one | 01.
WHERE AT LAST WE FALL.

The moment the Time-Turner shattered, Hermione Granger knew something had gone terribly wrong, and with it, any sense of control she had over her fate.

Her body hit the stone floor hard, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The jagged sensation of splintered time magic still buzzed through her fingertips as she lay there, stunned and disoriented.

Every breath she took was shallow, the sharp scent of parchment and polished wood filling her nostrils—a bit of a disparity to the damp, blood-soaked battlefield she had just fled.

Gone were the distant echoes of battle. No more screams of surrender. No flickering flashes of green from the unforgivable curses that had rained down upon them, nor the ominous glow of the Dark Mark overhead.

For a long, aching moment, she refused to move. Her mind felt sluggish, scrambling to catch up with what had just happened.

Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself onto her elbows, each movement sparking protests from her bruised muscles.

Her head throbbed as if someone had driven a spike through her temple.

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, wincing at the dull ache beneath her fingers. When she pulled her hand away, it was dirty but not bloodied—a small mercy.

The Time-Turner. She had turned it too many times, hadn't she? More rotations than she had ever been allowed before. Her hands trembled as they clenched around the remnants of the device.

The delicate golden frame, once whole and powerful,  was now crushed beyond repair.

    Golden dust sifted from her fingers to the floor, tiny shards of glass and gears glinting in the candlelight like fallen stars.

There was no way to reverse what had happened without Ministry intervention—no way to undo the years that had unraveled in an instant.  At least, none of the spells she knew could undo such devastation.

Her eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. Stone walls lined with towering bookshelves loomed overhead, their shelves packed tightly with ancient tomes.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the dark wood and cast elongated shadows over the walls. It should have felt familiar. It should have been a comfort.

But it wasn't. Because it seemed that this wasn't the Hogwarts she had spent her most formative years in.

Hermione's gaze settled on the large desk in the center of the room.

    It was spotless—free of the clutter she had come to expect from the headmaster's office. No silver trinkets spun or hummed softly with unseen magic.

No Pensieve waited, brimming with swirling, silver memories. The space was too neat, too untouched. As if it belonged to someone who hadn't yet filled it with a lifetime of burdens and mysteries.

Her stomach threatened to swallow her whole.

You've gone back too far. The realization hit her with the weight of a sledgehammer. Before the war. Before Voldemort. Before Dumbledore had even become Headmaster.

    But how far? Decades? A century?

Her breath caught. Think, Hermione. Think, and do it quickly!

The panic rising in her throat was suffocating, but she forced herself to swallow it down. Panicking would accomplish nothing. She needed to be level-headed, and she needed to understand exactly when she was before she could figure out what to do next.

Before she could stand, the door creaked open. The sound snapped through the air like a crack of thunder, and Hermione froze.

A tall, lean figure stepped inside, his footsteps stopping just as immediately as they entered, his robes a deep midnight blue. Even before his face was fully illuminated by the golden glow of the candlelight, Hermione knew who he was.

Albus Dumbledore.

But not the same man she had come to know.

This Dumbledore was younger. His auburn hair, still rich and unmarred by silver streaks, framed a face less lined by time and responsibility. Yet his eyes—the keen, piercing blue—were the same. They missed nothing.

He stood there for only a beat, and yet Hermione felt as if he had already cataloged every detail about her: her scorched clothes, her disastrous curls, the bruises blackening her skin.

And for a long, excruciating period of time, neither of them spoke. Hermione's breath was caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Then, with a measured curiosity that unnerved her even more so than before, more so than any stern reprimand could, he said (rather simply), "I don't believe we've met before."

Hermione found herself at a loss for words. Possibly for the first time in her entire life.

Compose yourself, Hermione. She pressed her lips together for a fraction of a second, and did what she did best. She talked. Think quickly. Lie convincingly.

"My name is Hermione Aldrin." She began, the words slipping from her lips before she could second-guess herself.  "I—" Think, think, think. "I was homeschooled by my father in Wales. He's dead now, killed by the dark lord. He spoke of Hogwarts before he left me and how I should seek it out. He said help would find me there."

Aldrin. The name had surfaced from a half-forgotten memory.

It had been etched into one of the gravestones in Godric's Hollow, standing just next to the gravestone for Lily and James Potter when she and Harry had visited during their search for Voldemort's Horcruxes.

She remembered it clearly now. The gravestone had been worn with decades of age, the lettering faint but still legible: Edmund Aldrin, Beloved Son and Brother. A life cut short, much like so many others during the wars that had plagued the wizarding world.

When Dumbledore's gaze had pinned Hermione in place, demanding answers, it had been the first thing that came to her mind.

She hadn't thought about the implications then—how using a name tied to such a place might be risky, especially for someone like Dumbledore, whose mind was filled with secrets and connections.

But it was too late now. She hoped the name was nondescript enough to pass unnoticed.

Dumbledore's brow lifted slightly, but there was no immediate challenge in his gaze.

    He merely hummed, stepping further into the room, the long sleeves of his robes billowing slightly with each movement.

"Curious." He murmured, half to himself. "It is not often that I find young witches materializing in Headmaster Dippet's office unannounced, especially seeking some strange form of asylum."

Hermione's stomach twisted. He didn't believe her. Of course, he didn't.

Even in her time, Dumbledore had been notorious for his ability to see through lies and half-truths. And now, this younger version of him—less lined with age but no less formidable—seemed to have the same ability to make her feel as though he could peer directly into her soul.

Her mind raced, grasping for a way to regain control of the situation. Every instinct told her to tread carefully, to avoid revealing too much too soon.

    Yet at the same time, her options were rapidly narrowing.

"I—I understand how this must look," Hermione stammered, forcing herself to meet his eye even as her pulse thundered in her ears like a million drums. "But I swear, I'm telling the truth. I have nowhere else to go."

His gaze flicked to her hands. To the Time-Turner dust still clinging to her fingertips.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Not full comprehension, but something close.

    "You claim to need sanctuary..." He repeated slowly, his expression unreadable. "A curious term, that. Sanctuary from what, precisely?"

She had been prepared for questions, but how much could Hermione reveal without creating some sort of paradox? How could she explain a war that hadn't happened yet, a future riddled with horrors that this Dumbledore could scarcely imagine?

"Circumstances beyond my control." She answered at last, her voice fighting to steady itself. "I'm... fleeing a situation that put me in grave danger. I used the only magic available to me at the time, and it led me here."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered, just for an instant, with something—curiosity? Suspicion?

    It was gone too quickly for her to be certain. He nodded slowly, as though he had anticipated her answer.

He began to pace. The hem of his robes brushed the stone floor with each step, the sound soft yet oddly rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock.

Hermione's gaze followed him, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the remnants of the shattered Time-Turner still cradled in her palm.

She had two options.

1. Tell the truth and risk irreparably damaging the timeline, and therefore history.
2. Continue the lie and pray that Dumbledore, even now, would be willing to help her without knowing the full truth.

At last, Dumbledore stopped in front of one of the towering bookshelves. His fingers traced the worn spine of an ancient tome, but he did not pull it from its place. Instead, he turned to face her once more, his expression softer but no less watchful.

"You are an unusual case, Miss Aldrin." He said quietly. "Unusual enough that I find myself at a crossroads."

Hermione swallowed hard. Her mouth was unbearably dry. "What do you mean?"

"There are rules, of course." Dumbledore explained. "Rules about who may come and go from Hogwarts. About who may seek refuge within its walls. But there are also exceptions."

The wizard studied her for a long moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the polished surface of the bookshelf. Then, to her utter disbelief, he smiled.

"The Headmaster, Armando Dippet, will have the final say. However, I will speak to him on your behalf. You may remain here—temporarily—while your situation is reviewed."

Relief flooded through Hermione so quickly that it left her momentarily lightheaded. She fought the urge to collapse into the nearest chair. "Thank you, sir." She breathed out, nearly gasping for breath.

The doors to the office creaked open once more, and in walked Headmaster Armando Dippet, looking very different from his portrait.

His face was a study in incongruities. Pale, thin skin stretched over sharp cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin, giving him an angular, almost hawkish appearance.

His robes, though tailored and regal in deep burgundy and purple, bore the unmistakable signs of having been worn through a long day—wrinkles at the bell sleeves, and a faint stain from what appeared to be treacle tart on the hem.

He looked, to Hermione, like a man deeply invested in projecting control—though she suspected it was not control he felt but a lack thereof.

    She imagined this was a man accustomed to things being in their proper place, and her sudden appearance in his office disrupted that order.

He pursed his thin lips as if biting back a comment before finally speaking, and his voice, though not as deep as she had expected, carried a small semblance of authority.

"Albus," Headmaster Dippet said, stepping fully into the office, his voice carrying a brittle edge that made Hermione's nerves flare. "I do hope I am not interrupting anything... though it seems I may have already missed something important."

Dumbledore clasped his hands loosely behind his back as he spoke. "Headmaster Dippet, allow me to explain the situation. Miss Aldrin here arrived under... unusual circumstances."

Dippet's hands waved aimlessly at his sides. "Unusual? Yes, this is all rather untoward... But unusual how?"

Say something. Or don't. No—just stay quiet and let Dumbledore handle it.

    But standing silently only made Hermione feel more exposed, like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop in.

"I would like to know exactly how this young witch broke through the wards, Albus." Dippet pressed. "No one simply 'arrives' at Hogwarts unnoticed, especially in my office."

You're asking all the wrong questions, Hermione thought, though she did not dare say it aloud. She fought the instinct to shift uncomfortably under his questioning.

    Years of war had taught her to hold her ground, even when the odds weren't necessarily in her favor.

Dumbledore didn't miss a beat. "As I mentioned, Headmaster, Miss Aldrin's circumstances are highly... delicate. I suggest we discuss them in private."

Delicate was an understatement. It was the mildest, most sanitized version of what had happened.

Was Dumbledore protecting her? Or was he simply stalling, buying time to figure out what to do with her? Either way, the reprieve was a fragile thing—one misplaced word, and it would shatter.

Headmaster Dippet set down his teacup with a firm clink on the nearby desk, brushing the last remnants of crumbs from his beard. "Very well, as you wish. Miss Aldrin, wait outside the office, please."

END OF CHAPTER I.