Just Let Me Wake Up Already

A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed on the past chapter: PheeCullen, 0Rosina0, Morbid DramaQueen10, Coco96, Hippie Jade, Madame Dee, JaceDamian23, xXTwilight PrincessXx, chocolaterox92, BlueEyedDragonChild, Saene, NightRaven13, 3rdplanet, Sakura Takanouchi, DkWolves, nuhuh, Charlotte, My Misguided Fairytale, Emotional, Random.Gal390, contagion, and jeanne.

I hope you all enjoyed the encore ending, but just to further clarify the sequel and this epilogue will be going off of the original ending. The alternate has no bearing on the continuation here.

Seven months ago to the day, I started this story. Thank you again for seeing me through to the very end. This chapter is a bridge between the finished story and the sequel, which will be uploaded likely within a day or two. I hope you enjoy.

The moment I said it,
The moment I opened my mouth
Lead in your eyelids,
Bulldozed the life out of me

I know what you're thinking,
But darling you're not thinking straight
Sadly things just happen we can't explain

It's not even light out,
But you've somewhere to be
No hesitation
No I've never seen you like this,
And I don't like it
I don't like it
I don't like it at all

Sit down, come round, I need you now
We'll work it all out together,
But we're getting nowhere tonight
Now sleep, I promise it'll all seem better,
Somehow in time

It's not even light out,
Suddenly (suddenly) oh, you've somewhere to be
With no hesitation
Oh, I've never seen you like this
You're scaring me
You're scaring me
You're scaring me to death

I'm losing you, I'm losing you
Trust me on this one
I've got a bad feeling,
Trust me on this one
You're gonna throw it all away
With no hesitation

(Smash)

--Imogen Heap, "The Moment I Said It."

Chapter Fourteen: Bridge

Memories of Her…Memories of Her.

Memories of Me.

Hermione cried the entire night, somehow finding the capacity for tears even after the physical toll the grief had taken on her body. She didn't bother telling anyone what had happened; no one. She had a feeling that Dumbledore had known, and the occasional pitying glances she'd received over the years now came back full force as she realized that he had known what was going to happen to her.

She wondered whether it was even worth it, honestly. She knew what Tom had done, and she knew that he had forsaken his memories to keep his heart whole and untouched. Hers had been split beyond repair, she felt, and she didn't even know where all the pieces were.

Keeping it within her was breaking much more than just her heart.

Everyone assumed she had fainted because of exam stress or a rare Wizarding disease; the rumors flew through the air faster than a Slytherin's hex.

No one could understand, ever, and she didn't even want to try. She didn't want to lose the relationships she had with Harry and Ron, who were amazingly supportive of her recovery, although they, like others, assumed her frailty upon returning was due to being alone those weeks her mind spent inside the Pensieve. They couldn't understand that she hadn't been alone, not ever.

But that was probably how she'd be from now on, she lamented. If there was anything she could do to somehow get over this, to know that there was no sense keeping the memories within her when Tom himself had no recollection of them…

She shook her head forcefully, shivering from the effort. She was in her room, and reached with a shaking hand for the blanket lying just a few feet down from her on her bed. While everyone else got to enjoy sunshine and exams, Hermione Granger had been confined to her room, told that it was either that or a bed in the infirmary.

She could imagine the conversation if she tried to tell one of the others. 'Yes, well, you see your arch-enemy could see me inside the Pensieve, and well, we fell in love, and no, I'm not crazy.' She would get looks of pity, revulsion, or horror at what had happened to her. Certainly not tempting prospects.

But keeping it inside her was killing her, slowly, from the inside. She needed to tell someone, even if it was only herself. She held the quill in her other hand, slowly bringing it to the smooth parchment in front of her, hesitating before the words began to flow like water.

Dear Hermione, (It felt very odd to be writing her name here)

I really didn't like the forties. The classes were nowhere near as challenging, and the people dressed so strangely! But I loved him…God, how much I loved him. Tom was everything that I'd ever wanted, everything that I didn't even know I needed until he showed me. I suppose I could contribute that to my scarce experience with relationships, but I'm sure he felt the same way. If there was any other way I could go back in time…

She could taste his lips in her head. What she would give to see him again, to break back into the twining dance of emotions and memories and even forsake everything she had ever known just to be with him.

She cried, knowing what she had done to him. She could hardly give herself all the credit; she had certainly pushed him very close to the edge, although he had probably been in sight of it for some time.

He was cold, dark, and evil, all of his best and worst features rolled into an intimidating menace, torturing and killing without a thought simply because he couldn't bear the same pain she was going through at finally opening up their hearts to the other.

Why can't I just go to him? If I bring the memories, he can see! He can know what happened, and we can be together…

Even as she wrote the words, she knew how futile they sounded, and the parchment went up in flames just as quickly. As the words burned away before her eyes, some moderate level of the same warmth comforted her heart.

She continued to write, throwing the burning embers down onto the floor, parchment flying everywhere as she settled herself into a more comfortable position, a light breeze from the open window ruffling the loose pages. The quill angrily sketched across the paper, detailing everything she wished to say, to everyone, although the words would only be said to herself.

I wonder if I'd become like him. Actually, that's a pretty scary thought. I wonder if he thought that way. If he knew what he was doing to himself. I don't think he did, but you can't go back. Once you start something like that, you have to keep going. Those holes in your mind, half-memories of things you can't even remember would drive you crazy. I don't really want to be crazy.

This really helps, you know. It's like writing to a pen-pal, but instead of mailing the letters, I burn them. Burning parchment doesn't really smell all that bad. I wonder if this is what it would feel like to extract my memories?

As soon as she finished the thought in her mind, her hand began shaking and a huge ink blot splattered across the end of the sentence. She frowned, lighting it with a flick of her wand. Watching the paper burn, she felt at peace. The floor was wood, but she didn't care about staining it with soot, and she figured it was so varnished that it would be nearly impossible to catch fire from a few smoking embers.

She was scared beyond belief at the thought of ripping open her mind to extract the memories of her time in the Pensieve.

If Tom can do it, so can I.

That's really a terrible guide, you know. I don't do plenty of things Tom does!

I love him.

She hated burning that one, and decided to burn it into her mind instead as long as she could before she finally set the tip of her wand to the paper, igniting it in a flash and watching the illuminated words before they were consumed into ash.

It was really a battle, she decided. Did her heart or her mind want to win more? Her heart longed to hold on to the memories as long as she could, and didn't want anything to tarnish them. Her mind argued that, in the perfect state she'd read about, the memories wouldn't be tarnished by anything, even by remembering them herself. And, she reasoned, she'd be able to truly release herself from this prison of torment she'd put herself into.

The last parchment was now completely crumbled away. The moment she'd said those words she had doomed them all. She had been pulled back to her own time. She knew she belonged with him, but she did not belong in that time. She knew, somewhere deep in her heart, that she'd never be able to stay there, but she never expected it would come so fast or so hard.

Nothing good lasts forever, and nothing beautiful and perfect like that can last at all.

I've made my decision. It really has to be this way. I'd follow him in anything, even if he didn't know it. Even if I didn't know it either.

That parchment fragment followed the rest. She knew she was wasting paper, but it was therapeutic. It made her feel better, and with each thought she released, each parchment burned, she felt her heart coming back together slowly, piece by jagged piece. If she had tried to collect the fragments in her hand, she knew she'd cut herself.

She was down to her last two pieces of parchment. She was crying now, not from the pain, but from anticipation. Once she made a decision, Hermione always stuck to it. And this would be no exception.

There's a message in all of this, really. Don't fall in love? Hardly. How about: know yourself, and don't do things you know in the bottom of your heart are wrong. Even if you recognize that something that comes from your heart can only be love, KNOW that it can and will hurt you. Love without hurt is nothing; you can't appreciate one without the other. It takes hurt to truly know how good you had it earlier. And no regrets. Never regret. Feel free to contradict yourself, but never regret anything you do. I don't. These…my memories aren't regrets. I'm not doing this for that reason. I'm doing it because I can't live like this. I wouldn't have done anything differenly, I'm just not that strong. And this is the best way, because the memories won't really be gone, see, I can still keep them…keep them somewhere safe.

What if I don't even know what they are?

I never take chances unless I'm sure.

Love, Hermione

Hermione was taking all precautions. She hurriedly scribbled away on the last piece of parchment, all capital letters, then transfigured her quill into a bottle, the glass rippled and dark from the deep black color of the feather quill. Typical to most glass bottles meant for storing things, a plain paper label wrapped around its center, inscribed with the message she'd chosen for it. She studied it, satisfied, pulling out the stopper with an audible pop!

She wondered if it would make a sound similar to that, ripping out one's memories. She hoped not; it wasn't a particularly pleasant sound. The bottle felt heavy in her hands, and she began to second-guess her earlier decision. She didn't know if she was fully committed or not to this; the butterflies in her stomach had taken up the tango in offense.

She stared at her wand warily, eyes jumping back from the piece of wood in her hands to the messages inscribed on both parchments. She still hadn't burned the one.

The flames licked at the corners of her last letter, the edges curling in on themselves as her last physical bit of evidence vanished into ash and smoke on the air.

No one had to know.

No one would ever know.

Her fingers gripped the wand and the bottle. "I have to do this," she spoke aloud, gritting her teeth.

No, you don't, she thought right back. You're being cowardly, Hermione. You're taking the easy way out. You can't have both ways!

She didn't want to admit it, but that was undeniably true. She was acting cowardly, in a way, running from a path she didn't want to take. But what else could one do? Harry and Ron had already told her their plans for the following year, and Hermione knew she could never go into this war impartial, as she was with her memories of him. She couldn't be that selfish, now that there was more than one life on the line. She was no longer on her own. If she hesitated, for even a second, Ron's or Harry's life might be the price, and she was unwilling to let that happen. Her own, she could live with, but no one else should have to bear any consequences from her pain.

She smiled grimly, raising the wand to her right temple. She'd never extracted memories before, and certainly not to this level, but she knew vaguely what to do from reading the first book Tom had checked out of the library for her. It contained no useful information about her own condition, but it had contained several detailed pages about the proper removal of memories. And, like everything she read, Hermione had paid attention, tucking the information away in her head.

And now it is proving to be quite useful, she thought, lifting herself to sit on her knees as the wand brushed against her hair.

No more second guessing. Now or never.

Now.

"Turn around, I'm talking to you!" He had told her. She spun on the spot, shock evident at the fact that someone had been able to sense her presence here. "Are you deaf?"

The thought was gone, trailing from a spot near her temple and clinging to her wand, the long trail of blue-silver haze stretching between the two. She continued.

The scent of Amortentia, completely identical with the natural scent she associated with Tom. His back was to her as he rolled a rose petal in his fingers before tossing it into the cauldron.

She never told him.

The memory clung to her wand, the feeling of separation like pulling a wet bandage from her skin.

Told him what?

The stream of memories flew quickly now, each one pulled from her mind with relative ease. She acknowledged the feeling like a shiver in her brain, but no headache or drowsiness to keep her mind from its usual clarity. It was painful, yes, but she bore it as best she could, gritting her teeth and focusing on the memories themselves to help her dull the pain. They made a wonderful anesthesia, and she could feel every one pass before her eyes, every single time she'd spent in Tom's presence.

She didn't know it had been so many.

He pulled her into his arms, crushing her to him in a rare open act of concern, hissing for the Basilisk to leave the open Chamber as he shouted, "Are you crazy? You could've been killed!" She could feel his breath against her ear, the top of her head. She could feel his heartbeat speeding up, reminding her once again that, yes, he had a heart, and yes, it was all hers.

He was worried for me, she reflected. He didn't want me to get hurt.

The thought was gone as more and more flashes of time sped from her subconscious mind and to the glob of blue sticking to her wand.

She smiled, closing her eyes to see the picture more clearly as the next memory played in slow faintness.

"But I love you, Hermione Granger…"

And she returned that love.

His confession, gone; her response, gone; and her day in the infirmary being forced to swallow countless healing and sleeping potions, gone.

The memories were in the bottle and the bottle was stoppered, lying innocently on her red coverlet.

She stared at it.

It was a glass bottle, tucked neatly against a fold of her blanket; and she had that same blanket partially wrapped around herself, and what was she doing in bed when it was so bright outside?

She racked her brain for the last thing she was doing prior to this…oh.

She remembered fainting in Dumbledore's office— that explains it.

She turned her head to the side, eyebrow raised at seeing the copious amounts of chocolate piled on her nightstand, sitting beside a white porcelain mug of—she inhaled deeply just to be sure—hot chocolate.

She glanced down again; she was clutching her wand rather tightly, and gently leaned over to set it down next to the mound of chocolate. In doing so, her knee accidentally hit the small piece of parchment resting under the blanket, making a crinkling noise as she eased off of it and picked it up.

She frowned at the strange request, written in neat capital letters.

Throw the bottle in the Lake.

That's odd, she thought, staring at the paper. Her eyes traveled back down to the bottle—it had the same message inscribed on it, again in all capitals, but with a more polite 'please' added before the demand.

Throw the bottle in the lake? She thought with confusion. She picked up the bottle between two fingers, holding it up to eye level for inspection. She couldn't see inside, but she did notice that the bottle's contents had a delightfully wonderful scent, very dark and heady...

She coughed, drawing the bottle away from her face. The cork was stoppered tight, and after a few moments of tugging she gave up, content with rolling it in the palm of her hand.

The thought flashed through her mind that the object in her hands might be evil, but she logically disputed the notion. The laws governing objects brought into the school through mail or otherwise were strong, and besides, if someone of ill intent had snuck into her dormitory just to plant a somehow dark-magicked bottle in her bed, she figured someone else would have noticed, or that the person in question should have found a better way of concluding their evil plans.

She twirled it once again in her fingers. She decided it must be from someone she knew; after all, the handwriting was oddly familiar to her. She studied the stopper again. What are the chances there are fireworks in there?

The idea made her laugh, and she crawled out of bed, surprised by the unsteadiness of her legs as she sought fresh robes to change into. She felt tired, not just physically but more mentally exhausted than she'd felt in a long time.

She supposed it was because she'd been sleeping for so long; Hermione never overslept if she could help it, she really didn't see the point; reality was always much better than her dreams.

She had to grasp the stair railing with one hand tightly, the other holding both her wand and the strange bottle, deciding to humor the odd request.

She made it to the main courtyard in less than five minutes, good time considering how shaky her legs were. She hadn't passed many people on the way down, it seemed most were probably eating lunch, considering the hour. In front of her stood the numerous flowers and hedges, the grass cascading further down a hill to the edge of the lake, a few trees lining the path that continued around its glassy surface.

Although she often came down to the Hogwarts grounds to walk around by herself, she had never truly felt 'alone' doing so until that moment. It was a warm day, perfect by most standards, but she felt odd, out of place. Like she was missing something she couldn't even see. She glanced down; yes, she had remembered to put on shoes, and her clothes seemed to be in order, so that couldn't be it.

She dismissed the feelings, instead continuing down towards the rolling hill. The breeze coming off of the lake felt nice, and Hermione stretched out her arms, the tension she didn't even know she had relaxing away as she stretched her neck to one side.

"Hermione!"

She spun around, surprised, the bottle she held accidentally rolling out of her right hand as she looked at Harry and Ron as they waved to her from further up the path, near an old lamp-post. She smiled at them, the smile breaking as she realized that the glass bottle was nowhere to be seen, and she searched the clumps of grass around her with one foot, unable to find it, her hands feeling oddly empty without its weight to hold on to.

"Are you feeling better?" Ron reached her, looking concerned.

"What are you doing?" Harry's question was more blunt, and Hermione laughed.

"I…dropped something, but it's not important," she answered, laughing at the way the wind made Harry's hair stick up even more than usual.

"I don't see anything," Ron offered instantly, searching the grass around them as Hermione moved a few steps up the hill to be even with their height.

"We actually went to the library while you were recovering," Ron continued, the tone in his voice displaying exactly what he thought about that particular part of the school.

"We're looking for books that would help us with, you know," Harry's voice grew unnecessarily quiet, "destroying the Horcruxes."

Hermione nodded, this was right up her alley. "I'll look again later tonight," she promised them. The more prepared they could be, the better.

"It's all happening so fast," Ron commented. "The Horcruxes have got to be destroyed, and then, well, there'll have to be an end."

"It's got to end somehow," Harry agreed. The words of the prophecy floated to the forefront of his mind, and Harry swallowed thickly, not sure if he was ready. Dumbledore believed he was, he had given the three all the tools they'd need.

"I wish we had more time," Hermione said wistfully. School was just about over, and soon the three of them would be confronting the reality of their enemies head-on.

The three slowly walked back, and Hermione felt her gaze drawn to the old lamppost, tarnished with age, the surface all but rusted away. It was funny; she had never really noticed it before.

We'll have all the time we need…

She didn't know where the thought came from, but shrugged it off. She didn't recognize the feeling, but her own time was slowly running away from her, the days and seconds running out as clearly and fleetingly as a blink.

Time wasn't cruel to her, and neither was fate, but they would both give her exactly what she needed. They always had.

Once leaving her hands, the bottle of memories had rolled down the grassy slope, its shape helping it navigate the smooth hill. It came to a gentle rest some few feet from the gravelly surface of the winding path, stopping against a clump of grass surrounding an old tree, the glass clinking softly against the few rocks around it.

No one was around to notice it, so the bottle sat; inconspicuously resting in the shade the tree provided, the dark color of its glass form blending in with the surrounding foliage.

Its small label had become somewhat dislodged during its journey from Hermione's hand to its current resting place, and the edge curled away from the glass, blowing slightly in the wind as a breeze rustled through the area.

And there, with naught but time for its company, it would sit.

The End.

A/N: A huge thank you again to everyone who has reached the end of this story with me, and a special thanks to those of you who have helped me along with reviews. It really does mean more to me than I can say.

I'm sure many of you have the same questions, so I will try to answer some large ones here. I apologize in advance for the long Author's Notes, but this is all relevant, trust me!

Why would you end it like that with everything going back to normal?) That's exactly the point. The two main themes of this story I hope to get across are that everything that happened was real (as shown in the encore chapter) and that nothing changed. I did a lot of research on the conjectures behind time travel, and to put it bluntly, it is near scientifically impossible to change the past. The Novikov self-consistency principle states that if an event exists that would change the past, then that event has a zero percent probability of happening. That is the whole point behind the paradox created by the 'permanent memories'—she went back in time, completing the timeframe and changing nothing.

I do not care if you do not care whether or not a time-travel story is accurate. Completely ignoring knowledge like that, to me, is personally unacceptable. To put it bluntly, I would not have written about Hermione 'changing' Riddle for the better or 'changing' her future because a story like that could not happen.

It made me slightly angry, because, believe me, I do want them to end up together. So, that leads to the sequel, "A Different Kind of Gravity." I can push Hermione and her dear Mr. Riddle (now LV) together without having to worry about time in the same way.

If anyone has any more questions or needs something further clarified, feel free to ask in a review or PM.

Chapter Thirteen Anonymous Reviewer Replies:

Nuhuh: Thank you so much! And to answer your question, look back at the encore chapter. In it, she became corporeal by fully acknowledging the complete reality of everything that happened to her. You could even say that every time she comes closer to acknowledging how "real" everything is, she gets more and more corporeal. Right before she opened the window, Tom questioned the fact that she was real, and she disputed that. That's how she was able to do it. I hope that helps, and thanks again for your wonderful comments!

Charlotte: Thank you! I'm glad you liked the alternate ending.

Emotional: Thank you! Yes, it is hardly just black and white, there has to be a reason behind everything! And I'm so glad you liked the ending.

Jeanne: Wow, some great things you said. I wish I could have responded to your review, but I hope you see this. You say that the bottles of memories could not be the same, but I can counteract that argument. In a pensieve, you see past memories, correct? So, everything that is seen in a pensieve must be exactly what happened in the past (If changed, you would see the modification through the cloudy fog like Slughorn's memory) so she must have really traveled back in time through it. Pensieve-Tom is suspended in time until she arrives, and the paradox of the alternate ending is that if Tom did not remove the memories, then Hermione wouldn't have found them to travel back in time. Thus, Voldemort wouldn't have forgotten anything, and his transformation could have possibly been a reaction to his isolation. The timeline still continues. For all of your questions about the immortality of the people in memories, I leave that up to your interpretation, as it was open-ended. In the alternate, by staying with Tom, Hermione does forsake helping Harry win the war, but you have that same causality where future-Hermione is still there to help because Tom did not remove the memories, creating a sort of branched/parallel timeline. The druid only lets her stay because there is no risk of changing the future. Trippy, I know. But thank you so much for your comments, I really enjoyed reading your review. And never be sorry for your opinions! I also hope you enjoyed "Excelsior!"

A/N continued: I had planned to have the first chapter of the sequel to post now, but it seems that I did not have the time to finish both before today. Nevertheless, I still wanted to post this up for the seven-month anniversary of this story (Seven months!!). The sequel will be up as soon as I can finish it. And, I do hope that everyone sticks around for the sequel or for the other new stories you'll see in the coming months. HG/TR fandom, you're all stuck with me! I don't go away that easily.

Reviews are always welcome, no matter how much time has passed since the finish date. I will cherish and respond to each one!

Thank you, again, to everyone who has read this story. That's really all I can say.

There. It's finished. No more. Done. Complete. End.

Love, Kako