It is the spring of 1943. 

Hogwarts knows that something is wrong. The Transfiguration professor spends more time in mainland Europe than his classroom, and the echoes of accusations of still not doing enough float around him like sticky, horrible debris, trying to pull him away from where he belongs (come back, come back, the children need you). The great serpent is awake, and a student is dead (old friend, great defender, have I not given you enough to eat? the pipe-rat swarm is not done its centennial rebuilding, it is not dinnertime for seven years, why are you angry? why do you take my children? that's not what you're for) and another student has somehow gone partly away, too, though she can still feel his footsteps on her floors (what did you say to her? what did you say to the eagle's daughter? why can't I hear you anymore, little snake, where did you go?).  

Hogwarts lives only mostly within linear time; it is a necessary consequence of the way her stones do not crumble, her wards do not decay, her hope for her children's future never wavers. 

Hogwarts knows that, even though something is already very badly wrong, it is going to get much worse.