Note: Hello and welcome to my first Harry Potter story! Always a champion of non-canon pairings, this is going to be a going-back-in-time Sirius/Hermione fanfiction. I know this sort of idea has been done before, but I have things up my sleeve that will make it different. This story is based on a Deathly Hallows plot that is without the Ron/Hermione kiss. For the sake of the Sirius/Hermione romance, Ron and Hermione are not in a relationship; whether they will be or not in the end is for you, readers, to find out…

Hope you all enjoy the first chapter, and I apologize for its shortness; it’s an introduction. The following chapters will be probably much longer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters.

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"And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.
There is only silence."
-- House of Leaves, Zampano

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Senza Eco

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I : Dissonance

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Hermione had forgotten just how amusing it was when Ron encountered a spider.

Now, usually the spiders at number twelve, Grimmauld Place were nothing short of terrifying, with their foot-long, hairy bodies and the sounds they made when they scuttled across the floor. Hermione herself usually uttered a not-so-small scream of surprise and disgust when those popped up (which, thankfully, wasn’t often anymore). But the poor arachnid her red-haired friend was shrieking over was only a common daddy longlegs, perfectly harmless, and so Hermione felt no reservations about laughing as Ron went into hysterics.

Harry, perhaps feeling sorry for Ron, flicked the spider away. “Relax, Ron, it’s just a small one. You’d think that after facing Aragog you’d work up the nerve to face daddy longlegs without screaming.”

“Yeah, well you’d think that after facing dragons a bloke’d have no problem asking a girl to a dance,” Ron countered in an unusual moment of wittiness, “but you had a hell of a time with Cho, didn’t you?”

Ginny shot Ron a rather irritated look at the use of Harry’s ex-girlfriend’s name, but she mightn’t have worried; Hermione saw the burning looks Harry always shot at her, and the puppy-dog glances he used to send to Cho had nothing on the passionate stares he gave Ron’s sister. “Most of those great hairy things are gone now, anyway,” Ginny said. “I haven’t seen one for weeks.”

“Thanks to Kreacher’s cleaning campaign,” Hermione agreed, nodding as she turned the page of her book. It had been so long since she’d read Hogwarts, A History… around a year, if she remembered correctly. “He was so cheered to see that you were back and that the Death Eaters would leave, Harry. I think in that moment of extreme happiness he had a true house-elf moment and felt the urge, finally, to clean.”

“For the first time in years, judging by how much shit I put into the dumpster out back,” Harry said with a lazy grin. “I still can’t believe this is my place. My own house, until I decide to hand it down to someone.”

“Some redecorating might be nice,” Ginny piped up.

“Yeah, like taking off the dead house-elf heads,” Ron agreed. “They always gave me the creeps.”

Hermione tuned out of the conversation as she continued to read. It was nice to finally be able to sit down with a good book again. After Voldemort had dropped dead at last she had expected her relief and relaxation to be immediate, but that had been wishful thinking. There had been so much to do: funerals, memorials, finding her parents and returning them to normal, holding a service for her old potions master and calling him a hero, and countless other things… it was now a week and a half after Voldemort had been killed, and what was left of the Order of the Phoenix had gathered by invitation from Harry at number twelve, Grimmauld Place to celebrate. At the moment, almost everyone was downstairs and helping Mrs. Weasley and Fleur with the big celebration feast; but Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione had snuck upstairs for some privacy.

Hermione knew she should be happy, and she supposed that she was, in a way; but true happiness would probably seem several steps away for a while. So many people had been killed because of Voldemort’s revival… and not that his original killings hadn’t been worse, they just hit closer to home now that she had been in the war instead of looking at it in a textbook. Fred Weasley was dead and George would therefore never be the same; Crabbe and Goyle were dead, not that she would miss them; Tonks and Lupin- oh, Merlin, Remus Lupin was dead and so were Sirius and Peter Pettigrew and James Potter. The Marauders, she realized with a start, were all dead. What a horrible, horrible time it had been, all of it, both wars. And how surreal that it was finally over.

“Hermione?”

She looked up from her book at Ginny’s voice calling her name, a bit surprised. She had been reading the same sentence for a fourth time and had been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn’t seen the others move towards the doorway. “What?”

“Mum called us downstairs,” Ron told her. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” she said, turning away slightly. “I… want to finish this chapter, is all.”

Ron grinned at her, shaking his head. “Blimey, Hermione, only you…” Ginny laughed and pulled him away from the door frame, but Harry stayed, leaning against the wall.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he said, and Hermione felt a rush of affection at his use of the Muggle phrase. Sometimes with Harry’s acceptance of Wizarding ways she forgot that he had been raised as a Muggle just as long as she herself had.

She closed her book and fiddled with the cover, tracing the embellished words with her index finger. “I was just thinking about the wars. About how many people died. Do you know… all the Marauders have died.”

Harry frowned. “Yeah. I realized. Hermione, you do realize that it’s over, right? It’s all going to be okay now.”

To Hermione’s frustration, her eyes started burning, a sure sign that tears were on the way. “I know that,” she said, “but that doesn’t stop the hurting. Fred… Lupin… Tonks… Mad-Eye… Snape, I even miss Snape.” She gave a hollow sort of laugh. “And I feel bad for Malfoy because he lost his cronies, even though he probably doesn’t even give a damn. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You care, that’s all,” Harry said, and there was a softness in his voice that made her want to break down and cry harder than she ever had in her life. “Hermione, you may act like a complete and utter nag sometimes, but it’s all because you care. You’re a very loving person and sometimes it costs you more than you realize. Everyone sees it but you.” She looked up at him skeptically and he laughed. “Well, maybe not Ron. But he’s thicker than a troll most times, so he doesn’t count.”

Hermione gave a watery giggle. “That’s certainly true. And I’ll be fine. I just need time.”

“So do we all,” Harry said sagely, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Are you coming down?”

Hermione swallowed. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Just give me a minute to catch my breath. Tell everyone not to wait up for me, that I’m in the bathroom.”

“Will do.” Harry moved towards the door. “Oh, and ’Mione?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss them, too.”

She watched him-- Harry Potter, the golden boy, the Boy Who Lived, a hero forever-- she watched her best friend go down the stairs with a smile on her face. He understood, that boy, he really did. He always had. It was a trait that had always made her feel at home around him.

After a moment, after she had collected herself, Hermione stood and made her way slowly down the stairs. The strains of the party below reached her ears and she couldn’t help but smile; celebration was certainly in order, and now that she was feeling better she really didn’t want to miss it. Hurrying down the stairs, she paused in front of Regulus Black’s old room and the sign that hung there: Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black. R.A.B. How things had changed for them since they’d heard that name.

Hardly thinking, Hermione pushed open the door. She hadn’t been in the room since she, Harry, and Ron had searched for the locket there months back. The pro-Slytherin propaganda on the walls made her wrinkle her nose unconsciously in distaste, but she examined it anyway. It was odd to be there, standing in a dead person’s room, looking through his things. It was like living in a textbook. She could imagine the passage: “Regulus Black had been a hero in his own way towards the end of his life, when he sacrificed himself for the good of many by destroying one of Lord Voldemort’s Horcruxes. When Harry Potter and his companions came across his story, they were much relieved by the knowledge that one of the pieces of Voldemort’s soul had been destroyed, and they…”

Hermione shook her head. “Ron’s right,” she whispered to herself. “I spend too much time with textbooks.” The thought made her smile, and she was half turned around to leave the room when she spotted it.

It was a strange device of metalwork that was about a foot tall. Crisscrossing straps of iron held two triangles tip-to-tip, the one on the top upside down, rather like an hourglass whose bottom and top were not connected. It was intricately worked and rather pretty, but she had no idea what it was, and that in itself bothered her. Maybe it was a way to tell time? Perhaps there was a specific spell or incantation one had to mutter for it to work. She picked it up and found with some surprise that it was very light for its size. She turned it twice, trying to find some sort of slot or button, and when she put it down she felt foolish, a real Muggle-born. What Wizarding device would have a button?

Hermione put the thing down and made to leave the room. Out of all of the members of the Order of the Phoenix down there, someone would surely know what the device was for. It wouldn’t do to simply stand there staring at it, after all. She was already late for the party.

She was halfway to the door when she heard a small ‘click’ from behind her; turning, Hermione frowned at what she saw. The device was turning, the two triangles rotating by ninety degrees. Every time they turned, they clicked. Warily, the brainy witch stepped towards the thing. Was it her imagination, or were the clicks getting faster? What had she done to set the thing off? Maybe it was some sort of wizard clock, because the turns and clicks were getting even faster, about one per second.

Hermione stood for another moment, puzzling it all out in her head, before she realized with a start that the two triangles were turning fast now, revolving so quickly that the clicks had congealed into one long whirring sound. A bit concerned, Hermione stepped towards the door-- maybe she could get Mr. Weasley to check it out, he would know what it was for--

--and then the triangles stopped turning and went back to their regular position. A pinpoint of white light appeared between the tips and grew larger as she watched in frightened fascination, grew until it covered the entire strange device.

“Shit!” Hermione shouted, panicking slightly, and she ran towards the door. The light was growing now, she could feel the heat of it on her back, singing her clothes, seeping into her skin--

--there was a tremendous sound, a sonic boom…

--she was screaming as she felt herself being pulled back, she heard herself shout for Ron and Harry in her fright…

--she heard a sucking sound and heard rather than felt herself leave the room…

--and then she heard nothing at all.

--

The first thing Hermione was aware of was the throbbing in her head. It felt rather like someone was performing the Cruciatus Curse on her skull, for with every beat of her heart her nerves screamed in pain and protest. The second thing she was aware of was the foul taste in her mouth. Her tongue felt thick from a lack of water, and her mouth was as dry as sand. The third and final thing that she realized was that she was in an armchair; a very soft, plush armchair, granted, but she was slightly put out that Ron or whoever hadn’t put her on an actual bed after she’d fainted, as it would have been enormously more comfortable.

Another wave of pain hit her and she groaned rather weakly; as if in answer, a slightly familiar voice called to her from what seemed to be across the room. “Ah, so you’ve awoken.”

Hermione’s eyes shot open with a speed that they’d never done before. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be who it sounded like-- but it was, for there was Albus Dumbledore in front of her, standing behind his desk and watching her wake up with that perpetual gleam in his eye. She was in Dumbledore’s office, the Headmaster’s Study. In Hogwarts. And Albus Dumbledore, who was supposed to be dead, was smiling at her. She blinked in absolute shock for a moment or two before propping herself up in the chair so she sat straight. She licked her lips, swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke. “Professor… Professor Dumbledore?”

He looked mildly surprised at that. “Ah, so you know who I am? I am honored. Alas, I’m not quite so sure of your name.”

“What?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. “I mean, sir… you don’t know who I am?”

Dumbledore shook his head as if in regret. “I do not.”

Hermione took a closer look around her; was it her imagination, or did Dumbledore look a little younger than he had before, a little more spry? Wait, forget that-- how was he alive in the first place? “My name is Hermione Granger, sir,” she told him. “That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“I’m sorry, it does not, although I’m flattered you know who I am. May I ask how?” He steepled his fingers in that charismatic gesture, and Hermione found herself quite at a loss for words due to the buildup of tears in her eyes. This was the true Albus Dumbledore, that was quite clear, and yet how could that be so? Where was she? Was she dead? But that didn’t make sense, either, because wouldn’t Dumbledore still know her?

“You are… were… my Headmaster,” she told him.

“Were?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Professor, please…” Hermione paused as a thought struck her. Horror dawned with the idea, and she could feel her face go pale as Dumbledore looked at her with some concern. “Sir, what year is it?”

“Miss Granger, I believe that it is 1978.”

Hermione sank back in her chair and put a hand to her forehead in utter disbelief. Her headache seemed to increase tenfold. “Merlin’s beard, it was a time-travel device?” she whispered to herself.

Dumbledore waited patiently until she was ready to speak again. “Professor, I’ve traveled back in time. I’m from the year 1997, my seventh year just finished, and you’re supposed to be… I’ve just…” She could hardly get her words out. “Merlin’s beard,” she muttered again in disbelief.

The Hogwarts Headmaster looked at her worried face benignly over his half-moon spectacles. “So, you’re from the future? How very nice. I suppose you don’t happen to have a way back in your pocket?”

Hermione let out a very weak laugh. “No, Professor.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he stood and strode from his desk until he was in front of her. “What did this device look like, Miss Granger?”

She exhaled, trying to keep her calm. “It was like an hourglass… about a foot long, and the two triangles weren’t touching. It was held together with some sort of metal… I thought it was iron, but when I picked it up it was too light to be iron.”

“What happened? What did you do that made it transport you here?”

“W-well, I turned it a couple times to see if I could figure out what it was… and then I turned around to leave, and there was a clicking sound. The triangles rotated, and every time they did they clicked, until they were going so fast that it was just one long hum. And then it stopped, and…” Hermione forced herself to calm down. She was speaking far too fast out of nerves. “A speck of light appeared between the tips of the two triangles. It grew and grew until it… swallowed me up, I suppose, and I must have blacked out, because…”

“Because when you woke you were here, in Hogwarts, and speaking to me, which was obviously a big shock,” Dumbledore finished kindly, and when she made to speak he held up a slim hand. “Please, Miss Granger, you must not tell me anything about the future. It would be a grave thing on both our parts if we disrupted the course of time.”

“I know, sir,” she said, and then clarified, “I’ve used a Time-Turner before.” Hermione’s eyes widened suddenly, and she turned to Dumbledore again. “Sir, would a Time-Turner get me back?”

“Not for twenty years,” he explained gently. “Time-Turners are meant for shorter periods of time than that. No, I’m afraid that I have no solution for this problem at the moment.”

Hermione felt herself lapse into an immediate and crushing despair; weakly, she grabbed at the armrests of her chair. “What am I supposed to do?” she muttered softly.

“Do not be too upset, Miss Granger. You seem like a very bright young woman, and I daresay we’ll have an answer to this little conundrum before there is any real harm done.” Albus Dumbledore placed a hand on her arm, and the mixed relief and confusion of a dead man touching her almost rendered her teary again. “For now, I think you should stay the year. The Hogwarts Express is due tomorrow, so you will not miss anything. I apologize that you’ll have to learn the same things over again, as you’ve finished your seventh year--”

“Oh, no,” Hermione said. “Certain-- er, circumstances-- prevented me from attending Hogwarts for my seventh year. I didn’t learn anything at all, really.”

“Then there should be no trouble.” Dumbledore returned to his desk, waving his wand, and a handsome phoenix-feather quill raised itself expectantly into the air; Hermione looked around and saw Fawkes preening on his perch and felt another rush of nervous homecoming. “What house were you in, Miss Granger?”

“Gryffindor, sir,” she told him, and with it came the small smile of pride that she knew she wore whenever she told someone her house. It was no small thing to be a Gryffindor.

The Headmaster gave a small smile at that and the quill scribbled on a piece of parchment. “I think,” he said, “that it would be wise to change your name while you are here, just in case anyone might hear of you or know you in the future and inquire of it in your time.”

Hermione felt a small pang; she couldn’t think of another name to suit her besides Hermione. What would her nickname be if not ’Mione? What would a giant call her if not ‘Hermy’… even though she probably wasn’t going to meet another one here. “Please, sir… maybe just my last name?”

Dumbledore paused and then graced her with another twinkle of his blue eyes. “Whatever you wish. Does Hermione Puckle suit you?”

“Puckle is fine, Professor,” Hermione said with a small feeling of relief.

“Wonderful.” He nodded towards the quill and it gave another large flourish over the paper before dropping elegantly back onto the desk. “Fawkes,” he called, and the phoenix lifted its head, “Professor McGonagall, if you please.”

The great bird flapped gracefully to the paper, grasped it in its talons, and disappeared in a plume of fire. “Now, Miss Granger-- forgive me, may I call you by your true name?”

“Oh, please, sir,” Hermione said, nodding, “I was hoping you would.”

“I am glad to oblige. Miss Granger, there will be a bed for you in the Gryffindor girl’s dormitory, and I have sent word to Professor McGonagall, your Head of House, that you have come as a transfer student, having previously been taught magic by your aunt and uncle as your parents are Muggle-born. Is that something you will be able to remember? Something you approve?”

“It sounds fine, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Good. You have the run of the castle until tomorrow evening, when the train arrives, and then you must begin to play the part of Hermione Puckle. Do you understand the gravity of that? You must act like you have only spent a day in this castle… take yourself back to your first year, that feeling of confusion and majesty. I believe,” he added, “that it will be safe to make friends, Miss Granger. After all, without friends, what is Hogwarts? What is any school? Your nom de plume shall, I think, keep everyone safe.”

“Thank you.”

“While you attend classes, I shall try to find a way back home for you,” he continued. “However, given my perpetually busy schedule and the enormity of this puzzle, it may take longer than you’d like.”

”That’s fine, Professor.”

“Then please, go and explore if you’d like. Professor McGonagall will send some house-elves to Hogsmeade to find some clothes and other supplies for you.”

“Oh, Professor, I really can’t--”

Dumbledore stopped her with a hand. “Nonsense, Miss Granger, it is the least I can do for you in this predicament. I shall see you some other time.”

Hermione stood a bit unsteadily, turning nervously towards him. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

She paused. “It just seems… I mean, no disrespect… but it seems that you’re taking this awfully lightly. I’m… I’m scared out of my wits, sir.”

“That is normal for one who has traveled back twenty years, I think,” the Headmaster said with a gracious smile. “But I’m sure you will cope. You seem, Miss Granger, a young lady who has seen too many extraordinary things to be blown over by something like this. I think-- no, I am sure-- that you will be able to adapt.”

The praise was like warm sun on frozen skin, and Hermione felt the corners of her mouth turn up against her will. “Thank you.”

Albus Dumbledore watched the wavy-haired girl leave his office with a slightly bemused look on his face. Hogwarts, he thought almost wearily, never ceased to surprise. And Hermione Granger from 1997 appearing in his favorite armchair via time-travel the day before term began was certainly a surprise.