Grief surged through Oliver with every breath, the anxiety festering in his chest not being sufficiently soothed by his long intakes of the damp Autumn air.

Copeland gripped his robe sleeve, trying to show some comfort without being too suffocating. His body racked with sobs yet to escape from his mouth. She regretted telling him, she regretted inflicting such anguish on anyone when it was her burden to bear. She regretted the pain she was causing him. She regretted it all.

"Oliver," She whispered, averting her eyes away from his face to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. Guilt weighed on heavy on her heart, but she wouldn't dare to cry knowing what she was doing to him. "I know this is a lot, I understand if you don't want to help me."

Silence gripped the two of them, and Copeland felt herself breaking down. She had been able to skirt around the reality of her circumstance for a long time in the midst of dealing with Draco and Pansy, and fighting Trolls, and avoiding Fred and George, and Quidditch but now that she had finally told someone it became all too real for her to handle.

"I'm so sorry, O-Oliver," She bawled, burying her face in her small hands. Her shoulders shook violently as she cried, and she felt arms wrap around her. Oliver rested his head on hers as he always did, knowing it was his turn to be strong for her now.

"S'going to be alright, Copeland. You don't have to be sorry," He murmured into her hair, Copeland glanced up at him, slightly bewildered. "I'm glad you told me. You were smart for telling me. If something had happened to you while you were trying to do this on your own, I'd be lost. Doing this together is better than you doing this alone."

Copeland sniffled. "You aren't mad?"

Oliver chuckled, but Copeland could hear the hesitance in his voice. "'Course not, silly. Am I terrified? That I am. But if we can save a few lives while doing this, change history for the better? I'd better learn not to be afraid anymore."

As they entered November, the weather turned frigid and cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows of the Gryffindor tower defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots. Quidditch season had begun and in the midst of all the fuss over the first Gryffindor versus Slytherin game, Copeland and Oliver had yet to speak of a gameplan. They barely spoke at all. Conversation between them had been kept short and sweet, and despite all of his promises, Oliver couldn't look Copeland in the eyes.

She was like a curse on him. And her effects had been unforgivable.

It wasn't until they had been called into Dumbledore's office a month later that they had spoken about what had happened. His kind blue eyes stared at the chain of Grindlewald's Time Turner tucked into her shirt. Oliver kept his gaze focused on his loafers.

"Have you and Mr. Wood made any progress with your mission, Copeland?" He asked inquisitively, likely already knowing the answer to his own question.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Copeland choked out sheepishly. Snape tsked, looking at Copeland in a disgusted way that made her immensely uncomfortable. Dumbledore had no such reaction.

"I thought as much. So, I have taken the liberty of making this for the two of you," He replied, sliding a black bound journal forward on the desk. Oliver finally looked up.

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