments of travel. Granted, she didn't prefer either method of travel if she was being honest. Still, she was certain that using the Floo made those in the hospital space more comfortable with her presence. Nobody would have cared for the idea of Ms. Hermione Granger, brains of the Golden Trio, able to just poof in and out of wherever she pleased. She didn't care how tolerant those around her seemed to be, it must have been unsettling to work with someone who still visibly represented a war nobody had wanted during a time everyone was comically trying to forget.

It was just unfortunate that her own scars from the battle weren't as easy to leave behind.

There's a sense of displacement and then her feet were once more on solid ground as Hermione stepped out from the Floo onto the street of Diagon Alley. Despite the time the cobblestone shopping area was filled with people in robes of various colors and stature. It wasn't an unusual sight, the current peace had been more than enough for most shop owners to return to their brightly lit establishments and attend to wizards and witches with galleons burning a hole in their pockets, but sometimes it was a jarring reminder of what could have been and what now was. Even the familiar smell of cooking foods and sweets was nearly enough to lure her down a hypnotic path of remembrance. She ignored the tugging on her consciousness though in favor of stalking along the happily talking and not as subdued wizards crowding the space. She could understand their ease, their happiness, but she felt detached from it. There was no clutch for her of jolly friends and comrades to celebrate the bustling economy and welcomed reprieve from death and destruction.

This was fine though, nothing was on fire at least.

Unbothered she took up a casual stroll. Her destination wasn't that far, and despite the heavy crowds it was easy enough for someone of her size to weave through them but her eyes were more prone to wander when her mind was silenced. It was nice to look at the sleepy-eyed owls in the window of Eeylops Emporium and catch a whiff of the cooking meats as she passed the Leaky Cauldron, but she only stopped her wandering when she stood before Magical Menagerie, as she had done for several days in a row

She never went in, she couldn't muster the resolve despite being a Gryffindor, but it was a place she'd been compelled to watch lately. She stood in the same posture she'd done the night before and the night before that with a carefully constructed blank mask of resignation as the old wooden door swung open and Hogwart's bound children spilled out with new companions to accompany their innocent journey through education. She envied them, mostly. Not just because of the childish purity that oozed from them-had she ever been that untainted? That unaware?-but because of their ability to reconnect with another beast. She hadn't seen Crookshanks after the war and now, years later, she doubted he'd survived the assault on The Burrow. Mostly, she stood there and remembered her childhood companion, losing hours to memories she swore she'd put away but couldn't properly contain. Then, with twitching fingertips, she'd leave to head home instead of entering the magical pet shop like she'd originally intended

Today would be no different. She'd stand. She'd stare. She'd wonder about the infrastructure of Hogwart's itself-who was in charge? What did they teach? Then she'd leave to retreat to her small nearly empty abode with its one floor and one room to eat and sleep, only to return to St. Mungo's for her shift with the coming dawn so that she could feel useful for a scant eight hours. This was existence, a carefully planned and predictable existence. She'd grown to like it, expect it… Nothing changed and perhaps nothing ever would, at least not in her lifetime.

Then a difference, a sudden unwelcome difference, in the form of one screeching loud squawk and the appearance of a black bobbing blur. She lifted her arms with a cry and hunched over defensively from the abrupt assault of wind and feathers against her upper torso as her attacker called out unhappily. The erratic 'fawp fawp fawp' of wings against the flesh of her covered arms was entirely unsettling. Furthermore, the constant angry peck at any available flesh it could find coupled with its hectic flying pattern around her vicinity was enough to not only be infuriating but also difficult to protect against. If this was it and He was sending some sort of bird assassin to remove her presence from the wizarding world this was a great start to an uncomfortable, slow, and painful end. As it was she could have reached for her wand, but it seemed rather prudent to protect her face from the angry pecks that seemed aimed at her nose and lips through a combination of both her upheld arms. Eventually, as she stepped back in a haphazard piss-poor attempt at escape, she tripped and the hard painful sensation of her rump hitting the cobblestone was enough to make her snarl out a- "Bloody hell!"

It was time for a new strategy. Defense forgotten she flapped her arms forward in a manner that must have been not only comical but ineffective but she could have cared less of being seen in her currently undignified heap of strewn legs and robes. Still, the attack did cease, if it could have been called a true attack, and suddenly her lap was filled with a heavy weight as what she assumed as her black bird killer settled there.

She took deep calming breathes but her heart was ramped up, set to thundering against her rib cage through a combination of fear and boiling fury. The flames of that anger curled through her belly with the sort of intensity she hadn't felt since her youth. It was vibrant, different , colorful… so much more than the detached sense of resignation that had filled her since the ending of the war and for two split moments she felt as if every nerve in her being was poised, vibrating, and alive.

Then she realized that her furious and erratic screams from earlier had attracted a crowd, some of which were staring at her with the sort of disdain the proud and regal only reserved for the uncouth and barbaric. Immediately that anger began to fizzle, replaced instead by lingering resentment and enough embarrassment that her fair skin flushed red

"H-hello." She croaked, her gaze set to flitter about the crowd in an attempt to appear under control but not have to look any particular witch or wizard directly in the eyes. "Perfectly fine here. Everything is alright."

A wizard or two gave her a withering look but when the first wandered back to his surely important plans the rest dispersed to attend to their agendas. Once Hermione was alone in the street again, with nothing but the sounds of the fading crowd and their casual whispers about her disposition left to echo behind them, she turned her irate gaze to the bird on her lap who appeared suspiciously calm despite its behavior upon introduction.

"You slimy knob." She hissed, but the bird only gave a slight cant of its head either ignoring her or unable to understand her displeasure. With a snort strong enough to displace a strand of wild hair she attempted to shove it off her lap but as soon as her hand drew close it was swift to reach out and take an indignant nip.

"Ouch!" She sneered, unwilling to believe that her current position was being forced by a simple bird , a bird of feathers so black they seemed purple with only the slightest hint of red scattered about the back and near the feet that possessively clutched a thickly bound roll of parchment.

"What is this?" She whispered to the bird but didn't dare try to retrieve it's package or stand. It was less painful to remain on her aching rump and nurse her poor hand than attempt any sort of control over the… was this a crow? A raven? No, a rook. Whatever it was, unless she was willing to move for her wand and make it go away in a puff of feathers and smoke she figured it wouldn't hurt to remain on the street. She was already dirty, it couldn't get that much worse.

Or, maybe it could since the bird had started it's loud screeching again. Only, this time, it didn't attack her so much as launch up and away from her, leaving behind the scroll and a hurt sense of pride-whatever was left of it.

With a deep breath and shaky hands she scooped up the gift left behind, the heavy weight of the bound scroll in her grip almost unreal. She didn't receive these sort of things anymore. Letters, hastily scribbled notes, owl delivered parcels, those sorts of communications were pieces of her past. No one had any need to reach her, hadn't tried to in years, and the fact that a non-owl delivery had taken place right in the middle of Diagon Alley did nothing to ease her twisted nerves. Who, exactly, had that rude uncivilized bird belonged to and why, of all the people that it needed to encounter, had it been her that it sought?

She swallowed thickly, quickly dismissing ideas that the scroll in her tight white-knuckled grip could have been delivered by any of the people she'd once thought of as her comrades. Those were silly fanciful wishes long dead and belonging to a time when rebellion had been preferable to enslavement. Yet, here she was, stumbling to her feet, dreading the information locked behind the scrolls gold, black, and green ribbons and certainly not as enslaved as her imagination would have told her so many years prior.

What would she do, if it was exactly what she'd assumed? Her life held no room for disruption or traitorous action. Furthermore, the wriggling sensation of relief at the idea that it might NOT be from any of her previous contacts seemed wrong in a manner she couldn't properly fathom.

Yet, she wouldn't let fear of the unknown weigh her down with unnecessary burden. There was no reason to be frightened of words on a piece of parchment and her future was unchangeable, no matter what was hidden beyond the decorative ribbons that held it together. If this were some sort of note of desperation, sent by some wayward member of her fallen faction, they certainly wouldn't have bothered to doll it up like some sort of socialite invitation.

Oh. Wait a minute.

She bit her bottom lip and spared only a moment to adjust her work robes before she took off down the street toward a familiar building. Her mind twisted in spirals of nearly incoherent thought-an invitation? Was this an invitation? From who? How? Why? She felt like she was floating, moving forward on half-formed theories instead of completely following the notion. One moment, one little inconsistency, and suddenly her hard-learned pattern of forced normalcy was slipping away from her to be replaced by the mystery of the unknown and a taste of intrigue. Maybe it was misplaced excitement that turned her steady walk into a jog. After all, it was just a piece of paper, not some great symbol of purpose or a more fulfilling future but she couldn't help her curiosity nor her interest at the disruption.

With barely a moment's hesitation, she shoved open the door to the Leaky Cauldron, unable to even spare an apology to an older woman who hobbled out of the way just in time to avoid being thrust toward the ground due to Hermione's wild action. Normally she took a bit more care when she entered the old establishment, at least in making sure she wasn't about to bowl over some poor unsuspecting witch or wizard but this time, well… this time, the only thing on the forefront of her mind was taking a quiet corner as her own and unfurling her scroll.

Other than the barking curse toward her back from the woman leaving the Cauldron no other patrons paid her much mind and it was easy enough to stalk through the crowds toward a table set up against the far wall. Here, she suspected she'd remain undisturbed by drunken wizards who claimed to recognize her from faded papers and if the scroll revealed some sort of deep dark terrible secret she'd at least be able to shroud her reaction away in the darkness the rather poor lighting in the pub naturally created. So, with a screech of the chair as she collapsed into the barely stable seating she rested the scroll and her slightly trembling hands out in front of her.

Alright, she thought. It was time to take a deep breath and hope for the best. Yet, she had no idea what she was really hoping for. Some cryptic message from The Boy, or an ornamental invitation to some grand event that she probably wouldn't go to at the end of the day. Though, it was the thought that counted, right? The thought that maybe someone, anyone, might remember her sacrifices and achievements despite not being The-Boy-Who-Lived-Or-Maybe-Didn't.

Nevertheless, she felt a bit preposterous at her reaction, or maybe it was just adrenaline that made her fumble with the ribbons. After all, she had been attacked by a very vicious and agile bird and it only made sense that she was nervous in unraveling its delivery.

At least it couldn't possibly be a howler.

With a slight shove Hermione rolled the remaining frivolous ribbons off the scroll before she unfurled it entirely so that, with narrowed gaze, she could read its contents-

You have been invited- It started, and immediately Hermione felt an odd mixture of dread and suspense- to the Malfoy Manor Autumn Revel to celebrate a grand announcement from our Lord and Magnificent Savior. Join the Malfoy family and His most esteemed as we usher in a new era of traditions and prestige.

Her breath caught and for a moment she forgot where she was. There was no laughter, no clink of dishes and mugs as patrons ate and drunk away their sorrows, no gruff language as people harshly whispered bitter stories of the past. There was only Hermione and the letter, a letter that she was beyond certain must have been mistakenly delivered to the wrong person. Or at least a falsified document meant to cause her some sort of distress. Yet, as her eyes unwillingly roamed the message again she caught the rest of the message settled next to the illustrious Malfoy seal just barely hidden by the still rolled up portion of parchment in the prettiest handwriting she'd ever seen-

For One Guest. . .

Hermione Jean Granger.