A Question Of Time

Chapter One:

The Body By The Lake

30th June, 1957

Hogwarts

It was the pain that roused her, coursing through her body like poison. It seeped into her mind, clouding her thoughts as she tried to make sense of why she was feeling so horrid. She couldn't remember...

She opened her eyes, blinking quickly as she squinted at...Hogwarts? The Great Lake?

I'm dreaming, surely...

All she knew was that everywhere ached. Her skin felt raw, her head was throbbing as if she'd hit it repeatedly on a rock, and as she tried to draw breath, she realised she was unable to breathe. She felt someone's hands on her, trying to turn her quickly; they were shaking slightly, as if whoever owned them was scared. As soon as she was on her side, she realised why the helpful stranger was rolling her, and why she was unable to inhale properly – she promptly coughed up a lungful of lake water onto the rocks she was lying on. White spots danced around her vision as her lungs burned, searing with the effort to maintain enough air to remain conscious. It was like the Cruciatus curse aftershocks all over again.

After drawing in an agonising, shuddering breath, she next focused on the the pain in her forehead. Tentatively, she propped herself up on her elbow, ignoring the sharp rocks piercing through her waterlogged robes, and brought up her hand to assess the damage. Pain sliced through both her hairline and her arm at her touch, and she whimpered as she saw her wrist hanging limply, followed by the blood covering her fingertips. Almost at once, her arms started shaking as anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.

Movement sounded from behind her; the squelching of damp pebbles and something – someone – shuffling over them. "Sssh, it's ok. You're injured, but I – I've sent for help," a nervous voice explained as firm hands eased her onto her back.

Hermione was too exhausted to argue and did as she was told, squeezing her eyes shut against the midday sun. She felt tears slip down her cheeks as more pain registered on her body; her legs were on fire, and her old back injuries seemed to have been reignited. She grunted with the effort to keep herself from sobbing, face twisting in agony. Her right wrist was most certainly broken, and if the blood was anything to go by, she had a head wound. She tried to focus on the nice chill of the water swirling around her lower legs; it was soothing against whatever was burning her skin there.

"I'm no Healer," the voice – a woman's, she registered – said, stronger this time, "But the Deputy Headmaster is coming with out with the Matron, I promise you. Just try to breathe." The woman started loosening the front clasps of Hermione's soaked robes to alleviate pressure on her chest, while she continued, "You're at Hogwarts, nothing can hurt you now." The faintest hint of a Scottish accent accompanied the words, which made Hermione's pain-addled mind take a while longer to comprehend what was said to her. She felt a damp cloth wiping where her head was most painful, and cool fingers sliding under her jaw to keep track of her pulse.

That voice is familiar, she mused groggily, the pain in her head threatening to slip her back into unconsciousness. Fighting her hazing vision, Hermione opened her eyes once more, this time to look at the woman tending to her injuries. She was hard to see at first, what with the sun blazing behind her like a halo and long black hair draped over one pale shoulder, but the piercing emerald green eyes – enhanced by dark make-up, unusually – were unmistakable. Her own eyes widened, and jaw slackened at the recognition.

"Oh...God," Hermione choked out in horror, lungs straining with the effort after her coughing fit. Her throat felt on fire. "Minerva?" The shock almost made her heave. She's young. Far too young. What the fuck has happened?! Hermione thought desperately, realising that, to her absolute terror, she shouldn't be wondering where she was, but rather, when. "Oh, shit."

Minerva McGonagall raised an arched eyebrow as she leaned back on her heels. "You know me?" she asked slowly, wringing out the bloodied wash-cloth in the water surrounding them both.

Hermione barely heard her as the implications swam before her eyes. She made to sit up, putting her weight on her left arm, and look past the younger version of the current Headmistress of Hogwarts to the rest of the shoreline of the lake. Her heart skipped several beats at the empty patch of grass where the Whomping Willow was meant to be, at the different design of the old boathouse, and the pristine jetty that had long been declared unsafe to students by the time she had attended the school.

A chill ran through her, and she felt herself falling back, lying on the pebbly shore in the slowly rising water. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and brought her left hand to cover her face, clutching at the side of her head desperately as a whirlwind of possibilities – all just as unlikely and problematic as the next – plagued her mind as to an explanation of her current situation. With her breathing becoming erratic once more, and pain becoming unbearable, she relinquished control of herself to unconsciousness, floating away with the hope that this was all a terrible, terrible nightmare she would never have to face again.

The bed was rather uncomfortable; the sheets were pulled too tight around her, and the pillows were much too thin. The angle she was lying on made her throat ache. At least my headache's gone, she thought, before she found herself confused as to why she would have had a headache in the first place. She couldn't think clearly; to hold a thought felt akin to wading through a rip tide in the ocean.

As she became more aware of her surroundings, she smelt essence of dittany and burn salve, and she realised her body felt sore, heavy and immobile. She tried making a fist, but stopped when pain seared through her arm. She had vague recollections of seeing it broken...when? Today? Yesterday? Gods, there must have been an accident at work, she thought, forcing her eyes open. The light made her squint, but as she looked around, she saw she was in an old-fashioned hospital bed with curtains drawn around it. "Ah, shit," she muttered, seeing the bandages on her arms and burn salve on her chest. Accident at work indeed. She tried to remember what they were currently studying, but her memory failed her.

Realising how dry her throat was, she reached over to the bedside table for the glass of water the Healers must have left for her. She drank it quickly, savouring the soothing feeling as it slipped down her throat. Her fatigue improved slightly, much to her relief, and she decided to try and get out of the bed. Looking around, she realised she wasn't in St. Mungo's and she was anxious to get her bearings. The bed and bedlinen didn't match what the Wizarding Hospital used, nor did the curtains, and the walls were completely wrong. Just as she'd swung one leg over the bed, however, she heard a door crash open, followed by footsteps and voices. She quickly got back into bed and strained to hear what was being said out on what she assumed to be the ward.

"Evidence of torture?" someone hissed. "You're sure? Merlin, she's around my age, that's-"

"Horrible, yes. But they're old injuries," someone else – an older woman, Hermione guessed, by the sound of the voice – assured the first speaker. "The main concern, Professor's, apart from the fact she looks as though she's been in a violent explosion, is the head injury. It'll cause some sort of amnesia, so I'd be hesitant in your questioning."

"I promise, Matron, I merely want to ask her a few trivial things, at first." A third voice was added into the mix. It was cool, and calm and...familiar. Hermione frowned, but before she could dwell, he continued on. "Could you send Miss Doe's personal effects to my office?"

"Of course, Professor Dumbledore," the woman said, and Hermione heard her footsteps up the length of the ward.

Did she say 'Dumbledore'? Hermione wasn't sure it was possible to mishear a name like that. Before she had a chance to ponder it, 'Dumbledore' spoke again.

"This is the sand, Minerva? Are you sure?"

"Yes, it was surrounding her, all over her robes. She said my name, Albus, and I've never seen her before in my life. Whoever Jane Doe is, I'm willing to bet she's not from here, if you get my drift."

Hermione found her jaw dropping of it's own accord at the familiar voices from just beyond the curtain. Albus and Minerva. Merlin, where on God's green earth was she? She tried to keep her breathing in check and slowly and deliberately tried to stretch her back, focusing on anything to keep her mind from going haywire. Her head was already starting to get a dull ache once more.

"But that does not mean," Minerva continued warningly, and Hermione noticed her voice was higher, and less haggard than she'd heard it...well, ever, "That she can be trusted. Keep your wits about you, old man. You've still got many enemies from defeating Gellert, who knows what lengths his fanatics would go to to get revenge."

Albus chuckled, and Hermione could just imagine his eyes twinkling. "Why Minerva, it seems the first years were wrong – you do have a heart after all," he teased her lightly. A pointed silence fell, and if Hermione knew Minerva, the formidable woman would probably be glaring at him right now. "I thank you for your concern, my dear," he said patiently – yes, he just got glared at, she thought, the ghost of a smile on her lips – "But I assure you, I will be perfectly fine. Why don't you go down to the kitchens and get a plate of food for Miss Doe?"

A sharp exhale sounded. "Of course, Albus," Minerva said, and the clack of high heels sounded on the floor, retreating in the opposite direction of the Matron's.

"And Minerva?" Albus called.

"Yes?"

"For once, I'm glad of your smoking habit. If you hadn't been by the lake for your morning cigarette, I doubt she would be alive right now." Hermione could hear the sincerity and gratefulness in his voice. Merlin, how she missed it. For all his wrongs, Albus Dumbledore's voice could be one of the most soothing sounds in the world.

"Why thank you, Albus. I know how hard it is to admit you were wrong," Minerva said, and Hermione could just imagine the smirk on her face as Albus chortled.

This is a dream, surely. How can this be real? He's dead.

A shadow grew from behind the curtains, and Hermione realised that the time for eavesdropping was over. For all she overheard, she was no closer to coming up with a plausible explanation as to what was going on. She couldn't remember a thing. She guessed she was at Hogwarts, however with Albus Dumbledore mixed into the equation, it simply didn't make sense.

Breath hitching as the curtains opened, her eyes widened as she drank in the very real, and very alive form of Albus Dumbledore. His eccentric robe choice was the same as ever; purple, with gold trim, was the current ensemble, although he looked...odd. Different. His hair and beard were neither grey, nor exceedingly long. Hermione had only ever seen him this young in the photograph's of Rita Skeeter's awful, yet sadly truthful, book about him.

"Ah, our mystery guest is awake," he said brightly. "How are you feeling? You had some nasty injuries, dear girl." He conjured an armchair and sat next to the bed, surveying her over his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione gaped for a moment, wanting to confirm his identity before saying anything. "Albus Dumbledore?" she queried tentatively, quite sure she looked rather ridiculous.

Albus lifted up his chin slightly and leaned back in his chair. "Ah yes, I had a feeling you might know me," he said softly, taking off his spectacles. "A different version? Older, perhaps?"

"Perhaps..." she said warily. To say she was unnerved was an understatement, and Merlin, did her head start aching the more she thought about how wrong this all was. As she blinked, she had a flash of memory, of a boathouse, a missing tree, and a jetty... Minerva.

Young Minerva.

Young Albus?

Merlin's fucking pantaloons.

A cough startled her out of her thoughts. "Back to my original question, Miss Doe. How are you feeling?"

Hermione sighed. "Not all that well, Al- Sir," she corrected herself, but Albus waved her off. "Oh, by all means, call me how you usually do," he said kindly. "Unless you've picked up Minerva McGonagall's habits for truly awful nicknames. 'Gandalf' is the current one, I believe – I so regret buying her those books for Christmas," he added, with a shake of his head and a chuckle. "I have a few more questions for you, if I may?" At her slow nod, he asked, "What day of the week is it?"

"Friday," she answered.

"And the date?"

"29th of June."

Albus hummed, looking at her curiously. He cocked his head to the side, and Hermione could see a hint of concern betraying his usually calm features. "Amnesia is to be expected, after a head injury like yours," he mused. "It is, in fact, the 30th of June. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I just remembered – the lake..." she said slowly.

"Before that, my dear," he nudged.

Hermione frowned as images swirled in her mind, disjointed, but enough to make her remember. "Dinner, last night. Indian take-away. Work finished late, around 10pm," she said eventually, although the pounding in her head grew. She made a move to pour another glass of water, but with her wrist in a sling, she realised it would end in disaster. Instead, she grabbed the glass and, after not seeing her wand anywhere, performed a wandless aguamenti charm above the goblet. She smiled, pleased the bone break hadn't affected her magical ability in the slightest, although is was more painful than she expected.

"Impressive," Albus commended. When she looked at him, after taking a drink, she saw he was genuine in his compliment; his eyes were sparkling. They truly were the windows to his soul. "What is your job, if you don't mind me asking?"

She gave a small smile – her job was her life; her obsession. With a hint of pride in her voice, she said, "Curse-breaker and Magic Analyst, Department of Mysteries. That's all I'm allowed to say."

He nodded. "And finally, given the fact you were surrounded by the Sands of Time by the Lake – what year are you from?" His voice was sharper, much more direct than what it had been mere moments ago.

Wanting just one more moment of blissful ignorance, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled, eyes burning as she realised the inevitable ending of this conversation. She felt her heart shattering as she said, "2001." After taking a deep breath and blinking away the tears threatening to well in her eyes, she asked, "And what year is this?"

With a regretful sigh, Albus answered. "1957, my dear. I am so very sorry..."

30th June, 2001

Daily Prophet HQ

ACCIDENT IN THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES:

5 INJURED, HERMIONE GRANGER MISSING

At approximately 11.57am today, June 30th, 2001, a tragic accident in the lower levels of the Department of Mysteries took place, rendering 5 as yet unnamed Unspeakables in St. Mungo's, while celebrated war hero Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin 1st Class, has yet to be located in the remains of a destroyed laboratory. While normally, this sort of accident is kept from the public, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt has issued a statement to assure the public he is doing all he can to find Ms. Granger, noting that the disappearance of a war-hero, sadly, does not go unnoticed.

"It is my sad duty to report that the rumours are, in fact, true – a volatile object we recently confiscated has caused a large amount of damage, the details of which will not be made available to the public. I can promise you we are going all we can to recover Agent Granger. We will not rest until we find her, or discover what has happened to her. I urge you all to not spread rumours, or uneducated theories. The work our dedicated Unspeakables do here is highly confidential, extremely dangerous and not something up for public discussion. All further articles about this incident will be pulled from all Wizarding publications due to this fact, unless I have personally authorised them. That is all."

We here at the Daily Prophet wish the best of luck to the forthcoming investigation, and will be abiding by the Minister's wishes to respect the privacy of this tragic event. We sincerely regret publishing Rita Skeeter's speculative column in the Afternoon Bulletin earlier in the day, and refute the suggestion she made that this accident was the direct result of a workplace love rivalry.

Mr. Harry Potter, friend of Ms. Granger, has requested privacy for Ms. Granger's friends and family during this difficult time. He is hopeful that she will be found safe and alive, and also wishes the Unspeakables in St. Mungo's a quick recovery.

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave a grim smile as looked over the proposed cover page of the Evening Prophet. Short, succinct, and to the point – he was sure even Hermione herself would approve. Worry constricted at his chest once more at the thought of her; a dear friend, who had gone through so much...suddenly gone. She needed to be found.

Shaking himself from him thoughts, he gave a nod to Barnabus Cuffe, Editor-In-Chief of the Prophet. "Print it. And get advance copies to myself, the Weasley's and Harry Potter. And Headmistress McGonagall," he added as an afterthought. "She deserves a bit of warning that the rumour mill at Hogwarts will be going crazy in a few hours."