One Bad, Sad Day

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

One Bad, Sad Day

Everyone at Hogwarts knew Granger, if not personally, if not by name, then as the bookworm, the Gryffindor swot, or simply as, oh, that one, since at least her fourth year. Hermione Granger had no illusions as far as her popularity was concerned, not that she cared. Popularity swam somewhere along the bottom of her list of priorities, grazing the muddy ground, something best left to the likes of Lavender Brown and the Patil twins; in short, people she had absolutely no patience for.

What had begun to disturb her, however, was the realisation that her top two priorities had gradually switched places. What was formerly the number two and something to be suppressed with the utmost force she could possibly gather ever since she had finally recognised it for what it was, had sneaked its way to the number one spot. Knowledge had topped the list as long as she remembered. Even as a small child, she had been highly inquisitive and never failed to amaze her parents with both quantity and quality of questions she could think up in a single day. Suddenly, knowledge was downgraded to second place. It was highly disconcerting.

At least, she thought rather dejectedly, she had managed to keep it the world's best-guarded secret. The fact that she hissed, "It's Professor Snape," each time someone disrespectfully referred to her secret as the greasy git or bat was simply seen as her need to respect any form of authority. Authority my arse. If only they knew. She shuddered at that possibility and forced her mind to concentrate on more pressing issues, such as convincing Harry that he was entirely too obsessed with his suspicions about Malfoy.

If only it had been mere obsession. Hermione was devastated when she learned of the tragedy that had just unfolded itself atop the Astronomy Tower. No, no, no! she screamed internally. Professor Snape is NOT a murderer! She did not waste one moment of thought on such a ridiculous notion. Instead, Hermione bit her tongue every time Harry or Ron daydreamed about what they would do with their former Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts professor if they were to come across him. Sometimes she sharply reminded them that Snape was not a priority, and could they instead, please, concentrate on tracking down Horcruxes. Other times, she blocked their nasty ideas out and instead daydreamed of being with him, sharing a meal with him, having an intelligent conversation with him. Other, racier dreams resulting in a much increased supply of blood to her face, she reserved for the nights when she was in her bed and everyone else asleep.

She tried her best to forget about him...to forget him. She devoted all her time to researching ways to bring down the megalomaniac that was Voldemort. She kept herself busy with staying out of the clutches of the Ministry, with staying alive. She tried to become fond of Ron; after all, he was not a bad prospect. His background might have been on the less fortunate side of finances, but she had no doubt that once the Light won and once he'd be old enough, he'd be a hero and become a successful Auror. He might never become as scholarly as she, but she nevertheless was seeing signs that he was finally acquiring some maturity. She almost succeeded.

She could forgive Ron for running off, leaving her and Harry behind like a used tissue. After all, she'd known him for over six years, and his temporary regression into the toddler tantrum stage had not surprised her in the least. But when Harry told her about the silver doe, she knew instinctively whose Patronus it was, and her hard fought-for resolve to forget crumbled like long forgotten dry cake. Even though Ron had returned.

It was easy enough to keep her secret now, even easier than it had been at Hogwarts. The boys would never comprehend her; no, they would declare her unfit for society even though they already were outcasts. All she could do now was pray to whatever deity might be listening to keep him from harm, to keep him safe, and most of all, to keep him alive. She was desperately afraid for him. And herself. As long as he stayed alive, she could cling to a hope for some, albeit distant, future. When all this mess was over, she'd go and find him. Make friends with him. Well, attempt to, in any case, and then see what would come out of it.

What if he didn't survive this crazy war? So many lives had been lost already. Her entire future would burst like a soap bubble if he died. She would not know what to do except grieve for the remainder of her life. And what a sorry life it would be.

When she came across a discarded Time-Turner in the Room of Requirement, seconds before the Fiendfyre started, she quickly pulled it over her head and hid it beneath her clothing. Never know, it might come in useful. The thought was a fleeting one.

Then her world crashed. Seeing her secret in a heap on the floor of the Shrieking Shack look at Harry, gazing into his green eyes with that expression only the dying have, then collapsing into death's embrace, devastated Hermione like nothing ever had.

Finding Fred, Tonks, Remus, even Colin dead meant little to her. But she could cry now, at least, without arousing suspicion, although filled with guilt over using the deaths of dear friends as an excuse to mourn her secret. Only once she started, she was unable to stop. Reality crashed down on her. So many lives lost. But why him? He who had never had much of a life, despite his brilliance, his strength, his power. A highly successful spy of twenty years, one of the most gifted Potions masters in wizarding Europe, killed by a fucking snake.

As she leaned tiredly against a wall, something nestled against her chest irritated her skin. She ignored it, slid down the wall, and rolled up in a foetal position, too exhausted to think anymore.

Hermione was awoken by something scratching acutely against her collarbone. Disoriented, she sat up and looked around. A few sconces and a few floating candles were lit, just enough to see a few sleeping forms and, to one corner, the fallen. She was in the Great Hall. Voldemort was dead. She was alive.

Oh, no. No. No. No. Severus Snape was dead. And they hadn't even returned to the Shrieking Shack to recover his body! That thrice-damned... thing scratched her again. Irritated, she reached inside her clothes and, grabbing it, remembered the Time-Turner she had hurriedly put around her neck yesterday.

A Time-Turner!

Suddenly feeling hopeful, Hermione stood up. Damn, that floor had been uncomfortable. Sleeping in that horrid tent half the winter had been sheer luxury compared to the last few hours. Hermione stretched several times in the hope of getting all the kinks out of her body. It sort of worked, and her mind started whirling. I need a place where I'm alone so I can think...

Her feet carried her almost automatically until she reached the doors to the library. Ah, yes. Madam Pince wouldn't be here at this ungodly hour, even if she was still at Hogwarts. All Hermione knew was that the old hag wasn't one of the bodies in the Great Hall. She felt immense relief flooding her as she realised that the library felt home. She entered and headed to one of the tables facing the door and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

First, she'd have to test the Time-Turner. It would do no good if it wasn't in working condition or worse, irreparable. She stood up from the table, moved around behind a bookshelf where she had a view of the table she'd just sat at, and very carefully turned the Time-Turner a fraction to the left.

Hermione didn't have to wait long before the door opened and she saw herself move towards the table. She silently moved behind another bookshelf in order to remain unseen and waited until her other self at the table stood up and moved behind the first shelf to disappear, disintegrate, or maybe melt with her current self.

Immense relief flooded her as she returned to the table. The Time-Turner seemed to be working just fine. There was hope yet. What she needed now was a plan.

A/N: Grateful thanks Southern Witch for the beta.