alcoholicseraphim

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Twenty Two- Year IV- Greater Good

"Where is Vici? Dark! Dark!"

"You're fine," Hermione grumbled. She opened her eyes and for a moment saw nothing at all. "Can you see, Vici?" she asked.

"Who is you? Where is Mistress? Mistress, Vici is sorry, Vici is bad elf, please take Vici out of dark!"

Hermione sighed. The house elf's outline was gradually forming in the darkness. But how could that be? There was no light source whatsoever, as far as Hermione could tell. Her wand arm itched to raise and cast some diagnostic spells, but that would hardly help. She couldn't even cast a Lumos. "Vici, come here," she said, cutting off the elf's hysterical squeaks.

Vici obeyed, shutting up immediately, and Hermione watched with sharp eyes how her feet didn't press upon a floor of any kind. When Hermione concentrated, she noticed that the space around her was neither solid nor gaseous, but almost as a liquid. Yet, her movement wasn't hindered in the least.

"Are we even occupying space?" she muttered to herself. "Just where are we?" The answer came almost as soon as she voiced the question: they were in the Nothing, the place between destinations, the place where Vanished objects go.

"Who is you? We must be leaving this place," Vici squeaked, real terror in her voice.

"Soon," said Hermione. Couldn't Vici see what an opportunity this was? There were no, absolutely no records of anyone being in this place. She was sure there would be negative effects were they to remain too long, but a few minutes would hardly hurt. "I am Hermione, and I am your Mistress. Don't you remember?"

She stood- had she been sitting in the first place? Was it perhaps just a matter of perspective? Hermione grasped Vici's tiny hand and focused on the comparatively simple act of moving. Just putting one foot in front of the other didn't seem to be enough, but there was no landmark to use as a focal point.

No gravity, no light, no objects- and so she and Vici were the Something which contrasted the Nothing.

Sooner than Hermione had hoped, she felt the pressure of thought begin to lift away. It was time. "Take us home," she said, and Vici obeyed with stupid eyes.

The noise, the vision, the Presence of Something was both painful and comforting. Yet again it took them a few moments to adjust to their surroundings.

"Who have you brought us, Vici?" cried Rhea, alarmed and calm in the same breath.

That was right. Hermione had a job to do.

She swept into a curtsy, directions surfacing like blisters from a burn through the haze of a swelling migraine. "You look tired, Lady Selwyn," she said, trying not to slur. "Do you jest?"

Rhea stopped short and, in her confusion, allowed Hermione to take her hand. The power Hermione sent through her foster mother was overkill, more than likely, and she had to clench her fist to keep Rhea from jerking away.

It was much, much easier to nudge the appropriate memories into place now that she knew the structure of Rhea's mind. After that initial struggle, Rhea kept still and allowed Hermione to work on her brain.

"What is Miss Hermi... Herman... Hermy doing?"

There was the other problem: Vici didn't remember her. How terrifying it must have been, to be pulled into the Nothing without warning! "Transfer the bond," Hermione said, addressing Rhea. Rhea, still glassy-eyed, raised her wand and spoke the words.

"As I said before, I am Hermione Selwyn. I am your Mistress. You are my companion- now give me your hand."

Vici, now having no choice, obeyed. It took a minute more to transform her into the Vici of the previous timeline. The moral implications never even occurred to her.

Now she just had to find Morfan, and her family would be just the way she wanted it.

*|II8II|*

She didn't leave Selwyn Estate until well into July, and even then only when Vici could accompany her. Her consciousness grew swollen with idle power. Was this how Tom Riddle had felt? Had he grown weary of having no external conflict, of being universally adored? Perhaps he saw it as his due. Perhaps he'd been angry and confused when the rare person saw through his tricks- Albus, for instance.

Hermione was beginning to become uneasy. Men forged in fire did not welcome the tranquility of a still lake. Men borne of battle knew not how to handle peace.

Not that it was peace, exactly. It was avoidance. She knew that, knew that it wasn't healthy, but still she isolated herself.

On July 31st, Hermione decided that enough was enough. She saw Harry everywhere: in the chair opposite hers in the library, next to her on her bed, on his broom in the sky outside. How different she was! Would he even recognize her anymore? She had the same hair, same face, but her mind was no longer the same. Her morals were trashed and twisted. She wasn't golden anymore.

It hurt. She screamed into the baby-gradient walls, tore apart her room with her bare hands and feet, and still it hurt.

"Vici!" she cried, staring at her ruined bedroom.

"Hermy, what has you done?" Vici tsked, and with a wave of her thin little arm everything was as it was.

"Take me to Hogsmeade." Hermione tore a hand through her hair, ignoring the pain as it caught on the knots and tugged at her scalp. "Now."

Even Vici's light touch made her skin crawl, and she pulled away as soon as they touched down in front of the Hog's Head. How Vici knew, Hermione couldn't say, but it was the right choice. Aberforth was her last connection to the future, to the good fight, to her old self.

Still, her feet were as if staked to the ground. For several long seconds, Hermione could not move. Her emotions rose and rose until her vision went black and her breathing stopped, and then as if a drain opened it swirled down into the depths of her again, and she could move.

The Hog's Head was a time capsule. It never changed. Even the patrons, wizards she'd come to know her first year in the past, were the same. Feeling as though she dragged her constraints behind her, Hermione found a booth and sat. "Wine," she said to the scuffed oaken tabletop. "Quality doesn't matter."

Out of the corner of her eye she tracked Vici, the diminutive being reaching up to the counter to collect her bottle with one hand and dropping a few coins with the other.

Not for the first time, Hermione missed her magic with a desperation which ached. Her skin was coated in crumbling concrete, and it was a chore to move. Vici, knowing somehow what she wanted, pulled the cork from the bottle.

Harry... Harry would understand. He would, wouldn't he? She wasn't sure. She remembered his irrational obstinance in the face of Ginny's death, remembered how oblivious he was to Draco's choice to follow him to hell, remembered how stubbornly he clung to the Light. Remembered his fury as they knelt before Ron's makeshift headstone. Remembered how cold it got, how tired they both were, how food was scarce. Remembered the shock in his eyes as the Avada Kedavra hit him. Remembered his belief that everything would work out, that despite everything they would come out victorious. They were the heroes, after all.

She was the last of them. They'd passed the torch on to her, and she'd let it go out. No one could call her a hero anymore. When she saw him again, would he forgive her for losing herself? Even if she ended up failing?

There was only one way he would forgive her, Hermione decided. If she killed Voldemort, if she saved everyone, he wouldn't mind that she'd become tainted. He would welcome her into death as his friend once again. She knew it, she knew it, she knew it.

The wine was gone. Hermione stared into the thick, green glass, feeling an ancient determination mingle with the warmth in her belly. She aches, and for a moment she is acutely aware of the setting sun. It was time to stop filling her well with sludge. It was time to feel again.

Hermione scowled at the tabletop. "Let's go, Vici."

"But we just got here," Vici said. "Vici doesn't understand. Does you not like your drink?"

"The drink was fine," said Hermione. "But it's time to go."

"Where does you want to go?"

"The Ring."

"The ring, Miss?"

"Give me your hand," Hermione grumbled. She'd forgotten to plant the memories of the Horcruxes and their locations when she was reformatting Vici's mind.

The deed done, Vici blinked her tennis ball eyes and took Hermione by the elbow. They were gone a moment later.

*|II8II|*

"Hermione, honey, please be careful," Rhea said, looking very much as though she wanted to hug her foster daughter but knowing better. "I trust you'll make us proud."

"Of course," Hermione said. "With luck, I'll be accepting an offer by graduation." It was a harmless promise, since she knew full well that she wouldn't make it to graduation. Rhea wouldn't care about her grades, anyway.

"I know you've made up a list, but we would appreciate it if you'd send us another based on your personal impressions."

"As you wish," Hermione said, looking behind her at the nearly-empty platform. They were early, at Hermione's request. "I need to go stake a claim before too many people get here. I'll see you in a few months. Take care."

"Take care," Morfan grumbled.

"Take care!" said Rhea.

Hermione pressed her lips together in what passed for a smile and stepped around them to the train entrance. She hauled herself up and inside. She saw not a single other soul but nevertheless passed the first few compartments before choosing one in the middle of the train.

She stretched across the length of a whole seat, one arm dangling off the edge and the other tucked under her cheek. There was no change for some time as she hovered between consciousness and sleep, unseeing eyes trained on the door.

After at least an hour, the door slid open so forcefully that it recoiled from the wall. The glass shuddered, and so did Hermione, who came to alertness with a rapidity that left her panicked for a second or two. "Oh," squeaked a tiny Gwendolyn Morgan. "I'm sorry! I'll find another seat." The future Quidditch player spun and nearly ran, slamming the door behind her with a force that Hermione believed was simply uncontrolled.

From then on it was impossible to relax into the same trance-like state as before, because even when the door didn't open, the footsteps outside echoed like small armies. Hermione shivered in her seat and waited with wide eyes for the train to move.

Soon, the compartments were so full that students stopped passing her by and instead insisted on filling in the seats around her. Hermione jealously guarded her bench, and no one was so eager to have it that they challenged her for it.

At last, the whistle sounded and the ground shook, and they were off.

The hum of conversation vibrated in her head, and Hermione leaned back with a heavy sigh. No sooner had she begun to adjust to the noise level when the compartment door slid open again.

"Edgar Bones, I know it was you!" A stocky, red-headed seventh year girl shrieked. She was flanked on either side by a young Rolanda Hooch and another girl whom Hermione was fairly confident would become Amos Diggory's wife. Diana Fawcett, if she wasn't mistaken.

Edgar Bones, far from being intimidated by his assailant, was shouting with laughter. Aidan Lynch and Benji Fenwick were just as amused.

Hermione squinted at the redheaded seventh year—Amelia, her memory told her. Amelia Bones. Edgar Bones's older sister. Now that she was paying closer attention, she noticed that her shoes weren't shoes at all, but waggling fish tails.

"You tell me the countercurse right now!" Amelia Bones demanded, seeming almost on the verge of tears.

"Not a chance," Edgar Bones snickered.

"It's Finite Piscores," Hermione said. "Same wand motion as Finite Incantatem."

The three seventh years looked to her, surprise and suspicion on their faces. "Thanks," said Amelia cautiously.

"Uh-huh." said Hermione. "But would you mind doing that somewhere else?"

They muttered their assent and closed the much-abused door far more gently behind them.

"You didn't have to do that," Aidan Lynch whined, Irish accent so strong as to render his tone comical.

"Just imagine her having to go to the Welcoming Feast like that!" said Benji Fenwick.

"It would've been better if they'd needed help undoing the whole thing, though," Edgar sighed.

Hermione shook her head. She wouldn't ask.

The boys chattered their disappointment for several more minutes, having evidently forgotten their displeasure with Hermione's interference.

She looked out the window, trying to catch individual trees as they blurred past the glass, and the voices dulled into white noise.

Hours passed like that, with Hermione and the two third-years quietly entertaining themselves and the three fifth-year boys getting louder and louder as teenage boys tended to do when left unchecked.

It was almost pleasant.

Before long, those who hadn't already changed stuffed themselves into their robes. Half an hour later, they pulled into Hogsmeade Station.

The short walk to the carriages was just as uneventful as the longer ride to Hogwarts, and soon they all piled into the Great Hall.

Hermione could taste the excitement in the air. It was hard not to love Hogwarts, even if only because those under seventeen could only perform magic on her grounds.

They didn't have to wait much longer before the first years filed in in neat columns, chattering their nerves like birds. The list was read, and, unlike the year before, Hermione's name was nestled in between Pontner, Roddy and Smethley, Veronica. She stood, wondering whether they'd assumed she would go with the first years for a boat ride and feeling a perverse satisfaction that she'd disrupted their plans. Eyes lined her walk up to the dias, and when she put the Hat on her head she felt them all the more strongly.

"How many times will I have to do this?" Hermione sighed.

"As many times as necessary," the Hat supplied unhelpfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Do your worst," she said.

There was silence for a second, and then the Hat said, "When you were in the Nothing, what was your motivation for staying there?"

"You already know," Hermione grumbled. "Pursuit of knowledge."

"Ravenclaw would suit you," the Hat said, sounding disappointed.

"Then put me there."

"About that... Well, you have some mighty ambition in that brain of yours. And you are a Pureblood now. You wouldn't go amiss in Slytherin."

"Are you kidding? I would be destroyed in an instant. Ravenclaws leave well enough alone, and I can do what I need to do. Not so in Slytherin. They're far too involved in one another's business, and I have no confidence whatsoever that I won't end up ruining this timeline because I can't keep my Housemates in check."

"If you say so. RAVENCLAW."

Hermione pulled the hat off and returned to her seat at Ravenclaw table. At least she was more lucid this time around, and she met the curious, wary gazes with a level of fury which she wasn't even aware of.

No one spoke to the angry transfer student, and that was fine with her.

*|II8II|*

Hermione wasted very little time reintroducing herself to Regulus and Severus. It had become clear over the years that she needed companions, if not friends, and those two at least fulfilled the dual purpose of being useful.

She'd already wasted more than enough time, and she had none to spare. Not for the first time, she cursed her tendency to flounder in the face of the long-haul.

It was vital that she have all the Horcruxes destroyed. Without that, there was little point in doing anything else. Sure, she could leave it to the Dumbledore brothers, but it was no sure thing and even after that Voldemort would need to die. It was too easy to forget that no one had known of the Horcruxes because no one had ever gotten close enough to try killing him. Even without Horcruxes in the picture he was a formidable wizard, and certainly difficult to kill.

In order to destroy every Horcrux in enough time to also bid to destroy Tom Riddle, she would need everything in its place. That was no blind guesswork, either; she'd calculated this problem again and again, and every time the solution was the same.

The easiest was undoubtedly the Diadem, which she'd already collected on her very first night. It was safely in Vici's care. After that were those which were already in position and had been since before her arrival: the Diary, the Cup, and the Ring. That left only the Locket. Of the Horcruxes, it was undoubtedly the most elaborately guarded. That was likely because it was Slytherin's.

What were his plans, then, for the others? Entrust them to other families for a few decades, sure, but what about after the inevitable deaths of his followers? Would he really be so cocky as to think that all of their descendants would follow him? The Lestranges never procreated, true, but Lucius Malfoy's only child turned against the Dark Lord to protect Harry. If the Diary had still been in action, he would have delivered it to Harry and Hermione. That was one Horcrux which was doomed to destruction several ways over!

And Gringott's. He'd given the cup to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange as a wedding gift and they'd placed it in their vault. At least Gringott's was thought to be the safest place to store something, but it wasn't foolproof by a long shot. It just wasn't viable as a long-term plan, and certainly not considering Voldemort didn't plan on ever dying.

His first Horcrux, the Ring, was placed in the Gaunt house, further displaying his arrogance. It was under minimal protection, as well. He relied on the secrecy of the location, which was never a good long-term plan, ever.

For someone so intelligent, he seemed to have put very little thought into the protection of pieces of his soul.

It gave Hermione the jitters. She wouldn't discount the possibility of an ace up his sleeve. She would be stupid to take his carelessness for granted.

If all of the Horcruxes were in place except for one, then she needed to get that one in place. The Locket would be hanging about his neck until the Cave was ready, and she'd have no chance of retrieving it there. How could she speed up the series of events which led to its successful placement?

The potion would have to be brewed, the Inferi created, the blood wards activated. It wasn't the work of a day, or even a week. The potion alone would take a moon cycle to brew, and that was after cutting a few corners. Would he do that himself, or trust someone else with it? She couldn't quite picture Tom Riddle cutting time out of his day to slave over a potion, for it required almost constant supervision. Someone else, then. The reason Severus had been such a prize before he'd ever turned spy was that he was a Master Potioneer.

That was her way in, then, for Severus wouldn't become a Death Eater until after graduation, though he'd been sponsored by Lucius Malfoy by Christmas his sixth year. He wouldn't be immediately saddled with the job, so it would be months before the potion would be brewed and ready.

She would have to find a way to brew it herself, or to get someone to brew it for her. Once that was done, she would have to get it to Voldemort in a way he wouldn't be suspicious of. She needed to know what he was thinking, what he was doing. She needed an in. A spy.

But who would have both the clout to know these things and the conscience to defect? Anyone who attended Hogwarts would still be proving themselves and unlikely to hear anything truly important. She needed someone who was already influential.

Perhaps she was going about it the wrong way. With her magical core still wildly unstable, she couldn't possibly join the Death Eaters herself, nor would she have the time to rise up in the ranks. However, just because she couldn't join didn't mean she couldn't pretend to be sympathetic to the cause, as so many Pureblooded wives and daughters were doing. She was the direct family member of Gwion Selwyn, and in fact her rank within the family surpassed his own, for she was of the patriarchal line and he was not. How could she have overlooked her own influence? It would be the work of an afternoon to find out what she could about him, and then to begin a correspondence.

Her smile had grown too large, and Severus looked up from his book to watch her with unease so clear on his harsh features. "All is well," she assured him. Then she lowered her voice, looked him directly in the eye, and said, "I have a favour to ask of you."

"What is it?" He was unable to look away, not with their minds connected as they were. Hermione spread over his relatively flimsy mental barriers, spreading in a thin layer over the entirety of his walls, surrounding his mind. Once she was hooked in place, it took only a moment to contract, thus pulling his defences out of place. She slipped in through the crack with ease.

"There's a potion I want you to make for me," she said, nudging his mind. "Please?" That word, used with a certain inflection, was programmed to trigger automatic acquiescence, but only when coming from her. She solidified the command, and was pleased to see him nod.

"If that's what you want," Severus grumbled. "What potion?"

Hermione smiled but didn't let his mind go. "The Drink of Despair," she said. "I will give you the recipe. You may make alterations to the preparation so long as the end result is the same. I trust in your abilities."

To Hermione's pleasure, his resolve didn't even twitch. "I'll be expected to fetch ingredients?" he asked.

"No," she said, tilting her head. "I don't suppose that would be fair. I will provide everything you'll need." Sometimes she forgot that Severus was, essentially, a nearly-destitute Halfblood. Some of the ingredients were both rare and outrageously expensive. Hermione wasn't used to having the means to collect such things, herself, but she supposed there were multiple advantages to having attached herself to a Pureblood family of good standing.

She would still have to be careful that she not involve herself too obviously by leaving a gold or paper trail. That meant she would have to use someone unconnected to herself to do the actual purchases. Complicated, perhaps, but certainly doable.

Satisfied that Severus wouldn't argue with her, she slid from his mind. He blinked, and a certain spark reappeared in his eyes. Hermione had to resist the urge to pout. She hoped to someday get to the point with her Hybrid Legilimency skills that her subjects would display no difference at all. Perhaps then it would feel like she'd never meddled at all, leaving no recognizable trail.

"Get me the recipe soon," Severus said, his voice no sharper than before. "When do you need it?"

"As soon as it's viable," Hermione replied. She wished she could design a potion which would be indistinguishable but with less devastating effects, for she knew she would have to imbibe the potion herself, but she didn't need an Arithmancy projection to figure out that Voldemort would thoroughly test any potion he didn't make himself. It must be exactly what he needs, or he would not risk using it.

This answer didn't seem to comfort Severus, but he nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll have the recipe by tomorrow," Hermione said. When she met his eyes again, any cursory test of her Occlumency would have shown nothing but an impenetrable wall of mirrors, and from Severus's expression, he didn't like what he saw.

She may not have the ability to use a wand, but at least she had this.

[alcoholicseraphim]

A Study in Caricatures

Part 4

“Ootori,” Granger asked, “Is there something going on? The students are more boisterous than usual.” She sat straight in her chair and yawned, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. Kyoya didn’t know a yawn could be cute, or sophisticated, or anything besides a yawn, but there she was, proving him wrong. They’d agreed that it would be best for her to stay in character as much as possible even outside of club hours, and he was quietly impressed that she was remembering even in her evident tiredness.

“You didn’t know? Today and tomorrow Ouran Academy is hosting our annual cultural club exposition.” Kyoya frowned. “If you were planning to take the day off, I would suggest that you reconsider. The Host Club must put its best foot forward.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t make any plans,” she said. “When you say ‘cultural club’, what does that mean? What kind of numbers are we expecting? Which of Ouran’s clubs will be performing? I don’t suppose we’re performing, are we? You wouldn’t have allowed me to remain ignorant for this long.” Her brow furrowed, her posture straightening further, her legs crossing. Her skirt inched up to show a bit of thigh, and Kyoya could see the goosebumps on her skin. It was cold, after all, but she’d taken her change in uniform seriously.

“Well,” said Kyoya, defending his expression against the soft smile threatening to overtake him, “Most clubs which are specific to the region or academy, or focus on the performing arts, are considered ‘cultural’. We’re only hosting schools within our region, so we’re expecting a total of five schools with perhaps three clubs each at most. Within those, not every single member is usually selected to represent their school, so a maximum of six members per club. That makes an estimate of—”

“Fifteen clubs, ninety people at most. What were last year’s numbers?”

“Barely half that,” Kyoya said.

“And the performances?”

“Only the drama and choral clubs will be performing,” said Kyoya. “Not us. We may expect to have some visitors, nevertheless.”

“Understood,” said Granger. “It will be interesting to see how my research matches up with reality. Of course, Ouran is undeniably the best, but seeing other examples should prove entertaining.”

Before Kyoya could reply, the teacher tapped on the board in that obnoxious way he did to get their attention, and Kyoya had nothing to distract him from the warmth in his belly. It was her voice, he decided. It was too smooth, too kind. It fooled him into thinking she cared about him, and made him want her to.

Throughout the remainder of Advanced Calculus, Kyoya tried to focus on the lesson but then Granger would make some small, subtle move, and Kyoya’s attention was riveted. She was no artless child, true, but he doubted that she was calculating enough to do such a thing for no real gain. If she wasn’t planning it, designing it, then that meant the fault must lie with him.

Unacceptable.

Calculus had never been less diverting.

“Ootori—”

“Kyoya,” he said automatically. “I told you to call me Kyoya.”

For a moment her serene smile twitched, but with what emotion he couldn’t say. “Kyoya. I’ll need to drop by the Black Magic Club before I join you all to greet our guests.”

“That's fine,” he said. It wasn't fine. She spent entirely too much time in the basement with Nekozawa, but he knew enough to know that trying to forbid her from going wouldn't end well, and may even cause her to quit being a hostess.

That would leave him at a disadvantage for several reasons, the most pressing being that they would lose the substantial traffic and income which had been steadily increasing upon Granger’s arrival. It had been two weeks, and now every day she was averaging a dozen requests, with her highest request rate being twenty-six. Those who came in regularly were more than willing to pay to make sure they had priority placement, with two begging to pay to be able to stay at her side the whole time. Normally he would refuse, but they each offered such a sum— daily sum— that Kyoya felt it prudent to bend the rules just a bit.

She was only improving. Kyoya couldn’t blame her patrons for being smitten.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Granger, and for a moment Kyoya was unsure whether she knew what he was thinking. He wouldn’t put it past her.

The bell rang before Kyoya could think of what to say.

“Granger!” called Musuko Tachikawa, walking toward them. “Please allow me to walk you to your next class?” His voice was giddy, breathless. Pathetic.

She didn’t even need the warning look from Kyoya. “I’m sorry, Mr Tachikawa, it’s against the Host Club rules to spend time with any one boy outside of club hours.” She bowed her head modestly, and looked up at the starstruck boy through her lashes. “I know we have the cultural exposition today and tomorrow, and I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of a chance to enjoy the festivities. I hope to see you after it’s over, though.”

“O-o-of course, Granger. Of course. I don’t care about the exposition, can I see you today?”

“That’s up to Suoh or Ootori,” she said, neatly passing the question to Kyoya.

It was a dilemma. On the one hand, it was important to keep the momentum going, for Tachikawa had never come to request her. However, entertaining guests from the other schools would be a challenge if they were also entertaining guests. If they just made visiting hours later on in the day, perhaps it would work. “Our schedule is closed for the first two hours after class is over,” he said, “But after that time we will be accepting requests.”

“Thank you, Ootori,” Granger said, and for the second in which their eyes met Kyoya drowned in the mirth he could see behind hers. Too soon, she turned back to Tachikawa. “I hope to see you then. For now, though, we must all get to class. The bell will ring again soon.”

Tachikawa stammered his goodbyes, swearing he would be in Music Room 3 the moment he was allowed, and ran off.

“Let’s go, Ootori,” she muttered, picking up her bag, which was perhaps the single deviation from her image. It was undoubtedly full to bursting with books, and often Kyoya caught her pulling one or several out when she had free time.

“I’ll be walking you to class,” Kyoya said, savoring this smallest of victories. “It’s dangerous for you to be alone. Desire doesn’t always manifest in healthy ways, and I’d like to avoid you getting hurt.”

She looked amused but allowed it. “Come, then, or we’ll be late.”

###x###

Umehito had laughed for ages when Hermione told him of her decision to become a Host. To his credit, he never doubted whether she was telling the truth or whether she was capable of fulfilling such a role, but it had been several weeks and with time so passed his amusement.

“You don’t visit often enough,” he’d accused.

“I know, I know,” she’d grumbled.

So, in an effort to preserve the relationship she’d built, Hermione planned her every free moment around visiting him. She stayed at his mansion over weekends and instead of taking an hour between class and requesting hours to get ready in Music Room 3, she made the trip to the basement.

She was cutting it close, not having left the Black Magic Club room until the hour had struck, and she hurried through the lonely walk upstairs.

“Where are you going, fair maiden? Won’t you allow me to accompany you?”

Ah, yes, the students from the other schools had arrived. Hermione stopped and turned to the feminine voice. “I’m going to Music Room 3. I apologize, I had hoped to be with my fellow hosts to greet our guests. It cannot be helped. My name is Hermione Granger, miss.”

The girl standing before her— uncomfortably close— was tall and thin, with close-cropped brown hair. She wore a long skirt and a blazer which were clearly part of her uniform. “My name is Benio Amakusa, maiden, though you may call me Benio. How delicate, how ladylike you are! Please, allow me to accompany you.”

It took effort not to allow her lips to quirk up, but Hermione maintained her gentle smile. The “I'd follow you anywhere” hung in the air between them. “You may do as you please, miss, but I would be honored to show you the way.”

Amakusa grabbed her hand and tugged her forward, wrapping her other arm around Hermione’s waist. “Maiden—”

“Miss Amakusa, I suggest you unhand me this instant,” Hermione said, unsure where she was finding that calm tone. Her skin crawled, not with the contact but with the magic rising to defend her.

Perhaps it was something in her countenance, or perhaps her magic shocked her, but Amakusa slacked her grip enough for Hermione to pull away. “My apologies,” she said. “To hold you would be heaven, and I could not resist.”

“Shall we leave? My fellow hosts will be missing my presence by now,” said Hermione, smoothing out her skirt.

“Oh, yes, of course! Do lead the way.”

Hermione smiled, aiming for her usual serenity. Some impish impulse made her put out her hand. Amakusa seemed to know what to do with it, tucking it into her elbow.

Hermione’s magic grumbled its warning beneath her skin, as much a scold to Hermione as to Amakusa. Her magic had always been a possessive thing, unhappy with most touch. It didn’t like this Benio girl with the same near-violence with which it hated Suoh. It tolerated Umehito, and Hermione was usually so pleased not to have to immediately reject touch that she allowed Umehito almost free reign to hug and touch her when he felt the need.

Of course, Hermione knew it wasn’t a good idea to let her magic have too much control over her actions. She planned to grow with it as equals, as companions, rather than allowing her magic to grow beyond her. She’d met wizards like that, wizards who were puppets to their magic. Lord Voldemort was one such wizard, being so small and useless without his magic to guide him that he feared more than anything that it would desert him. It had become a mission to appease his magic, she suspected, as if plying it with power would cause it to accept him once more. It wouldn’t work, not if he lived for thousands of years.

“What are you thinking, maiden?” Amakusa asked. She smelled of cedarwood. Hermione wasn’t a fan.

“I’m thinking of someone I knew once,” she said, unaware for the moment that her magic was no longer restrained beneath her skin, but rather bleeding out into the air around her.

“He makes you angry, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He hurt people I care about.” There was no point in lying, after all.

“I can feel it. It’s... visceral. You exude life, maiden.” Her voice held a note which Hermione had become familiar with over the last weeks. She didn’t know how or why, but Amakusa was smitten. It wasn’t a bad thing, exactly, just confusing.

The magic. It was the magic, it must be. Why else would she be affecting Muggles so strongly? It did fit in with her persona: the perfect lady with steel and allure underneath. It would be too much effort to suppress the magic, and it would only become upset with her. She’d always worked to keep her magic happy, and doing something so stupid would hurt their relationship.

“Thank you, Miss Amakusa.” She glanced up at the taller girl and realized that she hadn’t even been watching where they were going, so absorbed was she in observing Hermione. Hermione looked down, pretending she hadn’t seen anything. “Here we are,” she said.

The door was open, and within stood two girls in the same uniform that Amakusa wore, St Lobelia Academy’s. They’d made minor changes to theirs, making it slightly different from the pictures in the books Hermione had read, but it was definitely recognizable.

The hosts, for their parts, were dressed as knights templar, with white tunics and red crosses prominent on their chests. An odd choice, in Hermione’s opinion. Knowing Ootori, her costume would be waiting for her in the changing room.

“My apologies, I should have come earlier,” she said. “Forgive me, ladies, gentlemen.”

Both of the Lobelia girls turned and beamed at her. “Oh, Benibara, where have you found this gem?” cried the taller of the two.

“She was wandering the halls. I would have thought her a spirit were it not for the life which radiates from her.”

Hermione chanced a look at the hosts, none of whom looked quite comfortable. The girls were lesbians, immune to their charms. It was up to Hermione to entertain their guests, apparently.

“Please, come sit,” she said, leading Amakusa to a couch. “Would you like tea?”

“Yes,” said the smallest of the girls.

“But please, do not leave,” implored the taller one.

Hermione inclined her head at Ootori, asking him without words to handle the situation. He nodded back and disappeared in the kitchenette.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she said, folding up on her armchair as she was accustomed to doing. “May I have the honour of knowing yours, ladies?”

The short one leaned forward and enthused, “I’m Hinako Tsuwabuki, but the others call me Hinagiku.”

“My name is Chizuru Maihara,” said the taller one.

“Oh, the Zuka Club!” Hermione said. Ootori appeared unobtrusively behind her, and Hermione motioned for him to set down the tray. Hermione poured them all a cup, beginning with the clear leader, Amakusa, then Maihara, and finally Tsuwabuki.

“You know of us, then?” Amakusa preened.

There was no harm in flattering them a little, Hermione decided. “Yes, of course. When I moved to Japan, I researched every school in the area. In the end, I decided on Ouran Academy, but Lobelia was a strong contender. The Zuka Club especially sounded like fun.”

“We’re glad you think so,” Tsuwabuki purred.

“This club is a disgrace,” Maihara said to her clubmates. “To think that they’ve brought this beautiful maiden down with them— it’s insupportable.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Amakusa, turning toward the assembly of hosts. “The Host Club's president may be a pretty little halfer, but he shouldn't be using his looks to create a fictitious romance. Attempting to fool the hearts of pure young maidens is demeaning to all women. Your so-called ‘club activities’ are nothing more than debasing macho fantasies! I promise you, we will bring you down. The Ouran Host Club will be abolished!”

“That’s quite enough, Miss Amakusa,” Hermione said, forcing her muscles to relax. “Please do not insult my friends in such a manner. Your assumption that the girls who come here are coerced into doing so implies that they are weak of will and easily misled.”

The three girls faced her again and blinked.

“She’s right,” said Tsuwabuki.

“Hermione Granger,” Amakusa said, as if she were tasting the syllables. “That a pure beauty would also have such superior understanding...”

“She’s perfect, Benio,” Maihara said.

“Hermione, why don’t you come with us? We can handle the paperwork, and you can be with us before the week is out,” Tsuwabuki said.

“Please, Hermione,” said Maihara.

Hermione closed her eyes. How officious! Hadn’t she already said that she’d made her choice? “My apologies, ladies. As much as I would like to become better acquainted with you all, there are people here who need me. Please, don’t go to such trouble on my account.”

“Of course, we must give you time to think about it,” said Amakusa with the air of someone indulging a child’s silly wish. “We will come back for you tomorrow. Goodbye for now, maiden.”

The other two echoed the sentiment and twirled out the door, clicking it shut behind them.

The room was silent for a moment, and Hermione’s limbs trembled.

“‘Mione—”

She seized Amakusa’s abandoned, empty teacup and threw it with all her might. Her magic shattered it before it even hit the wall.

“Miss Granger—”

“Shut up,” Hermione hissed. “Just... just give me a moment.”

“Takashi, ‘Mione is being scary,” Haninozuka wailed behind her.

She had to calm down before things started breaking on their own. “Please, leave me,” she said.

After a moment of silence, Hermione checked for auras and found only Ootori still remaining.

“I hope you’re planning to pay for that,” Ootori said, coolly.

“What do you mean?” Hermione said, feeling her fury soaking into the floor around her. “It’s not broken.”

“Of course it’s— what?”

“Hardy little things, aren’t they?” Hermione walked over to the surreptitiously-repaired teacup and picked it up, examining it for chips. It was perfect, exactly the way it had been. “See?”

“I saw it shatter,” said Ootori.

“Then how come it’s not broken now?” Hermione asked.

“These things tend to happen around you,” Ootori said. “I don’t know how you do it, but you do.”

“If you say so,” Hermione shrugged.

###x###

Everyone was unsettled after Granger’s unprecedented paroxysm, but she seemed to slip back into her role without any problems.

Musuko Tachikawa kept his promise, bursting in through the doors the very minute they opened for business. Kyoya repressed a scowl and processed his request for Granger. Several of her regulars weren’t far behind, including the two who paid to sit with her all day.

Kyoya had gotten into the habit of watching her, ostensibly to assess her hosting talent. More often, though, he caught himself imagining himself sitting with her— imagining that her smiles were for him, and that they were real. Today, he watched Tachikawa fawn over her, asking all manner of questions. The other boys sat there and listened to the same answers they’d heard before with hearts in their eyes.

His personal feelings aside, bringing on a female host was an incredibly lucrative decision. While not rivalling Tamaki’s request rate, she filled in a happy mean between Tamaki and the twins.

“You’ve been watching ‘Mione lately,” Honey remarked, sounding older as he sometimes did.

Kyoya looked down at the diminutive senior, surprised out of his thoughts. “She’s doing well for a rookie,” he said.

“She isn’t actually that person. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Kyoya said, “but she plays it well.”

As suddenly as he’d come, Honey skipped back to his small table to enjoy the comforts of confectionaries.

Honey was right, of course. What made Granger so remarkable was that, unlike the male hosts, she wasn’t even close to actually being her role. It would be downright foolish to grow attached to the idea of a nadeshiko. Kyoya knew better than any of them just how far she altered herself to become her persona.

Perhaps it was because he was afraid of her true personality. She could break and repair things without touching them, and something told him that that was only scratching the surface of her abilities. If he were honest with himself, her unexplained kinesis was why he let her do largely as she pleased. He would have to be an idiot not to be afraid of her, and Kyoya was anything but an idiot.

Kyoya rang the bell for shift change, and groans of disappointment filled the room. The girls got up without a fuss, though. He looked over at Granger’s couch, but none of them had moved.

“--This weekend, Hermione. Please. I’ll do anything!” a singularly average boy begged, and by the desperation in his voice this was only the latest in a string of pleas.

“Mr Otokowai, it’s against club policy for me to spend time with any of our guests outside of club hours. I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not my choice.” She looked exceptionally calm, displaying none of her usual tells.

Besides Kajo Otokowai, there were five boys littering the couches around Granger. Each looked nervous and furious, and two in particular looked willing to get physical. Intervention would be necessary—  but Kyoya waited. He wanted to know how Granger would handle the situation.

“Kajo,” Granger said, interrupting the beginning of another round of frantic entreaties. “It’s time for you to go. I will see you the next time you come here.” She held out her hand, palm down and wrist relaxed. Perplexed and hopeful, Otokowai took it. “If you want to see me, you will come here tomorrow. Yes?”

“Of course,” Otokowai slurred, expression slack. “As you wish.”

“Go now,” she said softly.

Kyoya watched, perturbed, as Otokowai picked up his bag and marched out of the parlor.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” she said to the others. “But it is time for you to go. Thank you for keeping me company. I hope to see you all tomorrow.” Her smile was small but brilliant, and the three who hadn’t paid to stay by her side shambled off with witless, overawed grins.

Granger sipped her tea, and for the second time that day Kyoya was afraid of her.

###x###

The Zuka Club came back the next day, as promised. The twins moved out of the way of the swinging door just in time to avoid being crushed, and turned to hiss at the intruders.

“Welcome back, ladies,” Kyoya said, bowing a little.

The three Lobelia girls ignored him completely, and Kyoya blinked, shoving his glasses up on his nose.

“Hermione!” Amakusa called. “We’ve come to collect you!”

Kyoya let them call her for several moments before interrupting, “Hermione has yet to come in. She never does until soon before visiting hours.”

“Where is she, then?” they cried, angrier than the situation warranted.

“We’re unsure,” Kyoya said.

“Maybe with the Black Magic Club,” the twins cut in. “But there’s no guarantee. Most of the time we can’t find her at all.”

“Would you pay us the compliment of waiting here, ladies?” Tamaki said. “Hermione shouldn’t be long.”

The girls exchanged pained glances before Amakusa sighed, “There doesn’t appear to be a better option.”

They stalked as one to Granger’s couch and sat in that same wooden formation, clearly reluctant to be entertained. Kyoya let them be. The sooner they left, the better.

Granger was singular in her entrance in that she opened the doors as little as would allow her to slip through and sidling in. The hinges were silent that way, and she walked with even less noise. “Mr Ootori,” she said from behind him, making Kyoya jump.

“You have guests,” he coughed, once he’d recovered his equilibrium.

“Oh. So I do.”

She tugged on a strand of hair apologetically, and it was only then that Kyoya really took in her appearance. Her hair was huge and frizzy, her face was flushed, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. As she subtly pointed out, she wasn’t fit to entertain guests.

“I’ve got this,” she said, an idea flashing in her eyes like a meteor. Before Kyoya could protest, she was approaching the Zuka Club girls.

“Hermione, at last!” Tsuwabuki cried.

“I’m sorry,” Granger said, grinning sheepishly. “I offered to help my friend clean up a party and the time got away from me. Is it visiting hours already?” She crossed over to her usual perch and arranged herself with less poise than usual. Her tone, too, contained less courtesy and more real friendliness.

“No,” said Amakusa— was she blushing? It was hard to tell— “Indeed, you need never clean or see this room again. We’ve come to collect you.”

“That’s kind of you,” Granger said, “but entirely unnecessary. I enjoy volunteering my time here, Miss Amakusa, and I don’t need rescuing.”

“Of course you don’t need rescuing,” Maihara cooed.

“You would be honoring us with your company,” Tsuwabuki said.

Granger shook her head, and even that gentle motion swung her hair. “You don’t understand, ladies. I will not go with you. I’m conscious of the compliment, but nothing you say will change my mind.”

“But—”

“Enough. You’re attempting to impose your wills over mine as if you know better than I what’s best for me. You’re acting like everything I despise in men. Why would I want anything to do with hypocrites who claim to advocate for women but who actually just put themselves in place as their new superiors? It’s disgusting, and I want nothing to do with it. No, Benio, let me speak. I’ve allowed you your piece, and it’s only fair that you allow me mine.” Granger glared at the three shocked girls around her. “You’ve come into my home and you insult everyone I hold dear as if you’re actually better somehow. I want you to get out. Perform your little song and then go home.”

Perhaps that was too far, but Kyoya couldn’t bring himself to move or even speak. He could only stare in something close to horror as Granger seemed to tower over her guests, emitting a warning that any intelligent being would recognize. The girls seemed just as frozen as Kyoya and the other hosts.

Something cracked behind them all, and although the sound was startling in the silence no one turned to look.

“Am I understood?” Granger asked, and smiled. The tension bled out of the air just enough for Kyoya to regain freedom of motion and intelligent thought, and the girls couldn’t absent themselves fast enough.

Everyone’s eyes remained on Granger even as the doors slammed shut.

“That was unbecoming,” Kyoya said, cognizant of incredulous stares from his friends.

“I know,” said Granger, standing and unrolling her sleeves. “I took on a different character. They hadn’t seen enough of my normal one to know the difference.”

“That’s not what I meant. You may have just created an enemy, not just for yourself but for all of us.”

“Sure,” she said, and then laughed. “Like they hadn’t already pledged themselves against you. Besides, they were terrified. I guess no one’s stood up to them, and they didn’t know how to handle that. Oh, well. You’re just worried about the club’s reputation.”

“Naturally,” Kyoya drawled.

“Look,” she said, sobering, “You have nothing to worry about. They won’t be back, and if they have any sense of self-preservation they won’t say anything, either.”

She had a point, even if she did seem unaware of just how frightening she could be. Besides, if she wasn’t going to accept his censure there was little he could do. She had no family and no job that he could influence, and no dwelling that he could find, so short of pulling his weight to get her removed from Ouran entirely, an action which far outweighed her offense, he couldn’t do anything to her.

“I suggest you prepare yourself for guests,” he said.

“Oh—” as if she’d forgotten her responsibilities— “Of course!”

[alcoholicseraphim]

A Study in Caricatures

Part 3

“Miss Hoshokuji,” Kyoya greeted, and the chill made his fellow hosts shiver. Renge, characteristically, was immune.

“Yes, Kyoya?” She was busying herself with arranging flowers on Honey and Mori’s table, a touch that was unnecessary but not unwelcome.

It was such a domestic scene. Kyoya’s eye twitched. “Why are you in here before club hours? And where is Miss Granger?” It had been his understanding that she would not come back without righting her mistake.

“Oh, oh! I found her in the Black Magic Club, and she was a lot nicer than I thought at first! She told me that she’d only been studying in here for a few days, and that she isn’t all that attached to you all. How sweet of you, to go out of your way to be so kind to someone who isn’t even your friend!” Indeed, a weight seemed to have been lifted off of Renge’s shoulders.

“I see,” said Kyoya. Things were worse than he’d thought. What could draw a steady, practical, boring individual like Granger to the Black Magic Club? He would suspect that Renge were lying, if she were capable of performing such a feat with any measure of skill, except for the event that had drawn the Host Club to Granger in the first place.

The Black Magic Club didn’t actually perform magic, however, only chanted in circles and threw curses at the walls in the hopes that something would actually work. If Granger was a person with magical skill, which he still seriously doubted, then that still didn’t explain why she would choose to spend her time with such a phony crowd.

Renge moved to stand in front of him. “Why are you upset? Was I wrong to leave her there?”

“Yes,” Kyoya said.

“But she didn’t want to come!” Renge cried, calling the attention of the other hosts. “And she’s a commoner anyway, so she has no designs on getting close to any group here. Even that new club she’s in is just a way to pass time for everyone, I can tell. Next week they’ll be bored of her and she’ll go somewhere else. She doesn’t care about the Host Club! I couldn’t have brought her back no matter how hard I tried! I did the right thing!” Here she stomped her foot in a petulant move she must have learned from an anime, tears welling artfully in her eyes.

Kyoya was unimpressed. “Miss Hoshokuji, please do see yourself out before our guests begin arriving.”

His friends watched with wary eyes as he sat on the couch and opened his laptop, and Renge looked stunned for a moment before fleeing.

###x###

Halloween was fast approaching, and as it drew near the Black Magic Club cultivated a swelling mania. Hermione wanted nothing to do  with it.

Umehito had tried to get her to stay, even to the point of reluctantly offering to tone downhis love of Halloween and Samhain, but Hermione would have none of it. She was content to make herself scarce for a week or so until the excitement died down.

Not that anyone knew it, but she wasn’t really going anywhere. Umehito would be both amused and concerned to learn that she’d stopped going to her apartment altogether except on weekends. The small, secret room called to her, and all of its flaws were easily fixed by (sometimes complex) magic. Its security was improved by Muggle-repelling wards and various Notice-Me-Nots, and its size was expanded with only a single enchantment chain. It was a home worthy of her.

She was confident that she would not be found unless she wanted to be, but she’d also taken steps to make sure she would always know if she was needed. She’d bugged the Black Magic Club room, and set up less-intense aura detection across the entire school.

Halloween. A day she’d likely spend pining after feasts and Hogsmeade visits and Harry and Ron. There was no reason to subject anyone to that.

As perfect as her abode was, it got lonely sometimes. She felt as though she was the hermit witch on the mountain, looking after the kingdom but rarely visited.

“What are you doing outside the care of your friends in the occult, Miss Granger?” Ootori asked.

“I wondered when you would speak up,” she said, having known of his entry the moment his energy came into range.

Ootori said nothing.

“Nekozawa would laugh if he heard you suggest that they’re protecting me,” she mumbled, knowing he would hear. “They couldn’t protect an ant farm. And what makes you think I need ‘care’ in the first place?”

“You’re awfully chatty today,” he remarked.

“Sure I am. I’ve been reading all morning and I’m so far ahead on my schoolwork I could probably just show up for exams at the end of term and pass everything. Wouldn’t that make you chatty?” It had been, what, two weeks since she’d last spoken to him? What could he possibly want from her?

There was silence from them both for several long moments, but at last Ootori said, “Miss Hoshokuji was meant to bring you back with her. Why didn’t you go?”

“What do you mean? What possible reason could I have had? The twins offered me a place to study in exchange for me entertaining them by butting heads with you. I’ve found somewhere else to study which also offers far fewer arguments per capita.” Hermione dragged her thumbnail across the page. She didn’t ask why he was asking, or what reason they could have for wanting her back. It was confusing and a little bit frightening, and she wasn’t sure they even had a reason. Wouldn’t that be disappointing?

Ootori sighed, a puff of breath which felt warm even from three yards away. “That does explain why the twins are so sullen lately, but not why the rest are. They performed their duties far better before you left, and I would appreciate it if you did your part to restore equilibrium.”

“Not that I really have a grasp on the situation, but I suspect if you want your fellow hosts back at peak performance, it has more to do with Miss Hoshokuji’s arrival than my departure.”

For the first time, Hermione could detect true irritation from Ootori. “I’ll be frank with you, Miss Granger. It is my hope that your presence will help drive her away. She’s proving to be difficult to... dislodge.”

“I don’t owe you anything, you know,” Hermione said.

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re a smart boy, so I’m sure you know what that means. You’ll owe me if I do this little favor for you.”

“Yes, I know,” he said through gritted teeth.

“If you’re really willing to pay the price, then fine.” Hermione shut her book with a finality which rang throughout the room. “Club hours are about to begin. You’re cutting it close, here. Lead the way.”

###x###

“Trust Kyoya to achieve the impossible,” Hikaru coughed.

“It wasn’t impossible,” Granger said primly.

She and the twins bickered for a bit, and in the meantime Kyoya observed the countenances of his friends. Honey and Mori were no less standoffish and Tamaki was no less sullen than he’d been before. The twins did seem much happier now that they had their toy back, which was progress, at least.

Renge hadn’t yet arrived, and going off of the pervasive aura of dread, no one was looking forward to her showing up.

Before long, the hosts excused themselves to get into position, for the guests would soon be arriving. Granger shuffled off to her table against the far wall, opening up a tome that even Kyoya had to acknowledge was excessively thick, and tuned them out with an efficiency that was almost impressive.

The doors opened, and without there was a group of four of their regulars.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice more smooth and deep than normal. “May I assume you’d like to request Tamaki?”

“Oh! Yes, thank you,” breathed the most talkative of them.

“Is that girl from a few weeks ago back?” one of the others, notable only by her pixie cut, said. “The honour student?”

“Yes, she is, though perhaps not permanently,” said Kyoya, and flashed a blinding smile.

As usual, the girls stopped blinking and just stared at him, and when they unfroze there was a giddy quality to their voices when they walked away. It was a surefire way to get them to stop asking questions.

The girls filtered in steadily, though all stopped by Kyoya to request their host of choice. As always, Tamaki was well in the lead.

“Ootori,” said a voice from behind him. “How are the accounts doing?”

“I hardly think that’s any of your business,” Kyoya said coldly, “since you aren’t a part of the club.”

“That’s too bad,: Granger said. “I was only wondering whether the presence of a non-guest girl would lower profit margins.”

“You mean you were trying to come up with proof that you shouldn’t be around,” Kyoya said. “And as a matter of fact, we’re having a particularly profitable day. Considering there’s no change from the usual and it’s not a cosplay day, one may assume that your presence doesn’t hurt.”

“Good to know,” she grumbled. “No, no, that makes sense, sort of. Perhaps it would be one thing if I were a regular student, but I’m a foreign transfer. It would be better if I were a boy, I suspect, but the novelty does its work even considering my gender.”

“Correct,” said Kyoya, who’d already thought of that. “You see Tamaki? Part of his success stems from his obviously different nationality.”

“It fits with his role,” Granger said, nodding. “It wouldn’t work as well with the fantasy if he were completely Japanese.”

“Indeed,” said Kyoya.

When he heard no response, he assumed she’d gone back to her tome, but upon turning around he saw her still standing there, though no longer facing him. She watched the room with calculating eyes.

“What do you think would happen if you became a host?” he asked. He’d spoken to Tamaki about it, and they’d agreed that perhaps that was the best option. Renge’s harsh words had stuck with them all. Kyoya may not be particularly fond of Granger, but he could recognize that she was a good person to have around, and would almost certainly be a profitable addition to their ranks.

“Assuming I change my personality to be more acceptable, and work more on my appearance, the addition of guests who are attracted to women would add a neat increase to both traffic and revenue,” she said, her voice as blank and toneless as any businessman’s. “Success is contingent on those factors, however. It may be better to introduce someone else as the first female host. Miss Hoshokuji, perhaps.” A hint of mirth crawled into her words, and Kyoya found himself amused.

“I’m confident that Miss Hoshokuji could only drive guests away,” he said. “You, however, have insight into what works and why. If you put in the effort, you could be successful.”

“While I am flattered by this hypothetical, it would do nothing for my plans for the future. Becoming a hostess would damage my prospects if I try to go into anything legitimate. Men and women are treated differently in this world, Ootori. Surely your sister has taught you that much?” She still hadn’t turned to look at him, and so Kyoya didn’t feel quite as much of an urge to suppress the scowl which took over his face.

“Fuyumi is content,” he said, not asking how Granger had even known about her, much less her personal feelings or situation.

“I’m sure she is now,” Granger said, “but can you imagine how it must have felt to know that she would never have a place in her own family’s business? And you think that being the third son is bad enough. If you show enough aptitude then someday you may play a part, but your sister will never have that chance, and only because she was born a woman.”

“It’s the way things are. She’s accepted it.”

“Now imagine that when she was in high school, she grew frustrated with her lot in life and accepted an invitation to be a hostess, entertaining and flirting with boys. Would she still be looking for a marriage contract now, I wonder? Would your father have disowned her?”

She had a point. His father wouldn’t be happy to find out what Kyoya was doing in his free time, but it would be much, much worse if Fuyumi had been in his place. He would have called her a whore, disowned her, cut off her allowance and her dowry. However— “It’s one thing for a woman of my sister’s status, but quite another for a foreign orphan commoner.”

“As my brief introduction to Miss Hoshokuji informed me, I already have enough people whispering about my low breeding. There’s no need to increase those numbers.”

“You’re almost the top student in our year, though,” Kyoya said. He’d checked. If she’d been there for the first semester then it was entirely likely that she would have taken over his own position as top student. The technicality didn’t sit easy with him. “Some people will look down on you no matter what you do.”

“The truth is malleable. Who’s to say I didn’t sleep my way there, hm? That’s what they’ll say if I do become a host. You’re just a step away from sex workers, you know.”

“And how would things go if you had the support of several families with wealth and influence?”

“I couldn’t ask for that,” Granger snapped. “And I have no guarantee of follow-through. It would be moronic and naive of me to entrust my future to high school students who would face no consequences should they conveniently ‘forget’ their promises.”

Kyoya wanted to protest their honorability, but that would be missing the point. “You aren’t talking like you’re refusing,” he realized.

“You’re right,” Granger said in a half-laugh. “In the end, I doubt it’ll be a concern.”

“Why is that?”

Granger turned to face him at last, and despite her cheerful expression there was a gravity to her which made Kyoya pay close attention to her words. “I’m good at persuading people,” she said, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Think about it,” said Kyoya, skin prickling.

“There’s no need,” said Granger. “If you’re serious about your offer, then I accept. It sounds interesting. Though I will have to let Umehito know... That won’t be a fun conversation. Perhaps it’ll be an opportunity to test the potion. He’ll have fun with that.” Her voice had devolved into a stream-of-consciousness mumble, not meant for his ears but not a secret either.

“We’ll start working on your persona after club hours end today. I trust you’ll stick around until then?”

“Of course,” she said. “Remember, Ootori, you owe me.”

He might someday soon regret allowing himself to become indebted to this loan shark. Kyoya pushed up his glasses and coughed.

When he looked up Granger was walking away, and it occurred to him that there was a peculiar juxtaposition of stillness and motion to her; her hair, though delicate tendrils escaped her serviceable plait, remained fixed and immobile, but the hem of her shirt ruffled in an unseen breeze. Her image was hazy, as though she vibrated with power. It was such a silly thing to strike fear into his heart, but strike fear it did.

Perhaps, with Granger, magic wasn’t so far-fetched.

###x###

“What’s the main demographic of boys who would seek out the services of a high school host club?” Granger asked. She chewed on the end of her pen and then stopped, looking down at it with surprised irritation. “Lonely boys, I’ll bet. Romantics, obviously. They’ll be wanting a virtual girlfriend experience. What do you all think?”

“What about allure, mystery?” Tamaki suggested, swooning backwards. “Surely any boy who—”

“No,” said Granger. “Yes, that’s one of the archetypes, but not the main one. There’s only one of me, remember, and we need to balance my own natural acting ability with the most profitable persona. Thank you for your input, though. Certainly, if you do decide to include another hostess, that would be the right choice.”

Poor Tamaki didn’t know what to do with such understated praise, and he sat down again with a perplexed, pleased expression.

“Right, so you should be a virtual girlfriend,” said one of the twins, who’d sat on Granger’s right side.

“But what would that entail specifically?” said the other, who’d sat on Granger’s left side.

Granger tapped the pen against the table. “Good question. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Pour tea.”

“Be sweet.”

“Keep those books around—”

“But not too many.”

“Or too often.”

“Use friendly language.”

“Ask about themselves a lot.”

Granger jotted each point down in neat, round script. “A good start,” she said, and the twins beamed. “I’ll have to practice the—”

The doors swung open with such force that they hit the walls and recoiled.

Kyoya closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on already. How had he forgotten about Renge?

“Oh, Kyoya, you didn’t tell me you brought that commoner back here!” Renge was all smiles, and those smiles were made of far more canines than the human mouth contained.

“This is Hermione Granger, our newest host,” said Kyoya.

Granger, on cue, stood and said, “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Hoshokuji. How have you been?” Her eyes were huge and round, her smile gentle and unassuming. It was as though she’d donned a Nadeshiko coat.

“I’ve been fine,” said Renge, who seemed suddenly uncertain. “I thought you said you had no interest in coming back here?”

“That’s true, but I thought it a worthy endeavor to help out my classmates. Don’t you think so?” The question was so soft, so worldly, that Kyoya himself would have felt uncomfortable arguing with her.

“Yes, I- I suppose,” said Renge. Her hostility and passive aggression had all but disappeared.

“Please, come sit with me,” said Granger. “I’ll pour you some tea. Is Earl Grey all right? It’s a favorite of mine.” Renge nodded dumbly, and Hermione poured them both a cup of tea.

“Every time I meet you, you’re a different person,” Renge mumbled.

“Does the inconsistency bother you?”

“Yes!” cried Renge. “How can you be so cheerful one day, so blunt the next, and now so caring? How is anyone supposed to know how to treat you? How can anyone trust you?”

“Perhaps you expect too much from others,” Granger said. “No one is consistent. That’s what being human is. Are you social and bubbly all the time, Miss Hoshokuji?”

“No, of course not.”

“Sometimes you don’t feel like it, is that right? Sometimes you don’t have the energy?”

“I suppose.”

“It would certainly be convenient if everyone stayed the same, but then how does anyone learn?” Granger smiled again, sipping her tea. “Do you think you give others enough credit? It takes work to present yourself exactly as you are, whether you’re flouting expectations or not.”

Renge, thoughtful, was mimicking Granger’s posture. Her spine straightened, her hands coming to fold over her teacup like an embrace. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

Granger reached out a hand and grasped Renge’s for only a moment before retreating.

“You remind me of my mother,” said Renge at last. And then, quieter, “I miss her.”

“I miss my mother, too,” Granger said. “But she’s safer where she is. I like to think she’s happier, too.”

Kyoya, who’d forgotten he was even a person, came back to himself at the beginning of such uncharacteristic emotional vulnerability. The others were similarly entranced, staring at the marvelous change in Granger’s entire countenance.

“Miss Hoshokuji, you’re a sweet girl.” A blatant lie. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here. But for now, the other hosts and I need to arrange matters for tomorrow.”

“May I stay here?” Renge begged.

“Is that a good idea? You’d have to be very quiet and entertain yourself. Can you do that?” Here her voice went low, a velvet crowbar, and she took another sip of tea.

“Yes!” said Renge.

“How about this, Miss Hoshokuji. You may stay just for today, but you must keep your promise. If you cannot, then tomorrow you will listen when I ask you to go. All right?”

“Okay,” said Renge. “Okay, I’ll go sit over there. Is that good?”

“Yes, that’s good.” Granger put her finger over her mouth, reminding Renge that she was to be quiet.

“Mione, you’re amazing!” Honey cried once Renge was settled in at a table across the parlor.

Granger shrugged, a roguish grin overtaking her encouraging smile in the space of a blink. “It’s positively Freudian,” she crowed.

Kyoya sighed, knowing without even looking that Tamaki would be confused. “She means that boys want to date people who remind them of their mothers, and girls want to date people who remind them of their fathers.”

“Creepy,” said the twins.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Granger. “It’s more like people instinctively try to recreate their own upbringing, with themselves as one parent and a partner as the other. It does tend to get problematic, however, when the upbringing was less than ideal.”

“Anyway,” said Kyoya pointedly, “Was that the persona you plan on using?”

“Yes,” said Granger.

“Are you sure you can keep that up?” It seemed so different from her normal personality. It was fantastic, true, but was it sustainable?

“It’s not so different from... yes, I can keep it up.” A twinge of pain flashed across her face, but was just as soon gone.

“If you say so, then let’s move on to other matters.”

###x###

Granger started the next day. She showed up to Music Room #3 in her regular uniform, black slacks and a white button-down. She was bare-faced.

“I’ll need to be more feminine,” she began, all business. “What do you have for me?”

“The regular uniform would be ill-advised, in my opinion. Not only will you blend in, it’s too playful for your persona. In light of this, I’ve prepared this.” He set a bundle of silk down on the arm of a nearby sofa.

Granger swept up the cloth and shook it out. “It looks... good,” she said. It was a more feminine upgrade of her current uniform: a fitted silk button-down blouse with long sleeves and a black pleated skirt which would come down to just above her knees.

“I’ve also taken the liberty of calling a makeup artist. We can work with him and figure out exactly the look we want, and he’ll teach you how to replicate it.”

“Perfect,” said Granger. “When does he get here?”

“Any minute now,” Kyoya said. He was meant to arrive before Granger did, but Granger was early.

“Even better. I’ll go get changed.” She threaded her way through couches and tables to a door on the far side of the room, which was close to the door to the kitchenette.

Kyoya watched her go with the same bemusement he always felt around her.

It took barely half an hour to work with the cosmetician, who spun out makeup products one after the other only for Granger to shoot them down.

“Natural,” she emphasized. “Not too glamorous. I want to be able to pass for wearing nothing. Can you do that?” she seemed unusually knowledgeable of the technicalities of makeup, but Kyoya supposed that it wasn’t that unusual.

“Will you be able to do this again?” Kyoya asked once the man took his leave.

Granger gave him a look that told him that he was possibly the least intelligent being she’d ever met. “Yes,” she said.

He had his doubts. The makeup artist had been worth the price; her face was sculpted, her eyes darker than usual, her mouth a faint berry color just a smidge deeper than her natural tone. When she blinked, her eyelashes lay in perfect sooty crescents against her cheeks, although there was no hint of mascara anywhere. She was pretty, but not gorgeous, as they’d requested.

“You’ll see,” she said. “Come practice with me, Ootori. We have enough time.”

They took a moment to rearrange the sofas so that three couches faced a central coffee table, and placed an armchair in the remaining spot. The armchair would be for Granger, obviously.

“Sit, please,” she said in a smooth, kind voice, gesturing to the spot closest to her. “We didn’t get a chance to speak earlier, what with all the preparations. Please tell me about your day, Mr Ootori.”

“You may call me Kyoya,” he said before he’d thought it through. Despite himself, her voice purred in his bones, and he was left momentarily speechless. He could completely understand how she’d shut down Renge the day before. It was very different having such attention directed at him personally.

They talked at length, and Kyoya failed to notice when the other hosts arrived and assembled.

“It’s nearly time, Kyoya,” she said, and his insides jumped. It was surprise that the time had gotten away from him, not pleasure that she’d spoken his name, he told himself.

He unfolded from the sofa and made his way to his station near the door, shaking his head to clear the fuzz from his thoughts.

The doors opened, and a pair of girls came in and looked around. “There’s a new host?” they said. “Kyoya, Kyoya, is there a new host?”

Kyoya nodded. “Ladies, may I introduce you to our first hostess? Hermione, come here, please.”

Granger’s movements seemed to flow together, as though ten steps were one single dance. “Ladies,” she said, curtsying. “I’m happy to see you here.”

“This is Hermione Granger,” Kyoya said, his blood running thick with pride. “Hermione, this is Miss Matsumoto and Miss Honda.”

Granger smiled something slow and gentle, and the girls had no choice but to smile back. “Your presence honours us,” she said.

The girls tittered their thanks, cheeks flushed, and requested Tamaki.

“Stay here,” Kyoya said. “It’s more efficient than coming up every time a guest arrives.”

“As you say,” said Granger, clasping her hands together at her front.

“You’re doing very well,” he said. “Keep it up.”

“Thank you, Kyoya.”

###x###

“Six requests. That’s not bad at all,” Ootori said.

“If you say so,” said Hermione. Her only frames of reference were the other hosts, who’d had months to build up their clientele. Ootori was unlikely to try to comfort her about her performance, so she would trust him.

“Are we still visiting your new resort this weekend, Kyoya?” Tamaki asked.

“Yes,” Ootori said. “However, we will have to make additional arrangements for Miss Granger. Assuming she’s free this weekend, that is?”

It was clear that it was a not-so-subtle order that she clear her schedule, but Hermione shook her head. “I’m afraid you all will have to go without me,” she said. “I have plans with Umehito. Nekozawa, that is.”

“Oh. Him,” grumbled the twins.

“I see,” said Ootori, pushing his glasses up his nose. There was a pause where perhaps there normally would have been a threat, but none came. Hermione smirked. She had one up on him officially, and unofficially she could threaten to quit whenever she wanted. He couldn’t force her to do anything.

She knew how to deal with arrogant rich people, after all. He may be more of a challenge than Malfoy intellectually, but Malfoy had actually had something on her and they all knew it. If she’d been born a pureblood, she would still be a woman. If she’d been born a pureblood man, she still wouldn’t have the money and influence that the Malfoys had. It was refreshing not to have to fight so hard whenever she wanted to do something that others didn’t agree with.

When she looked up from her hands, tucking away a secret smile, she found every set of eyes on her. “I’m sorry?” she said. “What else needs to be discussed?” Like Halloween, perhaps. As a host, she would probably have to participate. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Yes, there is,” said Ootori, and the air felt normal again.

[alcoholicseraphim]

A Study in Caricatures

Part 2

“Mione, Mione, will you watch Usa for me?” Mitsukuni Haninozuka held out his stuffed bunny with a look of distracted expectation, and Hermione took the toy.

She sat alone, waiting for her turn to be examined. Predictably, she wasn’t a priority patient, and so she had plenty of time to watch the hosts disappear behind curtains for their turns. Haninozuka was the last of them.

A thought twinged in her head— was she like a pet to them? A servant, perhaps? Hermione vividly remembered the relationships between those with money and those without at Hogwarts, and it was nothing she wanted any part of.

Hermione wasn’t quite the last to be examined. That would have been a blatant statement. She and Haruhi Fujioka avoided eye contact as the line dwindled down to nearly nothing.

“Fujioka Haruhi!” a nurse called.

A miserable-looking boy sank down into his seat, turning dejected eyes to Hermione.

If Hermione thought about it, a memory came up to the surface. It was an offhand comment in the hallway, snidely remarking that the boy had been disowned from his wealthy, influential family. Hermione had no idea why, but she could be certain from his demeanor that he regretted it.

For a few minutes more the boy tried to catch her eye and Hermione didn’t let him. She would look up occasionally to find him staring at her, and she would smile politely and look away.

“Granger Hermione!” And she was saved.

The bunny felt bulky in her hand as she stood, smoothed her blouse, and went to meet the nurse. “Hello, good morning,” she offered, smiling reflexively.

“Good morning!” the nurse chirped. “If you would come behind this curtain?”

Hermione’s fist clenched around Usa, and she nodded.

###x###

It had been hardly a week since she’d begun hanging around the hosts after school, and during that time she’d learned several things about her new acquaintances.

Suoh was half-French, which explained his European looks. He didn’t like talking about his family, and never mentioned his mother. What was she, a mistress? Dead? Blonde, almost certainly. Despite his mother, Suoh clearly held a lot of sway in the culture-simulation that was Ouran Academy. A lot, based on some overheard snippets of conversation. As beloved as he was by his patrons, his male classmates were significantly less fond of him. Suoh appeared oblivious.

Haninozuka and Morinozuka were cousins and best friends, and if they were apart then either something was wrong or they were planning something. Neither was a good thing. As she’d observed before, they were polar opposites, but Haninozuka wasn’t as brainless as he seemed, or as unobservant. Morinozuka, while no slouch himself, wasn’t as perceptive as his small friend.

The twins didn’t like talking about their mother either, though she was very much a presence in their lives— even when she was travelling, which seemed to be often. After club hours some days they would get so tired that it was almost as if they built a bubble separating themselves from everyone else. On those days no one dared disturb them.

Ootori wasn’t nearly so free with his inner workings as the others were. He didn’t count on other people’s lack of perception like the others did. Hermione did gather that he was the third son and fourth child of the patriarch of the wealthy Ootori family and that his father didn’t know he was involved with the Host Club. Hermione especially made note of that bit of information, for she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have to put Ootori in check one day.

For all she’d been learning about them, she hadn’t revealed much of herself. It was more that she was becoming a fixture, a piece of furniture, than a friend. She was harmless, after all.

It was one of the twins’ introverted days, and all but Ootori tiptoed around them. They’d already snapped at Suoh, sending him into a sulk, and sat near Hermione, since they’d discovered that she didn’t try to disturb them and was a deterrent in her own right. Hermione was going through books like minutes while keeping an ear out for a disturbance.

The doors slammed open, causing Hermione and the twins to jump. The twins even snarled in the direction of the noise, and when everyone turned to look, they paused.

She was a girl, slender and sandy-haired, eyes wide with wonder. When Hermione followed her gaze, it was aimed directly at Ootori.

“It’s you, Kyoya,” she whispered.

“Club hours are over,” Hikaru barked, and Kaoru put a hand on his arm. They both turned away to glare at the table.

The girl was still talking: “Oh, how I longed to meet you! My one and only prince charming.”

Hermione looked between the girl and Ootori, taking in Ootori’s cool, almost disdainful expression and the girl’s manic eyes.

Was no one going to deal with her? It was obvious no one knew her, but there must be a reason she hadn’t been escorted out yet.

Fine. Hermione stood and closed her book.

“Don’t bother,” Kaoru muttered behind her.

“Miss? Club hours are over, but any guest of- of Kyoya’s is welcome here. Please, come sit. Would you like some tea?” Hermione smiled her best and held out a hand.

“Who is this?” the girl asked. Her voice was suddenly chilly. “Why is she using your first name, Kyoya?”

Hermione put her hand down. “My name is Hermione Granger. I don’t have the honor of knowing your name, I’m afraid.”

Ootori stepped forward, coming to Hermione’s side, and that appeared to distract the girl. “Get away from him,” she said.

“Sure, Miss. I’ll go make some tea.” It took effort to keep the anger from Hermione’s voice, but she managed, even if her footfalls were perhaps too loud.

“Don’t bother,” the girl shouted after her, but Hermione didn’t stop.

Hermione closed the door behind her, thankful for the kitchenette. She set a kettle to boil and stared into the shiny metal, willing the tears away. The nerve of her, to talk to a stranger that way! To be so obscenely possessive over a boy she’d admitted to never meeting before!

The tears fell anyway, splashing onto the stove, and Hermione did her best to brush them away.

When she had herself under control and the tea was ready Hermione emerged into the parlor again, carrying enough tea for everyone bar herself.

The girl met her eyes from across the room and immediately became grumpy again. “You can set it down there,” she said, pointing to the table someone had finally convinced her to sit at.

Hermione’s eye twitched, but she obeyed. The situation was tense enough without Hermione getting indignant. Once she’d set the tray down she backed up, fully prepared to leave the hospitality to the others, whom the girl didn’t seem to have such violently negative reactions to.

“Kyoya tells me you aren’t actually a part of his club,” the girl said.

“That’s correct,” Hermione said, turning back.

“It’s obvious what you’re trying to do, you know,” said the girl. “You’re trying to get close to Kyoya by separating yourself from everyone else. He lets you stay here because he feels sorry for you.”

“If you say so,” Hermione said, and suddenly smiling was easy. She could feel smug eyes on her back as she collected her books and her bag and left.

###x###

She didn’t come back the next day.

“Maybe something came up!” Honey suggested.

“It’s that stupid girl’s fault,” Hikaru said. Honey deflated, pouting.

“She’s not actually your fiance, so who cares?” Kaoru said.

“Miss Hoshokuji may not be my fiance, but she is the only daughter of a very important Ootori family client. Miss Granger was correct to remove herself from the situation,” Kyoya said.

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” the twins grumbled..

The hosts pulled themselves together for their customers, but as soon as they left they were back to silence and irritability.

“Everyone!” Renge sang, the doors crashing open as they’d done the day before. The hosts winced as one. “You’ll be happy to know that your new manager has baked all of you some cookies!”

Tamaki cleared his throat. “Thank you, Miss Hoshokuji,” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Kyoya, they’re a little burnt.-- but I already know what you’ll say.. Oh, Kyoya, you’re always so sweet to me!” Renge set down the platter of charred cookies, and they all eyed them suspiciously for a moment.

Honey plucked one from the top which was only black on one side. He gulped and took a bite. “She wasn’t kidding,” khe squeaked. “They really are burnt.”

“Don’t eat that, Mitsukuni, it’s bad for you,” Mori said, and Honey happily relinquished the cookie.

Renge glowered at them. “Some hosts you are,” she huffed.

###x###

Changing up her routine was a pain. Where was she supposed to study now? Her apartment? The libraries? No dice.

There was still plenty of space to explore, fortunately, and that kept her mind off of lost opportunities. Sometimes, anyway. When she had nothing to do but pace the halls looking for somewhere else, she could hardly not think.

She’d known it. Suspected it, in any case. Hadn’t that always been the case? Harry and Ron befriended her because she was a Muggleborn. Ron dated her briefly because she had no one but them. Hadn’t she been pitied her whole life? Teachers, friends, her boyfriend? That girl had been completely right, and Hermione was just grateful she’d been told right away. Wouldn’t it have been awful if she’d grown attached and then found out?

A latch in the wall twitched under her searching fingertips, and Hermione took her wand in her other hand and put up a shield before pressing it. She’d spent enough years in Hogwarts to not trust that something malicious wouldn’t be built in just because it was a school.

Rather than the booby trap Hermione half-expected, a crack appeared in the wall. She opened it carefully, not letting down her shield, and peered inside.

It was a tiny little room, though bigger than a closet. A dusty old desk rested against one wall, low to the ground.

A flick of her wand Vanished the dust, and Hermione stepped inside and shut the door behind herself.

With the door closed, Hermione felt safe enough to perform more obvious magic. “Lumos,” she whispered, her voice pressing in from all sides in the pitch darkness.

The brighter light revealed more than the light from the hallway had. The desk was made of dark wood, polished to a gleam. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and if she crouched to look at the legs it featured some designs typical of the Meiji period. Dragons stretched up the sides, the depths of the carvings accented in red lacquer. Two small drawers fit into the legs. It was a beautiful little piece.

As pretty and expensive-looking as the desk was, it was the only hint of furnishing in that small room.

Hermione knelt and tested the drawers, which opened easily, smoothly. There was nothing inside but more dust, which Hermione Vanished.

When a more thorough examination yielded nothing new, Hermione moved on to the wall opposite the secret door, and, lo and behold, there was another. She slid it open as cautiously as she’d opened the first.

On the other side was a much, much larger room, though it was hard to tell just how big since the lights were off. A group of several students huddled in a seated circle, each holding a lit black candle.

“We have a visitor,” one said calmly. In a single fluid movement, he set his candle down on the floor and stood, his cloak swishing.

Hermione scanned the group, finding no familiar faces. Their attire was remarkably similar to Western wizard wear, however, and the echo of home expanded in her chest. She stepped forward. “My name is Hermione Granger,” she said, her grip on her bag tightening.

“Welcome, Hermione Granger,” the group said together.

“What brings you here, lost Eris?” the boy, clearly the leader, asked. His voice was smooth.

She would hardly call herself an Eris— she was more of a Harmonia, after all. “I’m just exploring,” she said, and her voice was jarring in the quiet room.

The others stared, and their eyes were glassy in the candlelight. It would be safe to ignore them; they were high on something, though she couldn’t be sure what it was.

“My name is Umehito Nekozawa,” the boy said. “There’s no need to worry about them. They are safe.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Hermione, “but it’s none of my business. What is this, then?”

“This,” and Nekozawa seemed to swell as he said it, “is the Black Magic Club. Are you perhaps interested in joining?”

“Not exactly,” said Hermione, smiling. “There’s not much I can learn here.”

“Is that so?” Nekozawa smiled back, and his was surprisingly friendly. “What is it you think you know? What is it you think we do here?”

Hermione was beginning to relax, despite herself. Magic, even if they were only pretending, was a welcome surprise. “You do curses, rituals, love spells, things like that. Right?”

Nekozawa asked, “And what is it you do?”

What spells could she perform without using her wand? Mostly elemental spells, or minor physical ones, since she hadn’t been training for long. “Look,” she said unnecessarily, and snapped her fingers. A flame sparked to life in her hand, and after a moment spent staring at its flickering blue light she clapped her hands together, cutting off the oxygen and effectively extinguishing it.

They sat in silence for a few bare seconds, Hermione amused and Nekozawa shocked. “How can this be?” Nekozawa said. “Please, do it again.”

Hermione cupped her hands and blew into them, and they filled with water, which soothed her poor singed fingers.

It felt good. Nekozawa stared into her hands and then up to her face with an awe approaching reverence, discernable even in the dark. Hermione blew on the water which was fast trickling from her grasp and it froze solid.

“How much can you do?” Nekozawa asked, “What else?”

“A lot,” said Hermione, a warm feeling beginning in her chest and spreading throughout her body.

It was, perhaps, a fortuitous trade: the Host Club for the Black Magic Club.

###x###

No matter how hard the twins searched, they couldn't find Hermione Granger after the final bell sounded. It was as if she vanished as soon as classes were over. They hadn't actually gone so far as to skip their last class in order to ambush her, but that option became more and more appealing every day spent searching in vain. Their only evidence that she went to school at all was the testimony of Kyoya and Tamaki.

Renge made a nuisance of herself every afternoon, clinging to Kyoya. She'd tried to forbid him from entertaining as a host, and only Kyoya's dizzying logic made her calm down.

It was, perhaps, an unfortunate trade: Hermione Granger for Renge Hoshokuji.

"You're not leaving early again, are you?" Kyoya called after them as they sneaked to the door.

"We lost our toy," they said, and went anyway. Kyoya didn't try to stop them.

"We checked all the libraries on Monday, and I think most of the clubs yesterday. What are we missing?" Hikaru muttered.

"Cooking Club, Gardening Club... Chess Club... Black Magic Club... Oh, hey, Nekozawa hasn't come by lately. We haven't seen the room yet."

Hikaru shook his head. "She'd hardly go there, though, would she? Probably not enough light to read by. Besides, she doesn't seem very "magical", does she?"

No, she did not, not with her practical braids and books and slacks. Nothing like Nekozawa.

Cooking Club was full and loud and messy, and immediately upon the twins' arrival they had plates of cake shoved at them.

Gardening Club was hot and muggy, and a girl with pigtails invited them to stay and tend the plants.

Chess Club seemed like a good bet, but there were only guys there— and one single, bitter-looking girl.

Hikaru and Kaoru trudged to the main part of the Academy.

“You still have flour on your face,” Kaoru said, but didn’t move to clean it.

“You still have dirt on yours,” Hikaru said. The twins exchanged a look and a sigh.

The Black Magic Club was in a part of the school not oft traveled, since it was less modern than the rest and way off to the north in the basement. It was a long walk, and they arrived at the double doors dejected and irritated.

Together they swung the doors open.

“Granger?”

“Oh, hello, Hitachiins,” Hermione Granger said, A breeze lifted her bangs and let them still again, and the flame on her candle flickered.

It was an odd picture. Hermione Granger sat on a chair just outside the circle of creepy children, her legs pulled up and crossed. Nekozawa sat in front of her, leaning back so his head rested on one of her knees. His wig was conspicuously absent.

“Did you need something, Hitachiins?” Nekozawa asked, his voice deep and spooky, though not as much as usual.

“Can we talk to Granger for a moment?” Kaoru asked, the first of the two to recover.

“Certainly,” said Granger, her voice just a smidgen colder. Nekozawa lifted his head obligingly, and Hermione unfolded her legs and stood. Her shoes were gone.

The trio retreated to a corner, and the twins could feel Nekozawa’s gaze piercing them, judging them, warning them.

“What is it you needed?” Hermione asked.

“Hoshokuji is so annoying!” the twins cried. “If you come back then she’ll go away!”

“No,” Hermione said, gently. “It won’t be so easy; if I come back it’ll only invite confrontation. I know you two get bored, but I’m not about to sacrifice myself on the altar of your entertainment, all right?”

“But Granger—”

“No.” Her face twisted, seeming to alternate between anger and sorrow. “I thank you for the invitation, but I must decline.” This sentence was pitched just loud enough for the others to hear.

On cue, Nekozawa said, “Perhaps it’s time you two get back, Hitachiins.”

Hikaru and Kaoru looked at each other, shrugged, and left.

###x###

Even Kyoya's patience was beginning to stretch. As little as he'd liked Granger, she had at least kept to herself, for the most part, and was undemanding of their time and attention. The same could not be said for Renge Hoshokuji.

His willful silence didn't seem to perturb her in the slightest, and neither did his subtle indications that he wasn't actually as kind as she seemed to think.

The twins left almost immediately after club hours every day, and Kyoya couldn’t bring himself to stop them. He knew what they were doing, but he couldn’t bring himself to want to stop them. It was probably for the best that the least tactful of the hosts absented themselves when Renge arrived, for they could offend her without even trying, and then his careful cordiality would be all in vain.

Tamaki and Honey were becoming less and less cheerful. It was time to do something.

“Say, Renge, how much do you know about me?” They sat on a couch without anyone in earshot, which was no accident. He even went so far as to look up from his laptop as he asked.

“Oh! You’re a gentleman who's kind to everyone and doesn't ask for anything in return. You like solitude, but in fact sometimes you get lonely, and you look like the star of the popular dating sim, Uki-doki Memorial. You're my real-life Ichijo Miyabi!” Renge turned to look at him with hearts in her eyes, the steam of the tea in her hand bringing a blush to her cheeks and brightening her eyes.

Kyoya was, after seeing this exact picture day after day, completely immune. “What have I done to lead you to that conclusion?” he asked.

“Well,” said Renge, sobering a bit at his serious expression, “You were adoring those flowers in the backyard when you thought no one else was looking, and you reached out to that poor injured kitten—”

“I didn’t actually do those things,” he said. “You're in love with that character. You're projecting the love onto me, and you somehow deluded yourself into thinking that we're engaged. It’s gone on for long enough.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you being so cold? This isn’t like you, Kyoya,” Renge whispered, tears beginning to well up.”

“It is exactly like me, Miss Hoshokuji. I couldn’t be any less like that character.”

“I know what this is about! It’s that commoner girl, isn’t it? You like her better than me! It’s her fault you’re acting this way, it’s her fault your friends don’t like me! Where is she?” Renge stood, fabric flaring around her as if to illustrate her sudden righteous fury.

“Miss Hoshokuji, sit,” Kyoya commanded. “I don’t know where she is, because she’s removed herself from the situation as a favor to you. The way people view you is entirely up to you. It’s unbecoming to blame your problems on someone else simply because you’re jealous of them. You’ve caused enough trouble around here. Please stop being such a pest.”

“A pest? What do you mean? You’re being so cruel!” She was sobbing in earnest now, and the sound grated on his ears.

“Everyone here is missing their friend. You drove her away, so it’s only right that you convince her to return, yes?”

“If I do that... If I do that, will you love me again?” Renge sniffed.

“No,” Kyoya said, “Because I never loved you in the first place, and you never loved me. But it’s the right thing to do. Do you want to be remembered as a jealous, petty person?”

“No,” said Renge, her whole body sagging down toward the floor. “But how do I apologize if no one can find her?”

“If you’re determined, you’ll figure it out,” Kyoya shrugged, stolidly avoiding glancing at the twins. “I would start checking in club rooms if I were you.”

###x###

“You’re bringing in an awful lot of visitors, Hermione,” Umehito remarked, smirking, craning his neck to look at her from the floor..

Hermione glanced down at the boy resting against the fold of her legs and murmured, “I’d really rather not deal with this one, but I suppose I’m going to have to.”

“I could deal with her for you,” Umehito said.

“Tempting,” said Hermione, “But if I let you then I’ll just have to have this confrontation another time.” She pushed gently on the back of his head and he lifted it enough for her to move.

Hermione’s posture, gait, everything was far different from what they had been when the twins had found her. She was stiff, guarded, prepared for a fight.

“Miss Granger,” Ootori’s guest said, her voice almost musical in its contrition. “I’m so sorry for my behavior. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course,” said Hermione, “There’s nothing to forgive. I never did catch your name, Miss...?”

“Renge Hoshokuji,” she said. “Do you mean it?” She seemed so excited.

“Yes,” said Hermione. There really was nothing to forgive; after all, there was no damage done, except for a momentary blow to her self-esteem. “You’ll be glad to find that I really don’t have designs on your paramour, I trust.”

“Oh,” said Hoshokuji. “Kyoya. He... he’s the one who asked me to apologize to you. He says that his friends are upset that you don’t come around anymore.”

“I’m sure they are!” Hermione snorted, chuckling. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Miss Hoshokuji— I’d only been studying in the club room for a few days at that time. There’s no need on your part to feel guilty. I wasn’t particularly attached to them, nor them to me.” Her voice may have been friendly, but anyone could see that she was uncomfortable. Of course Ootori would send Hoshokuji after her. Was she finally too much to handle? It was no less than he deserved.

“Oh!” said Hoshokuji, again. “That does make me feel better! Do think about coming back sometime, then.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Hermione. “Is that all you needed?”

“Yes, thank you!” Hoshokuji chirped. Recognizing the obvious dismissal, she turned and left.

The heavy double doors banged closed, and when they did Hermione relaxed.

“Are you okay?” Umehito asked, his voice soft. “Are you crying?”

“Of course not!” Hermione sniffled. “I’m just... I’m stronger than my body is, all right?”

Slender arms wrapped around her shoulders and squeezed, and Hermione turned to face him. “We won’t let her in from now on,” Umehito said.

“There’s no need to go that far,” Hermione mumbled, hiding her smile in his shoulder.

“Fine,” he agreed in a voice that told her he would be having a talk with Reiko Kanazuki, his second-in-command. “You said before that emotion can enhance spellwork— do you want to try?”

Hermione hummed. “I’m not in the habit of letting loose like that, Umehito,” she said. “Too dangerous. It’s a—” It’s a wartime thing, useful on the battlefield and in controlled environments, but otherwise too unpredictable.

“It’s a what?”

“Nevermind,” Hermione said, thinking.

Too often, wizards think that their magic is their slave, when in fact magic is almost a separate, sentient identity. Magic chooses the wizard. Magic loves the wizard. Magic is simultaneously older than time and a child, volatile and powerful in its youthful wisdom. It is not to be abused or underestimated.

Perhaps someday she could tell Umehito that, but he was, despite everything, a Muggle.

Umehito let her lean her weight on him and was quiet.

“I can show you something, if you want,” said Hermione at last. “But you’ll need to acquire the ingredients.”

“A potion?” he said, always quick to catch on.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “It’s nothing too powerful, mind, but it is magic.” She raised her head and looked up at him, her eyes far away.

“What does it do?”

“It will help you with your condition. There’s little research done into whether the magic-less can actually create potions with their fullest power. As far as I know, actually, an actual magic touch is necessary. I can help in that regard, but if you’d like to make it on your own then—”

“Hermione,” Umehito said. “I would be honoured to accept your help.”

Hermione paused, her consciousness coming back into her eyes. “Okay then. I’ll help.”

The pair shared a fond smile.

“You should write this down,” said Hermione. “Lemon balm, bay leaves, burdock, agrimony, aloe, yucca, violet, rue, and rose hips. You got that?” She’d intentionally chosen a potion that was made up entirely of Muggle-accessible herbs. It wouldn’t be so effective that it would work without hard work on the part of the user, but it would help some.

“I’ve got it,” said Umehito.

“Since your condition is mental rather than physical, it will cause you to sleep and dream. When you wake up you will have traveled into your psyche and dealt with the problem at its root. And if... if you want, I know how to go with you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Umehito. “Perhaps this is something I should face on my own.”

“Perhaps,” said Hermione.

“I will have the ingredients by tomorrow,” he said. “Now, we’ve left the others on their own for long enough. Would you join me again in the circle, Eris?”

[alcoholicseraphim]

A Study in Caricatures

Part I

The owl tilted its head, extended its leg, and intentionally knocked over her pumpkin juice.

Hermione untied the folded parchment and shooed it away, but not before it snagged her toast. "I hope it gives you indigestion!" she huffed, turning her attention to the missive. Anxiety simmered in her belly, a boiling sense of doom rising within her, coating the inside of her skin.

She unfolded the letter.

Miss Hermione Granger,

Kindly see me in my office at your earliest convenience. You are excused from class for the day, so I shall expect your arrival immediately after breakfast.

Should you have difficulty reaching my office, a mention of Toothflossing Stringmints should help.

Sincerely yours,

Albus Dumbledore

She wasn't in trouble, was she? It couldn't be, she'd taken care to keep her nose clean this year. It couldn't be about her O.W.L.s either, could it? The scores weren't in yet, and wouldn't be until the middle of summer holidays. Perhaps it was-

Her skin shriveled back, and fear clouded over her mind. Harry's and Ron's families had gone to battle Death Eaters the night before. But what could that have to do with her? Her own parents were Muggle, and couldn't fight even if they wanted to.

"Exactly," she whispered.

It wouldn't do to worry unnecessarily, but she knew she wouldn't be able to stomach any more breakfast.

The walk to Headmaster Dumbledore's office was a short one, and before she knew it she was trudging up the spiral stairs and knocking on the heavy oaken door.

"Come in," Professor Dumbledore called. His voice was somber, definitely, and it didn't help Hermione's nerves.

"You summoned me, sir?" Hermione squeaked.

"Indeed," he said. He was stationed behind his desk, hands steepled over the polished surface. To his left, a small bronze instrument oscillated in gentle strokes. "Please, sit."

Hermione obeyed, clutching her schoolbag to her chest.

Professor Dumbledore sighed, staring directly into her face. "I'm afraid I have grave news for you, Miss Granger," he said. "Your parents passed away yesterday."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Oh. I see."

"Do you have any questions?" Professor Dumbledore asked, gently.

"It was them, wasn't it?" Hermione whispered. "The Death Eaters, they killed them."

The Headmaster nodded, but said nothing more. Hermione didn't push it.

###x###

"Hermione, the boys are calling for you," Ginny said. "If you aren't up to it, I can tell them to lay off."

"Thank you," Hermione said, "but I think it's about time I face them."

Ginny frowned. "There's no time limit on grief, you know. You don't have to hurry and get back to normal. No one expects you to, and it's unhealthy to try."

"I know," said Hermione. "All the same, I think I can handle a trip to the Common Room."

Her friend stepped aside, and Hermione ignored her concern all the way downstairs. It was cloying.

###x###

By the end of term, Hermione felt she had a pretty good handle on the situation. She talked to Harry and his parents and they offered to let her stay with them over the holidays, an offer which Hermione gladly accepted. Harry, at least, didn't drown her in sympathy like the Weasleys did. Perhaps he just understood, like Hermione did, that there was a war on. Hermione's parents wouldn't be the last people she would lose.

Godric's Hollow was an idyllic little place, and Harry's home was wonderful as always. The library was overflowing, courtesy of Lily Potter, and Hermione spent several weeks working her way through the most interesting of their books. Things were good. Hermione used the comforting silences to process, and the Potters let her.

Peace could only last so long. That summer, Muggleborn families all over Britain were being targeted and eliminated. Dennis and Collin Creevey. Penelope Clearwater. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Terry Boot. Dean Thomas. More every week, almost every day.

Lily Potter was attacked in Diagon Alley in broad daylight. She managed to Apparate home without any serious injuries, but it was chilling all the same.

"I'm worried about Hermione," she said to her husband. Hermione froze outside the door, just out of sight. "I'm staying, obviously. This is just as much my fight as anyone else's. But Hermione... she's not safe here."

"You're right," said James. "Even with the wards on the house, she'll still have to leave someday and then she'll be in danger. She deserves a normal childhood, one without fear."

"What if... what if she leaves Britain entirely? Send her to live somewhere else, like Australia or Asia. We can fake her death if we have to."

Hermione crept upstairs, mind spinning.

###x###

Albus Dumbledore had taken it upon himself to see her safely to Japan, and Hermione was conscious of the honor. She tried her best to feel at ease as they both waited for the snapped table leg to glow. It should only have taken two minutes, but it felt far longer.

At last, the Portkey lit up in warning, and they were off.

###x###

The atmosphere of Ouran Academy was so light, Hermione didn't quite know what to make of it. The aura of fear which every Hogwarts student carried was conspicuously absent. She stood at the front of the class in a simple white button-down and black slacks in lieu of the uniform and absorbed the curious stares. She wasn't even self-conscious. These rich little partridges were no match for her.

It shouldn't have been such a relief to be outside the jurisdiction of any Ministry of Magic. Even the Statute of Secrecy couldn't touch her. She still planned to uphold the laws she would have been beholden to had she stayed put in Europe, but if she had to break a few rules, it was a huge comfort to know that no court could judge her.

She felt the hard line of her wand in her waistband, and any anxiety she felt floated away.

###x###

The scholarship hadn't been hard to get, and keeping it was no challenge either. She hadn't known that she would feel so grateful for her parents' insistence that she keep up with her Muggle education, too, but there she was, excelling as always.

Life was so laughably easy here, it was hard to leave it behind to go home. Home: an empty apartment, sterile and dim. She preferred the Academy.

Maybe she preferred it, but studying was still necessary. And to study she needed quiet, for, unlike at Hogwarts, she was a novelty. The European transferred honor student with the queer accent. The libraries- multiple- were hardly places of learning, and Hermione avoided them as much as possible.

Ouran Academy was similar to Hogwarts in one respect: both were huge, sprawling places, replete with secret passages and hidden rooms. It was a pleasure to explore, to discover every quiet place.

Music room #3: tucked away in a corner of the Academy, practically begging to be excavated. Hermione swung the door open, and-

Crash.

Hermione stopped short, as the source of the noise manifested before her eyes. A student in a baggy sweater was stretched out over a pedestal in the middle of the room, glasses hanging to the end of their nose. The shards of a vase lay scattered over the tile.

This student wasn't the only one in the room, however. There was a sizable group, all boys, all surrounding the maladroit student. She couldn't hear just what they said, but it was clear from the expressions of all present that something was wrong.

Would she ever get used to Muggles? Of course, they didn't have magic at their disposals, but it still seemed like such a silly problem.

Was it worth it to fix the vase?

The tall boy with black hair and glasses leaned in to whisper something to the blonde, and everyone turned at once to look at her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, before anyone could greet her.

"It's the other honor student," said one of the twins- was she doomed to find Fred and George everywhere she went?- eyes alight with interest. Malicious interest, if Hermione knew anything.

A lesser woman would take a step back, but Hermione refused to be cowed. She'd dealt with Fred and George, and they were wizards. There was nothing to fear from these... these...

"Our apologies," said the one who'd first noticed her presence. "We were not expecting guests quite so early."

"Guests?" Hermione asked, distracted from the unsettling similarities between these twins and the Weasleys. "Oh, I suppose this is a club of some kind. A catering club, perhaps?"

"No, not quite," said the boy in glasses. "May I present, the Host Club."

She had to admit, they did pretty well even without the advantage of magic. As one, they assembled and did some sort of... smiling thing. It was pretty dazzling, if she were honest.

"How long did you have to practice that?" she asked.

From behind the assembly, Hermione spotted the maladroit student coming to and focusing on the situation. She- and it was a she, as far as Hermione could tell- looked deeply upset.

"More importantly," said Hermione, "what's going on?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," the blonde soothed, stepping forward and taking her by the elbow.

"Don't-! Don't touch me," Hermione yelped, snatching her arm back. "And don't act so condescending. It's insulting."

The blond reeled back. "What do you mean?" he cried.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione muttered. "You're trying to make that first year pay for damages, aren't you?"

"No, of course not!" said the blonde.

"Yes," said the twins.

"Why would you do that? It can't be that bad!"

"8 million yen," the one in glasses said.

"Oh," said Hermione. That made more sense. Yes, it would definitely be worth it to cast a surreptitious Reparo. "What's your name, Maladroit?" she asked.

"Fujioka. Haruhi Fujioka," the clumsy girl said, looking more confused than anything.

"Would you help me pick up the pieces? I'm sure there's something we can do." Hermione knelt, thanking the sturdy material of her slacks, and plucked up the biggest piece.

"Even if you do put it together, we won't be able to put it on auction," the one in glasses said.

"We'll see," said Hermione.

The group of boys watched in clear bemusement as the two honor students crouched and cleaned up the broken vase by hand. It took hardly more than a minute, but all the while Hermione couldn't shake off the heat of their stares.

Hermione and Haruhi stood. "Here, I'll take that," Hermione said, pulling out her shirt to use as a carrier. Carefully, they dumped the shards onto her shirt.

"What are you planning?" Haruhi asked.

"I'm going to step outside for a moment. Don't follow me. I'll be back in a moment." Before anyone could protest, Hermione stepped back and shouldered the doors open.

She didn't have much time. Someone would come looking and then her opportunity to do a good deed would be lost. Holding the shirt with one hand, Hermione pulled her wand from her belt. "Reparo," she whispered.

The vase reformed easily, effortlessly, and just in time- she heard the doors open behind her.

"See?" she said. "Good as new."

“I don’t understand,” said Haruhi.

“Interesting,” said the boy in glasses.

The small, child-like blond, who’d kept to himself with his tall dark-haired friend until then, came forward and ran a pudgy hand over the surface of the vase. “What did you do?” he asked, and when Hermione looked at him his eyes were shining. “Is it magic?”

He was so... so small. “Yes, it’s magic,” she said, softly. And then, “Here, take it. I’ve done my best.”

The tiny blonde held it with reverent hands for only a moment before the boy in glasses took it. “There are no visual differences,” he accused.

“Or tactile, you’ll find,” Hermione mumbled.

“Indeed. I’ll be sending this in to have it certified— and I’m sure you know that fraud is against the law, yes?”

Hermione scoffed. “I know you’re convinced that I just happened to have a handy forgery, but you’re wrong. Your professional will assure you that it’s entirely genuine. Or, as genuine as the vase you were selling in the first place.”

The boy in glasses tilted his head in such a way that the light reflected off the lenses, obscuring the expression of his eyes. Hermione glared back— for she was sure that it was an intimidation tactic— and for several moments they were locked in place, neither willing to look away.

“Ahem,” the twins coughed, and Hermione and the boy in glasses turned away.

“If you’ll excuse me—” Hermione started.

“If you aren’t a customer—” the boy in glasses said at the same time.

They both stopped, and Hermione brushed her hands off. “I’m going. Leave Haruhi alone, would you?” Satisfied to have gotten the last word, she stalked off.

###x###

A lot of things began to make sense after that encounter. The many idle mentions of a “Host Club”, which offered every “main” type of boy one could ask for: Tamaki Suoh, the princely type; Kyoya Ootori, the cool type; Kaoru and Hikaru Hitachiin, the devil types; Takashi Morinozuka, the strong and silent type; and Mitsukuni Haninozuka, the childish type. If she thought back, she could connect the names and descriptors to the faces. The Hitachiins were the twins, obviously, and Mitsukuni was the boy who’d been so charmed at the idea of magic. Less obviously, Kyoya was the boy in glasses and Tamaki was the tall blond, and Takashi must have been the tall dark-haired one who’d said nothing at all.

Knowing their names felt like a victory, like she was one-upping them somehow, even though she was positive they’d known hers from the start. Now that she knew who they were, she let it go as an interesting encounter, but ultimately not useful to her.

Or, rather, she would have, if it wasn’t for the twins.

“Granger! We’ve been looking for you!”

Hermione nearly choked on her salad as they appeared on either side of her. “Oh. Hello,” she coughed. “Do you two need something?”

“Yeah, actually,” said the one on her right.

“Kyoya had the Renaissance vase examined,” said the one on her left.

“What about it?” Hermione said, trying not to smirk.

“It’s genuine,” the twins said together.

“Of course it is.” Hermione took another bite, shoving her homesickness back into its box. “It’s exactly as genuine as the one you were going to sell, as I said.”

“Well, about that,” said the twin to her left.

“It shouldn’t be possible.” The twin to her right put his chin on his right hand, and the other twin mirrored him.

Hermione shrugged, taking another bite, her muscles as relaxed as she could force them to be.

“How did you do it?”

“How did you switch them?”

“There wasn’t enough time to fix it—”

“—And it was a one-of-a-kind piece—”

“—So how did you do it?” They finished together, scooting closer and looking expectant.

She took a moment just to observe them. They reminded her so much of Fred and George! What were the odds that they were also mischievous little devils? And their simultaneous speech, it was so eerily similar. Was it a good idea to spend any amount of time with them? They were little chunks of home, and that just couldn’t be a good idea.

“At least you aren’t trying to accuse me of anything,” Hermione said. “Can you... can you two keep a secret?”

Obviously not, stupid woman, their vigorous nods said.

“It was...” Here she looked around, as if to search for eavesdroppers (of which there were admittedly a few), and then she whispered, “It was magic.”

“Tough,” said the one on the right to the one on the left.

“She’s not going to just tell us,” said the one on the left.

“Who are you, anyway?” Hermione interrupted.

The twins exchanged looks of unwarranted glee. “I’m Hikaru,” said the one on the right, “And that one’s Kaoru. You get the one freebie, got it?”

“Gred and Forge,” Hermione muttered.

“Is she having a stroke?” asked Kaoru.

“Maybe,” said Hikaru. “She seems a little young for that, though.”

"Well, not really. Statistically speaking, it's more common for older people to have strokes, but there's a definite chance to have one when younger. It's often misdiagnosed, of course, but it does happen." Hermione coughed and took another bite, her cheeks reddening.

"She sounds like Kyoya-kun," the twins agreed.

Hermione smiled at the dubious compliment. As unpleasant as their one meeting had been, it was obvious that Kyoya Ootori was a boy of considerable knowledge and intelligence. "Well, you have your information," she said. "Why are you still here?"

The twins stared at her for a moment before saying, "Because that wasn't an answer."

"If you say so," Hermione chirped, secure in the knowledge that she was neither lying nor betraying her secret.

"Why don't you come to the club after class today?" they suggested as one.

"Because I don't have time," Hermione said.

"What are you doing?"

"...Studying," Hermione mumbled, well aware that they wouldn't find it a good enough reason.

"You could do that anywhere," Hikaru said.

"No,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Please?” They asked together.

“No.”

###x###

She’d meant it when she refused. Really, she had. But the twins, like a certain pair of Weasleys, didn’t know how to let things lie. They pestered her for the remainder of the day— an impressive feat, considering they were first years to her second— and in the end Hermione cut her losses.

“You’re squaring it with Ootori,” she groused.

They didn’t look too terribly thrilled at the prospect, as if they hadn’t even considered the consequences, but agreed nonetheless.

It was an odd mixture of loneliness and flattery, sitting alone at a delicate table with her books off to the side of the room. Only Kyoya Ootori even looked at her, and Hermione felt all the regret of agreeing to be a third (fifth, seventh, twentieth) wheel.

For all the emotions attached to the situation, it was a good place to study. It was quiet enough that she could focus on her reading and busy enough that it reminded her of the Gryffindor Common Room. She could glance up at any time and find some sort of dignified drama to secure her attention.

Curiosity, forever the crux and bane of her existence, kept her looking up often. She hadn’t wanted to admit to being curious about this Host Club, and it was an excellent opportunity to spy.

Tamaki Suoh had by far the most customers, which figured. Hermione could see girls like Lavender and Parvati paying for this kind of obsequious flattery, but she could also see girls like Hannah Abbott. That is, shy and unsure, comforted by that kind of confidence and universal praise. Together they made up such a large percentage of the kind of adolescent girls who would subscribe to a host service that it was no wonder Suoh was the most popular.

The other hosts filled in for practically every other desire. The twins held a sizable crowd of their own, being next on the extroversion scale. They were actually wonderfully adept at maintaining a delicate balance between having a close relationship with one another and seeming to offer an opening for a third. They touched and sweet-talked one another while simultaneously teasing their patrons. It was cruel, in a way, like opening a gate only to face a door, but everyone knew the truth of the situation. That was the beauty of such a service: pretty lies, beautiful illusions. It was a way to introduce steady affection without having to worry about real life for a little while.

After the twins came Mitsukuni Haninozuka and Takashi Morinozuka, a double act in their own right. They offered the inverse of the Hitachiins’ attraction; whereas the twins were a perfect circle, Haninozuka and Morinozuka were intentionally contrasted in every way, which brought to mind feelings of maternal and familial tenderness. One could easily imagine themselves as Haninozuka’s mother and Morinozuka’s wife, and that was the draw. It was the draw of a family unit. Hermione wagered that there were two kinds of girls who kept company at their table: the girls who knew nothing else, and the girls who craved nothing more. In other words, the girls who’d been raised with a doting mother and father, and the girls who’d never had that kind of stability.

Last came Kyoya Ootori— and that was easy enough to explain. He was by no means lacking patrons, it was just that the kind of person who would appreciate his chilly intellectualism would also appreciate that he was a busy, busy boy. Anyone could see that he worked overtime to control absolutely everything in his life— indicative of a lack of control at home— and who would want to get in the way of that? His customers were usually content to just watch, perhaps try to match their auras to his. It never worked, and that was his draw: the unattainable, the prodigy. They all laboured in the vain hope that they would be the Special One to at last capture his interest, to coax out genuine smiles. Beneath such a cold exterior, intuition whispers, must be a burning passion.

They had a good balance, yes, a fantastic coverage of their target audience. As lucrative a business as this must be when only open to those attracted to boys, how much more so could it become if they broadened their horizons? Girls, in most parts of the world, are brought up in vastly different ways than their brothers. Girls must first be comfortable with their own need for such affection, and that sort of realization too often doesn’t come young. Boys, however, are almost taught to be such a way. That was a large part of why the hosts existed at all: to provide a service, true, but also to gratify themselves. That was proof in and of itself that providing even one hostess would drastically improve profit margins.

Surely it had occurred to at least one of them? She could recognize the dilemma. The male hosts were hardly seen in any sort of negative light, but a woman would instantly be labeled a slut, a tease. She might even get hurt. Certainly not an occupation for a gently-bred, softly-borne young lady.

The human element was so frustrating sometimes.

At last a bell rang, signalling the end of club hours. The girls groaned but shuffled out without complaint, leaving only Hermione and the hosts.

For her part, Hermione was unsure what exactly she was meant to do. She wasn’t a customer, exactly, having been specifically invited there and not subject to the same time constraints as the other girls, but neither was she a part of the club. She could only hope that the twins would take responsibility for their guest.

No such luck. Hermione stared at her page, having mastered years ago the art of pretending to be absorbed in a text while being fully aware of everything around her. If she controlled her reactions, it was easy enough to convince people that she’d blocked out external stimuli entirely, being a handy excuse for why she was still there.

“Um... Miss Granger?” Mitsukuni Haninozuka tugged at her sleeve, and Hermione looked down at him with feigned surprise. “Are you okay?”

That wasn’t the question she’d been expecting. “Er, yes, I suppose so,” she said. “The twins told me to study here, but I suppose now that club hours are over I should go.” It seemed so obvious when she said it aloud, so obvious that Hermione wondered how she could’ve been unsure. She closed her book and set it atop another one before dragging the remaining two towards her and setting them on top of the stack.

Before she could stand, however, Haninozuka shook his head. “You don’t have to go right away,” he twinkled.

Oh. They wanted to talk to her, “they” meaning all of them, not just the twins.

“Is there something I can help you boys with?” she asked, pitching her voice so it would carry.

“Yes, in fact,” said Kyoya Ootori. “The twins asked you earlier today, but you seemed unwilling to be forthcoming. We are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was because of the public setting.”

This boy really, really irked her, Hermione decided. As if she owed them anything at all, much less personal information. As if she should be afraid of them, of him. Still, starting an argument wouldn’t end well. “Oh, that,” she drawled. “The vase? You’ve already determined that it’s genuine, as far as I heard.”

The others had created something of a hemisphere around Hermione and Ootori, all standing. Looming, even. Hermione herself still sat, and perhaps even that had been intentional.

“How did you do it?” Ootori asked. Calm. Frigid. As if he already knew, and he was just waiting for a confession.

“Magic,” Hermione said. She felt her wand press against the skin of her stomach, and she wondered whether she would have to use it. Muggle or no, this was a six-to-one ratio, and she was already in an unfavorable position.

“Hermione Granger, sixteen years old, female. Transfer student from Britain. Qualified as a scholarship student and began attending Ouran Academy during the second semester. Homeschooled during middle school and first year of high school. Both parents deceased as of three months ago. Has no legal guardian—”

“How long are you going to do that?” Hermione interrupted, resting her elbow on the table and keeping her twitching muscles under control. One of the couches in the center of the room buckled and pressed into the marble tile. She could fix it, naturally, but that would only draw her more indelibly into this situation.

Ootori audibly snapped his little black notebook shut and waited.

“Look,” said Hermione in a softer voice than she knew she was capable of with such fury in her veins. “You’re all reading too much into this. I didn’t mean to get involved. I was helping someone out, and if I’m not mistaken even helped you all in the process. A lot of things in this world don’t make sense, and it’s—” Hermione stopped, shook her head, and placed a hand atop her stack of books. “I’m sorry that you’re not used to not knowing things. Really, I am. It must be infuriating. But it’s not my problem, and if you don’t believe me, then that’s on your head.”

There was silence for several moments, and then Hikaru said, “Sure, we’ll believe you. Why not?” Kaoru nodded his agreement, both of them grinning.

The others didn’t quite agree, but neither did they argue. At last Ootori gave a sigh. “I cannot in good faith detain you any longer. You’re free to go.”

That couch crumbled further. Hermione resented the implication that she couldn’t have left if she’d wanted to. She really, really, really resented it. Emotions aside, Hermione scooped up her books and huffed her way out. No one tried to follow her, but she twisted around the corridors anyway.

Her breathing was coarse and stuttering, and Hermione stopped to get herself under control. That could easily have gone sour, and Hermione couldn’t figure out why they’d let her go so readily. The human factor would destroy her yet.

###x###

The next few days were trying.

The Hitachiin twins continued showing up where they had no business, to the extent where Hermione had to wonder whether they ever went to their own classes. Ootori and Suoh, too, made a habit of being everywhere she was. They, at least, had the excuse of being in her year and, if she looked, in some of her classes.

It felt like she was being stalked, hunted. She hated feeling like that, like she was only tiring herself out before they inevitably caught up.

Even so, Hermione refused to give up. She would keep running until the bloody end. If she were to lose, it would be to someone worth losing to.

“What’s that look for?” said Hikaru.

“It’s scary,” said Kaoru.

Hermione took a deep breath, her heart doing its best to escape her foolish body. “Go away,” she said.

“Nope,” the twins chirped.

“Actually—”

“We were wondering—”

“Are you available this afternoon?”

“To be trapped in a confrontation again? No, thank you, I have a limit. Once a week.” Hermione turned the page with too much force, and a small ripping sound echoed in the space between the three of them as the corner separated from the binding. Hermione wanted to cry.

It was just after six in the morning. She’d come in early to study in one of the libraries since she’d known no one would be there.

Hermione had to wonder why they were so interested in learning her secrets when they seemed fairly magical themselves.

The twins each settled an arm over her shoulders and leaned in, creating a sort of flat hug. Hermione tensed, but they didn’t seem to notice or care that she was uncomfortable.

“No confrontation,” they promised. “We’ll even pay attention to you this time.”

“Oh, yes, that’s just what I need,” Hermione said. “To be mistaken for one of your incest groupies. I have standards, you know.”

Far from being offended, they laughed, deep chortles that tugged at the corners of Hermione’s mouth. “Fair point,” they said. “We’ll let you study?”

Now that was a tempting offer. She’d gotten a lot done in that one afternoon, even with as much time as she’d spent spying on the club. “Why?” she asked. “What do you get out of it?”

“You’re interesting,” Kaoru said.

“And you’re driving Kyoya spare,” Hikaru said.

“We guess it takes time for information to come in from Europe.”

“He doesn’t like not knowing things.”

Hermione smiled. “And, being the chaotic forces that you two are, you’d like to push together things that don’t fit together on their own. Is that it?”

“Close enough,” said the twins.

“Fine, I’ll go. Today. I’m not promising anything after that!” she said.

Satisfied, the twins set down their heads and fell asleep almost instantly.

Hermione gazed with blank eyes at the grain patterns in the dark cherrywood table. She really was getting lonely, wasn’t she? She was agreeing to insert herself into a situation which could potentially reveal the existence of magic to a room full of Muggles for the entertainment of a pair of red-headed troublemakers who happened to have similar mannerisms to old friends of hers, and all she got in return was the illusion of having close relationships. If she didn’t dislike using the word as much as she did, she may even go so far as to call it pathetic.

Still, she felt a thrill in the pit of her stomach like climbing ivy, spreading tendrils throughout her abdomen. Of course she would go. If she were honest with herself, she’d been hoping for another invitation from the start.

The day passed in minutes and hours, and by the final bell Hermione’s limbs were shaking. Would she be ignored again? Would she be confronted again, intimidated again? Or would they treat her like a guest?

She pushed open the double doors to Music Room #3 and inside found everything exactly as it was, only without the hosts. Hermione stepped forward, the bottoms of her shoes loud against the marble. Everything in her was screaming that it was a trap, but Hermione marched forward, aiming for the table she’d studied at a few days ago—

The sound of several balloons popping at once pierced her ears, and Hermione shrieked at the top of her lungs, her hand nearly punching herself in the gut as it grabbed for her wand.

“Happy birthday!” rang the deafening shouts of half a dozen teenage boys.

Hermione froze. Birthday? “My birthday was two weeks ago,” she said. And she definitely hadn’t spent it moping around her apartment thinking about home and her parents. Definitely not.

“We know!” cried Haninozuka. “But we never celebrated it, so we’re doing that now!”

“Oh,” said Hermione, and it was the most intelligent thing she could think of to say at the moment. She studied the faces in a ring before her, this time bearing vastly different expressions than they had only a few days before. Haninozuka especially was beaming, and it was difficult indeed not to respond in kind.

The party was brief but intense, as they had to pack up before the girls arrived. Hermione helped despite their protests, and she fought a smile the whole time.

###x###

[alcoholicseraphim]

Hello!! I'm obsessed with your writing (I literally come on Tumblr everyday to check if you've written anything) and I'm just wondering if you are ok because usually you tend to post daily/every two days from what I've seen and you haven't posted anything recently!!! Hope everything's alright x

I’m both doing well and incredibly flattered! Most of my posts so far are a backlog, and I’ll be posting more soon. Thank you for reading!

[alcoholicseraphim]

Doll’s Eyes

i.

Pansy hated flowers. No, really. She absolutely loathed them, no matter what kind. They positively swarmed with bees and ants and any number of tiny pests that she would be happy to never again encounter. They didn't even make up for that great failing by smelling nice, no matter what Shakespeare said.

She hated flowers, bugs, and dirt in general, and Daphne knew that.

"Babe. Please. Mum's Flutterblooms are dead and she loves them more than she loves me, so if you want to see me alive tomorrow then please just help me out. It'll take five minutes." Static crackled through the line, only mostly obscuring the wail of a baby.

"Why can't you do it?" Pansy whined, banging her head back into the cabinet. She already knew the answer, and Daphne knew that she knew, so the lack of a response didn't surprise her. "Fine," she spat, sliding off her perch on the kitchen counter. "I'll get your bloody plants."

The wailing picked up again, this time louder and more insistent. Even though Pansy couldn't make out Daphne's words, she could tell that she was grateful. She'd better be, anyway.

After hanging up, Pansy paced aimlessly around her kitchen, trying to decide how much she actually cared about her best friend. Mrs Greengrass's sole joy in life was her garden, easily eclipsing any affection for her children or husband. Of course, she wouldn't kill Daphne. That seemed a little dramatic, even for her. She wouldn't put it past the woman to kick Daphne and her kid out of the house, or worse, so it really was a big deal. Pansy didn't have enough room in her flat for three people, and besides that she couldn't stand children.

If she was really doing this, then she'd better get a move on. It was a little after two in the afternoon and Mrs Greengrass was due home in about three hours. She would buy them, but she wouldn't help plant the bloody things, Pansy compromised. It didn't make her feel a whole lot better about it, but she still grabbed her keys.

The drive was, as usual, a nightmare. London at pretty much any time of day would be guaranteed to have at least one traffic jam. It was sweltering out, and Pansy eyed the horizon with disdain. At least there were no bees in sight. She finally found the shop she was looking for in a curiously secluded part of London, on the very outskirts. She pulled into the parking lot- if one could even call it that, it was just a large patch of dirt- and squinted at the building.

The florist's strongly resembled a large greenhouse, except for the sign that read in block letters: Weasley's Weeds. Charming. Pansy wrinkled her nose and got out of her car. The sun reflected off the glass and nearly blinded her.

It took an embarrassingly long time to find the door, as there was no discernible entrance on the front of the structure. She was positive that everyone inside could see her wandering around and around the parking lot.

After a solid two minutes of searching, Pansy discovered a sliding glass door on the side. She pulled it open and stepped inside.

There were flowers everywhere. Not just flowers, but also bushes and trees and all sorts of things that Pansy most certainly did not like. Rather than spending even more time trying to find Flutterblooms on her own, she made a beeline for the only visible employee. His name tag read "Fred Weasley" and nothing else. No position, no greeting, nothing. "Hi," she started briskly. "I'm looking for Flutterblooms?"

The employee shook his head, a sympathetic frown pasted on his face. "We're expecting more in tomorrow. Normally they aren't this popular, but I suppose there are fads just like with everything else."

"Er... Right. Thanks anyway." She started to turn away, eyeing the field of green. What was she going to tell Daphne? It wasn't like there was an abundance of florist shops in London, not ones with such rare plants as Flutterblooms. She'd checked.

"Would you like to leave a number to contact when we do get more in?" She'd already forgotten his name. Frank? Flynn?

Pansy turned back toward him, if only to sneak another glance at his name tag. Fred. Right. "Yes, actually," she said after a moment. "Do you have a pen?"

ii.

"What do you mean they were out? How can you be out of fucking Flutterblooms?" Daphne looked ready to hurl her mug of coffee across the room. Her blonde curls were crumpled and frizzed out, her eyes beginning to shine with tears. Pansy tried her best to shrink into herself. "Mum is going to be home in an hour! She's going to kill me and put Pandeia up for adoption somewhere, I just know it!"

Pansy let out a breath and sucked one back in as slowly as she could manage before exhaling again. "At this point there's little choice but to promise to get them replaced," she said. "I know that's not the ideal solution, but it's the best we can do."

"Oh, shut up!" Daphne shrieked, this time actually hurling her cup into the wall. It didn't shatter nearly as thoroughly as Pansy had expected it to, merely separating into four large chunks. Pansy stared at the pile of now-useless ceramic before looking at Daphne when she began to sob.

"She won't... You know she won't kill you, right?" Even Pansy wasn't convinced, but it made her feel better to say it. "She wouldn't kill her daughter."

Daphne scoffed, tears streaming down her face. "You don't really believe that."

"No."

iii.

"Hi, yes, is this Weasley's Weeds?" Pansy wrapped the hand not holding the phone snugly in her hair and pulled herself up onto the counter. "This is Pansy Parkinson, and I'm calling to see if you have any Flutterblooms in stock yet?" She chewed her lower lip, staring straight ahead at a discolored stain on her wall.

The voice on the other end was oddly soothing, somewhere between deep and reassuring and high and mocking. "Oh, hello Pansy! You were the one who came in yesterday, right?"

"Yes, yes. Do you have Flutterblooms?" Too impatient. Too anxious. She needed to calm down.

"Hm, no, not as I recall. We have seeds, if you want those, but-"

"No, no, I need, er, fully grown ones." Bugger it. She pulled on the clump of hair, dragging her head back so she was looking at the ceiling. "Can you call this number when you get some in? As soon as possible? Thank you." Before Weasley could respond, she hung up the phone.

Deep breath in, breathe out. In, out. Sucking in a breath once again, she groaned, "Fuck." That about summed it up.

iv.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, and Mrs Greengrass was gone again. Pansy pulled out her key ring and found the tiny silver one that opened all four locks on the front door. The front lawn was perfectly maintained, though not as meticulously as the garden behind the house. It took several moments to get the door open.

"Daphne? Panda?" she called, trying her best to keep the trepidation out of her voice. "I'm in the living room, okay?"

"Be right down," Daphne yelled down the stairs, to Pansy's immense relief. "I'm changing Pandeia, there's food in the fridge."

Good, she was starving. She slipped her sandals off and ambled over to the gleaming white refrigerator, feeling her feet stick slightly to the linoleum. It was too cold in there, easily ten degrees. Maybe less. The air soothed her sunburned skin.

She'd dug out a box of strawberries and was gnawing her way through them when she heard Daphne's footsteps creak on the carpeted stairs. Pansy turned to greet her, but stopped short at the sight of her face. "Daphne..." she said flatly, but couldn't think of anything else to say.

"It's pretty bad, isn't it?" She shifted Pandeia to her hip and used her free hand to trace over the laceration on her cheek. It was fresh and raw and red, and Pansy could tell she was trying not to move her face so it wouldn't reopen.

"Yeah." She wasn't going to lie, it did look awful. It would most certainly scar. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but it was the first time it was somewhere so visible as her face. "Is there anything else?"

Daphne shook her head, tightening her grip on her baby. "Not this time. She told me she wants them replaced before the end of the week. Any luck?"

"No. I'll keep trying."

"Thanks. I love you."

"I love you too."

v.

"Why do you need these so badly, if you don't mind me asking?" Weasley asked.

"I do mind. I'll call again tomorrow."

vi.

It was noon on Friday when she finally got the call. Snatching up the phone, she blurted, "Yes? Are they in?"

Weasley chuckled, and something in Pansy relaxed at the sound. It was so unusual to hear someone actually happy. "Yeah. Come down when you can, all right?"

"I'm heading out right now," she said, and hung up.

The drive seemed even slower that day. It was a Friday, so of course it was, but even those extra few minutes were nearly unbearable. She didn't care at all about her crooked parking job, and didn't even lock her car as she sprinted to the door and flung it open.

"Where are they?" she gasped, aware she was being rude.

Weasley handed her a pot with a flowering plant that appeared to be made out of interwoven vines. He cradled another three in his arms. "Do you need help taking these out to your car?"

Normally, Pansy would have refused, but every moment was precious. "Yes, please," she panted, already starting to speed-walk to the parking lot. Weasley followed at a more sedate pace. Once all four plants were situated in her car, Pansy jumped into her driver's seat and took off, barely closing the door before hitting the gas pedal.

vii.

She helped plant them after all, ignoring the dirt and the bugs and the germs. They finished just as Mrs Greengrass's car pulled into the driveway. "I love you," she reminded Daphne before sneaking away to the next street over where her car waited.

viii.

The man on the next shift arrived an hour and a half later than usual, so Pansy arrived home shortly after three in the morning. She wanted nothing more than to shower and go to bed, but the flashing light on her answering machine stopped her. Covering a yawn, she pressed the playback button.

"Hi Pansy, this is Fred from Weasley's Weeds. Thank you for your business, we hope to see you again."

What a waste of thirty seconds. She'd never go back to that bloody place if she could help it. Still, after a day of stress and yelling, the simple friendliness made her feel just a little bit better.

She didn't jump into the shower right away, as she'd originally wanted to. Instead, unsure what possessed her to do so, she drew a scalding hot bath and climbed in. The water eased her muscles, and before she knew it she'd fallen asleep.

ix.

Early the next morning, Pansy puttered into her kitchen and opened a bag of bread. She put two slices into the toaster and went to get out the butter and a knife. Before she could, however, the phone rang. Not looking at the caller ID, Pansy picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Pansy? This is Fred."

She stopped short, reacting just a moment too late when the toast popped up. "Fred? Weasley? Why are you calling, is something wrong?"

"Yes, actually. You never paid for the Flutterblooms. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming that you weren't actually trying to steal them, and were just in a hurry and forgot. Please come down as soon as you can."

"Shit," she murmured, scraping butter onto the toast. For all that she'd done it every morning for years, she could never get the angle quite right. The butter melted around the edges but not in the middle. "I'm so sorry. I'm getting in the car right now, I wasn't trying to steal them, I promise."

Fred laughed at her flustered apologies. "No problem. Bring forty-two pounds with you. I'll see you then."

"Right, right. I'll be right there." How could she be such a moron? Pansy was lucky he wasn't pressing charges, since it was a crime to do what she'd done. Larceny, was it? Or just plain theft?

Her wallet was on her nightstand, where it always was. She picked it up and counted her money. She had enough cash, fortunately, and then some as an apology.

The route to Weasley's Weeds was familiar to her now, familiar enough that she didn't even have to think about it. She got there in record time, and got out of her car slowly, like a normal person. She also walked to the door slowly, like a normal person. Even though her body twitched in its desire to move faster, she maintained her steady (normal person) pace.

Fred looked up and laughed. Pansy didn't care to know why, particularly. She was busy focusing on making sure the bees stayed far, far away from her. The greenhouse had never seemed quite so large as in that moment. The walk took forever and a half, it seemed, but Fred crossed the remaining distance and grinned down at her. He really was much taller than her, by perhaps a whole foot. Pansy was on the shorter end, a problem that Fred had probably never experienced. He was lanky and lean, like the universe decided to change their plans for him and stretched him out vertically. If Pansy weren't so anxious, she probably would have been amused at the thought.

"Here," she said, handing him the pile of bills. He didn't even count them, just put them in a front pocket on his maroon apron.

"Why don't you stay for a while?" Fred asked, smile still firmly in place. It looked natural on his face, oddly enough. No one was that happy to see Pansy.

Pansy nodded. "I have work at six," she warned.

"That's fine."

"I hate flowers. And bees. And dirt."

"We can sit outside."

"That doesn't solve the dirt-and-bugs problem."

"But at least we can move around."

"Is this what you do for all of your customers?"

"No."

She didn't ask why she was a special case. Yes, she was curious, but another part was afraid that it was a joke, that the warm feeling of being wanted around would go away. So instead she asked, "You don't get very many people here, do you?"

Fred laughed again. "Just old folks, mostly. The occasional hassled mom. Very rarely people like you."

This time she did ask, hesitantly, "People like me?"

"Young." Fred looked down for a moment, his sunny disposition faltering, before looking back up at her with the smile restored.

Pansy wasn't one to pry. This topic was one she would leave alone, and maybe- maybe- she would visit him sometimes. He was starved for human companionship, and no wonder, with such an out-of-the-way sort of shop. "Let's go outside, then. I have a few hours."

x.

She thought about Fred even after she left, waving out her window at him while pulling out of the dirt lot. She thought about him even after she got to work, and especially as she zoned out watching the security cameras. She thought about him even after she'd dragged herself home, and she thought about him until she fell asleep.

It was what her little sister called NRE: New Relationship Euphoria. It had been so long since Pansy had formed any new interpersonal connections that even the lonely florist appealed to her. She supposed it was pathetic no matter how she looked at it.

Sitting at Daphne's kitchen counter, waiting for her to finish making pancakes, it was all she could do not to gush about Fred. Still, she couldn't resist at least letting her best friend know about him.

"You've finally met someone?" Daphne deadpanned. "I'm glad. You're too reclusive."

"Yeah," Pansy agreed, narrowing her eyes at the blonde's profile. "I mean, he's nothing really special. I feel sorry for him. His twin died and left him to run the shop on his own, and hardly anyone ever goes in there. I just figure it's the right thing to do."

Something in Daphne's posture relaxed minutely. "Good. That's good." Pansy knew she was talking about more than Pansy's humanitarian endeavor. There was a silence, filled only by the hissing of the stove and Pandeia's steady breathing from the couch. Just as Pansy was about to change the subject, Daphne said, "Besides pitiful, what's he like? Is he at least good company?"

Pansy nodded slowly. In truth, she was infatuated with him, but it wouldn't do to tell Daphne that. Besides, it was temporary. She always got obsessed with anyone who actually wanted her around and had a brain cell in their head. It had happened when she first met Daphne, not that Daphne knew about that. It would pass, and either Pansy would get tired of him or he would become a permanent part of her life. Instead of verbalizing that reality, she said, "He's got a sense of humor, at least. And he doesn't insist on talking about his bloody plants all the time like I thought he would. Way too forthcoming, though. I know his whole life story, from how many people he has in his ridiculously large family to why he had to drop out of university. It can get tiring, having to nod along to everything like I care."

Daphne laughed, quietly so as to not wake up the baby. "So he won't stick around for long?"

"Probably not." We'll see.

xi.

For Fred's sake, Pansy would tolerate the unpleasantness of the outdoors. She just wouldn't be happy about it.

It was a Tuesday morning, and for once Pansy had some evidence that people really did come to Weasley's Weeds. A stocky, middle-aged man was puttering through the aisles, peering through large square glasses at some sort of bush with spiky leaves. Pansy tried hard not to pout.

He was slow, and Fred was patient, but eventually the man made his choice and waddled with the pot out to his car. Pansy wasn't surprised to see that he drove a blindingly white Pontiac.

"That's usually about the most I get on weekdays," Fred remarked, turning to Pansy. "You don't have to stand in the corner quite so awkwardly, you know."

"Is there a certain level of awkwardness I should be aiming for?" Pansy quipped, her lips turning up in a smile against her will.

Fred pretended to consider for a moment, and then said, "Perhaps fifteen percent awkwardness. Can't have you too comfortable, right?"

Pansy laughed, actually laughed, which was weird but nice. "With all the bees everywhere I don't think you have to worry about that."

"Let's go outside," Fred suggested, holding out his hand. Pansy stared at it for several heartbeats before Fred lowered it back to his side. "Sorry, habit."

"No need to apologize," Pansy returned, yet she was unable to recover the easy smile she'd managed so effortlessly just a minute before.

xii.

She returned the next morning out of pure stubbornness. She was being silly, and she knew that, so she couldn't allow herself to react so strongly to something so tiny.

"I really appreciate this," Fred said, not looking at her.

Knowing full well what he was talking about but still wanting him to say it, she asked, "Hm?"

"You coming here all the time. You have no obligation to, and the fact that you do it anyway... It just means a lot." He still wasn't looking at her, but Pansy spotted the blush rising up his neck and turning all the visible skin on his head bright red.

"You're such a sap," Pansy chortled, and things were okay again.

xiii.

The phone rang. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with that, as she did get calls from time to time, but she'd just gotten home from work and it was late. She picked up the receiver and put it up to her ear, pinching it in place with her shoulder. "Hello?"

Daphne's voice filtered through in a whisper so quiet her words seemed to be formed from static. "Can you come over tomorrow? Please? As soon as Mum leaves?"

"Yeah, of course, what's the matter?" Pansy stopped short and listened intently, afraid that even the rustling of her clothing would be too loud.

Raw, heavy breathing was the only response she got, before a muttered, "I have to go."

The line went dead.

xiv.

Pansy let herself into Daphne's house. Mrs Greengrass's car was gone, but that didn't stop Pansy from jumping at every little noise.

Not seeing Daphne anywhere on the ground floor, Pansy trudged up the stairs and knocked on her bedroom door. "It's me," she said, pitching her voice so it wouldn't carry.

"Come in." That was worrying; Daphne was emotive and colorful, not made of stone as her tone was attempting to suggest. Pansy pushed the door open to see her best friend cradling her child in her arms, rocking back and forth. It wasn't the loving embrace Pansy associated with Daphne, but rather a quivering cage, or perhaps a shield. Her arms wrapped as much around herself as around Pandeia, her head tucked down so her hair concealed the both of them.

"Daphne," Pansy breathed, rushing over to hold her. "What happened? You called me so late, you never do that, what's going on?"

"She-" Daphne rasped, then cleared her throat to start over. "She threatened Pandeia." She leaned back into Pansy like she was freezing to death and Pansy was a warm hearth.

"She's never done that before." Pansy tightened her grip on the two people most important to her in all the world. "You can't stay here, you can't. I'll kill her for you. She will never put her hands on Panda ever again."

"Then we're in agreement," said Daphne, her voice very small. "That we have to get out, I mean. Not that you should kill her. Not that it wouldn't be perfectly karmic, but..."

"I don't have the connections she does," Pansy finished. Not that that would stop her, really, but insisting on having her way would only upset Daphne further. "You can stay with me, cramped as it'll be, until you and I can save up enough to get a bigger place."

"Thank you," Daphne said, though it was hardly necessary. "We're already packed."

xv.

For the first time in weeks, Pansy didn't make the drive to Weasley's Weeds. She did call Fred to explain why and that she would be able to visit again soon.

Daphne and her baby stayed in Pansy's bedroom, with Pansy taking the couch in her living room. It wasn't an entirely satisfactory arrangement, as the couch was old and lumpy and Daphne felt guilty for taking over her space. Pansy picked up a second job, this one in the morning, to be able to support the three of them. Baby food was expensive. Daphne promised that as soon as they were safe, she would also start working.

Pansy started calling Fred during the day rather than leave him completely alone. He understood that it was necessary, though Pansy hadn't given him much detail on the situation.

Things were precarious, certainly, but temporary. Pansy would make sure of it.

xvi.

"Fred?" she asked hesitantly. "I need a favor. Please."

"Of course, what do you need?" Fred's voice, reassuring as always, crackled into Pansy's ear.

She shook her head, even knowing that he couldn't see it. "Don't sign a blank check like that. This is going to be... testy."

A pause, then, warily, "What do you need?"

xvii.

One ring. Two. There was a click on the other end of the line.

"Hello? This is Nephele Greengrass." Bloody annoying, as always, haughty and impatient and, in this case, tense.

Pansy's lip curled, but when she spoke it was perfectly pleasant. "Hi, Mrs Greengrass! I'm Pansy, a friend of Daphne's. She recently moved into my flat but I'm getting worried about her? I keep finding liquor bottles in her room and I can't help her by myself. I'm at work all day, you see, and I'd really like it if someone could keep an eye on her. Would you mind coming over so all three of us can discuss this together? I'm positive that as her mother you'll be able to make her see reason better than I ever could."

"Of course," Mrs Greengrass purred. "What's your address? I'm free tomorrow, if that's all right with you."

"That's just fine," said Pansy, her mouth twisting into a parody of a smile.

xviii.

She welcomed Daphne's mum into her flat with as genuine a smile as she could muster. The woman was sophisticated, to be sure, in her black pea coat and pencil skirt. A string of pearls hung around her neck and decorated her elaborate, yet professional up-do. Her eyes narrowed and cheeks lifted in an approximation of an expression. You know, like human beings wear sometimes.

"Would you like something to drink? Water? Tea?" Pansy asked, playing the gracious and slightly flustered host. "I'm sorry, I'm not used to guests. Please, come sit. Daphne will be home in a few minutes."

Mrs Greengrass followed her to the couch and sat, somehow managing not to look like she was sinking arse-first in quicksand. "Tea, if you please."

"I only have winterberry right now, is that all right? How do you take it?" She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, trying to seem nervous in a natural way rather than the shoulder-shaking, panic-inducing kind that she was really experiencing.

"Yes, that's fine. I can't say I've ever had winterberry tea. Two sugars." Not a single please or thank you, Pansy noticed.

Pansy bobbed her head eagerly, heading into the kitchen. She'd had the kettle boiling already in anticipation of this moment, so it was just a matter of preparing the berries and letting them steep. It was probably overkill, Pansy decided, but it was better to have too much than too little in a situation like this. She waited by the stove, willing to let Mrs Greengrass have her private thoughts.

Nearly ten minutes later, Pansy deemed the tea strong enough. Pouring a steaming cupful, she added four sugars instead of two in the hopes that it would make the tea more palatable. Getting a glass of ice water for herself and balancing the teacup on a saucer, Pansy made the brief journey back into the living room. "Here, I'm so sorry for the wait," she said, knowing that the time she'd taken was perfectly reasonable if one were to believe she hadn't already boiled the water.

Mrs Greengrass took the saucer and cup graciously, taking a genteel sip. She looked down at the cup and asked, "This is winterberry, you say?"

"Mhmm. I know it's pretty bitter, but it's got such health benefits! My mum always said that the worse it tastes the better it is for you. Not always, I mean, because there are apples and sweet potatoes and things like that, but it's certainly true, er, herbal-y speaking." Pansy took in a deep breath. "Any minute now she'll be home. Do you have any idea what you're going to say? I've been thinking about it for days and I have no idea!"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Mrs Greengrass said, leaning forward so as to give the impression that they were co-conspirators. Pansy leaned in as well, burying her snarl in her water glass. "She's got that baby of hers, my lovely granddaughter, and she's got to know that this drinking problem will only harm Pandeia."

"Good point, good point," said Pansy, her expression back under control. "Are you willing to take care of Pandeia if Daphne doesn't change her ways? I would be happy to if you can't, of course, but I know nothing about children and I would only muck things up, you know?"

The older woman nodded sagely, raising her teacup in between them in an odd sort of toast before taking another, rather large, swallow. It was rude to leave drinks unfinished, and she seemed to be of the opinion that the faster she got it over with the better. "Of course I can take care of her. It won't be easy, with my job and being alone now, but I could hire someone during the day. Heaven knows I have enough money for it."

"What about your other daughter? I know Daphne mentioned her a few times, does she live nearby?"

In a transparent effort to gather her thoughts, Mrs Greengrass took several more mouthfuls of the acrid tea. "Astoria? No, she isn't near enough to be of much help. I believe she's studying in Germany at the moment."

"Oh, free tuition? Is her German very good?"

"Yes, it's excellent. My mother was from Germany, so that sparked Astoria's interest." The teacup was far larger than average, and Mrs Greengrass seemed to be having trouble getting all of the tea down.

"Is the education any better there than here in Britain? Less costly, certainly, but is it worth it?"

One last swallow, and the cup was empty. Pansy kept the smile off her face. It wouldn't do to give up the game now. "It's been several weeks since I last heard from her. Summer classes are demanding, as I understand it."

"A dedicated student, then? You must be very proud." Pansy finished her ice water, swirling a tiny chip of ice around her tongue until it melted.

Mrs Greengrass nodded, setting her cup and saucer down on her lap as there was no table on which to place it.

"I'll take that, if you'd like. Unless you'd like more?" Pansy offered, already rising to take the dishes. They were surrendered immediately with a firm refusal for a refill. She took them into the kitchen and piled them in the sink before returning.

Several minutes were passed in near silence before Mrs Greengrass stood. "It seems my stomach doesn't agree with my plans. Could we arrange another time, please?"

"Of course! Is there anything I can send with you? I get cramps all the time, I can get you some painkillers."

"No, no, that's unnecessary. Some rest will do me good. Will this Wednesday work for you?"

It wouldn't, but that didn't matter. Pansy agreed with a few well-placed looks of concern before showing her the door.

xix.

"Mum's dead," Daphne stated, not appearing to feel one way or the other about it. "I got a call last night."

"Is that so?" Pansy took a bite of her eggs, keeping an eye on the clock. Her secondary job started in forty-five minutes. "Did they say how?"

"Poisoned. Probably by mistake, as they found the plant responsible in her garden. White baneberry, I believe." Daphne coaxed a spoonful of green mush into Pandeia's mouth, who seemed to be about as thrilled by it as she would have been by a stinking compost heap.

Pansy smiled, and it didn't look quite right on her face. More feral than was normally acceptable. "How careless of her."

"Yes, how careless. They're common plants, after all. Who would've thought they could kill?" The scar on Daphne's face was beginning to heal, Pansy noticed.

"No one, I'm sure."

xx.

Fred was unusually reserved in greeting her. "How did it go?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Swimmingly." Pansy pulled the ginger into a hug, an action entirely unheard of from her. Still, Fred's arms went around her to complete the embrace, drawing her closer into his chest as if he could absorb her. "Thank you," she breathed, looking up into his eyes.

"I would do anything for you, sadly." He bent down and brushed his lips against her forehead, his touch lingering even after the warmth was gone.

Pansy hummed. "You're mine now. You know that, right?" She didn't explain what exactly that meant, but the glint in Fred's eyes told her that he understood.

"Let's go outside. Fewer flowers."

A laugh escaped her, and she laced her fingers in his. "I don't think I mind them all that much anymore. I mean, if I'm going to be hanging around you then I might as well get used to them."

"That's true," Fred said, beaming. His eyes crinkled when he grinned so widely. Pansy ran the back of her free hand over his cheek.

She really was beginning to appreciate flowers, bees and dirt and all. They had their uses.

[alcoholicseraphim]

Temporal Peripatetics

She was fourteen when she first manipulated time.

Her Head of House placed the Time Turner into her cupped hands as it were no more significant than handing over car keys. Hermione received it with studied nonchalance despite the awe and reverence that nearly overwhelmed her. Rapidly she had learned that she must pretend not to be surprised by anything, lest acknowledged gaps in knowledge should poke holes in the image she was careful to maintain. So she looked at her Professor and not the device while soaking in every word of Professor McGonagall's lecture on the rules of time travel. Rules. Those were good. Constraints. It would be chaos otherwise, right?

"We, and the Ministry, are placing a great deal of trust in you. Not that there's a whole lot that can be done with it, you see, but you could still travel about four hours forward or backwards. Any more than that would cause undue risk to your person. It is strictly to be used only to attend your classes. Are we clear?" The wrinkles around Professor McGonagall's mouth creased further, and she glowered over her folded hands at Hermione.

"Of course, Professor! I would never break your trust," she cried. "You can count on me, I promise!"

The wrinkles softened, as did her glare. "Yes, I believe we can."

Once back in the hallway, Hermione had a choice. She could either head straight to the library to analyze and research this fascinating artifact, or she could go straight into a more hands-on study. Curiosity overruled her nagging desire to read the instruction manual, so to speak.

Where could she go that would definitely be unoccupied no matter how far back she went? Not a bathroom stall, as was her first guess. How horrifying would it be if she appeared while someone was using it? Still, that kind of absolute privacy was hard to find anywhere else in this bloody castle. Well, if a bathroom could hide an illegal potion and go undetected for a month, why couldn't that same place hide her for a few hours? Slipping the Time Turner under her shirt, she smoothed her uniform and walked briskly down the corridor to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Even though both the bathroom and Professor McGonagall's office were on the first floor, it was still quite a ways to get there. Her calves ached from the half-run.

Fortunately, the ghost girl was probably somewhere in the pipes. It didn't particularly matter where she was, as long as she wasn't there to bother Hermione.

Hermione sat- what would time travel feel like? would it make her dizzy? probably better to sit down, just in case- against the wall furthest from the door, the one connecting the stalls to the sinks. She eyed the sinks warily for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand. The device was quite small, fitting easily into the palm of her hand. It was also flat, probably for the convenience of wearing it as jewelry. A dial on the side connected to a thin rod clearly visible through the thick protective glass that made up the ornament. It's purpose, however, appeared to be executed entirely through that tiny little black cylinder.

She turned the dial only once; caution would behoove her until she knew exactly what she was dealing with. A force far greater than she could resist forced her eyes to shut, so she could only rely on touch and sound. There was only a faint buzz, and an increase in temperature so slight she may only have imagined it. When she was allowed to see once more, she looked around and noticed with no surprise that nothing in her environment had changed. Even Moaning Myrtle was still absent, or at least silent. A flick of her wand and a muttered, "Tempus," revealed that she'd gone back just a little more than an hour. The imprecision of it made her frown, but she supposed it did make sense. How effective of a measurement was a "turn", anyway? She would have to fiddle with it a little more to pin down exactly how far back a single degree would get her. Frustration and disappointment made her sigh, but if there was anything Hermione knew it was that one must work before they got to play.

She was still fourteen when she finally determined that she could use the device as she was meant to. She would be fourteen for some time, but for a far shorter period compared to her peers.

Once the tiniest of marks were etched onto the Time Turner by intervals of ten degrees, Hermione practiced sending herself through time by the tiniest and largest increments she could manage. Each degree controlled just about six seconds, making the full 360 degrees come to one hour. Convenient, that.

Just as Professor McGonagall had said, the dial would only turn four times in either direction. When she went full capacity the buzz would become louder and the heat would increase, causing nausea to form in her belly and head like carsickness. Unpleasant as it was, it lasted for only a few moments. What would more than four hours do to her body? The nausea would become worse, logically. Still, it was hard to predict symptoms when she could only access the very beginning of the process. Not that she really wanted to discover personally how broken the body becomes through excessive time travel, but curiosity was a beast she had no desire to tame and she didn't really feel that she had a choice.

The books in the Hogwarts Library didn't help, though she hadn't checked the Restricted section. Why would that sort of knowledge be Restricted, anyway? If anything, it would act as a warning. Perhaps information on time travel was closely guarded by the Ministry. It would make sense, after all, but then again why allow a third year to use such a device if they believed knowledge to be so dangerous to the public?

Maybe the research she wanted didn't exist. Maybe no one had gone very far at all. Maybe it was assumed that their grasp on time travel was tiny but safe.

It was arrogant to think that a barely-pubescent girl could accomplish more than fully grown, knowledgeable research teams. Hermione knew that. But still, once the thought entered her head it was nearly impossible to dislodge.

What could she do, with such limits? Well, all she could do: push the envelope.

True, she could only coax the Time Turner into giving her four hours at a time. But once those four hours were granted, who's to say she couldn't request more? If she took it in skips, it was possible to go back further. Or forward further, though she felt uneasy trespassing on the future. She became intimately acquainted with time-sickness, though she supposed that was the price she must pay for scholarly advancement. There were always costs for those sorts of things.

She was fifteen when she first saw the accelerated passage of time.

At first it didn't seem hugely significant. Interesting, yes; it appeared to be a wonderful dynamic landscape of color. Less of a blur, and more... twinkly. There were no two the same in any given place, and even staring intently at a single point would produce a different color in the end than the beginning.

Beautiful, yes. Fascinating, yes. Helpful, not so much.

Still, it felt like progress.

It took many, many more travels before she was able to see each spot in more detail. They weren't just colors after all, but scenes. Minuscule creatures and objects shifted about, playing in no particular order and with no discernible sense of organization. It was difficult even to pick out a perspective, since there didn't seem to be one. Really, it was a wonder her brain could understand what was going on at all, as she'd never looked at the world from every angle at once. Perhaps it was due to adjustment. She'd started out seeing just colors, hadn't she?

The scenes took up so much of her thought and focus that it took a while before she realized that her other senses were assaulted in different ways as well. The buzzing, too, became more distinct. It was no longer just a drone, but a cacophony: voices, mostly, but also wind and creaks and some she couldn't even begin to identify. The heat and the nausea were less severe than they had been. While they hadn't gone completely, Hermione got the feeling that they were tentative, as if testing her to see whether she deserved comfort.

Hermione had no doubt in her mind that whatever it was she was dealing with was intelligent. Not in the way that she was intelligent, necessarily, with emotion and reason. This intelligence was the mindfulness of something unfettered by even space, and most assuredly not weighed down by feelings. This thing- for it wasn't a being, she knew that much- had the knowledge of everything that had ever been and ever would be, and the wisdom that that must lend was beyond Hermione's comprehension.

If a thing could be curious while simultaneously satisfying that curiosity, then that was how Hermione imagined the thing saw her. What an oxymoron.

She was approximately sixteen when she first lost control of the Time Turner.

Rather, she didn't suppose the problem was with the device. The Time Turner itself did very little except process her request, similar to a train ticket. Just what happened after she showed her ticket was up to the driver. The driver apparently decided that it would not move her the hour and a half necessary to make it to Muggle Studies, but instead a whole fortnight. That first time, as far as she could tell, was just to show her that it could happen. Unless she'd inadvertently fulfilled some purpose, which was also entirely probable. Once she got past the first few weeks of panic, her academic nature urged her to follow whatever path time led her down. Something told her that very few, if any, had gotten as far as she had.

Losing control, to the girl who micromanaged everything and everyone around her, was a nightmare. For a long time she struggled to keep her feet on the ground, as it were. But putting so much effort into staying grounded only strained her mind, and the concentration could really go into more useful things than clinging to a reality that no longer existed for her. So, she let go.

Almost immediately, the storm calmed. She was no longer going back further than she'd asked for every time she tried, and she was no longer forced to make up that time in the same way as everyone else. As soon as she let the current take her, an hour was an hour.

The time-sickness faded into nothing so gradually Hermione couldn't pinpoint exactly when it went away. Probably when it started whipping her around the timeline. There was a sense of fairness to it that Hermione liked.

Sometimes she would still end up somewhere different, but she was usually returned within a few hours. She didn't mind at all.

She was still sixteen when she was first transported without the Time Turner.

It started small, naturally. Tiny, just a few minutes. Then hours, then days, then weeks. It was jarring, certainly, but Hermione wasn't sure she could turn back at this point even if she tried. Why would she do that, though? She was two years older than her friends. It could seem like a small amount, until she considered that those years were made up of hours. She'd manipulated time so frequently she'd lost count. "Prolonged exposure" was a bit of an understatement at that point.

The worst times, though, were when she was moved in her sleep. Or in the middle of a project. Especially when she ended up somewhere entirely different from where she'd been before, like the middle of Muggle London or by the side of the road in some unfamiliar desert. Those were not only the least comfortable, but the most confusing. After a bit of thought she began to comprehend that space simply wasn't an issue for time. Or perhaps it was because wizards are already manipulators of space, so her power combined with time's...

She was exhausted and invigorated all at once. It was glorious and strenuous and a constant challenge, and Hermione had never enjoyed herself more.

Ron and Harry noticed, which said a lot in and of itself. They never noticed anything that didn't actively crawl down their throats, so the change in her must be decidedly pronounced. Perhaps it was also that she looked like a seventh year while she was supposed to be fourteen. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to grow bored of them. She loved them dearly and would gladly kill and die for them, but their company grated on her already fragile tolerance.

The year in her proper time ended. Hermione excelled in all of her classes, but dropped Muggle Studies and Divination at Professor McGonagall's urging. She parted with the Time Turner with less reluctance than Professor McGonagall probably expected. Hermione saw the looks she gave her, like she was hiding something. And wasn't she?

Later that night she confirmed that time no longer needed the Time Turner to take her when it pleased. It had latched onto her.

Certainly she was far more successful in her research than she'd anticipated she would be.

Ron looked at her like a girl, something she would have been overjoyed about before this whole mess. Pride was there, but it was drowned by discomfort. Harry started looking at her differently as well, but not in the same way. It had been a stressful year for him, after all, and he needed someone to hold him up. Hermione, self-assured, compassionate, loving Hermione, was the ideal anchor. And really, wasn't that what she'd always wanted to be for him? She was uniquely suited to help him. She had all the time he could ask of her within her influence.

When the three parted at King's Cross station they promised to owl her. Of course they did.

She left with her parents, who seemed almost nervous to be collecting her. The feeling was mutual.

"You've grown," her mother commented, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. "Just a few months ago you were our little girl, all baby fat and happiness!" Her parents shared a chuckle, but it sounded sad to Hermione's ears.

Hermione smiled and lied, "I'm still your little girl." They probably knew it wasn't true. The rest of the drive may as well have been spent in silence.

She must have been seventeen when she first willed herself into another time. Maybe eighteen. She'd lost track, and did it matter, really?

It was downright silly to be concerned with going to the Yule ball on someone's arm, so she wasn't. Viktor sought her out on his own, and he did so for all the right reasons, so she agreed. She'd already turned Ron down, and knew that there would be conflict later, but she was flattered that someone, someone famous, would see something special in her. Besides that, he was her age, even if he didn't know that.

"You don't go anywhere without that planner, do you?" he asked, referring to the book peeking out of her robe pocket. The sun hid behind a film of silver clouds, casting a subdued light on the grounds. It was chilly, but they had warming charms. It was mundane and peaceful and boring.

"It's important," she said, and changed the subject. It was better for everyone to think she was just hyper-organized for the hell of it. Really, though, jumping around so often made it difficult to keep track of important events. Especially now, when this man tried to monopolize every bit of her time he could grab hold of. Relationships were exhausting, Hermione decided.

Ron pitched a fit, predictably. Hermione responded with fury and tears, also predictably. She left the room and, feeling sorry for herself, wished to be somewhen else. She was already all dressed up, wasn't she? Why waste all the effort she'd put into her appearance? Maybe she could recover her equilibrium at some other Yule function.

The familiar voices filled her ears, whispering what sounded like consoling words, and the scenes swam before her eyes. Her hand stretched out and touched one that appeared to show another ballroom, with strangers having the time of their lives. She could use that sort of unbridled joy.

A blink later, she found herself standing near the wall. The room was huge and dimly lit. Outside it was dark, and Hermione moved toward the window. A surreptitious flick of her wand told her that it was nearly midnight on December 21st, 1952. She had no clue just where she was, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Many experiences taught her that the "rules" of time travel were bullshit. Time preserved its own, and if she weren't meant to be in a place then it would not allow her to be there. It was as simple as that, so interacting with her environment wouldn't do any harm.

Footsteps approached, but Hermione didn't turn around. Silently, she marveled at how swiftly her attention was sought. She observed the man's reflection in the window. As far as she could tell, he was an exceedingly handsome man, with even, symmetrical features and a slender build.

"Excuse me," said the man.

Hermione took her sweet time in acknowledging him, but he didn't seem to mind. "Yes?" She didn't bother with being endearing or cute. Her mood, while improving rapidly, was still too sour for that sort of farce.

"My name is Alphard Black. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?" A grin stretched across his face, urging her to agree. If she was in luck, mischief was on the menu and Hermione would gladly partake. He took her outstretched hand in his own and led her to the middle of the dance floor. As Alphard led her in a waltz, he explained, "I am led to believe by the expression on my lovely sister's face that she plans to feed me my own limbs for supper if I embarrass her in any way, and who could resist such a tempting offer? I mean, I could strip down and start jumping on the tables, but doing something so dramatic would likely give her an aneurysm. Vexing her into an early death isn't quite my goal, so we'll begin with a lack of decorum in regards to the opposite sex. Should you find the idea intolerable, please do feel free to run away screaming. I believe that would mortify Walburga just as well."

"I pegged you well," Hermione remarked, an answering grin forming. "Do as you will, Mr Black."

"We can begin by calling one another by our names, if you're amenable." He really was a marvelous dancer, and the twinkle in his eyes was disarming, to say the least.

"In that case, I'm Hermione," she said. "I was hoping for some form of entertainment, but I hadn't expected something as fun as this. Do tell me, why are you seeking to irritate your sister? And why request the aid of a strange woman whose personality and connections are entirely unknown to you?"

Alphard laughed, a lovely full-throated baritone that tugged at the corners of Hermione's lips. "Besides the hilarity of her reaction, you mean? Well, if you must know, she's talking far too much about her fiancee. Orion is a right git, and her cousin at that."

"Her cousin? I can't say I'm horribly surprised, as impolite as that is to say to the brother of the bride. And the cousin of the groom. Are they not concerned about the heirs?" She was pressing just a bit too hard, toeing the line into cruelty. She wanted to feel guilty, but her inward search revealed not even a single drop of remorse.

Fortunately- or unfortunately, Hermione wasn't sure what she'd wanted from him- he didn't appear offended in the slightest and even agreed with her. "Well, at least we know exactly what they'll look like, yeah?"

Hermione giggled, a sound which turned into a squeal at the sharp pinch to her waist. "No need to get violent, now! So your response to her excessive pride is embarrassment? Some brother you are."

"I'm younger, and by a few years, so I believe I'm allowed. That's what I was born for, right?"

His hair was absurd. His everything was absurd, when Hermione thought about it. He did have a point: keeping the genes within the family discounted unpleasant surprises as far as appearance went. If she could say one thing for the Blacks, it was that they'd perfected the art of natural beauty. Alphard watched her with amusement in his grey (yes, grey. What's inbreeding for if not the hoarding of recessive genes?) eyes.

"Are you quite finished?" he said, poking her side again.

"Oh, hush," she chuckled. "Now about my second question. Why me?"

Alphard shrugged, a surprisingly elegant motion considering both arms were occupied in whirling her around. "No real reason; it was precisely because I had no idea how you would react. No great cosmic power at play here. My apologies if that's disappointing to you."

"Not at all," she said dryly, trying to keep the smirk off of her face. "Only curiosity, and hoping you didn't have some nefarious agenda. How old are you, anyway?"

"Have you noticed wrinkles?" Alphard said, grinning. "After all, I've hit the ripe old age of twenty."

Hermione nodded. "You will die soon," she remarked sagely. "Though surely Walburga will die first."

"If that is so, I must perform my task quickly. You were warned," Alphard said. "I'm going to do something shocking, so please don't hit me." Before she could respond, his lips crashed into hers.

She'd kissed before. Viktor, naturally; an Irish girl named Emily in the eighties; and Adrian Pucey, once. This one was different. Not better, by any means- she wasn't sure if anything would ever surpass Emily's- but this was a production. It was a kiss borne not of attraction, but impishness. It was good, and somehow exactly what she needed. She couldn't remember grinning having ruined the efficiency quite as much as just then, and something about that made her happy.

The scandal didn't cause a huge scene, as Hermione had half-expected. Alphard assured her, however, that old Purebloods have memories for deviance, and this would be brought up for years to come. "Probably even after I'm dead," he said with a shrug and a twinkle.

When she returned to her own time, with glowing cheeks and a wide smile, she saw Ron in the Common Room. He ignored her, and she could honestly say that she didn't care.

It was odd, being an adult when she was supposed to be a freshman in high school. If she attended a Muggle high school, of course. It appealed to her in a way, but she supposed she could do it at any time she wanted, so there was no need to drop everything just to do that. And they encouraged regular attendance, which Hermione didn't find herself favoring at all.

Rather than allowing herself to be hindered in her learning, Hermione spent many (many) of her extra hours studying. She had the unique ability to meet anyone she wanted to, if she were willing to work for it, so not all of her learning was read. Wand in hand, Hermione went anywhere and anywhen she fancied.

Having to come back to her original time was becoming a hassle. There was so much more for her! She'd met the Founders, for Merlin's sake, and Nimue as well! And yet, she still had to attend History of Magic, a class she could easily have taught herself, with bored fourth year students. She daydreamed of leaving and never coming back. It would be perfect, it was well within her grasp, and the things she could learn were limitless.

As absolutely wonderful as that would be, she couldn't. Or wouldn't, rather. Harry still needed her, and in a way she still needed him. He would survive the Triwizard Tournament if she had to burn the whole bloody maze to the ground. She had no illusions that his trials would end there, because obviously they wouldn't, but she would drag him through each one of them until he died a peaceful death in his sleep after a few centuries. He needed her.

Harry was the only thing that could have kept her there.

So she sat in the bleachers next to Ron and stared so hard at the impenetrable green vine wall that it was a wonder it didn't catch fire. If she weren't so emotionally invested in its outcome, it would have been the worst spectator sport imaginable. As it was, it had her full and undivided attention.

Maybe she was the first to see when he arrived. She couldn't say for sure. She could say that she was the first to start moving toward him, though she was overtaken by Cedric Diggory's distraught father.

She should have cared about Cedric. He'd been a nice boy, fair and kind. She should have cared, but she didn't. Not even afterwards, when she searched for any sorrow, any sadness at all, and found only regret for Harry. At the time, with all the noise and emotional overload from all directions, she clung to Harry's torso with single-minded determination. She held him even as he held Cedric. She held him when he let go.

Professor Moody took him inside. It's not like she really could have said anything, and he flat-out forbade her from coming along. Because it wouldn't do to hex her professor, she reluctantly let them leave.

To her fury, she found out hours later what happened. Professor Moody wasn't Moody at all, but an escaped Death Eater whom everyone had believed had successful lived up to the name of his organization. Barty Crouch Junior. If the Dementor hadn't gotten there first, she would have killed him.

No one would take Harry from her again. Not after that.

He curled up against her in the soft darkness of the boy's dormitory, muffling his sobs into her neck. Even after he fell asleep, she stroked his hair and held him close. Time didn't sweep her up, almost as if it knew her limits. She would not have left his side for anything.

Ron was jealous and awkward and silent. His every emotion was so transparent to her, and she found she didn't care to ease his discomfort. Harry needed her far more than Ron did. Actually, she often doubted whether Ron needed her at all. Wanted her around, certainly. Held her in high esteem, obviously. Would be upset if she were to disappear, surely. But he didn't need her, and she didn't need him as much as she loved him. Without noticing she'd made her choice, and Harry would be her first priority without a doubt.

Rather than feel guilty, she just felt a vague sense of sympathy.

It was harder than ever to allow Harry to go with his aunt and uncle. She'd never liked doing it, and always felt like she was complicit in the abuse by allowing him to return to it every summer, but this time only the thought that Harry wouldn't appreciate being kidnapped held her back.

Her parents watched her with worried eyes, but they let her leave the house every day without putting up a fuss. She was still their rule-abiding, practical, sensible daughter, and they didn't think for even a second that she would do something to get herself in any serious trouble. Besides that, they didn't know that the Trace on her wand was gone and she could use it as she pleased. Not in her house, naturally, because the Ministry still kept tabs on her residence, but anywhere else was fine as long as she was careful about it. Apparating to Harry's neighborhood required next to no effort. She'd taken the test years ago, so although she wasn't registered under her own name she felt confident in her ability to do it safely.

His neighborhood was so cookie-cutter, even more so than her own. Every house looked the same, save the different degrees of care put into their yards. All of the grass was lush green and a uniform length, but some houses had flowers and bushes while others were more spartan. Harry's house was somewhere in the middle. Neatly trimmed bushes lined the wall on either side of the door, and flower pots flanked the front door like guardians. Like they could stop her, she thought, pocketing her wand.

She knocked three times in quick succession, each rap crisp and proper. Harry's aunt Petunia opened the door with a polite smile, which Hermione had no trouble returning. "Hello, my name is Hermione Granger. My mother is starting a little service, for those families with children whom they don't feel comfortable leaving at home alone. There's no charge, and we're just trying to get the word out. Does your family have children?"

Petunia nodded slowly. "We do, but I stay home and watch them."

"And that's just marvelous. But we know how much trouble kids get into when they're bored. Our goal is to keep these children busy and productive, and most importantly, out of their parents' hair. Life doesn't take breaks, and we just want to take away a bit of stress. We take in children of all ages, but we do tend to focus on the older ones, just because their capacity for causing trouble is much higher." Her tone was professional and cordial, but with an underlying steel wire. She tried her best to channel Professor McGonagall, and by the look on Petunia's face she would guess she was succeeding.

"That does sound very useful," Petunia admitted. "What sort of things will you do to keep them busy?" She seemed to be actually considering it, which was good. Hermione wouldn't have preferred Confunding her, but she would do it if she had to. Hopefully that wouldn't be necessary.

"It really does depend on the age. We aren't focused on fun, however. Much of it is community service. What better way to use their time than to help maintain our home's good image? Not only does it benefit everyone, it builds character and responsibility." Hermione twitched a wrinkle out of her skirt. Petunia was sold and she knew it. "And remember, it's free of charge."

Harry's aunt agreed, and Hermione offered to personally pick him up from and return him to the house each day to make sure he actually went where he was supposed to go. Petunia warned her in low tones that Harry was an ill-behaved boy, and to keep an especially close eye on him. Hermione thanked her for the foreknowledge and assured her that they were more than capable of keeping him well in hand.

The next day Petunia "introduced" her nephew to Hermione. He stayed silent, to Hermione's relief. She marched off with him to "her" car, a shiny little white rental. It was meticulously clean and well-maintained, and it gave exactly the right vibe Hermione wanted. Harry said nothing until they were out of Petunia's sight.

"Hermione? What's this?" he asked, reaching one hand forward to touch the dashboard, as if trying to gather tactile evidence of the truth of the situation.

"You didn't want to spend all day, every day with them, did you?" She glanced away from the road and at him. Her smile didn't falter, but some of her satisfaction drained at the trepidation on his face. "It's fine. I didn't use magic on them at all. And you can hang out with me, right? We'll do whatever you want."

Harry finally looked at her. The sunlight glinted off his glasses and revealed the bronze tones in his jet hair. "How do you know how to drive? You aren't old enough for a license yet."

"Time Turner," she reminded him. "Besides, as long as I don't mess up no one will bother to check."

"I suppose," Harry said.

"All right, Harry. Tell me what you're thinking." She stared straight ahead, glad for the excuse of having to watch the road. She'd been anticipating happiness, and instead she got wariness and bemusement.

He took a moment to respond, and then said, "Why now?"

"I didn't have the ability to, before." Was that it? Really?

The boy relaxed, though it was more of a slump than anything else. Not at ease, but no longer taut, like he'd lost the use of his muscles. "I'm tired," he said.

"You have every right to be." Hermione took one hand off the steering wheel and stretched it out toward Harry, inviting him to take it and accept the comfort of physical contact. He did without hesitation, intertwining their fingers. Their joined hands rested on the console between them, her thumb smoothing over the back of his. "When you're with me, you can be whatever you want. And if that's just tired, then fine. It's okay."

"Thank you. I love you."

"I love you too."

That day they went to a park and sat in the shade of a willow tree, his head in her lap and her hand stroking his hair. He fell asleep that way, and Hermione kept watch.

She didn't know how old she was when she first took another person back with her. Maybe she was still seventeen, or eighteen, or even nineteen.

Hermione grabbed his hand and blinked them away to July of 1978, turning on her heel to make it seem as if she were merely moving them through space.

"I didn't know you could Apparate," he said, squinting.

"You don't know a lot of things," she said.

They stood in Muggle London, looking out on a busy road. Pedestrians bustled around them. As usual, no one noticed their sudden arrival, appearing to think they'd been there the whole time.

Hours passed with Hermione dragging Harry around. As she'd expected, they met no one they knew. London was huge, so even if there was a danger of someone knowing who they were they would never meet.

She took them back to their own time, a few hours ahead of when they left. He was returned to his aunt's house exactly on time, the same as every day. Harry was none the wiser.

From then on she took him with her, though never more than a few decades. It wouldn't do to make him question why cars and electricity didn't exist.

Hogwarts welcomed them all back with cloudy skies and a glittering Black Lake. Hermione breathed in freedom and learning and companionship and... found it bitter. She wasn't nearly as excited to reunite with Hogwarts as Hogwarts was to reunite with her.

Three years. Three more years in that place. What was three years to her? A long time, as it turned out, since she easily doubled that time with her temporal trips.

Professor McGonagall watched her with wary eyes. Professor Dumbledore watched her as well, though expressed nothing and said even less. Even Professor Snape stepped carefully around her. None were afraid, as far as Hermione could tell, but they were tense. Why should they be afraid, anyway? She didn't plan on doing, or having done, anything worth being afraid of.

She went to class and did her work, but she didn't care anymore. Hadn't for a while, if she were honest. Apparently, condensing five years of growth and change into two years drew a few odds looks. Her roommates had no idea what to do with her, to Hermione's amusement.

The Ministry fiasco was mostly secondhand for her, as she was unconscious for the majority of the action. She wasn't there to hold Harry when he lost Sirius. Harry withdrew from everyone, including her, and she didn't know how to fix him. It's hard to comfort someone who doesn't want to be comforted. She couldn't even talk to him!

Ginny succeeded where she failed. Failed. Fuck.

Time wrapped her in its embrace and swept her off her feet, and Hermione gave in to the temptation, spending nearly three days in the past for every hour she spent in Harry's time.

She was twenty-one when she first killed. Twenty-one years, four months, and seventeen days, to be exact. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Well, it wasn't like the murder was intentional. Dolohov was still alive to scar her in 1996, so even if she had tried to kill him it wouldn't have worked. Time wouldn't have allowed it. Something about that comforted her. She could do whatever she wanted to the man who'd earned her wrath, and it would change nothing.

He was twenty-one when she chose to find him. The symmetry was appealing, after all. She would prove to him and herself that she surpassed him in every way, even though he'd bested her when he was triple her age. It was so easy. She'd never tried to use the Cruciatus before, but it worked for her on the first attempt. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to break his mind and body and leave him a pile of blood and bone. Time wouldn't allow that, but pain would do almost as well.

At least, it was easy until his sister came in to check on him. She was so pale and slight, looking like a princess who'd never done any work in her life. And wasn't she, really? The Reducto went straight through her chest, leaving only blood and bone. His sister was an excellent replacement, as it turned out. And that, she discovered, was the best way to ruin Antonin Dolohov. He screamed and screamed and screamed, and collapsed in on himself when she branded his torso.

She left when he finally lost consciousness, refusing to erase his memory. He would remember her face and her voice every time he thought of his sister, or felt the burn scars. He would remember that he'd been conquered easily, effortlessly. Even better, he wouldn't know why.

The looks the staff gave her made sense, then. Wariness grew into alarm, and, in some cases, fear. Killing another person cast a shadow on one's aura, as did torture. She didn't suppose her aura had been particularly light before, but now a line had been crossed. She carried it in her magic and the way she held herself, and it was easily visible to those who knew how to look for it. Those who didn't know still felt a sense of unexplained unease. Harry and Ron, as always, were oblivious. Most everyone else subconsciously avoided her.

Naturally, there were those who didn't. Some people were attracted to that danger, most specifically some Slytherins. The teasing tapered off and nearly stopped. Zabini and Nott watched her with speculative eyes. Malfoy went to great lengths to avoid addressing her in any way. She was still a Mudblood, and still endured censure and obloquy for it, but it didn't really matter anymore.

Dumbledore still said nothing, but more than once she caught his eyes trained on her. She didn't look directly into them, for her Occlumency wasn't nearly strong enough to withstand focused attention from him. She'd learned all she could from books, but the real practice would come from training under one accomplished in the art. It was actually a rare and advanced skill. She just happened to be surrounded on all sides from Masters concentrated in a single area.

So she researched. Occlumens tended to be reclusive, paranoid beings, while Legilimens tended to be more flamboyant. It was far easier to find mention of Legilimens than Occlumens. It was also rare, apparently, for any one person to be accomplished in both.

Besides that, Legilimency was once regarded as evil, practiced almost exclusively by Dark witches and wizards. Hermione didn't fancy making her presence known to such people, but she began to feel it may be necessary. That is, until an idea hit her. Snape would likely not be in any position to teach her at any point in his life, but Dumbledore would be. As she understood it, he was a bored young man, associating with simpletons and desperate to show off his intelligence. The irony was fantastically appealing. She would learn Legilimency and Occlumency from the very man she was trying to protect her mind from!

This goal would require more planning than usual. Dumbledore was clever and had a long memory, so discrepancies would be unacceptable.

She could not approach him first after he began teaching at Hogwarts, as he would be guarded and unwilling to repeat his mistakes. Before that, though, and perhaps after Grindelwald, would be just fine. She believed, anyway.

It wouldn't do to show up suddenly at his lowest moment. That just wouldn't be logical. She would have to introduce herself slowly, perhaps even years beforehand. Unfortunately, that would mean making several appearances at Hogwarts. Everything would have to be perfect, from her uniform to the various glamours she would have to put on.

Rather than relying solely on books, she made a trip to late-1800's Hogwarts. A strong notice-me-not charm concealed her century-inappropriate Muggle clothing, even though it was covered by black witch's robes. For the most part, students were encouraged to dress casually. Girls weren't distinguished by affluence, as every one wore a standard black uniform with long sleeves and loose skirts absent of ruffles or ribbons. Black robes were draped over these uniforms, disguising any hint of figure. Boys had only slightly more freedom, but most wore black slacks and closed robes. The individuality came out in the hairstyles, which varied from simple braids to complicated twists. As antiquated as she'd considered the fashion even in her own time, it had clearly come a long way.

When she considered herself ready, she cast a glamour that made her appear to be an eleven-year-old girl and made sure to be seen by a young Albus in the library, or the Great Hall, or even classes. Only Albus noticed her, as her charms had designed it to be. They didn't speak until his fourth year.

He studied alone often, as even his most ardent admirers couldn't keep up with the hours he devoted to it. Hermione, pretending to be a Ravenclaw girl, conducted her own research at the table directly next to his. Although her spell, attuned to him specifically, forced his attention to focus on her as often as would be considered natural, she made sure never to so much as glance in his direction.

Attraction in any sense of the word was fairly easy to manufacture. The first step was proximity. She would be everywhere he looked, whether in others' company or alone. He grew accustomed to the sight of her. The second step was to match him. She must be intelligent, knowledgeable, powerful, and even to some degree as physically attractive as him. The first three were laughably simple. She'd spent almost as many years as he'd been alive learning as much as she could conceive of, and beyond that had almost a century's worth of magical advancements on him. The brightest witch of her age, wasn't she?

Hermione approached him first. It was right before Christmas break, according to her Tempus. Only the most dedicated were still in the library, of which Albus was obviously one.

"Excuse me, Mr Dumbledore," she began, hovering over him and the table. "May I sit?"

Albus nodded, tracking her movements closely. She lowered herself into the chair across from him, setting her armful of books down.

"I've been looking for information for weeks now on magic having to do with the mind. Specifically, Occlumency and Legilimency. The books here only mention them in passing, and I don't have access to books other than those here in the library." She smoothed her skirt over her legs, crossing her feet neatly at the ankles.

Interest spread over his expression. "I can't say I've heard of either of those things," he admitted cheerfully. "But I would be happy to aid in your search."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, keeping her voice quiet. "What I know of them comes from these," here she gestured to the pile of books, "if you should like to look them over. Just cast Scoporatio over them."

He leaned forward ever so slightly, placing his forearms on the table. "Scoporatio? This is also unknown to me."

"Hm?" Hermione looked up, surprise etched into her expression. "It's an idea finding spell, usually using keywords. You just wave your wand in an elliptical motion over the book or books, like this," she demonstrated, moving her wand in a lateral oval encompassing all of the books, "and say 'Scoh-poh-ray-shee-oh'. You see?" The books inched away from one another and flipped to the first match. "When you're done with that passage, tap the book and it will move to the next mention. Here, you try."

Albus, a quick study, followed her instructions over his own book and watched the pages turn. "This should be immensely useful, thank you," he said, looking directly into her eyes. Whether it was to convey his sincerity or to try to read her Hermione could only guess.

"Could you owl me over the break if you find anything pertinent? Please?" She tilted her head to the side and met his gaze head on, allowing her eyes to fill with hints of knowledge and power, directly belying her innocent mien.

"I would be happy to," he said, "but that will be difficult since I don't know your name."

Hermione laughed, flashing bright white teeth. "I'm sorry, I completely forgot. My name is Lark, Lark Mender." She held out her hand and allowed him to nod over it. "I'm sure I've kept you from your own projects long enough. I eagerly await your owl." She stood and disappeared into the shelves, where she willed herself into the next week.

Her future Headmaster would be at his home by now, or perhaps he'd accepted an invitation to spend the holiday with someone else's family. It didn't particularly matter to Hermione, as long as he wasn't in the castle.

Owls cared little about names. They relied on their master's concept of the recipient in some faint sort of telepathy. This ability was unique to owls, explaining why one would only occasionally see messengers belonging to any other species. Those countries without an indigenous owl population used other methods, but none of these have the ability to deliver without needing an address or a real name. Assuming Albus would use an owl to communicate with her, the fact that she'd given him an alias wouldn't matter.

She stayed in the Room of Requirement, which took care of the majority of her needs. That included the books containing the information she'd asked Albus to find, but her request of him wasn't directly for her own benefit. The more he researched, the more interested he would become, and by the time she contacted him he would have a working practical knowledge of the subject.

His writing was still as flowing and elegant as it would be in her own time, and just as illegible. She was fortunate to have experience in deciphering his script. They continued their correspondence for all two weeks of the break, and when it came time for the students to return Hermione made herself absent. For nearly a month, actually.

Occasionally she would allow him to see her, and she would teach him new spells and drop hints of knowledge that she "clearly" thought he would know. After graduation she dropped off the map completely.

The glamour had had to be adjusted slightly with every year, and she was relieved to finally be able to drop it entirely. It was the summer of 1900, after the whole mess with Grindelwald, when she contacted him again.

Well, she didn't suppose she could consider it "contacting". She'd merely arranged to bump into him in Godric's Hollow, the place which he would be stuck in until his brother graduated. He would be heartbroken and guilty, and just perfect for the plucking.

It was easy, ridiculously so. All she had to do was be kind and intelligent, and he soaked in her attention like a sponge. She was a font of benign knowledge and compassion, exactly what he needed during that time. She went most everywhere with him, a notice-me-not over the both of them, and he reveled in her company. Redemption and nostalgia all rolled up into one person. He taught her what he knew just to see her smile.

Legilimency was the first thing. He had her practice on him, and even her mind was gentle and soothing. She learned so many things about him- his childhood, his father, his friends. His mental shields blocked the things he was ashamed of showing her, most notably about his sister and Grindelwald. It wasn't long, though, before he showed her that too. She clasped his hands in her own and told him that his mistake would not define him, and he still had so many years left in him with which to make amends.

While she was excellent at Legilimency, after months of practice, her real talent was in Occlumency. She suspected it was because of the sheer number of secrets she had, which caused her to throw all of her focus on keeping Albus from seeing them. Pretty much her whole life up to that point would be completely off-limits. Where it took her months of constant and diligent study to master Legilimency, she mastered Occlumency in a matter of weeks.

When she determined she'd learned all she could from the nineteen-year-old boy, she left.

She was twenty-three when he died. A part of her mourned for the young man she'd gotten to know so well, but the rest of her wouldn't, or couldn't, care. She comforted Harry. That was all she could do.

They spent the summer of 1997 together, as they'd spent the previous two. That is, until the Order contacted her and asked for her help in moving Harry safely from his aunt's house. She agreed, but she wasn't stupid enough anymore to trust that their plan would work. She told Harry to say his goodbyes and then transported him to the Burrow. Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones still took his relatives to safety, not that it mattered one way or the other to Hermione.

The Advance Guard never got the chance to set out, because as soon as Harry and Hermione showed up at the Burrow the Weasley's informed everyone else. Moody demanded to know what she'd done and how she'd done it, but Hermione gave only nonsense answers, such as, "we were carried by an army of pixies" or "the moles dug us a tunnel". There was little he could do to her and they both knew it, and as far as Moody was concerned she hadn't actually done anything wrong.

Maybe Professor McGonagall would have been able to guess, but the retired Auror probably had no idea she'd ever had a Time Turner. Very few people did. He couldn't even use his mediocre Legilimency to take the answer from her, to his obvious frustration. Paranoid old man, certain that every little thing he didn't know was part of an evil conspiracy.

Hermione suffered through the heat of that summer, and Harry's plot to steal away to complete Dumbledore's grand mission. She humored him and Ron and just did her best to prepare. There wasn't a whole lot more to add to her already-stocked bag, and anything she needed she could retrieve at any point.

Rufus Scrimgeour handed her a book of fairy tales from Dumbledore, and she pretended to be confused for Harry's sake.

She smiled at Viktor and watched the international Quidditch star flounder before her before she took pity on him and led him out to dance. Ron's baleful stare followed her through every step and spin.

Naturally everything was ruined. Obviously none of them could savor even a single joyous event. Clearly if no one actually attending the wedding would destroy it then it would come from Death Eaters. Of course. Why had she expected anything else?

Harry and Ron were whisked away and she handed them Muggle clothing, all the while ignoring catcalls from drunk Muggle men. They fought Dolohov and Rowle and she bound their memories. Not Obliviated them, as she led the boys to believe, but left them disoriented enough that they couldn't follow them.

Grimmauld Place was a welcome refuge for all of them. Hermione had so many pleasant memories about it, largely from visiting Alphard. Whenever he asked too many questions she would drop off the face of the earth for a few months until he learned that it would get him nowhere. Alphard accepted her sudden appearances in his bedroom with relative ease, compared to how she imagined anyone else would react.

She paid him a visit that night, when her boys were asleep. As it happened, Alphard was in his room when she showed up, and she snuggled into his down comforter while she waited for him to notice.

"Galatea, I know you're there," Alphard said finally, still not turning to face her.

Hermione yawned. "What a poor host you are! You would ignore your guest?"

Alphard stood from his desk, on which there appeared to be piles of documents, and sat delicately on the edge of his own bed. "I must confess I'm relieved at your choice of words, 'guest' rather than 'lady'." She could always count on him to be smiling. Always.

"Oh, hush," she said, her suppressed giggle coloring her words with affection and mirth. Determined as usual to catch him off guard, she tangled her fist in the curls on the back of his head and pulled him back so he lay in her lap. It wasn't the first time she'd done that, admittedly, but it still surprised him.

"Definitely not a lady," he remarked, looking up at her through sinfully long lashes. "But your name does suit you."

"Marble is better than flesh, isn't it?" Hermione quipped, her hair falling around her bent head so it blocked the dim light.

He laughed, soothing her anxieties as it usually did. "You know that's not what I meant." One hand reached up to tug on a strand of her hair, and she jerked back before flicking his forehead. "Ow! You know, maybe I would like you better as a statue."

Hermione scoffed. "I'm quite sure any man who could worship a statue suffers from delusions. And that would put quite the damper on our friendly banter, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know," Alphard drawled, "Magic is good for a great many things."

"So I'd squirm if you were to jab at me, is that it? I'm wounded, sir. You value me only for my gelatinous qualities."

"Don't forget your looks," he added, smirking. Really, he was so beautiful it was ridiculous. She could hardly take him seriously when he looked like a fallen angel, which she supposed was part of why he acted the way he did.

"I rarely do," she said, scratching his scalp gently as if he were a cat. Before they could continue on that subject, she scooted out from under the covers and crawled over to lay beside him. Her legs bent at the knees and her toes touching the floor. Alphard watched her in speculative silence, the smile having flattened into something more pensive. In response, Hermione turned and cuddled into his side, drawing her legs up onto the bed. This wasn't new either.

For several moments there was nothing except the beating of Alphard's heart and both of their breathing. Just as Hermione was beginning to become drowsy, he finally asked, "Why?" His body tensed, as if prepared to trap her there should she decide to leave as she so often did.

It was a different question than she was used to. He always asked her how: how she got through the wards, how she appeared without anyone knowing, how. This time it was why, and she was willing to answer. "You'll have to be more specific," she murmured, voice somewhat muffled.

"Why are you here? With me, I mean? You could probably be just about anywhere you want to be, but you're here." She couldn't see his eyes, so she couldn't tell just what he was feeling. Legilimency was a last resort, not for petty things such as this.

"You make me feel better." Hermione traced patterns on his chest absently, if only so she could focus on something solid. "No one does that quite like you do."

He didn't respond, and his muscles didn't relax. She was almost asleep when his voice rumbled, "I should like to kiss you, Galatea, if you're amenable."

Her eyes opened and she lifted her head, searching his eyes and his mind and finding only sincerity. Suddenly the situation didn't seem quite so trivial. "I am," she said, and he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

The angle was awkward at first, with his torso rising up halfway to be able to meet her. Realizing this, Hermione lifted herself up onto her hands and knees and straddled him, purring into his mouth when he wrapped one hand around her waist and the other in her hair. His scent, his taste, appealed to her. It was musk and lemon and mint, a curious mixture that had her nipping and exploring with more ferocity than she'd planned. This time she didn't feel at all like grinning, and she didn't think he did either.

Still, she pulled away first, savoring his groan. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked, promise lacing her tone.

"Please," he rasped, begging. How could she say no when he asked so nicely?

When she made it back to her boys she was as collected and calm as she'd ever been, more than a match for their panic. She had breakfast ready when they stumbled awake.

She was twenty-two when Time first failed her.

For nine years it had always worked for her. Not always in the way she expected, sure, but something happened. Every single time.

But Bellatrix sat on her chest and cast Crucio after Crucio at point-blank range and Hermione shrieked and sobbed and wished and wished and wished. She wished even harder when the older witch abandoned her wand altogether and carved into the skin of her forearm. Mudblood. Now she could never escape it.

It was clear that Time would do nothing to help her, so she did what she did best- lied. Reminded herself that Harry wasn't far away and was perfectly unharmed. Reminded herself that she would undergo things far worse in order to keep him safe. She'd always said that she would do anything for him, but the words seemed so real now that she had to prove herself.

She would. She would do anything for him.

Hermione woke up in Shell Cottage hours later and cried.

Without asking for it, she found herself in the in-between, sitting before a plane full of those scenes. She didn't choose one, and Time didn't choose for her. It kept her there, giving her the safest possible place to break down.

"I trusted you," she said aloud. "Why?"

There was no response, not that she'd expected one. Soon her hysterics ran their course and she lay there in stasis, trembling. Even her thoughts were numb, coming slowly and turning in lethargic circles.

The voices were audible for the first time, all of them saying the same thing, the same word. It sounded like Hermione was completely enveloped in a crowd chanting a mantra. "Necessary." This repeated for several moments until the voices faded back into incoherence.

Necessary. How arrogant she must be, to have thought this to be a betrayal. How narcissistic she must be to believe that Time's rules didn't apply to her.

Her arm still hurt. Hell, her whole body hurt. Perhaps it would for a while, but if that was the way it was supposed to be then Hermione would accept it. Now that she was thinking clearly again, it became painfully obvious that this event would shape her personality and future actions. Since she'd been chosen as a tool to mold timelines into place it was imperative that she do the right things at the right times.

It was comforting, somehow, that this was always meant to happen.

The implications were unmistakable. Her blood status had been branded onto her skin, right there for anyone to see. She could hardly gad about in high society anymore, or associate with whomever she wished to with plausible deniability. Without any negative repercussions.

Danger would be everywhere. If purebloods were unfriendly in the progressive age of the 1990's then how would it be in the 1800's? The Dark Ages? It was bad enough that she was a woman, but without even the protection of good breeding she could look forward to pitfalls no matter which way she turned.

Was she up to the challenge? Of course.

Alphard didn't mind as much as she'd thought he would. For all that he was a genuinely good person with a fantastic sense of humor, he'd still been raised to hate people like her. He could have cursed her then and there, or turned his back on her entirely. Instead, he covered her forearm with his hand and gently pushed it back down to her side before capturing her lips in a kiss.

He didn't repudiate her, but he never did acknowledge those scars if he could help it. He never mentioned her blood status. As far as he was concerned, he'd never found out in the first place.

That was fine. Better than she'd expected, after all. Still, she didn't visit him as often as before.

Harry and Ron treated her simultaneously like glass and like a grenade. Easy to break, easy to explode. Silly boys, weren't they?

She loved them to death, she really did. But gods if she was starting to hate spending time around them. Escape was welcome and effortless, so she left often. Sometimes for only an hour, sometimes for weeks at a time. She visited every Triwizard tournament in history, participated in several Samhain festivals, went to the library in Alexandria, and met as many great philosophers and authors as she could think of. Returning to her boys was a monotonous cycle of moving, foraging for or stealing food, and trading snappish glares.

Inevitable as it was, Hermione still felt uneasy staring up at Hogwarts's towers, partially visible from Hogsmeade village.

Easy it may not be, but they would succeed. They always succeeded, no matter how the odds were stacked against them. That was always how it had been.

The illusion crumpled to dust at the sight of Harry's lifeless corpse.

She perched atop a stack of crates in a back alley in 1351's Krakow, Poland, twirling a Transfigured pair of sunglasses in one hand and holding her wand by her side with the other. Piles upon piles of rats surrounded her, all dead. Many were horribly mutilated, from being turned entirely inside out to being trussed up by their intestines. Her hands were bloody. It wasn't enough.

The sunglasses spun, around and around, several times nearly slipping off of her finger. Hermione stared at the destruction she caused.

Harry had gone to Voldemort, as he was always meant to do. Apparently. But he never returned. Voldemort threw his body at their feet and crowed. Neville took care of the last Horcrux, and it was Professor McGonagall's curse that finally killed the Dark Lord. They mourned Harry, and celebrated the end of a tyranny. It wouldn't be easy to repair society, but it would be worth it.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to help rebuild. She didn't want to see a future with Harry as a martyr.

They were supposed to succeed together, Ron, Harry, and her. Ron still lived, with most of his family intact. He was sad, sure, miserable, but his family helped ease the pain. He would heal, just like everything else.

Harry was gone, and there was nothing she could do to get him back. Harry was gone. He'd left her. After everything she'd done to keep him alive, he'd slipped away from her and met death willingly. Gladly, even. He wouldn't have thanked her even if she were able to change things. As much as she wanted to be angry with him, Hermione had to admit to herself that he deserved to finally rest.

She couldn't be angry with him, but she could be angry. Therefore, rats. Not that it helped a whole lot.

The blood was starting to dry and become sticky. She'd already taken an excessive amount of rats from miles in every direction, and Summoning more would solve nothing.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from Krakow and safe within the plane between times.

She lay prone on Alphard's bed in 1961's Cardiff, Wales, running her fingers over her bare stomach. Alphard was passed out beside her, snoring peacefully. The sheets were damp with sweat, and Hermione could see even in the dim light the proof of their exertions. Her body was sore. It wasn't enough.

Her skin was soft and smooth, and she traced around and around her navel. She stared at the bliss she'd caused.

Alphard was still gorgeous. He'd probably be gorgeous as a thousand-year-old man. It ran in his family and was especially strong in him. It was a wonder he never got married. Or maybe it wasn't. Here she was, in his bed, her legs still entwined with his. She was his first. She would be his best. The look in his eyes when he looked at her was wild and adoring, and Hermione knew instinctively that it was love. Maybe that was why he never married anyone.

She could learn to love him. It wouldn't be easy to overcome her inhibitions, but it would be worth it.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stay with this one man. She didn't want to see a future where she was a housewife, or even a kept woman. No matter how safe it would have felt.

They weren't supposed to be together forever, Alphard and her. She knew how his life ended, and she wanted no part of that. He would be upset at her distance, but he would move on. Everyone does, eventually.

She couldn't love him, no matter how often she tried to convince herself in the meeting of their bodies. It hadn't helped a whole lot.

The sheets were starting to become cold and clammy. She'd done this too many times already, and trying any more would solve nothing.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from Cardiff and alone within the plane between times.

She stood with one foot pressing down on a man's chest in 1826's New York City, United States, watching him struggle for breath. They were alone in yet another dingy back alley, hidden from view from the street. The mans face was turning purple, and several of his bones were cracked. Power thrummed in her blood and tingled on her skin. It was starting to be enough.

He looked up at her in horror, eyes dark with mingled fear and, oddly, desire. The Muggle couldn't move through the Petrificus Totalus, which Hermione supposed wasn't exactly sporting but she couldn't bring herself to care. She lifted her foot and placed it on the ground beside his hip, moving the other foot forward as well. Then, slowly, she kneeled, sitting on his stomach and leaning forward so her face hovered above his. Oh, it was definitely desire she saw- what could she do to make it go away?

Perhaps this was a bit of an overreaction for drunken sexual assault. A bit of groping and leering was all it was, but she'd dragged him out here to have her wicked way with him, fully prepared to leave his mind and body broken or even lifeless. Had she come too far? Was she truly unhinged? Did it even matter? The Muggle still looked at her as if he would do it all over again, and that just couldn't go unpunished.

"Crucio," she said, lazily, in the same tone as if she were answering a stupid question. It was basic, but basic was all he really deserved. This would still be the worst night of his miserable life.

She could leave right now, and try to get back to the land of morality. Never do this again. Try to fix whatever had gone wrong in her mind that she would do this even knowing how awful it made her.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stop this. This was the only thing that had given her even the tiniest bit of joy since Harry had left her.

There wasn't anyone meant for her after all. She was meant to walk between moments alone.

The man's eyes were wide and crazed, filled with all the panic of an animal dying. He couldn't move even to scream, even to close his eyes. Hermione danced her fingertips across his cheek, over his lips, up to his temple, down to his neck.

Should she kill him or leave him alive? His mind was gone already, she could see it. No point anymore. He would just be a nuisance to everyone around him.

"Avada Kedavra." Fondly, oh, so tenderly, she ended his suffering. It was like writing the final line in an essay, adding the signature to a painting, delivering the punchline in a joke. Closure. Finality. Triumph. It helped.

His corpse was becoming cold. Dead bodies held no appeal for her, but she would do this again.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from New York City and happy within the plane between times.

She waited with a bored expression in 1943's Diagon Alley, Great Britain, sipping Masala chai genteelly outside Rosa Lee Teabag. The future Dark Lord was strolling through the crowded street, arms laden with books. He appeared to have just come from Obscurus Books. To Hermione's mild surprise, he was alone, although she'd gathered that by this time in his life he had cronies aplenty, most of them with more money to their names than Hermione had seen in her entire life. His mouth was set in just such a way that he appeared friendly without actually having to make the effort. He didn't see her. That was fine.

The tea was growing cold. She stared at the boy gliding down the cobblestone road.

Hermione had grown tired of having no purpose, of being entirely unmarked by the physical world. She was tired of a lot of things, but most of all she'd grown tired of grieving. Not that she thought she would ever truly stop, but there was nothing she could do to fix things and so there was little point in tearing herself to pieces. She would make peace with this. She would study his murderer.

She would learn everything she could about Tom Riddle, and she would begin to heal.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione wanted to test this. She wanted to be happy again without needing to hurt something. She wanted her future to be bigger, more encompassing than that.

Time would take care of her, alone or not. It always did.

Perhaps Riddle finally felt her eyes bore into him. She'd like to think that was the case. He met her gaze steadily for one second, two... and then away. There was no reason for him to set her apart from anyone else in Diagon Alley, not yet.

Leaving her empty teacup on the delicate metal lawn table, Hermione disappeared, moving immediately to later that night. Much later. The sixteen-year-old boy slept in his tiny cot, a worn copy of The Dark Forces cradled in his arms.

"Wake up, Voldemort," she said into his ear, smirking widely. His reaction was entirely as amusing as she'd thought it would be: he sat bolt upright so rapidly Hermione thought she could hear his bones creak, his eyes searching for her frantically. She was already on his other side, though, and she waited for him to realize. He turned his head forward once again before he caught her in his peripheral vision and startled wildly.

"Who are you?" Riddle demanded, breath heaving in his chest. "How do you know that name?"

Hermione crawled onto the cot, ignoring the loud squeaking of the springs, and settled at the foot of the cot with her legs folded. "Guess," she suggested, leaning forward so her elbows rested on the thin mattress. Her hands propped up her head. If she was correct, she appeared to be the perfect image of carelessness.

"That's a ridiculous expectation and you know it," Riddle snorted, starting to calm down. His muscles were still taut, Hermione noticed. Good.

"Is it?" She looked up at him, quirking one eyebrow. "Do I? How can you be sure?"

Riddle sighed, a condescending huff of breath that Hermione could easily imagine being coupled with an eye roll. "I've never seen you before in my life, in any context, and therefore can't be expected to select one of the infinite possibilities."

"Not entirely correct, but I'll allow it," she said flippantly. "Besides, I suppose you wouldn't be so stupid as to actually guess, knowing that it would be difficult to avoid giving away information to a stranger for free." Her head cocked to the side, but she kept the same serene expression. "There's also the whole sexism thing."

"'Sexism thing'?" Riddle parroted.

"It's the forties, mate. Most people have been conditioned to view women as factory-built toys who have only the same prerecorded phrases and not a brain cell to their names. You're one of those people, though you do also have that classism thing going against you. Not that that's really an excuse, but it does make me feel better about it. Everyone needs inferiors, right? And there are women everywhere. Easy targets."

"And why does that matter? How dare you think you know me?" Indignance was beginning to eclipse confusion, she saw. Fine.

She grinned. "I do know you, darling," she lied. "And doesn't that just make you itch? That I know you but you have no idea who I am? Of course it does."

Indignance was becoming anger. Hermione could see his hand clenching, clearly missing his wand. "Who are you?" he growled.

"Please. You couldn't do anything to me even if you were allowed to use your magic. Won't you thank me? I'm being nice, and not doing anything to get you in trouble. I could, you know. Just a little focused willpower is all." How easy leverage was when Traces were put on Muggle residences. How very, very, disappointingly easy. "But then again, you bore me. Even that might not even be worth the trouble."

Anger was becoming fury. Boring, indeed. "How dare you?" he hissed, barely above a whisper.

"You don't even know how to respond, do you? You're entirely off balance. Maybe now you'll resort to-" Riddle lunged forward, hands going around her throat. Finally. "Violence," she choked out, still smiling, and then she disappeared.

She reappeared in an empty seat in his compartment on September 1st, weeks later. As always, no one noticed or reacted to her abrupt presence until several moments after.

"Out," Riddle commanded, murder in his eyes. It was clearly an order to his toadies, not to her. As if she would obey him anyway. Several boys took their leave of the compartment as quickly as they could, almost tripping on one another in their haste to remove themselves from the room. The compartment door slid shut. "I have my wand now," Riddle remarked, twirling the thing idly between his fingers.

Hermione chuckled. "Bully for you," she said. "I suggest you not try anything. This conversation would become a whole lot less fun for everyone involved. Well, maybe not everyone. I'm positive I would be vastly entertained." She slid over to the window and peaked out, turning her back on Riddle entirely. "It's actually nice today. Who would have thought?" It was sunny out, and looked fairly warm. The green of shrubbery and trees passed into and out of her line of sight so quickly it was a blur.

"You're magical, obviously," Riddle told her, completely ignoring all of her statements. "In an unTraceable way, given that I wasn't cited for unauthorized use of magic."

She still didn't look at him, but she could see in the ghost of a reflection that he was still seated across from her. "Good boy. However did you reach that conclusion? Some great leaps of logic there. Truly commendable work." She couldn't see his face, but she hoped it was beginning to cloud over with irritation.

"The sarcasm is entirely unnecessary," he responded coolly. "As I said before, I don't have enough data to piece you together just yet."

Maybe he'd learned from his first experience with her, or maybe he was just boiling on the inside. She'd find out soon enough. Unsettling this teenage boy should be simple. "I'm flattered. See, you'll have to actually work when you're with me. I have knowledge, and you want it, but you have to earn it. You're a quick learner, though. The gods know this would be such a chore otherwise."

"What kind of knowledge?" He disguised his greed well.

She stood and stepped closer before sitting lengthwise across his lap, tucking her feet between his legs and the seat. "What kind do you want?" Flustering him really was laughably simple. Still, it was the forties. She should give him some credit for not climaxing on the spot. Apparently even sociopaths were still just hormonal teenage boys in the end.

"Everything," he said, not quite hiding the husky note in his voice. Admirable effort, though.

"Remember," she told him, breath misting over his throat, "You have to earn it." Satisfied with the melodrama of the moment, Hermione touched her lips to the underside of his chin and vanished.

Playtoys weren't the only ones occupying Hermione's time. Often she visited Circe, a sorceress immortalized in legend. Her specialties were Transfiguration and Potions, though Hermione got the feeling that she wasn't exactly deficient in knowledge of the other subjects as well.

Circe did live on an island, in as opulent of a mansion as magic could provide. She was jealous and vindictive, wickedly funny, and devastatingly beautiful. Those things were true. It was also true that she used sex to gain and exercise her power. However, she didn't fall in love with her victims as the stories would suggest.

"He was handsome, to be sure," Circe told her of Odysseus. "Once all the dirt was gone. But he was arrogant and unfaithful, and I took him and destroyed him."

"And Penelope?" Hermione asked.

"I'm no virtuous woman. I knew full well I was wronging her, but I didn't care. I still don't. But he was witty enough, and if the gods wanted to help him then I could only assume he had something significant to offer." Circe scratched one nail into the wood of her table.

"Did he?"

"No, not really. He was boring in bed, too. He stayed with me a year- a whole year, can you imagine? He told me so often that he loved me, and it was all I could do not to laugh." Circe did laugh, pure mirth and no bitterness at all. "I pity his wife."

Hermione shared the sentiment. Any person who could be teased away from a person they claimed to love didn't deserve them. Didn't deserve anyone, really. She resolved then to never enter into a commitment without first verifying that she would never stray. Most likely that meant Hermione would never do it, because any one person couldn't satisfy her.

She visited Circe often. She taught Circe of patience, and Circe taught her of manipulation. A valuable trade, in Hermione's opinion.

The great men of history were so frequently the same in temperament. Sure, some were more wise and some more rash, but the ideas rarely changed. The hardships were similar. The reactions similar. It wasn't their fault; as long as history had existed men were squashed into the same mold. Women were as well, but where some bent to the pressure others twisted around the mold until the image was something else entirely.

Gods, but she loved women. Their kindnesses, their vengeance, everything. The good and the bad.

In a way, Hermione supposed they freed one another.

Sorceresses, she discovered, were made out to be evil creatures. Sorceresses, she discovered, were human. People.

Morgana le Fay, for example, was quiet and compassionate. She healed people and animals alike, whether or not they looked down on her. She hated being ignored. Unlike Circe, she fell in love easily. Every man was The One, and she gave them everything she had. These men didn't love her. They used her for her body and her adoration and refused to acknowledge her anywhere but in private. She was made to feel worthless.

Guinevere knew of this, and tried her best to keep Morgana from humiliating herself. Morgana, foolish girl that she was, didn't take well to the interfering.

The woman regretted her folly, and regretted making an enemy of her former close friend and confidante. She just felt too much. Empathy to the extremes.

Knowing the women behind the stories was fulfilling. Hermione couldn't help but feel that she was one of them, just as human. Perhaps they were villains, and perhaps the backstory didn't excuse the actions, but somehow knowing that people aren't simply born evil made her feel better.

Oh, yes, she knew she was rapidly approaching "evil". She'd killed people for sport, so what else could she possibly be? It was pointless to try to convince herself that she was good at heart.

The most useful thing she'd gained from these experiences was sex. Sex to disarm, sex to convince, sex to manipulate. No one was truly comfortable with sex without forcing themselves to be, so that kind of control was magnificently effective.

Tom Riddle would beg for her; she would make it so. She would drive him mad with touch and with words until he could think of nothing but touching her. Twisted, yes. Absolutely. But she could hardly torture him and killing was obviously not an option, so the humiliation of temptation would have to be enough.

She amused herself by appearing when he would be least prepared to handle her. Armed with a powerful Notice-Me-Not tailored specifically to not include Riddle, she would appear in the middle of class and bother him. Sometimes it was just staring at him from across his cauldron, and sometimes it was little tantalizing touches. She made sure to appear often, though not often for longer than a minute or two.

Her favorite thing to do, however, was show up in the middle of the night.

On one such occasion, it was nearly the end of the school year. He was exhausted from studying, and final exams had taken place that day. Riddle, she guessed, just wanted to sleep in peace for one night. Of course he couldn't, not when it would amuse Hermione so to drive him to violence.

"My Lord?" she hummed, her face hovering above his.

To his credit, he no longer woke in a panic. She did this far too often for him to be truly surprised. "What do you want now?" he asked, blinking sleepily.

"Don't you want to know my name?" she pouted, lowering herself until she skimmed his body. "And I have a surprise for you."

His hands grasped her wrists, keeping them anchored exactly where they were. Hermione didn't mind; he'd finally accepted that he couldn't control her. "What surprise?"

"Oh, not much," she breathed against his mouth. "Just some little things about Horcruxes, is all. Not terribly interesting to you, I'm sure." Her tongue snaked out and traced his lower lip before drawing his lip between her teeth and nipping gently.

"What's your name?" He was trying so hard to conceal the interest she'd sparked in him. That was one of the first things Slytherins learned, after all. Hermione knew better.

"Andromache," she said, pulling back just a few inches.

He understood immediately, to her delight. "Who am I, then, Pyrrhus?" His eyebrows furrowed, gaze still locked with her own.

"Not exactly," Hermione said. "I have nothing for you to threaten, much less a son."

Riddle glanced down at her lips and then back up to her eyes. "I should think you more like Hermione than Andromache."

"Do you think so?" Hermione purred. "So you are Orestes?"

"Perhaps." His grip on her wrists tightened, as if she'd tried to pull away. She hadn't. "Are you so changeable as Hermione is?"

"I'd hardly be a good judge of that, would I?" Hermione said. "Are you not curious about my gift for you?"

His hands twitched, a barely perceptible clenching and relaxing. "I am," he said. "Tell me."

"You haven't forgotten, have you?" She brought her face close to his again. "What will you do to earn it?"

Too fast for Hermione to react, Riddle released her wrists and pulled her head down to his. He kissed her like she'd imagined he would: teeth and bruising and pain. She hadn't thought she would like it, but a part of her that she didn't feel inclined to analyze at that moment returned every favor, savoring the taste of his tongue and his breath. His taste was unusually strong, bittersweet like dark chocolate.

She pulled away after a few seconds, reveling in the groan that tried to follow her mouth. His hands were still in her hair, and she could see in his face that he wanted to use the leverage to pull her back down. She could admire his restraint, for now. She would have him begging yet.

"You believe I would reward you for seeking your own gratification?" she asked. "Arrogant, aren't you?"

Riddle was intelligent enough to figure out what it was that she wanted from him. Possibly he already knew, and was testing to see if anything else would work. Unfortunately for him, Hermione wasn't easily swayed.

Training a person was remarkably similar to training a dog. She would handle Riddle in the same way that she would an excessively dominant dog: force him into a submissive position until he no longer fought it. Where she would make the dog lay down at her feet until she decided he could get up, she would make Riddle plead.

"There's no one here but me, Tom, and you already know that I surpass you. Who better to show your humility to than me? This knowledge can only be attained through me, and only one way to convince me to share it." His eyes were clouding over with defiance. Good; she'd expected a challenge from him.

"No." His grip on her hair tightened, and Hermione had to ignore the net of pain across her scalp.

Instead of the grimace she knew he expected, Hermione smiled. "We'll see." And then she was gone and in Alphard's room. Teasing Riddle always got her worked up.

It occurred to her, laying down to sleep in an empty bed in an empty house, that she was doing wrong by everyone in her life. She dropped in and out of Alphard's life and his bed, keeping him fixated on her to the point where he would never even look at another woman. He didn't deserve that. She'd seen into his head, and she knew he loved her wholeheartedly, innocently, unreservedly, purely. Maybe he thought she loved him back. Maybe he didn't. Hermione wasn't sure which would be more sad.

She'd left Ron behind to deal with the fallout on his own. Hell, she'd left everyone behind. Ron had lost both of his best friends in a single day. By choice, the both of them, though Hermione hoped he didn't know that. It wasn't so much leaving as going, she supposed.

Of course she was doing wrong by Riddle, but he was the only one who deserved it. She couldn't even bring herself to feel guilty for exposing him to knowledge that would help him in his campaign. It had already happened, in a way, and things worked out fine on the macro level. Dark Lords are inevitable, and at least she had the power to shape this one.

Did she feel remorse? Shame? Sorrow? Not really. She'd turned things like that off for a little while. She slept peacefully that night.

Hermione popped in and out of Riddle's daily life just often enough to keep him on his toes. Sometimes she made sure only he noticed her. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she invaded his personal space. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she reminded him of her offer. Sometimes she didn't.

She made damn sure that Riddle knew he couldn't just ignore her. There were no wards he could use to keep her away, no spell he could use to hurt her, no options. She would bother him until she decided she was bored with it, and that would take an awfully long time.

Seven months it took him. Seven months of persistence and pestering and prying before he finally said that one measly word.

"Please." His face was entirely expressionless, as if masquerading as marble would make up for the vulnerability of his begging.

Rather than gloating, she just smiled and said, "Hepzibah Smith possesses two of the Founders' relics, Slytherin's Locket and Hufflepuff's Cup. She's a sucker for a pretty face, and you certainly have that."

"That's all you have, then?" Riddle asked, unimpressed.

"Oh, no!" she laughed. "I have so much more than that. But for a single word, that's all you get. Pretty pleading promotes plentiful profit, don't you know."

As if he'd realized at last that they were only words, Riddle seemed to immediately resign himself to his situation. "I beg of you, give me that I desire."

"Not horribly specific or expressive, but definitely improvement. Deserves a reward, don't you think?"

When it became clear that it wasn't a rhetorical question, Riddle nodded impatiently.

Hermione seized the front of his robes and tugged him close, kissing him fiercely in exactly the way she'd discovered he liked. "I'll give you a few minutes of my time, My Lord," she murmured against his mouth. "Undress me." She double-checked that the glamour on her arm was still intact.

He didn't need any encouragement, it seemed, because without even breaking their kiss he set to work on unbuttoning her robes. Hermione wore several layers of clothing, usually, so even after her robes lay crumpled on the end of the bed she was still in a skirt and a blouse. Rather than waste more time on tiny buttons, Riddle grasped the fabric on either side of the collar and pulled, tearing it off of her.

Taking pity on him, Hermione unclasped her bra herself. Having her breasts bared before him only caused the slightest twinge of discomfort, and even that vanished at the sight of the pure greed in his eyes.

"I'll tell you when to stop," she said.

She watched him make his Horcruxes. It was a sickening process, to be sure, but Hermione wasn't nearly disturbed as she should have been. What did that say about her? Plenty. It meant that she'd gone too far. Further than killing perverts in alleyways. Further than fostering a Dark Lord.

It meant she might as well be just like him. Not stupid or egotistical enough to try to take over, but just as reprehensible of a person. Dark, evil, truly and completely.

How did she get here? Was this side of her lying dormant her whole life? Or was it how she reacted to complete freedom?

Circe laughed at her, laughed until tears came to her eyes. "It took you this long to realize? Anyone who knows you can see it. It's not a bad thing, not really. Things like that are decided by those with weak minds, those who fear being hurt. You might be evil, but that's fine. The story needs villains, too."

Hermione shaped Time and Time shaped Hermione. What was there left for her but to surrender to it? Gods, but she was tired. Exhausted and exhilarated. She'd never been so fulfilled.

She was many years old and many different people by the time she gave in. She was the mysterious figure walking alone in the park, the charismatic vixen who charmed men at parties. She was a seductress and a murderer and a demon.

It was okay. Everything would be okay. After all, Time chose her for a reason, right?

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Twenty One- Year III- Moral Decline

Almost from the start, Hermione had made peace with the certainty that this year wouldn't be her last. Searching for Horcruxes, therefore, would be a waste of both time and energy.

Still, she felt guilty. This timeline would be hardly enriched by her presence, even if she was pushing some of the Slytherins towards a Lighter path. If she wasn't going to go all out and try to defeat Voldemort, then she had to admit to herself the truth of what she was doing: experimenting. Seeing exactly how much certain players affected the future. Tossing them in the direction of the correct choice but not warning them of the dangers, nor giving them anything with which to protect themselves.

How long could she go on telling herself that she was the hero of this story?

"I wonder what it is that makes an action 'good'," Hermione said, pushing Severus's book closed. She would not be ignored.

Severus glared at her hand and then up at her face. "There's no rigid answer," he said.

Hermione huffed, glaring back without Severus's genuine irritation. "Of course not. I'm not daft, you know. But there must be some kind of loose definition, or else no one could have morals at all."

"An action that prevents harm from coming to someone else is a 'good' action," Severus said when it became clear that Hermione wasn't going to let it go.

"I thought so at first, too, but what if that action causes harm to someone else? What then?"

"Why are you treating me as the authority on morality?" Severus grumbled.

She giggled. "Well, I'm certainly not one! That's why I'm asking."

"I don't know," said Severus. "Is that what you want to hear? Questions of good and evil can be and have been argued since we knew of the concept. No answer is completely satisfying, for often there is no completely good choice."

"That does make me feel better," said Hermione. "I suppose that works."

Having convinced herself that her actions were excusable, Hermione moved on.

The next step was to wait. She dropped hints to the others, took down the Notice-Me-Not, and practiced her Hybrid Legilimency. It didn't take long for some of the Slytherins to seek her out.

She felt powerful, and she wasn't sure exactly how comfortable she was with that.

As much as she could be at that point in time, she was happy. Her every waking moment was occupied by numerology and equations, gathering data and learning how to organize it into something executable. The diagram was really beginning to take shape.

Content. She was content. She only had to work on the project and theorize, and everything would be fine.

Christmas Vacation came, and Hermione had Vici take her back to Selwyn Estate. At Hermione's request, Morfan spilled every little piece of information he'd learned over the past few months. Rhea stayed out of her way unless it was at meals. For her part, she spent her time studying, even though the end of the two weeks showed little marked progress.

Hermione didn't take the Express back to Hogwarts, either.

By the end of March, she found the bulk of the work complete. The diagram included every person and event that she could recall related even peripherally to Voldemort's rise and fall.

Her next move was to perform another spell, a much riskier spell. The paths at that time only responded to the equations, but Hermione couldn't possibly know every action every person performed.

The spell- more like a ritual than a spell, really- involved good old-fashioned DNA. Easy enough to get from a large majority of the people on her diagram, but some would be far more difficult to retrieve. Voldemort's, for example.

She would plan for that later. For now, she would do what she could. The next few weeks were spent collecting DNA samples: hairs from Severus and Regulus plucked directly from their scalps as they glowered at her, hairs from the brushes of Lily and the Marauders, saliva samples from many of the Slytherins and staff members, and a surreptitious fur-stealing from Minerva. Albus was the only one to present a problem.

Albus, naturally, was careful about where he left traces of himself. The more Hermione observed him, the more she realized that his long beard and hair were taunts. Once removed from his body, everything lost all scientific evidence of ever having belonged to him.

As tempting as it was, asking him just wouldn't be acceptable. An entirely separate Arithmancy calculation proved that he would only become suspicious and investigate, and there was little chance that he would allow it, anyway.

Fine, she would figure that out later. She would move on.

Political figures also proved difficult, though not impossible. Hermione asked Vici for help often, as the wards on the Ministry didn't do anything to hinder her. Merlin, that loophole was wide open. Did no one realize how useful house elves were?

With the Notice-Me-Not conspicuously absent, Albus watched her. He knew she was up to something, clearly.

It didn't matter. Obviously it didn't. Hermione wasn't technically doing anything against the rules. Albus would just have to sit his paranoid arse down and wait for her to leave.

Along with May came finals, and Hermione couldn't help being upset. She couldn't really explain it to herself. This had already happened the exact same way before, and she hadn't been sad then.

Severus and Regulus, and especially Regulus, didn't have time to humour her. Hermione offered to help Regulus study, but he declined. Hermione shouldn't have been offended, but she definitely was.

The two people she could even begin to consider her friends were too busy for her, and Hermione didn't have the patience to sulk or find other company. She wished that she had a need to study, herself, but Hermione was thoroughly tired of pretending to find new information from her textbooks.

Instead of puttering around the castle being useless, Hermione took herself to the grounds and paced back and forth. She could pretend that she was doing something else, something more productive, but she was pacing. When she'd acquainted herself with every corner of the fields, Hermione began venturing into the Forbidden Forest.

In hindsight, it was a mistake to be so predictable- to make an effort to present herself as someone with valuable knowledge and then remove herself from protection entirely. It was stupid, plain and simple.

"What are you thinking, Selwyn?" said Travers. Hermione whirled around, reaching for her wand. She nearly tripped on a root, and in her momentary physical disequilibrium she was easy to disarm. "Expelliarmus," he said, lazily, and her wand flew into his outstretched hand.

"I'm thinking that it's awfully rude to disarm someone if you're only planning to have a civil conversation," Hermione hissed. A chill dragged over her skin, puckering as it went. The sun was just beginning to set, but it would be a few hours yet until curfew. During those few hours no one would think to look for either one of them.

"And so it follows that..." Travers prompted. He was smirking, and it wasn't the attractive expression one could have found on one of the Black brothers. The curl of his mouth was both cruel and thoughtless, and it did no favors to the dark hair shorn within an inch of his scalp or the muddy, expressionless eyes. His nose reminded her of Severus's in its length and width, and unlike Severus, it fit his face. He reminded her of a golem, some monster created of clay and wishes to rend without art or thought. If she concentrated perhaps she would be able to make out the fingerprints of his maker.

"You're an arse, and you think I'm daft," Hermione said. "And you don't mean well. If you don't mean to hurt me in some way, you would have returned my wand."

How could she present herself? The truth was unacceptable, obviously, and she could only guess whether his intentions were general or specific. Did he want to know the answers to the exams, or the outcome of the brewing war? Whether he would have a healthy child, or whether wizards would rule over the unworthy Muggles?

"Like you could use it anyway," he scoffed, tossing his head as if his hair were in his face. "You'd just blow yourself up, and then you wouldn't be useful to anyone."

"Point taken," said Hermione. She'd allowed people to believe that her magic was unstable, not missing. Not an ideal, but one that would explain the answers to questions she couldn't admit the truth of. "But no less rude."

Travers shrugged, his wand not quite leveled at her but not at ease either. "Well, while we're both here, why don't you answer a few of my questions?"

Hermione frowned. Of course, that would be his objective. She was useless except for her knowledge. "If I like your questions, then fine," she said.

"Sit," Travers said, waving his wand and Transfiguring her a chair. It wasn't the effortless gesture he wanted her to think it was; she could see the strain on his face from the nonverbal casting. "We might be here for a while. Oh, and Muffliato."

"One of Snape's spells?" Hermione sneered. "He'd be so flattered." His mouth twitched, and Hermione was conscious that he was becoming irritated. Good; she was irritated too.

"Sit," he said again, and Hermione obeyed rather than make him force her, which would escalate the situation. She didn't like pain, and she wasn't looking forward to its inevitability. "What is your business at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"My guardians are encouraging me to find a suitable spouse." The truth. It would be easiest to stick to the truth.

"Nothing else?" His brow was beginning to contract in an expression which could only be disdain.

Hermione forced a chuckle. "Not really, no. I'm hardly here for a magical education, obviously."

"What project do you work on between classes?"

Did she need any more evidence of her gross negligence? "I have an Arithmancy project." Things were already getting too close to the full truth. But then, how else could she explain away her appearance of being a Seer? How had that seemed like a good idea for so long?

"And its object?"

"I've already told you," Hermione said. Her hands were beginning to shake.

"To find a spouse?"

"Yes."

"How shallow," Travis said, smiling.

"You would think so, I suppose," Hermione said, willfully ignoring his sarcasm.

"What is your purpose in seeking the company of Snape and Black?"

Hermione had anticipated this question, at least, and she had a ready answer. "Snape is entertaining and has accurate observations, and I'm considering Black." Even the thought of marrying Regulus made her want to dig her own grave and lie in it, but she resisted the urge in favor of looking convincing.

"What did you say to them that got them to begin speaking nonsense in the Common Room?"

"As I don't know what they're saying, I cannot answer that." Lie number two.

"About you being a Seer."

Her whole body was tensing up. "Oh, that. Just a few conclusions I came to from running calculations." In direct defiance to her body's nervous reaction, her voice was calm and even a bit condescending.

"What conclusions?"

This was the crossroads. She could lie, or say- "Following the Dark Lord will lead them and their families to premature deaths. The Blacks will apparently become extinct after this generation, for example."

"What other families?" His face was closing off, pinching.

"The Princes, the Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the McKinnons, and so on." She didn't dare say the Traverses but perhaps he saw it in how she avoided his eye.

"Why do you say that?" A deep breath. She could see it. He was losing his composure.

It was beyond avoiding, now. He was getting angry already. How did he get off trying to intimidate her? She's Hermione bloody Selwyn. She'd survived Azkaban, she'd survived Voldemort, she'd survived Bellatrix, she'd survived Dolohov. What could this rat-mustached teenage boy do to her that hadn't already been done? Besides, if he wasn't prepared to hear the answers then why would he seek them out? Stupid boy. "You really don't know? It's so easy to figure out," she said, feigning innocent confusion and swallowing instead of spitting at his feet.

"Enlighten me." Oh, look, he's actually twitching. Was it really that easy to rile him up?

"The Dark Lord doesn't actually care about blood purity. It's just the handy springboard for his ascension to power. He's nothing but a corrupt politician- or a cult leader. He doesn't even believe what he preaches."

His breaking point was approaching. "How dare you."

"You asked, mate," Hermione said, borrowing the facetious tone from Sirius.

"You filthy blood traitor." He'd forgotten about his wand- it lay neglected by his side.

"Hardly. How is pointing out the obvious a betrayal to my blood?" Even if he wasn't thinking of his wand right then, his fist was clenched and ready to fly- he was still dangerous. She couldn't afford to get cocky, or she would have her head bashed in. But then she would have something to pin on him, and she could destroy him.

His open palm swung, and Hermione was too slow to avoid it. Her head and torso turned to the side, the left side of her face heated and stung. Her heart was staccato, allegro, adagio. She hadn't believed he would really strike her.

"Do you feel better now, Mr Travers?" she asked, and she was calm. Genuinely calm. "It can be difficult to challenge your worldview. Happens to the best of us."

This time it was his fist, but Hermione was prepared for it. She ducked just enough that the blow glanced off her cheek.

"I wonder what it is about physical violence that convinces one that it will help. You don't feel better at all, do you? Hitting things won't stop you from wondering if I'm right."

"Shut up," Travers hissed, teeth bared and face red. "I could kill you! Don't you understand, you crazy bitch?"

"Why would you do that?" Hermione said. "The cons far outweigh the pros. Even if I am a blood traitor like you claim, I'm not some Mudblood no one would miss. All of Britain knows who I am. My absence would be immediately noticed. Besides that, you cornered me here because of the things you think I know. Already, that was a pretty stupid decision. Do you even know how to use an Obliviate, Travers? How will you cover your tracks?"

By now, Travers's face was so red she thought he might burst. Both of his fists were clenched- both! He'd dropped his wand when he slapped her! So even as Travers grabbed her by her hair and punched her square in the nose, Hermione could smile. He didn't know it, but he'd already lost.

"What does pain mean to me?" she asked him aloud, her words necessarily slurred. Blood ran into her open mouth, coating her tongue with a wash of warm pitch copper. "What is your aim? You know it won't help you."

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP OR BY MERLIN I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Aww," said Hermione. "How cute." Her arms, which he hadn't trapped since since she hadn't struggled at all, came up and she dug her thumbs deep into his bulging eyes.

He let go of her immediately to clutch at his face, falling to his knees. Hermione stood, stepped around him, and picked up his wand. It was a pretty little thing, well-maintained. She considered it for a moment before snapping it over her knee.

She should help him. He had no wand, no sight, no companion- it was pretty likely he would die out there if no one brought him back.

She could have helped him. She chose not to.

It took five days for anyone to notice that he was missing. He'd been studying for his NEWTs, and he constantly complained that classes were useless, so for a while everyone assumed he was holed up somewhere. But when no one even saw him by Wednesday, the professors got worried. Albus ran a scan for his magical signature, and when it came up negative Slughorn organized a search.

Hagrid was the one to find him. What was left of him, anyway. By then he was hardly more than bones. That's what Hermione heard, anyway, and she couldn't know just how exaggerated the claim was.

Hermione didn't feel guilty. She should have, but she didn't. A good deed was one that prevented harm from coming to others, right? Perhaps Marlene McKinnon and her family would agree that she'd done the world a favour.

To her delight, no one suspected that she'd had anything to do with it, and she passed her exams again unmolested.

The days before their scheduled return to their homes for the summer were pleasant. (Few actually mourned Travers, and it was decided that he'd just wandered out too far into the Forbidden Forest and gotten lost. It was the Forbidden Forest for a reason, after all.) Even the Ravenclaws came out of hiding and basked in the sun, enjoying this brief respite from responsibility.

Sometimes Hermione forgot that they were just kids. She'd known them as adults, as warriors, as fallen heroes, as traitors. It was hard to keep those images apart. Severus, especially, often bled into her old Professor.

As peaceful as those weeks were, Hermione only felt uneasy. The end was nearing.

She started keeping her Arithmancy notes with her at all times. That year's effort was the most precious thing she possessed, and she wouldn't be able to handle it if she had to leave it behind.

June dawned as chilly and bright as ever, and Hermione spent it writing letters. She would take care of this timeline as much as she could.

The first letter was to Albus, detailing every Horcrux and its location, as well as known Death Eaters and those who could possibly be changed. Protect Lily and James Potter, she wrote, but above all protect their son.

The second letter was to Aberforth, telling him much the same as she'd told Albus.

The third and fourth letters were to Severus and Regulus, and they were the hardest to write. She was placing a lot of responsibility on them both, and especially on Severus. Would it be worth it for him to someday be able to look back and say that he'd done his best? Would that be enough, or would he always look back with regret on his failures?

And Regulus. She just wanted him to live. Take care of Sirius, have children if Sirius didn't, make the right choices. Regulus... what would his life look like if he survived past eighteen? He truly had the potential to be a good man. She believed in him, because otherwise she might cry.

On June 13th, Hermione slept in. She didn't have to worry about missing the Express, or being discovered in a dorm, for the Room of Requirement hid her effectively. The sun was approaching its apex when she called Vici. Together they packed her things, and Hermione took the house elf's arm with a fond little smile. Vici Disapparated them both, and-

The year reset.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Twenty- Year III- Variegated Vectors

For several weeks after that informal vow, Vici accompanied her everywhere. At Hermione's request, Vici maintained her own low-level Notice-Me-Not, and the pair of them essentially did as they pleased. During classes, Hermione kept up a running commentary explaining everything and teaching Vici how to read. It was the most useful Hermione had felt in a long time.

As a happy result of Vici's magic, Hermione was never subjected to the same treatment that Luna had endured during her time at Hogwarts, even though Hermione was at this point every bit as odd as Luna had been, if not more so.

("Perhaps talking about your friends will help you get better," Vici suggested. Hermione could see the logic in that. Indeed, it no longer hurt her just to think their names.)

The Notice-Me-Not, while sparing Hermione from most of the attention of students and staff alike, was not infallible. Dumbledore, with his irritating ability to see magic, was nigh on immune, and the fact that Hermione- and Vici, now- bothered with a Notice-Me-Not at all drew his focus. Not that he approached her with any questions, not so soon, but Hermione knew beyond a doubt that he was watching her.

She could live with that, for the time being.

Vici, while a lovely companion, could only slow the spread of loneliness. She hated seeing Sirius and Lily every day, perfectly happy without her there. She wouldn't have wanted anyone else from Gryffindor or Ravenclaw to notice her, anyway, and she couldn't even look at the Hufflepuffs without wanting to cry. That left only one House: Slytherin.

Of course, she'd halfheartedly tried to become friendly with a few, select Slytherins during her first year. Regulus had made it clear that he didn't trust her, being a Gryffindor Mudblood who was friends with the brother who hated him. Hermione could understand that, but now she was none of those things. That didn't guarantee that he would accept her attempts to befriend him, but it did increase the chances.

And Severus Snape. Still hurting from losing Lily, well on his way to becoming a Death Eater. She'd given up on him before, as much as she didn't like admitting it to herself. She'd left the Severus of that timeline to his fate, having unwittingly accelerated Voldemort's rise to power. Hermione could change that. She could. She was no better than he'd ever been, much less this teenage version of him.

If she was no better than Severus, who was to say he and Regulus were the only ones worth saving? What about the low-level Death Eaters? Gods, they were all so young. Who was she to say that any of them were beyond hope?

Few of them would respond to straight kindness, and she didn't know if she was capable of giving that, anyway. Ultimately, most became Death Eaters for their own sake or their families'. Just being nice could hardly change that. What she had to do was convince them that Voldemort would lead them to the deaths of their family lines. It wouldn't be a lie. The Malfoys and the Blacks, for example, were completely extinct in her time. The Princes, naturally. The Flints, the Carrows, the Lestranges, not to mention the neutral or Light houses. Voldemort would bring the demise of the Wizarding world, purity and all.

It would be easy enough to convince them- if she could get them to believe that she was a Seer. She did have... intimate knowledge of the future. But what could she say? "Oh, Sev, you die on May 2nd, 1998, of a snake bite after one of your masters believes that since you killed your other master, the fabled Elder Wand belonged to you. He was wrong, by the way, so it was kind of pointless." Even if telling them how and when they would die would be sure to make them believe her, her goal wasn't to scar them for life.

There was little point in being subtle.

While she may not have had direct access to Regulus, she did have several classes with Severus. Ravenclaws and Slytherins were often paired in classes, just as Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were. Even though the Seelie and Unseelie courts were long disbanded in the West, inter-House tensions were passed down through blood. It was the easy answer for why Gryffindors and Slytherins especially hated one another, but not the entirely correct one.

"Severus Snape," said Hermione, turning to face the boy. His hair hung in a greasy sheet around his face, blocking her view. At the sound of his name she saw him twitch, but did not acknowledge her. She went on. "Son of Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape. Self-styled 'the Halfblood Prince'. Childhood friend of Lily Ev-"

"That's enough," said Snape, gripping his quill so hard it snapped.

"Childhood friend of Lily Evans. Particular enemy of James Potter and Sirius Black. Future follower of the Dark Lord. Future spy for Albus Dumbledore. The man responsible for the murders of James and Lily Potter."

"You're lying." He revealed his face, finally, glaring up at her.

"All I speak of is true, but it doesn't have to be."

"You're saying I can change it," Severus sneered.

"I am. The solution is easy: do not follow the Dark Lord. He leads you, your allies, and your godson to an early death." For Draco, a very early death.

He must have seen the sorrow that she hadn't quite managed to hide, and his eyebrows bunched together. The expression made him look fierce, but Hermione knew better. "How early?"

Hermione shook her head. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"No," said Severus, and that admission made her respect him just a bit more. It took maturity to think ahead and realize that he might not be strong enough to go forth to his death.

"I will say only that without the Dark Lord, you would likely live to be as old as Dumbledore."

"Are you a Seer?"

"Yes, after a fashion," Hermione said, the corner of her mouth twitching. Subtlety was, indeed, pointless.

He didn't look entirely convinced, but that was fine. He would watch her now, and listen to what she said, even if he wouldn't admit it for a while.

*|II8II|*

Even with the help of Vici's alterations to Hermione's bed, it didn't take very long before sleeping once again became impossible. Once again she padded down to the seventh floor and trapped herself within the Room of Requirement. She needed a cot, like the one she'd slept on in Azkaban. Beds were beginning to feel too comfortable, decadent, even. A cot, and a blanket, in a room only big enough to admit one person.

It would be her hiding place, even from herself. It was what she needed.

She wished that Echo was there, but until she came of her own volition Hermione wouldn't force the issue. She did miss her.

She'd been visiting the Shop on her good days. Keane ignored her most of the time, and Echo pretended to follow his example. Hermione sometimes caught Echo creeping around, and then she would have to leave so she could cry.

Still, things had been worse. When Minerva died, for example.

At the mere thought of her name, Hermione burst into tears, and the Room rocked her to sleep. There was still progress to be made on that front.

In the morning, Hermione woke up an hour too early for breakfast. She used the extra time to come up with a plan- or, rather, a non-plan.

Upon entering the Great Hall, Hermione made a beeline for the Slytherin table, sliding in directly across from Severus. "Good morning," she said, channeling her inner Trelawney.

"Morning," said Severus. At least, she thought that was what he said. He clutched a steaming mug of tea between pale spider-leg fingers, and dark circles pressed like bruises under his eyes. He didn't look up at her.

"What a lovely day to just focus on being children, yes?" She glanced up and down the table, but nothing appealed to her. She served herself some porridge anyway.

Severus mumbled something that could have been "Sure" and could have been "Bugger off".

"I've been wondering about superiority complexes," Hermione said, trying to find levity and failing, "and their inevitability. An undisciplined mind will naturally divide the world into insiders and outsiders, and most will then furthermore decide that the outsiders are somehow of lesser value than the insiders."

He still didn't look up, and Hermione suspected he was hearing very little of her monologue. She went on anyway.

"With a bit of work and discipline, those prejudices can be tucked down where they belong." Hermione paused. "I would say that the whole problem may be solved by blurring that line, but I'm quite certain that people like James Potter wouldn't even want to understand why, say, Lucius Malfoy does what he does. The world is yet simple to him and people like him."

At the sound of James's name Severus finally looked alive, and his face twisted for just a moment before he controlled himself.

"It's hard to tell for certain whether the reverse would work, either. Ultimately, there's no foolproof way to force someone to understand something when they don't want to." The porridge tasted like sludge in her mouth. She added cinnamon.

"Why are you telling me this? You have to be aware that everyone within earshot is listening to you," Severus said, sipping his tea.

Hermione smiled. "Of course I am," she said, deciding not to tell him about the Notice-Me-Not. "It's a message for anyone who will hear it. I can't have respect for those unwilling to improve themselves. You're- we're young yet. There's still time. Not much, in some of our cases, but I hope to change that."

"You're mad," Severus said, less of an accusation and more of an amused observation.

"If I am, I have reason to be," Hermione said cheerfully.

"That's not very reassuring," Severus said.

"On the contrary!" Hermione said. "It's far more comforting to know that it's the things I've seen that drove me loopy instead of some early onset chemical imbalance."

"Is it your intention to announce to the world what you are?"

"Hm, not exactly. I wouldn't be pleased to find out that the very people I'm trying to save have gone and reported me to their master. I'm entirely capable of disappearing, you know. It's not my loss if the future doesn't change. Did you know that in little more than twenty years from now the pureblood population will have been cut down by over half? He doesn't actually care about blood purity, it's just a ready-made launch for his career."

Severus was beginning to look uneasy. "You could get killed for saying these things," he said.

"I could, yes," Hermione agreed. "It's time to get to class. Would you care to escort me?"

"Do I have a choice?" he grumbled, standing and sliding his bag onto his shoulder.

"Not really," Hermione chuckled. As far as he knew, this was a political choice only further complicated by the fact that she was a Pureblood lady. There was no right answer. She couldn't bring herself to feel guilty for it, since the choice was an illusion. No one noticed their conversation or that they were even leaving, save perhaps Albus.

"You find this amusing," said Severus, glowering. "You do know that there will be social repercussions, yes?"

"Of course I do. Come, it's time for Herbology. And no, before you ask, I don't know what possessed them to schedule that so early in the day." She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, refusing to allow him to distance himself from her.

He more than made up for it with his stony expression. "I hadn't planned on asking you anything." The implication that she was both stupid and insane didn't escape Hermione, but she allowed it. After all, the boy was under some stress.

Herbology was both chilly and boring, for there was little practical application and Hermione already knew everything she could possibly find out about the flora that Pomona- Professor Sprout- meant to introduce to the class. Malefic Spores- what a joke.

Every class was becoming boring, as much as Hermione tried to ignore it. Even Arithmancy was becoming redundant, though she still took pleasure from discussing it with Professor Regent.

It was possible, by now, that Hermione knew enough about Arithmancy to apply it to her situation. A time-consuming, complicated project it would be, but could hardly do anything but ultimately assist her. And if she had so much free time, so little of her brain engaged-

Yes, that was it. She would throw herself into studying Arithmancy, for probability would be her strongest ally. Hadn't she already been wishing she could map out the consequences of her actions? She'd never read into such an encompassing project as this, but surely there would be documentation.

Had Albus taken advantage of this resource during the Second War? Surely he couldn't have, if things had gone so horribly wrong. Even taking hindsight bias into account, he couldn't have possibly thought that the probability of the Light winning was strong. Every examination proved that it was a coin toss at the very best.

A coin toss. There were timelines out there where the Light had won. Where Harry and Ron lived. Perhaps where everyone had lived. It was a comforting thought, to know that perhaps not so much rode on her success. The fate of a few timelines, yes, but in the grand scheme of things?

No, she couldn't think like that. It would be too easy to convince herself then that nothing mattered. That none of Voldemort's depravity mattered, that none of Harry's tragedies mattered, just because there were other timelines where they didn't exist. Hermione had to work for the well-being of every timeline she touched, she had to.

Harry would grow up in a happier future, because she loved him most of everyone. He deserved it.

Professor Regent was a valuable resource, as it turned out. She could recommend books, even books which the Library at Hogwarts didn't carry, and Hermione would go to the Shop and read them there. This new goal gave her the will to focus less on the emotional pain of her estrangement from Echo, and from Sirius and Lily. It helped.

It started with determining her own path, including her past and ignoring (for now) the future. It took no little effort not only to work out the equations, but to accurately plot them to create her path. Sure, there were spells which could plot it independently of her influence, but she was unwilling to rely on such things. She had to understand what was going on, as thoroughly as possible, before using anything automatic.

Her line was, fittingly, a charcoal grey. How glamorous.

The next line was Voldemort, and his line was jet black. She had to rely on every bit of information she remember, as even small details drastically changed his line direction.

The Horcruxes were far easier to plot, being based on a pre-existing line and having little autonomy. With every Horcrux she added, Voldemort's main line became more and more diluted until it was thin, barely even visible. That just wouldn't do. It was Voldemort himself, not his Diary, who was a true threat. Short of manipulating the line itself, which Hermione could be sure wouldn't go well, she could only attempt to make it more distinct. It would make more sense to work in three dimensions, anyway, and as a key player a bit of luminescence wouldn't go amiss.

After accounting for herself and Voldemort, Hermione was at a loss as to the next step. Harry was important, yes, but he wouldn't even exist during the year Hermione was confined to. He could have no influence. Hell, the prophecy hadn't been spoken yet. James and Lily hadn't defied Voldemort even once yet, much less thrice.

His birth was important, she acknowledged, but she would calculate that as an event, not a path.

That answered her question. James, Remus, Sirius, Peter, and Lily were all hopelessly tangled this conflict. She knew the most about them, anyway, and the paths would be more accurate knowing their past choices. These five lines took weeks to calculate and plot and revise and calculate again.

Every line was assigned a variable and a numerical value. With those in place Hermione had to re-work the previous equations.

Fine, perhaps she wouldn't do the whole project manually. Just the main players, and then the minor players and events could be automatically plotted and their variables worked into the other equations. Of course, she would have to calculate everything herself, as every Arithmancer had to do.

It took yet another week to compile and learn these spells, but the end result was worth it.

Seven lines, so far: Sirius was a deep maroon, James was a dark gold, Peter was a sickly sort of green, Remus was a navy blue, and Lily was a pastel blue, in addition to Hermione's grey and Voldemort's black. The lines twisted into one another and pulled away, sometimes passing through an un-plotted event and changing direction. In the three-dimensional work space there was so much empty space, and as of yet no purpose.

Albus and Aberforth came next, and Albus was a pale yellow to Aberforth's dark yellow.

The next few weeks saw the inclusion of Severus (brilliant violet), Regulus (mahogany), Minerva (red-orange), Bellatrix (dark green), Narcissa (sea green), and Lucius (pale orange). These complete, Hermione began working on event. They were polygons of varying size, depending on how many paths were affected.

By the beginning of December, she had a rough diagram of the entire situation, but she didn't just sit back and theorize for months. It was obvious from the beginning that her influence was necessary- especially when it came to the Slytherins.

She would have to take his army from him. With his followers would go his power.

The way to do that had been apparent even at the beginning of the cycle- appeal to their sense of preservation. Preservation of self, of family, of ideals, all of the things that Voldemort used against them to spur them into action. She would take those with some doubt already and convert them, and they would help her spread her ideas. She would allow them to believe that she was a Seer.

As was her habit, she made a list, cataloging each Slytherin by future importance, current influence, personal conviction, and pliability.

Hermione was already working on Severus, as his future importance was nearly unparalleled. The next step, however, was to convert someone who was close to Severus, had reason to doubt Voldemort's cause, and would be willing to listen to her. The answer was easy: Regulus Black. Ally of Severus, brother of Sirius Black, and not socially assertive.

"You're worried about your brother," Hermione said, bending over and resting her elbows on the table across from him. He sat alone, A Potioneer's Companion open before him.

He said nothing, only staring up at her with an expression battling between bemusement, suspicion, curiosity, and irritation.

"It's a sensitive spot for you. It's easiest to get your attention that way," Hermione explained. When no response came, she continued, "You help bring down the Dark Lord, a day that comes too soon. Ultimately you only end up making actually destroying him more difficult for those who might actually succeed. You mean well, naturally, but in the end you die in vain."

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Regulus asked, some measure of discomfort evident in his body language.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, sinking down so that her chin rested on her hands. "It isn't funny. Ironic, yes, but not funny."

"How could you know this? And why would you tell me? How do I know that it's true, anyway?"

"Regulus Black, why do you think my family was targeted this summer?" With that, Hermione smiled and stood, walking away.

He would need less of a hands-on approach than Severus, for he was by nature less cynical than his older friend. She only had to provide him with clues and he would come to his own conclusions. He was a clever boy.

She allowed several days before approaching him again. "You've spoken to Severus," she said.

"I have," said Regulus, closing his textbook but bookmarking it with his ring finger. It was An Understanding of Mind-Altering Potions this time.

Hermione smiled. "I'd hoped you would. I believe you both could help one another... marinate these ideas. What are your thoughts?"

"Snape thinks that you're a Seer," he said. "By his account, you've mentioned some things to him that you should have no way of knowing." The look on his face told her that he didn't know what these "things" were, and he was struggling not to let his curiosity eat him alive.

Hermione hadn't stopped plying Severus with her words and company. She'd spoken at him at length, citing his childhood abuse as a factor of his present and future behavior. He'd, predictably, been furious. He clearly wasn't comfortable with anyone knowing his secrets, and perhaps especially not her.

"I asked for your thoughts, Regulus Black," Hermione said. She traced the grain of the wooden table with her fingernail, peering into Regulus's eyes. They were exactly the same shade as Sirius's, and she didn't want to explore her feelings about that.

Regulus met her gaze unflinchingly, though the slight crease of his brow spoke the truth. "I agree with him, for now," he said. "He tells me that you've claimed the future to be changeable."

"I'm glad he mentioned that," said Hermione. "You don't have to die the way you do. In fact, I fully plan on preventing that."

"Why?" It was a word which said so many things, one of those things being a plain inability to understand what her motive was, why she would care if he died. It was a word which spoke of the deaths he'd witnessed, his understanding that he would die nameless in the end. He wouldn't believe altruism of her. Perhaps he wouldn't believe it of anyone.

"As good as your intentions will be, you do end up being a nuisance. Your actions are a roadblock to my ultimate goal, and my job is to clear the way as much as possible. It just so happens that you live longer as a result."

"You didn't lie to me," Regulus remarked, clearly surprised.

She laughed at that. "I have no need nor desire to spare your feelings. Candor is the most efficient option. If you would be more easily swayed by a lie, I would tell you one."

"Another honest answer," said Regulus, smiling himself.

Hermione hummed her agreement, but her patience was wearing thin. There was so little of it, these days, when it came to people. She forgot to say goodbye as she stood and floated out of the room, thinking of her Arithmancy.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Nineteen- Year III- Bonded Ally

Ravenclaw Tower was, in a word, breathtaking. As pretty as the windows and furniture were, Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the books, not that she would ever want to.

"There's almost as many books in here as in the main Library," the Head Girl said, addressing the starstruck first years.

How had she missed this gold mine? How had she not heard about this from anyone? Knowing the Ravenclaws from her time, they wouldn't have wasted a single moment bragging about their own private library.

Hermione followed the Head Girl to the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. Even the steps were blue and bronze. That was the last conscious thought she had before waking up in an unfamiliar bed in the morning to a crack of thunder outside her window. The other girls slept through it with barely a twitch among them, and Hermione grimaced.

The dorm in Ravenclaw Tower felt wrong, in a subtle but inarguable way. It was dark, but Hermione could still feel how off it was. She slipped to the floor, accepting the cool shock of the stone against her bare feet, and left without a backwards glance.

Her reasoning from the beginning of the year before was still valid, and certainly even more so now. She couldn't survive the year sleeping in the same room as four other girls, not with her nightmares and her frequent departures. It was insupportable. Her own safety was a priority, yes, but even more so was the safety of the students here. She was protecting them, wasn't she? It would defeat the purpose entirely if she were to hurt someone while having an episode.

Only faint candlelight excused Hermione's sight, allowing her at least to avoid suits of armour and the like. She was unsure just where she was going. Down, sure, but not to Hogsmeade. The kitchens, perhaps. She was remarkably hungry, having eaten only sparingly at the Welcoming Feast the night before. Still, that didn't sound like the right answer. The Room of Requirement, perhaps. Sure, it was the logical choice. Safe within the confines of her semi-secret haven, she would have the freedom to do as she pleased, whether that was to cry or to sleep or to read.

The Room of Requirement, she decided, noting with no surprise that she stood in front of the Fat Lady.

"Not tonight," she said aloud. "There's no reason to go inside."

Maybe that wasn't quite true. More likely she had her own, personal reasons. As tempting as they were, Hermione could not- would not- concede to those urges. It would be the satisfying choice, but not the right one.

The Room of Requirement was a poor substitute for the companionship of the friends she'd once had, but it would have to do.

This time she carried her feet rather than the other way around. To the seventh floor, past the tapestry, three paces in the hall, and to the door. A bed confronted her upon her entry. It looked disappointed in her. She would not lay in it.

A blink later the bed was gone, replaced by a single stool. It wasn't any better; it was painted with pink flowers, and if Hermione squinted she could make out kittens.

"Are you mocking me?" she asked, sitting on the floor and beginning to cry.

Upon opening her eyes, the room had changed again. This time, rather than judgmental furniture, a confused and groggy Sirius Black lay sprawled across the floor.

What had she done? "I need him gone," she said, but he did not disappear.

"Selwyn? 'S that you?"

Hermione wished she didn't love him. She wished the sound of his voice didn't fill her with such tenderness. But both of those things were true, and Hermione would have to live with the choice she'd unwittingly made.

"Yes, Sirius Black. It's me." There she was, whispering for fear that her voice would break this spell and send him away again. "Tell me, Sirius Black- is love a choice?"

"If you don't mind," Sirius said, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the floor, "I'd rather know just where I am. And why I'm here. And why you're here."

"Of course you would," Hermione murmured. She would not lie to him. She'd lied to him enough. "I know why I'm here. I chose to come here. But the Room summoned you. I know not why."

"'I know not why'? Are you on dust or something?" Sirius didn't seem afraid of her, which was good. Very good, even. Still, he looked concerned and even a little disgusted. Perhaps that was all right. Less personal than fear, after all.

She really should keep her distance, but instead she asked again, "Is love a choice?"

"No," he said. "Why would it be?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's a choice to become angry, or sad, or happy, right?"

"No?" said Sirius, leaning away in what was likely a subconscious gesture of discomfort. Why shouldn't he be uncomfortable? Hermione certainly was.

"Of course it is," said Hermione, frowning. "Of course, there's an urge one way or the other, but ultimately you make the choice to feel emotion. Ignore the urge and it goes away."

"Is that how feelings work for you? Because I don't think that's normal."

Maybe he was trying to be cruel. It was unlike Sirius to be so willfully tactless. "I could choose to be upset by your insinuation, but I've chosen not to," Hermione said. And it was true; she wasn't upset in the slightest. "That is the way emotions work. Could it be that you simply give in to your impulses, no matter what? It would suit your character."

"What do you know about 'my character'?" Sirius scoffed. "You don't know me."

Oh, that's right. She wasn't supposed to know him at all. She could not lie and agree with him, but nor could she correct him. Instead she ignored it altogether. "Love is a choice. It's attraction that is not. Your mind molds to your wishes, not the other way around."

"Whatever," said Sirius, perhaps wisely quitting while he was ahead. "You think what you want."

"Mm," Hermione agreed, smiling. The Room had been right; Sirius was exactly what she needed. She did love him, after all, and that meant that his mere presence made her heart slow and her mind clear. She felt in control of herself when he was around.

"Why did you bring me here?" Sirius asked again.

"I didn't mean to, necessarily. Magic will be what it is, though, and needs will trump wants as far as it's concerned."

"That makes... no sense whatsoever. None."

"I didn't want it to." There were tears on her face still, she realized. She wiped them away. A wave of disgust washed over her at how soft her hand felt against her cheek. "This room is dangerous, though it doesn't seem that way at first. It obeys the needs of the person inside of it. But need doesn't necessarily follow the definition of the word. It obeys strong emotions. Whether or not logic decides that it's a bad idea, as the person who activated this particular room, it will give me what I require."

"What- really?" said Sirius. "That's awfully handy."

"It can be," Hermione agreed.

"But then why am I here?" he asked, suspicion clouding his face again.

"I did say that the room is dangerous. It is especially so for people like me."

"Like you?"

"The brain... the mind is altered by trauma. It often requires things that aren't good for it, perhaps because the well-being of the mind becomes somehow less important."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It was as close as I'm willing to tell you. I will not lie to you, but that doesn't mean I must say everything."

Sirius scowled, but said nothing more.

Hermione couldn't stop looking at him. He didn't know her. He didn't care about her. He didn't know what she'd done, what he'd done. As far as he was concerned, they'd never met.

She was nothing to him.

"I need you to leave," she said, softly. "I need you to know me like I know you, but that can't happen, so please just go." Hermione obeyed the ice in her gut and turned away. She would sleep on the floor.

A pile of pillows and blankets appeared in the corner, and without looking she knew that Sirius was gone.

*|II8II|*

Only the threat of detention forced Hermione to attend class that first week. Hermione had always needed a challenge. It was as vital to her as the need for basic companionship and love- even surpassing those at times. History of Magic couldn't possibly challenge her, not when it was taught by a ghost who recycled his material verbatim every year.

So when Saturday came, wet and bleak as it had been every cycle before, Hermione took herself down to Hogsmeade before she could talk herself out of it.

Keane greeted her as if she hadn't been missing for over a year. That was fine; he had little concept of time. "She's been waiting for you," he said, and Hermione nodded.

"Will you come with me?" Hermione asked the fledgling phoenix who refused to look at her. "You don't have to; of course you don't. I'm not very good company these days. But I love you, and I'd be happy if you did."

The silence stretched, but Hermione waited. She knew Echo could feel exactly what was going on inside her head, why she hadn't come to get her before now. Echo was the only being who'd ever loved her unconditionally, the purest creature she knew, and after Azkaban Hermione couldn't be sure that she could provide a good environment for Echo. They were bonded, for Merlin's sake. At least within the Shop Hermione knew that Echo would be safe, both from the outside world and from Hermione.

Hermione didn't need a two-way empathic bond to know that Echo wasn't happy with her decisions. It was a good thing Echo was so easy to read, because the bond indeed only went one way.

"I'm not exactly... logical... these last few months," she said, aware that she was pleading now- not for Echo to come with her again, but to forgive her. To love her.

Echo finally met her gaze and cooed, but she looked wary still. She did not come forward, and Hermione understood that Echo would not follow her.

Hermione wanted to cry, but that wouldn't be fair to Echo. She knew her companion well enough to know that she was making a difficult choice, and Hermione refused to manipulate her into changing her mind. "I will not abandon you," she whispered. "I'll come here like I did before. If you don't want to see me, you can stay in another room. But if you do... If you do, I'm here."

But for now, Hermione couldn't stay and pretend nothing was wrong. She wouldn't be able to concentrate on research when her friend, her child, did not forgive her.

Keane let her go and said nothing.

As apparently Hermione was on a masochistic mission to "reunite" with old friends, her next stop was the Hog's Head.

The walk was inclement and unpleasant. The rain became intimate with the threads of her robes, and Hermione was powerless to stop it. It took mere moments for her hair to hang like chained prisoners down her back and cling desperately to her face and neck. She couldn't help but pity herself, and her saltwater tears hid between raindrops. Witches and wizards passed her, sneering at her soaked person. They assumed, correctly, that she hadn't enough magic to protect herself from the weather.

The Hog's Head, compared to the streets outside, was cozy, even though Hermione knew that it would be nearly intolerable without the contrast. Hermione took a seat in a two-person booth in the corner. She removed her cloak and folded over her forearms, cradling it to her chest. She missed Echo.

If Aberforth weren't distracted up at the counter, Hermione knew he would come over and demand that she either buy something or get out. She had no intention of that being his "first" impression of her.

How pathetic was she? There she was, a solitary figure in the grimy pub that was once her home, pining after relationships that were gone, forgotten by everyone but her. Why was she chasing after things she couldn't have? Was she really such a martyr? Even if she could create relationships anew, it would never be the same. She could never have it again. She wasn't even the same person as before! What could she offer, really? She wasn't even sane anymore, dammit! She needed to get better, not worse, and trying to resuscitate the past would only drive her further over the edge.

Now crying in earnest, Hermione got up and slunk out of the pub.

Where could she go? Where could she call home? "Vici?" she choked out. "Vici, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Missy," said the house elf. "Is Missy all right?"

"Please take me home," she sobbed.

Vici took her hand with a greater tenderness than ever before, cooing reassurances over the noisy assault of the rain, and they disappeared together.

Hermione could feel without looking that she was now in her bedroom in the Selwyn Estate. Her robes were dry and warm, her hair once again a frizzy mess around her face, but her misery didn't subside. "Please help me," she whispered, unsure even as she asked how anyone could help her. "Please, please help me."

Later Hermione wondered whether Vici had ever dealt with hysterical persons before, as without hesitation she guided Hermione to the bed and made her sit. "It is all right, Missy," she soothed, holding her hands and stroking them with tiny thumbs. "If Missy need talking, Vici listen."

"Promise you'll tell no one? Not even Rhea?" Hermione begged.

"Vici promises."

"I'm alone here," Hermione said, hardly aware of what she was saying. All she knew was that she had to say something. "I'm alone and insane and I don't know what I'm doing and there's not enough time and too much to mess up and no one to help me and I just want to lay down and sleep forever but I can't do that and my magic is gone and I'm an awful person now because I manipulate everyone and it would be so much easier if I didn't know anyone but I do!"

"Missy has a home here," insisted Vici, somehow understanding Hermione's jumble of words and emotions. "Vici will protect Missy. Always, no matter what."

Even knowing that Vici believed a lie, Hermione swept up the tiny house elf and hugged her to her chest like she used to do with Echo. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Vici held Hermione until her breathing stabilized. Hermione was exhausted but no longer hysterical, and she told Vici so.

"Would Missy like cocoa?" Vici asked.

"Yes, please," Hermione croaked. "But please, please, don't leave me alone."

The house elf took her by the hand again and Apparated them both to the kitchen. Other house elves bustled around, hardly even noticing Hermione's arrival. Vici snapped her fingers and a stool came into existence besides one of the stoves. "Missy may sit there," she said, and Hermione took her suggestion.

Vici snapped her fingers again, Summoning a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate, a bottle of milk, and a saucepan. Hermione watched, fascinated, as Vici set the pan down on the stove (which had apparently been lit while she wasn't looking) and broke apart the bar of chocolate into bite-sized pieces. A wave of her hand lowered the pieces into the pan, and another wave made the flames turn blue and the chocolate melted rapidly. The chocolate should have burned, but it did not, and soon the saucepan had a rich layer of melted chocolate at the bottom.

While Hermione had been watching the chocolate, Vici had apparently Summoned nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, and chili powder. She shook careful amounts into the now-swirling chocolate.

"Chili powder?" Hermione asked.

"It brings out the other flavours, gives them a contrast," Vici explained.

Once all of the spices were thoroughly assimilated into the heavenly concoction, Vici tipped in the milk. Instead of sticking to the sides of the saucepan, it blended with the mixture cleanly. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Vici poured the cocoa into a mug with a mossy exterior and set three marshmallows onto the surface. She pressed the warm mug into Hermione's hands and Hermione took a moment to feel the tangible comfort against her skin. The mug was like a soft blanket, something that could never have been accomplished without magic. She sipped the cocoa with something approaching reverence, and it washed over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted like home. It tasted like love.

"Why does Missy cry again?" Vici asked, wiping at Hermione's face.

"This is happiness," said Hermione, smiling.

Vici's face crinkled in her own smile, and they stayed like that for several moments. "Is Missy feeling better?" she asked.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, thank you."

"Missy is welcome."

Hermione stayed at Selwyn Estate until Monday, when she conceded that if she stayed away any longer she would have to answer some uncomfortable questions. Vici took her back to her dormitory and spelled her bed to be Silenced and to repel the attentions of anyone who wasn't Hermione. At Hermione's request, she even set a low-level Notice-Me-Not on Hermione herself. She left Hermione there with gentle assurances that Hermione could handle it, and for at least that moment Hermione believed it.

She went down to the Great Hall with a new serenity. For once she was completely ignored, and the knot in Hermione's gut unraveled just a bit.

The whole day went like that. No one asked where she'd been. No one asked her anything at all, actually, which suited Hermione just fine. Over the course of the day Hermione felt herself relax more and more, until she felt comfortable enough to read out in the Common Room after dinner. She was entirely unmolested and it was even moderately quiet. For the first time Hermione felt that she could possibly belong there.

After dinner on Wednesday Hermione kept her promise to Echo and made an appearance at the Shop. The whole way there Hermione prepared herself for disappointment, but she quickly found that her efforts were useless. Echo studiously ignored her, and Keane wasn't any more eager to talk to her. She sequestered herself in the room full of books about magical bonds, trying unsuccessfully to convince herself that she could manage just fine.

It became a routine to have Vici take her home for the weekend. Hermione wasn't sure just when or why the Selwyn Estate became her home; perhaps it was because she didn't have any memories from before to associate with it.

Vici had already been "assigned" to Hermione's care, so it took hardly any effort at all to convince Rhea and Morfan not only to make Vici her personal elf, but to forfeit ownership of her altogether. Vici took it surprisingly well, without none of the theatrics that Hermione was expecting.

"Pleasure to serve you, Mistress," Vici said, curtsying.

"Call me Hermione," she said, curtsying back. "You are my equal now, and my friend, as much as you're comfortable being." It didn't even cross her mind that Vici had never known Hermione by her true name, but Vici took it in stride.

"As Mistress... Her-my-uh-knee... wishes."

"Where do you want to stay? At Selwyn Estate or... or with me?" She was genuinely offering Vici a choice, the first of many.

"With Herm- Hermy-"

"'You'," said Hermione gently. "'With you.'"

"With you," Vici said nervously. Her ears twitched back and forth.

Hermione smiled. "I'll never punish you, Vici," she swore. "Never, for anything. I'm not lying when I say that you're my equal now. I know it'll take some getting used to, but this is the closest I can get to setting you free without hurting you."

Unlike other house elves she'd met, Vici took her words in the spirit in which they were meant. "Thank you, Hermy. Would you like Vici to call you Veva in company?"

"Oh!" Hermione cried, smacking her forehead. "Yes, thank you, I'd completely forgotten. I'd planned on telling you the truth anyway."

"The truth, Hermy?"

"It goes without saying that you must never mention anything about this to anyone except for me. Can you promise me that?"

"Of course."

Hermione thought for a moment, trying to organize her story in the least emotional way possible. "Well, I'm from the future. A Dark Lord managed to take over, and somehow I was sent here. My mission now is to stop him from rising to power, but I have exactly a year to do so. At the end of the year I'm sent back to the beginning again, and no one has any memory of me or what I've done. I've done this twice so far. The first time I accidentally started a battle at Hogwarts, and the second time I got myself thrown in Azkaban. I'm still trying to regain my sanity from that. My real name is Hermione Granger."

Without a word, Vici slipped her hand into Hermione's, squeezed it, and smiled. She understood. She truly understood.

Hermione smiled back, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Can you help keep me safe from myself?" she whispered, realizing that that was the question she'd wanted to ask this whole time.

"Yes, Hermy. Vici will keep you safe." Their joined hands glowed a colorless warmth, the distinctive un-color of a vow. "No matter what."

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Eighteen- Year III- Practical Legilimency

It was easier to shield one's mind than to successfully infiltrate someone else's, at least for Hermione. She should have been proud that she could utilize both skills, but her nagging perfectionism prevented that.

Hermione had had the fortune of attending a school which boasted three dual-Masters in the arts of manipulating the mind, and so she measured herself by those standards. Never mind that the youngest of those Masters had twenty years on her, and that the older two were many times her age. Never mind that she'd already gotten further in the Arts than virtually anyone else by the age of 24, and a Mudblood to boot.

Even so, she had to admit that she was improving rapidly with all this practice. It was the little things that mattered. Hermione had read plenty on Legilimency, and every source agreed that the best way to truly get into someone's head was to condition them to allow it. Of course, she hadn't managed to find any evidence of Hybrid Legilimency being used before, so she had to supplement her reading with research on the Imperius Curse, which sent her down a wholly separate, equally unsettling path.

As far as she could tell, long-term projects, such as this one, were most effective when gradual. Begin with something that the subject would think on their own, and then slowly from there begin introducing things that the uninfluenced person would object to. It was important, no matter what, for the subject to get used to obeying.

You're stressed, Hermione said to Rhea's mind. You should call an elf and tell them to run you a bath. She waited with as much patience as she could muster, and finally after a few minutes Rhea excused herself, expressing her intention to take a bath.

Good, excellent, wonderful. She controlled her glee, turning to Morfan. "Won't you please let me have a bath too? Without a house elf? I love them, but I'd rather they not accompany me in the washroom."

"I don't see why not," Morfan said, his eyes glassy for a moment. That vacancy was a problem- she would have to be even more subtle.

Morfan's mind was as different from his younger wife's as it could possibly be. His shields were nonexistent, and he was so easy to manipulate it was ridiculous. He was intelligent, to be sure, but if anything that made it easier to nudge him. Apparently he'd been a cruel man when he was younger, and only his age kept him in check now. It seemed he'd pulled one too many favors, and he'd been warned that he would receive prison time as he deserved if he didn't rein it in. He fully intended to take advantage of Hermione's youth and naivete to pit her against his wife, and Hermione decided not to squash the idea.

As unpleasant as Hermione found Rhea at times, she couldn't help but respect her. Rhea knew exactly what sort of person her husband was, and she flattered his ego while smoothly guiding him where she wanted him. She would have been a Slytherin had she attended Hogwarts.

"Thank you, sir!" Hermione said, getting to her feet. Her lip stiffened against the curl it was compelled to. Showing her disgust now would be silly.

Appearing to remember himself, Morfan added, "An elf will take you there. No reason to get lost, hm?"

"Yes, sir," she said, narrowing her eyes at the doorway. "Vici?" The house elf appeared, only noticeable through a subtle shift in the air. A breeze where there shouldn't have been one, one might say. "If you would take me to the washroom, please?"

Vici nodded gravely and grasped her by the wrist. Hardly a blink later she found her footing on the slick marble tiles.

The washroom was an antique, designed however many centuries ago. The room contained a gargantuan tub and very little else. The toilet and sink were in another room entirely, somewhere across the hall. The tub was sleek and black, and actually made of ebony, as it turned out. It reminded Hermione irresistibly of the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

"You don't need to help me wash today, Vici, but I would like you to stay and talk to me, if you don't have anything important to do."

"Vici does as Missy wishes," Vici said, as smoothly as an uneducated house elf could. The twitch of her ears told Hermione that she did, indeed, have other tasks, but didn't dare say so.

"Thank you," she said, draping her robes over the metal bar set into the wall. "If you would fill the tub, please?"

"Of course, Missy," said Vici, and the atmosphere changed again, this time becoming increasingly warm and humid.

Hermione sank into the hot bath with an undisguised groan of pleasure. After having gone so long without them, she doubted she would ever take them for granted again. The surface lapped against smooth skin, and the steam caressed her face. Vici had learned exactly how she liked her bath, which was apparently part of her job description, and her magic was such a blessing even in the small things. The water would not grow cold while Hermione was in it.

"Vici," she began with the air of someone telling a secret. "I have so much to learn." She paused, waiting for Vici to say something, but when there was only a polite silence she continued, "I mean, I don't know anything. I don't want to have to depend on Mr and Mrs Selwyn for everything, you see. They have so much to deal with already, and besides that I'm beginning to feel a bit stifled. Not that I'm ungrateful for all they've done for me! It's just that I'm old enough to do some things on my own. I want to no longer be a danger to myself."

"Missy wants learning?" Vici prodded, settling herself on a low wooden stool by the tub.

"What's going on, Vici? I'm so confused. There was tension in the Ministry for some reason I could not discern, and there's a tension here, too. I need to know what's happening in the world, because someday I'll have to go out in it and I need to be prepared." Hermione peered over the edge of the tub, feeling tendrils of hair sticking to her face and neck. If she could force eye contact and get Vici to relax...

"Vici knows only small bit," the house elf protested, wringing the edge of her tea towel with both hands.

"That's still more than me," Hermione said. "Look at me, please."

The suddenness of the command took Vici by surprise, and her head jerked up, her eyes meeting Hermione's for just an instant. That instant was enough. As Vici was about to look down, Hermione forced her head back up with a hand on her chin.

Manipulating her mind was so easy, after dealing with Rhea's stubbornness and mental shields. The house elf was a simple, organized creature. Sifting through her thoughts was as effortless as skimming a book, and Hermione sat there for several moments gathering all of the information that Vici knew or thought she knew. When she was finished, she left behind a few orders. To set up a silencer on Hermione's room, for one thing.

Breaking eye contact, Hermione waited several seconds for Vici to snap out of her stupor. "I'm finished, Vici," she said.

"Of course, Missy," Vici said, a fierce determination in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Good, Hermione thought. That was exactly what she was going for.

*|II8II|*

Two weeks of intensive Hybrid Legilimency later, Hermione watched in satisfaction as an empty-eyed Rhea Selwyn took down the child-proofing spells. When she was finished, she turned to Hermione and asked, "Are you happy?"

"Very happy, Mrs Selwyn." And she was, even as exhausting as it had been getting there.

"Call me Mother, please," said Mrs Selwyn, a look of genuine adoration replacing the blankness of her eyes. Out of habit Hermione slipped into her mind and drew borders around that feeling, connecting it unambiguously to the idea of Hermione. Rhea Selwyn swooped forward and gathered Hermione into a hug. Her idea of Hermione was very different from reality. To her, Hermione was her darling, wounded, soon-to-be-adopted daughter. She deserved every happiness and every kind of protection.

"Mother..."

"Thank you, Genevieve."

*|II8II|*

It was absolutely imperative that Hermione keep up with the news. She hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to it the first time around, and look where that had put her. Hermione couldn't rely just on newspapers, however. Morfan Selwyn was a resource sent from the heavens, honestly. Since he pretended to be a weak-willed, foolish man whom his wife used as a doormat, all sorts of things were said around him.

"Tell me, please?" Hermione ordered.

Morfan told story after story, most of them entirely uninteresting- rumours of Minister Midgeon having an affair, Abraxas Malfoy donating more money to St Mungo's, and so on. Hermione stopped short as soon as she heard him say, "Sirius Black".

"The eldest Black son- Sirius, Sirius Black, about seventeen by now- was disowned. He's gone to live with the Potters, apparently."

"How long ago?"

"Er... the end of June, I believe."

"That long ago?" Hermione nearly shrieked. "Why has no one mentioned this before?" Rhea and Morfan both stared at her in concerned confusion, and Hermione sighed. "I've been looking into him as a possible husband. But if he's been disowned, then all that effort is now useless."

"Oh, Genevieve," beamed Rhea. "You're really taking your responsibilities seriously."

"Thank you, Missus, er, Mother."

"Well, I hope you have a few contingency plans," Morfan said.

"Of course I do," said Hermione, nettled. "There's... Ignatius, Fabian, or Gideon Prewett... Cornelius Fudge... Elphinstone Urquart. To name a few, anyway. That's not even mentioning those still attending Hogwarts."

Rhea frowned. "None of those are very prestigious families."

"But they're all pureblood, and that's why Black was my first choice."

"I see. Clever girl!" said Rhea, a smile back on her face. "However, I think there are many, many more eligible men at Hogwarts. How would you like to go there?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment, shoving down the instinctual fear that was now associated with the word. "I would like that," she said, slowly. And she would; she was growing bored with her tiny foster family, and she was unlikely to be taken seriously in any sort of political discussion among the adults, anyway. Not to mention, there was a huge quantity of wizards who would directly affect the second and first wars. Hiding away in the Selwyn estate would be a cowardly move.

"I'll enroll you right away," Morfan said.

"Thank you. May I please be excused?" Hermione asked. Morfan and Rhea both nodded their assent, and Hermione took her leave of the room, trying her best to calm down the heady joy of power- and the world-shattering, all-consuming terror.

*|II8II|*

September 1st came quickly, far too quickly. Hermione knew intellectually that going to Hogwarts was the best option for her, but that knowledge did little to soothe her anxiety.

"We will miss you," Rhea said, wiping away tears with a sheepish smile. "But it won't be long now, and you can come home."

"I'll miss you, too," Hermione fibbed, wrapping her arms around first Morfan's, and then Rhea's waist. "I'll make you proud of me," she said with more conviction.

"I know you will," said Morfan. "The Express is boarding, you should find a good seat."

"Yes, Father," said Hermione.

She looked back one more time at the Selwyns before continuing onto the Hogwarts Express. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked around. It had been so long since she'd been on the train. She hadn't even seen it since her sixth year in her original timeline, nearly nine years ago.

Things had been so happy then. She could almost see Neville going from compartment to compartment, searching for his wayward toad. Harry would be sulking in one of the farther compartments, trying to convince Ron that it was Malfoy, that he was a Death Eater. Ron would be humoring him, as he usually did. Ginny would be hexing someone, surely. Hadn't she been invited to the Slug Club for doing that?

Try as she might, Hermione couldn't imagine herself, and that disconnect allowed her feet to finally move and carry her into an empty compartment. She could feel her breathing speed up dangerously, and she shut the door behind herself. She wished that she could cast the usual wards, but she wasn't foolish enough to waste the magic that had built up. Instead, she curled up in a corner out of sight of the hallway.

It struck her later as strange and sad that she remained in just enough control of her faculties to make sure she wouldn't be found.

Head between her knees, Hermione let the fit wash over her, leaving her sobbing and pathetic in its wake. The wave crashed over her again, and again, until she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming. Not here, not here, not here.

Ron. "You don't deserve to be free."

Harry. Disappointed eyes.

Black shriveled hands... and then arms... she could do nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing...

Sirius.

Dementors everywhere, taking such a special interest in her, making her relive those moments over and over. Taking her happiness away from her.

Minerva, dead in her arms and she could do nothing!

Sirius. He was dead, died for her. How many times would she watch him die?

That Death Eater, so long ago, completely disintegrated. The cornerstone of her descent into depravity.

Murder. Murder after murder after murderaftermurderaftermurder and it was her fault, her wand, and she would do it again in a heartbeat but nothing was ever worth it, nothing ever worked because really wasn't she the only one who survived?

Always her. Why always her? She couldn't decide whether she really wanted to live anymore. Not if she was the only one.

Anyone who ever got close to her ended up dead, and it was her fault, always.

The door slid open, and Hermione looked up, eyes wild and tears tracking down her face.

It was Sirius. Why was it always Sirius? He took one look at her, a girl he'd never seen before in his life, and gathered her in his arms. She didn't even think about it before curling into him, hiding her face in his robes and shaking uncontrollably. Sirius would understand. He'd been in Azkaban for twelve years, he'd lost everyone too, he would understand.

That thought calmed her down. Of course she wasn't alone. Sirius was there. Sirius would always be there, wouldn't he?

There until he died, but clearly he wasn't dead, he was right there, petting her hair and murmuring comforting words that Hermione couldn't hear.

Slowly, slowly, Hermione came back to the present and her right mind. Not that she felt she would ever be completely sane again, but her mind was no longer trapped in the cycle of self-blame and regret.

She felt her breathing stabilize and decided that the fit was over. She pulled away from Sirius and maneuvered herself into a seat, although it would have been better to get up, thank him, and leave. Unfortunately, Hermione was unsure whether her legs would support her, so that plan wouldn't work. Still, she had to be composed.

"Thank you," she said, arranging her face into a suitably blank expression. Merlin, but she was tired. These episodes always drained her energy.

Now she noticed the other three, loitering in the doorway looking completely bemused.

Sirius got off the floor gracefully and brushed himself off. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes roving over her face.

"Yes," she said, and turned to look out the window.

"Padfoot, mate?" James murmured. "What was all that? Do you know her?"

Hermione saw Sirius shrug in the reflection of the window. "I have no idea," he said, staring at the back of Hermione's head.

*|II8II|*

"Please follow me, Miss Selwyn," came Minerva's clipped tones.

Hermione smiled automatically, realizing only a few moments later that she was staring off into space. That had been happening a lot lately, though it had been more than manageable while living with the Selwyns, and Hermione felt a faint unease at how unhinged she'd become. Azkaban really took a lot out of a person. Objectively, also, Hermione had more experience than the average person did. Her good memories were great, but her bad memories were awful. It worked out just well enough that she'd managed to remain sane, but in the extended presence of so many Dementors Hermione feared that she'd lost that delicate balance.

"Miss Selwyn."

"Yes, sorry, Professor," Hermione said hastily, rising to her feet and following the woman to the stool at the front of the Great Hall. The same children had already gone through this process, but Hermione hadn't bothered to pay attention. It was the same as always, and it would be the same again.

There was an insistent buzzing that had risen in her ears. She shook her head, feeling her curls brush against her shoulders. It took her a moment to realize that the buzzing was actual a hundred voices all whispering at their tables. Hermione turned her head to look at them, and her eyes automatically went to Sirius and the others. Recognizing that her embarrassment at them having seen her break down only a few hours before would soon register on her face, she quickly looked away.

The Hat was lowered onto her head. Hermione caught a glimpse of Minerva's expression, but she wasn't sure what to make of it. Was she contemptuous, or worried, or indifferent? Hermione couldn't tell.

"Quite the busy mind you have," the Hat commented.

"That's one way to put it," Hermione mused. "Anyone else would call me mad."

"Perhaps you have reason to be mad." Hermione searched for condescension in the Hat's "voice", but found only matter-of-fact sincerity.

"I suppose I do," she said. "I'm a bit surprised that it was Azkaban that finally did it, aren't you? So much has happened." Not the time, she reminded herself. "I remember you, though. Didn't you say that I wouldn't always be in Gryffindor? I was so worried about that before, but for the life of me I can't remember why."

"There's a lot to go through, but from what I can see I was correct. You've grown, Miss Selwyn, and you aren't a Gryffindor anymore. I could put you there, of course, but would you really be able to recover if I did? Seeing the faces of your old friends every day? That isn't in your best interests."

That was easy enough to understand, and Hermione agreed. She really wouldn't be able to look at Sirius, the Sirius who'd died because of her, without hurting. And would she be able to see James anymore without seeing his son? It was best for everyone involved, and especially her, if she were Sorted somewhere else. Besides that, Hermione didn't feel particularly brave anymore. She didn't care about being strong, not as much as she used to.

"I'm glad you agree. With Gryffindor out of the way, you know where I must place you, yes?"

"Ravenclaw."

"Yes. Think about it, your values have changed. You value knowledge now. I believe this is a coping mechanism of yours, and it's one that will help you regain your equilibrium. RAVENCLAW."

Hermione lifted the Hat off of her head and handed it back to Minerva. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in all the faces. There was clapping, she noted, but it wasn't the raucous applause of Gryffindor, nor even the genuine applause of a House that was proud to receive a new member. They sound uncertain, Hermione thought, and smiled.

She sat at the table of blue and bronze, watching as the clapping stopped person by person. Albus was saying something, as he usually was. Hermione refused to look straight at him, afraid that she would see his skin turning shriveled and black. Food appeared, but Hermione wasn't particularly hungry. Before she would have taken something anyway, but this time she didn't care what impression she left. As far as she was concerned, she could be using this time to go to the Shop and read.

"Hello?"

Hermione looked up to meet the gaze of some seventh year whose name she'd forgotten. The boy flinched when she made direct eye contact, which was puzzling. She wasn't using Legilimency at all. "You've been talking for a while, haven't you?" she said aloud without meaning to.

"Er, yes. And you're pretty out there, aren't you? You would've gotten along with Xeno, but he graduated last year." The boy cracked a smile, but Hermione knew better than to think it was friendly or welcoming. He was leaning back slightly, and was looking anywhere but at her face. To avoid meeting her eyes again, perhaps.

Xeno, Xeno... Hermione wracked her brain, trying to place the name to a face. It sounded familiar. He clearly came off as insane, but not in the way that the Blacks did. Xeno... "Xenophilius Lovegood?" she asked, his face immediately coming to mind. His daughter's came shortly after, and Hermione winced. She didn't want to think about Luna. Why dredge up old wounds? That was the last thing she needed.

"Yeah, him. Do you know him?" What was the boy's name? Did it really matter?

"I've heard of him. I don't know him personally, I'm afraid." Somehow, the lie made her feel better. More in control. The fuzzy cloud in her brain thinned out, closer to what it had been before she'd decided to come here.

She could handle this. Obviously she could handle this. Her mind would not be her master.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Seventeen- Year III- Selwyn Sojourn

Hermione was already awake when Vici came to fetch her. The afternoon was gone, and apparently they were well into the evening.

Vici glared at Hermione's robes, pulling open the wardrobe and revealing a rack of dainty lady's day robes. Hermione frowned. She'd checked every bit of furniture in the room an hour before and there had been nothing.

"Missy will wear this one," the house elf announced. She held out a lacy white monstrosity and inspected both the robes and Hermione. "Mistress wants Missy pretty for dinner. Vici will help."

Hermione doubted that "pretty" was the right word to use, especially when describing that hunk of fabric, but she allowed Vici to undress her and dress her again in the robes. In the meantime she pondered the wardrobe. It was obvious that this room was spelled to be childproof, and that apparently included the restriction of everything except, presumably, toys. Did they mean to send someone to help her every time she was to be dressed, or washed? Testing the door had proven that it was impossible to open from the inside, and Hermione didn't have the magic to waste on something as silly as opening her bedroom door every time she wanted to leave.

"Vici?" she asked, wincing as a bit of starched cloth scraped against the scar on her chest. "Why are there childproofing spells still on this room?"

Vici did not respond, instead Summoning a hairbrush into existence and pulling it through her still-straightened hair.

Hermione sighed. "Shall I guess, then?" When her query was met with silence again Hermione continued, "There are several reasons that could be, as I see it. The first is that no one remembered to take them down-"

"Yes, Missy," Vici interrupted. "Spells be removed when Mistress has time." A ribbon appeared from nowhere and the house elf tied it into Hermione's hair.

She didn't believe Vici for a single moment. Childproofing spells were intentionally simple, easy to add and easy to remove. Unless, of course, they'd used stronger versions such as those found in wizarding daycares. It would be a matter of minutes to completely strip the room, allowing a fifteen-year-old girl her freedom. She opened her mouth to tell Vici so, but the sight of her pinched, terrified face stopped her. "Okay," she said instead. Vici wasn't the right person to have this argument with.

Instantly the house elf's face relaxed. She put her tiny hand in Hermione's and whisked them both away.

The dining room was unnecessarily large for only three people. Rhea and Morfan were already seated, Rhea at Morfan's right side at the head of the table.

Hermione hadn't noticed that Vici had put shoes on her until she took a step forward and didn't feel the smooth cold of the marble floor. "Thank you, Vici," she said belatedly. Vici beamed and bobbed a curtsy before Disapparating.

"How kind of you to join us," Rhea said, matching every stereotype of the catty stepmother.

Hermione wanted to scowl, but she smiled as graciously as she could manage and scurried across the length of the dining hall to get to the seat on Morfan's left.

Rhea examined her the whole way and continued to scrutinize her even after she'd sat. "We have quite a bit of work to do," she said finally.

"Pardon me, ma'am?" Hermione hummed, staring down at the floral china plate in front of her.

"You're not very smart, are you? We need an heir, and while a boy would have been preferable, a girl will do almost as well, provided you make the right choice in marriage." Rhea tapped one fingernail on the table and a posse of house elves appeared, each bearing a covered dish.

Hermione took a deep breath. She'd anticipated something like this. The spells were an attempt to make her dependent on the Selwyns in even the most simple of things. It did make sense, in a way. If she couldn't even dress herself or leave her room on her own, how would she, a child, be in a position to resist the whims of her new guardians? She sat up straighter and gazed at her foster mother even as the house elves measured out bits of every dish onto her plate.

"Do allow me to be candid, Mrs Selwyn," she began. "We appear to have a few misunderstandings. Conflict is to be expected in any new living arrangement, especially where children are involved. However," she picked up a fork and stabbed into a tiny cube of rosemary chicken, "we will have to come to an agreement."

Rhea also began to eat, slicing up her own portion of the chicken. "Go on," she said. Her voice was calm, but her expression was a warning.

Hermione recognized the warning- how could she not?- but she went on anyway. "There are several things that I'm willing to compromise on or even concede. Some things, however, are unacceptable." She gestured up to her hair, keeping her expression even with difficulty. "I am black. I was born this way, and I am both unable and unwilling to change that fact. I like my hair. I like my skin. Attempts to change anything about my appearance without my express permission will absolutely not be tolerated."

Morfan wasn't eating at all, Hermione noticed. He watched his wife and his foster daughter with glittering, amused eyes.

"Is that all?" said Rhea, a statement rather than a question.

"I'm afraid not," said Hermione. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you've simply forgotten to take down the childproofing spells on the room I'm staying in. If it was just an honest mistake, then please just take them down as soon as possible."

Rhea, to her credit, didn't immediately shoot her down. "And your concessions?" she prompted, her tone as one to a small, demanding child.

"I have no objections with being the perfect Selwyn heir, up to and including marrying whomever you deem fit," she said. Something relaxed in Rhea's expression, and Hermione knew that she'd won. Perhaps not so easily, but the outcome had been decided and it wouldn't be too difficult to whittle Rhea down to compliance.

Rhea didn't respond verbally, and the remainder of the meal was passed in near-silence.

As disagreeable as she was to the majority of Hermione's demands, she did send Vici to wash her hair back to normal. It was probably a pick-your-battles kind of thing, but it was progress. Besides, Hermione didn't appreciate someone interfering with her personal things.

*|II8II|*

"I would like to go to Hogwarts," Hermione said over breakfast the next morning. The familiar weight of her hair once again formed a cloud around her head, and her good humour had returned with it.

"Why would you want that?" asked Rhea, appearing genuinely confused.

Hermione let her face fall a bit, and widened her eyes so they would appear shinier, cognizant of how excessive her acting was for the situation. "I need to be around people for a little while, somewhere I know I'll be safe."

Morfan snorted into his eggs and both women ignored him.

"It's safe here," Rhea argued. "The fewer people there are, the safer it is. Would you really feel safe sleeping in a room with strangers every night?"

"Yes," said Hermione without pause. "My family was attacked in our home in the middle of the night. That could never happen at Hogwarts. Never."

Rhea shook her head, and Hermione noticed all at once that her prim updo was ice-rigid. "It's not the same thing, Genevieve. We are not an obscure name or branch; we have money and power. With money and power come protection. This house has the strongest wards on the market. No one will be able to get in without an invitation."

"But Hogwarts has the strongest wards. Any wizard school does, of course, but Hogwarts is renowned for them. I want to be there. I want to go where You-Know-Who is afraid to attack." Hermione choked on that last sentence, unwillingly and vividly recalling Voldemort's invasion two years before in her personal timeline. This time she would not give him a reason or a method, she vowed.

"Are you all right?" Rhea asked, setting down her fork. When Hermione looked up at her concerned expression, she realized that her fury had seeped into her face.

"Yes, for now. But staying in here all day, every day, is sure to drive me mad with paranoia. I'm already starting down that path. Every little noise is an assassin come to torture me again, you see. If I were at Hogwarts, I would be surrounded by witnesses at all times. There would be no place for privacy, and that's a good thing. Besides that, I'll be keeping my mind busy with schoolwork."

"You can do that here," Rhea pointed out.

"I could, but what about everything else? It will take me time to heal, ma'am. I won't be marrying right away, and who would want a nervous wreck for a wife?"

Rhea's mouth twitched into a frown. "We'll hire a mind healer," she said.

"Mrs Selwyn, I don't think you understand. I've decided that this is what I want. It's the best place for me to readjust to life in society. Keeping me hidden away will accomplish nothing." Hermione leaned forward, gazing directly into Rhea's eyes and pushing.

"We never said we planned on hiding you away," Rhea said, facial muscles twitching again.

"You didn't have to," Hermione said, pushing harder.

Rhea's whole body jumped, and her eyes glazed over for just an instant. It was enough. "You make some very good points," Rhea admitted. "You may go to Hogwarts."

"Thank you, ma'am," Hermione returned, grace coming easily with the euphoria of triumph.

Morfan now looked more confused than entertained, eyes bouncing back and forth between the women on either side of him.

Hermione scooped up the last runny bit of her eggs benedict, struggling to look innocent.

She hadn't tried Hybrid Legilimency since her experiment in Azkaban, and she had none of the justifications that she'd had then. Hermione wasted a moment trying to decide whether she felt any guilt at all, but none came. She knew that she was taking away another human being's free will, she knew that it was no better than Imperiusing her, but she couldn't bring herself to feel badly about it.

Rhea was stubborn, but clearly untrained in the arts of Occlumency and Legilimency. It was a shame, from a purely magical standpoint, because she would have been a natural at it. She'd already developed some shoddy mental shields, which, coupled with Hermione's lack of experience, made it more difficult to influence her. For a moment Hermione had believed that it wouldn't work, and she'd rarely been so delighted to be wrong. A person's first experience with Legilimency often set the stage for every time after that, at least as far as getting inside the mind went. Following that logic, Rhea would now be easier to influence.

Hermione thought about going to her room and scowled. Vici had had to fetch her again that morning, and no one seemed to have any intention to take down the childproofing charms.

"Oh, and Mrs Selwyn?" she chirped. Rhea turned on instinct, and Hermione took advantage of that reaction to capture her attention. "I would love it if those spells on my room were taken care of."

It was a battle of wills, now even more than before. Rhea didn't plan to budge on that point, and Hermione would not accept any answer besides "yes". Genevieve wouldn't take advantage of you, she whispered to Rhea's mind, and felt her barriers relax just slightly. She would have to go gently. Battering through would make her methods far too obvious, and would ruin Rhea besides.

"We'll see," said Rhea, ripping her eyes away from Hermione's. Hermione wanted to scream her fury, but she held it in.

"Of course, Mrs Selwyn," she growled, and swept away. She wouldn't go to her room just yet, not until she was forced to. She would explore the manor on her own and think up a better plan.

A part of her expected Rhea to call after her, but there was nothing. Hermione knew the reason. She'd felt it in Rhea's mind. Rhea was terrified, and had no idea why.

It took her four hallways before she could calm down.

The architectural design was becoming increasingly apparent. The house, while not horribly large, was designed to be a nightmare to navigate. Hermione wished she'd had the foresight to find a quill and parchment in order to sketch out each room's relative location, but she hadn't and she would have to deal with it. She could hardly summon the focus needed to undertake such a large task, anyway. After a moment she looked around to find herself in a completely unfamiliar room, with no way to get back. That was exactly her intention, as it happened, and so she marched on, determined to lose herself even more thoroughly within the labyrinth of Selwyn Manor, and in the meantime she surrendered to thought.

She did want to go back to Hogwarts, in the way that she knew she could do very little from within this house. She wanted to make up with Aberforth and collect Echo again. Her urge to see friendly faces again was shadowed by the dread that came whenever she even thought about her old Gryffindor friends. Starting over again from square one was exhausting, and Hermione had no idea where to even begin. And she would find the strength, somehow, despite everything the universe threw at her.

A dark certainty spread throughout her leaden body beginning in her gut. She wouldn't succeed this year, either. There was just too much time wasted, too little faculties to work with, too little allies. This year would be a year to heal herself as best as she could. Maybe... Maybe going back to Hogwarts wasn't the healthiest option. Maybe it would be best to stay here and learn how to be a proper pureblood, to gain connections with the elite. Maybe...

A whole year, wasted. Could she bring herself to stand by, even knowing what she knew? Even knowing she had absolutely nothing left to lose?

Except her life, she reminded herself, and what little was left of her sanity. A broken wand serves no one. Besides, there are benefits to allowing her new guardian to win. She hadn't conducted herself very well thus far, she realized. She was supposed to be gracious and meek, a pathetic little creature who invokes pity, not her usual obstinate, fierce self. Hermione wrinkled her nose. It would be easy enough to fix, since it had only been a few hours of mistakes. And now that Hermione knew for sure she could still use active Legilimency...

Exploring could wait.

"Vici," Hermione chirped.

A snap signaled Vici's anxious arrival, and Hermione smiled. "Can Vici help Missy?"

"Yes, please," Hermione said. "Would you take me to Mrs Selwyn? My manners were inexcusable, and I want to apologize."

Vici hesitated, one ear twitching. "Mistress is busy now," she said. "But Vici take Missy to lunch and Missy will say sorry."

"That's fine. Would you please take me to my room?"

Vici nodded frantically, grabbing Hermione by the elbow and Apparating them both. House elves moved between points in space with far more ease than wizards did, and as a result Hermione felt none of the sickness that was normal for her. Before Hermione could open her mouth to thank Vici, the house elf was gone, leaving behind a vacuum that the cold air rushed to fill. A sound like thunder resonated through the melancholy nursery.

There wasn't much to do in this room. She didn't have even a pen to write with! Hermione plunked down on the bed with a self-indulgent huff, rolling the lace sleeves of yet another ridiculous robe between her fingers. It was important after her series of blunders to obey her foster mother's wishes without complaint, but now that she was stuck in her cell again she was at a loss. How could she spend her hours in isolation before Vici would fetch her for lunch? It wasn't at all that she was unable to find entertainment in the silence. It was more that she was afraid of being alone. Afraid of being unproductive. At least she was allowed meal breaks and conversation, which was far more than she'd gotten in Azkaban.

Well, Hermione thought, glancing around, she would just have to resort to Occlumency exercises in the meantime. One's mind could never be too strong.

Hermione pushed herself up with effort, resigned by now to the stiffness of joints that she couldn't relieve even with her body's perpetual youth. She propped herself against the wall, feeling her shoulder blades press into the forgiving flesh of the nursery. Even now she was busy shutting down her senses one by one. The process was simple yet un-intuitive. She surrendered the scent of clean sheets and pine to the sound of the gentle hum of the nursery's motherly lullaby first. For several moments she listened with single-minded intensity to the soothing song, and then she let it go into sight. She saw dust motes swirling in a stream of sunlight and traced the swirls in the wood. Again she looked around as if this room held the answers to every question she could conceive of, if she only paid close enough attention. And once she was satisfied, she closed her eyes and focused every bit of her attention on the sensations on her skin. The air was warm and still, the bed-sheets soft satin to her fingertips. Her robe was itchy, and the ends of her hair tickled her neck. She accepted it, discomfort and all, and withdrew into her mind.

Without the distraction of a physical body, her thoughts were free to race as they wished, and some separate, higher thought observed those smaller ones. She was well-organized, she noted with satisfaction, even if she was marked for the time being by the stutters and tangles of uncertainty and impulse. Each path wove a web, complicated yet still clearly perspicuous. The web was nearly tangible, in that mind's-eye way, and with mental fingers she caressed the silk. It was her aim now to build a fortress for that web, a fortress which was simultaneously formed with that very web. She would never run out of space or material, and so she was limited only by her own imagination.

Building mental shields while living with thousands of creatures which specialized in breaking down even the strongest of protection was... difficult, to say the least. Hermione saw without seeing the ruins and cobwebs around her. What had been built before had been largely destroyed, bit by bit, but she was pleased to note that the foundation was packed absolutely solid, so solid she could hardly separate the strands of thought from one another. If they were strong enough to withstand constant attacks from Dementors, then Hermione wouldn't dream of replacing them. She would have to build on top of it, and making the walls just as strong would take time. Time, fortunately or unfortunately, was the one thing Hermione couldn't escape from.

There was something to be said for self-introspection, for Hermione had barely created one thin wall before Vici laid a tiny, withered hand on her arm. Hermione could have stayed in her safe haven, but she could recognize that coming back to the physical world was necessary.

"Is Missy well?" Vici asked, an intolerable sadness on her face. Hermione couldn't help but to reassure her.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. Are you here to take me to lunch?"

Vici bobbed her head, and this time waited for Hermione to stand on her own and announce her readiness before Apparating them to the absurd dining room.

A few nondescript minutes later, Hermione sat across from Rhea Selwyn, nursing a glass of pumpkin juice. She cleared her throat- unpleasant memories of Dolores Umbridge surfaced, and Hermione shoved them down again- and said in a quiet voice, "Mrs Selwyn?"

"Yes, Genevieve?" Rhea said, her wariness easily visible in her expression.

"I want to apologize. My behavior last night and this morning was absolutely unacceptable. I don't know what got into me, but I can tell you right now that it will never, ever happen again." Her eyes caught Rhea's and held, taking advantage of Rhea's moment of shock to slip into her mind and nudge it. This time it was easier, for Hermione had the lay of the land now and could tell that this was what Rhea had wanted. It didn't take more than a nudge to get her to accept it at face value. What did take some exertion was the redirection of those memories which were inconvenient to Hermione's new image. They were to be forgotten- not erased, just forgotten, as if it had happened years ago and simply wasn't important enough to remember. She smudged out the memory of her insistence on attending Hogwarts, but left behind the emotional conclusion.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Rhea said gently, and it was exactly what Hermione wanted her to say.

"Mr Selwyn, how is your day? I forgot to ask at breakfast." With a radiant smile, Hermione turned her attention to Morfan and worked on fixing his mind as well.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Sixteen- Year III- Foster Locum

The holding cell was at least clean and warm, which was a vast improvement over her cell in Azkaban. The lack of Dementors and the regular meals were pluses as well. Hermione hardly felt she could ask for more.

The books were the most important thing, though. The "library" that Midgeon had spoken about was more of a catalogue. Hermione decided that she hated this method of researching. How was she supposed to gauge how helpful any book would be if she couldn't hold it, check the table of contents, skim through it? She was glad that she was researching genealogy, a heavily-documented and very general subject.

She scribbled the titles down on a bit of parchment and showed it to her babysitter. "Would it be too much trouble to order me these?" she'd say, looking down at her feet.

At first, she wasn't allowed to take the books into her holding cell, but a chat with Midgeon cleared that up rather quickly. A bit of logic, deference, and sad eyes made him see her point of view. "I'm trying to find my family," she said, voice quivering just a little. "And there are so many families. I'd like to reunite with them as soon as possible."

Her next move was to convince him to allow her access to newspapers. As soon as he caved, Hermione could see why he'd hesitated. She was all over the front page for the first few days, and there were articles published nearly every day. Some painted her as a demon child, while others allowed some sympathy to slip through. Most were suspicious. All were curious.

Would it be a break in character to ignore these articles? She shouldn't lay it on too thick, though. Caricatures people may be, but they rarely liked to think of themselves that way.

"Could I possibly start looking through some foreign newspapers, sir? I don't think my family lives here; otherwise, I would be in the system and found already. Right?"

Midgeon hesitated but allowed it. "Just in Europe, understand?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you!"

It took weeks for her to find an opening. There was an article on the fourth page of La Voyante, which as far as Hermione could tell reported the murders of a nuclear family which belonged to a minor branch of the Selwyn clan. 36-year-old Ygraine and 42-year-old Uther were found burnt alive in their homes, while the body of their daughter, 15-year-old Genevieve, affectionately called Veva, was missing. Another hour or two of flipping through the Selwyn family tree revealed that not only was this branch so far removed as to barely respond to Selwyn blood magic, Genevieve also had brown hair and eyes. No portrait was provided and no details beyond that very basic description.

The story was beginning to come together.

Veva's family was visited by unknown ruffians (she would probably imply that they were Death Eaters, for the sake of simplicity) and Veva watched them be tortured and killed. When they turned to her, her fear overwhelmed her and her magic exploded, sending her to Azkaban for unknown reasons. Her clothes were probably already separated from her body, which would explain why she'd arrived completely nude. Her mind had short-circuited and wiped her memory, and her magic became entirely unstable.

All she had to do was fake a slow recovery of her mental faculties. Well, that and pretend to continue researching.

She shuffled that issue of La Voyante into her "to be read" pile.

The whole night Hermione struggled to create a false memory. It had been some time since she'd done it, and she feared her skills may be rusty. It wouldn't matter too much, she consoled herself, if the memory was fuzzy or if some details were misplaced. Trauma did that, sometimes.

Hours, it took her. Hours. It was worth it, however; by the end, she'd manufactured emotions so genuine she could feel them resonate within her.

Her babysitter sat across the table from her and squinted at paperwork. He was a middle-aged man by the name of Twilling, and Hermione felt an odd mingling of kinship and disquiet. Perhaps he reminded her of her father.

Hermione picked up the next issue of La Voyante and spent several minutes scanning each article and flipping pages. She reached the fourth, read the headline, and stared at one word: Veva. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She lay under the covers in the dark, listening to the front door creak open. Was Maman putting the cat outside? No, she would have heard the stairs creaking. And there, they were- that could only mean someone had come in.

A sense of acute dread flooded her body, and she slid out of bed. She would need to hide, that much was certain. Being careful not to disturb anything on the floor or make any sound at all, she shuffled to the closet and stepped inside before shutting it. The bolt clicked into place, and she winced at even that tiny noise.

Time stood out in sharp relief as she listened intently. She could feel her heartbeat in her veins.

Footsteps in the hallway grew closer, passing by her bedroom and approaching her parents' room. There was silence for several moments, and then Maman's scream split the air apart. It was cut off abruptly, which she found even more unsettling. She could do nothing but listen to the thud of two bodies hitting the floor, and the smaller thuds caused by what she assumed were thrashing limbs.

She wished her closet didn't share a wall with her parents' bedroom. She wished she had her wand. She wished jumping out of her window wouldn't kill her.

Most of all, she wished she couldn't hear the intruders taunts and laughter.

"Veva, you say?" said a man, his voice raspy and cruel. "Your little girl? Don't worry about her. She'll be next."

Renewed thrashing, more snickers. "You won't have to see it. You won't live that long." And then, the unmistakable, "Avada Kedavra."

"Are you all right, miss?" Twilling asked, clearly alarmed. He even set down his quill.

Hermione blinked and looked up at him. "I'm- I don't know," she whispered. "I saw something. I mean, I, I, I remember."

"A memory?"

"Yes, a memory." Hermione let her gaze soften more, giving the impression even though she was staring right at him that she was looking behind Twilling. "My name is Veva, I think."

"What exactly was this memory?" Twilling asked, all business now. He rummaged around in the pocket of his robes for a moment before pulling out a Quick Quotes Quill.

"My parents are dead," she said after a moment, her voice toneless and detached. "I really am an orphan." Before Twilling could motion her to elaborate, Hermione continued. "I never saw them. I was hiding in my closet and I heard the whole thing. They- they said I would be next."

Twilling looked disappointed that she was being so vague, but he had the tact not to press her for more. Perhaps it was the fact that she was on the verge of tears that convinced him not to. He stowed the Quill away in his pocket and looked at her gravely through bushy white eyebrows. "Would you like to be called Veva from now on?"

Hermione nodded and added for good measure, "I would like that, yes."

*|II8II|*

From then on Hermione wasn't the only one actively searching for her "family". It wasn't a priority by any means, and as far as Hermione knew no one was specifically assigned to the task. Her various babysitters did periodically comfort her with their progress, however.

As emotionally and mentally taxing as it was to construct new memories for a separate traumatized girl, it was a necessary task. She'd already compiled a list of facts that must be included in these memories in some way, a list which was already rapidly growing. For example, Veva mostly spoke French in her family, and had been home-schooled. Beauxbatons taught girls how to use their feminine wiles, according to Veva's mother, and both of her parents were very much opposed to the idea. While they were not pureblood supremacists, they did believe in a heavily patriarchal society and religion. Veva was to remain sheltered from the world until such time as suitors were to petition for her hand.

Never before had all of her research into pureblood culture been so useful.

It was July 31st when Hermione lost patience. She'd been dropping hint after hint, even going so far as to "accidentally" drop the La Voyante article onto the table right next to her supervisor. It was more of a character test than an actual bid for freedom, so Hermione wasn't too frustrated, but Hermione had never been patient.

"It's this one," she said, minute traces of a French accent slipping into her usual received pronunciation. "I'm in this one."

She'd picked Twilling on purpose, as the one she'd judged to have the most concern for her. He had two daughters, she'd learned. He looked up immediately, proof that he was a good choice. "What does it say?" he asked, even while holding out his hand to receive the paper himself. Hermione passed it to him without answering, and waited for his eyes to finish skimming the article. "Selwyn?" he murmured aloud, stroking the stubble where before he'd had a full beard. "From France?" He looked up from the newspaper and straight at her, assessing her.

"Do I pass muster, sir?" she quipped, adding a lip tremble and a bubble of tears in both eyes. She brought out the French accent just a bit more.

"I'll speak with the Minister," he said, and stood. "You'd better follow me." He took a moment to scribble a warning and send it with his pygmy owl, Dowry. As soon as the owl took flight, Twilling grasped her shoulder and steered her out into the hallway.

Hermione could hardly speak; the excitement choked her words before they could even form. About halfway up the lift to Midgeon's office, Hermione realized she had to compose herself. Veva would be excited, but that joy would be tempered by grief. She did her best to cobble together an altered version of the memory of finding the article as well. She was putting the finishing touches on it when Midgeon allowed them in.

"I think you'd better read this, sir," Twilling said, holding out the newspaper. Hermione waited for Midgeon to read, then read again, and then again, with as much tolerance as she could muster. Eagerness made it hard to stand still.

Midgeon said nothing for several moments while he too examined Hermione. "Selwyn, you say?" he said.

"That's me," whispered Hermione. "That's me."

"So it appears to be," said Midgeon. He glanced skyward. "The patriarchal branch is within the UK, conveniently enough. I'll have to convince them to meet with me. I suggest," he looked at Hermione again, "you do as much research as you can."

"I will, sir," Hermione said, keeping her scorn nailed to her throat.

Midgeon dismissed them both, and Hermione returned to the "library" to peruse the catalogue once more.

*|II8II|*

The Selwyns had no problems with meeting her, to Hermione's delight. "If all goes well, we can have you home by tomorrow," Midgeon said. "The only thing that would keep them from taking you in now is any major flaw on your part, which I find unlikely." Hermione thought that that was a little too optimistic, but she didn't argue.

On August 3rd, Morfan and Rhea Selwyn Flooed into the Atrium shortly after nine in the morning. Hermione knew about it immediately, being perched in Midgeon's office waiting anxiously for them to show up. Midgeon looked up from his paperwork and smiled at her. "Just a few more minutes," he said.

Keeping up appearances was, in this instance, no problem at all. She really was eager to meet with the Selwyns. She was even more eager to stop wasting time and get out of the Ministry and into the real world.

Hermione heard their footsteps sounding down the hallway from the moment they stepped out of the lift, thanks to the sound-enhancing charm on the Minister's office. There were only the two pairs, so either one of them decided not to come or they had no escort. It was entirely possible that it was a show of trust on the Ministry's part. Clever, she thought.

The rap on the door was decisive- Rhea Selwyn, she supposed. Midgeon waved his wand and the door opened. The Selwyns showed no hesitation in stepping through, as if they consorted with the highest-ranking government official every few days. It was, perhaps, close enough to the truth.

"Good morning, Minister Midgeon," Rhea said with perfect grace. Morfan mumbled an echo of his wife's greeting, looking down at his feet.

Hermione, making sure to keep her face hopeful and somewhat fearful, took the opportunity to examine her possible new guardians. Rhea Selwyn was, according to the genealogy books, in her late twenties, and she looked it. She was a strong, if somewhat plain, woman, with soft mother's eyes and a steely matron's voice. Her dark brown hair was plaited in a circlet around her head with a perfection that could only have been accomplished by a house elf. Her robes were elegant but simple, a sweeping black cloak down to her feet.

Morfan Selwyn was far, far older than his wife. To look at him, he was well past his centennial, but in truth he was only in his nineties. His posture was awful and he kept rigid at Rhea's side, tucked in thick wool robes despite it being late summer. For as weak as he appeared to be, he trained sharp, intelligent eyes on first Midgeon and then on her, studying them as she was studying him. She smiled shyly, a test, but his face remained entirely neutral.

"So you're Genevieve," Rhea remarked. It wasn't a question. Her gaze scanned Hermione from her bushy hair to her Transfigured trainers, and then back up to her dark skin. "Very distant relation, I assume."

"Yes ma'am," Hermione said, keeping her tone light and deferential even as her skin burned where Rhea scrutinized it. "My mother's mother was foreign."

"I see," said Rhea. "And just where are you from?"

"Lyon, ma'am," Hermione said. "At least, that's what the newspapers say." She glanced down at the ground, pretending to be properly cowed, and Rhea smiled.

"What do you think, my love?" the Selwyn matriarch asked, turning to Morfan. "We have no children yet."

"I have no objections," Morfan muttered.

Midgeon, who had been watching quietly through this exchange, pushed a piece of parchment forward. "So you agree to take her in, at least temporarily? You'll receive a stipend from the Ministry, naturally, if you do."

Rhea grabbed the quill he held out to her and scribbled her name on the line, then handed it to her husband. He didn't sign right away, instead taking a few moments to read through it. "You really want her off your hands, don't you?" he said to himself, and signed.

Hermione felt energy trickle through her veins like wet sand and then it was over.

"I'd hoped she would look more native," Rhea said. "I don't believe she's changed at all."

That's not always how it works, she wanted to say. This isn't a magical adoption, but a ward agreement. Like foster care. But she said nothing.

Rhea opened her mouth to speak more, and while she chattered away to Midgeon Morfan jerked his head for Hermione to stand. She obeyed without delay.

We'll speak more at home, his eyes said. Hermione nodded back, just a tiny shake so as to not attract Rhea's attention.

Midgeon said his goodbyes and dismissed them all with the reminder that he had paperwork to fill out, and Rhea placed one hand on Hermione's shoulder and propelled her forward. It was all Hermione could do not to throw herself across the room. She could not abide touch. Could not. She shrugged out of Rhea's grasp and sent her an apologetic smile, walking forward on her own down to the lift.

Hermione kept to the other side of Morfan, away from her new matriarch's tendency to be grabby. They stood in the lift in silence, listening to the cool female voice announcing the floors as they passed them. When the lift doors opened again, Rhea swept out into the Atrium and with single-minded purpose toward the Floo. Most employees had already arrived and so they didn't have to wait long. They all crammed into the fireplace and Rhea threw down the green powder from a pouch at her side.

"Selwyn Estate!" Rhea cried, and they were off.

Hermione hated the Floo. Always had, probably always would. She did her best to streamline her body to avoid unnecessary bumps, but she scraped her elbows more than once and she knew from experience that her hair was collecting massive amounts of soot. She didn't dare open her eyes.

It was only a few seconds before they were spat out into the fireplace at the Selwyn home. Rhea twitched her skirt and stepped out as flawless as before, and Morfan didn't appear to have been dirtied in the slightest. Hermione hovered in the hearth, her face burning.

"I wouldn't want to ruin your rug," she explained, beating at her own plain robes. Entire mountains of soot and ash fell to the floor of the fireplace. Her hair was a lost cause; it would take several washes to get it clean again.

"Vici!" Rhea snapped, and a house elf appeared.

This house elf wore a clean green tea towel, and her- Hermione wasn't sure how she knew, but it was definitely a her- ears stood straight up like a fox's. Together they were bigger than her shriveled head. "Right away, Mistress," she said, prim as could be, and snapped her fingers. Hermione felt her curls stretch down to their full length and shiver, shaking the dirt off. It didn't hurt, exactly, but she was hyper-aware of the roots of her hair, as if she'd tried to part it somewhere new.

Vici disappeared as suddenly as she'd come, and Hermione put a hand up to her hair. Her hair was no longer curly, but straight as straw. An irrational anger made her feel light and tall, but she reined it back. "I was fond of the way it was," she said evenly.

"What, filthy?" Rhea snorted, and spun around and left.

Hermione stared after her, furious and impotent, until Morfan coughed.

"I'll show you to your room," he grumbled.

Hermione was not oblivious to the kindness displayed in his offer. Clearly they had at least one house elf, and she'd known many pureblood families. Especially with his age, to offer to escort her was indicative of his concern.

"Thank you, sir," she said, awkwardly putting her hand through his offered elbow. She supported him even as he escorted her, shouldering his meagre weight on her left side.

They turned nine times. Nine! Hermione was quite sure they were deep within the manor, and it would take her weeks to find her way through these hallways. At last Morfan stopped in front of a door identical to all the others in a hallways that was just the same as each one they'd passed. With a quick glance at Morfan, Hermione reached out one hand and pushed down on the curved handle.

Her bedroom was a storm of soft pastel colors. The carpet was baby blue, plush, and thick. Hermione stepped out of her trainers and sank her sock-clad feet in the ocean of soft fibers, observing as it hugged the side of her feet. It was magical, she realized, and the carpet stroked her toes, confirming her thought. Each wall was a gradient of purple to pink, with twinkling stars on the dark ceiling.

It was a child's room, and she looked askance at Morfan.

"My wife has been expecting a son of her own," Morfan explained, expression just as impassive as before. "We have had the furniture enlarged to fit you."

The implications were unmistakable. Had they given up on birthing a child, and instead planned to adopt one? Hermione couldn't imagine any other reason such a well-loved room would be given to her. "How long has it been this way?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Six years," said Morfan. Hermione blinked, startled. Morfan shuffled away, wobbling just a bit. "I'll leave you to explore on your own."

You do that, Hermione thought, but said nothing. She was already moving forward to feel the walls. They were perfectly smooth to her touch but gave way to even a gentle push. The walls were almost as soft as the floor. Without noticing, tears came to her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She could feel the sorrow pooling in this room. She could feel the presence of a child who had never existed at all. She could feel the sustained hope.

Hermione went to the bed and curled up on top of the covers, and immediately, inexplicably, she was asleep.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Fifteen- Year III- Invidious Duplicity

Before she even opened her eyes Hermione noticed the unnatural chill of the air around her and the roughness of the stone beneath her head. She was still in Azkaban, then. Had the year reset, or had she just passed out? Hermione held her wrists before her and squinted in the dim light. The marks were gone, though she could still see blood smeared across her skin. Looking up, she saw that the door of her cell was closed, but there was no indication that it was locked. She stood with no little unsteadiness and pushed on the bars. It swung open with a whining creak. Hermione cringed.

Several Dementors floated past her. She wasn't a prisoner anymore, and they had little interest in her, but their presence still froze her insides and deadened her thoughts. The air was thick, and she struggled to get it into her lungs.

Ron appeared in front of her, kneeling with one hand on the ground to steady himself. He said nothing, only looked at her with such a cruel expression that she was forced to avert her gaze.

The other inmates stared at her with hollow, haunted eyes. Hermione imagined her own looked the same, despite her body resetting. The mind would not be so easy to heal.

She tried to remember in which direction the exit was. The air was foggy and cold. Hermione could see only a few yards in front of her. One foot inched forward uncertainly. The other soon followed. Her arms raised in front of her, she picked her way down the hallway. There were no walls to use to support herself, only the freezing metal bars of the cells.

"You don't deserve this. You don't deserve to be free."

"Sh-sh-shut up-p," Hermione stammered, teeth chattering so hard she feared they would rattle out of her skull.

Ron walked just behind her. She could sense his presence, and she did her best to ignore him.

First her foot, then her hands, made contact with the door. Hermione nearly cried with relief. Ron faded out of existence.

Once she was out of the direct vicinity of the Dementors her vision cleared drastically. It was so bright, and she wasn't even outside yet. Hermione shaded her face with one hand.

It didn't take long to make it out a series of exits. She emerged onto a beach. It should have been even a little bit warm, since it was June, but the presence of even one Dementor sucked all the warmth out of the air. There were thousands in residence. Waves crashed violently onto the shore. Dark clouds roiled, barely letting any light through. Even outside of the prison it was a miserable place.

Hermione quickly became aware that she had a very large problem: she was stuck on an island with no magic and no boat. Did it really matter that she was free, if she would die just outside the prison?

No. Death wasn't an option. She had a job to do.

Surely there were human guards there? Someone had to supervise the Dementors and manage visitors. And there would almost certainly be house elves, to make the meals and clean. Indignation bubbled up inside of her at the thought. Innocent creatures, forced to live with Dementors? She didn't want to believe it possible that anyone would be so evil as to do that, but knowing the Ministry she wouldn't put it past them.

Carefully making her way barefoot around the perimeter of the prison, she searched for any indication of a main entrance. Just as she did, she realized that she was still wearing her prison uniform. Even though she wasn't in the system, they wouldn't check that before Stunning her on sight.

She ducked behind a large rock. No one could spot her before she was prepared.

What could she do? There was obviously nothing around to cover herself with; the landscape was bare but for the smattering of jagged stones. She couldn't Transfigure it or Summon something else. Even if she'd had her wand she had no magic.

It seemed, she thought with no little distaste, that she had no choice but to get rid of the uniform entirely and go sans clothing.

Hermione edged back around the prison toward the coastline. The spray of seawater soaked her to the bones, but she was too cold already to care much. She pulled the gown over her head and examined it. The fabric was worn and torn in most places from continuous use. She gripped it firmly in both hands and pulled hard. It offered little resistance. After several repeats, she held scraps that didn't look much like clothing at all.

She took several ragged breaths, steeling herself, before throwing the pile of rags into the waves. Her anxiety that it would wash back onto the shore was relieved when they separated and were swept out of sight by the current.

There.

Some time later she was behind the great rock once more. She'd thought things through, and she had a plan of action, but still she felt fear knot her stomach.

Hermione thought of the past year. She imagined the bitter cold and loss of hope, the sting of her skin ripping open, Ron's words, Harry's disappointment, the dull pain of thinking. Tears burned in her eyes and she willed them to fall.

"Someone?" she called as she stood up, sobbing. "Someone, please..." She stumbled forward, feeling the role settle on her like a mantle. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to simultaneously warm herself and cover her nudity.

The entrance was blurred by her tears but she focused and moved toward it. She collapsed just outside it, sobbing in earnest and curling into a ball. "Somebody help me, I don't know where I am, someone, please, help me!" Her voice started out loud but ended in a shaking whisper.

There was an audible creak from the door. Please let them be female, she prayed.

No luck there, but she supposed it didn't really matter. It wasn't the time for modesty. It was the time for results.

"Who are you?" The voice was clearly meant to be stern, but he didn't succeed in masking his confusion and embarrassment.

Hermione looked up, wiping her eyes. She projected profound relief and bewilderedness onto her expression. "I'm so cold," she said.

The guard considered her visibly before taking off his outer robe and dropping it on Hermione's knees, determinedly not looking at her. His cheeks were red, and not only with the cold. He couldn't have expected to walk out to a naked girl, after all.

She covered herself with it gratefully. There was at least one warmth charm stitched into the heavy cloth, she guessed. "Thank you," she said in a small, fervent voice.

He mumbled an acknowledgement in return. "If you would stand up and come inside with me, miss," he coughed.

Her limbs were already stiff, but she forced them to move and follow the guard.

"Parler!" barked another guard, this one much older and sporting deep, puckered scars on his face. "What in Merlin's name is this? Keep your wand out, you bloody fool!" He jumped to his feet. His wand was not only out, but aimed directly at her heart.

It wasn't entirely an act, Hermione realized in retrospect, that she responded by cowering into the fetal position against the wall in some hope that the guard would see that she wasn't a threat.

"She's not a prisoner, Marcellus," said the first guard. Hermione gathered that his name was Parler. "She's not wearing the uniform, I've never seen her before in my life, and she came here."

"You don't know that," Marcellus growled. "How else would she have gotten onto the island? It probably has better wards than Gringott's. She had to already be on the island, and what other way would that be possible unless she is a prisoner? What I want to know," he added, clearly addressing the lump on the floor that was Hermione, "is how you managed to get out of your cell?"

Hermione did not respond. She feared she would bite off her tongue if she dared open her mouth, she was shivering so violently. Marcellus wasn't wrong, after all.

She heard Parler move toward her, which didn't calm her in the slightest. If he touched her... what would she do? What could she do? She would not be thrown back into her cell. Hermione had barely clung to sanity, she could not survive any more.

"Let's check the system," Parler suggested. Hermione just about cried in relief. She wouldn't be in it! They couldn't incarcerate her! Her trembling calmed considerably, which Marcellus clearly noticed.

The two guards exchanged looks, out of Hermione's sight. "Hold out your arm," said Parler gently, speaking as if to a frightened child or animal. Hermione complied haltingly. He took out his wand and pressed it to the inside of her wrist, mouthing an unintelligible incantation. A tingling trickled up from the spot he was touching, the sensation not unlike when a limb falls asleep. Parler held his hand out and Marcellus handed him a bit of parchment. He tapped the parchment once and words filled the page.

Hermione craned her neck to read it, anxiety threatening to choke her once more. It all bled away instantly once she did read it; the parchment had none of her information on it.

"Name... nothing. Date of birth... nothing. It definitely detected a magical signature, Parler, or this page would be blank. She's not in the system. At all." Marcellus stared at her. "Where are you from, nameless girl?"

She'd planned for this. Once they came to discover that she wasn't in the system there weren't many conclusions they could reach, and that she wasn't from the UK was one of them. "I-I-I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Marcellus demanded, clearly losing patience with her.

"I don't! I don't know! I don't know where I am, or why I'm here, or where I'm from, so please don't be angry with me. I don't know." Hermione curled back in on herself, feeling the cold seep into her bones even through the warm cloak.

Parler stopped the older guard. "Amnesia, perhaps?" he suggested in a low murmur. Hermione still heard.

"You'd better explain that. Some Muggle shite, I take it?"

"Yessir. It's a brain condition where a person can lose their memory. I think, anyway. There could be more to it than that." Parler furrowed his brows. Then, to Hermione, he asked, "What's your name?"

Hermione shook her head, looking up at him with sadness etched onto her face. "I don't know that, either."

Parler sighed. "I imagine this isn't the most pleasant place to be at the moment. Do you know what a Portkey is?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Well, we're going to make you one. Parler and I each have one, along with the other guards. They're tuned specifically to our magical signatures, however, and so you can't even tag along." He pulled a small medallion hanging from a chain out of his shirt, indicating that it was his own Portkey.

Yes! Yes! Hermione would soon be off this godforsaken island and she could stop wasting time and chances.

Marcellus scribbled a letter to the Ministry, detailing the situation and what was necessary. Hermione was far more composed by then, sitting in Parler's chair and occasionally smiling at him. She entertained herself by thanking him for his help and kindness then watching his face go pink. He mumbled that it was nothing.

About an hour later, an owl tapped on the window. Marcellus read through it quickly. "We've gotten permission, and they temporarily waived the wards for this specific Portkey. You can expect to be greeted by Aurors, girl," he reported.

"Where's the Portkey?" Hermione asked, standing and wrapping the cloak more firmly about herself.

"The parchment," he responded. "It'll be time in about... three minutes. You'd better take it now."

Hermione received the parchment with a smile. "Thank you," she said. Then, because she was supposed to be young and naive, she asked, "What did you mean when you said to 'expect to be greeted by Aurors'? Did I do something wrong? Why would they be interested in me?"

Marcellus looked to Parler, his expression indicating a lack of patience for stupid questions.

Parler easily took over. "This is Azkaban, the wizarding prison. The wards around here are very, very strong and very, very selective, so the idea that someone could potentially travel through them is worrying. The Aurors will be interested, and you will also likely have a meeting with the Minister. That about cover it?" He looked to Marcellus, who grunted affirmatively.

"Oh." Hermione bit her lip. Her worry was not feigned, although her anxiety did not stem from a little girl's fear of being confronted by authority. The problem was that while she was confident in her ability to fool two men, she could not guarantee that she wouldn't slip in front of five, or ten, or a dozen, plus the Minister of Magic. They would be looking for answers, and she had none that she was willing to give. However, she had already begun down this road, and if she'd caught the attention of the Ministry in the process then she would just have to handle the situation as best as she could. It would only make her a target if she backed out, and she didn't know whether she could handle being on the run again.

"Prepare yourself," Marcellus said, mere seconds before there was a pull behind Hermione's navel and she was gone from the prison of Azkaban.

Once the hellish, tornado-like ride was over, Hermione had to remind herself to land in a heap on the floor. She wasn't supposed to know how to use a Portkey, after all, and especially just then appearances were everything.

She hastily wiped her hair out of her face, and immediately she saw half a dozen wands pointed directly at her face. Hermione squeaked and scuttled backwards, finding a wall and pressing against it with her back.

"Hello, miss," said an amiable voice. A man stepped forward from behind his Aurors. "My name is Janus Midgeon, Minister of Magic."

"H-h-hello," she said.

Minister Midgeon held out his hand and Hermione took it hesitantly, making sure that the cloak remained covering her. It was too warm for such a comfortable room temperature, but she didn't have much of a choice. "I am aware of your situation. Amnesia, we believe. You know what that is, I trust?" He did not wait for her nod. "I'm afraid you must be questioned again, at length. If you do turn out to be a fugitive and fudged the system, you will be held here until such time as we have prepared a high-security cell for you back in Azkaban. Are you understanding?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione croaked. She had been expecting a man like Fudge, blustering and not scary or effectual at all. Or perhaps Millicent Bagnold. She was in error, she realized belatedly. Millicent Bagnold hadn't come into office until 1980, three and a half years in the future. Prison really had scrambled her wits, she thought disapprovingly. She needed to plan better for these things.

He was clearly pleased by her respectful address, and he rewarded her with a smile and a call for some clothing. After she had ducked into a bathroom to change and came out again, Midgeon beckoned for her to follow him. Flanked by Aurors, they made their way to the Minister's office. Once inside, he waved for all but two to leave. Hermione and Midgeon sank into chairs, he behind his desk and she in a Transfigured one.

She was reminded of talking to Albus. Could she, perhaps, treat this man in the same way she would the Headmaster?

"Tell me what you remember. From the beginning." Midgeon steepled his fingers atop his desk.

Hermione took a deep breath, the gears turning in her head. She had to appear emotionally and mentally confused, while not giving anything away and leaving room for a backstory later. "I... I woke up by the water, without my- my clothes or anything..." Hermione furrowed her brows and brought one hand to her head, as if trying to clear a fog in her mind. She held her breath, willing her blood to rise to her face in a simulation of a blush.

Midgeon nodded, tactfully refraining from questioning her further on what exactly she did or did not have on her person at the time. "Go on," he urged.

"I didn't know where I was, but I saw a building. Where there are buildings there are people, right? So I looked for an entrance. And I... I called for help." She covered her mouth with one loose fist, averting her eyes. "Two guards heard me, and they sent me here."

"You don't remember how you got to the island?"

"No, sir."

"Do you remember anything from before then? Your name? Anything?"

"No, sir."

"That is unfortunate," he said. "Do you know how old you are?"

"No, sir? Do you?"

He examined her face for a moment. "I would say that you could be about fifteen or sixteen. Definitely still a child."

Fear did make her look younger, she supposed. In truth, her body was only a few months from turning seventeen again. "Oh," she said. "So where will I go?

The Minister furrowed his brow in thought. Finally, he said, "I believe you will remain in a holding cell here at the Ministry. It's not because you're in trouble," he hastened to add once he saw her anxiety mount, "it's just until Hogwarts starts. Hogwarts is a school for wizard and witch children. As we can assume you are a child, you will attend Hogwarts. There will be a placement exam, since I trust even you don't know what you know."

That was clever of him, Hermione thought. He had shifted the topic from her detainment in a cell to a wizarding school, and she wondered for a moment whether she would allow that. No, she decided. She knew about Hogwarts, but she needed to know more about why she would remain in the Ministry. "'A holding cell'?" she asked. "You said I didn't do anything wrong, so why? Is it so you can study me? Parler said that I shouldn't have been able to get through those wards. He also said that I'm 'not in the system'. How can that be true? I mean, I must have existed before, even if I can't remember it. Does 'the system' mean the whole world? Or just this country? Maybe I'm not from here."

Midgeon raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully. "That could be the case. Either way, we need to keep you here, where we can keep an eye on you. For your own protection, you see. We still don't know what prompted you to travel magically, and it's possible that you were in danger. That would be one explanation for how you got through the wards. We'll have to research it, and research you. Besides, there isn't anywhere else we could keep you. A muggle orphanage is out of the question, and Hogwarts will not keep students over the summer."

"Couldn't I stay with someone? A wizard family, perhaps? That way you can still keep an eye on me, right?"

"We'll see," he conceded. "Regardless, no one would be willing to take you in on such short notice. You'll have to stay here for at least tonight."

Fair enough. She could hardly hope for more, but perhaps she could afford to push one more time. "I understand. Do you- do you think I could use the library here? Just while I'm here... I mean, I don't think I'll be picked up overnight. I may be still a minor, but I'm on the older side. No one wants to live with a sixteen year old, right?"

Midgeon chortled. His posture had relaxed several minutes before, and Hermione took that to mean that her act was convincing. "Yes, m'dear. That's probably true. You can use the library, but you must approve every selection with a Ministry official. Perhaps I should make a list?"

Hermione nodded wildly. "Thank you, sir! Thank you!" She didn't think she could survive for much longer without a library. The sooner she could begin her research, the better. She had to find a family to fit into, and that would doubtless require many nights perusing genealogy tomes.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Fourteen- Year II- Grave Ramifications

The funeral was... odd. Regulus couldn't figure out quite why.

McGonagall stood by the shrouded corpse with hands clasped together and her mouth a straight line. She'd seemed to gain another few decades overnight, as her hair was no longer only streaked with grey. Her skin seemed rather grey, too.

It was late June, only a few short weeks after the end of fourth year. The cause of Dumbledore's death was no mystery; the girl was all over the Prophet, and every other newspaper besides. Samples of her blood showed that no country would claim her. Her name, according to the girl herself, was Hermione Granger, and she was sixteen years old. She'd murdered the most powerful wizard alive with a cursed ring.

Regulus hadn't seen the Headmaster's body, but he had heard horrified murmurs that he was mummy-like, barely more substantial than ash. Hardly recognizable at all. Three fingers, one attached to the murder weapon, had been removed from his right hand. The entire scene was, apparently, shocking and grisly.

Despite the sheer number of deaths and funerals occurring that very summer, the turnout for Dumbledore's funeral was impressive. Seas of elderly men and women crowded the area closest to the coffin, some of them grieving loudly. Regulus could count at least one representative from each House, and in some cases nearly the whole clan was in attendance. The Potters were somewhere far in front, along with Regulus's wayward brother. He didn't dare look at them.

His parents sat on either side of him, stoically mournful expressions firmly planted on their faces. Regulus knew that they were no fans of Dumbledore and were possibly even secretly thrilled that he was dead, but it was impossibly uncivil to show any disdain towards the dead man, not at such a time when even his staunchest excoriators were obligated to sympathize with him. The old adage, do not speak ill of the dead, applied now more than ever.

There was no peace to it, just a group of people united in nervous energy and mourning.

When it was all over and the flames died down, everyone stood and made their way to the castle. Regulus caught a glimpse of Sirius. His face was unabashedly streaked with tears and he had his arm around Potter's shoulder. Most of the Gryffindors were inconsolable, now that he thought about it. The Hufflepuffs weren't far behind. But the Ravenclaws and Slytherins kept their dignities and refrained from making a scene. Even though it was a funeral, one of the very few places it was socially acceptable to make a scene.

The bruises and gashes seemed to be entirely healed, for all that Sirius had run away just days before.

As one, his parents placed a hand on each shoulder, boxing him in. He didn't look at his brother again.

He and his parents Apparated home and Regulus excused himself to his room.

The summer passed quickly. Every day there were reports of Muggles and Muggleborns murdered in their homes, in Diagon Alley, in Hogsmeade, in the streets. The Dark Lord rose rapidly with the figurehead of his opposition defeated. Tensions were high. Family after family bowed their heads to the Dark Lord.

Most Muggleborns didn't dare go to Hogwarts. They could no longer take the safety of Hogwarts for granted. If someone could kill the Headmaster in his office, what would prevent anyone from disposing of the filth in common rooms and dormitories?

Evans still showed up, as Snape noticed aloud. Regulus almost felt sorry for her. McGonagall was far better as a teacher and even as a Head of House than as a Headmistress, and he already knew she could do very little if someone were to decide to target her precious Mudblood. Sirius showed up as well, arm in arm with Potter and leading Pettigrew and Lupin. Some things would never change, and lions were one of those things. Always more interested in being brave than saving their own bloody hides.

Some people ended up practically worshiping that Granger girl. She'd done what none had managed to do, and that wasn't for lack of trying. It was a pity she was in Azkaban, they said. The Dark Lord would reward her above all others.

There were even some hare-brained attempts to stage a rescue, but the Ministry cracked down on them. No one else tried quite so publicly. No one succeeded.

Few people were as divisively adored and loathed as she was.

Regulus took the Dark Mark in Sirius's place over Christmas break. Sirius had no idea.

Now that Dumbledore, the only person the Dark Lord feared, was dead, the Dark Lord was entirely unopposed. Hogwarts was the first to go. McGonagall, sensible despite being a Gryffindor, stepped aside quietly, probably in an effort to remain in a position to help her students. The Dark Lord himself stepped up to be Headmaster, and in the morning all but a few of the Muggleborns who'd come back were gone, spirited away to the Muggle world. Evans, once again, stayed.

The Dark Lord made an example out of her. Potter devised some harebrained scheme to rescue her, and ended up Avada'd for his trouble. Sirius went berserk and try to bloody ambush the Dark Lord. Regulus didn't have nearly enough influence to save him. Sirius was chained to the ceiling in the Great Hall for over a week before the Dark Lord got bored and killed him.

There was nothing left to fight for, so Regulus retreated into himself and made his mum proud.

[alcoholicseraphim]

At a Loss

Mrs Sarah Granger was at a loss.

For years she'd dealt with Hermione's... peculiarities. Even the first time didn't catch her too horribly off guard. Hadn't she read enough novels to take it somewhat in stride? Unfortunately, she'd also learned from the real world. It was bad enough that her daughter was too smart, too observant, too reserved. But to add her... her kinesis was just too much.

They tried public school, but that only lasted a year. When Hermione came home with ruffled feathers and tear streaks on her face every day- every single day, can you believe it? It was halfway through term in kindergarten when Hermione lashed back. The police had no idea what caused the whole class to lose consciousness at once, and it was quickly swept under the rug.

Sarah and her husband decided to homeschool Hermione.

When she was seven they made her meditate every night before bed and in the morning when she woke up. Their fiery little girl closed her eyes and something in the atmosphere slowed, relaxed. It was the same change she experienced whenever she left the house without Hermione. Normal air. Bartholomew told her, only half-joking, that he wished she could be that way all the time.

Were they proud of her? Heavens, yes. She was so well-mannered and intelligent, mastering anything she put her mind to and never ever embarrassing them in public. Would they have preferred a normal child? Sarah couldn't help but think so.

She turned eleven and a strange woman turned up on her doorstep, all pantsuits and grey hair pulled away from her face. She gave them good news: Hermione was magic, and there was a whole community of people waiting for her.

Hermione was ecstatic. The atmosphere was charged, but no longer tense. Pure, unbridled joy poured from their little girl in waves. She didn't even care that she would have to wait a whole year before she could join them; she left with that woman one afternoon to go supplies shopping, and she came back with armfuls of books. She would have to make a separate trip to get her wand, the woman explained, because the temptation to practice may just be too much.

September came again, bringing with it cloudy skies and a joyful daughter. She left, waving out the window of the train.

When she came back- home- for Christmas, Hermione was no longer a pleasant campfire. She was an inferno, threatening to burn down their house. They went skiing. The snow didn't help.

They sent her to that school again. Sarah had to hope that things would get better for Hermione there. This world didn't want her anymore.

0o-o0

Mr Bartholomew Granger was at a loss.

His beautiful, perfect baby girl, named for him and the love of his life, was supposed to be a composite of the two. She wasn't supposed to gain something extra.

Hermione Jean. A Shakespearean first name and a plain middle name. His wildly curly hair and her warm, open features. Their love for knowledge. She was perfect. That is, until she turned two years old and burned her dinner. Not just the food, but the plate and very nearly the whole table.

Sarah told him later that night, sobbing, that she'd seen her mobile spin until the baubles flew off. Months ago. Bartholomew held his wife in his arms until she exhausted herself and fell asleep.

In the middle of the night he went to Hermione's room and stood in the doorway, watching her breathe. The urge- the very, very brief, shameful urge- came over him to take her little pillow and smother her with it.

He went back to bed, dread a solid pit in his gut.

Jesus, he was scared of her. Scared of his two-year-old daughter.

Sarah wasn't scared. She handled Hermione with finesse, and Bartholomew surrendered to her judgement. Those filicidal impulses- plural, yes- left him not trusting himself to even be around her without his wife present.

He worked on building up their dental practice so Sarah could finish her degree. Sarah took Hermione with her, and as far as he knew no one objected. Hermione never fussed or made any distracting sounds. By that time she was learning how to read, and that occupied her for hours.

When Hermione turned seven they finally felt they wouldn't be bad parents if they left her home alone during the day. They would have her meditate until they left for work and would sometimes find her still meditating when they came back. Those were Bartholomew's favorite days. He couldn't explain why, but when Hermione retreated into her mind his nerves calmed. The molecules stopped moving quite so fast. It was normal.

He shouldn't have been glad to send her off to a boarding school. He told himself that he just wanted her to be with people like her, that that was where she would be happiest. It was a lie.

The days without her were so peaceful, so productive, that he mourned when Christmas came. Hermione stepped off the train and that stone of dread came back. She stepped off the train and her aura bludgeoned him. She was angry, a furious little girl who always, always watched her back. They took her to the mountains in the hopes that the serenity and fun would cool her down. It didn't. He didn't think she noticed, but the snow melted around her. The cabin they were staying in was boiling whenever she was in it.

He was glad to send her back, even knowing that it probably wasn't the best environment for her.

Without a word to Sarah, he shut Hermione's bedroom door.