In two days

AN: Bold type indicate time in the timeline.

--

Afternoon

Hermione walked slowly out of the room. Her mind was still in a bit of a spin and everything felt strangely out of joint. If she turned her head too quickly she felt she could almost see through the walls. She put it down to the lingering effects of… well whatever had happened. Despite Madam Pomfrey’s insinuations that she had been duelling, she couldn’t suppress the thought that it had been something more. Something that had to do with- Harry?

She walked for a number of minutes for she came to the realisation that something was wrong. Her mind was flitting from thought to thought. Memory to memory, without direction, or pattern, or input from herself.

One moment she would recall the day she had received her Hogwarts letter, whatever guiding force was conducting this search shared her belief that this was an important event, then it suddenly seemed to jump in time to the long-seeming moment as Victor Krum leaned in to kiss her. The force did not share her feelings of importance on this memory and she felt almost annoyed at that.

Next she was forced to recall the exact moment she had slapped Draco Malfoy back in third year, the memory so strong she could feel the pain in the palm of her hand again. It sped up flitting through seemingly unimportant dates - exams, random conversations, books, films - Hermione felt surprised at the extent of her own memory.

And a little dizzy.

She stopped walking and stood still, eyes closed. She couldn’t fight it, it was stronger than her. Older than her. And somehow she seemed to know that it wasn’t something to be afraid of. But when it started bring up what seemed like every memory she had of Harry she tried to fight it. That pain was too fresh. She couldn’t stop the storm of emotions that threatened to flood her, each linked intrinsically to whatever memory was being scrutinized. Every happy, angry, sad, loving, fearful emotion she had felt for Harry was pulled up. She was hugging Harry on the edge of the lake, both soaked and shivering, though for different reasons. She watched once again as Harry, now eleven, walked through the fire-barred door to face Snape, only for it to turn out to be Quirrell. She pressed a kiss to his forehead on platform 9 and ¾, watched as he bucked and struggled in pain and the last breath left his body. The intensity lessened and she felt a moment of reprieve then-

Something came to her. An image, like a frozen movie clip, old men in robes, arms upraised as if chanting, billows of incense smoke hung in the air unmoving. She screwed up her forehead in concentration but the image flitted away under the scrutiny. She shook her head, and as she did so another picture seemed to form in her head.

She was pulled into a new image. A figure standing at the end of a runway, struggling as if tied to… Hermione paused in thought. She was pulled forward, closer, and she could see the hands were tied to two metal posts, long, brown hair tossed wildly as she - for it was certainly a she - struggled madly for freedom. She looked up- But before Hermione could see her face she was removed from the image, and now she was standing before a struggling pair. She stared in horror as one body morphed continuously, one moment a vainglorious blonde with a look of horrifying glee on her face, the other a taller man who seemed to be struggling not to lose himself to the same madness.

Hermione felt the force take her again, down a different path this time, her mind being drawn from image to image, a kaleidoscope of memories, none of them hers, faces she didn’t recognise but felt some deeper connection to. And if it she could figure that bit out she would understand the rest-

“Hermione!”

She looked up, startled back to reality. Whatever had guided her mind through the subconscious maze lost its grip and she look into the worried face of her best friend. Ron sighed in relief. He had his hands on her shoulders and appeared to have been shaking her.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past five minutes,” he was staring at her in consternation.

“I’m fine, Ron, just-”

“Thinking?”

“Ya and-”

“Well what ever it was can wait until we’re back in the comfort of the common room, where it’s nice and warm and you can explain to me why you ended up in the hospital wing for three days when you said you were just going to post a letter!”


---

That night

“Are you going to reveal this secret to us yet, Albus?”

Dumbledore spared his Deputy Head a quick glance as he entered his own office. Mainly to assess her mood, before walking to his overstuffed bookshelf and pulling a slim volume down. Hawk-eyed, Professor McGonagall missed nothing, Dumbledore didn’t expect her to it was one of the traits he admired most about her. He took his seat without responding and laid the diary, for that was what it was, in front of him, unopened. He considered his words long before he spoke again, thanking his stars that McGonagall was so patient with him. It was a credit to her really. He wasn’t sure if he could have been as patient with himself. But she had waited long enough…

“An odd choice of words,” he said mildly, then continued on as if afraid of incurring her ire. “Because I believe it is that very endeavour that caused this little incident.”

McGonagall ignored Dumbledore’s understatement to ponder what he had just said. Eventually she gave up trying to understand the seemingly simple statement and asked him, quite bluntly to get to the point.

Dumbledore didn’t smile now, as he stared beyond her. McGonagall sometimes thought he really did have the gift of the sight, so good was his propensity for thinking of the outcome of events long before they had happened.

“Miss Granger is quite extraordinary, isn’t she?” he asked, without waiting for an answer. “Put the toughest challenge in front of her, place a riddle right under her nose, and she will think and look and question until she has the answer.”

Now McGonagall looked suspiciously at the Headmaster.

“What have you done.” Years of friendship allowed her to bypass the usual niceties co-workers usually waded through to get to an answer.

Now Dumbledore smiled at her.

“Nothing, my old friend,” McGonagall bristled at the term of endearment, “only set her a riddle.” He pressed his fingers tight against the cover of the book in front of him, and said to his dear companion, “would you like to hear a story.”

Minerva McGonagall gave him an indecipherable look, but nodded without speaking.

“It begins many eons ago,” he told her, “in a different world, where demons and gods ruled the plane of existence. But creatures such as these are not meant to live in harmony and so there was a war. One of the triumvirate of gods who ruled the world sought to gain possession over her brothers.”

“I take it she wasn’t successful.”

“You would be correct. Her brothers banished her. Sent her to a far off world, tied her to the life of a mortal there so that she would live and die as he would.” McGonagall felt a growing chill as he spoke. “But the power of the gods existed mainly in the power they shared, and so the bond they created slowly wore down till it was no more.” He looked at her gravely. “And so a HellGod was released on a world unfit for her existence. And she was unhappy. She sought a way to return to her own dimension. And there was a way.” He paused, seeking out the best way to reveal the truth.

“In the world there are many powers. We, as witches and wizards, have studied such powers. But many such powers are taboo in our culture for they dangerous, not only to our nature but to the very fabric of reality.

“One such power was the Key. An energy that could unlock the barriers of the dimensions themselves, guarded by a sect of monks who would, and did, give their lives to protect it.

“They hid the energy of the Key, gave it substance and form. Moulded it into the shape of a human girl, and gave her life, a life and a family.” The terror in his colleagues eyes was unmasked. “And gave her a name.”

“Dawn!” She gasped.

The silence in the room, stretched unbroken for many minutes. Dumbledore waited. He didn’t hold his breath, nor did his heartbeat quicken. But his nerves stretched with the silence until he felt it would snap like broken elastic. Finally, McGonagall moved, responded.

“Does she know?” Dumbledore nodded and McGonagall felt a wave of pity wash over her. “The poor girl. To know she was created in such a manner.” Now she levelled a narrow eyed gaze of suspicion on Dumbledore. “How do you know all of this?” She followed his gaze to the narrow-bound book under his fingers.

“You know of the Watchers Council?” He asked.

“Yes, yes. They guard the slayer, last hope of all mankind or some such nonsense.”

Dumbledore ignored her impatience.

“Back when the Watchers Council was first formed it was a branch of the Ministry of Magic, or a branch of the Ministry as it was then. As they two moved further and further apart, some felt it best that they keep some kind of watch on them, who watches the watchers, or something of that ilk,” he gave a half shrug. “He introduced a protective spell for all watchers diaries and made it compulsory to use it. Of course an added feature was that for every diary with that marker a direct copy was made and placed in a vault in a section in what is now the Department of Mysteries.” He gave the book a tap. “That is where I found this. The most recent Watcher Diary. I assume that the order became tradition and that the tradition has continued to this day.”

McGonagall stared reflectively at the book.

“They sent her to someone who could protect her,” she lifted her wizened eyes to Dumbledore’s, seeking only confirmation before she continued. “Did it fail?”

“In one way, yes, it did.” He sighed, age and sadness settling into the lines of his face, like an old friend come to visit. “The portal was opened and even when the Hell-God was destroyed it continued to grow. And would have done so but for the sacrifice-” McGonagall gaped. Dumbledore swallowed. “Miss Summers’ sister gave her life to close the portal. I do not know the details. The last words in the diary, well see.”

He passed the diary across. McGonagall took it gingerly, eyes taking in the details. The book seemed to have been reproduced exactly, down to the crease in the spine from constant use and even as her eyes were drawn to the last sentence on the page she was mentally cataloguing the cursive script used, identifying markers in the writing that suggested that the writer was male, right-handed and, as the writing down the page became progressively harder to read, was somewhat distressed. The final words on the page did not lend much to her understanding.

As Spike is so fond of saying, it was in the blood.

“Blood is a major ingredient in most Dark Magic,” she found herself saying, voice devoid of emotion even as her thoughts raced. “It is not unlikely that it took the blood of the Key to close the portal.” Dumbledore nodded as if the thought had occurred to him also. McGonagall stared at the page, seeing the words without comprehension. In her minds eye she saw a pale pointed face, and she wondered at the hurt hidden behind those eyes.

“Why is she here, Dumbledore?” she asked sharply.

“It is my belief that Dawn has been picked to carry on a particular destiny.” He gazed at her and for the first time in many weeks McGonagall could see a spark of hope in his eyes.

--

Five mornings later - in a moment

Hermione dreamed of green fire and eyes like the sea in stormy weather. She dreamt of a high tower that swayed in the slightest breeze and she stood beside trembling figure on a precipice high above the ground. They stood staring out over the uneven horizon of buildings. And Hermione waited. She waited for the other to speak, for she knew, without knowing why that it was not her place to break this unnatural silence, this eerie tranquility. The tower gave a groan, the horizon dipped and bobbed as the tower moved with the strain of its own weight.

The other woman moved subconsciously closer to the edge and Hermione had a sudden insight.

“Don’t!” She grabbed the too-thin arm of the other person, a young woman in stature, a broken animal when you looked into her eyes. Hermione stared, frozen into those hazy eyes, looked into the depths and wondered would anything she said keep her from falling.

And when she turned Hermione was surprised by the familiarity of the woman.

“I’m dreaming?” Her voice was faint, rusty from lack of use.

Hermione nodded, then shrugged.

“I think I’m the one dreaming.” The other girl nodded as if this made perfect sense.

“I was here before and… I had to jump. I knew I had to jump. But- But if that’s true then why did I come back? Why was I brought back?”

Hermione didn’t have any answers for her.

“My sister. I died for my sister.” She turned back to the edge again, searching for something. She knelt, fingers scrabbling in the grating. Her nails came away with flecks of- blood. She nodded then, seemingly satisfied. Her hands closed, holding the flecks tight in her fist. “It was real. It happened.” She frowned, slowly, as if remembering how. “Then where did she go?”

“Um, who?” Her natural inquisitiveness overcoming the fear she felt in this bizarre encounter.

“My sister!” She placed her other hand over her heart. “I used to be able to feel her here.” Her hand beat out a heartbeat over her own. “Like-” she shrugged, words failing her. “I can’t feel her! She’s just… gone. My baby.”

“Who?” Hermione asked in confusion.

“Dawn. She’s gone and now I can’t find her and I wanted to tell her. I needed to tell her!”

The dream was fading. Hermione could feel herself beginning to wake up and she struggled against it.

“Wait,” she called. “Tell me! Your sister? Is her name Dawn, Dawn Summers?”


--


The answer was almost lost as Hermione breathed herself awake but she heard the affirmation before the real world intruded itself upon her. She woke with irritation at the bright light that had edged round her curtains and called her from her dreams. Then reached for a quill and the leather bound book on her bedside table, irritation fading as she wrote down the details of her night visions even as the details faded, hazel eyes fading in her minds eye. And while the ink dried she stared at the words she had written.

She flipped back to the front of the journal. At the titles she had written on each page, each singular page signifying a night of dream visions, all together adding up to nearly a week since she had left the hospital wing. The first was written a few days after when she realised the pattern, the subtext, within each dream.

She had met six different people who had known Dawn Summers, a Dawn Summers who was both 15 and nearly 2 years old.


---

The boys dorm


Neville sat straight up in bed, fingers twisting the bed sheets between his fingers. Another night, another nightmare. Nothing different from any other night but somehow the twisted grimace on Harry’s face never seemed to horrify him any less.

He was wondering if it ever would.

He wondered if he would see Harry’s face in his dreams for the rest of his life.

He wondered if it was payment enough.

Wondered if it was payment enough for what he had unwittingly done to the boy he’d looked up to since he’d first heard the story of ‘The Boy Who Lived’.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and threw back his bed covers, stumbling past the curtains with natural clumsiness that was somehow endearing to those who knew him. He ignored the glances he drew as he made his way to and from the bathroom. Ignored the more concerned looks that Ron kept giving him in what he obviously thought was a furtive manner. If it had been for any other reason Neville would have thought it funny.

---

He somehow made it though classes.

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