I hold the universe when I hold you

2 la luna

Three times. Three fucking times she had traveled through time. The first had been voluntary, the second had been necessary, and this time... Well, that remained to be seen.

The hotel was not set up for her daughter's wedding. In fact, it was packed with summer guests. The wedding had been in late spring. The staff just looked at her like she was some lunatic, possibly drunk, maybe a local, with a fancy dress with salt and sand on the hem.

It was strange how calm she was as she tried to ascertain when she was in Italian. Maybe it was because this was the third fucking time.

It was July 28, 1997, only just. She had done the charm for the date, but she wanted to hear it from someone else. The concierge was confused, and asked if she needed a Healer.

"Portkey. Passaporta per Londra..." she sighed, leaning against the reception desk, looking around at the other magical guests milling about, some going to the restaurant, others to the bar. She did not recognize a soul, thankfully.

"Have you been robbed, Signora?"

Hermione turned back to the Italian wizard, a rather young man, younger than her...no, older now...

"Yes," she said firmly. "I must return to London, I have no money, I just have this dress, my wand..."

The concierge blinked at her, his dark eyes going to her neck.

Hermione frowned, and stepped to one side where there was a mirror behind the desk. And there it was. She had not noticed it, felt it. The torque was around her neck, the red eyed stags resting on the knobs of her collarbones. The gold was old, the carnelians, yes, carnelians, almost glowed against her skin. Her hair, her makeup was still perfectly in place, a testament to the hairdresser and make up artist she had paid for through the nose... But none of it, not a bit of it gave her money to arrange a Portkey.

The concierge cleared his throat and Hermione looked at him again.

"I can arrange a Portkey to your Minis--"

"No, not there," she almost squeaked.

The Ministry was about to fall. Not on July 28th, but soon.

Hermione cleared her throat. "A Portkey to King's Cross Station in London will suffice."

The concierge studied her for a moment. The man was no Occlumens, but Hermione was sure his scrutiny of the uneducated was intimidating.

"Is there a name I can perhaps charge?"

Hermione sighed, thinking. Dumbledore was dead. Harry might not notice someone charging his account at Gringotts, but Harry knew nothing about credit, and rightfully so at such a young age. Besides, she could not simply speak his name... And Hermione's own Gringotts account had so little, and if she used it, her 18 year old (added year for that first damn trip via Time Turner) self would go nuts trying to figure it all out.

"Pince, Irma Pince, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The concierge gave her a sharp nod. "Yes, Signora Prince..."

"Pince...wait...what?"

"I'm sending an elf to bring a Portkey now."

Hermione's head hurt. Fuck.

Her fingers went to the torque as she leaned against the desk again. It was cool against her skin.

Pince...Prince... Weird. Little spies and spies, and fucking July 28, 1997. It was surely over by then, local time, the night she had drank Polyjuice and became one of many Harrys. Merlin, that night had been terrifying. And yet, she was there again, in Taormina, Sicily, in a glowing golden dress with some fucking enchanted bit and bauble around her neck.