CHAPTER ONE!!!
PS: Some of you must be very confused...fear not, all the chapters will be back up again soon, I promise.

Hermione was very upset. They were running behind schedule. She ran to the front hall.
"Blaise! We're going to be late! Your hair can wait - work won't!" Hermione shrieked up the stairwell. She resigned to pacing angrily about the landing. Eventually she gave up waiting. She stalked down the hallway, and into the kitchen. At the counter, she smirked a very evil-looking smirk. Revenge would come in the form of cooked bread. Swearing, she realized that it was Blaise who usually got the toaster down for her, since she herself couldn't reach. A quick levitating charm, though, and she was on her way to her small vengeance. As she ate her toast, she mulled over all that had happened during, after the war had ended five years ago, August 1998. To the knowledge of the average wizard citizen, lots had happened. The biggest event though, was the surrender of Voldemort. No one had seen it coming, not even his innermost followers. He had given himself up to the order on the condition that he be institutionalized, instead of jailed, or executed.

The darkest wizard the world had ever seen was in a locked room, calmed with sedatives every four hours, remembering nothing at all of his life before. He had given all of his money to the order to split between the families who had lost lives because of him. His only requests had been taken care of with hidden smirks, and raised eyebrows. "The dark lord formally known as Voldemort" was happy for the first time he could remember (which wasn't very long because of the heavy obliviate charms). He had nothing better to do than watch over his puppy, and a potted orchid named Jeff that he insisted was capable of rational thought.

Before going in to face years of psychological treatment, he had disbanded his death eaters, and ordered them not to run amok making "tom foolery" like they had been for the past several decades. After Voldie turned, all of his death eaters "saw the light" too. They gave up their beloved evil-doing and changed their ways. Although the death eaters turned after their lord told them to, several of his men had already left him. The Malfoys, and Severus Snape had already proven their loyalty to the order, by providing information, and acting as spies. Together, they had given the names of over 40 death eaters, helping catch more than half of Voldemort's men before they had even thought to surrender. Also the dates and places of attacks proved to be so priceless that they all had been hailed as war-heros after the Great Surrender. Celebration was widespread throughout the wizarding world. Drinks were raised wherever there were magical people. Even muggles seemed to notice that a quarter of the world's population was partying nonstop for weeks. There was so much to be overjoyed about that the planet itself seemed to be happy. The grass was greener, the sky was bluer.

What could possibly be taking so long? Hermione thought angrily. She made an intimidating noise at Crookshanks as he settled himself onto the tops of her feet. The large ginger cat promptly took the hint and launched himself off immediately. Hermione sulked in silence. She despised being late, and Blaise thrived off of keeping people waiting. Several minutes later, she heard footfalls on the stairs, and grinned in anticipation. As Blaise sashayed into the kitchen, he eyed Hermione's toast greedily, "Ooh, make me some!" he crowed. She gave him the most Slytherin-worthy smirk that had ever graced her features. Gulping, he winced, he knew that was a bad omen. "No, I don't think so, Bee. We're ten minutes late, and it is very much your fault. Besides," she huffed, brushing him off, " there isn't any bread left." He looked horrified. Making a grab for her plate, he was seconds too late, and she popped the last little corner into her mouth. "Early bird gets the worm." She shrugged, holding in a small chuckle.

They each grabbed a pinch of floo-powder. He threw it into the large kitchen fireplace. "The Potion Pot!" he shouted. Hermione did the same, and followed after him. She stumbled into the back of the shop they shared, and ran into something that distinctly felt like a back. She moved around Blaise to get a better view of his face and saw that he looked ill. "What's wrong Bee? Are you okay?" she asked. He was badly shaken, and as she pulled him over to a chair, she noticed that he was counting on his fingers. "Sweets, what day is it?" an elegant brow arched, and she thought for a moment; "It's the…oh no! It's the thirtieth!" an instant later, she realized what he was alluding to and they shared a terrorized glance. Immediately, she took action; "Go, check the stores. We need at least four more. I'll check for the ingredients. I think there's enough in the cupboard in the back where we keep the special projects" she barked as she took off running.

She ran to a room that accepted only her and Blaise's magical signatures. She nearly pulverized an ornate wooden desk, rummaging around through the drawers and making an unsightly mess. She found a long list. Ransacking a manifold of different cupboards, she got things from each and grabbed everything Blaise would need for brewing the difficult brew. Just as she finished, he ran into the room. His face was flushed, and he was carrying four vials of a blue-purple potion. "We've got just enough. I'll work on making more. You get these to Him. Stay with him a bit to make sure he takes at least the first one. If you can, administer it to him yourself. He trusts you, and certainly likes you more than those healers. Now quick! Run, love, run!" he thrust the vials into her arms and shoved her towards the fireplace. She flung a small pinch of floo-powder into it. In seconds she was at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies.

After being checked in by the plump and rather useless looking security wizard, she ran to the hodge-podge sixth floor. Quickly, she strode to the stark white halls of the institution cell zone, where many victims of permanent iillness were held in rooms that resembled suites rather than cells. The zone had been installed to St. Mungo's when the war had started, and the death eaters began using threats of tortured insanity as blackmail. They had invented spells that gave the victim incurable muggle diseases that wizards were usually incapable of transmitting: such as epilepsy, autism, mental retardation, and many forms of insanity. It was even more incredibly cruel and devastating, because the diseases were given to people who thought it to be scientifically impossible for them to get.

The elderly witch on duty at the medical station saw her coming a mile away. "Oh!" she exclaimed, checking the wall clock; "dear, you're rather late. You better run and go give it to him. Hurry gal, there's no time to waste!". Seconds later Hermione was running down the halls of the zone, time a raging bitch behind her. As she reached room 307, where He was kept, she felt its extensive layers of wards and locking spells. She murmured a stream of complex incantations to temporarily remove these, then walked as she had done many times before.

"Good morning, Tom!" she called out. She looked around the ritzy room that could hardly be called a cell. It was really quite nice - the room was mostly white, with trim colors of khaki and lightest green. Planned with an extremely-messed-up-sedated-insomniac in mind; it was plain, but bright and airy, and had a lively, cheery mood to it. The only things in the sparsely decorated room were cabinets that held games and toys. Because the healers had had to do such an extensive mind block, he had lost a significant amount of IQ points; dropping him to just about the same number as Ronald Weasley. She waited for Tom to call back, and tell her where he was. She didn't really have the desire or the time to play hide and seek, one of his favorite games. After waiting on an asparagus coloured chair for several moments, she called out again. "Tom? Where are you, Tom?", When no reply came she ran down the hall and flung open the doors of his room, only to breathe a sigh of relief when she found that he was still safe in captivity. She joined him at his desk where he sat with a glassy-eyed stare. Several seconds of waiting provoked no response, and so she gently poked him with the tip of her wand, while remaining the regulated safe distance of .5 metres away.

"Tom! Tom, are you okay?" Again, she received no response. Just as she was about to run back to the healer station, she felt a tug at the back of her dress. She looked down to see a Tom she hardly recognized. He was staring at her, his eyes completely dilated, his skin pale and ashen, his expression spacey and weird. Barely missing her backhand, he rasped out something that made her stop open mouthed. His voice was several pitches lower than normal, wheezy, and spoken with what sounded like a raw, sore throat.

"Soon it will come. Though the adopted snake has been in waiting, so too has its dark counterpart. There will be many whose hands will be tricked into their own fate. Shame, SHAME on the gilded betrayer, the angelic traitor, the pure deciever. You know your crimes and you must pay your dues! You must face the truth! TELL THEM!!!" this last piece was screamed repeatedly, "TELL THEM OR THEY WILL FIND OUT AND YOU WILL FACE THEIR RAGE!!!" Hermione stood open mouthed for many moments, memorizing every word he had said. The dark lord formally known as Voldemort had just had a prophetic experience, and it chilled her to the bone.

Realizing that he should be back to normal by now she looked frantically trying to find him. She glanced at the bed, and there he was, staring at her. "Hullo Hermione. You've been standing there for quite a while, you know. Did you want something, or are you just here to chat? I really haven't had a good chat since you came to visit me a few days ago." He looked at her knowingly and gave a sad smile. "Ah, it's time for my medications isn't it? Well come here, you, I just happen to have a tablespoon handy." Still stunned, she moved slowly to his side, draining the entire first vial into his open mouth. As he drained it down, she turned her focus back on and began to give him instructions.

"Alright Tom, you know the deal. This first vial will only last a little while. Every four hours I want you to drink another, okay? Can I trust you to do that, or would you like me to give these to the healer to take care of?" He shook his head and took the bottles, placing them with great care on his bedside table. He was very grateful for having made Hermione as a friend. She was kind to him, when no one else would be. Sure, he was so doped up he couldn't remember two days ago, but he knew that she was the only one that hadn't spoken coldly to him.

She had never acted like he was a bad person, or had acted like she obviously didn't like him; she spoke to him as an equal. That was what he respected most about her. He didn't know that she had been his most hated enemy once. He didn't know that she had been a member of the organization that led to his downfall. He didn't know that she had been the one whose plan to slip him depressants in his food had been the straw to break his back. He didn't even know that her blood-status was one that had formerly disgusted and repulsed him. He also didn't know (and she didn't either yet) that she was the successor of Kingsly Shacklebolt, the leader of The Order of the Phoenix. But aside from what he didn't know, he did know that she was kind, compassionate, and the smartest witch he knew. He liked her because she was the only person who didn't seem to hate him. He knew, though, that even if she didn't hate him he would never have a chance with this miraculous young (YOUNG) witch. So he did what allowed him to do all the evil he had done before. He pushed the real feelings to the back of his brain, stored in a locked cabinet, replacing them with innocent feelings of brotherly friendship. Creepy, I know, but that's how some of the greatest minds work.

A while later found her resting in an armchair near his bedside. Tom was asleep. He had set his alarm to wake him up in a few hours. He knew that it was the superlative degree of importance that he take the potion at the right time. She had told him that if he wanted a good sleep, he could take up to two vials at a time, and simply take another in eight hours, but he had steadfastly insisted that he would be consistent, which had relieved her worry. She tip-toed over to the bed, staring at his sleeping figure. Reaching down, she brushed the hair out of his face. When he had any, his hair was quite nice and soft. After being one of his caretakers for the past three years, he was like a young charge to her. She stroked the side of his face. Without even realizing she was speaking out loud, she murmured softly: "Sleep well...Tom. I really do want the best for you." She smiled down on his sleeping form, and left.

What she didn't know was that Tom was not exactly asleep. He felt himself blush furiously, and clutched his stuffed ostrich tightly. He was thankful that she had begun to go, but sad to see her leave at the same time. He hadn't been left with enough developed cranial neurons to understand this feeling. She had been one his adoptive caretakers and had come in to see him nearly four times a week. He knew she cared about him, but in a friendly way. What was this complete adoration and neediness that squeezed his chest? He couldn't hide it from himself; he had a crush on his "sister-figure". He mulled over it for a bit, occasionally wondering whether or not he was a pedophile. He then stopped to wonder what a pedophile was. All he knew for sure was that it sounded rather bad, and he was quite certain he didn't want to be one.

As unkind as cold rain, the sudden epiphany that his hand was the most lovvin' he was going to get anytime soon brought him to his senses. He knew at once that he was merely going into withdrawal. He had heard hushed rumors that he had been quite the womanizer before he turned himself in. He had wondered for the past several years what kind of person he had been. He knew that he must have done really bad things for them to have gone and erased over fifty years of his life. He thought about what it might have been for a little while. Then he scolded himself; the nice healer had told him that if he had a relapse he might go bad again. He for one didn't want anything of the sort. He knew he would probably never be free again; but he liked his room, and his things, and he especially liked it when Hermione visited. Sometimes she would bring friends, and he wondered what it was like to have lots of friends that loved you. He rather thought that he liked Blaise the best of all the friends she ever brought. He was the least likely to hurt Her. Almost all of Her friends besides Ginny were male, which meant that he had to protect Her from them. Blaise though, was somehow different, he was fine.

Hit that little blue button
-Obliged, Kendianna