Unofficial Portkey Archive

To reviewer brad: One of the ways I amuse myself is to take something from a book or story that appears vague or incomplete and shape it into something that makes sense. In CoS, I wondered why the Weasleys and Harry announced their destination as simply "Diagon Alley" when there were so many distinct points within those magical borders. The short answer is that J.K. needed for Harry to end up in Knockturn Alley, and he couldn't have done that if he had declared for a specific location. There are a lot of quick-fix situations in the HP books that don't stand up to close scrutiny. I find that by adding meat to these bare bones, I can accomplish the double goal of making the books read more smoothly and providing grist for my own writing mill. My definition of the workings of the Floo network made sense when I set them down, but I'm just as keen to see if anyone else has a different view on things. In GoF, Arthur told Harry that he had to make special arrangements to connect the Dursleys' fire to the Floo network, so we know that the Ministry exercises some measure of control over these magical journeys (just as they regulate simple communication via fire, as revealed in OotP). My notion is probably far afield of J.K.'s vision of her magical world. But until she sees fit to explain some of these obscure details, it falls to us fan writers to plug the gap by inserting our own vision into the mosaic.

It had been more than four years since Harry set foot on the upper levels of the Leaky Cauldron. It was the Summer preceding his third year at Hogwarts, when he'd accidentally blown up his Aunt Marge into something resembling a weather balloon in a tweed jacket. He'd gone on the run, only to find the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, waiting for him on the doorstep of the Leaky Cauldron. To his amazement, Fudge did not arrest or even punish him for his transgression, but secured him a room above the pub, where he stayed until, accompanied by Hermione and the Weasleys, he journeyed to King's Cross station to board the train back to Hogwarts.

That was the year his godfather, Sirius Black, escaped from Azkaban on his mission to find and kill the wizard who had betrayed Harry's parents. Thinking back on that time now, Harry wished his godfather had never escaped from the terrible wizard prison. Miserable though his existence might be there, at least he would still be alive.

Harry shook these oppressive thoughts from his mind as he opened the door with his key and steered Hermione inside. It wasn't the same room Harry had occupied before, but only the number on the door was proof of that distinction. The rooms over the pub were probably identical to the last stick of furniture, and Harry doubted that they had changed since before he was born.

He sat Hermione down on the bed, where she stretched out and settled into the soft mattress with a smile of gratitude.

"I'll nip on down to the kitchens for some lunch," Harry said, kissing her on the cheek. Hermione nodded and closed her eyes.

Harry was met with a further disappointment downstairs. Since it was expected that he and Hermione would be occupied at Madam Malkin's until she closed her shop at noon, their return window had been set for 1:00. That meant that they would miss lunch at school, so they had planned to eat at the pub. Harry remembered the fine dinner they had all had before leaving for the station four years ago, and he fully expected that he and Hermione would dine in like manner today. But his calculated plans had hit a snag in the form of the Halloween holiday.

He knew that the Leaky Cauldron would not follow the example of the other shops and close early today; pubs traditionally did their best business on holidays. Regardless of where he and Hermione emerged into Diagon Alley, it was taken for granted that they would return to Hogwarts from the Leaky Cauldron. And indeed, when Harry walked downstairs he found the pub filled to the far corners with a bustle of witches and wizards, all of them raising their glasses and toasting the holiday.

But although the pub itself was conducting business as usual, the kitchen staff had followed the pattern of the shopkeepers and taken the day off, leaving only Tom the innkeeper to provide all services required. And Harry quickly discovered that, as a cook, Tom was only two steps ahead of Hagrid, if that.

When Harry re-entered his room, Hermione sat up, her face expectant. But her nose wrinkled when it caught the aroma from the covered plates in Harry's hand.

"Harry, what is that?"

"Bubble and squeak," Harry said, balancing the plates as he closed and locked the door behind him. "The kitchen staff's off for the holidays. It was either this or fish and chips - and if you'd seen the grease Tom's been frying in all morning…"

Harry set the plates on the small writing table next to the bed and caught up the lone chair, which, aside from a small chest of drawers, was the only other piece of furniture in the room. "This isn't very comfortable," he said, thumping the chair meaningfully. "Hang on."

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Harry pointed his wand at the pillow, which promptly rose up and positioned itself firmly against her back.

"Nicely done," Hermione said approvingly as she pressed her shoulders into the pillow, which hung in mid-air as if braced against a solid wall. She uncovered her plate, and even as she caught up her knife and fork, she asked, "Did you bring something to drink?"

"Almost forgot," Harry laughed. He pulled two bottles of butterbeer from his robes and set them on the table. A tap of their wands opened the bottles, and they dug into their lunch with something less than the gusto they would have shown had they been dining with their schoolmates at Hogwarts.

The beef and potatoes, flavored with onions and cabbage, were satisfactory, Harry decided. But six-plus years of Hogwarts cuisine had spoiled Harry beyond redemption. If there was one who could give a Hogwarts house-elf a run for his money in the culinary arts, it was Molly Weasley. Having sampled both in abundance, Harry found it difficult to regard his present meal with anything resembling enthusiasm.

"A little too much pepper, but not bad," Hermione said shortly, agreeing with Harry's silent assessment of Tom's dubious kitchen skills. "Tom's not really a cook, after all, just an innkeeper."

"He's a bloody robber is what he is," Harry grumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes and cabbage. "Charged me a whole day's rent for the room. When I told him I only wanted it for an hour, he just laughed and winked at me. And the way he looked at you - I was two seconds away from trying Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex on him, just to wipe that bloody smile off his face."

"It's like something out of Alice in Wonderland," Hermione said as she sipped from her bottle of butterbeer. "What does it all mean?"

"I thought it might be Fred and George at first," Harry said. "I told them we'd be coming to pick up your robes, and that we'd be using the fireplace here to go back to school because the other businesses would be closed. I wouldn't put it past them to have told Tom that I was bringing you here for a quick shag - "

Harry caught himself, his face going red, but Hermione, to his relief, merely giggled. But her face clouded over almost immediately.

"That still doesn't explain Madam Malkin," she said thoughtfully. "And what in Merlin's name is this rubbish about the Halloween Ball being cancelled? We both had breakfast in the Dining Hall this morning, and there was no trace of any disturbance, whether dung-bomb related or otherwise."

"And if there had been any such disturbance," Harry said through a mouthful of beef in a very Ron-like manner, "Dumbledore or McGonagall would have told us straightaway."

"All I know," Hermione said gloomily, "is that I didn't get my new dress robes. I almost wish the Ball was cancelled."

"All kidding aside, Hermione," Harry said, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers, "it doesn't matter to me what you wear. You're the most beautiful witch at Hogwarts, and that has nothing to do with your robes.

"And I'm sure our friends will want to pitch in and help. Parvati and Lavender are always on the cutting edge of fashion, aren't they? And you know Ginny will do everything she can. Maybe even Luna - no, forget Luna - we're not that desperate - yet."

Hermione laughed so that butterbeer sprayed her plate. Harry's right hand reached across the table and covered Hermione's left. He touched the smooth band of her Bonding Ring.

"Just so we're together," Harry said.

Hermione smiled and nodded. Her eyes strayed to the alarm clock sitting atop the chest of drawers behind Harry, and she drew her hand back suddenly.

"It's nearly one. We'd best get downstairs. There might be a line to use the fire."

Hermione set her silverware on her plate and covered it, but when she moved to pick it up, Harry stopped her.

"The old pirate is charging us for 24 hours," Harry grunted. "Might as well get our money's worth."

With a Fred-and-George gleam in his eye, Harry picked up his and Hermione's plates and set them on the bed as Hermione pushed the table forward and stood up.

"What in the world are you doing?" Hermione asked. Harry lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.

"Don't you remember that nursery rhyme about the dish running away with the spoon? Well, what do you reckon they were running away for, then?" Turning toward the bed, Harry nodded at the plates and, with a wink reminiscent of Tom's, said, "There you are, you lot. The room's all paid for. Shag your brains out. Have a bash."

Though she shook her head in slight disapproval at yet another manifestation of her fiancee's contamination by the Weasley twins, Hermione could not suppress a smile as Harry ushered her out the door and locked it behind them.

The pub was more crowded than ever now. Harry tried to get Tom's attention to give him the room key, but it was all the toothless innkeeper could do to keep up with the calls for drinks (and the occasional order of fish and chips). Shrugging, Harry pocketed the key. He could always send it back with Hedwig tomorrow.

Squeezing their way through the crowd, Harry and Hermione came at last to the great fireplace which strove to ward off the late October chill in the damp, stone-walled pub. Harry produced his pouch of Floo powder and opened the drawstring. But before he could dip his fingers inside, an old witch with a whiskey glass in her hand stumbled forward, her bloodshot eyes blinking repeatedly.

"'Ere, now, guv'nor," she mumbled drunkenly, "would yer ever let us 'ave a pinch o' that? Me ol' man'll be wantin' feedin' 'bout now, an' I don' think I'm in any too good o' shape ter Apparate."

Harry offered his pouch with a gracious smile, and the witch grinned stupidly in thanks as her gnarled fingers dipped into the pouch and came out with a pinch of sparkling silver powder. Reeling slightly, the witch waved her hand in front of her face, studying the powder with her beady eyes. "Bloody marv'lous stuff, this is, innit," she mumbled. "It's - "

The old witch stopped abruptly. She squinted at the pinch of powder, brought it to her nose and sniffed. Her slack mouth curled in disgust.

"Bloody 'ell, lad! Oo in the name o' Beelzebub sold yer this rubbish?"

"Why?" Harry said in confusion. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's contaminated is what it is!" the witch spat. "The knacker what mixed up this batch ought ter be drawn an' quartered an' the pieces chucked inter Azkaban!" She flung the pinch of powder onto the floor and ground it under her heel, nearly losing her balance in the process. She staggered away, ignoring Harry and Hermione as if they had never existed. Her hungry husband apparently forgotten, she wobbled back toward the bar, her empty glass held out before her in a manner to imply that it would not remain so for long.

Harry and Hermione stared down at the powder on the floor, then at each other.

Back upstairs, Harry stood over the table as Hermione sat in the chair and prodded the small mound of Floo powder with the tip of her wand. With a deft twist of her wrist, she magically separated the grains into two smaller heaps. Though it was difficult to completely separate the two components of the mixture, one mound was predominantly silver while the other was more the color of sand. Hermione touched the silvery portion and said softly, "Incendio." There was a soft puff as the pile erupted in green flame, which flickered and died as quickly as it had come. Nodding, she turned her attention to the sand-colored pile. She bent low, sniffed. Her brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Harry said, having stood in silence for far too long (though it had, in fact, been no more than two minutes since Hermione began her examination).

"Do you know how Floo powder is made?" Hermione said cryptically. She looked up at Harry, who shook his head. "Floo powder is never 100% pure," Hermione explained. "It's so powerful, even a pinch of uncut powder would propel one through the air like a cannon shell. The apothecary has to intermix the powder with a dampening agent at a ratio of about two to one."

Harry saw where Hermione was going. "But that little pile there - it isn't the usual dampening agent?"

Hermione did not answer. She stared at the second pile of powder, her wand tapping the table as an outward manifestation of the thoughts hiding just behind her deep brown eyes. Suddenly her wand hand froze in mid-tap. She leaned in until her nose was nearly touching the dun-colored pile. "No," she whispered. "It can't be. Merlin, let me be wrong…"

Hermione waved her wand over the powder in a series of complex wiggles that Harry had never seen before, from Hermione or anyone else. The powder stirred, as if prompted by a delicate breeze. It began to move as if it were alive. It traced itself into something resembling the characters in Hermione's Ancient Runes textbook, which Harry had seen lying open in the Gryffindor common room table any number of times.

"What does it mean?" Harry said, his voice betraying a growing fear that was becoming like a lump of stone in his belly.

"It means," Hermione said with a trace of what might have been the beginnings of a hysterical giggle, "that we're not in Kansas any more."

Harry caught Hermione's shoulders and turned her around to face him. "What is it, Hermione? What are you talking about?"

To Harry's surprise, Hermione rose from her chair and slipped her arms around his neck. Holding her to him, Harry slid over to the bed and sat down, swinging Hermione onto his lap, where she clung to him even more fiercely. The plates he had jokingly left on the bed crashed to the floor. He ignored them, his attention focused wholly on Hermione. Though he was aching to scream a thousand questions at her, Harry merely sat and cradled Hermione with a gentle strength. She was trembling ever so slightly, and that frightened him more than he could put into words. When at last he felt her relax, Harry leaned down until his mouth was pressed against her cheek. He was startled to find a salty wetness there.

"What is it?" Harry said with quiet urgency. "Tell me."

"I - " Hermione said slowly, " - I remembered the common room - before we left - Ron - letter from Bill - "

Hermione looked up now, revealing red-rimmed eyes.

"The spell I used on the powder," she explained, "is used by wizard archaeologists, like the ones Gringotts engages to find the tombs that Bill has to de-Curse. It reveals the age of something, in a runic language that only scientists use. I was having a chat with Bill a few months ago on the subject of ancient civilizations, and he taught me the spell. Harry - th-that powder is…more than 5000 years old."

Harry's expression indicated that he still did not understand Hermione's implications.

"Do you remember Ron's letter from Bill?" Hermione prompted. "Where he mentioned the break-in at the tomb?" Harry nodded, still bewildered. "I wondered why someone would go to the trouble of breaking into a tomb guarded by all those dark spells and then not bother to take any gold or artifacts. But something was taken. That."

Harry followed Hermione's eyes to the mysterious rune on the table that was composed of the powder from Harry's pouch. "Powder?" he said unbelievingly.

"Dust," Hermione said. "Dust from the mummified body of an Egyptian wizard, unless I'm mistaken."

Harry felt Hermione's arms around his neck relax. She straightened, and he allowed her to rise from his lap, watched as she walked around the table, her eyes never leaving the dust-rune lying thereon.

"When we were explaining the Blood Circle to Neville," she said in an even, controlled voice, "we told him that the ancient wizards relied on forms of magic that could be performed without wands. Wands have been around, in one form or another, for more than 3000 years. But magic existed long before wands were ever conceived.

"Between my Ancient Runes classes and occasional chats with Bill, I developed an interest in Egyptian history - magical history, that is. I learned that the Egyptian kings frequently rose to power solely on the expertise of their court magicians. One of these wizards single-handedly won a key battle for his king, resulting in a victory in which no sword was drawn, not one drop of blood spilled.

"In those days," Hermione said, sounding very much like Professor Binns, "it was common for the two opposing generals to ride out to a point between their armies and dine alone the day before the battle, sizing each other up for the conflict to come. They dined under a canopy, in full view of their armies, who were camped on opposing ridges that looked down onto the plain where the clash was to take place the following day. Weapons were forbidden, and each general brought a servant who, besides preparing his master's meal, searched his enemy to ensure that neither blade nor poison was smuggled in. The servants then departed, leaving the generals to dine alone. In this way, they could speak freely, recounting past triumphs and appraising each other's strengths and weaknesses as best they might.

"When the meal was over, both generals turned to the setting sun to beg the favor of Ra, the sun-god. Each of them carried a small pouch containing dust from the tomb of some valorous ancestor. They opened their pouches, poured the dust into their hands and tossed it into the air, calling on their departed ancestors to lend them strength in the coming battle. They would always wait until the wind was blowing toward them, so the dust would cover them and infuse them with their ancestors' might. If the wind shifted and blew the dust away from one or another of them, it was seen as an ill omen, a sign that the ancestors in question would not stand with him on the morrow. So they were always very careful to cast the dust only when the wind was just right. They were superstitious, but they were also pragmatic.

"But before one such battle, as both armies watched, one of the generals tossed his dust into the air - and vanished!"

"Where did he go?" Harry asked, dry-mouthed as if he were standing in the desert of Hermione's narrative.

"Not where," Hermione said heavily. "But when."

Harry gaped. Hermione turned to regard the dust on the table accusingly.

"Since battles were usually won or lost based on the skill of the commanding general, removal of a commander virtually guaranteed victory for the other side. Demoralization added to the equation. Stripped of its leader, an army would frequently surrender rather than fight a battle it believed to be already lost."

"Why not simply kill the opposing general?" Harry asked without thinking.

"Because that would inspire the other side," Hermione replied. "It would be an act of treachery, to be avenged with blood. But if their leader just vanished before their eyes, it was taken as an act of the gods, a sign of disfavor. And who wants to oppose the will of the gods?

"The secret of this magic dust was jealously guarded by the wizard," Hermione said. "But no secret endures forever. His fellow wizards captured him and tortured the process and the incantation from him. Each of these guarded the knowledge just as jealously in their turn. When the last of them died, the secret died with them. Or so it was believed.

"It was called by many names. Most scholars came to know it as the Wind of Horus. Horus was a hawk-god. It was believed that, when someone vanished, he had been picked up by Horus, gripped in his claws and carried away to the next world. Horus was never seen, of course, but the wind was said to be caused by the beating of his wings as he swooped in too quickly for human eye to see.

"Those who suffered by it came to call it the Dust of Set, the god of the underworld, because, to them, it brought only evil. But Set had nothing to do with it. Nor Horus."

Without warning, Hermione swept the dust-rune from the table. She looked up at Harry, her eyes hard even as she fought to keep her lip from trembling.

"The Egyptian wizards would mix their own blood with the dust, which was made from the bones of a wizard long dead. The more ancient the dust, the more powerful the spell."

"And this general…" Harry said haltingly, "…he vanished into…"

"Into time," Hermione said with a forced calm. "Into the future."

"How far?" Harry asked, dreading the answer.

"It varied with each situation," Hermione said. "The function of the spell was to remove a key person to a point beyond which his presence was no longer relevant. If the first battle proved decisive, the general would reappear to find his army defeated, his king deposed or dead. If a battle were inconclusive and more followed, the departed general might go missing for years."

Harry sank onto the bed. He felt numb all over.

"If we're here - whenever we are - then that means that - that Voldemort has already attacked Hogwarts."

"And without us there to complete the Blood Circle," Hermione finished, "he - he probably won."

"No!" Harry snapped. "Dumbledore wouldn't be defeated that easily. One battle wouldn't have decided the war - and I don't believe that my absence or presence would make a difference, no matter what Trelawney's damned prophesy says."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "Even if Voldemort did overwhelm Hogwarts the moment we vanished, the war itself would have gone on. And so long as it did go on, the Dust of Set would ensure that it went on without you. Because, despite what you want to believe, you are the key, Harry. Trelawney's prophesy said that one could not live while the other survived. If we take the prediction literally, then Voldemort can only be destroyed by you. And viewed from the other angle, it also means that, without you, Voldemort can't ever be destroyed."

"Then," Harry said, a sudden chill rippling through him, "if we're here - if we've completed our journey and arrived at some future time - does that mean that Voldemort has won? That it's over?"

Hermione had no answer.

Harry bolted up from the bed like an uncoiled spring. "How did this happen? How?"

Smiling weakly, Hermione said, "I left one thing out of my story. How did the general come to have the Dust of Set in his pouch in the first place?"

"The servant!" Harry said, his eyes seeing the obvious with stark clarity. "When he searched the general for weapons, he switched pouches!"

Hermione nodded meaningfully, lowering her eyes to Harry's pouch, which still lay upon the table.

"But who switched my pouch?" Harry said blankly. He looked at Hermione, whose eyes were now narrowed shrewdly. Harry's mouth fell open. "Neville? But - he'd never!"

"No," Hermione agreed, confusing Harry even more. "He'd never."

Harry was now replaying the scene in his Head Boy chambers in his mind. There was something nagging at him, something he'd noticed then but brushed off, something so impossible that he was sure he had imagined it.

But he hadn't.

"Neville asked me," Harry said slowly, "if the Blood Circle would enable us to defeat the Dark Lord. Not You-Know-Who - the Dark Lord!"

"Whoever broke into the tomb to take the mummy dust," Hermione said, "could easily have used the Imperius on Neville. Sirius proved years ago that it's not that difficult to sneak into Hogwarts by purely physical means. The school is protected chiefly from magical ingress, after all. Neville spends so much time outside, in the greenhouses and all, it would be easy to get him alone - "

"DAMN!" Harry roared without warning. He slammed his fist down on the table with such force that his Floo pouch leaped up and fell to the floor. Hermione jumped back in alarm.

"Harry? What - "

"DAMN HIM!" Harry shouted as his fist thundered against the table again.

"Who?" Hermione whispered fearfully.

"Malfoy!" Harry growled. "It was him! I know it was him!"

"How do you know?" Hermione said shakily, gripping the back of the chair for support.

"We take Advanced Potions together, Malfoy and I," Harry spat. "At the start of term, Snape ran us through some of the potions we'll be brewing this year in preparation for our N.E.W.T.'s. One of them was Polyjuice!"

"It…" Hermione stammered. "Could it…"

"It is!" Harry said. "I remember now. After that first class, Malfoy handed Snape a special permission slip to sign. I'd bet every Galleon in my vault that it was for the Restricted Section of the library. And if we could ask Madam Pince what book he checked out that day, you know what her answer would be, don't you?"

"Moste Potente Potions," Hermione said weakly. "But where would he get the ingredients? Even Snape wouldn't just hand over boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn."

"Malfoy's of age now," Harry reminded her. "Same as you and I. He could just go to the apothecary in Hogsmeade and buy what he needed. Oh, it'd cost him a fair few Galleons right enough, but since when has Malfoy wanted for money? With his father in Azkaban, dear old Draco has access to the entire Malfoy fortune now. He probably sent some of his father's Death Eater mates to rob that tomb for him. Dunno where he found out about that time-dust stuff. Maybe -

"But no," Harry shook his head savagely, "I'm giving him too much credit. This is too big to be Malfoy alone. Like as not, Voldemort found a scroll with the formula and the incantation in some tomb he plundered and whipped it up himself. And quick as he did, he knew whose leash to tug to make use of it, didn't he? Draco's a good little arse-kisser, just like his father. Given the chance to serve Voldemort and get rid of me - he'd jump through a hundred Quidditch goal hoops for the chance."

"So," Hermione said slowly, "it was Malfoy we were talking to, not Neville?"

"And if he hurt Neville," Harry said venomously, "I will tear his heart out, if it takes me a hundred years to do it, I swear I will!"

Harry's words awakened a slumbering thought in Hermione's numbed brain. "We still don't know how far ahead the dust took us. Who knows how long we were up there, flying around like disembodied flames, before the spell brought us back?"

"A long time, I'm thinking," Harry said. "Even if Voldemort reduced Hogwarts to a pile of smoking stones, one battle doesn't win a war. But none of that matters, does it? Once we're back where we started, it'll be like it never happened. In fact, it might even give us the edge. Malfoy probably sent word straightaway that we'd gone, if not by owl, then through the Slytherin common room fire. We were expecting an attack shortly, maybe as soon as a few weeks -- but if Voldemort thought we were out of the way, he'd likely attack immediately, wouldn't he? Blimey, but I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees you and me and Ron together, leading the charge against him!"

"Harry?" Hermione said timidly, her face going white. "What are you talking about?"

Harry turned now and looked at Hermione as if she were being intentionally obtuse.

"If we've gone forward in time, we'll just go back, like we did before!" Hermione continued to stare blankly at Harry. "Merlin's arse, Hermione! All we need is a Time-Turner!" Harry paused now, his face screwing up in thought. "The Department of Mysteries is our first stop. If Voldemort's somehow managed to send the Ministry packing, I'm sure there'll be someone who can get one for us. Mundungus! I'm betting the old bugger's still around - self-preservation was always his strongest point. And there's nothing he can't get his hands on if there's enough gold involved.

"Hermione, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Hermione was looking at Harry with pity in her wide, dark eyes. "Harry," she said slowly, "we - we can't use a Time-Turner to go back - "

"Of course we can!" Harry said harshly, wondering how such a smart witch as Hermione had suddenly become so stupid. "We went back and saved Buckbeak, rescued Sirius from Flitwick's office - "

"Harry!" Hermione sobbed. "We went back three hours! We're talking years here!"

"Hours, years," Harry said impatiently, "it's all time, innit? "Years are made up of days, which are made up of hours, it's all the same."

"It's not the same!" Hermione bellowed, her eyes precariously close to tears.

"It is!" Harry roared back. "We both saw that Death Eater in the Department of Mysteries - his head regressed to that of a baby! That must've been at least thirty years!"

"But that was raw time, Harry," Hermione said, her voice pleading. "There's no way to control it! The only controlled time device is the Time-Turner - and that only works in hours!"

"So we'll turn the flippin' thing over a thousand times," Harry said petulantly. "Ten thousand! As many as it takes!"

"It doesn't work that way, Harry," Hermione said sadly. "Don't you see? If someone could just use a Time-Turner any time something didn't go right, then why don't they? When your parents were killed, why didn't Dumbledore just go to the Ministry, get a Time-Turner and go back and stop Voldemort before he killed Lily and James? And when he learned that Voldemort had been resurrected during the Triwizard Tournament, why didn't he go back and stop the ceremony before it took place?

"And - in the Department of Mysteries - why didn't Dumbledore just go get a Time-Turner straightaway and stop Sirius from falling through the archway?

"He didn't - because he couldn't! And neither can we! We can't change what's already happened, Harry! And even if we could, we aren't wise enough to know if we'd be doing more harm than good."

"But," Harry said weakly, his strength draining away as his anger ebbed, "we saved Buckbeak from Macnair - we saved him - "

"No," Hermione said. "Dumbledore told me the whole story, just after I handed in my Time-Turner to Professor McGonagall. Buckbeak never did die. When Dumbledore went to witness the execution, he made up his mind to save Buckbeak and Sirius, using you and me and my Time-Turner. The moment he made that decision, Buckbeak lived. You and I merely completed the circle. It's - it's complicated, I know. But there's just no way to change something that's already happened. I'm - I'm sorry, Harry."

His face twisting with inexpressible agony, Harry slumped onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.

"Wh-When the portkey took me back to Dumbledore's office," he choked, "I cursed myself for not running straight into the time-room when I had the chance. I could've grabbed a Time-Turner, gone back an hour and stopped it from happening. I could've put a shield around the arch so no one could fall through it - I could've blasted it to pieces - I could have done something…something…"

Hermione sat beside Harry and put her arms around him. "No," she said quietly. "There was nothing you could have done. Not then. And not now."

Harry was trembling now in silent anguish, weeping inside for his parents, for Sirius, for Cedric - and in no small part for himself. Hermione continued to hold him until his spasms subsided. Only then did she speak, in the same calm, rational voice which had strengthened him so many times in the past.

"We need to find out far ahead the dust took us. We need to find out - a lot of things."

"Like how many of our mates are still alive," Harry said grimly as he sat up. His eyes were red, but by sheer power of will he had let not one tear escape, though Hermione knew there must be a veritable ocean waiting to burst forth from behind that clouded emerald veneer.

"And where we can find the remains of the Order of the Phoenix," Hermione affirmed. "There must be someone left! And if there isn't - then we'll start our own resistance. Just because the spell dumped us here, where our presence is presumably irrelevant, I don't plan on bowing down and kissing Voldemort's robes like Malfoy. Magic is just a tool. It isn't infallible. Since it was undoubtedly Voldemort's magic that empowered the spell, maybe we were dumped here because his arrogance has made him think he's won and he's convinced there's no way anyone can stop him - not even you. If that's the case, it's past time we showed him different. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm not giving up. I intend to fight with everything I've got."

"You mean we'll fight," Harry said, his voice strong and decisive once more. "Together."

The young lovers united in a tender, needful kiss, after which they sat holding each other for a very long time.