Pulse
They land on soft grass, the scent of morning dew and chill of early spring wrapped around them like a light cloak.
“Pansy, where—”
“Shh, Potter. You owe me this.” She doesn’t look at him. Her gaze locks instead on the vineyard’s gnarled vines, their bark rough like serpent scales, dotted with hopeful green buds.
Hope. The heartbeat of lunacy.
Back in the present, this land is nothing but scorched earth and scorned legacy.
Then—
Movement.
A mass of wild curls, whiskey-warm eyes, a figure stepping through the vines.
Tears sting as Pansy unhooks the chain from Potter’s neck. “Get out of sight. I need—”
“Pansy, we don’t have time.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Potter withers into the nearest shrub.
Hermione sees her, eyes flitting from blood-soaked robes to the golden Time-Turner hanging at Pansy’s throat, a conclusion already locked and loaded.
Aimed right at Pansy’s flailing heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Hermione murmurs, trembling hands cupping Pansy’s face, kissing her like she can still be saved.
Pansy drops to her knees, dragging Hermione with her. Presses her ear to her chest.
It’s impossible to hear a snake’s heartbeat without assistance.
Or the pulse of a corpse at all.