Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Touched Your Lips

by Ydream08

Summary: Hermione decided that becoming a Healer isn't her thing. It must have had something to do with how she had traveled back in time in one of her shifts. Well, 1970s weren't that bad, especially when you dined with the Malfoys, LeStranges and Blacks, with Lord Voldemort as your guest of honor. Orion Black had never lost his composure at those dinners, but when he was the host, and the oh-so-great Voldemort was absent, perhaps he should have been more cautious. Miss Granger was around to distract him, indeed.

Chapter 1

"Well, then." Hermione huffed and walked around the counter of the potions storage. She was in a bit of hurry. She couldn't spend time waiting around for somebody to attend her, and apparently, noon time attendee of the storage had gone to the loo or something.

Her Healer had rushed her to get some potions and salves for Dragon Pox. Since the incident of the disease had dropped significantly in England twenty or so years ago, rarely seen nowadays actually, the cure was not regular therapy, ending up in the dusty shelves of the potions storage.

Healer Robinson had shouted something about incompetent potioneers and internees, and assigned the task of acquiring the cure to her. Hermione Granger was a bright and exceptional internee in the St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, so no wonder her Healer had trusted her.

There was also the minor set back of having no staff in the hospital. Hermione cursed upon remembering why there was nearly no one in the whole goddamn hospital: The Quidditch World Cup.

All the wizards and witches had packed up and went to Denmark, host of the 2006 Quidditch World Cup. Even Harry, who had become the Head of Auror Department only this year went to the game. There was a rumor that he had convinced Kingsley to pay tickets for the whole department. Something about Aurors being needed just in case.

Hermione grumbled. She really didn't share Harry and Ron's enthusiasm for the sport. It was alright to watch when Ron played with how he was the current Keeper of Chudley Cannons, but even then, Hermione didn't go out of her way to attend all of his games. Just the ones which they played in homeland.

She and Ron hadn't worked out. The kiss in the Chamber was great. Hermione had had the highest hope that for once something would work out just fine for her. It was that their losses were too much for the sorrow to clear out from the coast of their budding relationship. It was Fred, then Molly for Ron. And it was her parents for Hermione. They hadn't been able to be there for each other in those days.

She had had to leave alone to search for her parents when Fred's loss wasn't yet embraced, Ron being unable to leave with her while he consoled his mother on top of dealing with his brother's death himself. Hermione would have waited out, been there for Ron but an intel had alerted the Ministry. Hermione had immediately gone to Australia to confirm that, yes, those two married couple who died in a traffic accident the other day, were indeed her parents. When she had finally returned one month later, she had learned from Harry that Molly had passed away from heart attack in her absence. Just like that.

Ron had accepted her condolences, and hugged her tightly but it was a comfort received from a friend. They had both known it once they had broken apart from the embrace.

That's how Hermione had never had a proper relationship. She had straight gone to medical training after taking her NEWTs and as such, she rarely gave other guys a chance even if she had spare time from her education and career.

Well, she was content how her career had turned out. She was currently picking out potions from an old storage on her own. Great. She could bet that Healer Robinson was cursing her slow skills.

Hermione shook her head while she read label after label, not finding the right potion. Her furrows burrowed further with each label she passed which was either faded or unintelligible. She stomped her feet. Where was she supposed to find the damn potions!

Accio.

She needn't vocalize the spell as her magical core decided to act on its own, but thankfully she was concentrated on that particular potion. She was still slightly offended that her magic occasionally took the initiative - a habit left from the war-, when a rumble from the shelves alerted her that something was definitely wrong.

Hermione comically turned her head just to her right and watched in slow motion how the cabinet there shook, vials dropping one after another. The glass breaking, mixed potions hissing and exploding, shelves dislocating echoed in her ears as she screamed and instinctively took cover, but she wasn't fast enough. Vials dropped on her, soaking her skin and clothes, shards of glass piercing her skin upon impact even. Hermione flicked her wand -anything to stop this mess, and that's when a particular vial rushed toward her from the back of a shelf, hidden behind many other potions which now formed a pool on the ground.

Hermione grabbed it without thinking, and realizing that everything had stopped, she took a breath in relief.

She tentatively raised the potion and read its label: Dragon Pox, IV, 1994.

Walking to a safe distance from the cabinet, she cursed how troublesome Accio had turned out. That was why potioneers never used the spell, apparently. Why need it, if you know how your potions are stocked?

Shrugging the annoyance, she performed spells on the vial to check whether the stasis charms on the potion were intact. As the label read, the potion was brewed back in 1994. It would be unfortunate to apply it if it had gone awful.

Happy that the potion was still good to go, Hermione pocketed it and prayed on her way out that Healer Robinson would forgive her delay.

A sudden dizziness caused her to stumble, but Hermione had just made it to the door. Steadying herself while holding on the door knob, she moaned because her head throbbed like hell. Her head felt heavy and her footing was so insecure that for a moment, she thought she was going to pass out.

Focusing her eyes, she realized the potions dripping from her white coat. She could see that those in contact with her skin had been absorbed partially, giving off a faint glow on her bare thighs and calves. She shouldn't have worn this dress suit today. Thin stockings weren't best suited to protect.

Hermione was just about to panic, forget about Robinson wanting the potion and run to get help from someone, anyone, as she had felt close to blacking out; but when she opened the door and stepped outside, she felt perfectly fine.

She could have sworn that she would have passed out, falling as a heap on the ground of the storage, only moments ago. Right now, though? Hermione felt as though she had woken up from a well rested sleep.

Well rested sleep or not, Hermione was definitely dreaming the people -healers, patients and nurses- who rushed about. Were people back? Why were they back? What had happened to the Quidditch World Cup?

Feeling the weight of the potion in her pocket, Hermione decided to forget about this little detail that knubbed her mind. The potion storage was near the Emergency, it was more likely that a catastrophe had occurred and staff was called back on duty. Really, it could be nothing.

"Crap," she whispered. What was Robinson going to do to her? She was late. So late. Maybe only yell at her? Or fire her? "Crap, crap, crap."

Hermione elbowed her way as she hurried to the stairs. Third floor, fifth door to the right. Patient was on the verge of death. Last stage of Dragon Pox. She was an old witch with no one to care for her while she had dismissed the symptoms as mere cold. The green sheen to her skin hadn't bothered her enough to get her to go the hospital either.

Hermione hadn't had the chance to ask why the witch had bothered to come at all. Probably some kind of fear of hospitals not unlike of Muggles had gotten her waiting patiently on her deathbed.

Hermione wanted to ask if she made it before the witch was dead. She was really late.

With that notion in mind, Hermione Granger barged into the room without knocking, grabbed the injector, prepared it and applied to the patient just like Healer Robinson would approve. He would have let her too. She had done this numerous times next to him.

It was perhaps the adrenaline, the fear or the rush that made her miss that, no, the patient was not an old witch. No, there was no Healer about the room, not just Robinson. No, this was definitely not her patient.

Hermione's ears had muted all the sound, only a high pitch echoed as she tried desperately to get her mind to work.

She had been working forty two hours straight, there had been a catastrophe that was brought to the Emergency at the first hours of her shift - people didn't just Disapparate to the Quidditch Cup soundlessly, some arguments were unavoidable- and she had had barely time to eat while Robinson had assigned her half of the hospital's usual routine. She had been one of the few who hadn't left for the Cup.

None were adequate excuses to apply a dangerous potion to a healthy person- relatively healthy at least. Not someone that Dragon Pox cure would aid. Someone who was not her patient.

"What have you done?"

Hermione slowly raised her gaze to meet with a young man. His long platinum hair was a give away, but she refused that Lucius Malfoy stood before her. He had died. Last year. In Azkaban.

"You are not one of father's healers." Lucius Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "What have you done?"

"You… I…" Hermione blinked. Under his accusatory glare, Hermione's thought that she was talking with Lucius Malfoy vanished. As a Healer, internee or not, she had done a horrible thing. What was she supposed to say? 'I mistook the patients and gave him a wrong injection'?

How bloody blind was Hermione? A Dragon Pox patient would have blistered green skin, for Godric's sake! She could have mistaken any other patient, but such a give-away?

Hermione's eyes glanced at the soundless Malfoy Sr. lying in his bed, and at that moment she knew that she hadn't been mistaken. At least she had given the injection to the right type of patient.

On the arm that Hermione had done the injection, Malfoy Sr.'s green skin at the tip of his fingers had already turned to the pale white of his grandson Draco's.

THIS ONE HAS A PLOT. I PROMISE.

It will be fun. Don't know when I'll finish it, but know that reviews are great motivators. I hope you've liked it!

-Ydream08