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Who to turn to	By : Goldspoon Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 1779 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: My story is a work of fan fiction. It is not affiliated with JK Rowling or WB. I do not own the characters, settings or world of Harry Potter. I do not make, nor intend to make in future, any money from my story.

Chapter List
- 1-Oneshot
- 1
Hermione grew up in a family of great imagination. Her grandmother was a celebrated childrens author, her uncle Ralph salvaged and showed antique motorcycles, odd-duck cousin Bethania had a cult following of her trash-bride couture (wedding gowns from op-shops punked up with found treasures from sidewalks and factory refuse bins). Her own parents, despite having the wealth of a busy dental practice, were quite thrifty at home and made a habit of attempting to repair anything they owned at least five times before it finally went in the bin. Hermione was, even in her single digit years, acclimated to soldering irons, the arc welder, the knowledge that there was a world of screwdrivers beyond Phillips head and flat, and the time the kettle went bung, had managed to fix it so she could still bring her parents coffee in bed one Sunday a long time ago. Her parents were early adoptors so a string of "high tech" gear made its way into the Granger home, such as the telefax machine that could send someone a message by a series of beeps and whines (Hermione greatly enjoyed being the one to put the phone receiver onto the machine), a compact mobile phone (it was only the size of a suitcase, her parents were most excited that they could still receive calls if they went on a country drive) and a fridge that was plumbed in - it never ran out of ice cubes and she could have cold water anytime.
Going to Hogwarts changed none of that. She continued to maintain an interest in the developments of the Muggle world, receiving a bundle of her various science and tech magazine subscriptions once a month from her parents, and spent time helping design a killer robot for her cousin Herb. She couldn't help but cackle loudly when she received word that their robot had well and truly trounced all the competition in that year's robot wars and she quickly penned a letter back with her ideas for the next one.
And so came the year that she was given a time turner. And really, what sort of Granger would she be if she didn't take the back off and have a real good look inside? Do you even have to ask? A series of technical drawings went back and forth to select members of her family, including Uncle Ralph and Herb, and of course her parents. At the time it was really an exercise in understanding and documenting the mechanics of the thing. The tampering came later.
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It was after Harry had cut Malfoy to ribbons that Hermione thought about hacking the timeturner. She could see that Harry was having an internal war - part remorseful, but more and more so righteous. She put it down to teenage immaturity and feared before long, Harry was going to believe that he should have no regrets over the matter. It was the fault of Dumbledore, Ron, even Mr Weasley and Professor Lupin. Ron was a little arsehole but the elders, they seemed so caught up in conflict that they'd forgotten teens were impressionable. It was no good Ginny and herself trying to balance the scales - four against two after all, and certain sentiments that girls were shrill and emotional did them no favours.
Hermione didn't want an arsehole for a best friend. If she could make the thing turn back more than a few hours, she could direct Malfoy out of that bathroom... or punch Harry's lights out if needed.
Hermione dug out her notes and drawings with a huff.
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The first few tweaks enabled the device to take her back 10 hours. While the slashing of Malfoy was now two weeks ago, it's wonderful what can be achieved when turning time over and over. She had secluded herself in a private study she had found near Ravenclaw tower that had seemed unknown to anyone currently attending Hogwarts. If teachers and ghosts knew she was in there, no one did anything about it. She broke the rule regarding seeing herself. Afterall, two heads... and in fact, ten heads are better than one. This proved to be exceptionally useful. They drew up a plan of the "primary Hermione timeline" and delegated tasks amongst themselves to attend class, send owls, and make appearances to create an illusion of normality.
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She succeeded in making the timeturner able to go back 12 months. That took care of the Malfoy issue. Stalking under disillusionment, she approached the sobbing Malfoy and transfigured him into a rock. She had debated doing Moody-Crouch's ferret trick, but reasoned that she didn't have time for animal husbandry. She had located research that human to inanimate object transfiguration was difficult in reversal but when done successfully, the person was no worse for wear. They did have a mild sentience, but it was akin to a dreamstate. Like some persons emerged from comas, they reported having heard being spoken to or aware they'd been visited but no clear understanding of passage of time or clear narrative of events. She reasoned that Malfoy would be less likely to come to harm or suffer terribly as a rock than as an animal or plant. Plus as an inanimate she would have plenty of time to hone her skills on reversing her transfiguration later on.
Under disillusionment, she collected several of Malfoy's essays and was able to craft a fantastic letter to his parents. Finding a hair or two in the bathroom was no problem, and brewing a polyjuice was a cinch. Disguised as Malfoy, she snuck out at midnight to avoid having to act and remember any of Malfoy's mannerisms should she encounter anyone (though really, it wasn't as if she'd likely need to say anything to anyone - Malfoy felt he was better than anyone) and gave the letter to an owl.
She didn't bother with honorifics. She didn't know how Malfoy addressed his parents and besides, it probably lent to the level of desperation she wanted.
You have no idea what I am dealing with. I can't stand it anymore. Your ideals, the pressure. Don't look for me, you will never find me.
She didn't bother with a sign-off, his parents ought recognise the handwriting.
She was taking a chance with the content but the odds were in her favour. Malfoy was definitely conflicted with something. While she had only seen him sobbing, Harry had revealed Malfoy was all out bawling when he arrived. Coupled with various things Harry recalled having been said, Hermione concluded Malfoy didn't have a framed poster and the complete set of Dark Lord action figures in his room at home. She doubted his parents would have much idea of their son's inner monologue and particularly, Malfoy was a little shit to everyone, even his own friends, so she could imagine he had a real chip on his shoulder when it came to his parents.
She sniggered as she imagined a polished and primping Mrs Malfoy addressing her son, "Don't flick the siren caviar at the elves, dear, it is uncouth" and a sneering Draco, one leg swung over the armrest responding, "Fuck off, mother! I'm the heir."
Yes, she had thought, reading her draft over again. The wording was amibiguous enough to mean anything to anyone. Much like a tarot reading.
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"Fucking hell, your Dork Lord is such a turd!"
Hermione was really over how everyone was behaving and found she much preferred her one-sided conversations with Drock, as she had decided to call him. Headmaster Dumbledore had taken Harry away to a creepy cave and they had returned with a mystery. Both Harry and Dumbledore had remained in the hospice for a week in histronics. Dumbledore's was excusable to a point - he'd drunk some kind of despair potion, but Harry was just being a twit. Seriously, he had some hard-on hero complex about the Headmaster and apparently a confrontation with a lakeful of undead, being singed by magic fire, and thinking he was about to die (why wasn't he used to that by now?) had sent him into a wibbling mess.
Malfoy's absconding was a drama production. The Daily Prophet gave the Malfoys several front pages and Hermione felt that Mrs Malfoy seemed to be enjoying the attention a bit too much. The Malfoy's statements and the news reportage was as ambiguous as Hermione's forgery - though it seemed to give little weight to the rumours of running away. In school there appeared to be tension in Slytherin, the uncertainty whether the running-away was true, whether to champion Malfoy and plead for his return, or to label him as a turncoat or coward and never speak his name again.
Hermione feigned ignorance by lumping him in with the ever growing reports of missing wixen. "No, I don't think so," argued Seamus, "The people going missing are muggles and muggleborns. Malfoy's Sacred 28."
"Oh, well I dunno then," shrugged Hermione, finishing up her lunch.
Hermione had applied a set of jiggly eye stickers to Drock to give him a bit of humanity. She pet the rock absentmindedly in her pocket, thinking Malfoy was probably glad to sit all this rubbish out.
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Hermione was selective in her use of the timeturner. She had redesigned the turning mechanism to a numbered barrel and was able to travel to specific dates without having to calculate turns and sit there turning the stupid thing multiple times.
She had absolutely no desire to rescue Dumbledore from touching the stupid ring. There was no need to save Black either. She considered the ending of the tournament (she'd blast the maze, she'd replace the cup, send the aurors to the graveyard first) but to be honest there would be so much work going back that far.
But Bill's wedding? Worth it. After camping for a month, Hermione came to the conclusion it was a big joke, went back, found an old dump "renovator's dream my arse" and convinced the Order members they needed a new secret kept location and badgered the Weasley's until they agreed to have the wedding there. They were much more open to her suggestions from then on after the Ministry fell and all their homes burned to the ground while they were busy dancing and drinking. No, Hermione did not miss apparating in her party dress and heels, almost being hit by a bus, having a duel in a cafe nor dealing with Harry being depressed and Ron being an arse all the while having no flushing toilet.
From there, they had more help than just three teenage brains to work out the horcrux situation, especially since Hermione and her relatives had started making inroads for the turner being able to take her forward in time. Only an hour so far but they were confident that they could build on that just like they'd done for backwards travel. It gave her an edge and saved Hermione a lot of time from having to go back and divert events.
Voldemort was actually defeated quite quickly and neatly. Hermione's back and forward travel meant that less of the Order members perished, recruitment was quicker since she simply recorded and analyzed conversations and was able to go back and convince someone in a matter of minutes. The Order members simply counted their lucky stars than question why Hermione was so good at convincing people to join. Her uncanny knack (that she credited to arithmancy) of picking which people were going to be targetted, and thus saved stemmed the flow of recruits to the dark side too. They had strong numbers and took the fight to Malfoy Manor, interrupting a rather tense dinner party. More than a few Death Eaters looked so morose and broken down, suffering from bouts of torture due to Voldemort's rage over the Order's successes, that they responded poorly and were quickly overpowered.
Voldemort's killing curse rebounded off Harry and the stunned Death Eaters watched him crumble to dust. Ron was finally good for something by stating in the silence, "Huh, what an idiot." From that point on Voldemort was painted as a clownish figure, hamfisted and deranged, unable to carry out the Avada Kadavra properly. Persons publicly revealed to be a Death Eater were humiliated and labelled as nutters possessing low intelligence.
Personally, Hermione was deeply relieved. The raid's outcome was largely luck. Actually, she'd already been through this three times - Harry had died in all of them and the reflected spell had not hit Voldemort. When Harry arose from the dead, he was quickly finished off a second and final time by either Voldemort or one of his minions. Hermione always apparated out at that point, to bunker down somewhere and try and work out a new strategy. The final time, she'd actually kind of herded Harry into a suitable spot. It was the angles, like snooker, she thought, and sure enough this time the AK bounced off right.
The Deathly Hallows were not common knowledge. Hermione had come to understand what she was being told in Beedle the Bard, convinced Harry to have them at all times not revealing the whole truth. Some time after things settled down, Hermione stole them, altered Harry's memories to consider them unimportant and misplaced, and hid them in the inferi cave, sealing the entrance to her blood only.
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Hermione grew bored as life went on. She was disgruntled that she was getting nowhere fast. It was nothing new, she'd grown up with her cousin's accounts of nepotism, couch casting and so forth. It was just the way of things. Rolling her eyes at yet another young wizard (only graduated Hogwarts last year! Imagine) beating her application for a role, she trudged to work day in day out. The pub was no better. How could she even drown her sorrows as she was overlooked for service for the second time as a pureblood bride to be and her hens pushed in front of her at the bar.
Blood prejudice was alive and well, regardless of Voldemort being stopped in his tracks.
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The tweaking paid off. Now Hermione could set any date past and future. She had also engineered a time capsule for safety - where ever she travelled to, the capsule held her out of time until she turned it off. Neither she nor others could interact with each other. Things could pass through her because she was not there yet or had not been there before. She could not pick up a cup because she was not there at the time the cup existed. It certainly set her mind at ease, she'd hate to pick a time to show up, say, while her house was burning down.
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Things got worse. There were beliefs unvoiced but upheld by so-called friends. What else could she call it when someone promises to deliver a resume to their manager and a few weeks later she finds the same resume hidden under a stack of Witch Weekly's behind a pot plant? When confronted, said friend bumbles with the now familiar excuses. You don't know what they're like. I'm already on notice. I'm not like that but these people won't ever change their ways. It'll hurt my chances of getting that project. Dating ads become somewhat more overt. "Looking for a sweet and humble lass with family values" was code for pureblood lineage. Being turned away from restaurants with tables clearly available Sorry, they're reserved.
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She'd only been dabbling before. A day or two ahead, just to get a tiny advantage, anything really just to stay afloat.
One night she got angry reviewing her pathetic turnings. What use was it really, to have the power of foresight just to get to the Ministry lift at the perfect time to not get squeezed out and miss the start of a meeting. To know to go and buy headache potion a day earlier because a pureblood had literally taken the last one out of her hands and claimed they really really need it and the apothachist had not blinked an eye and sold it.
She had not dared travel too far forward, even with her time capsule, what if the world didn't exist any more? What if a meteor had finally hit and she found herself in a nothingness of space?
She threw caution to the wind now, and maybe it was the alcohol speaking. She set her turner to five years hence.
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Her home was still her home, thank god. It looked run down and dingy. There seemed to be less things. On the coffee table was a letter from Herb asking why she was being stubborn and with her smarts she'd be succeeding back home. That was telling. If her cousin was now making a distinction that the Muggle world was her home there had to be a reason. She felt she knew what the Hermione of this time would be writing back. She would try to be lighthearted and reassuring. She would tell Herb not to mention it to her parents. She would distract by asking for more details about his research and when he was releasing the latest gadget from his company.
Wandering from room to room she imagined what her life must be like now. Obviously money was tight. She must have traded or sold some belongings, or perhaps some things could not be replaced over time. Outside it seemed her flat was based in a ghetto. OK, she was being slightly dramatic, but it was clear this was no longer a middle class neighbourhood. This much in five years, she wondered.
There was a noise at the door and then a dour looking version of herself entered, slinging a bag onto the couch, kicking off her shoes. She stomped over to the fireplace and threw in some floo powder, calling out a strange name. A haughty voice came, "Welcome to Floobee, how can I direct your call?" "Creevey 335 712" "No problem, you have seven galleons and 23 knuts remaining."
What the hell, floo time was charged now?
"Hermione?" It was the voice of Colin Creevey she recognised.
"Hi Col," her future self huffed, "As you can see I got home OK. This is seriously ridiculous!"
"2 knuts to know you're safe is worth it."
"Herb's mum makes him phone when he lands in Heathrow from LAX. This is just me walking home from the Ministry!"
"Herm, you and I both know you're a mouthy bitch. Every single day I worry some prick is going to knock you on your arse."
"Everywhere I walk is the most public and I can look after myself anyway!"
"Herm. Herm! Don't be obtuse. You know things have changed. If someone assaults you, no one will help. Not even the aurors. Even if someone did call, they'd not show up for half an hour. If you go to the hospital you'll be sitting in the waiting room until you finally give up and go home. I make you call me so I know I don't need to go out and look for you."
"You're being oversensitive since Dennis left."
Hermione saw over her future-self's head that Colin was making a frustrated face.
"Why do you make it so hard for me to stick around, Herm?"
"I don't have time for conspiracies."
"OK, fine. I'm tired."
"Fine."
"Night."
"Night."
Hermione decided to stay the night and witness more of her future life. On the walk to work the following day she took note, recognising that she mainly recognised purebloods and half bloods from school. Of people she didn't recognise she noticed that they were garbed in more traditional attire, the stuff that she had seen the Malfoys wear and less of the relaxed and outlandish styles favoured by Professor Hooch and Dumbledore. Her future self was wearing the same old Muggle business style that she wore now, with an open front robe over the top. Navy slacks and a white blouse, patent leather skinny belt and tasselled loafers. She noted a few sneers from passer-bys which future Hermione ignored. She wondered if future Hermione was in denial or simply lacked insight.
Am i stupid in the future? she pondered as she set the turner to return.
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Hermione began to keep an account of prejudices. Carefully she conducted veiled interviews with muggleborns of their experiences. She began reviewing the wixen equivalent of Hansard to get a feel of whether it was the government or the community that was fostering the prejudice. Once she had finished figuring out all the people pulling the strings in goverment, she began on boards and committees - no matter how inocuous they seemed. From the Hogwarts governors, to the shareholders of businesses in Diagon and beyond, even who the figureheads were of Hogwarts alumni down to any of the craft clubs Mrs Weasley took potluck to. Pureblood family names, even those that were dormant became as second nature as reciting her ABCs.
Her forays into the future opened her eyes to unimaginable ways to oppress muggleborns. It seemed at 50 years, all muggleborns had been run out of town. While she was thankful there was no Nazi Germany scenario, ill intent had clearly festered and taken over. It appeared that British wizarding had closed itself off from the rest of the world. It was not a hard border but there was no inclination for anyone to visit the muggle world or other wixen enclaves. In turn, it seemed the wixen of other countries appeared to find British wizards a lost cause, though Hermione's perusal of contemporary fiction and non fiction indicated that a few from elsewhere had wholeheartedly made their new home here, bringing with them their unsavoury rhetoric.
She had no idea where her future self was. A poke around her relatives indicated they had lost track of her as well. A photo of her and Herb as young adults posing with circuitry and soldering irons was mounted on a wall along with photos of his growing family, grandchildren and all. The area of town where her home had been was now a posh neighbourhood of pureblood shopping - a boutique of debutante gowns, another shop of ritual supplies, a jewellers specializing in betrothal jewellery.
100 years and the halfbloods were out of favour. She recognised society was predominantly those names she'd memorized. She had noticed as well that a disproportionate number of halfbloods and muggleborns never married, and married or no, did not have any children. She'd hazard British wix amounted to 200 surnames.
200 years, down to 100 surnames.
300 years, Hogwarts wasn't even in use any more. Children were schooled in family groups. Industry fell to specific families. There was no need to learn potions. The Boot family excelled in them, only the Boot children needed to learn them. There was no need for household spells, pureblood families had no compunctions raising and relying on elves. There was no Ministry - what need was there for any form of licensing. No policing - everything was a matter of honour, sealed by oaths, defended by duels. No recording or documenting - all was family history, not to be perused or researched without express permission from the family.
400 years, there were barely any stores. Families relied on their elves to cook, clean, make clothing, grow food, raise animals and children. Places like Shrivencrafts had no place - quills were obtained from your own fowl. Parchment from your own beasts. Wizarding families withdrew to large estates, like English nobility, self sufficient with several family branches on the same land.
600 years and Hermione laughed - Drock would love this. His ilk had finally succeeded as society was now merely fourteen names (some families just never recovered). Abbott, Avery, Bulstrode, Burke, Crouch, Fawley, Flint, Macmillan, Malfoy, Nott, Ollivander, Parkinson, Rosier and Selwyn. All from the Sacred 28. They really all looked quite alike.
Hermione pondered the progression of muggles compared to the wix. Muggles were flying rockets to Mars now, local travel by teleportation. She supposed wix never needed to improve on apparation - just focus your mind and you can go anywhere. Perhaps if she were so inclined, she could apparate to the moon if someone showed her where to land. Muggles had developed instantaneous communications, on demand knowledge. There was no need for physical libraries for instance. They had everything "online" and anything they wanted could be produced at home. She was fascinated that muggles had circuitry implanted which enabled them to read a book, participate in a meeting, watch a movie and so forth virtually, but if they wanted to have something physically they had machines that could produce them pen and paper, books, clothing to go out. The muggles had become rich and varied in their pursuits. The wix were ever increasingly insular and staid. The same knowledge, rituals, diets, fashions. Year in, year out. The same galleons passed from family to family. So many dealings didn't even relate to money. As large families absorbed small families the need to deal became a thing of the past.
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What is at the end, Drock? It seems pointless to bring you back. Your father has remarried and already has two new children. If you come back it will only mean more Malfoy blood and perhaps we'll only have ten family names instead of fourteen. Despite how much I want to leave you guys to it, to breed yourselves to extinction it seems an unkindness to condemn you and your children to that fate. I'm quite attached to you anyway, Drock. No one else really listens to me. They don't want to be associated with a trouble magnet. I lost my job, did I tell you? Of course I told you. I told you when I got home and you didn't try and stop me from drinking all that bourbon. I hope you appreciate that I washed the vomit off you.
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Drock, you won't believe what I saw. I went to the year 6000. Your family survived and so did the Selwyns. You're at war with each other. The muggles know you exist but have left you guys alone in your little plot of England, not that it's called England any more. They view you as a protected species. You're right up there along with cats - do you know there are only 2000 cats left? No one has them as pets any more. They're raised on a specialised habitat on the moon. You know what else? You don't even know that they know. Oh my lord, it is too funny. You know what is fantastically grand? "Protected species" is just apt. You're really not human any more. Well humans have evolved anyway, they have quite a streamlined shape about them, kind of sexy really. Your lot... well you seem to have circled back... you look like a cross between a hag and a dungheap. You're slow-moving, you move on all fours. You're very hairy and you have claws. You have a big humpback that seems to house an oversize brain. You are documented by the muggles as having telepathy but they haven't spent the time to try and work out your language. All your books, belongings, well they have been destroyed or put somewhere. They're all catalogued online, I even accessed the very last version of the Malfoy grimoire. You still have elves who groom you and feed you, surprisingly they haven't changed much. You live in two cave systems, near where Stonehenge was. I wonder if it was because of the leys. Your magic seems to be elemental now. Your skirmishes revolve around attacking each other with fire, flooding each others caves or getting lightning to strike.
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Hermione wasted a year back in her proper time, drinking far too much and giving herself reasons why she should let the timeline play out as she had witnessed. Drock became her literal rock, the thing that kept her head above water, able to pay her bills, feed herself and meet socially acceptable levels of hygiene. Her inner activist eventually won out.
"I'm bringing you back, Drock. I can't do it alone and after all this time, seeing what all my so-called friends have done, how they all abandoned me in the end, I can't stomach working with any of them. Even their fresh faced little teeny selves. That's right, Drock. Do you feel honoured? So I'm bringing you back. Don't worry, I already tested it out. It's fine, it's fine, Harry's fine, so is little James. Hey, don't give me that look! Anyway, when I bring you back you're not going to be able to talk, or move really. You see I really need your full attention so I only need your eyes and ears. I'm going to give you a rundown of everything I know so far, and I'm going to take you on a few fields trips to the future and if none of that leads you to agree with my plans, well... I have to thank the future muggles for digitising your grimoire. There's a very permanent and reliable family spell, which incidentally will work doubly well on your own blood, that will make you compliant with my wishes. It was designed for unwilling potential wives but also on wayward heirs. Once you're on board we're going right back to that bathroom. Sadly I will need to turn both of our past selves into rocks but you see, we will take over from there. It's the neatest insert and least disruptive to you at least. It'll be only like yesterday. Me, I'll need a bit of work. It's been years since I've been at school. I'll need glamours! Damn. Oh well, you'll be the right age so one less thing to plan. This is marvellous, Drock. I've not felt this positive in years. I can't wait."

THE END (or is it...)
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Who to turn to