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Chapter Text

...and throughout the centuries, the Malfoys have been steadfast in their efforts to preserve magical traditions and the inalienable rights and privileges of wizardkind as the superior race born to rule above the lesser creatures and Muggles.

The velvet-curtained window was the only witness to the succession of emotions on her expressive face as she read: outraged anger, wistful sadness, and interest much deeper than curiosity. The table wobbled when she leaned her elbow on it, its legs making an aggravating clanking sound against the wooden floor.

Through generous use of their wealth, and political cunning that would have impressed Salazar Slytherin himself, they have done more than any other family to advance wizardkind towards the freedom to practice magic without unnecessary, misguided restrictions aiming to shelter the weak.

Maybe she was a little obsessed. Just a little. Any research project, school or self assigned, deserved nothing less than her best effort, but this project was special. And top secret. Ron had teased her horribly about Lockhart; this would be much worse.

A million times worse.

She was Hermione Granger, top student in the fifth year class at Hogwarts. It was her intention to absorb all the knowledge she could find about the wizarding world, and to practice every spell and potion until she could do it perfectly (but she usually got it right on the first try). She wanted to become the best witch it was possible to be, even if to some it would never be enough to prove she belonged in this world.

To some it didn't matter how good she became at magic or how many times she demonstrated her skill by getting better marks than her pure-blood classmates. To some in this world she would always be unworthy of magic.

Unworthy of life as well, to some in this world.

It only made her study harder. No amount of work was too much to prove to them that she could be just as much of a witch as any pure-blood. To prove it to him, who like all the Death Eaters thought her unworthy of magic, of life, of any trace of respect.

She had been blindsided when her own emotions had mutated and snuck up on her like a stealthy, venomous snake. Without her noticing, her motivation had changed. Proving them wrong about Muggle-borns had turned into proving him wrong about her. And since he was probably the most prejudiced of all Dark wizards, it was a completely hopeless endeavour.

Why did she continue trying? She couldn't give up, even as she cried behind closed curtains in her dorm at night, almost hating her Muggle origins. It was so unfair to be judged by who her parents were when she wasn't even close to them; how could she be? She hardly ever saw them, and it was so awkward when she did... They lived in a whole other world!

Every day she covered her doubts with a mask of confidence bordering on haughtiness and worked tirelessly on her spellcasting and theoretical knowledge. It was all she could do: to be the best and make sure everyone knew it. Make sure he knew it. Gryffindors did not give up, no matter the odds –

She rubbed her stinging eyes.

They believe the practice of all types of magic, including what some refer to as the Dark Arts, is as natural and essential to wizards and witches as breathing, and it is criminal to restrict the learning or use of magic in any way –

The door creaked, opening.

She hastily closed the folder and tapped it three times with two fingers, activating her security spell. The contents would maintain the appearance of Arithmancy notes until unlocked with the password. She had taken the idea from the Marauders' Map and chosen a password no one would ever guess. These were the lengths she had to go to hide her secret, because of who her friends were. If one of them found out, all hell would break loose.

"Hermione?"

"Hi, Ginny." She cursed herself for the guilt leaking into her voice. Thank Merlin she hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin. She would've been eaten alive, and not only because she was Muggle-born.

Hi, Ginny. I was just indulging in the urge to know everything about the worst enemy of your family, the wizard who almost got you and Harry killed. And me too, but that's the last thing I care about. By the way, I like him almost as much as you used to like Harry.

She winced.

"Are you studying? If I'm disturbing you, I can –"

"No, it's all right," Hermione said, pushing a coil of bushy brown hair away from her eye. "This is your room too."

Seeing Ginny settle on her bed with schoolbooks, Hermione considered it too risky to go back to the reading she had been doing. Instead she pulled a heavy leather-bound Defence textbook out of her trunk.

The room was insufficiently lit, giving it an air some would have described as gloomy or eerie. Hermione, however, didn't mind the tarnished chandelier glimmering weakly over her head and creating moving shadows on the walls, or the snake-shaped candelabra on the table in front of her, with its flickering, greenish glow. As long as they provided enough light for her to decipher the writing on the dog-eared page, she was happy with them.

She wished there were more books in this house. Useful, edifying books, not like Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, which only contained a few interesting sections. She had just been reading one of these sections, which she had torn out of the book and password-protected with the rest of that research project.

She couldn't hate this house like Harry did. It was just so... different. There was nothing like it in the Muggle world. Instead of repelling her as they did Harry, the serpentine relics and dark atmosphere fascinated her. It was exciting to be in an old wizarding house, the second one she had the opportunity to stay at and the most intriguing by far. The Burrow wasn't full of arcane magic and mystery like this house.

The Burrow wasn't the ancestral home of an old Dark family.

If only this house wasn't in such poor condition, she thought sadly, her gaze lingering on the paint peeling from the walls. The windowpane was incrusted with grime and the shabby street behind it was not pleasant to look at. It was obvious Grimmauld Place was located in one of the poorest, most neglected districts of London. As for the dusty green curtains that refused to close fully, they could have looked fine if they weren't so visibly moth-eaten.

Hermione, who had completed all her homework on the first two days of the Christmas holidays, looked down at the book in her hands (Know Thine Enemy: Defence from Dark Forces). Not only did Umbridge teach nothing about practical defence, but even the theory learned in class was useless and quite rudimentary for their O.W.L. year.

This year's textbook, Defensive Magical Theory, was the most boring reading material Hermione had ever had the misfortune to look at. Oh, how she hated that foul, evil, twisted Umbridge woman and her horrible pack of Slytherin attack dogs! Nothing could be more reprehensible than what they were doing: trying to limit other people's access to knowledge.

But of course Hermione had taken it upon herself to read what the Ministry didn't want them to learn at Hogwarts. The D.A. was good for practice, but it was always useful to know more advanced spells. There was always more to learn. Especially in Defence Against the Dark Arts, the only subject in which she wasn't top of her class.

Harry had been consistently outscoring her in Defence since third year. Not being the best at something despite all her efforts was a hard pill to swallow. No matter how many times she tried, her Patronus was only half as bright as Harry's, when she could produce one at all. She had to work harder; she had to be the best. She was already at a disadvantage as a Muggle-born in a world controlled by pure-bloods.

And Harry beat her without even trying! It simply wasn't right. Some of her classmates worked hard to compete with her academically, but none of them got past second place. Draco Malfoy was frequently in that spot, a fact Hermione had conflicted feelings about. Oh, it was satisfying to show the bigoted bully she was more clever than him, but what if –

She shut the book with a brusque snap.

"Done with your reading, Hermione?" Ginny chirped from the other side of the room.

"I can't concentrate." Irritably, she brushed rebellious strands of hair out of her face. "Are you sure you don't need any help with Transfiguration? I remember fourth year; the theory wasn't easy."

Ginny shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm doing all right."

"If you're sure." Hermione hesitated. "Has Ron been bothering you about seeing boys again?"

Ginny's face brightened. "Of course he has, but since when has that stopped me?" She winked. "Did I tell you I went to Hogsmeade with Michael just before the holidays?"

Hermione shook her head.

"It was so romantic with the snow and the pretty lights... you know? We went to this lovely teashop..." Ginny grinned. "He's a nice boy. He's not Harry, but... he's fun. He bought me a pretty dress and flowers. Don't tell Ron! You know how he would react."

"Yeah, he would combust of paranoia."

Maybe Hermione was getting cynical, but for a Ravenclaw, Michael Corner didn't seem to take school very seriously, or life in general; relationships would probably be no exception. He seemed like a boy interested only in fooling around and having a good time, and he was probably under the assumption that the way into Ginny Weasley's pants was through buying her things she wanted but couldn't afford. Hermione would never admit it, but she was tempted to agree with Ron on this: Michael Corner's intentions might not be as innocent as Ginny thought. Did Ginny realise how pretty she had become?

But Hermione knew better than to try talking some sense into her friend right now. Her honest opinion would hurt and offend Ginny, and Hermione had too few friends to carelessly provoke fights with them when it wasn't absolutely necessary.

Was Ginny really her friend? Could she consider Ginny a genuine friend when she was sure the younger girl would want nothing to do with her if she knew her best-kept secret?

The sixteen-year-old prefect took a deep breath. To be completely honest, she envied Ginny. Ginny didn't know how lucky she was. Hermione would give anything to have feelings for someone like Harry instead of – of – being unable to stop thinking about a Death Eater no matter how hard she tried (and you can bet she tried her hardest). She had no control over these feelings, and it horrified her to no end.

Sure she had felt something similar for Gilderoy Lockhart, though never so intensely. But a Death Eater of all people? It was worse than forbidden. It was unthinkable.

The knowledge of how he treated house-elves made her seethe with fury. People like him were the reason she had created S.P.E.W. She couldn't stand such callous cruelty toward those who couldn't defend themselves; she couldn't do nothing about it... And yet...

How could she have fallen in love with someone like him? How could she have been so stupid?

She had tried reminding herself of the horrible things he had done, all the people and creatures she personally knew whom he had harmed. Because of him, Ginny and Harry had almost died, as had Buckbeak; Hagrid had spent months in Azkaban; Dobby had been cruelly abused for years. The knowledge should have helped fight against these awful feelings. Why didn't it? What was wrong with her?

Had Ron been right about her in fourth year? Was she in fact a weak-minded, shallow girl who was attracted to good-looking men?

But no, she knew Ron had been wrong. She hadn't been attracted to Lockhart only or mainly because of his good looks, but rather because after reading his books, she had believed him to be a brilliant wizard, and when she had found out he was anything but, her feelings had fizzled out like a candle doused with cold water.

It hadn't been a first-sight thing with Lockhart, nor with him. When she had first met him, in the bookshop in Diagon Alley, his icy hate had scared her parents witless. Hermione had been shocked and upset by such hostility from someone she had never done anything to offend.

Oh, it had been impossible not to notice how handsome he was, even when he had been in the same room as Lockhart. But she had felt anger rather than attraction as his chilling gaze had swept over her and her Muggle family before attacking Mr Weasley as if he had committed the foulest crime by bringing them into a wizarding shop.

Later, as she had learned more about him, seeing his crafty mind at work behind the shrewdest schemes, she had failed to hold on to that bristled indignation.

Lockhart had turned out to be an inept, idiotic fraud. But he, despite his arrogance, had a truly brilliant mind. His plans were as clever as they were vile. Getting Ginny blamed for opening Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and attacking Muggle-borns had been a horrible, spiteful, but ingenious plan to discredit Mr Weasley and prevent his pro-Muggle law from passing. And somehow he had even convinced the Board of Governors to sack Dumbledore of all people!

As far as undetectable murder methods went, Devil's Snare disguised as a get well present in the form of a bedside plant had been pure genius. It had been terrible but brilliant. It saddened Hermione to see so much cleverness misused for evil. What great things could he do for the wizarding world, if only he'd chosen the right side?

It truly bothered her that someone so clever thought so poorly of her. It made her want to be so good at magic that even he wouldn't be able to deny it. When this had become her main goal in life, she had known she was in trouble.

And when they had met again, at the Quidditch World Cup, he had openly stared at her for what had felt like an interminable moment, making her blush deeply. But then he had turned away with an expression of disdain, not deigning to speak to her, as if she was too insignificant even to taunt. It would have hurt less if he had insulted her.

She had been stunned by how much it had hurt. There were many others in the wizarding world who scorned her for being a Muggle-born, but their opinion had never ruffled her. She scorned them right back for being narrow-minded bigots who couldn't see past a book's cover.

What was different about Lucius Malfoy? Why did his contempt feel like a knife in her chest? Why did it make her feel as though she had failed everything, as though the Boggart again stood before her in the shape of Professor McGonagall announcing her expulsion for failing every exam?

There was only one possible explanation. She found it hard to admit even to herself. She was in love with...

A Death Eater. A Dark wizard who looked down on all who were not of pure blood.

He was married and older than her by twenty-five years, not that age difference had ever mattered to her. Lockhart had been older and a professor, yet these things hadn't stopped her from being smitten with him. She had always got along better with adults than with her peers.

Lockhart hadn't looked his age and neither did Mr Malfoy. It was a wizard thing. Because of their longer lifespan, wizards and witches aged more slowly than Muggles; she had seen pictures of Dumbledore in his seventies with his hair still fully auburn.

At least Lockhart had been no Dark wizard who enjoyed torturing Muggles.

The terrifying possibility of Harry, Ron or Ginny finding out her secret was always present at the back of Hermione's mind. She knew what would happen if they found out: her only friends would turn their backs on her.

She could never forget Ron's reaction to Viktor at the Yule Ball and his accusation of "fraternising with the enemy". Oh, if Ron found out about this...

The worst was that while Harry and Ginny hadn't begrudged her going to the Yule Ball with Viktor, she was sure they would shun her for her feelings for someone each of them had personal reasons to hate. She would be alone and friendless again, like she had been in Muggle primary school.

She had never felt like she belonged in the Muggle world, but did she belong in this one? She desperately wanted to belong, but would she ever? Could she really belong in the magical world when wizards like him thought she was just a Muggle interloper who could do magic because of some freakish accident of nature that shouldn't have happened? Oh yes, she had researched pure-blood supremacist ideology. She knew exactly what they thought of people like her.

Ginny chose the wrong moment to start a conversation on a topic she didn't know was a minefield. "So you and Viktor... How is it going?" she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "When are you going to visit him?"

"How many times do I have to tell you Viktor and I are just friends? Are you as thick as Ron?"

"Whoa, Hermione, no need to bite my head off!" exclaimed Ginny, waving her hands apologetically. "You went to the Yule Ball with him, you still write to him, and you aren't going out with anyone else. People kind of assume..."

"Sorry. But I thought you knew why I accepted to go to the ball with Viktor," said Hermione hotly. "It wasn't as if another boy had asked me before he did and I had no idea if anyone was going to ask me at all! If I refused, I risked having to go to the ball without a partner. Parvati and Lavender would have laughed their heads off, and Parkinson and her bully club would have absolutely loved it!

"As for our correspondence, it's mostly academic. Viktor knows so many things we don't learn at Hogwarts..."

Hermione envied the students of Durmstrang the opportunity to learn a whole branch of magic that not only wasn't taught at Hogwarts, but was entirely banned in Britain, making it hard to find unbiased books about it. From Viktor's letters, she had learned there was much more to the Dark Arts than the Unforgivables. Dark magic could do loads of things other types of magic couldn't, and a lot of it wasn't more harmful than the spells taught at Hogwarts. The jinx she had used on the D.A. member list for example...

"Couldn't you have asked someone to the ball yourself?" asked Ginny. "You didn't have to go with Viktor."

"Who? Neville?" Hermione shook her head. "He can't dance. And even if Ron had decided to ask me earlier, I'm not sure I would have said yes. I mean, I'm sort of glad he didn't ask. I – do you remember his dress robes? I know it wasn't his fault, but goodness, Parvati and Lavender would have laughed worse than if I'd gone alone."

She looked at Ginny, whose eyes were no longer twinkling. More calmly, Hermione continued:

"And I've got to say... I was flattered when Viktor invited me. I mean, he had a whole club of girls following him everywhere, some of them very attractive, but he didn't ask one of them – no, he chose to ask me instead. Me, the plain bookish girl. The Muggle-born. I didn't even think about saying no, Ginny, because I thought about them – Pansy Parkinson and her crowd. It shut them up. They couldn't believe the famous Viktor Krum would take someone like me to the Yule Ball," she said with a bit of satisfaction. "Yes, I was very happy, but from that to actually fancying Viktor..."

Hermione didn't look at Ginny. She stared down at her hands as she spoke. "I've never liked him like that, Ginny. In fact, I... sort of... love someone else."

"Oh," Ginny perked up. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Every now and then, Hermione wished she could confide in someone. But she was so ashamed of her feelings that she would never be able to look Ginny in the eye again. And Ginny would most likely never speak to her again. Ginny was one of the last people to whom she could confess this secret.

Ginny had never fully got over her first year. She never talked about it, but Hermione could see it in her eyes, how they flashed at the mention of the Chamber of Secrets incident... and the one responsible for it.

"I'm sorry, but I'd rather not say."

"Don't worry, I won't tell my git of a brother." Then Ginny's eyes widened. "Is it still Lockhart? Is that why you're embarrassed?"

"Merlin, no!" Hermione said. "I could never fancy someone so – so incompetent. Ginny, he could only cast one spell properly and it was the Memory Charm. If I'd known, I would've never..."

"I still can't believe you liked him like that, even if you didn't know he was a fraud. He was just so conceited! Mum fancied him too, you know. It was so embarrassing! But she never had him as a teacher so at least she didn't know what he was really like."

But conceit had never been a turn-off for Hermione. Lockhart's books had been more about him than about the deeds he had supposedly done, and this hadn't made Hermione think less of him. It made sense: quite a few people thought she was conceited.

But no one could honestly say she was incompetent. Incompetence, for her, was a deal breaker.

"If it isn't Lockhart, then who is it? Come on, Hermione, curiosity is killing me."

"I can't tell you," Hermione said with finality.

"Oh, a secret?" Ginny said mischievously, knowing it was futile to argue when Hermione had made a decision. "All right, all right. But you can at least tell me how long you've liked him, whoever he is?"

Hermione hesitated. "Since the summer before fourth year, I think."

"You mean you met him at the World Cup?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?"

I shouldn't have said anything! Hermione berated herself.

"We had met before." The words rushed out before she could bite her tongue at the thought of what that encounter had resulted in for Ginny.

"Do I know him?" Ginny asked suddenly. Hermione was acting really strange. It was unlike her to give such short, reluctant answers. Normally, she was eager to tell everything there was to tell about a topic, but right now she sounded as though she was being interrogated at her trial for a crime. "Have I met him?" Ginny insisted when Hermione still hadn't answered.

Hermione studiously avoided meeting Ginny's eyes. She turned away to examine the window, as though she found it painful to look at her. "I'm sorry."

The words were mumbled in such a low voice it took Ginny a few seconds to decipher them, and when she did, her confusion grew. "What are you apologising for?"

Hermione just shook her head.

There was a minute of silence, with Hermione looking everywhere except at Ginny, while Ginny watched her curiously, wondering who it could be that Hermione had feelings for and why she felt so guilty about it. She seemed embarrassed, so it was most likely someone Harry and Ron wouldn't approve of... Someone I wouldn't approve of?

Hermione broke the awkward silence. "So, you are finally getting over your infatuation with Harry?"

Ginny's freckled face flushed a deep pink.

"Yeah, your advice really helped. I've been doing what you said, trying to accept that Harry doesn't feel the same way and acting like I've moved on. Dating other guys. I think it's working. I think of him much less than I used to."

Hermione was well aware of how absurd it was for her to be giving relationship advice to anyone. But knowing personally the pain of unrequited love, she had wanted to help Ginny, so she had shared one of the tricks she had discovered for herself: distractions. It had almost worked for her, with Viktor. If only he didn't live so far away. If only she actually had time for a relationship.

There was no fixing her own love life, but she could at least help fix Ginny's. And who knew? Harry had liked Cho, and Ginny had a similar personality, but in the past Ginny had always been so debilitatingly shy and nervous around Harry that he had never seen her being herself. Ginny's crush on Harry wasn't completely hopeless like Hermione's feelings for... him. Unlike Ginny, the best Hermione could hope for was to distract herself well enough to be happy with someone else.

She had recently noticed Ron was funny and sort of cute when he wasn't absolutely infuriating, and unlike Viktor, he was right here; he could be the distraction she needed, maybe even a permanent distraction. But it wouldn't be fair to him. Ron deserved to be more than just a distraction. Could she learn to love him eventually, if she tried?

But there was just no time! Her education would always come first. It had to. It was the best distraction. If she focused on the next essay, the next test, the next spell to teach herself, she was too busy to think about why she felt such a need to be the best. She could forget what she was trying to prove, to whom, and why.

"Ginny, you should be kinder to Harry. He's got a lot on his plate this year, and it wasn't his fault that you had a crush on him. He didn't make it happen. It's not right to blame him for it."

"I'm kind enough to him," Ginny said testily.

"You could've been gentler when reminding him about your possession by V–Voldemort. He almost died of Basilisk venom poisoning in the Chamber. You can't blame him for wanting to forget about it."

"Forget about it? How can anyone forget what happened? Did you forget too?"

"I wish I could."

"But Hermione, you were petrified! The whole thing was meant to get you out of Hogwarts."

"To get Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts, and discredit your dad," Hermione corrected sharply. "All Muggle-borns. Not me in particular."

"I think it was meant mainly against you," said Ginny.

Hermione stared at her. "What do you m–mean?"

"You're the best in your class, heck, the best of our generation. Malfoy's father," Ginny spat out with loathing, "has to be furious about that. A Muggle-born doing better than the Malfoy heir – got to be embarrassing for them. You're the only Muggle-born he really knows about."

Hermione blanched, looking stricken, to Ginny's confusion. Scarily bright as Hermione was, surely she had figured this out? But despite her brilliance, she could be strangely clueless about some things, for example the reason why Ron was such a gigantic prat to her some of the time. But even if this was news to her, why was she taking it so badly?

Oh! Maybe Hermione had taken what Ginny had said to mean everything that had happened that year was her fault, that she'd caused it by doing so well at school and angering the Malfoys. Oh no!

"Hermione! It wasn't your fault. Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened to me or the others." Ginny pulled her into a comforting hug learned from her mum. Hermione let her, but didn't hug back as she normally would. She stayed stiff and awkward, guilt written across her face, until Ginny let go. "Hey, it's okay," Ginny insisted. "It was a horrible year but it's over. Nobody died."

"Yeah." Negative attention was better than none, right?

"Anyway... I'm ashamed of myself when I remember how I used to act around Harry," Ginny confessed, trying to cheer Hermione up. She ran her hands though her mane of red hair. "The reason I was afraid to speak while he was in the room was because I didn't want him to think I was the loud-mouthed brat my brothers said I was."

Hermione considered her silently for a moment, then looked away. "You were lucky it was just Harry."

Ginny bristled. "And what is that supposed to mean, just Harry?"

"Well," Hermione offered with a wry smile, "it isn't like it was a Death Eater, was it?" she joked. "I mean, Harry's one of the nicest boys at Hogwarts."

Ginny let out a strangled laugh. "I suppose."

"You see? It could've been much worse. Unless you felt that way about the boy in the diary," Hermione suggested shrewdly. "Riddle."

"No effing way!" Ginny exclaimed, aghast. "It's You-Know-Who we're talking about! Who would fancy him? Tom was good-looking, yeah, but he's a heartless madman, him and his followers..."

"It doesn't work like that. People don't choose who they fall in love with."

"Well, yeah," said Ginny, "that's true – I definitely didn't want to follow Harry around like a lovesick puppy! But I mean, really, who would love You-Know-Who or a Death Eater? A girl would have to be completely nuts to be attracted to those evil bastards."

"I agree," Hermione said in a choked voice. "That's crazy."

Did I just admit I'm 'completely nuts'?

But Ginny is right. It is crazy.

The door opened and Mrs Weasley peeked into the room. She wore an apron and a cheerful smile, but there were dark circles under her eyes. Hermione suspected the poor woman couldn't sleep from worry about her husband's awful snakebite.

"It's time to eat, girls!"

"Oh – right, Mum," said Ginny. "Hermione, are you coming?"

"Go on," Hermione said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Hurry up, dear. The food will get cold," Mrs Weasley told her. "You look a bit pale. A good warm meal is just what you need to fix that."

Why did the Weasleys believe food was the answer to all problems? No wonder Mrs Weasley was... not slim. But Hermione would never say that out loud. She felt guilty for even thinking it. Mrs Weasley was a genuinely kind and generous woman.

But she wasn't quite the type of witch Hermione wanted to become. She couldn't imagine being a stay at home mother. She would go bonkers from the lack of intellectual stimulation.

"I won't be long," Hermione said with a smile.

"All right, dear. Ginny, come help me with the dessert."

Ginny sullenly followed her mother out of the room. "But Mum, I hate cooking!" Hermione heard her complain.

She watched them leave, then dropped her face into her hands. Oh, Ginny, if only you knew.

Harry might one day fall in love with Ginny after seeing her real personality instead of the shy love-struck fan he found off-putting. But Lucius Malfoy would never see Hermione as anything but a filthy Mudblood. He would gladly kill her just because she was a Muggle-born and a friend of Harry Potter. To him, she would never be a true witch, because her parents were Muggles. She was the cleverest in her year, but this was beyond even her intelligence. Nothing she did could possibly impress him.

Still she tried, unable to give up all hope.

What could she do other than make sure he couldn't not know how skilled a witch she was? Anything else would mean betraying her friends.

It would mean betraying Harry, and she could never do that. Not to Harry. Brave, passionate, generous Harry who never hesitated to risk his life to help others. In first year he had saved her from being beaten to death by a troll, and in third year, from having her soul sucked out by Dementors.

If at least she hadn't been a Muggle-born...

It couldn't have been worse. Or maybe it could: it could have been You-Know-Who. If she had been in Ginny's shoes...

Ginny hadn't known who Tom Riddle really was. But Hermione had known about Lucius Malfoy. His behaviour at their first meeting had screamed "pure-blood bigot", and she had been warned by the Weasleys and Harry that he was a Death Eater, though she hadn't wanted to believe the extent of it. Even after Harry had returned from his duel with Voldemort in the graveyard and told her and Ron pieces of the story, she still hoped, irrationally, that there were extenuating circumstances.

Hermione pressed her palm to her face and cursed her luck for the hundredth time. Why did it have to be him she had such feelings for when...

"I'm just a Mudblood," she muttered bitterly.

"Damn right," answered the portrait on the wall, making Hermione jump. But when she looked at it, it was still the same empty frame it had always been.

She liked this house, really. But not everything about it. The house-elf heads on the walls were horrifying and barbaric, as was the severed troll leg and the other body parts of sentient magical creatures used as furniture. Some Muggles adorned their homes with hunting trophies; it had always appalled her. But this was worse: these creatures were more like humans than like animals. And the living tragedy that was Kreacher, brainwashed to worship his and his species' abusers...

However, the intriguing mysteries of this house, such as portraits that could talk while empty (how?), were absolutely fascinating, and being insulted by portraits and by poor Kreacher was a small price to pay for living in a place full of such interesting magic.

The insults didn't bother her, honestly. Being called a Mudblood by Draco Malfoy hurt (but she would be damned if she ever let him see it) only because she was sure he was just parroting what he had been hearing at home his entire life.

All right, yes, she was obsessed.

Mrs Weasley would be disappointed, but she had more important things to do than eat.

She placed her palm on the parchment she had been reading before Ginny had walked in. She really hated the password she had chosen, but that was the point. No one would imagine a Muggle-born willingly uttering these words, for they were a declaration of pure-blood superiority. She wrinkled her nose. "Sanctimonia vincet semper," she muttered under her breath.

The Arithmancy equations flickered and dissolved into undecipherable swirls of ink, which rearranged themselves into a text on the history of the family whose motto she had just spoken.

Chapter Text

"Harry, I don't think you should touch it," Hermione said sharply as Harry extended his hand toward the dusty glass orb. She didn't know what it was, but she had a very bad feeling about it.

She had had a bad feeling about this whole trip to the Ministry, but Harry had ignored her, refusing to consider that his dream might not have been real. Why couldn't he see what she saw: that this was the perfect trap, brilliantly tailored to his weaknesses?

So brilliantly she would have admired the mind behind it, had the target not been her best friend. Oh yes, she had a very bad feeling about this. Harry's saving-people thing was well known to... the other side, as was his attachment to Sirius, if Draco Malfoy's taunts about dogs meant anything. This had trap for Harry Potter written all over it; she could see it from a mile away.

"Why not?" Harry retorted defiantly. "It's something to do with me, isn't it?"

Hadn't Harry read how dangerous it could be to touch strange objects in the wizarding world? Well, actually, he probably hadn't, since he didn't like to read, but he had firsthand experience! Tom Riddle's diary had been a piece of Voldemort. The Triwizard Cup had been a Portkey to Voldemort. This inoffensive-looking glass globe could easily be a Portkey too, or it could be cursed.

This was too much to be a coincidence. Harry had a mental connection to Voldemort, and had spent the year dreaming about this place, and it was specifically here that Sirius was supposed to be held. But there was no sign of Sirius, no sign of a living soul, only this little magical object made specifically for Harry, labelled with his and Voldemort's names... If Voldemort's not involved in this, then I'm not a prefect, Hermione reckoned.

"Don't, Harry," said Neville.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Well done, Neville, she thought, hoping Harry would at least listen to Neville, since he felt like ignoring her warnings. Surely Neville speaking up to give advice was unusual enough to catch Harry's attention even at his most stubborn.

But Harry decided, at the worst possible time, to demonstrate the full extent of his stubbornness. "It's got my name on," he said rebelliously, and Hermione held her breath as he put his hand on the glass sphere and lifted it from the shelf.

Call it intuition, but she couldn't say she was surprised by what happened next. Horrified and scared to the point of nausea, but not surprised.

She and the others reluctantly moved closer to Harry to take a better look at the small globe of glass, when something happened that made them jump while Hermione froze, feeling as though all air had left her lungs.

"Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."

Recognition surged through Hermione's body like electricity, freezing her in place, leaving her breathless.

She knew that voice.

Almost against her will, she turned around to look at the one who had spoken. He was masked and hooded in Death Eater costume, though his tall, haughty stance distinguished him from the other cloaked figures emerging out of thin air. His grey eyes were fixed on Harry, and he was the only one in the black-cloaked group not to have his wand out.

The Death Eaters must have been under an invisibility spell, because Hermione knew for a fact it was impossible to Apparate in magical institutional buildings such as the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts, St Mungo's, and Gringotts Bank. The Ministry's entrance hall, called Atrium, was the only place in the building where Apparition was possible.

Hermione's face turned deathly pale. No longer could she doubt what Harry had been telling everyone since the end of last year. Though she had known Harry had no reason to lie, she had hoped, irrationally, that he was somehow mistaken about Mr Malfoy being there in the graveyard, and of his free will. Even when the whole story had been published in the Quibbler, Hermione had still hoped not everything was as it seemed. But now she had seen the evidence with her own eyes.

When she had sat on the Thestral earlier that day, following Harry to potentially save Sirius from Voldemort, she hadn't known she would be facing her worst nightmare. Voldemort, maybe, but not him. Not him, the Death Eater, the murderer whom she couldn't hate no matter how much she tried...

Aware that her breathing was coming in short gasps, Hermione tried to calm herself and think practically, to come up with a plan to extricate them from this mess Harry had led them into. Her fists clenched with the sudden urge to slap him for his stupidity. Damn you, Harry! Why couldn't you listen to me? She had been telling him all along that it was a trap, and she had warned him not to touch that glass ball. Why did he have to ignore all her warnings?

If she hadn't been too frightened to move, Hermione might really have slapped Harry. Not that it would have made her feel better.

Ron, Neville, Luna, and Ginny were standing farther away from Harry and Hermione. They all had their wands in their hands, but were too scared to start a fight with the fully trained Dark wizards who outnumbered them two to one, so the first three settled on staring apprehensively at the Death Eaters.

But Ginny was watching Hermione, who, oddly, looked more frightened than any of them. The bushy-haired witch stood frozen in place, looking paler than Ginny had ever seen her. She was staring fixedly in the direction of the Death Eaters, at one of them in particular, though Ginny couldn't see which one. Hermione's eyes appeared wide with shock, and her face wavered between sick fear and something else, something very strange in the situation. Something that looked nothing like fear, or anger, or hate.

Ginny thought she must have imagined it, because it made no sense, but then she remembered the strange conversation she had had with Hermione during the Christmas holidays at Grimmauld Place. In fact, I... sort of... love someone else, Hermione's words echoed in her head. Since the summer before last year. We had met before...

How Hermione had avoided her eyes and evaded her questions guiltily; her strange, inexplicable I'm sorry. Her devastated expression when Ginny had pointed out the obvious: that the attacks against Muggle-borns in her second year had been aimed mainly at her, because she had angered Lucius Malfoy by doing better at school than his son.

And the fake smile that hadn't reached her eyes, sad and resigned... It isn't like it was a Death Eater, was it? People don't choose who they fall in love with.

Ginny let out an audible gasp, and it wasn't out of fear. Bloody hell, was all she could think.

In the deathly silence, Hermione heard Ginny's gasp, and it snapped her out of her state of hypnotised focus. She regained control of herself and turned her face purposefully away from the Death Eaters – though Ginny was now pretty sure she knew which one of them she'd been staring at like that. And as Hermione's eyes met Ginny's, the guilt and shame that flashed across her face confirmed everything Ginny had guessed.

Hermione's face was very white; her breathing was quick and shallow, and as she kept looking at Ginny, who stared back at her in numb disbelief, a horrified embarrassment shone in her eyes as the quick mind behind them figured out which puzzle pieces had jumped together in Ginny's head.

Hermione silently begged Ginny not to say anything.

At length, she looked away from the shocked Ginny. At the back of her mind, Hermione was already worrying about what would happen if they all got out of this with their lives intact. She sometimes shared a room with Ginny, and their friendship would never be the same after this revelation, she was sure of it. But now was not the time to fret about the future. Hermione concentrated on the conversation between Harry and him.

Harry asked where Sirius was, as though he still hadn't realised Sirius wasn't here at all and it had been just a dream. He was greeted by laughter from the Death Eaters.

"Now give me the prophecy, Potter," Mr Malfoy demanded for what sounded like the fifth time. He certainly had patience.

So this glass sphere – the weapon – was a prophecy? It alarmed Hermione that in all the books she had read about the wizarding world, there had been no mention of the existence of real prophecies. For the first time, she regretted walking out of Divination class.

She struggled against the overwhelming urge to drop everything and run to a library to read all she could find about prophecies. She hated not knowing things. How did Harry make decisions such as coming here tonight based on guesswork, without having all the relevant information? To her, lack of certainty was terrifying because it could lead to making mistakes.

She had recognised Dumbledore's initials on the prophecy's label, but who was S.P.T.?

Oh! If it was a prophecy, S.P.T. could be Sybill Patricia Trelawney, as absurd as that would be. Could that woman have some real ability? Hermione suppressed a snort of disbelief as she looked around. All this fuss and danger for some silly made-up piece of fortune-telling by one of Hogwarts' most incompetent professors? It wasn't just her opinion; even Professor McGonagall agreed with her assessment of that Divination rubbish. An assessment that had nothing to do with Trelawney calling Hermione "hopelessly mundane" when she had tried to out her as the fraud she was.

"I know Sirius is here!" proclaimed Harry. "I know you've got him!"

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. Harry still thought his dream had been real? Merlin... could a person really be that dense?

"It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams, Potter," drawled Mr Malfoy.

What was I trying to tell Harry? If only he had listened to her, they wouldn't be here, risking their lives for a silly dream.

"Now give me the prophecy, or we start using wands."

Please, Harry, be reasonable, thought Hermione. That thing isn't worth our lives.

But for the nth time that evening, Harry demonstrated a dangerous lack of common sense.

"Go on, then," Harry said carelessly, raising his wand. No! thought Hermione as Ron and Ginny quickly copied Harry's actions, followed slowly by the more uncertain Neville and Luna. Finally, Hermione raised her wand as well, if only not to stand out and draw attention to herself. What was Harry thinking, preparing to fight twelve fully trained Dark wizards? Goodness, we are all going to die!

In her fear, Hermione instinctively moved behind Harry. She was furious with him for not listening to her, but he was better than her at Defence.

"Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt," Mr Malfoy said calmly. He still did not draw his wand.

Hermione felt a surge of gratitude, but Harry wasn't impressed.

You-Know-Who had probably not told his followers to kill anyone, only to get the prophecy, and they wanted to get this over with as quickly – and cleanly – as possible. But Harry either didn't understand this or didn't care. He had good reasons to hate Voldemort and the Death Eaters, so he didn't want to give them what they wanted and walk away from a fight, but couldn't he see it was a fight they had no chance of winning?

When the female Death Eater, whom Hermione guessed to be Bellatrix Lestrange, tried to summon the prophecy from Harry, Hermione actually hoped she would succeed, so the Death Eaters would let them leave unharmed.

But Lestrange failed. Enraged, she tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on Ginny. Harry bravely stepped forward to protect her.

Hermione noted that the Death Eaters seemed taken aback when Harry asked what kind of prophecy it was.

"Nope, not jesting," said Harry. "How come Voldemort wants it?"

The masked group flinched and made disapproving sounds. So did Ron, Ginny, and Neville. Mr Malfoy was the only one among the Death Eaters who had no reaction when Voldemort's name was spoken out loud. Even now, while she was still recovering from the shock of being faced with the evidence of his criminal double life, it made her respect him more.

Harry's question was a valid one. If it was just a prophecy, why would Voldemort care so much about it? Didn't the word prophecy by definition mean something that would come true regardless of what anyone did to stop it?

"Did you know he's a half-blood too?" Harry said suddenly.

Hermione gasped, her eyes widening. Was Harry making this up? Why would he? Just to offend the Death Eaters? Surely he knew they wouldn't believe him...

But now that she thought about it, it could be true. She had looked through the wizarding genealogy book at Grimmauld Place. She hadn't read all of it, but she had read the whole index, and she didn't remember seeing the name Riddle in it. Her memory was good enough she would remember it.

Seriously – Lord Voldemort, a half-blood? And these pure-blood supremacists followed him? Oh Merlin... the Death Eaters weren't going to react well to this at all. Hermione gripped her wand tighter.

"Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch but his dad was a Muggle. Or has he been telling you lot he's pure-blood?"

Most of the Death Eaters seemed enraged, but none more than Mrs Lestrange. If Harry's goal had been to rile her into incoherent rage and make her lose control, he had done brilliantly at it.

Quick as lightning, Lestrange sent a curse at Harry, but Mr Malfoy, whose wand was suddenly in his hand – she hadn't seen him take it out – somehow made the red light change directions and hit a shelf next to Harry. Hermione planned to research and learn that spell redirection trick.

Several glass globes on one of the shelves shattered upon being hit by Lestrange's deviated spell. Transparent, smoke-like silhouettes emerged from them, speaking in voices that were hard to hear over the bickering Death Eaters.

"DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!"

"He dares – he dares –" Lestrange screeched, "he stands there – filthy half-blood –"

"WAIT UNTIL WE'VE GOT THE PROPHECY!"

Hermione wanted to shake her head at what she was seeing. The Death Eaters would never succeed on a mission if they wasted their time bickering amongst themselves while their enemies could take advantage of it. Mr Malfoy did not seem like a bad leader, but if the others were too irrational to concentrate on their mission, then the results would be as disastrous as those of Harry's refusal to heed Hermione's warnings.

Hermione was still astounded and confused by what Harry had revealed about Voldemort. Judging by Mrs Lestrange's extreme reaction, she obviously believed Voldemort was a pure-blood and Harry was lying. But Mr Malfoy had not reacted in any way to Harry's words. Did he too think Harry was lying? Or had he already known Voldemort was a half-blood?

And if he had known, why on earth was he a Death Eater? Why would a proud pure-blood supremacist like him obey a half-blood wizard? Was the Imperius story true?

"You haven't told me what's so special about this prophecy I'm supposed to be handing over," stated Harry.

Hermione hoped he had a plan to get out of here while he was making chitchat with the Death Eaters, and it turned out she was right, because the next second she felt Harry's foot stomp painfully on her toes. She winced. "What?" she said as quietly as she could, terrified that the Death Eaters would notice.

But it seemed something Mr Malfoy said about Dumbledore keeping secrets from Harry had made him forget about whatever he had been planning. "What?" Hermione murmured insistently to the back of Harry's head.

The Death Eaters started laughing at a joke Mr Malfoy had made, and while they were distracted, she heard Harry hiss, without turning around, "Smash shelves."

What did he mean? Smash shelves... right now? How would that help them? Hermione frantically tried to figure out Harry's plan.

"Dumbledore never told you?" Mr Malfoy said in gleeful amazement. "Well, this explains why you didn't come earlier, Potter, the Dark Lord wondered why –"

Hermione was completely mystified by that. Why would Harry want to come to a forbidden area of the Ministry of Magic of his own accord?

"...when I say now," muttered Harry, and it took Hermione a moment to piece things together. Did he mean... Oh! Harry wanted all of them to use the Reductor Curse on the shelves above the Death Eaters' heads simultaneously, when they were distracted by conversation and not expecting it, so it would give them time to run and hide.

She hoped Harry would keep the Death Eaters distracted while she repeated the message to Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, or else she would be in terrible trouble.

Harry was clever enough to understand this, to Hermione's relief, and kept the Death Eaters' attention on himself. She lost track of the conversation while explaining Harry's plan to the others in low whispers. When she was done and they had all heard the instructions, she was shocked that the Death Eaters still hadn't noticed.

"...why the Dark Lord tried to kill you as a baby?"

Wait, what? Harry's parents had died because of some prediction made by that fraud?

She had despised Trelawney before for being such an incompetent teacher, but it was nothing compared to what she felt now. She glared at the dusty glass ball in Harry's hand. It was the reason he was an orphan. People had died because of it, because of Trelawney making it and Voldemort taking it seriously... And more people would die if this continued. We'll all die if we fight them! We are outnumbered two to one and we are just students while they are fully trained, battle-hardened Dark wizards!

She glanced at the Death Eaters. Did they also take the 'prophecy' seriously, or were they just mindlessly following Voldemort's orders? Her eyes were drawn to Mr Malfoy again. I thought he was more intelligent than that. I thought even Voldemort, crazy as he is, was more intelligent than that.

"So, he's got you doing his dirty work for him, has he?" Harry said, and Hermione realised why the Death Eaters hadn't noticed her whispering to the others. It was because of how Harry had kept them distracted: by riling them up.

"Like he tried to get Sturgis to steal it – and Bode?" Harry boldly repeated what Hermione had figured out.

"Very good, Potter, very good..."

Should I feel flattered? Hermione wondered absurdly, since it was she who had made the connections and deduced that plan.

"NOW!" screamed Harry.

It mustn't have occurred to Harry that they were breaking multiple laws and could be charged with destruction of Ministry property, trespass, and attempted robbery, Hermione thought as she aimed her wand at a shelf behind the Lestrange woman and shouted, "Reducto!" causing it to explode into splinters of glass and wood. None of these hit anyone except Lestrange, but the others hadn't been so considerate in their aim. She had seen Ron point his wand at a shelf too close to them, causing sharp shards to rain down on them as well as on the Death Eaters.

Hermione felt bad about destroying fascinating Ministry property, but it was the only plan Harry could think of, and she was too terrified and upset right now to think of something better.

There was chaos as shelves tumbled down and prophecy spheres split open over their heads, fragments of glass flying everywhere. Hermione bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut in fear of receiving one in her eye. For once she wished she was wearing spectacles like Harry.

Harry grabbed her robes and dragged her forward. Hermione wrenched herself out of his grasp irritably.

"I don't need you dragging me around, Harry!" she yelled over the racket of more collapsing shelves and breaking glass.

Harry didn't stop running, and he kept looking straight ahead as he yelled back, "You looked scared stiff!"

"Go grab Neville instead!" Hermione shouted, seeing he had just tripped over something and was attempting to stand up. "He looks like he needs help!"

This jerked Harry out of his confrontational mood, and he hurried over to Neville. A Death Eater jumped at him but Harry elbowed him away. Seeing that he didn't need her help, Hermione didn't wait for him.

She saw Ron and Ginny dashing towards another door on the side. She opened her mouth but they disappeared through it before she could tell them the exit was the other way –

A Death Eater seized Harry's shoulder. Hermione aimed her wand at him and yelled, "Stupefy!"

The Death Eater fell against a shelf of prophecies. Another shelf promptly collapsed on top of him, covering him in shards of glass and wood. Hermione saw blood but did not stop to look. She had no time to get nauseated.

"Harry! Neville! Come on!" she shouted over her shoulder as she continued running past the rows of glass spheres in the direction of the door through which they had arrived.

She threw the door open and raced inside.

A moment later, she realised Harry and Neville had not followed her; they were still out there. Moreover, she must have gone the wrong way, because this didn't look at all like the room they had come through.

It was dark; she wanted to use her wand for the Lumos Spell but was afraid to. The light would attract the attention of the Death Eaters from far away.

She felt for the door to go back out, but couldn't find it. Her hands found a smooth wall where the door should have been.

Reminded of the enchanted wall leading to platform nine and three quarters, she tried pushing against the wall with all her weight, pressing her shoulder against it, but it remained solid and unyielding.

The initial relief she had felt at having escaped the Death Eaters disappeared as Hermione realised that one, she was stuck; she didn't know how to get out of here, and two, her friends were trapped out there without her, outnumbered more than two to one, fighting the Death Eaters.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could see that she was in a corridor. There were portraits on the walls, but they were empty frames, and there were no torches and no windows, but a faint glow seemed to be radiating from the floor itself, allowing Hermione to see the outline of her surroundings.

Bangs and yells resonated through the wall; she pressed her ear against it, trying to get a hint of what was going on outside –

And almost recoiled when she heard his voice shouting orders to the other Death Eaters.

"...don't forget, be gentle with Potter until we've got the prophecy, you can kill the others if necessary –"

Hermione flinched.

"Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you take the left; Crabbe, Rabastan, go right – Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead – Macnair and Avery, through here – Rookwood, over there – Mulciber, come with me!"

What do I do? she thought wildly. Mr Malfoy's orders were terribly well thought-out. With such an organised search, there was no way the Death Eaters would miss any place she or her friends could have hidden in. Oh, goodness, what do I do? she panicked, her entire body trembling.

What if he found her? Would he consider it "necessary" to kill her?

"Calm down," she muttered frantically to herself. "Calm down! Think!"

She knew she had to get away from the door, in case one of the Death Eaters walked through it, so that at least they would not see her straight away. She advanced cautiously into the unlit corridor and stood by a wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

A minute passed, and then a Death Eater emerged from a door Hermione hadn't noticed before, at the other end of the passageway. He was walking with his back bent, as though permanently stuck in a bow, and was headed in her direction.

He hadn't seen her yet. But he certainly would; the corridor was narrow and she wouldn't be able to avoid being seen if he were to pass next to her.

In desperation, Hermione raised her wand and tapped herself over the head with it. Please work, please...

She felt a chilling sensation spread over her, as though a bucket of cold water had been poured on her head.

Looking down, she couldn't see herself at all. It was like wearing Harry's invisibility cloak. She stifled a gasp of amazement. It was far from the first time she had done a spell perfectly on the first try, but a spell as advanced as this one...

When Harry had mentioned the spell Mad-Eye Moody had used to get him to Grimmauld Place unnoticed, Hermione's interest had been piqued. The next time Moody had visited the Order Headquarters, she had sought him out and asked him about the Disillusionment Charm. Moody had told her the theory and the incantation, but she had never attempted to cast it until now.

"Lumos!" said the Death Eater, and the dark hallway was suddenly thrown into clear view. Hermione didn't move and struggled to quieten her erratic breathing.

The Death Eater was halfway through the corridor when another Death Eater emerged from the wall Hermione had come through. He caught sight of his comrade and hurried towards him. The stooped one paused in his stride.

Huddled together in the middle of what they thought was an empty corridor, they started talking quietly.

Hermione shuffled closer to the pair until, flattened against the wall, she could hear their discussion.

"...empty, I'm telling you. I doubt the kids even saw that door. How about you, Rookwood? Found anyone?"

"No," answered the Death Eater with the hunched back. "No one in the room. I wonder where the little brats have gone. Merlin knows there are enough nooks and crannies to hide in here. I know them all. Used to work here," he said with a brisk laugh.

"Do you think..." the other Death Eater started in a low voice. "We will find them, won't we?"

"Of course we will. They are just kids," the stooped one – Rookwood – said derisively.

"But what if we don't? What if... what do you think the Dark Lord will do to us?"

"Don't be an idiot, Avery," said Rookwood. "We will deliver the prophecy to our Lord."

"But if we fail," Avery insisted, "do you think he will t–torture us?" His voice quivered. "Do you think he'll kill any of us for failing?"

"How would I know?" said Rookwood. "Not one of us can fathom how the Dark Lord's mind works. But let me tell you this, Avery: we are not in charge of this mission. Malfoy is, and if, for some reason, we fail to get a hold of the prophecy, it will be his responsibility."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"So the Master won't punish us?" Avery sounded relieved.

"No," Rookwood said with certainty. "He has no reason to. It's Malfoy's task to get the prophecy. Actually, you know what, Avery? I think there is a reason the Dark Lord gave this mission to Malfoy. He is risking a lot by coming here; most of us are known Death Eaters, but he is risking his reputation as a respectable law-abiding citizen if he is seen." Rookwood sounded more than a little resentful.

Hermione felt the urge to scoff. Casting Imperius Curses inside the Ministry building, right under the nose of the Minister himself... law-abiding indeed. But few people believed the story in the Quibbler, where Harry had named him as one of the Death Eaters. Hermione still couldn't decide whether to feel outraged by it... or relieved.

Rookwood's next words jerked her brutally out of her thoughts. "I think this is a test for him. The Dark Lord hasn't forgiven him for not coming to look for him in Albania, and this mission is his chance to redeem himself. His only chance. If he fails it..."

"The Dark Lord will kill him," said Avery in a hushed voice.

In the shadows, the Disillusioned Hermione inhaled sharply.

"Yes." Rookwood sounded completely unconcerned. "You saw how desperate he was, in the Hall of Prophecy? How he argued with Bellatrix, how he panicked when she was about to hex Potter? Usually he is a lot more composed than that. But the idea of the prophecy getting smashed has him really, really worried. He tries to hide it, of course, he always does, but you can see he fears for his life. Probably for his family's lives too."

Oh no.

This can't be happening.

"It would be nothing less than he deserves," continued Rookwood. "Some of us spent a decade in Azkaban while he lied his way out by denying the Dark Lord, and our Lord did not even punish him! And now he comes back as if he had never left and orders us around, we who have always stayed loyal to the Dark Lord! He is no better than that scum Karkaroff who sold me out."

Avery shifted uneasily. He, too, had claimed to be under the influence of the Imperius Curse, and hadn't used his freedom to try to find Voldemort.

Rookwood interpreted Avery's silence correctly, and chuckled harshly. "You were a low-ranking servant, Avery. It was no surprise that you denied all involvement like the coward you are." Avery made a sound of protest, but Rookwood spoke again before he could argue. "You were a lowly servant, and not one of the most intelligent either. But Malfoy... Malfoy was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted, his right-hand man, his friend! The Dark Lord relied on him to help him if something happened to him."

Hermione trembled at the confirmation of everything she had hoped wasn't true, and more. It was even worse than she had feared. Not only was he a Death Eater by choice, but he had been Voldemort's right-hand man and friend. What horrors had he committed? Just how dark was the dark side of his outwardly genteel and cultured personality? Was his soul as dark as his hair was light?

And why, even knowing these terrible things, could she still not bear the thought of him being killed?

Only when she felt a drop of warm water land like rain on her hand did she realise she was crying.

Chapter Text

"Tell me, Avery," Rookwood said, "why did you lie to the Dark Lord? Why did you tell him Bode could remove the prophecy, when you knew he could not? He punished you well for that one, didn't he?"

Avery shuddered visibly. "I thought the Dark Lord would punish Malfoy for his Imperius Curse not working. I thought Bode would be able to fight it. You knew him; he was strong-willed and stubborn. It was like ordering him to kill himself. I thought he would throw it off –"

"You fool!" interrupted Rookwood. "Malfoy is more powerful than you – or most of us. His family is among the oldest in the country! With blood so ancient and pure... they've been involved in the Dark Arts for thousands of years! You are lucky the Dark Lord let you live."

"I didn't consider that!" wailed Avery. "I had no idea Bode wouldn't fight the curse! I didn't know the Dark Lord would be so angry –"

"Hush, Avery, keep your voice down. Macnair's lurking around, and you know how he would rush in to defend his old pal Malfoy." Rookwood laughed harshly.

Avery sniggered nervously. "Shouldn't we help the others look for the Potter brat?"

"We've done our parts. Why should we do more? I wouldn't worry, Avery. Getting the prophecy isn't our task. We are just here to help Malfoy," Rookwood snorted, as if he had just told a bad joke, "with his task. Let him screw up. I for one would like to see him get what's coming to him."

No, Hermione thought fiercely. No one was going to die because of Trelawney's stupid prophecy. Especially no one she – she – cared about. She wouldn't allow it.

"WE'VE GOT HIM!" a magically amplified voice roared through the walls. "IN AN OFFICE OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE TIME ROOM!"

The two Death Eaters looked at each other and set off in the direction of the Time Room. And Hermione, still under the Disillusionment Charm, wiped the tears from her face and followed them. Her goal was now the same as theirs: get the prophecy.

She had always been quick to think in dangerous situations. Panic stretched her mind to the limits of the cleverness and cunning she possessed. Panic forced her to find a solution. For example, when Umbridge had caught Harry in her office, Hermione had thought up a plan of escape in less than a second.

When she had seen Umbridge about to cast the Cruciatus Curse on Harry, a desperate plan had formed in her head, prompted by the thought of her friend getting hurt. When people she cared about were in danger and their fate rested in her hands, her brain never failed to rise to the challenge.

Unfortunately Harry was in one of his thickheaded moods. He hadn't listened to any of her advice today so it was unlikely he would listen now. It would be a waste of time trying to make him think rationally, to make him realise that just because Voldemort was mad enough to take this prophecy nonsense seriously didn't mean he was right; all it proved was his lack of sanity.

She couldn't afford to waste any time. With a life at stake, Hermione had no choice but to take the situation into her own hands, like she had done in the past, for example when she had gone to Professor McGonagall and told her about the broom Harry had received anonymously because she had suspected it had been sent by Sirius Black (and she had been right). But that had been different; she had done it for Harry's safety, whereas this...

Harry's stubborn pride be damned if it was going to get anyone killed. No 'prophecy' made by that worthless excuse for a teacher was worth any lives.

Even if it meant she would have to deceive her friends.

She remembered the looks on their faces when they had thought she was going to betray them to the Ministry, in Umbridge's office. Ginny had looked at her as though she didn't know her, Neville had stared in disbelief, Ron's face had expressed shock and horror, and Harry had had an unreadable expression on his face. Poor Harry.

Harry, her best friend who had saved her life several times. Harry, who trusted her with his life.

Harry, to whom she was going to have to lie, whom she would have to trick, taking advantage of his blind trust in her.

Whatever was in that prophecy concerned Harry, obviously, it was about him. And none of them knew what would happen if Voldemort got it. The Order had led them to believe the prophecy was a 'weapon' to be kept away from Voldemort at any cost. Try as she might, she couldn't understand why.

She had to think rationally about this. What did she know?

If her interpretation of the initials on the prophecy was correct, it had been made by Trelawney, a complete fraud. The prophecy was probably rubbish, and the only reason Voldemort took it seriously was because he was insane and paranoid. But she had to consider the possibility that she was wrong about this.

What if it wasn't rubbish? If it was a real prophecy, it would come true regardless of what anyone did; that was the definition of a prophecy, wasn't it? A prediction of the future? So whether Voldemort knew it or not would make no difference; there was nothing he or anyone else could do about the prophecy coming true. But then why had the Order considered the prophecy a weapon and protected it so seriously?

Hermione couldn't conceive how a prophecy of all things could be a weapon, but if the Order considered it as such, there had to be a reason. Dumbledore was far from stupid. There had to be some crucial information, some piece of the puzzle she was missing, something that would explain why Order members had risked their lives to guard this prophecy.

She didn't have enough information to make a decision, but there was no time to run to a library to seek answers. She had to decide based on what little she knew, and she knew two things. One, there was a possibility that if Voldemort got the prophecy, it would have some terrible unknown consequences, potentially against Harry. Two, if Voldemort failed to get the prophecy, he would blame Mr Malfoy and almost certainly murder him in a fit of unhinged rage.

A possibility versus a near certainty of fatal harm to a person she cared about. These were the two options she had to choose between.

Dumbledore had spoken last year about a choice between what was easy and what was right. This wasn't such a choice. There was nothing easy about either option, and how could it be right to let someone be murdered by Voldemort? Even a Death Eater.

Hermione was a Gryffindor. True Gryffindors helped others without expecting anything in return.

There was nothing she wouldn't do for those she cared about. In her opinion, keeping Rita the Animagus imprisoned in a glass jar until she submitted to blackmail had been an acceptable way to treat the spiteful woman who had written vicious lies about Harry and Hagrid. She was proud of herself over that, just like she was of the ugly disfigurement on Marietta Edgecombe's face.

Harry had taught Edgecombe to defend herself and she had repaid him by handing him over to the Ministry that had sent Dementors after him and tortured him with a Blood Quill. Hermione hadn't the slightest regret or pity for the girl. And she felt even less regret about bringing Umbridge to the Centaurs. She only hoped they would hurt her a lot and leave her scarred for life just like Harry's hand was scarred by that barbaric quill.

Harry was dear to her, her first and best friend. She would do anything for him, to protect him and to punish those who hurt him. But she had to consider the odds of the situation and be rational about it. She needed to do what had to be done, as she always did. Rationally, a possibility was always preferable to a near certainty.

This was a terrible, stupid, even potentially suicidal idea. But she couldn't not do it, despite the possible consequences, because the almost certain consequences of not doing it were unbearable to contemplate. She couldn't live in a world in which he was dead when she could have prevented it but had chosen not to.

*

Hermione followed the two Death Eaters through a door and past rows of shelves covered with prophecies. She was still fully invisible, her Disillusionment Charm holding true.

They emerged in the glittering room that contained Time-Turners. Hermione was sure the one she had used in her third year had come from this room, and she wondered what the other, larger ones on the shelves were used for. Maybe they sent a person back days instead of hours, or maybe forward, into the future?

Rookwood and Avery, unaware that she was following them, strode through the Time Room and toward a closed door on the opposite wall. One of them tried to wrench it open, but it wouldn't budge.

"Alohomora!" said Rookwood.

The door swung open, revealing a spacious room with a dozen wooden desks in it, likely the office of the Unspeakables who worked there. It seemed like a worthy place to work. A bit too underground and isolated, but exciting nevertheless.

But it would be selfish to choose what interested her instead of where she was most needed; to spend her days researching the foundations and secrets of magic instead of exercising her skill with a wand, her intellect and her determination in defence of the oppressed and vulnerable. She was not some scientist Ravenclaw.

She was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors knew there were more important things than knowledge.

Courage. Freedom. Friendship.

"Stupefy! Stupefy!" Hermione said quickly, pointing her wand at the two Death Eaters who had inadvertently shown her the way out of the dark corridor and to the Time Room.

Taken by surprise from behind, they didn't have time to dodge the jets of red light. She couldn't deny feeling more than a trace of satisfaction when they hit the ground hard.

She Stunned each of them one more time for good measure. The longer they would stay unconscious, the better.

Still she hesitated, glaring down at them. What they had done, what they had said...

They deserved worse. She wanted to –

She slashed her wand viciously at the fallen Death Eaters, casting the Darkest spell she knew how to cast: the same curse she had embedded in the parchment signed by all the D.A. members. A nasty, painful, ugly face rash that no counter-curse, healing spell or potion could remove. She had never thought it too harsh. Anyone who betrayed Harry to Umbridge deserved the surprise; it served that sneak Marietta Edgecombe right. It would serve this backstabbing Death Eater scum right too.

But I'm a sneak too... I'm backstabbing scum...

Pushing the guilty thoughts away, she patted herself on the head with her wand, removing the Disillusionment Charm, and stuck her head through the open doorway. She saw several unconscious Death Eaters on the floor and other figures huddled under the desks. "Harry!" she called out.

A mass of unruly black hair poked out from under a desk. "Hermione!" Harry answered. "You're all right? Where are the others?"

"I don't know! Prote—" she started as a Death Eater jumped out from behind a large filing cabinet. He raised his wand in a slashing motion and opened his mouth to speak an incantation.

Harry was faster. He rushed forward and shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"

The Death Eater collapsed. Then someone else crawled out from under the desks. Hermione recognised Neville, whose nose was broken and bleeding.

She muttered a spell to stop the blood flowing down his face.

"Danks, Herbione," Neville said through his blocked nose.

"I'm sorry I can't numb the pain," she said. "I'm no expert at Healing. You need to see Madam Pomfrey." Then she caught sight of another motionless form on the floor. It was Luna Lovegood. "What happened to her?"

"He hit her with a purple flame. That's what he was trying to cast on you," said Harry. He looked worried. "We need to find Ron and Ginny."

Hermione stopped him. "Harry, I've got an idea!" She grabbed his arm and steered him back inside the room, closing the door behind them and sealing it with a Colloportus.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Neville watching. She didn't want anyone to witness this, but there was no other way.

"I've just figured something out," she said. "Harry, you have to give me the prophecy."

He looked sharply at her, bewilderment in his eyes. "Why?"

Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, she thought, but I have to do this.

"Think, Harry... the Death Eaters – they all believe you have it on you; they are trying to summon it from you. They'll never expect that I have it instead. They'll never expect it, I'm telling you! And as long as they think you have the prophecy, they won't attack you – they're too scared they'll hit it accidentally – but if you don't really have it, there'll be no risk of actually smashing it, and you'll have both hands free to fight!"

She could see Harry catching up. "But – but what if they go after you instead?"

"They won't," she said. "They'll never know you gave it to me. They would never guess. I'll put it in my pocket and no one will know."

"Hermione –" started Harry. They could hear crashes just outside the door.

"Please, Harry, they'll be here any second – hurry up –" she prompted to the sound of footsteps getting closer.

"But –"

"I know what I'm doing, Harry," she said sternly. "Give me the prophecy. I'll keep it safe."

"All right, but I hope you really know what you're doing," Harry said and held out the glass sphere.

I hope so too, Hermione thought as she took the prophecy and tapped it with her wand, casting an Unbreakable Charm (the same spell she had used on the jar to hold Rita the beetle) as a precaution. She had seen how easily these things could shatter.

"Harry, gather the others and go down to the black hallway. I think you have to say 'exit' and it'll show you the right door. Go down to the Atrium..." Hermione broke off. Go down to the Atrium and what? She had intended to suggest raising the alarm, but now that she thought of it, it didn't sound like a good idea. Raise the alarm and what? Get arrested by Aurors for trespass at the Ministry, like Sturgis Podmore, and spend six months in Azkaban?

"No way! Hermione, I won't leave you to fight alone!" said Harry fiercely.

"I know what I'm doing, Harry! Please, believe me on this! You didn't listen when I told you this was a trap, or when I warned you not to touch the prophecy. Please, listen to me just this once!" she cried, desperation leaking into her voice.

It worked. Harry nodded reluctantly, guiltily.

Hermione removed the locking spell from the door and pulled it open.

"Where are you going?" asked Harry anxiously.

"I told you, I'll keep the prophecy safe!" she said over her shoulder. Not waiting for an answer, she dashed off, her Hogwarts robes swirling behind her.

As soon as she was out of Harry's sight, she stopped and reapplied the Disillusionment Charm, melting into her surroundings. Once again, it made her completely invisible.

The most difficult part of the plan was over. Lying to Harry tore at her conscience, making her feel like a horrible person. She hadn't been sure she could do it, but she had underestimated herself. She had done it convincingly. She didn't want to think about what that said about her.

The next part would be more dangerous, but nothing could be worse than tricking Harry, her best friend, the boy who had repeatedly risked his life to save hers. I'm such a lousy friend.

No, she couldn't give up now! She couldn't allow herself to cry and run back to Harry to apologise. There would be time for that later, when no one's life would be in danger.

She had to do this. She had to, or he would die. It was up to her to save his life, and she couldn't do nothing.

All that remained to do was to find the right Death Eater, and avoid being killed in the process. They don't know I have the prophecy, she reminded herself. They thought Harry still had it, so they hesitated to attack him. She would be given no such consideration. But what if she let them know? What if she deliberately carried the prophecy in sight?

They would take it from her by any means. And she knew she couldn't let that happen. After the conversation she had witnessed, she couldn't just give the prophecy to any Death Eater. What if those two weren't the only ones who secretly hoped Mr Malfoy would get in trouble? What if one of them deliberately lost the prophecy to sabotage him? She couldn't take that risk.

She supposed she could give it to Macnair, if she found him. She shuddered. That man was a bloodthirsty monster... but it sounded like he was on Mr Malfoy's side. Unless Rookwood was mistaken. Hermione huffed in exasperation. She felt as though she had stepped into a pit of snakes that would sooner eat each other than help each other. No one could be trusted. Was this what it was like to be in Slytherin House? No wonder Slytherins were so nasty to everyone.

The only way to make sure he got the prophecy was to give it directly to him. To find him, to approach him...

Her breathing hitched. Nervousness crushed her chest like a steel-boned corset, tighter than it had ever been before an exam. To approach him, to speak to him... She had always been beneath his notice. To face his contempt again...

What would he think of her after this? Would he guess why she was doing it? Would he be disgusted? Would he laugh at her?

It didn't matter. His survival was at stake. The glass ball in her pocket was the price of his life, the only way to protect it from Voldemort's deadly rage. She had to find him while not being found by any of the other Death Eaters, who would attack her, maybe even kill her.

You may kill the others if necessary.

She shuddered at the memory of these terrible words as violently as if a Dementor had breathed down her neck.

If she was killed or knocked out, the Death Eaters would never find out she had the prophecy; they would continue trying to make Harry give it to them. They would fail their mission, and Voldemort would... would... She couldn't even think it.

Right. She had to find him. But how? The Point Me spell wouldn't do much good here. This place was a labyrinth; there were too many corridors... which was a thing to be thankful for. Otherwise the Death Eaters wouldn't have needed to search for Harry; they would have found him in two seconds and he could've been seriously hurt because he was too stubborn to give up the prophecy. But how was she to find Mr Malfoy in here?

Think, Hermione! He had been in the prophecy room when he had given directions to the other Death Eaters. The prophecy room was right next to the Time Room; it was through that door.

Hermione walked over to it and cautiously opened it, fingers clenched tightly around her wand. Seeing no Death Eaters, she walked inside, taking care to avoid the piles of debris. Glass crunched under her shoes. They were going to be in so much trouble with the Ministry for causing all this destruction...

Standing in the prophecy room, she looked around at the many doors and archways. Which way had he gone? This was just like the logic puzzle she had solved for Harry in first year: she had to figure it out through elimination. Figure out where he had sent all the other Death Eaters; the remaining path would necessarily be the one he had taken with Mulciber.

She could easily remember his exact words; it was nothing compared to memorising all of Lockhart's books. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you take the left – that had to be the corridor on the left side over there. Crabbe, Rabastan, go right – the corridor on the opposite side. Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead – simple: there was only one door facing the entrance to the prophecy room. Macnair and Avery, through here; Rookwood, over there – "here" and "there" had to mean either the door she had gone through or one of the remaining two doors.

What had happened to Macnair? She had found Avery with Rookwood, so the ways they had both taken had to be connected.

Obviously Mr Malfoy wasn't in the corridor behind the door she had gone through. That left two. She needed more information. She needed a clue. The Point Me spell might indicate at least a general direction. In this labyrinthine place, it could mislead her, but she had no other option.

She raised her wand; holding it loosely in front of her, she spoke the incantation.

The wand spun in her hand and pointed to the right. Of the two doors she hadn't eliminated, one was closer to that direction than the other. She could only hope behind it wasn't a corridor leading to the left.

She took a moment to plan what she was going to say. Then she opened the door.

It was a corridor, and no one was in it, which made her exhale in mixed relief and anxiety. The corridor ended in a fork with two doors. This place had too many doors! She guessed he and Mulciber had split up to search behind both doors. Who had gone through which door? The Point Me spell would be effective now that she was close (she hoped) and there were only two possibilities. She cast it again.

Her wand indicated the left –

The door on the right flew open and a Death Eater walked through it.

She immediately knew it wasn't him. This wizard didn't have the tall stature and regal bearing that made him recognisable even in the Death Eaters' cloak and mask.

This had to be Mulciber. Thank Merlin she was still under the Disillusionment Charm.

"Stupefy!" she whispered, aiming her wand point blank at his chest.

The Death Eater fell.

She wondered not for the first time why the Death Eaters were so easy to take off guard just because she was invisible. Were they underestimating their opponents completely because of their age? Why did they expect Hogwarts students to know no more spells than toddlers or Squibs?

Hermione finally stood in front of the door behind which she would undoubtedly find him. She closed her eyes briefly, her pulse thudding in her ears. Her hand shook as she raised her wand to her scalp to remove the Disillusionment Charm. It shook even more as she put her wand away into her pocket, effectively disarming herself in the hope of not being attacked on sight.

The metal doorknob felt cold in her clammy hand. She inhaled deeply and slowly, cautiously pulled the door open.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy halted, breathing quickly. He had been chasing the children through the corridors and rooms of the Department of Mysteries, and in spite of his growing concern about the prophecy, he was enjoying himself. He only regretted that Potter was hiding elsewhere.

It would have been entertaining to see Dumbledore's golden boy darting for cover to escape the Death Eaters, like in that graveyard. Nevertheless, the two Weasley children provided sufficient entertainment, terrified as they were. Didn't they realise they had no hope of hiding successfully with hair of that colour?

His eyes were gleaming with amusement, which dimmed to be replaced by worry as he thought about the prophecy. Unlike the Weasley spawn, Potter was... inexplicably lucky and hard to catch, as slippery as a snake. If one of his idiotic fellow Death Eaters hit the boy with a spell, or if the boy tripped...

The thing was fragile; it could easily be smashed, and he dreaded to think of how the Dark Lord would react if that were to happen. He would be beyond angry. He had been planning this mission for almost a year. If the plan failed, he as leader of the mission would face the brunt of the Dark Lord's wrath.

It had been he who had suggested using Black as bait to lure Potter to the Department of Mysteries of his own volition, instead of going to the trouble of kidnapping the boy from Hogwarts. It had seemed like a foolproof plan, but if it failed, the Dark Lord would not forget whose idea it had been.

He felt a tug on his sleeve, and whirled around to face the person behind him.

It was Potter's Mudblood sidekick, the girl who beat Draco in every exam. He sneered. She hardly had time to blink before he shoved her against a wall, the tip of his wand pressed against her throat.

She gasped. "Wait!" she said desperately, raising her hands, neither of which held a wand, in surrender. "I don't want to fight you, sir. Please, hear me out."

"Potter was a fool to send you to bargain in his place, Hermione Granger," he drawled, glancing at the Hogwarts prefect's badge pinned on her robes above a Ministry visitor's badge with her name and the words Rescue Mission. How droll. "Your reputation precedes you, but if you were as intelligent as some claim, you'd have known nothing would stop me from using you as a hostage to trade with Potter against the prophecy."

Her hands were trembling. Her obvious fear delighted him. This was almost as much fun as tormenting those pathetic Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup had been.

"I would agree to that, if Harry still had the prophecy." She took a deep breath, her face revealing a combination of fear and stereotypical Gryffindor bravery. "Harry didn't send me, and I'm not here to bargain. He..." Was that guilt in her voice? "He has no idea what I'm doing. I – I lied to him. I got him to give me the prophecy, so you should call off the others before more people get hurt."

"Oh, should I?" he mocked. She had the prophecy? Then Potter was even more of a fool than he had thought, as was she for revealing this to him.

He put away his wand, because if the prophecy truly was on her person, casting any spell against her could result in breaking it. Instead, he curled his hand around her throat.

Instead of struggling as he expected, she became utterly still, so he did not squeeze. Yet. He would give her a chance to comply, in case she was more intelligent than she was a Gryffindor.

"Give me the prophecy," he hissed, leaning in until their faces were a mere inch apart, "now."

He was not choking her, but he felt her stop breathing all the same. Under his fingers, her heartbeat fluttered wildly. He smirked. He had always enjoyed causing terror. This, in addition to power, had been his motivation for joining the Dark Lord.

Never before had he touched a Muggle-born with his bare hand. Strange that her skin felt no different from that of any real witch.

"Yes," she said hoarsely. Her throat moved as she swallowed; the skin of her neck was pleasantly smooth. Her cheeks had gained a tinge of pink, a most unusual manifestation of fear. "That's why I'm here. I don't need any," she placed her hand over his around her throat, "persuasion."

She made no attempt to free her neck from his menacing grasp, not that she would have been successful if she had tried. Her touch was light as a feather, as though she could not quite believe he was touching her and meant to check if his hand was truly there.

With her other hand she reached into a pocket of her robes, and pulled out a dusty glass sphere. She held it out in offering. "I took it from Harry to bring it to you."

Suddenly wary, he did not reach for the prophecy that rested on her palm. He released the girl's throat and gazed at her with narrowed eyes. "What sort of game are you playing? What do you ask in return?"

"Nothing. It isn't a game. I just want to help you."

This had to be a trap, one of Dumbledore's schemes. No doubt some curse had been placed on the prophecy, if it was the real prophecy. The girl couldn't have taken a random prophecy from the shelves without being cursed into insanity like Bode, so it had to be a skilfully Transfigured imitation, likely meant to provoke the Dark Lord into a murderous rage when he would discover he had been thwarted again.

"I haven't cursed it," the girl said, cleverly guessing his thoughts. So even she could see how suspicious this situation was. "It's not a trap, I promise."

He scoffed. Did she expect to be believed at her word, as though saying "I promise" was equivalent to a magical vow of truthfulness? Silly Gryffindor.

He stared covetously at the prophecy in her hand, but did not allow himself to touch it. "If what you say is true, why are you doing this? Why would you betray your friend for no purpose or benefit to yourself?"

"I..." she sighed, avoiding his gaze. "I overheard Rookwood and Avery talking. I Disillusioned myself; they didn't notice me," she said, reluctant to continue. "They were talking about what You-Know-Who will do to you if you come back without it."

"I see," he said slowly. "Avery and Rookwood... well, that is no surprise. They have always lacked, shall we say, team spirit. And as I can see, Potter isn't the only one with a weakness for heroics."

Only he hadn't imagined Gryffindor heroics extended as far as to deceive one's friends to protect an enemy. Would she feel responsible for his fate, if he were to die at the hand of the Dark Lord? Would she blame herself, because she could have possibly prevented it? Oh, the extent of Gryffindor foolishness...

"Heroic as Harry is, he would be glad to see you die," she said quietly.

"But you would not be?"

"No!" she exclaimed, with a peculiar vehemence in her dark eyes.

Incredulous and intrigued, he had his wand aimed at her forehead before she could move. In her face he read alarm and despair. It was time to solve this enigma.

"Legilimens!"

Her mind opened at the faintest touch of his, like a picture book for him to peruse. He did so at leisure.

He watched her running and hiding from his fellow Death Eaters, propelled by fear and – anger at Potter? Interesting. Why would – ah, so she had seen through the trap and attempted to warn Potter. Thank Darkness the boy was too stupid to listen to his more intelligent friend.

He watched her cast a flawless Disillusionment Charm on herself, a feat not all Aurors, nor most Death Eaters, were capable of. And it was only her first attempt!

He watched her eavesdrop on Rookwood and Avery, who would pay for setting him up to fail the Dark Lord. He saw the distress on her face, followed by hesitation, ending in resolve. The anger as she cursed them with a mild Dark spell. The surprisingly well-concealed (for a Gryffindor) guilt as she found Potter and talked him into surrendering the prophecy into her care. The foresight and care as she cast an Unbreakable Charm on the prophecy to remove all risk of its accidental destruction. The determination as she went in search of him. But why?

He delved deeper, into her earlier memories. She did not stop him, which was unsurprising for a girl untrained in the Mind Arts. She did not even desire to stop him from going further, which was surprising. He could sense her resigned embarrassment, her alternating hope and dread. What secrets did she have that she both wanted and feared him knowing?

It was no easy task to find a specific answer in a stranger's mind when one did not know precisely what one was searching for. It was akin to searching in a book with no index. For this reason, Legilimency was not among his preferred types of magic. He browsed through her past, looking for clues.

He watched her tell clever, quickly thought up lies to teachers, to friends, to her Muggle parents. Playing the voice of reason in Potter's little group and in the entire Gryffindor House.

He watched her discuss Bode's death with her friends, effortlessly unravelling his plan and explaining it to Potter.

He watched her use Dark magic to curse the member list of Potter's secret club, making the mistake of aiming only to expose and punish instead of preventing. No doubt the oversight could be blamed on her limited access to knowledge of such magic. The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library was pathetically tame, as he recalled from his school days.

With increasing disbelief, he watched her develop a secret communication system for their illegal Defence club, conjuring flawless imitations of Galleons and teaching herself the Protean Charm, which was far beyond N.E.W.T. level, to use it in a manner clearly inspired by the Dark Lord's mark. How unexpectedly pragmatic for a Gryffindor. Another would have discarded the idea for the sake of principle because of who had invented it.

Most of all, he watched her read. A life driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and a desperate need to prove herself an equal of her pure-blood classmates. Yet even as her school marks surpassed theirs, a secret sorrow because it wasn't enough, because she would never be good enough –

Good enough for what? Frankly he was reminded of Draco's eagerness to impress him, to prove himself worthy of the Malfoy name. What did she so desperately seek to be worthy of?

He dug deeper into the recesses of her conscious mind, to the core of her identity. Still she offered no resistance.

He saw her inside what was unmistakably the home of an old, Dark pure-blood family (the Blacks?), cautiously examining Dark artefacts, her eyes aflame with curiosity and a thirst to know the theory behind them. The same fire in her eyes as she read about the House of Malfoy in one of the nowadays rare genealogy books that paid proper respect to purity of blood...

He followed that particular thread, though it wouldn't lead to the answer he sought, or would it? He could feel her discomfort at the direction of his scrutiny, her trepidation about his reaction to what he would discover.

He saw her point of view of their every encounter, the research she had done in secret on him and his family while making her friends believe she was doing schoolwork, her intense nonverbal exchange with the Weasley girl earlier today while his entire attention had been focused on Potter...

The Blacks' ancestral home fallen into disrepair and concealed under a Fidelius Charm (so that was what the filthy, flea-bitten elf had been attempting to tell Narcissa)... A poorly lit room, Granger and the Weasley girl talking, mere teenage gossip, of no interest to him –

Well, well, well, wasn't this interesting?

So, her actions were motivated not by simple Gryffindor heroics, but by something else entirely. How... unexpected. And amusing. What would her dear friend Potter think of this little secret?

Amusing indeed.

He should have guessed, yet... she was a Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter and the Weasley family. Of all the unlikeliest possibilities, this one had to be the most farfetched.

It was no trap. There was no danger in accepting her offer of the prophecy. Her desire to help him was quite sincere. Rescue mission indeed. He hadn't felt this amused in a long time.

Now simply curious and wishing to know more about this foolish, yet intriguing girl, he did not end the Legilimency spell. He continued examining her memories.

He saw her lead the creation of Potter's defence group from the shadow beside the boy, using him as a figurehead. Not very Gryffindor behaviour, that.

The more he saw, the more difficult he found it to understand why a girl like her would choose to spend her time in the company of riff-raff like Potter and the youngest Weasley boy.

He saw her teaching Potter the spells he would use to escape from the Dark Lord in the graveyard. Blackmailing Rita Skeeter into a year of unemployment as personal retribution for articles portraying her and her friends in an unfavourable light.

Attending the Hogwarts Yule Ball on the arm of the champion of Durmstrang, and good Lord, Draco hadn't mentioned how beautiful she looked when properly groomed and attired!

Watching Draco provoke a Hippogriff like a reckless fool. He almost trembled at the image. His son could have been killed by the beast! Had he no idea how much his parents worried about him? How losing him would break Narcissa's heart?

Hitting Draco's face – he hadn't written home about it, surprisingly. Too ashamed, no doubt.

Travelling through time to learn more magic. Even the most ardent traditionalists would be forced to commend this girl's reverence for magic and passion for learning it.

Meeting the deadly eyes of a Basilisk in a handheld mirror – clever girl; her prudence had saved her life.

Her agony as she was turned to stone caused him to mentally avert his gaze. It was not guilt he felt. It was simply... distaste. Mere physical pain had always been too crude to amuse him; it was Bellatrix's style, not his. His favourite Unforgivable was the one that sent pure, heady, limitless power coursing through his veins so tangibly he could almost taste it. Subtle, silent, total control: the Dark Arts at their most exquisite.

Brewing Polyjuice, one of the most complicated potions ever invented, in secret with no assistance or training. Narrowly escaping having her skull crushed by the club of a troll, saved only by the intervention of Potter and Weasley.

Ah, that explained why she was friends with those idiots far below her intelligence level. Life debts were powerful old magic that could alter a wizard's emotions and behaviour in subtle and profound ways.

He would possibly owe such a debt to her, if magic judged it unlikely for him to have obtained the prophecy without her intervention. As distasteful as the idea of owing his life to her was, it was preferable to losing it to the Dark Lord's rage.

And now he was seeing her with the Sorting Hat on her head. It was saying she had a Ravenclaw's intellect, a Gryffindor's courage, and a Slytherin's cunning, and it offered her a choice.

He finally withdrew from her mind. He had no interest whatsoever in her life as a Muggle prior to entering the wizarding world.

She stood before him, holding her breath and looking utterly nervous. Smirking, he took the prophecy from her hand without speaking a single word.

It was warm to his touch, and he took a moment to gaze at it triumphantly.

As he slipped it into a pocket of his cloak, he felt the tension lift away from him.

He had it. He had succeeded in this mission. He would not face the Dark Lord's wrath. Instead, he would be rewarded; he would regain the favour he had held before the Dark Lord's defeat. He would be the highest ranking, most trusted of his followers once more.

All thanks to this girl. This daughter of Muggles, friend of Potter and Weasleys. The unlikeliest of allies.

He pulled the mask off his face and simply stared at her. As at the World Cup, she reddened, but did not look away.

This was the girl his son constantly ranted about. By the sound of it, she irked Draco as much as Potter did, which had puzzled him from the beginning. How could a girl of no wizard family possess such magical power and intellect?

He had seen her solve countless mysteries armed with nothing but her mental acumen, and master spells meant for wizards far beyond her age. Worse, she had done so with an ease that made the entire population of the wizarding world look like brainless Squibs. It was mind-boggling.

Perhaps he had been too harsh to scold Draco for being surpassed by her in exams. It was too much to expect his son to beat a girl who possessed so much magical power and ability as to master most spells on the first attempt. Most pure-blood, adult wizards could not do the same. In fact, the only wizard he knew who had a similar combination of magical aptitude and mental acumen was none other than the Dark Lord.

He could not fail to see the humour in the fact that he was the one both she and Draco sought to impress. It was almost akin to a sibling rivalry, one that – against all sense – she was winning.

There was no way this girl could be the child of mere Muggles. It contradicted every truth about blood purity. What would the great Salazar Slytherin say about a case such as her? It was an impossibility. No doubt she had wizard ancestry she was unaware of. There could be no other explanation.

*

Harry and Neville had, by now, found Ron and Ginny in the Brain Room. Ron was trying to free himself of the brain tentacles, while Ginny was sitting on the floor clutching her ankle, her back against the wall, her eyes closed.

Ginny looked up suddenly, her bright brown eyes travelling around the room and stopping on Harry. "Where's Hermione?"

"She went to protect the prophecy," explained Harry.

Ginny stared at him as though he had grown horns. "She what?"

"Yeah, I don't know what she was thinking, but she was very, er, bossy. She took the prophecy and ran off."

Ginny's gaped at him. "She wouldn't." She shook her head wildly, her ashen face going from shocked to furious. "I can't believe it! You really gave it to her?" she said, horror in her voice.

"Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Everything," said Ginny. She tried to stand up, then winced and slid back down the wall, clutching her ankle. "Harry, you have to find Hermione," she said weakly, "before it's too late."

Ginny was wrong. It was already too late.

*

She was almost squirming under his thoughtful gaze, until a distant crashing sound diverted her attention, making her throw an anxious glance at the door. Ah, yes, her friends could be dying out there at this very moment, couldn't they?

Her eyes returned to him in trepidation. It was apparent she feared he would use her little secret against her, and of course, this fear was justified. She knew better than most that knowledge was power; her secret was now a power he held over her.

Did she fear he would laugh at her, as Draco would? In her memories he had seen his son's uncouth behaviour, his disappointing lack of subtlety for a Slytherin and an heir to a most noble and ancient family.

He invested much time and money into preserving the reputation and influence of the Malfoy name in the eyes of the wizarding community, so that when those like Dumbledore and Harry Potter accused him of being a Death Eater, the majority of wizards would not believe them. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Draco's lack of restraint undermined his efforts and ensured that to the next generation, the Malfoy name would be synonymous of Dark wizards.

He grimaced. Could the damage be repaired? And why hadn't Severus informed him of Draco's reckless antics?

Clearly, as a half-blood, Severus had no understanding of what it meant to be an upstanding member of pure-blood society, of the delicate considerations of political power and public image. Severus knew nothing of how to walk on the fine line between being a Dark wizard and a socially respectable one, the line that Draco needed to walk as the heir to the Malfoy name. And as he had witnessed in the girl's recollections, Severus himself had difficulty controlling his temper at the school. Perhaps he had served as a negative example. Would it have been in Draco's and the family's best interests to disregard Narcissa's sensibilities and send Draco to Durmstrang?

At the very least, he would have a long and unpleasant conversation with his son.

"Well, I had heard much about you," he said slowly to the girl, "none of which could have prepared me for this. I was told you were an intelligent and prudent girl... but not this intelligent."

He had looked deep enough into her mind to know the words she most craved to hear, and he had just received a demonstration of how advantageous it could be to keep this girl on his side.

There was nothing special about Harry Potter; his survival of the Dark Lord's Killing Curse had surely been a mere accident, never to be replicated. He refused to consider the idea that the boy's mother had somehow protected her son; no Mudblood could have defeated the Dark Lord. No doubt the boy would die imminently. But it would not hurt to have one of Potter's closest friends on his side, in the improbable event of the boy's luck causing a repeat of his defeat of the Dark Lord in the future.

"You are a witch," he said intently, "of great skill and potential."

A vivid blush rose on her cheeks. Her dark eyes sparkled. Beyond the unkempt hair and unflattering school robes, he could see the beauty that had stunned her schoolmates at the Yule Ball.

"You have my gratitude," he continued softly, concealing his amusement, "and my apology for the... Basilisk incident that occurred in your second year at Hogwarts."

She blinked in surprise, and gave him a piercing look, trying to measure the sincerity of his words. Not a complete fool, was she?

"I didn't really blame you," she confessed. "The others did, but... I reckoned you didn't know exactly what the diary was going to do. The Basilisk put your son in as much danger as everyone else at the school. You couldn't have wanted that."

He tilted his head. "You are too intelligent to be friends with the likes of Potter and Weasley."

"You are too intelligent to follow V–Voldemort," she shot back. "Why do you do it? It doesn't make any sense."

He raised an eyebrow indulgently. "Why does it not, according to you?"

"Because I'm sure what Harry said is true: Voldemort is not a pure-blood. His birth name, the name under which he attended Hogwarts, was Tom Riddle, and you must know better than I do that the surname Riddle isn't in wizarding genealogy books. He's a half-blood. If you really believe in pure-blood superiority, why would you want to follow him?"

"I was aware of the Dark Lord's blood status," he admitted. "He attended Hogwarts in the same class as my late father. Some called him a Mudblood before he was revealed to be the great Slytherin's heir. Of course, he imposed an oath of secrecy on his earliest followers, those who flocked to him while he was in school, but not having been raised by a proper wizard family, he could not know Malfoys have ways around such magic." He smirked at her. "I joined him because he is the most powerful wizard of our time, and the greatest champion of the old ways. That is reason enough to overlook the taint in his blood."

"Are you saying blood purity is not the most important factor by which you judge a person?"

"It is the most important factor, but it is not the only one." He did not have to explain himself to this girl. So why am I doing so? Her intense interest was flattering, and it was a rare pleasure to converse with a witch whose mind was so keen, though not nearly on par with his, of course. "Blood purity is paramount, but so are power and usefulness. What the Dark Lord is matters less than what he does. His use to the pure-blood cause is immeasurable."

"So you are just using him?"

His lips twitched. "That would be one way to describe it."

"How is it the pure-blood cause if the leader is a half-blood?"

Sharp-minded, this one is, he thought wryly. "He is our best chance of victory. His abilities are unique; he has accomplished feats of magic unmatched by any other wizard. He has returned from death..."

"Harry has survived the Killing Curse too."

"Harry Potter is but a mediocre child with an unnatural amount of luck. No doubt the prophecy you have given me will reveal the secret of his good fortune."

She flinched, guilt and self-blame barely held at bay. When this was over, she was going to spend a long time crying.

"Perhaps he was born with luck potion in his bloodstream," he jested to lighten the mood.

"Is it true that you tried to curse him right outside the Headmaster's office?"

His eyes flashed, and his face gained a faint pink hue, noticeable only because of how pale his natural complexion was.

"I'm afraid I lost the reins of my temper. The boy is simply infuriating; it is a special talent of his."

Curiosity overwhelmed her yet again. "Which curse were you going to use?"

She was taken aback by his sudden, knife-sharp smile.

Hadn't she heard the saying about curiosity and cats? "The same one the Dark Lord unsuccessfully attempted."

Her hands flew up to cover her mouth in horror. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am."

"But – but –" She was too worked up to speak. She shook her head, giving up that track of conversation as pointless. He had made his opinion of Harry very clear and she wasn't naive enough to think anything she said could change it. Instead she tried another approach. "What were you thinking? If even Voldemort failed... and if it had worked, how did you think you were going to get away with it?"

"I was too angry to consider consequences at that precise moment. Perhaps the treacherous house-elf did me a favour by interfering. Any further questions, girl?"

She stared into his icy grey eyes. When not glinting with amusement or malice, such as right now, they let no emotion show, making them appear like cold, colourless stone. Lifeless. It both scared her and made her feel sorry for him. As a Death Eater, as Voldemort's friend, what terrible things had he seen? What terrible things had he done, besides the ones she knew about? What she knew of his crimes was probably only the tip of the iceberg.

She had searched in old issues of the Daily Prophet for information about his trial after Voldemort's defeat by baby Harry. The charges had been appalling: murder, use of the Killing Curse, use of the Imperius Curse, cruelty to Muggles, financing the Death Eaters. He had been acquitted of everything because he had supposedly been under Voldemort's Imperius Curse the entire time.

The Imperius left no residue on its victims; the only evidence had been his testimony. The Wizengamot jury had easily believed him because, as the Prophet court reporter wrote, surely such a respectable and generous wizard from such a prominent family would never have done those disgusting things willingly. But Hermione had heard a different theory from Mr Weasley: that two thirds of the Wizengamot had been bribed.

At least he hadn't been charged with torture like many other Death Eaters. But that only meant torture of wizards and witches. Crimes against Muggles were a separate charge that carried a much lesser sentence: "cruelty to Muggles", like "cruelty to animals" in Muggle law. Outrageously, wizarding law considered the life of a Muggle or magical creature as worth less than half of that of a wizard or witch.

"I just want to understand," she tried. The last thing she wanted was to offend or irritate him with her curiosity, but would she ever get another opportunity to talk to him privately like this, to ask all the questions that had been churning in her brain? "I'm sorry if it's too personal. You don't have to tell me, but I've been wondering – do you... do you ever regret joining Voldemort?"

His mirthless smile sent a chill through her. "Such questions are moot. Surely you are aware of the fate reserved for those who join the Dark Lord only to reconsider their decision."

Overwhelming fear struck her again, just like when she had heard Rookwood and Avery. Fear for his life. "I'm sorry," she said in alarmed realisation. "I shouldn't have asked."

His smile became one of heartfelt malice. How convenient that he didn't even need to tell the lie, merely to let her make the assumptions she wished. She desperately wanted to believe the best of him, because the other option was unbearable in its implications about the sort of person she was. Good little Muggle-bred Gryffindors did not aid and abet unrepentant Death Eaters. She would deceive herself to preserve her own self-image.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. A fleeting touch, gone before she could truly feel it. Reassuring, forgiving. Enticing. This was a game he could play perfectly.

Chapter Text

"I... may I ask you a favour?" Hermione said hesitantly.

"A favour? If it is to let your friends leave unharmed, you heard what I said in the Hall of Prophecy. No one would have been hurt if Potter had handed over the prophecy like a good boy instead of running off to play hide-and-seek. We are not here to kill anyone. But the stupid boy did not listen, did he?"

"I know. I believed you, but Harry didn't. He can be an idiot sometimes," she conceded. "I wasn't going to ask you that because I know you would've done it anyway. You just wanted the prophecy, and if Harry hadn't refused to give it up, there would have been no violence."

"Then what is the favour you wish to ask of me?"

"You have a lot of influence over Minister Fudge, don't you? He listens to your advice more than to Dumbledore's these days."

He inclined his head with a slight self-satisfied smirk.

"Could you make sure my friends don't get in trouble for the damage we did here tonight? I know we could be charged with several crimes. Destruction of valuable Ministry property, trespass to a restricted area, probably attempted theft as well..."

"Quite right. If you and your friends were of adult age, this stunt would almost certainly have cost you several months of... vacation on the most pleasant isle of Azkaban. In the current political climate, even your underage status may not be sufficient to spare you such a fate." He paused to watch her face lose colour. "I shall impart on the Minister that this is not an advisable course of events for him to seek."

"Do you think he'll listen?" She bit her lip anxiously.

"He always does. That fool never learned to use his own brain," he said disdainfully. "From the day of his election, he has allowed his every decision to be dictated by whomever he perceives as his most powerful ally. At first it was Dumbledore who held this role, but in the past two years it is I who have been Minister in all but name."

She raised her eyebrows sceptically. "The Ministry hasn't been doing a very good job in the last couple of years."

"Of course it hasn't. If I must do the fool's job for him in order to safeguard my interests, why would I do it in a manner that would give his government an appearance of competence when it is he who would receive all the credit? I am not that generous, girl. But have no fear. Our worthless Minister will continue to do my bidding for the remainder of his time in office."

He could see the conflict within her, disapproval warring against gratitude. The latter won.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "If there's anything else I can do for you, any way I can help you in the future, I'll be glad to do it. Just don't ask me to work for Voldemort or kill people or anything like that. I can't hurt Harry. He is my best friend and –"

"You owe him a life debt. I do understand." He contemplated her for a long moment, calculating. "There may be a way. I have seen how you assume the role of protecting your friends from their own recklessness..."

"I'm often unsuccessful, like tonight. Harry and Ron can be very stubborn."

"I am thankful that you failed this time."

She averted her gaze. "Me too," she admitted reluctantly. If Harry had listened to her, he wouldn't have come to the Ministry, and no one but Harry and Voldemort could have taken the prophecy off the shelf. Voldemort would have been furious about the failure of his plan and it was easy to guess who he would have taken it out on.

"I believe my son could benefit from the same sort of protection by a capable witch such as yourself while he is at Hogwarts where I cannot shield him from harm. He is but a child who fails to grasp the risks and implications of his actions. If you wish to earn my favour, protect him from danger, for there is no one more precious to me than he is."

Her expression softened. He could see it was a pleasant surprise to her that there was someone he cared about so deeply. She had previously believed he cared only about power; interesting that she had developed sentiments for him even while under such an assumption.

"There isn't much I can do, since I'm not in the same House as him. And he definitely won't like it, but his opinion has never mattered much to me. I promise I'll do what I can." Her countenance betrayed fervent sympathy.

Sometimes the truth, judiciously revealed, was a more potent weapon than any lie.

"That is all I ask."

"Are Crabbe and Goyle supposed to be his bodyguards? They are not very effective. They lack magical skill and... well... brains."

"Things you have in abundance," he said with a pointed little nod in her direction. "However they do have the advantage of physical size and strength, and it is a useful one, as Draco was unfortunate enough to inherit his mother's build."

A glance at her enchanted wristwatch made her tense. "Please gather your, erm, colleagues and leave before the Aurors arrive or the O—" she stopped herself, remembering what he was. "Or Dumbledore does."

"Do not worry. The Dark Lord is waiting for us up in the Atrium."

"In the Atrium? But I didn't see him! I didn't see anyone there!"

"Do you really think the Dark Lord would stand in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic in view of anyone who happens to pass? He concealed himself with a Disillusionment Charm, just as we did so Potter would not see us upon entering the Hall of Prophecy."

"Should you be telling me these things? Am I not an enemy?"

He laughed low in his throat, mesmerising her with a flash of shiny white teeth. "Are you? Would an enemy be doing errands for me, deceiving friends, undermining their cause? Even if you were in fact my enemy, you would speak to no one of what I reveal to you."

"How can you be sure?" she said defiantly.

"I have seen your mind; it is above such idiocy. The public believes Potter insane. Imagine what they would think of you, a girl who does not even come from a wizard family, making similar claims." He looked down at her, congeniality replaced by the frosty scorn she had expected all along. "Are you aware your academic successes are wasted effort? Our world has not yet sunk so low that a girl of no wizard family can rise to a respectable position in society simply because she had good marks at school."

"That's – that's beyond unfair!" And why had no one told her this before, if it was true? Why hadn't Professor McGonagall told her and her parents when she had brought her Hogwarts acceptance letter?

"Surely you are not so naive as to expect reality to bend to your ideals. You are intelligent enough at least to know the difference between the world as it is and as you feel it should be."

She would have argued that expecting a minimum of fairness had nothing to do with intelligence or lack thereof as he was implying. But his coolly commanding manner brought out the full power of her instinctive deference to adults in a position of authority (Minister in all but name, he had said), and she found herself remaining silent even as anger made her cheeks burn.

"At the very least, for a newcomer to amount to something in our world, they need to have powerful connections. Lily Evans, for example, married into an old pure-blood family and took their name. Prior to this, she was the protégée of Horace Slughorn, an extremely well connected wizard who was impressed by her skill as a potioneer." He gave her an unreadable look. "You made a wise decision today. Clever indeed, to establish a debt between us. The Sorting Hat was not mistaken about your cunning."

"That wasn't why I – you know I didn't think of it like that!"

"So you say, yet the result is the same. But I must confess I am curious... whatever would your friends say regarding your actions?"

Her eyes widened. "Are you going to tell them?"

"Now that you suggest it, I am tempted to do so simply to see their reactions," he said, his eyes bright with wicked mirth. "It would be amusing, don't you think?"

He chuckled at the expression on her face.

"I wasn't suggesting it! I just – you can't tell them. They would never talk to me again. They would hate me! I don't have a lot of friends and – and I don't want to lose any of them. Please don't."

"Begging, my dear?" he mocked, giving her an appraising glance. "What else could I make you do, with blackmail material of such calibre?" He saw her shiver, and decided to toy with her some more. "How far, I wonder, would you go to buy my silence on this matter?"

"Haven't I done enough?" she said bravely, but the trembling of her voice and the blush on her face revealed what she truly felt: a combination of fear and something else she couldn't find words to describe.

He pretended to consider the question. "But there is so much more you could do. Can you not think of the possibilities?" He let her imagination run wild, and delighted in the tremor that wracked her body.

Hermione looked down at the floor, embarrassed and scared and she didn't know what else.

In an act of sheer courage she forced herself to meet his eyes again, and as she did, she realised he was just playing with her. She gave him a half-hearted glare.

She imagined what it looked like, if someone saw her now, dare she say it – flirting – with a Death Eater, and she suddenly found herself understanding the true meaning of the phrase fraternising with the enemy.

"That's not funny. I mean it: please don't tell them."

"Oh, very well," he conceded. "It shall be our secret. What story do you intend to give to your friends?"

"I – I haven't thought about it."

"Rushed to my assistance without a plan, did you? How Gryffindor of you."

"I had a plan, but it didn't extend to what would happen after I gave you the prophecy. I'm not going to run from the consequences of my actions, even if it means I'll be expelled from Hogwarts or..." She twisted her hands in anxiety. "Whatever it will be, I'm not afraid to face it."

"Nonsense," he drawled. "There is no need for anyone to know or for you to face any 'consequences'. Simply tell them you were under the Imperius Curse."

It meant a lot to her that he cared that she not get in trouble for helping him, even if his suggestion to take a page out of his book and falsely plead Imperius wasn't helpful. It was too flawed a plan.

"That wouldn't work because... I'm not a Slytherin like you. They would know I'm lying. I'm not a very good liar."

"From what I have seen, you underestimate yourself. I saw how you fooled Dolores Umbridge and your friend Potter. It was quite impressive, the way you exploited Umbridge's fears and expectations in order to lead her into a trap, and Potter's guilt to induce him to give the prophecy to you. Some would denounce your methods as positively ruthless, my dear girl."

She blinked. Was that an insult or a compliment? "I just did what had to be done."

"Exactly," he said cryptically.

"Dumbledore can use Legilimency. He would see through the lie for sure."

He thought for a moment before a devious smile curved his lips. "Not if the lie is true." He took out the prophecy and handed it back to her. "Hold this for me, would you?"

What did he...?

Oh. Oh no. He couldn't be suggesting...

This was a terrible idea.

It wasn't one of the memories he had viewed in her mind, but she had been under the Imperius Curse once, in Professor Moody's class. She envied Harry for being able to resist it. What Rookwood had said about it being different depending on the caster's magical power had made her wonder how it would feel to be under his Imperius instead of the fake Moody's. Just theoretical, academic curiosity. She had never wanted to actually test the theory!

While part of her mind was curious, another part was screaming shrilly. What was she doing? She couldn't believe she was considering letting him cast that spell on her. How could she trust him with that kind of power? Who knew what he would do with it? He could take advantage of it in countless frightening ways. He could use it to make her do literally anything, she thought with a shiver.

She couldn't, shouldn't trust him. It went against everything she knew.

"Are you not curious? Or are you too afraid?" he taunted.

She raised her chin. She was a Gryffindor! "I'm not afraid."

He smiled.

She wanted to say stop. She wanted to fight, to defend herself.

She was prey caught in a viper's gaze, hypnotised.

He slid the tip of his wand gently down the side of her face, in a vaguely threatening way. She stayed still. She wasn't afraid, honestly!

Then he pointed the wand between her eyes, just like when he had cast the Legilimency spell. She bravely refused to flinch or to step back. Maybe this was madness, but she would show no fear.

"Imperio," he said with eerie tenderness, as though the word was a caress.

There was no beam of light, not even a spark visible to the eye. It was the stealthiest of spells. There was no outward sign. But when the invisible magic reached her, touched her mind –

Oh.

All her worries vanished as if they had been hit with a well-aimed Evanesco, and in their place was perfect peace. It felt like floating on a cloud, like flying without a broom and without any fear of falling. She had already fallen, all the way into a well of contentment so deep she could never climb out.

She wanted to do everything he said. Her only desire, her only concern was to make him happy. There was no one and nothing else that mattered in the world.

He gazed down at her through half-closed eyes. With her mind rather than her ears, she heard him speak.

I am your natural superior because my blood is much purer than yours. Know your place. You will obey me.

"Yes. Whatever you want."

Give me the prophecy.

She complied eagerly, her hand almost shaking from haste. It was bliss to hear his voice in her head, and she wanted to listen to it forever.

He took a long moment to savour the situation before flicking his wand, regretfully giving up the delicious absolute control.

She blinked slowly. Her face blanched.

He raised a pale blond eyebrow. "Enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"I – what? No, of course I didn't..."

But the truth was that she had enjoyed it, and this absolutely terrified her.

It terrified her, how good it had felt, and how similar it had been to what she normally felt for him. The curse had just amplified her feelings exponentially. She did want to make him happy, but it wasn't her only concern; she also cared about her friends and values, about right and wrong. She had felt awful while lying to Harry.

Under the spell, she had had no such reservations, no hesitation or guilt. No conscience. She would have done any evil, committed any crime without a second thought, feeling nothing but an all-encompassing need for his approval.

Normally she would have been offended by what he had said about being her superior, but under the curse she had readily agreed with him. Why had he said that? As a taunt to provoke her, to see if she could resist the curse? To show off the power of his spell, that it could even make her agree with that? Or just for his cruel entertainment, taking advantage of her inability to disagree? Either possibility was deeply disturbing.

It had been much more intense and pleasant than the impostor Moody's Imperius. Even now part of her missed that amazing feeling of carefree happiness.

"That was terrifying," she said shakily.

"Do not lie to me." His pale hand grasped her chin, his gaze focused intently on hers. His eyes were like knives of steel, sharp and penetrating, cutting away all pretences until her soul was bare.

She inhaled shallowly. The memory was fresh in her mind of what it had felt like to care about no one but him.

"This was not one of your better attempts at deception," he said. "You cannot hope to beat an expert at this game. To me, your face is an open book."

Her cheeks warmed. Was she really so transparent?

He was smirking. "Now tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how much would you say you enjoyed it?"

She wanted to lie. But he would know, wouldn't he? He wouldn't even need to use Legilimency again, not after how much he had seen last time.

"Twenty," she mumbled. "That's what scares me."

"I would have thought you would be more concerned by the fact that I need no curse to control you."

She wanted to hide from his piercing, gloating gaze, but she couldn't. It was as if his eyes were magnets and hers were iron, helplessly caught in his snare.

"How much did you enjoy it?" she dared to ask, unable to resist her curiosity.

Dark rapture glimmered in his pale eyes. She felt a jolt in her stomach that was neither the fear nor the revulsion it should have been, and regretted her question even before she heard the answer.

"Oh, at least as much as you did. That curse is always a pleasure to cast. It is simply exhilarating, my favourite spell..."

She saw confirmation of his words in the faint flush on his cheeks and the shine of his eyes, polished steel rather than dull stone. An icy chill crawled down her spine, and the skin on her arms erupted in gooseflesh under her robes.

He was truly a Death Eater, a disturbed and dangerous criminal. And in his arrogant belief that there was nothing she would or could do against him, he wasn't even bothering to hide it from her. Why didn't it matter? Why was she so irresistibly drawn to him in spite of it all?

The wizarding world was fond of using fire for lighting; at Hogwarts, she had seen moths drawn to candles and torches. She had seen them fly too close to the flame, and sometimes right into it to a fiery death, despite her attempts to stop the poor, unwise creatures. She had been baffled and saddened by their attraction to something so dangerous to them.

She knew now what it felt like to be the moth enchanted by dazzling, deadly flame.

Had everyone he had ever used the Imperius on felt the same way she had? No wonder Bode hadn't been able to resist it, even when commanded to do something that would make him insane. How many people have heard his voice in their heads like that? she wondered with a sudden, bitter anger that could not be jealousy. How many others had found the world shrinking until there was nothing in it but him?

His expression was so arrogantly amused that she feared he knew exactly what she was thinking. To me, your face is an open book. Her cheeks burned.

"So you didn't cast it only to give me a Legilimency-proof defence?" she said to distract him from her embarrassment, which he was enjoying far too much for her comfort. "I should have guessed you had an ulterior motive. You always do."

He didn't deny it. "Consider it an experiment."

"Did the experiment confirm whatever hypothesis you wanted to test?"

"It did. You found nearly as much pleasure in being the target as I did in being the caster, just as I thought you would."

Her face felt as if it was on fire. She acknowledged with consternation that her attempt to distract him had been a dismal failure.

"Would I be correct to assume you want this little fact to remain a secret also?"

"Yes!" she blurted out.

He tilted his head, somehow adding breathtaking elegance to the small gesture. She had never met anyone else who could make a simple nod look so regal.

Then he moved towards her with all the fluid grace and swiftness of an attacking serpent.

"This too shall be our secret," he murmured, sliding his hand into her bushy hair. Yanking it painfully, he pulled her close to him and pressed his lips to hers.

She saw fireworks. She forgot to breathe, forgot everything. It was almost like the Imperius: she was floating in a sea of joy, and she never wanted it to end.

Her knees felt weak. Fearing that her legs would give out, she grabbed his shoulders and held on with all her strength. Her fingers kept slipping on the soft, luxurious fabric of his cloak.

This was nothing like the time Viktor had kissed her, gently and almost chastely, after getting her out of the lake. There was nothing gentle about this kiss, and it was all right. She wasn't some fragile damsel who would shatter like crystal if handled less than delicately. She wanted no false tenderness.

When he finally let her go, she gaped at him in shock.

"W–why did you do that?"

He offered her a haughty smirk. "Because I wanted to."

"But I'm –"

"Apparently a Muggle-born, I'm well aware," he said, guessing her thoughts with startling ease. "Just as you are aware I bow to the Dark Lord, who is a half-blood and the most powerful wizard of our time. Severus Snape, also a half-blood, I consider a friend; his school years would have been far more unpleasant had I as prefect not led Slytherin House by example to look beyond his Muggle surname and shabby appearance. Unequivocal convictions are ill suited to the minds of true Slytherins."

She stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"It may be inconceivable to a Gryffindor such as yourself, but the Malfoy way has never been to allow one's ideology to take precedence over personal benefit and desires. We do not serve the ideologies we choose to espouse; it is they that serve us, and we set them aside when they do not."

She couldn't imagine having no beliefs deep enough she wouldn't give them up on a whim when it was convenient. What a self-serving approach to life. She should have found it contemptible. Instead she was selfishly glad to hear it, because it meant he could set aside his prejudice against people like her.

"I don't think your son understands this," she said. "He throws the word 'Mudblood' around like sweets even when he's surrounded by people who judge him and your family harshly for it."

"In time, he will learn that life as an adult in our world involves far more complexity and nuance than the black and white social dynamics in the isolated bubble that is Hogwarts."

"Did you know how he behaves at school? He's very rude and a bully."

"He has been fortunate not to grow up during a war. His mother and I have been reluctant to cut his childhood short."

"Fortunate thanks to Harry," she pointed out. "He'll have to grow up now that Voldemort is back."

"Indeed." He sounded chagrined, and her heart ached with sympathy. She hadn't suspected he loved his son so much; it was... endearing, honestly.

"Why did you say 'apparently a Muggle-born'? You know my parents are Muggles; you've seen them. I really am a Muggle-born."

"With such abilities? Hardly," he scoffed. "No Muggle-born can possibly be so good at magic. What do you truly know of your ancestry? Can you be certain no wizard or Squib was at any point part of your family tree? An affinity for magic such as yours cannot simply come from nowhere."

"It's possible, I suppose," she said doubtfully.

It was obvious to her that he had convinced himself in order to avoid having to reconsider his deeply entrenched belief that bloody purity and magical ability were correlated. It was hard to argue when the result of his self-deception was that he was able to see her as a person and a witch instead of some innately inferior thing, but she wasn't going to lie to play along. It would be wrong and an insult to her parents, who deserved better; though she wasn't close to them, she did care about them.

Oddly, the name Granger was mentioned in Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, as a wizarding family that had died out two centuries ago. The last family member had been Hector Dagworth-Granger, a renowned potioneer who had hyphenated his parents' surnames (something wizards almost never did) to save his mother's family name from extinction. But he had had no children, according to the family tree in the book.

The book didn't mention Squibs or wizards and witches who had married non-pure-bloods, but Hermione still didn't think she could be related to any of the magical Grangers. If she was, then why had nobody else in her family as far as she knew ever shown any sign of magic?

"Not merely possible. With skills like yours, it is indubitable. Girl, did you or did you not cast the Disillusionment Charm perfectly on your first attempt?"

"Um, yes, I did. But –"

"How many others do you think can boast of having done the same?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, then allow me to enlighten you," he hissed. "One. We call him the Dark Lord."

She gasped, torn between feeling flattered and disturbed. You-Know-Who was a very powerful wizard, but also a very Dark, mad, and evil one. "But he's a half-blood, not a pure-blood, so that doesn't prove –"

"He is a descendant of one of the greatest and most ancient wizard families –"

BANG!

The door was slammed open. Antonin Dolohov, having recovered from the body-bind spell, stepped into the room. With a sadistic grin, he aimed his wand straight at Hermione.

Mr Malfoy grabbed her shoulder tightly, causing a comforting warmth and feeling of safety to spread through her. "Do not waste your magic, Dolohov. The girl is under my control. Go forth and tell the others to gather at the exit. The hunt is over. I have the prophecy in my possession."

Dolohov left silently.

Hermione let out a breath of relief. Dolohov was a scary fellow, and after seeing what he had done to Luna...

She looked up at Mr Malfoy again. He was still holding her shoulder, and she had to tilt her face straight up to meet his gaze; he was so much taller than her. In the moment of fear, she had instinctively relied on him for protection, and he hadn't disappointed her.

He opened the door slightly to see what was happening outside. Hermione saw flashes of wandlight; it seemed several Death Eaters were fighting someone – Harry? Her stomach clenched with worry.

"THE PROPHECY IS OURS! TAKE THE INJURED AND GATHER AT THE EXIT!" he bellowed over the crashes and yells, prompting more crashes as the Death Eaters scrambled to obey.

He turned back to Hermione. "As for you, my unexpected little ally... until we meet again. Stupefy!"

She let the jet of red light hit her in the chest. Her last thought was that she would never again have trouble with the Patronus Charm.

She was unconscious before she fell, but her back never hit the ground. He caught her in mid-fall and carried her to a corner, where he laid her down on the floor.

*

Harry found Hermione unconscious on the floor in one of the offices. Anguished, terrified thoughts filled his mind: what if she's dead? It's my fault if she died... she was trying to protect my prophecy... she was here because of me... she tried to warn me it was a trap...

"I shouldn't have listened to her," Harry said to Neville. "I shouldn't have let her face them alone. I should have gone with her."

Neville crouched down, holding one hand over his bloodied nose, to check her pulse. "She's alibe, Harry."

Some of the heaviness in Harry's chest lifted.

When the five Order members arrived, they found the Department of Mysteries in shambles as they had expected, but it was deserted except for the children. There was no sign of the group of Death Eaters they had been expecting to encounter, and this made them fear they had arrived too late. If the Death Eaters had already left... They would not have left without the prophecy.

"Dumbledore will have our heads for this," growled Moody, his magical eye spinning. "Damn, he's coming."

Sirius, who had come against all advice and common sense – he was the number one escaped convict hunted by the Ministry and he had the nerve to enter the Ministry building itself, not even disguised – couldn't care less about what Dumbledore would say as he went searching for his godson.

"Harry!" Sirius called frenetically. "Where's Harry?"

"Sirius!" Harry exclaimed with relief as he ran towards his godfather and pulled him into an uncharacteristic hug. It was probably the first time Harry had ever initiated a hug. "Thank Merlin you're alright! I thought... I was so worried! If you'd been hurt... if I'd lost you, I don't think I could've lived with it."

"Oh, Harry," Sirius said hoarsely, looking stunned. "You shouldn't risk yourself for me. I know I couldn't live if I lost you. You are everything to me, do you hear? Everything. Don't you ever forget it."

Remus Lupin's eyes grew shiny as he watched them. Tonks smiled, and even Moody found no paranoid comment to make.

*

Hermione opened her eyes to see Dumbledore's worried face looming over her. It felt like he was looking right through her, and icy terror raced through her body as she realised he was using Legilimency. He was such a powerful wizard, magically and politically, even with his influence diminished by the Ministry's smear campaign... What would happen to her if he discovered the truth? Expulsion? Azkaban?

In panic she thought of Mr Malfoy's wand touching her face as he said Imperio; his voice in her head ordering her to give him the prophecy.

Dumbledore's intense blue stare released her. His face was grave and sad and older than she ever remembered seeing it. Then she looked past him and saw the other people gathered around them, all watching her with concern.

Finally her gaze fell upon Harry, who stood behind Dumbledore, his eyes filled with guilt and concern for her, and she thought she might vomit all over herself. She imagined the betrayed confusion she would see in these green eyes if he found out what she had done, and neither expulsion nor Azkaban seemed as terrible in comparison.

"I'm sorry, Harry!" she cried, the tears she had been holding back all night finally spilling from her eyes. Each word was torn painfully from her heart. "The prophecy... It's my fault! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Screw the prophecy," Harry said fiercely. "Are you all right? What did they do to you?"

Was it possible to choke from guilt? To die of it?

She couldn't regret saving Mr Malfoy's life, but she would never stop regretting what she had done to Harry. She had lied to her best friend, not for his own good but for that of an enemy. She had abused his trust.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably. She didn't want to be expelled or sent to Azkaban for knowingly and deliberately helping the Death Eaters; these possibilities filled her with terror like she had never known before, not even under the effects of a hundred Dementors. But to lie to Harry now, again, would be adding insult to injury.

To tell the truth, however, would add injury to injury. She remembered how hurt Harry had been when Ron had turned against him in fourth year. How he had thanked her for sticking with him throughout it all, for being the best friend he could trust never to abandon him.

She remembered the look in his eyes when she had pretended to betray him to Umbridge, pretended well enough to fool everyone in the room. The grim incomprehension at first; the stubborn refusal to believe what he was hearing. Then the broken despair, as if he would have preferred to be under Umbridge's Cruciatus Curse. The bleak green eyes asking why.

A sob caught in her throat.

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't inflict such pain on Harry, no more than she would be able to cast the Cruciatus Curse on him, or stand idly by while someone else did. He had already suffered more in his short life than anyone ever should.

"What happened, Hermione?"

"The Imperius Curse," she choked out, looking anywhere but at Harry. She looked past many horrified and pitying faces without focusing on any of them, and one face that was more relieved than horrified or pitying: Ginny's. What had Ginny assumed? The truth?

"There was a voice in my head telling me to convince you to give up the prophecy, and I couldn't fight it." She hid her face in her hands.

She wasn't doing this for herself. She was doing it for Harry, only for Harry, to spare him the pain of the truth. To protect him from the horror of her actions, of her betrayal; from the fact that the friend he trusted never to betray him had done something worse than he could imagine. For Harry's sake, she had to do this perfectly. His psychological well-being depended on her acting performance.

"I tried to fight, but it wasn't enough. I failed. I wasn't strong enough. I did everything I was commanded to. I found you, talked you into giving me the prophecy, and gave it to them," she said in a lifeless voice.

She had always been willing to lie to protect Harry Potter. Friendship was worth it. Harry was worth it. She had never regretted the change in her personality, the compromise of her honest and rule-abiding nature that had begun in a girls' bathroom as she, Harry, and Ron had faced Professor McGonagall over an unconscious troll. She had lied for her friends for the first time that day, the first of many. It had been her first step down a slippery slope that would turn her into a habitual rule-breaker and liar, all for friendship. She regretted none of it.

She raised her gaze for the honest part, the part that could never be repeated enough. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"Hermione, it's all right. It wasn't your fault. Most people can't fight the Imperius."

"But you can, Harry. That means it isn't impossible. I should be able to do it too. I'm good with spells; I can do loads of things other people can't. I should've fought it."

"Who cast it? Which of the Death Eaters did it?"

Harry being furious on her behalf made her feel worse.

"I don't know who it was. One of them."

She refused to blame Mr Malfoy for something he hadn't done, something that would make Harry hate him more. He hadn't forced her to deceive Harry or to bring him the prophecy. All he had done was try to protect her from the consequences of her own actions, with her implicit consent.

"Was it Malfoy?" Harry snarled.

"Er, no," she said, startled by his guess. "I didn't recognise the voice. I'm sure I would've recognised his. Why did you think it was him?"

"He cast it on Bode and Sturgis. It sounds like one of his schemes."

"It wasn't him." She refused to look at Dumbledore. He had to know she was lying, after what he had seen in her head. She wondered what he was thinking, what reason he might come up with to explain why she lied about this.

But Dumbledore, if he knew she was lying, didn't comment on it. "Here, Miss Granger," he said, holding out a jagged piece of wood that looked like it had been part of a shelf, "take this Portkey. It will bring you to the hospital wing."

"But I'm not injured. I don't need –"

"You still need to be checked over, just in case. Madam Pomfrey would never forgive me if I sent you directly to your dormitory after such an ordeal. Take Misses Weasley and Lovegood with you. Hold onto them and say 'Hogwarts' when you are ready."

"What about Harry, Professor?"

"Yes, what about me?"

"Harry, I will give you another Portkey, one that will send you to my office." Dumbledore gave him a sorrowful look over his half-moon spectacles. "There is a conversation I must have with you that is long overdue."

"About this prophecy?" Harry guessed.

"I am afraid so."

Nodding to the Headmaster, Hermione took the piece of wood and walked over to Ginny.

"And Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"The password to my office is 'salt water toffee'. When you are ready, I will be expecting you." And he turned in a swirl of purple robes, put his arm around Harry's shoulders, and steered him away.

Hermione stared after the two of them, biting her lip. Did he know? Would he tell Harry? What if he –

"Hermione?"

"Ginny! Goodness, you're so pale! What happened to you?"

Ginny grimaced. There was a coldness Hermione had never seen before in her bright eyes. "Broken ankle. C'mon, help me up."

Hermione took Ginny's arm and helped her stand without putting weight on her left leg.

As soon as Ginny was standing, she tore her arm out of Hermione's grasp. "I'm OK! I can walk!" She took a step.

And staggered, caught Hermione's arm and clutched it as if her life depended on it.

"Slowly, Ginny. Take small steps." She steered the hobbling Ginny over to where Luna lay.

Hermione crouched down next to the unconscious Luna and put her hand around the blonde girl's thin wrist. "Grab my arm and hold on tightly," she told Ginny.

"Hogwarts!"

Hermione felt a tug on her navel as the room dissolved. Blurry surroundings rushed past her at a speed that caused her to close her eyes in discomfort. They were flying in a rush of air, their ears filled with indiscernible echoes...

*

"IT'S SIRIUS BLACK!" Auror Dawlish screamed.

Cornelius Fudge jumped a foot in the air, all remaining colour draining from his face. He, Auror Dawlish, and Auror Williamson all looked as though they had seen a Grim.

Dumbledore, who had been duelling with Lord Voldemort mere minutes ago, successfully delaying him at the Ministry until Fudge's arrival, stood back near a wall, watching them with twinkling eyes.

In an impressive show of courage, the two Aurors stepped in front of the Minister, shielding him from the escaped convict who was hurrying towards the fireplaces. They raised their wands in their trembling hands and stammered out spells.

"S – Stupefy!"

Laughing, Sirius sprinted over to the nearest fireplace. The alleged mass murderer shouted words no one could discern and with a cheerful wave to the Aurors and the Minister, stepped into the green flames before the jets of red light could reach him.

"Black, here! Sirius Black inside the Ministry of Magic! Dear Merlin..." a ghostly pale Fudge struggled to regain his breath.

"And You-Know-Who!" added Williamson. "In the Atrium of our Ministry! Good Lord – where's security – how could they have got in?" he said in a disbelieving whisper.

"Black and You-Know-Who in the Ministry of Magic! Both of them!" Fudge was trembling uncontrollably. And he still hadn't seen Dumbledore, who was leaning serenely against the wall. "Great heavens above... How can this be?"

"Did you hear Black's destination?"

"All I heard was a buzzing in my ears."

"Me too. Must be the Fidelius Charm," Williamson said grimly.

"We need better safety measures, Minister! If they got through..."

"Yes, yes, you're right, Dawlish... of course, it will be looked into," Fudge said distractedly. The very first thing he would do after entering his office would be to firecall Lucius for advice on improving the Ministry's defences.

Thanks to Hermione's actions, the Death Eaters left the Ministry earlier and weren't caught. But her intervention changed much more.

If Harry had known what would have happened if she hadn't done it, he would have thanked her.

In the end, Voldemort got the prophecy, but the duel between Sirius and his cousin Bellatrix never took place, and Sirius never fell through the veil in the Death Chamber. Sometimes it takes little to change everything, even fate. But for Hermione Granger, who had for once acted from her heart instead of her rational mind, this would only be the beginning, the first step on an unthinkable, unimaginable path.

Chapter Text

"He Who Must Not Be Named and his notorious supporter Sirius Black gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening..."

Hermione paused in reading the Daily Prophet aloud when Harry let out a hiss of indignation.

"I can't believe they are blaming Sirius again," he said angrily.

"Harry, shh!" Talking about Sirius without using a code word where they could be overheard was always risky, and could have absolutely disastrous consequences with Umbridge a few beds away, even if apparently unaware of her surroundings and unresponsive. Hermione wouldn't deny she was pleased that her idea of luring the awful woman into the Forbidden Forest had resulted in this. The petty, loathsome, sadistic cow was finally reduced to harmlessness. Hopefully it would last.

"It's the Daily Prophet. What did you expect?" Ron said darkly before biting into a weakly struggling Chocolate Frog. Painful purple welts decorated his bare forearms like ghastly tattoos. Harry, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny were sitting on chairs between Ron's and Luna's beds in the hospital wing.

Hermione and Ginny sat as far from each other as was possible.

"Yes, You-Know-Who is back. I saw him myself," Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said in a shocking reversal, after vehemently denying rumours of You-Know-Who's return for a year. "I was woken by an urgent Floo call alerting me to an emergency at the Ministry. I Apparated to the Ministry immediately, of course, as any decent leader would have. There I was, still in my night clothes, and You-Know-Who was standing right there in the Atrium, looking at me from across the hall. I thought I was having a nightmare."

Albus Dumbledore was seen at the Ministry at the same time as You-Know-Who, and the two reportedly duelled. The presence of the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, and a select group of school friends is also confirmed. Under Potter's lead, the group allegedly broke into the Department of Mysteries during the night with the heroic intention of rescuing an unidentified individual they believed to be held hostage by You-Know-Who. The Atrium and the Department of Mysteries sustained significant damage.

"No charges will be pressed against the children," said Minister Fudge. "Such prosocial behaviour should be commended, not punished. Why, if we were to consider everyone who has ever been forced or tricked into breaking the law by You-Know-Who a criminal, that would include some of our most respectable citizens! What a terrible injustice it would be, and what a loss for our magical community."

"Why are you smiling?" said Ron.

"Am I?" Hermione blinked. Her smile vanished as soon as she realised it was there. "Oh. I'm – I'm just glad we aren't going to be in trouble for breaking into the Ministry and destroying so many things there."

She didn't see Ginny's eyes piercing her like lasers, following her every move.

When asked whether he will resign if the magical population demands it after this grievous blunder, Minister Fudge said, "Well, yes, of course, I must do the will of the people, but I'm sure... well, it was a good faith mistake, lots of other people didn't believe You-Know-Who was back either, and without proof, you see... I'm sure the magical population will understand. It wasn't my intention to mislead anyone. I promise I'm going to work twice as hard to make up for this honest error and to keep our people safe and our Ministry strong."

Minister Fudge would not confirm whether he intends to seek another term in office in the upcoming election scheduled for this August.

*

"Listen... I talked to Dumbledore about the prophecy," said Harry. He, Hermione, and Ron, who had finally been released from the hospital wing by Madam Pomfrey, were sitting in their usual corner of the Gryffindor common room.

Without having to cope with both Sirius's death and the prophecy at the same time, Harry had come to terms with his destiny and was ready to share the burden of the knowledge with his friends. He had already discussed it with his godfather.

"But there's no way to know what it said, is there?" Hermione said in a faltering voice. "It was – stolen by the Death Eaters before any of us could hear the contents."

She felt horribly guilty and it must have shown on her face, because Harry reached over and took her hand in his.

"Hermione, no one blames you. We know you didn't mean to do it. It isn't your fault that you can't fight the Imperius."

She couldn't look at him. She gazed down at the red and gold carpet instead. Gryffindor colours. Had the Sorting Hat made a mistake about her? Gryffindors didn't do what she had done. Gryffindors didn't trick their friends, help their enemies behind their friends' backs, or –

Harry squeezed her hand. "If we had lost, if the Order hadn't arrived, I would've ended up giving them the prophecy."

Ron made a shocked sound.

Hermione looked up, thunderstruck. "You would have what?"

Had tricking Harry not been necessary? Had she betrayed his trust when there had been no need? Should she have had more faith in him despite his stubborn behaviour and his refusal to listen?

Harry looked at her seriously. "If I knew you were going to get attacked because of it, I would've given them the prophecy right at the start. It wasn't worth any of you dying for it. I'd rather give it to the Death Eaters a hundred times than risk one of my friends getting hurt to protect it. If it means you are alive and all right, I'm glad they have got it."

"Oh, Harry!" She couldn't repress the urge to pull him into a fierce hug.

He coughed, and she realised her hair was suffocating him. Embarrassed, she released him and held him at arm's length. "You are an amazing wizard, Harry. An amazing person and friend. I don't deserve a friend like you."

Ron pointedly avoided looking at them.

Harry awkwardly patted her back. "I'm sorry you got hurt because of it. I told you it was a bad idea for you to take the prophecy. You should've let me keep it. Then only I might have been hurt."

"I wasn't hurt, Harry."

"The Imperius Curse –"

"Doesn't hurt." She smiled reassuringly.

"Oh... right," Harry said, remembering his own experience being under the curse in the impostor Moody's class. "It feels like..."

"Like being on drugs?" At Harry's shocked look, she hurriedly added, "Not that I've ever tried drugs! I've just read descriptions of what it feels like."

Harry laughed. "You on drugs is just an unbelievable idea, Hermione. But I know what you mean... I've never tried either, but some of Dudley's friends..." He had an expression of long-suffering distaste.

"What are drugs?" said Ron.

Harry exchanged a look with Hermione. "They're a Muggle thing. Like alcohol, but stronger and with, erm, more interesting effects."

"Ron, please don't mention drugs to Fred and George," added Hermione.

"Anyway, what I meant to tell you two was that the prophecy at the Ministry was just a record. A copy. It wasn't the only one. The real prophecy was made to Dumbledore, so he could tell me. I heard the whole thing in his office; he showed me in his Pensieve."

Hermione stared at Harry, her heart racing in her chest. She was about to find out exactly what she had done, how harmful or harmless the consequences were going to be. Depending on what the prophecy contained, it could be insignificant or fatal for Harry, and potentially for the whole world, for Voldemort to know it.

Harry, too, seemed frightened. He looked at her and Ron as though searching for a sign whether to continue.

"So what does the prophecy say?" prompted Hermione, wringing her hands apprehensively.

"It was about Voldemort and me... it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish him off. It said I'm the one with the power to vanquish him."

Ron gasped.

Hermione was only mildly surprised, and more than a little relieved. "Well, I thought it might be something like this, from what... what the Death Eaters said about the prophecy at the Ministry. And it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, why else would Voldemort be so set on killing you? You were just a baby the first time. Why would he go after a baby unless he knew... I mean... how can you explain it, that he saw you as a threat as soon as you were born, Harry?"

"But that's not all of it," said Harry quietly. "It says I have to either kill him or be killed by him, in the end. There's no other way."

Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. "But p–perhaps there is another way."

"I asked Dumbledore," said Harry. "He said it has to be me." He closed his eyes briefly. "It said neither of us could live while the other survives. Either must die at the hand of the other. And it... it said he marked me as his equal," Harry touched the scar on his forehead, "but I have power he knows not."

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, speechless.

"Bloody hell, mate," said Ron.

"Oh, Harry... are you scared?" Hermione whispered. She was very scared for Harry. He might be brilliant at Defence, but he was still in school; he was no match for what she had read about Voldemort's magical power and knowledge.

"Not as much as I was," said Harry. "When I first heard it, I was, but then I talked to Sirius and I realised... I always sort of knew I'd have to face him in the end. I never felt like there was a choice. After he killed my mum and dad, it seemed like it was inevitable... I would never stop fighting him if I could. For them, I mean. I can't just... let him get away with it."

Hermione and Ron looked at each other. For once, she was sure they were feeling the same emotion. "We know, Harry," she said gently.

"We are with you, Harry. We'll help," said Ron.

"Either must die at the hand of the other..." Hermione said thoughtfully, "does that mean... if anyone else tries to kill you... it won't work? Because that would be a significant advantage."

"I have no idea," said Harry.

"And Voldemort... he knows the prophecy by now, doesn't he?" asked Hermione, guilt and anxiety gnawing at her insides. If he does, it's my fault.

"Dumbledore thinks so, yeah."

"Power You-Know-Who knows not?" said Ron. "What power is that?"

"Dumbledore said it was the power of my heart. Love."

Ron snorted, glancing sideways at Hermione.

"Love?" said Ron, "This great magical power You-Know-Who doesn't have, but you do, is love?"

Harry looked very serious. "Well, yeah, that's what Dumbledore said. It was my mum's love that saved me from the Killing Curse," Ron sobered at that, "and it's the power that's kept behind the door we couldn't open at the Ministry. Dumbledore called it 'a force more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature'."

Dumbledore is right, thought Hermione. More powerful than human intelligence... Yes, even her intelligence stood no chance against it.

"What I don't understand is... how is the prophecy a weapon?" she wondered out loud.

The boys looked at her with confusion.

"Harry, do you remember when you asked the Order for information about what Voldemort was doing, at Headquarters during the holidays? They made it sound like the prophecy was a weapon he was after."

"Yeah, I remember. What about it?"

"How is it a weapon? All it does is tell Voldemort what he already knew by now: that you are a threat to him, Harry. That you can defeat him. But he had known this since you first did it when you were a baby. You have a power he doesn't; you proved it as a baby when you reflected his curse back at him. That's something Voldemort can't do. Even if the Killing Curse doesn't really work on him, I'm sure he doesn't have the ability to reflect it back at the caster like you did.

"And his marking you as his equal is already done; him knowing about it doesn't give him any advantage. He had probably figured out, by now, that he accidentally gave you some kind of powers. The whole school has known you speak Parseltongue since second year. I've no doubt some of the Slytherins with Death Eater relatives would've talked about it at home.

"So the prophecy doesn't tell Voldemort anything new or useful, does it? So why did the Order still try so hard to keep him from getting it? Mr Weasley almost died guarding it. Mr Podmore ended up in Azkaban. Why take such risks to protect something that doesn't give Voldemort any advantage?"

"Hey, that's a good point. I should've thought of it. I could've asked Dumbledore, but I wasn't really thinking. I was just... in shock, I guess, about what the prophecy means..."

"Of course you were, Harry," said Hermione. "You'd just found out you – you are destined to kill someone. That's just horrible, even if it's Voldemort. It's so hard to believe Dumbledore takes this Divination business seriously... I thought it was all rubbish... Oh, I have so much research to do... real prophecies, who'd have thought? Even in the wizarding world, that sounds just..."

Then she noticed Harry and Ron grinning at each other, making fun of her getting caught up in thinking out loud (something that happened often, if she was honest). She huffed. "I'm just so glad that's all the prophecy says. I was afraid it might tell Voldemort how to kill you, or something like that. Something he could use against you, Harry."

"Hermione!" Someone was calling her name from across the common room.

"Over here," she yelled back.

Parvati Patil hurried towards them. "Hermione, can you come up to the dormitory for a minute? I need your help with something."

"Sure." She followed Parvati with an "I'll be right back!" to Harry and Ron.

"What's going on?" she said as they climbed the staircase to the girls' dorms.

"You've got post." Parvati pointed at an impatient-looking owl sitting on Hermione's bed, on top of a book-sized parcel. "Normally we get our post in the Great Hall at dinner, so if it's here instead, it's got to be really urgent or really secret. I figured you might not want Ron to know. I've seen how he gets about your letters from Krum."

"Thanks, Parvati!" That was really nice and thoughtful.

The owl flew away as soon as it had been freed of its burden, a parcel wrapped in grey paper with the logo of an owl order bookshop. It was addressed to Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Hermione squinted at it. She hadn't owl-ordered any books recently; she would remember if she had. She had been waiting for the summer holidays to buy more books in person in Diagon Alley.

She undid the wrapping cautiously with her wand instead of her hands. She had learned to be wary of unexpected post after receiving poisoned hate letters in fourth year thanks to Rita Skeeter.

It was a book all right. The title read:

Advanced Arithmancy, volume XI: Theory and Practice

Her eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. She had never heard of a series of books on Arithmancy that had more than four volumes, let alone eleven. If she had, she would have tracked down and read the entire series, of course. It was her favourite subject.

A jab of her wand with the incantation "Specialis Revelio!" confirmed that the book really was a book.

She was looking at an Arithmancy book that didn't exist. Which meant it wasn't an Arithmancy book. So what kind of book was it?

Her unease increased. Just because it was a book didn't mean it couldn't be cursed or a Portkey or worse. Riddle's diary had been a book.

Riddle's diary...

The thought led to another, and she abruptly remembered what she had for a moment forgotten: that her secret code, her idea of magically disguising the research she had to hide from her friends as Arithmancy texts, was no longer a complete secret known only to her. Thanks to Legilimency, now there was one more person who knew. Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be?

Brimming with sudden excitement, she waited for Parvati to leave. The moment she was alone in the dormitory, she tapped the book with her wand and said quietly, "Sanctimonia vincet semper."

Mr Malfoy had seen the idea in her head when he had performed Legilimency on her. He probably found it amusing to make her say the words, since they translated approximately to pure blood always wins, and he sure hadn't let slip the opportunity to make her agree with such things while he had had her under his Imperius Curse.

The black cover glowed and flickered. The title vanished and rewrote itself:

Advanced Dark Arts, volume XI: Curses and Covenants of Silence and Secrecy

Hermione stared at it for a long moment, hardly believing her eyes. Why had he sent her this? She also wondered, with curiosity tempered by squeamishness, what kind of Dark Arts the previous ten volumes were about.

Hesitantly, with an unsteady hand, she opened the cover.

There, on the front pastedown, were two words in an elegant cursive handwriting, in black ink: Thank you.

She leafed through the book with a growing sense of wonder. If only she had had something like this when they had started the D.A., they would never have been betrayed.

She had cursed the D.A. member list with a spell she had found in the Restricted Section. It was meant to create magical contracts that included automatic punishment for breaking their terms, like the contract that had forced Harry to compete in the Triwizard Tournament on penalty of losing his magic. It was what had given her the idea. The spell was classified as Dark because it did not require free and informed consent like real contracts; a person could be forced or tricked into the magical contract like Harry had been.

She hadn't found any spell to prevent a magical contract from being broken. She would have liked to embed a Silencio targeting the secret in the parchment and make it stick to anyone who signed, but she had discovered no magic in the Hogwarts library that could do such a thing. It would've been so helpful!

If she had known Dark magic could do this, without requiring any evil sacrifices or anything similarly disgusting, she would have asked Viktor about it in a letter. I should have guessed, she thought, frustrated with herself. It was an obvious deduction! Removing a person's freedom to change their mind about keeping a secret amounted to magically taking away part of their free will, and such things were always considered Dark.

*

Hermione had just descended the stairs into the Entrance Hall, Harry and Ron on either side of her, when Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, emerged from the corridor directly opposite. Both trios stopped dead upon seeing each other.

Harry pulled out his wand before any of them could speak. He glared hatefully at the blond Slytherin, who smirked. Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle looked equally pleased.

"Well, Potter," the Slytherin prefect said, "I heard you lured your friends out of school because you fell asleep in an exam and had a bad dream about your dog."

"Just you wait, Malfoy," said Harry. His face was a mask of hatred so intense it made him look scary as he raised his wand higher, looking as though he couldn't decide which hex to use. "One day, your father will get what's coming to him, and all the others too, I swear. One day everyone will know what scumbags they really are."

His pale face twisting in fury, Malfoy pulled out his wand.

Harry aimed his and prepared to cast before Malfoy could.

"Expelliarmus," said an eerily calm voice.

Harry felt a current of magic firmly, yet gently pluck his wand from his hand. He turned his head to follow the wand's trajectory with his eyes.

There stood Hermione, her hair ruffled as though she had been running, but her voice pronouncing the spell had been so strangely calm he hadn't even recognised it. She held her own wand aloft in her right hand, while with her left she caught Harry's wand – and Malfoy's.

She had somehow disarmed them both with one spell, Harry realised in awe. How did she do it? Hermione was amazing.

It wasn't just her voice that had been unusual. There was a serene confidence in her expression and in how she held herself that Harry had never seen before. It reminded him of Neville's transformation as the D.A. had gradually shown him his skill at magic and built his belief in himself.

"Harry, you don't want to start a fight in the middle of the Entrance Hall," said Hermione, just as Professor Snape entered through the doors that led out into the grounds, followed by Professor McGonagall in a tartan traveling cloak.

"Yes, Potter," Draco sneered, "listen to the Mudblood. She at least has a brain."

Hermione blinked. She was used to the insults; they hardly fazed her. But the last sentence made her raise her eyebrows. Had Draco Malfoy just complimented her, albeit in a backhanded way?

He was looking at her as though she was a puzzle to be solved. No doubt Lucius Malfoy had firecalled his son to inform him of the events at the Department of Mysteries, and mentioned her. How much had he told him?

He must have forbidden Draco to reveal anything about Hermione's role. She had spent enough time around Draco to know that if it were up to him, he would throw her betrayal in Harry's face, taunt him with it to hurt him.

"Mr Malfoy! When will you learn that such foul language is not tolerated at this school?" said Professor McGonagall. "Five points from Slytherin."

"Five points to Slytherin for resisting Potter's provocations," Professor Snape said snidely.

Professor McGonagall's lips formed a thin, angry line.

Hermione examined her Head of House with concerned eyes. McGonagall was one of her favourite teachers, and it was really horrible how Umbridge's lackeys had attacked her.

"Miss Granger, five points to Gryffindor for remembering you are a prefect. If you would return your classmates' wands now, please."

Hermione threw Harry's and Draco's wands to them, which they easily caught like the Seekers they were. Then she grabbed Harry and Ron by their arms and tugged them towards the doors before they could even think of continuing to fight.

"You shouldn't start fights, Harry," she said as they stepped out into the sunlit grounds.

"He started it!"

"He just used words. You were going to throw the first hex, weren't you?" Hermione peered into his eyes shrewdly. He swallowed, and didn't deny it. "It isn't right, Harry. Fight words with words, not with violence. Think about what Dumbledore would say."

"Why are you suddenly defending the ferret?" said Ron, disgusted. "Do you fancy him?"

Her eyes widened. "No!" she sputtered. How could he suggest... "Don't be ridiculous, Ronald. He's not... he's not my type."

"Your type? You have a type? And it isn't 'arrogant blond git'?" Ron said with a fake cough that sounded like "Lockhart".

Hermione whirled on him, red-faced. "I like intelligent wizards, not rude, immature, dim-witted bullies!"

"Because Lockhart was so intelligent."

"I thought he was! His books made him sound like a genius –"

Ron sniggered.

Fuming, Hermione grabbed her bag and strode away before she could say something she would regret. Ron was so exasperating sometimes, she didn't know why she put up with him.

*

She had walked towards the lake, leaving Harry and Ron behind, and settled down to read in the shadow of a tree. The school term had just ended, which meant time for light, leisure reading such as non-goblin-related wizarding history that wasn't taught at Hogwarts. But she kept being distracted from the book she had selected.

Her irritation with Ron had already faded; she couldn't stay angry with anyone for long since... since that night at the Ministry, still so fresh in her memory.

Hermione had always had trouble getting along with her peers. It was a pattern in her life that she felt more at ease with adults than with those closer to her age. In Muggle primary school, other children had either ignored or teased her for being too serious; it was the teachers who had helped and defended her, becoming the closest she had to friends. In the wizarding world, she still felt more at ease among adults, with the exception of her friends.

It was only logical that she had fallen for an older wizard.

Looking up at Hogwarts castle, the best school of witchcraft in the world – her world, her school – she felt a sense of pride that in the past had always been bittersweet, tainted by insecurity and fear. Fear of being excluded. Fear that she did not belong.

That fear had died a glorious death, murdered by his words, the touch of his hand, his kiss. She touched her mouth with the tips of her fingers, still not quite believing it. It felt like a crazy dream.

She had been on the outside of a metaphorical window, looking in at him, at the wizarding world (his world) through what had sometimes felt like impenetrable glass. Until he had shattered the glass into a thousand pieces no Reparo could ever fix.

You are a witch, he had said. Our world, he had said, for once including her instead of excluding. He had praised her intelligence and skill as a witch, even comparing her abilities to those of the powerful Dark wizard he followed.

All her hard work, all the weekends spent researching and the nights spent studying because there was more magic to learn than there was time in a day... it had all been worth it.

The Boggart had turned into her Head of House announcing she had failed all her exams because students who failed everything were expelled, and for an underage Muggle-born, expulsion from Hogwarts meant expulsion from the wizarding world. She couldn't imagine going back to living as a Muggle after having known magic. Giving up magic would be worse than death.

She was not from this world but it was no less her world, while the Muggle world never really had been. Magic was her element, her home, her future. For the first time, she was completely sure of this.

How could she continue to doubt, when it was his world, had been his and his family's since long before she was born, and he had looked at her mind, at the essence of who she was, and declared that she belonged?

He had been in her mind. He now knew her better than anyone else did, even her best friends. Definitely better than the parents who saw her a few weeks per year and whom she had to deceive about the safety of Hogwarts so they would let her return every year.

She could have avoided the Legilimency attack by pretending to give him the prophecy out of fear when he had grabbed her throat. If she hadn't said anything, he wouldn't have become suspicious. But she hadn't wanted him to think she was a coward. And irrationally, she had sort of wanted him to know about her feelings.

It had changed something. After reading her mind, he had looked at her with something in his eyes that had never been there before.

She could choose to believe his words about blood purity, or his actions that contradicted them. He had kissed her, because he had wanted to, which meant he did find her attractive. At least he was not disgusted by her, didn't consider her dirty because of her blood.

It also seemed he was trying pretty hard to be in denial about her being a Muggle-born, to avoid having to acknowledge that a Muggle-born could be good at magic. Hermione rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. If that was what he wanted to believe... She couldn't bring herself to argue as much as she should have. It would be unbearable to return to the contempt he had shown towards her in the past.

The contempt her son felt towards her, he who thought she was an inferior creature with filthy blood who was unworthy of magic, no matter how many times he saw her do a spell better than him.

Thinking of the devil...

"Look – there's the Mudblood," said a drawling voice, familiar but lacking the maturity, the refined sophistication of his. "And she has ditched her sidekicks, how shocking."

"Everyone knows she has no life, but what's this?" Pansy Parkinson said gleefully, tugging her hand out of Draco Malfoy's and creeping closer to Hermione. "Resorting to daydreams, Granger?" she said with a shrill laugh reminiscent of Bellatrix Lestrange's.

"Knowledge is enough," Hermione said with a grin. Not even the school's worst bullies could ruin this day for her. Or this week. Or this year.

Knowing what she did now, she looked at Draco Malfoy with a fresh eye, seeing the cracks in his arrogance, and felt pity. It was going to be hard for him to grow up so suddenly, thrust into a war after a sheltered, pampered life.

If only he knew... she imagined what his reaction would be to what had really happened between her and his father at the Ministry, and she almost burst into laughter.

She ignored Parkinson, and spoke only to him. "If you mean to make me doubt my place in the wizarding world like you've been trying to do since first year, you're wasting your time. That's never going to work again, if it ever did."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She couldn't hold back a giggle this time. "Look, I understand you were spoiled, but it's time to grow up and see the real world. I'm better than you are at magic; that's a fact." Even your father admits it.

His face turned red. "I'm not spoiled and you are not better than me at anything!"

"Draco, should I turn the Mudblood's hair into snakes? It would be an improvement."

Hermione graced Pansy with a lofty, falsely sweet smile. "Have you seen Marietta Edgecombe's makeover? Would you like one of your own, Pansy?"

The look of horror on Parkinson's face was priceless.

*

She read the Dark Arts book long into the night behind the closed curtains of her bed. It seemed surreal that days ago she would have used the same curtains to hide herself from her dormmates' view while she cried about not being good enough, about being nothing but a Mudblood at whom he would never look twice.

At some point she fell asleep, still clutching the book.

The dream that awaited her was far from restful.

Voldemort, his face bone white and his eyes red as blood, exactly as Harry had described, was laughing. At his feet lay Harry's unmoving body.

"No, no, no... Harry!"

Tears streaming down her face, she fell to her knees next to Harry and frantically searched for a pulse. She touched his face, his neck. Slid her hands under his robes, over his heart, hoping against hope that it still beat.

But Harry's heart was still and silent. Silenced forever.

A sob caught in her chest. It was her own heart dying, shattering under a fatal blow, and she knew nothing would repair it, nothing could ever lessen the agony of losing her best friend.

Cold laughter. Voldemort.

"Isn't this ironic? Just like his parents, just like another saviour... Harry Potter's downfall was trusting a friend."

She remembered that Voldemort had spent his childhood in a Muggle orphanage back when many of them were still run by the church.

"Lord Voldemort thanks you, Mudblood. Perhaps there is something to Dumbledore's drivel about the power of love. It has certainly served me well this time."

Hermione woke up screaming.

"What? What's going on?" Parvati said fearfully. "Has there been an attack?"

Lavender, though, was merely annoyed. "You've interrupted my beauty sleep. If I get wrinkles, it will be your fault."

As much as she desperately wanted, needed to tell someone, it couldn't be them, the worst gossipers in the school after Pansy Parkinson. "Just – just had a dreadful nightmare. I'm sorry for waking you."

Feeling like she couldn't stand to be in the dormitory a moment longer, she almost ran down the staircase into the dark, deserted common room. The fire in the hearth was long dead, and the torches had been turned off for the night. It was pitch black.

"Couldn't sleep?" a voice spoke out of the darkness, startling Hermione, who flinched violently.

That was Ginny's voice, and it wasn't friendly.

"Nightmare." Hermione could barely speak. Her teeth were chattering. She felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with physical temperature.

The nightmare had made her realise what she could have caused by underestimating the danger of Voldemort getting the prophecy because of her contempt for Divination. She had been extremely lucky that the prophecy had contained no new, practical information Voldemort could use to hurt Harry.

"Really?" Ginny said, still in that hard voice. "Do tell."

"Harry dead. Voldemort victorious. My fault."

"Were you really under the Imperius?"

Hermione knew Ginny wasn't asking about the nightmare.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth. She couldn't. For Harry's sake, she couldn't tell the truth. Not to Ginny, who wouldn't hesitate to tell Harry. She couldn't cause him such pain. "Yes."

"Don't think I can't guess why you refuse to tell anyone who cast it."

Hermione said nothing.

"And you still – you – how can you?"

"Love isn't a choice, Ginny."

Hermione curled up in an armchair by the window to wait for the sun to rise. She knew what she had to do.

She couldn't tell Ginny the truth, but she needed to tell someone. Anyone. Anyone she could be sure wouldn't let Harry find out. Not a gossiper like Parvati or Lavender, and no one with a personal grudge, which excluded every member of the Weasley family. Someone with discretion, with wisdom, whose advice she could count on.

Professor McGonagall came to mind; she was a mentor to Hermione, but only in academics. McGonagall would be shocked and disappointed by her actions; she would judge her harshly, like a proper Gryffindor, and punish her because it was right. Hermione needed to tell the truth, to confess her crime, to someone who would at least listen to the whole story before passing judgment. Why didn't the wizarding world have therapists?

A force more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature...

When you are ready, I will be expecting you.

Yes. She needed to talk to someone like Professor Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

"Miss Granger, please sit down."

She perched nervously on the edge of one of the plush chairs facing the Headmaster's desk, clenching her shaking hands tightly on her lap.

"Would you like a lemon drop?"

Hermione shuddered as he offered her the bowl of tooth-rotting concoction of sugar and acid. "No, thank you. I don't eat sweets."

"Pity. They are among my favourite of life's little pleasures."

"My parents are dentists, sir. They would be quite horrified if I suddenly started ignoring everything they taught me about caring for my teeth."

"Ah, but in the wizarding world, repairing teeth is much simpler and less painful than the Muggle science of dentistry. Such indulgence therefore has a far lesser price."

She blushed at the reminder that there still were things she tended to forget because she hadn't been raised in the wizarding world.

"Is there something you wished to discuss, Miss Granger?"

"I... yes, professor, there is. It's about that night at the Department of Mysteries..."

He nodded, as if he already knew. Maybe he did. But it did not excuse her from doing what she knew was right.

She had come prepared to confess her crime, and possibly condemn herself to a fate she considered worse than death, because it was the right thing to do and she was a Gryffindor and proud of it.

Dumbledore held up his hand. "Before we continue, please allow me to inform you of what occurred after your escapade at the Ministry of Magic."

Hermione sat back in her chair, ducking her head.

"I was lucky enough in my timing to find Lord Voldemort in the Atrium when I entered it. Invisibility spells, no matter how powerful, do not fool me, you understand. I engaged him in a duel to stall him until the arrival of the Minister, who was being woken at an ungodly hour by my messengers.

"Now, it is conceivable that the shock of seeing Lord Voldemort with his own eyes after believing him quite dead would have altered the Minister's opinions on some matters. When I spoke to him in his office a short time afterwards, he seemed more amenable to my suggestions than he had been for some time, and this was a predictable consequence of witnessing Lord Voldemort's continuing survival.

"However, imagine my surprise when, before I even had the opportunity to open my mouth, I was treated to a resolute defence of you and your friends, Miss Granger, and a plea that the group of you not be expelled from Hogwarts nor otherwise punished for your actions."

He gazed at her over his half-moon spectacles. There was no reprobation in his expression, only a thoughtful curiosity. "After the Minister's atrocious treatment of Harry this year, I thought it quite strange."

Hermione almost squirmed in her chair. "Very strange, professor." She managed to keep her face neutral.

"One must never give up hope, but I find it unlikely that our Minister has finally learned to think for himself. There is a saying in the Muggle world about old dogs and new tricks, if my memory is not deceiving me." He looked at her questioningly.

Hermione nodded, unable to prevent a slight smile of amusement.

Dumbledore smiled back, his sky-blue eyes twinkling shrewdly. "I suspect you hold the missing piece of the puzzle that is our Minister's sudden change of heart. Would you be kind enough to share it? After all, as the Muggles believe, confession is good for the soul."

She took a deep breath. "Minister Fudge is just doing what he has always done: letting his advisors tell him what to think. Someone he trusts interceded for us instead of against us, for a change."

"And why would this person have done so?"

"Because... because I asked him to, and because he owes me a debt, of sorts, for a... a favour I did for him. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, professor."

He nodded gravely, as if she had confirmed something he already suspected. "May I assume this advisor the Minister trusts is a Death Eater?"

"Yes, professor. You already know, don't you?"

"You have many skills, Miss Granger, but Occlumency is not among them. Continue with your story, please."

"I... what I meant to tell you is... I lied, professor. The Death Eaters didn't force me to give them the prophecy. I wasn't under the Imperius Curse, nor was I Confunded or coerced in any way."

There was no surprise on Dumbledore's face. He was listening attentively, his expression calm. He gestured with his hand as if to say, go on.

"It was my idea to make Harry give me the prophecy, and I gave it to Lucius Malfoy of my free will. Am I going to be expelled?" She wanted to cringe at the very idea. It was still, in her opinion, a fate worse than death.

"What reason would there be for you to be expelled? I am certain that you know the Hogwarts school rules nearly as well as I do. So tell me, have you committed an expulsion-worthy violation of the school rules?"

There were few: failing all exams or directly or indirectly killing a fellow student.

"No, I haven't. But then..." She felt a twinge of visceral fear. There was only one thing worse than expulsion: Azkaban. "Am I going to be arrested?"

"That would require that you have broken one of the Ministry's laws. As I have informed you, the Minister is determined not to prosecute any of the property destruction caused by yourself and your friends at the Department of Mysteries."

"I helped the Death Eaters. That's a serious crime."

"Only if the person you helped is proven in a court of law to be a Death Eater. Fortunately for you, no one has ever been able to accomplish that," Dumbledore said wryly. He gave her a contemplative look. "I have never known you to be a foolish witch, Miss Granger. I am certain you had a good reason for your actions."

"I did it to save his life. The other Death Eaters thought Voldemort was going to kill him if he didn't get the prophecy. I couldn't let that happen, sir. I – I love him."

The words seemed to hang ominously, shamefully in the air. She stared at the floor.

"I am not angry with you, Miss Granger, nor am I disappointed."

She looked up in confusion.

"Do not misunderstand me. I disapprove of your actions; helping Lord Voldemort, no matter how indirectly, is foolish and reprehensible. However, one must consider the motive behind the action. In your case, there could not have been a purer motive.

"You behaved as a true Gryffindor in a situation with no easy way out. To borrow an expression from the Muggles, you were placed between a rock and a hard place, forced to choose between two people you care about. Any choice you could have made placed either of them in great danger.

"In such a situation, making any choice at all takes great courage. You opted for the choice that in your estimation carried the lesser risk – a mature reasoning most wizards and witches your age would not have been capable of. Many are not capable of it at any age.

"You followed your heart. That, Miss Granger, goes a long way towards excusing your actions."

"But it was dishonest. I tricked Harry."

"Sometimes," Dumbledore said gravely, "doing what is right requires that we resort to distasteful, unethical methods. Despite the technicalities, what you did was an act of kindness and selfless courage. An act that may, perhaps, have consequences you did not imagine at the time. Consequences we will all be thankful for."

"What do you mean, professor?"

"You have researched, have you not, the ideology behind pure-blood supremacist movements such as the Death Eaters?"

She did not even question how he knew. Dumbledore was an amazing wizard. He knew everything.

"I wanted to understand the discrimination against Muggle-borns..."

"Quite reasonable. One would have simply assumed you were following the wise Muggle saying 'know thine enemy', if you hadn't focused your research on the past and family of one Death Eater rather than all of them."

She blushed.

"Tell me, Miss Granger, based on what you discovered in your research, why do the Death Eaters support Lord Voldemort's extremist goals?"

"Because they believe Muggles and Muggle-borns are inferior."

"Exactly. And why do they believe this? What are ingredients that give rise to prejudice?"

"Ignorance," she said quickly, thrilled that he was testing her knowledge and expecting her to be able to meet the challenge. "Fear of the unknown. They don't know anything about Muggles other than what's in wizarding history books... even the Muggle Studies textbook is full of outdated rubbish."

She clapped her hand to her mouth, mortified, realising she had implicitly insulted a professor. But Dumbledore looked amused, and just indicated to continue.

"The Death Eaters don't know any Muggles or Muggle-borns, or they would have seen they aren't so different from pure-blood witches and wizards," she said, and her eyes widened in realisation, grasping the point Dumbledore had been guiding her towards with clever pointed questions, in true Socratic style. "So when I helped Mr Malfoy, when I risked everything to save his life, I challenged everything he thought he knew about Muggle-borns."

"Indeed, there could not have been a more powerful attack upon his beliefs. I suspect he shall find it more difficult to scorn selflessness and bravery when he is the one benefiting from them, or to see Muggle-borns as less than human when it was the kindness of a Muggle-born that spared him the wrath of Lord Voldemort, providing assistance when he most needed it."

"But professor, I think he has decided to see me as an exception, rather than change his beliefs about Muggle-borns in general. He has convinced himself I can't be a Muggle-born. He used Legilimency on me, and what he saw made him realise how good I am at magic. He thinks it must mean I have wizard ancestors. I..." she looked down, embarrassed, "I should have argued more."

"A predictable denial, flimsy enough to be eroded by nothing more than the passing of time. The day will come when he will no longer be able to close his eyes to the truth of your blood status, but you must have patience, Miss Granger. It takes time to move mountains, and it takes longest of all to move mountains of the mind.

"You shall also find that having a Death Eater of such high rank owe a wizard's debt to you may provide benefits when you least expect it," Dumbledore said shrewdly. "If what I remember about Lucius Malfoy still holds true, his view on such matters is quite old-fashioned. Whereas most wizards nowadays would minimise the importance of such a debt, he will seek to free himself from it by returning the favour. This may come to mean a substantial advantage in the war against Voldemort that may even, in the end, be more than worth the loss of the prophecy."

Hermione's eyes widened, a desperate hope rising within her. "You really think so, professor? You think he might help the Light side?"

"That, only time will tell us, Miss Granger. But I can guarantee it will not be in Voldemort's interest to have followers indebted to a friend of Harry Potter."

"Professor... I asked Mr Malfoy why he followed Voldemort. He said the question is moot because those who join the Death Eaters and then change their minds are murdered. Do you think... Could he have meant that he no longer really wants to follow Voldemort and would defect if he could?"

"It is a valid possibility. We must never give up hope."

On this, Hermione and Dumbledore agreed perfectly. Some would call them idealistic, but it was just part of who they were. They believed in giving chances and always trying to see the best in people.

"Sir... Harry can't know what I did. It would hurt him terribly. It's the last thing he needs now, on top of what the prophecy says. He's still trying to come to terms with that."

"I agree," Dumbledore said sombrely. "You must keep this a secret from Harry for his own good. No matter how much you may wish to be truthful with him and ask for his forgiveness, you must refrain from doing so at this time, for his sake.

"You have more questions, I presume. Oh, no, an inquisitive nature is nothing to be ashamed of. To the contrary, it is those who do not ask questions who stagnate in their ignorance. Ask, please."

"It's just... I don't... sir, how can you be so understanding? Mr Malfoy has done terrible things. It is wrong of me to love him. How can you not judge me?"

"Love makes fools of the best and brightest of us. It is a lesson I learned personally." He gazed at her in a way that made her feel X-rayed. "I believe," he said slowly, "it is appropriate that I now tell you a story from my own past. You must have wondered why I have no known companion, nor have I ever had one..."

True, history books didn't mention Dumbledore ever being married or having a romantic relationship with anyone. Hermione couldn't deny it had stirred her curiosity.

From a cabinet behind his desk, he withdrew an obsidian stone bowl etched with runes. Hermione could read the ones on the side facing towards her: kenaz,dagaz, ethel, ansuz. Knowledge, clarity, preservation, insight. This had to be the Pensieve she had heard about from Harry.

At a tap of Dumbledore's strange, bone-like wand, a translucent, ghostlike image rose out of the bowl like smoke from a fire. It depicted a pair of young wizards holding hands.

One she instantly recognised as a younger Dumbledore, despite the lack of spectacles, the straight nose, and the waist-length auburn hair.

The other wizard had curly golden-blond hair and a devilish grin filled with a darker, more dangerous brand of mischief than the Weasley twins'. It reminded her of Lucius Malfoy's malice when he was making a cruel joke at someone's expense. The wizard's posture also reminded her a little of Mr Malfoy: it seemed as if he was looking down at the whole world with contempt. Hermione was almost sure this was a Dark wizard.

"When I was your age, I was in many ways like you, Miss Granger."

Hermione snapped abruptly out of her fascinated observation of the mysterious blond wizard. Her? Here was the greatest wizard of modern times, and he was comparing himself to her?

"A Gryffindor; best in my class; my school marks broke records. I was precocious and brilliant, an intellectual who valued pursuits of the mind over those of the heart. And so I was woefully unprepared for my first foray into the realm of romantic love. I fell hard and fast, with catastrophic consequences, for the worst possible candidate, but also the only possible candidate: the one person who was truly my match, my equal in intellect, talent, and power. A young wizard who had been as much of a prodigy at Durmstrang as I was at Hogwarts."

Hermione stiffened in surprise, thinking of Viktor... and of what his school was renowned for: its in-depth teaching of the Dark Arts. So she had guessed right: the young blond man was a Dark wizard.

"Whereas the branch of magic that was my specialty was Transfiguration, his was –"

"Dark magic?" she couldn't resist volunteering the answer she had guessed.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. We were as similar as we were different, as two opposite poles of the same planet. And if we stood together, dark and light united in pursuit of a common goal and a shared passion for magic, we could have been an unstoppable force for change. Together, with our exceptional minds and magical talents, no force, no institution, no opponent could have stood against us. We were going to transform the wizarding world and its relationship with the Muggles."

He closed his eyes. "It was, of course, nothing more than youthful foolishness, a brief departure from sanity. Two months of madness ending in tragedy, followed by a lifetime of regret, grief, and shame."

"What happened?" she asked sympathetically.

She could imagine how someone who was as much of a light wizard as Dumbledore, and so magically powerful, would clash with a Dark wizard of, as it sounded, a similar power level. Their fights had to be terrifying to behold.

An unbelievable suspicion stirred at the back of her mind as she began to put together the puzzle pieces Dumbledore had given her and what she had read about wizarding history. But Hermione dismissed the conclusion towards which her deductive reasoning pointed. It was too farfetched, too scandalous. It couldn't possibly be true.

"Our goals did not match as perfectly as we had assumed, naively, in the excitement of young passion. You see, my Dark friend believed wizards were innately superior to Muggles, and he wanted us to rule the Muggles openly instead of hiding from them. For a time, to my great shame, I agreed."

He bowed his head and momentarily hid his face in his bony hands, while Hermione stared at him with wide eyes.

"He had the unique ability, by his mere presence, to bring forth the very worst in me, and it was an enthralling experience. Had he not fled, I question whether I could have found the will to walk away from him.

"In my arrogance and naivety, I was seduced by his vision of a magical utopia, wizards ruling benevolently over the Muggles like some sort of gods, a welfare state providing magical solutions to the evils of poverty, disease, and violence. A perfect world; happiness for all, miraculously engineered by magic... by us, the two most powerful wizards of our generation."

Hermione gasped. Albus Dumbledore, a former pure-blood supremacist?

But you're a half-blood, she wanted to say.

But so was Voldemort. It meant nothing.

"However, as I would later find out, my partner in this egomaniacal fantasy had darker plans for the Muggles. His prejudice did not end at merely looking down upon them in condescension. He hated them, and found pleasure in their suffering. So when a great war broke out among them, he saw it as an opportunity to eliminate many of them without the risk of it being traced back to him. He hid his disgust for the Muggles and allied himself with the worst Muggle of all, providing magical protection and assistance to help this Muggle remain in power and survive many heroic attempts at ending his life and his carnage, which numbered in millions.

"My former friend thought it a brilliant scheme, culling the Muggle population to make it easier for wizards to control. Of course, by this time, I had not been in contact with him in decades, ever since a tragedy in my family that had been precipitated by his curse-happy disposition."

Hermione stared, too shocked to even ask questions. She had studied wizarding and Muggle history and how they intersected during the second World War. She knew who was the Dark wizard Dumbledore was talking about. There was only one possibility.

She could not believe her ears.

"Even at the height of his power, he never attempted to conquer Britain, because he knew I would be waiting to meet him at the shore, to end his campaign of terror once and for all. I was the only one with the power to do so. We were equally matched still, as we always had been. He did not come, and I...

"I was aghast at the mass suffering he was enabling and causing, and yet I dallied, longer than conscionable by any standards, while innocents were dying every day, before traveling to the continent to confront him. A cowardly delay for which I shall never forgive myself.

"Even as I fought him as an enemy, and defeated him, and no matter how much blood stained his hands, or how many decades passed, to my utmost shame, I never stopped loving him." He raised his hand to his chest, over his heart, as if making a vow. "And as long as my soul exists in this world or in any other, I never shall.

"Such is the frightful, wonderful power of love, the greatest and most terrible magic of all. I hope, Miss Granger, that your love for a Dark wizard will have a happier ending."

Hermione blinked away tears. "That was so sad. I'm so sorry, sir."

"I appreciate your sympathy."

She didn't ask who the Dark wizard was. Dumbledore had told the story with enough detail that left no doubt as to his identity: Gellert Grindelwald.

"You understand now why, ever since my first experience, I have kept a strict distance from entanglements of the heart."

"But that's such a long time to be alone. It must be awful! How can you stand the loneliness?"

He smiled sadly. "The same way you can, Miss Granger. The same way we all learn to, when our hearts choose to long for the unattainable. We fill the space with other pursuits, intellectual ones in my case. The quest for collecting and sharing knowledge, activism for worthy causes, the comforting joys of friendship, of culture, music and the arts."

And Hermione was overcome with an overwhelming sympathy for this great wizard, so powerful, so admired, so kind, yet so sad and lonely on the pedestal where his knowledge and power had trapped him far above everyone else in the world. He was brilliant and wise, tolerant and understanding even of his enemies. So then why...

"Professor, why does Mr Malfoy hate you so much?"

"Ah, I believe that would be due to a combination of ideological and personal reasons. One would assume he does not appreciate my stance on Muggle rights and so-called purity of blood. But I am afraid he did not begin to display such antagonism towards me until his seventh year at Hogwarts. It appears he was unable to forgive my selection of Amos Diggory instead of him for the position of Head Boy."

"Oh." Hermione had to smile at that. It did sound like Mr Malfoy to perceive such a thing as a personal slight and to keep a grudge for so long.

"I trust that I need not remind you the information about my past that I have shared with you today is for your ears only. It would become a dangerous weapon in the hands of Lord Voldemort and the Ministry."

"I promise, professor, your secrets are safe with me. Would you like a magical oath?"

"Shall I assume you are not referring to the Unbreakable Vow, as it requires a third party as bonder?"

Hermione looked away contritely. Other oaths of secrecy were Dark magic. "I..."

Dumbledore gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Lucius Malfoy is mistaken in believing it possible to hoodwink the defences Hogwarts has against Dark material being mailed to students. But I suspect you shall need this forbidden knowledge in the coming times. In your capable hands, I have no fear of it being used for evil.

"There is no need for oaths today, Miss Granger. Your word is sufficient for me. You are a witch of honour, a credit to the House of Gryffindor."

Hermione's cheeks warmed at the praise, but she felt she didn't deserve it. "I lied to Harry. There was no honour in that."

"Your remorse is to your credit, but do not let it consume you. When there is no ideal solution, when the choice is between two evils, when the best we can do is take the path that leads to lesser harm, it takes great strength of character not to be shattered by our decisions. It is strength that I am confident you possess."

"I'm not so sure, sir. I had a nightmare last night about what could have happened if I had misjudged the risks. If I'd been wrong in my assumptions about the prophecy..."

"And that is the difference between us and Lord Voldemort: that we doubt ourselves, and are haunted by our choices. It is not that we are incapable of making unpleasant choices when we must."

She remembered Mr Malfoy's cryptic smile when she had said, I just did what had to be done. "He – Mr Malfoy said something similar. He remarked on how pragmatic I was. He seemed surprised by it."

"Few wizards and witches learn so young that sometimes our methods matter less than our goals. Certain ends are important enough to justify that we resort to questionable means to achieve them."

"The greater good," she whispered.

Dumbledore seemed to flinch, his gaze breaking away from hers. It was shocking to see a wizard over a century older than her look away in shame from her.

She said hesitantly, "It was in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. Grindelwald's slogan..."

"One of my contributions to his ideology," Dumbledore confessed grimly, staring down at his desk. "His every use of it felt like a well-earned slap in my face. You do not judge me, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir. Everyone makes mistakes. You were young; you didn't know anything about Muggles..."

"No one can ever judge me as harshly as I judge myself."

"That's not fair. You didn't know what he was going to do. No one can see the future, not even you, sir."

"I should have known. I was the most brilliant wizard of my time, even then. Many called me a prodigy of previously unseen talents, a new Merlin. My mind was sharp enough to know, but it was my heart that blinded me."

"Sir, like you just said, your remorse does you credit, but don't let it consume you."

That startled a chastised smile out of him. "You are quite right, Miss Granger. Thank you. Sometimes we need the young to remind us of the obvious, just as they need us to learn from our experience." He stood up with a rustling of his flamboyant robes, and clasped her hand in both of his. "Do not repeat my mistakes, Miss Granger," he said with suppressed urgency. "Do not let your heart blind you to the true nature of the one you love."

Hermione didn't think she needed the warning. She didn't think she would ever be able to forget about Lucius Malfoy's true nature when he kept shoving it in her face like a badge of honour, proudly demonstrating at every opportunity how much he liked power and the Dark Arts.

"I honestly don't think that's a possibility, professor."