Disclaimer: The characters, settings and various other elements unique to the Harry Potter series are of course the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. Their use in the following story is purely for recreational purposes and not at all intended for commercial use or gain.

Chapter 1: The Walking Lie

She was haunted; not by a ghost per se or even in the metaphorical sense by a memory. It wasn't your typical chain-rattling, bone-chilling haunt. It was much more subtle than that. Sometimes she doubted that it was actually occurring. Sometimes she thought that she'd simply made it up. It was, after all, hard to believe. Hermione was being haunted by herself.

She stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was at times like these when she was deep in thought that her old, familiar self surfaced. Hermione Granger, the finest witch of her age, the quick-thinking, sharp-witted and occasionally sharp-tongued Gryffindor, bubbled up inside threatening to betray her.

She stood and crossed to the mirror. She had to be sure. If she could feel that girl inside her, wouldn't it seep through? Wouldn't they see it in her eyes? Wouldn't it warp her facial expressions? Wouldn't it bleed through the pores of her skin?

The mirror's answer was short and definitive. No. As she looked at her reflection there was no trace of that girl. The bushy brown hair and the clever brown eyes were gone. The polyjuice had done its work. The potion wouldn't fail her. Snape had seen to that. The only one who could fail her was her self.

It was August and the summer was growing old. After nearly two months straight of living as someone else, she was beginning to forget certain things; her habits for one. They had changed out of necessity. The change in habits had been practically the hardest part. Hermione was a creature of habit.

Harry knew her habits and so did Ron. They could list them easily, ticking them off on the fingers of one hand. There was the constant reading and scurrying off to the library, the scribbling furiously in class, and the annoying knack she had for supplying an answer—sometimes even before the question was asked. All of these things were tell-tale signs of Hermione, so she'd hidden them away. But now she was beginning to forget them.

Perhaps even worse than forgetting was when her habits crept back to the surface unannounced and uninvited. It was as if her former self skulked in the shadows waiting for the opportunity to rise up and claim her. It stalked her waking moments. It shadowed her dreams. It haunted her.

The approaching end of summer meant some relief. Her time at the manor was drawing to a close. Once back at Hogwarts she could return to being Hermione, at least for some days. But that was not without its complications. When she wasn't living as Imogene she still had to maintain Imogene as a separate entity.

It was a complicated bit of magic that allowed the two girls to "co-exist." There was of course, the sleight-of-hand of the polyjuice potion, which altered Hermione's features and voice. There was also the Time-Turner, which allowed her to slip back and forth through time, sometimes as herself, sometimes as Imogene, to sustain the illusion that they were indeed two distinct individuals. But perhaps the most delicate part of the equation was the spellwork.

Hermione had learned under Snape's tutelage to create a double of sorts. It wasn't so much a copy of herself as it was a projection of her consciousness. It was a projection with substance, however, made to look and feel as Imogene should. Snape had explained that it was a kind of golem, a being traditionally composed of inanimate material activated by her consciousness. This "Imogene" could exist in the same time and place as Hermione, but not without taking its toll.

Mostly the golem was an empty double, designed merely to stalk the halls of Hogwarts and strengthen the illusion. So they'd taken a risk using it to introduce Imogene LeCoeur to the school. The haughty exchange student from Beaux Batons had sauntered into the Great Hall at the end of breakfast one morning almost two months before the end of term. It was the saunter that had given Hermione an acute headache. Snape had advised against making the double too distinct; the more unique its appearance and movement, the greater the strain on her concentration. But Hermione had an innate sense of Imogene; she knew that Imogene wasn't Imogene without the saunter.

The walk had worked. Heads turned as she strode in and took her place at the Slytherin table. She ignored the students around her which made her seem aloof and mysterious, but in truth Hermione hadn't yet mastered the art of getting the golem to speak. The focus required for such an act was intense and the first time she'd succeeded it had resulted in a nose bleed.

Harry had looked up to watch the new girl; Ron, too.

"Think she's part Veela, mate?" Ron said.

Harry shrugged.

"If she were I reckon you'd know it."

"What's that mean, then?" Ron asked. He had the sneaking suspicion that his best mate was insulting him. Harry said nothing fully expecting Hermione to explain. When she didn't both boys turned to look at her. She was sandwiched between them on the bench at the Gryffindor table reading silently. There was nothing unusual about that, but she did look slightly pale.

"You okay, Hermione?" asked Ron.

Hermione didn't answer at first. She could feel the golem tugging at her consciousness, demanding her attention. It made it hard to focus on the question that had been asked.

"Fine," Hermione said shortly.

"You sure?" Harry asked. He slipped the book from her hands. It was Hogwarts: A History. He'd known that without even looking. What surprised him was that the book was upside down. Harry glanced up at Hermione, a question forming in his eyes.

Hermione quickly looked away.

"I think she's part Veela," Ron insisted.

It was hard to believe that that conversation had only been months ago. To her it seemed like years. She'd spent the whole summer at the manor without Harry and Ron. No contact. No letters. It was too risky. The longer she stayed, the more distant they seemed. The longer she stayed, the more distant she seemed. Since the start of summer she'd spent every single day as Imogene. It was Hermione Granger who had become the empty double, the phantom of dust and spirit.

Once again she looked in the mirror. She fought down the mild surprise that always accompanied the action. It didn't seem to matter how much time she spent as Imogene. The initial failure to recognize herself unsettled her every time. When recognition finally dawned it did so slowly, leaving her with the queasy sensation of bile rising in her throat. Inevitably she saw Imogene and she didn't like what she saw.

The countenance which met her gaze was striking; black hair, black eyes and pale, pale skin, nearly translucent. It was a curious pallor; wan, white and a little like death. Despite the fact that those dark eyes returned her gaze, she felt oddly detached from the world around her as if she were looking out from behind a smooth, pallid mask at events that were somehow distant and removed. It was a peculiar feeling of apathy. Hermione Granger was going numb.

OOO

Draco treated her with the odd formality that the manor seemed to impose on its residents. It was hard to say what precisely it was about the place that commanded the weighty sense of decorum which hung about the Malfoy ancestral home like bad breath. The building was ancient and peevishly so. It had endured long enough to have the arrogance of old age wrapped about its wizened ramparts like a cloak. The cold draughts of air which gasped through its circuitous halls felt like the dying breaths of a clan elder. A wisdom born of years of existence echoed through its passages, coupled with a certain feudal elegance. Any one of these impressions could have contributed to the sense that somehow the manor exercised its will and it would brook no disobedience from the living it consented to shelter within its walls.

Meals at the manor were formal and rules of dress observed. So it was no wonder that the relations between the two of them were cloaked in a forced courtesy. Draco often referred to her as "Cousin Imogene" which had the effect of setting her at a distance even while it implied kinship. He used the word cousin as a title and like a title it relegated her to a distinct class. Granted it was a class far above mudblood, but it was a class which precluded intimacy. Draco had succeeded even at the level of his own speech to keep her at arm's length for most of the summer.

Cousin Imogene didn't mind the distance, Hermione Granger minded even less, but there were several people who found it increasingly troubling, among them Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and Severus Snape. Lucius and Narcissa had not merely consented to take Imogene into their home, they'd invited her once they'd learned of her participation in the Academic Wizarding Exchange Program offered by the Ministry's Office of Magical Cooperation.

The LeCoeurs were an ancient pureblood wizarding family of English decent who'd recently relocated to France. Like all pureblood families they were tenuously related to the Malfoys in some respect, hence Draco's liberal use of the word cousin in reference to Imogene. The vague blood relation between the two families was not enough to dampen Lucius and Narcissa's intentions. In fact, it had the effect of bolstering them. Imogene, with her fine family pedigree, was an excellent match for their son.

The LeCoeurs were a powerful family and an alliance with them could only benefit the Malfoys. There were few wizarding families worthy of such an alliance. Lucius and Narcissa had briefly entertained the notion of a union with the Parkinsons or the Bulstrodes, but there was something decidedly common about them. Both families were dull and prosaic; it showed in their offspring.

Imogene's breeding and finely wrought features proved her other than dull. She was dark, it was true, a stark contrast to the fair-haired Malfoys, but somehow her coloring only enhanced her austere beauty. The girl had a keen intellect as well, so sharp that it bordered on dangerous, but she lacked the ruthlessness that would allow her to blossom into a true asset for the Dark Lord. It was the only flaw that Lucius could see and a minor one at that. Ruthlessness could be taught.

It was curious then that his son had spent most of the summer avoiding her. Lucius strode across the library and took a seat at the ornate wooden desk which dominated the arched stone alcove on the eastern side of the room. It was late afternoon, the sun just an hour or so from its daily descent below the horizon. As a result very little light shone through the mullioned windows behind the desk leaving Lucius in shadow. The bulk of the remaining daylight bled through the west-facing windows at the opposite end of the room. It lit Draco from behind as he stepped into the library in answer to his father's summons.

Draco walked over to the desk and seated himself in front of it. He and Lucius regarded one another for several moments. It was something they did often, sizing each other up. The silence stretched out into the space of minutes, and the weight and timbre of that silence told Draco that Lucius was clearly displeased with him. That was nothing new. It was often read in the tight curl of his father's lip as he regarded his son.

"Draco," Lucius said, at last acknowledging him.

"Father," he replied.

"Your manners disappoint me."

So that's how it was to be today; the manner subtle, the reprimand protracted but verbal instead of physical. It was clear from the method of approach. Lucius wanted to dally with this business. If Draco sought to hasten the encounter to a close, he would pay dearly for it. He paused a moment, selecting the appropriate reply, one that would allow things to proceed as his father intended.

"My manners need correcting?" he asked drily.

"They are sorely lacking, yes." Lucius offered no additional explanation.

"Is it the picking of my teeth at the dinner table or my penchant for scratching that disappoints you?"

"Don't be glib, Draco, it's unbecoming."

"It was not my intent to be glib, Father. But clearly I'm in need of some guidance if my manners have failed to please you."

Lucius leaned forward, sliding his forearms across the polished wood surface of the desk. It was warm in the library, the air close. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and cuffed them at the elbow. The Dark Mark lay exposed on the underside of his left arm, the inky black skull and serpent on his skin a palpable presence between the two of them

"Yes," Lucius said softly. "There are times when I wonder if you don't take delight in failing me."

"Never, Father." Draco did his best to utter the words earnestly, but he didn't succeed. A hint of bitter sarcasm had crept into his voice. Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"Then you shall remedy the situation with our summer guest."

"Cousin Imogene?"

"I can think of no other."

Draco was silent.

"Don't tell me that you don't find her appealing, Draco. I've seen you watch her, and yet watching is all you do."

Draco's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "She would be nothing more than a diversion."

"And who are you to refuse a diversion?"

Draco's chin snapped up defiantly, but he held his tongue.

"Listen carefully, boy. It is no mistake that we brought her here. You know this and you know what is expected of you." Lucius leaned back in his chair allowing a moment for his words to sink in. It was hardly necessary. The weight of his words fell on Draco's shoulders causing them to sag underneath the burden. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you take some perverse pleasure in avoiding her. But I do know better, don't I?"

"Yes, Father."

"In fact, I know best."

"Of course, Father."

"You won't fail me again?

"No, Father."

Draco watched Lucius carefully, hoping that the litany was at an end. After a moment, Lucius dismissed him with a brief nod of his head. Draco stood and turned to leave the library.

"See that you know her," Lucius said. "See that you do more than watch."

OOO

Hermione touched her wand to the tiny scrap of parchment and murmured the brief spell that reduced the paper to dust. She'd held the parchment a total of 7 seconds, the length of time it took her to read, decode and re-read its message while marveling at the bit of magic which had delivered it into her hands. Communication with the Order had been next to non-existent all summer, but on occasion a slip of parchment would materialize bearing a coded message. The messages were always from Snape, who received information about her progress through a network of spies.

She had no clue as to the identity of the spies—the less she knew the better—but apparently she was being watched at all times. The notion made the tiny hairs of the back of her neck rise up in agitation. Hermione fought down the feeling, however, and turned her thoughts back to the message. It had been concise and curt. She expected nothing less from Snape who was indeed a master of brevity.

You let the boy put you off. Unacceptable. Better to antagonize than to fear him. Better still to appeal to the darkness in him.

The fine dust of the parchment still coated her fingers. The paper was gone, but the message had imprinted itself on her mind, not unlike the residue which clung to her hands.

The message was a call to action. She had let Draco keep his distance because it was easier than the alternative. She had no desire to close the space between them, even though she knew that to be the very reason for this elaborate magical charade. An entire summer spent losing her identity and it would all be in vain if she continued to let him hold her off. The message had been right. Unaccpetable.

Hermione closed her eyes and sat on the bed. She could no longer keep to her room, which had been her sanctuary these past two months. She would have to seek him out and force him to acknowledge her.

There was a muggle saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar. Hermione had never liked it. It discounted vinegar and its effectiveness. The taste of vinegar remained on the tongue long after the cloying sweetness of honey abated. Its bitter flavor was not easily forgotten and it served just as well as honey to drown a fly.

OOO

Draco struggled upward out of sleep. Slowly his senses surfaced. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears; feel the pulse drumming at his temples and at the base of his throat. His heart kicked against his ribs beating a fierce rhythm against his chest. He was sweating, he realized. He hadn't noticed until the air shifted in the room. It skimmed the moisture on his skin leaving a distinct chill in the wake of evaporation. Draco shivered.

He was sitting in bed leaning back on his palms braced flat behind him. There was a sense of urgency responsible for the tension which stiffened his arms and shoulders and tightened his jaw. He didn't understand the urgency. He couldn't remember why, but he was clearly panicked as if he'd woken from a nightmare.

The air moved again, shifting, ceding space to something. A presence.

His wand was in his hand instantly.

"Lumos," he whispered, throat dry. The tip of his wand glowed pale against the darkness. It cast the room in shadows. The objects around him assumed curious shapes. They loomed large and ominous for several moments then receded as his eyes adjusted to the wandlight. There was no one. Draco was alone, but the feeling of a presence remained.

Suddenly exhaustion seemed to overtake him. His body felt heavy, leaden. He lost his grip on his wand. The light faded and he heard the wand clatter to the floor. Draco rocked back on his palms fighting the exhaustion, but it was a fight he would lose. The weight set to his hands shifted as his elbows sagged to the mattress. A moment later they slipped out from under him and he was flat on his back, breath slow, eyes barely open.

There was something he was trying to remember. There was someone. He couldn't think any longer. Something brushed his face. His conscious mind released its already tenuous hold on wakefulness and gave way to sleep.

OOO

Hermione was gripping the bedpost with her free hand. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her wand was clutched tightly in her other hand, its surface slick from her damp fingers. Her head throbbed. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat. It had been a bad idea. She hadn't conjured the golem all summer; there'd been no need for a double here at the manor. She shouldn't have done it.

She was having trouble remembering why she'd decided to do it in the first place. There was the ostensible reason that she'd sent her double to spy on Draco. Hermione could use the double's ears and eyes, even its fingers to gather information. It carried her consciousness without her physically being present. It had seemed like a fairly low-risk undertaking. If the double were in danger of being caught, she'd simply end the spell causing it to vanish.

But something had gone wrong. She'd seen him stirring through the double's eyes. Hermione let her concentration slip, the surest way to end the spell, but the golem had remained. Even now she felt it drawing on her consciousness despite her efforts to extinguish it. It was still in his room.

It had taken every last ounce of Hermione's strength to cast the sleeping spell. She'd had no idea if it would work. She'd never tried to cast a spell on a person who wasn't standing in front of her. The double would have to be the conduit.

Hermione had watched Draco slip back into sleep. At the same moment her knees had collapsed and she'd grabbed the bedpost to keep herself upright. It had been a bad idea.

Hermione dragged herself onto the bed and lay panting. She'd been arrogant conjuring the golem when it wasn't needed, using it for her own ends. It was hubris and there would be consequences. She was living them right now. Pain tightened around her head and settled behind her eyes. And the double was still in his room.

The worst of it was that she should've known better. What information could she possibly discover while he was sleeping in his room in the dead of night? Certainly nothing that would help the Order. The only information to be gleaned was that which could feed her girlish curiosity about him, a curiosity that had no place under these circumstances.

Snape had warned her that golem spellwork was not to be trifled with. It was complex magic using one's consciousness to feed false information to others. The will created the illusion and the strength of that will convinced others to accept it. It was no mean feat getting others to accept false information on a sensory level.

The ability was not unheard of. A talented charlatan, a snake oil salesman could talk others into believing a lie wielding carefully chosen words. It took a wizard, however, to transmute verbal trickery into corporeal form; to make the word flesh.

Hermione closed her eyes and fought to control her ragged breathing. She was guilty. She'd conjured a walking, talking, breathing lie that she couldn't extirpate. She could only hope that Draco wouldn't wake and find it there. She could only hope that this walking lie would vanish before dawn.