Can't run from time

The Burrow had never felt colder.

Even with the fire crackling in the hearth and Molly bustling about the kitchen, pressing warm soup into Hermione's hands and stroking her hair like she was a little girl again, she couldn't stop shivering.

She hadn't said a word since they Apparated. Since Ron gripped her arm. Since Harry grabbed her wand. Since they pulled her—dragged her—out of that hell.

Without him.

She sat curled on the floor near the window, forehead pressed to the frosty glass, eyes fixed on the stars above. She hadn't changed out of her torn robes. Her knees were scraped from crawling toward Draco before the curse hit again. Her voice was still hoarse from screaming.

Harry and Ron stood in the kitchen, whispering. Hermione heard every word.

"We did what we had to," Harry said, voice sharp. "He's a Death Eater. You saw the mark—he chose that side."

"He helped us, mate," Ron muttered.

"And if Voldemort hadn't been distracted? We'd all be dead."

Hermione let the spoon clatter into the bowl. "Stop talking like that."

They turned. She rose, trembling. "He saved me. Again. And you left him."

"We saved you," Harry said. "You're the reason Voldemort's even twisted up in this timeline mess in the first place—"

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped, her voice cracking. "You don't understand. You weren't there when I was—when I was... when I was with..him. You didn't see who he was.

Ron stepped forward. "Hermione—"

"No." Her hands clenched into fists. "You think this is about choosing sides? There are no sides anymore. There's just war. And we keep pretending we're better because we play by rules—because we don't leave our own behind. But we did."

The room fell silent.

She sank back down by the window, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. "Draco... he didn't ask for this. He didn't choose to be born into that family. He didn't choose this war. He just... he just kept surviving it. Just like me."

And then, quieter:"I should have stayed with him."

Neither Harry nor Ron knew what to say.

Night melted into morning. Still, Hermione sat there, memories of the manor, memories of the winding staircases behind her eyelids. The smell of smoke. The cold stone. Voldemort's hand under her chin, calling her darling in that familiar, silken voice.

And the part that terrified her most?

She missed it.

She missed him.Not the monster—but Tom. Her Tom. The one who held her hand in the 1940s. The boy with hollow eyes who once told her he would never let her go.

She hated herself for missing him.Tears spilled over. She buried her face in her hands. She couldn't breathe under the weight of guilt. Of loss. Of love that should've died, but didn't.

She wanted to scream. To undo the timeline. To go back and burn the time turner before she ever twisted it. To run until the war was gone and the only thing left was silence.

But instead, she just whispered:"I don't know who I am anymore."And the wind howled against the windowpane, as if the world had no answer either.