Chapter Text
Surprise, pain, then sorrow, and finally – peace. This was the sequence of emotions Fig had felt, surprised as he was enveloped by the repository’s magic, pain as a crushing motion seized him and constricted his lungs. The image of his wife flashed before him, her smiling face and brilliant laugh. It had been so long since he had last seen her. He struggled to reach out his hand for her, calling her name, but the mirage of her shattered soon enough when Genevieve had pressed the Miriam's wand against his chest. Murmuring his name, lips quivering, and amber eyes filled with terror. That was when he realized he was dying. He was dying and he was so, so sorry.
To know that this would add but another weight on his young friend’s shoulders, so much grief that she had born witness to. And to have to watch him die, alone in this cavern – far away from her professors and friends – he struggled to form words of comfort.
“Miriam would have loved you,” he choked out. “My young friend.”
She wouldn’t hear it. Instead she focused on her hands on his, begging and pleading for the Ancient Magic to beseech her one more time. How many times had it answered her call to harm, to maim? To kill and hurt? This once, she begged in her heart, let it heal him. Let it save him.
“The wizarding world could not be in more capable hands,” Fig exhaled, his fingers loosening their group on the wand. So many memories flashed in his mind, but at the end of it he worried for her. She’d have to walk out of this cavern alone, carrying his dead body alongside her – this child, needing to bear the brunt of so many deaths. He wanted to apologize out loud, but all words left him just as his final breath did.
Genevieve, still hovering over him, sobbed. A broken and desperate cry as she clutched the wand in her hands. Anger overtook her suddenly, wrath and betrayal thrumming like a migraine as she spun around. She aimed her magic at the remnant of the repository above, gleaming and humming its disembodied tune. In anguish, she had cried out for help – for reprieve from everything that happened to her. She wished her friends were there to comfort her, for someone to help her at least carry his body out with her – she couldn’t do it alone. She didn’t want to be alone.
A cry, a wish, and such strong intent that it shook the grounds and walls. Light and then nothing. This was the sequence of events that turned time forward and away from the pain that permeated within that place.
When Genevieve first came to, she hadn’t wanted to open her eyes. She knew what she would wake up to, the cold body, the slow walk out, the heavy weight she shouldered – perhaps there would be people coming in to check on her. Distraught expressions, wide-eyes, and endless amounts of apologies – she didn’t want to deal with any of it. All she wanted was to sink back into that void of darkness, bury herself within it and ask herself why on earth she ever come to Hogwarts in the first place.
Instead, however, she heard a low but familiar voice. Two fingers on her neck and a frantic voice, perhaps they were checking for a pulse? Suddenly, true awareness flooded her being. Like the fast beating of war drums in her head, the high after casting the cruciatus curse on Sebastian, and the flash of light as she had begged Fig to be spared. A sharp knife seared into her senses, then all at once there was no pain.
“Genevieve?” the voice called out, their face coming into view.
She had blinked slowly, coming back to the world of the unsleeping, before her gaze finally corrected itself. There, before her was Fig. Happiness and shock was what first gripped her and so she launched herself at him, weeping.
“Professor!” she sobbed, “You’re alive! I thought – ”
“I know,” he murmured, patting her head gently. “I know. I thought so as well. I don’t know how you did it, but – Genevieve, I need you to look around. Tell me, what do you see?”
The cavern around them was no longer the same. Instead of stark stone walls marred with the magic of the battle and glowing source of the repository, there was life. Foliage in deep evergreen, coating the hallowed halls of the warzone. Wildflowers that grew where the cracks of vicious magic was dealt. Vines that thrummed with Ancient Magic had sprung from the center of the battlegrounds, coating the floor beneath except for the places where they'd collapsed.
“It’s different,” she remarked, furrowing her eyebrows. “There’s so many plants now, and the vines... there’s Ancient Magic in them.”
“So we're not hallucinating after all. This isn't the afterlife.” Fig sighed, “I'd awoken a while before you did, and to my surprise this is a far cry from the violent scene between Ranrok and you. Suffice to say however, it seems his presence is no longer with us.”
“That’s good, right?” Genevieve frowned, “You’re alive. Ranrok has been defeated, isn’t everything back to normal now?”
“How I wish it would be that simple.” Fig sighed, rummaging through his pockets to produce a small vial filled with green liquid. “Here, have some –”
“Wiggenweld potion?” she interrupted, a fond smile on her face as she looked to the vial.
Fig smiled, placing it gently in her hands.
“Oh how time flies,” he remarked, a conflicting emotion crossing his face. “In more ways than one. Drink, my friend, I have to tell you some rather unsettling news and would rather you be in a better state than this.”
A flicker of a memory, one that had set her on this path, flashed in her mind. It was then Genevieve decided that she hadn't made up her mind about whether or not to be grateful for it. Drinking from the vial, Fig began to recount his tale.
‘The familiar and stringent taste of dittany.’ She noted.
He awoke first, lying beside her only to find she was in some sort of catatonic slumber. So Fig, having run out of his own stash of Wigenweld potions during the battle, sought to clamber out of the cavern to find any of the professors to ask for their help. To his surprise, however, despite there being many who had ran into the cavern to help only 4 were left. And to an even greater surprise, they all reported to have just ‘woken up’ too.
“Who was there?”
“Professors Weasley, Hecat, Sharp, and Garlick were the ones I found.”
‘The spicy and warming sting of Horklump juice,’ Genevieve thought, ‘But there’s… more, why do I detect sweetness?’
Fig continued his story. He asked the others if they had any spare potions, however everyone had also run out of their own stashes. Garlick then volunteered to go back up to find some. She returned not even 10 minutes later, carrying a basket of Wiggenweld potions with the most haunted expression. Everyone feared for the worst, that somehow Ranrok won - but Garlick told them that their fate was much more serious.
Just as she had stepped into the Map Chamber, the portrait of Percival Rackham spoke in booming surprise.
“Professor Garlick?” He said, wide-eyes filled with disbelief. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
“Hello Professor!” she quickly greeted him, still rushing on her way out. “You know, on any other occasion I’d love to stop and chat with you because I’m sure a conversation with you would be most fascinating but I really must get a batch of Wiggenweld potions! Lives are depending on it!”
“Wait, slow down –” he called after her, but to no avail.
“Professor,” Genevieve frowned, looking into her vial. “Are you sure this is Wiggenweld potion?”
Fig paused, fixing her with a worried look before continuing on with his tale. As if it would answer her question (and answer it did).
Upon pure chance, Deek found Garlick first. He apparated right before her, ready with a basket of potions. Garlick greeted him cheerfully, speaking about how good it was to see him, until she noticed the extra lines on his face. His body even more scrawny that she last remembered. But most importantly, his horrified expression as he shakily handed her the items.
“Deek?” she asked, “What’s wrong? And you look so much older now. Did another student play a prank on you again?”
“Deek – ” the tiny elf stuttered, his voice weak, “Deek cannot believe his eyes. Professor Rackham told the portraits immediately to tell Deek and the older house elves what you needed… but Deek still can’t…”
“Can’t what Deek?” Garlick probed, “What happened? Was there another attack while we were down there? Are the other professors fending them off? Is that why they weren’t with us?”
“No, there hasn’t been another attack in over 100 years.”
“100 years?” Garlick paused, “Is this an inside joke of some kind?”
“Deek doesn’t have time to explain, Professor Garlick must return underground for the time being –”
“What date is it today, Deek?” Garlick asked frantically. “Why must we return underground? What’s happened?”
“This is what Deek can say, but you must go after Deek finishes. Please. Deek will come down and inform you when it’s safe to come up.” He begged, waiting for Garlick to agree (albeit hesitantly). “It is the spring of 1995, the house elves and portraits are in uproar because there are faces returned they have not seen in 100 years.”
Garlick wanted to ask more, but she made a promise to him and rushed back down. Her eyes were filled with questions and terror, there was no reason to doubt Deek – he would never lie. Hecat, for her past as an unspeakable, was even more distraught. For she had once been touched by time itself, a touch that came with terrible consequences. She immediately busied herself with investigating as much of the area as she could whilst Weasley and Sharp went with Fig to visit Genevieve. It was Sharp who used the Wiggenweld potion to coax her to awaken, but he had noticed something strange with the batch Deek had brought them.
“Did he notice it was sweeter?” Genevieve asked, turning the vial in her hands.
“Yes, it seems you took note of that too.” Fig made a grim expression when she nodded.
Sharp, with all his knowledge on potions, found that this was an altered recipe of Wiggenweld. The basic potion included only two ingredients, Horklump juice and Dittany. However this batch had notes of mint, honeywater, salamander blood, and – in his angry, frustrated words – ‘Merlin knows what else that has bastardized a simple potion’.
“It’s my fault.” She groaned, head in her hands. “This is my fault – we’re somehow in the future, over 100 and more years in the future, because of me.”
“No, not… entirely.” Fig frowned, crouching back down to be eye-level with her. “Professor Hecat and I surmised that it was Ancient Magic that brought us back – ”
“My Ancient Magic.”
“Well – ”
“It would be best if you did not interrupt a man so close to death.” A voice called, familiar and stern. “You will find he has observed much from the beyond and has many things to tell you.”
Behind them stood none other than Professor Hecat and although her voice was tight, the pleased smile on her face betrayed her tone.
“It’s good to see you awake, Genevieve.”
“Professor – ” the younger girl struggled for words, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I didn’t mean to bring us into the future.”
“You did not. At least I do not believe you did so willingly.” The older woman shook her head, walking closer to the two. “I may not understand Ancient Magic as well as you or Professor Fig do, but I do understand… time. More intimately than most, you are aware of my history of being an unspeakable?”
Genevieve nodded.
“Good. Now, under ministry law I am not allowed to speak more on my experience. However, considering the situation it is my duty to inform you of what I have understood regarding the events that’ve transpired.”
Hecat waited a beat before fixing Genevieve with a levelled stare, one that made her feel regarded as an adult – an equal – rather than a student in her classes.
“Time cannot be controlled by a singular person, it requires a conduit. A non-living being for the magic to properly pass through. This is why time-turners exist and not spells. Time-turners are made tiny enough that it compresses magic into a small amount of concentrated power, enough to bend the fabric of space and time. However, time-turners cannot send people into the future – only the past. Do you understand what I am saying so far?”
She paused, waiting for another nod.
“So if it isn’t a time turner that sent us into the future, what did? What conduit is strong enough to withstand such large amounts of power, compress it, and launch us forwards in time?”
“The wand?” Genevieve asked, producing said item from one of her pockets. “This – the Keepers’ wand?”
Hecat stared at it for a moment, mystified by an item that should have rightfully been hidden in one of the departments for unspeakables in the ministry.
“No.” She murmured, “Powerful as it is, a wand only works for spellwork. No, Genevieve, the conduit – we are standing right below it.”
Hogwarts.
It suddenly made sense for Genevieve. Fig told her once before that Hogwarts was built by Ancient Magic, a stronghold for it. An ark of magic that carried all manner of spells and wishes, miracles and curses, as well as a number of lost souls from 1895. Moored onto the shores of some foreign land, where only portraits and nigh immortal house elves remembered them.
These were some of the most haunting thought she thought she could ever have, but just as she thought that – another voice rang within the caverns. It sounded familiar, but in many other ways the most foreign sound she had ever heard of. Like an estranged family member coming to see you, a long forgotten friend you never once reconnected with.
“Genevieve?” the voice called, bringing the gaze of an already bewildered young girl to a very old man. He had a white beard and was dressed in silver robes. Gripping in his quivering hands his wand and casting Lumos, its small light flickering in the cave.
“I’m sorry,” Genevieve struggled, squinting and trying to remember whoever this man was. He did not look in any way familiar, except for his eyes – bright blue eyes that reminded her of a time that had not yet come to pass.
“Don’t you remember me?” He said, his steps towards her just as shaky as his voice, extending a hand to help her up. “It’s me, Albus? Albus Dumbledore?”