Chapter Text
“You’re sure this will work?” Hermione asked for what must be the hundredth time.
Arthur looked up from the potion he was brewing, his skin pasty and sallow, the stress lines on his face deeper than she’d ever seen them.
“I’m no Unspeakable,” he said, “but…”
But they’ve been over this a million times already. Molly was dead, Ginny was dead, Ron’s brothers were dead or locked up in Azkaban, and this was the only way Arthur would get his family back. This was the only way they would get any of them back. And Harry —
She wasn’t going to think about Harry.
She cut into the lacewing flies Arthur needed for his potion, ignoring the dust that permeated this long-forgotten room in Hogwarts. Ron stood in the corner — all three had agreed he had no business anywhere near this potion — leaning over the Marauders Map on clenched knuckles, staring intently for any sign of trouble.
The castle was in ruins, Death Eaters everywhere, but there were still pockets of the old school hidden from them. But sooner or later, their luck would run out and Hermione and the Weasleys — what was left of them — would be found.
She held back a sigh, focusing on the task at hand. Arthur Weasley was no Unspeakable, but he was one of the most deceptively astute wizards she’d ever met. He hid behind benign smiles and dad jokes, but what he did was trade in favors. Sometimes the perk of fixing a rogue lawnmower was tickets to the Quidditch World Cup — though the days of the international wizarding community coming to this country were long gone — and sometimes those favors came by way of interesting spells and arcane magic.
Like a potion that could catapult one of them to the past, far back enough to save Harry. To save everyone.
She cupped the lacewing flies in her hand and at Arthur’s gentle nod, poured them into the potion. He stirred.
“We won’t know exactly when you’ll land,” he warned.
She nodded. They had been over this already, too.
She’d land at some point in 1980 — perhaps before Trelawney’s prophecy, perhaps after Harry had already been born and the Potters had gone into hiding. That would make things infinitely more difficult.
“I can go,” Ron said quietly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Arthur’s hands shake. He couldn’t lose anyone else.
“It doesn’t have to be you,” Ron continued.
They’d ruled out Arthur already. Whoever went back would have to find the Potters, would have to gain their trust, would have to know the timeline of the prophecy, of Dumbledore’s actions, of Snape’s. They’d have to know Peter Pettigrew, the history of the marauders, the horcruxes. There was too much Hermione and Ron only knew through offhand comments from Sirius or Remus, through Harry recalling his conversations with Dumbledore to them while they huddled together in that awful tent.
She’d give anything to be back in that tent.
“Hermione!” Ron half-yelled, exasperation lacing his tone.
She blinked. She hadn’t paid him any attention at all.
She looked at him and saw the way we worked his jaw, clearly trying to tamp down on his annoyance. “I should go,” Ron said again.
“You should stay with your dad.”
You’re all he has was left unsaid.
Ron shook his head, standing up straighter. She recognized that obstinate stance. She’d seen it all the time for years, back when they fought over — well, everything. Back when they could afford to fight.
“I’m a pureblood, you’re a muggleborn,” he said fiercely. “It’ll be safer for me.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Neither of us exist in the past, Ron — we’ll both be as suspect.”
“Except that there are dozens of Weasleys — way more back then,” Ron argued, striding toward her. “I can just say I’m Alfie or Clarence or John; no one would know the difference.”
He looked at her, his blue eyes shining with determination, offering her the hint of a smile. He wanted to do this.
She closed her eyes, swallowing down her feelings, locking them up in the pit of regret that lived inside her. He wanted to do this — but for how long?
He’d abandoned them. Sure, he’d come back, but… he’d abandoned them. She could never tell him the truth, but there was no way she was letting him drink that potion. And not because of Arthur, but because of Ron. She couldn’t trust him with this. She couldn’t trust him with Harry’s life.
She was the only one who could do it. She was the only one who stayed.
“It’s ready,” Arthur said, pouring the liquid into a flask.
Hermione nodded to him, then turned back to Ron.
“It’s got to be me,” she said, her voice steel. His smile dimmed.
She stepped forward, gripping his arm, praying that he wouldn’t make her say the words. “I’ll do this,” she promised, her face raised to his, their eyes locked together.
He studied her, nodded.
“Stay safe,” he whispered, and in a flutter of motion, he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers.
She had no time to react — they hadn’t done this since that night. It was dry and empty, tasted like sandpaper against her lips.
She felt nothing, but he felt something, and what the hell? As long as she succeeded, this future would cease to exist. She could give him this.
With one last wobbly smile, she turned from Ron and took the flask from Arthur with shaking hands. This had to work. For… everyone.
She looked down at the gold potion — it smelled of rain and promises. With one last glance at the Weasleys, she drank it down — red hair morphed into green eyes and then everything went black.