There is nothing as dreadful as returning to a world of decay and wondering what was lost.

In the library, 1996...

It was dusk and the room was dimly lit. Hermione had always loved the musty smell of books and the soft light of the lamps. It was her feeling of home. Thus she placed a fascinating old volume back on the shelf and settled back in her armchair, breathing deeply in relief of finishing. Potions always made her feel stressed. A glint of something caught her eye. A single beam of moonlight alighted on an old black book. It had been abandoned, clearly, on the edge of the shelf, and huffing, annoyed (for why couldn't people keep the library tidy?), picked it up. 

She flicked through it disinterestedly. Nothing was written there. Why would an empty book be in a library? Hermione was struck with a thought. It could have been spelled to reveal nothing. Or else, there was a knack to it. Retrieving her inkpot from a nearby table, she dipped her quill in the ink, and rather cautiously, wrote:

Reveal your secrets

At once, in slanted Italic, a few words appeared in the corner:

Friday the 1st of January, 1943

53 years ago, Hermione considered. It seemed to be a diary. What could it be? Then red ink flowed from the diary, soaking it, and she was soon covered. Hermione dropped the diary but a great mist was fogging her mind; she could see Harry in Myrtle's bathroom, a tall handsome boy closing the eyes of a girl that she recognised, a dirty great snake... and then nothing.

In the library, 1943...

Tom was studying diligently, his dark eyes scanning the yellowing pages, when he heard a thud, quite close by. He was an inquisitive boy, and exceptionally smart for his age, and decided (as most boys would) to investigate. He turned the corner, to the next row of shelves and stopped dead.

"Great Merlin!"

A girl lay on the floor, a girl he didn't recognise, unusually, covered in a dark red substance. Blood. He remembered a strange affixation with the substance that he'd had since the incident with Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop in the cave. He leant down over her, noticing rather distantly that she wasn't breathing. He touched her hand cautiously. She was quite cold but not dead as he'd wildly assumed.

"Tom?" A boy with a distinctly cared-for appearance, famous trait of the Blacks, and glossy brown hair glanced round the corner. "Oh," he said, noticing the girl.

"Alphard," Tom replied briskly, siphoning off the red liquid with his wand. "Could you fetch the Matron?"

"You didn't do that, did you?" The idiot was a coward, yet again.

"Of course not, Alphard. I found her and I need to know if she's stable to move," Tom found his tone becoming more irritable as he spoke to his slow classmate.

"Right," Alphard still sounded unconvinced but quickly exited the room.

Tom felt one of the girl's frizzy curls between his fingers and it was that moment that she opened her eyes. For a second they stared at each other, her eyes noticing his spidery fingers clutching her hair and then her eyes rolled back in her head.

"Why are girls such drips?" He muttered. He hadn't ever been able to cope with them screaming in the orphanage. The door opened and the Matron ran in, followed by an unhappy-looking Alphard and, to Tom's displeasure, Dumbledore. He looked uncharacteristically grave.

"Tom," he greeted solemnly, and Tom quickly let go of the drip's hair, bowing his head in icy response. "Who is it?"

"It wasn't me," Tom assured the professor, who was looking as unconvinced as Abraxas these days. "I've no idea, Professor. Never seen her before in my life."

"Neither have I," Alphard added helpfully. Dumbledore tutted.

Meanwhile, the Matron checked the girl's pulse with her wand. "Stable," she announced. "Tom, if you'd carry her to the Hospital Wing...?" She trailed off, not missing the red gleam of fury in his eyes.

Why him? It was always him. Mature, responsible Tom. Why don't you do everything? Even in the orphanage, where Mrs Cole despised and mistrusted him, he was called upon to take the other children to the shelter when there was an air raid.

"Tom?" Dumbledore was looking carefully at him, as was the Matron and Alphard.

"Of course," Tom replied, trying to sound gracious and good-humoured, and certainly not reluctant. 

Why couldn't Dumbledore take her? Had anyone heard of levitation charms? He put his arms under the girl and carefully lifted her. She was a dead weight, especially as she was faint and he tried hard to swallow his disgust when his robes were promptly covered in the horrible red stuff that he'd tried to remove from her person. 

Her eyelids fluttered slightly and Tom prayed to anyone that would listen to his miserable soul that she wouldn't wake up yet. Dumbledore, of course, was following on behind as he strode down the corridor.

"Are you positive you didn't harm her?" Dumbledore asked quietly, equalling his strides as he came to walk beside Tom.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Of course, Sir," he responded sardonically.

"It wasn't him," came a voice, a weak voice, from the direction of Tom's arms.

*

Hermione's head revolved as she looked up at a young Dumbledore. She almost felt like fainting again. Almost. She gathered that she was in the arms of a handsome young man, the one who'd earlier held her hair and felt her hand. He had soft, wavy hair the colour of charcoal and his eyes were similarly dark; like Snape, except these were wisely distant and the look they contained now was concern. Why had she spoken up for him? 

Maybe she felt that she had an excuse: maybe one involving some time travel and an old diary. The usual lie. Nice and white. Except it wasn't. She had fallen through a diary. Even Ron wouldn't have come up with something as terribly stupid, while funny, and outlandishly silly. Ron. Had he even be born yet? Had Harry? Had Ginny? She must be losing her mind. The boy was staring at her with some incredibility as she realised her emotions had been playing out onto her face: grimace, smile, and all.

"Sorry," she muttered eventually.

"What's your name, dear?" Young Dumbledore asked her.

"Ginevra Granger," she whispered.

"Muggleborn," the boy smirked.

Dumbledore glared at him; it seemed the two did not get on very well as Hermione had never seen Dumbledore glare at anyone.

"What?" The boy shrugged with difficulty. "I haven't heard the name."

"Actually," Hermione said with difficulty, because she was lying in the boy's arms, "I'm Half-blood. My father's Hector Dagworth-Granger." 

Oh God, she hoped that was the right era. By the looks she was being given, it wasn't.

"Concussion too," the boy smirked. He seemed to enjoy her displeasure.

"Tom," Dumbledore warned, in a dangerous tone. Maybe the younger version of Dumbledore was less patient. Or else, this boy was simply annoying. "Maybe if you left...?"

"Of course Sir!" Tom replied in a jovial tone, setting her down on a bed and spiriting himself away to God-knows-where.

"How did you come to be here?" Dumbledore went straight out with it. "Your uniform is... altered and I have never had a student of the name Ginevra Granger."

"Sir, I fell through a diary," Hermione told him blandly.

Even Dumbledore couldn't hold a straight face to an answer like that. 

"A diary?"

She nodded. "I found it in the library."

"The library?"

"In 1997," Hermione blurted out before she could think properly. 

She mentally cursed. Now she would be sent to a lunatic asylum, in 19-God-knows-what-year-she-was-in.

Dumbledore massaged his temples, suddenly looking as old and tired as the Dumbledore in '97.

"1997..." He mused. There was a pause and then he asked, "I guess I'm still alive then?" Hermione gazed at her headmaster, wondering how much to reveal. "Well, you seemed much less guarded with me than Tom, but I guess there is a difference between us. Everybody is guarded with Tom because no-one wants to get on the wrong side of Tom Riddle."

The room blacked out. She was gone.