II

"Ron, my name is not Kali Nott." Her tone had become sweeter, warmer, barely above a whisper but still loud and echoing in the empty room. "And you've got dirt on your nose, did you know?"

Hermione Granger – because she had vowed that once he knew she would cease to be Kali – watched as a wave of recognition hit him, pushing him forward, cutting his breath away, until he was bent towards the floor, confused and disoriented, shocked, lost in the contrast of memories, evidence and logic.

In the minutes it took for him to be able to look at her again and speak, the young woman had walked around the room, checking once again for possible ways for them to be spied on or overheard, but found nothing. The curtains were long and thick, and the door was sealed. Nevertheless, Hermione cast a few spells, to be sure of the complete secrecy of what was yet to be said. Every word she was to speak would endanger her, condemn her even, and she knew she wouldn't survive a second time.

Eventually, the young man addressed her. His voice was soaked with disbelief, but she noted a flavour of admiration as well, that was perhaps produced unconsciously.

"How is it possible? I remember those words. Someone has said them to me before."

"Yes," she confirmed, "it was me. You have a good memory."

"But it's not you. You're dead."

"On the contrary, I feel confident enough to state I am very much alive, Ronald Weasley."

He shook his head. Hermione could almost see the different parts of his brain in painful contrast: he knew Hermione Granger was supposed to be dead, but something, instinct perhaps, or his unconscious magic, told him she was saying the truth, yet he couldn't trust the stranger standing in front of him.

"I don't have many ways of proving it to you, unfortunately. I could relate all the events of our first year at Hogwarts, but you could easily assert that I've stolen those memories somehow, and I wouldn't know how to answer to that. The only thing I can offer is my story. You might not believe it, but it's all I have. The reason I came here to you, Ronald, is for you to listen to what I have to say. I'm here to ask your help, and I can only hope that you agree to assist me. I could say that hope is all I have left, but I would be lying. I have a plan, Ronald. I plan to change everything. A plan to make a better world for me and you and everyone else. A world without fear. Still, I could do it alone, I'm sure. But two sets of eyes, two wands and two functioning brains are certainly better than one, and you're the person I deemed the best for my task. So, Ronald Bilius Weasley, will you listen to my story?"

His movements, as well as his normally immediate ability to think, appeared to have slowed down. His throat felt dry, and he had to lick his lips more than once to be able to speak. He didn't know what to do. The woman in front of him – whether she was Kali Nott, Hermione Granger, or someone else entirely, he knew not – had been right about at least one thing: he did want to change things. It was a dangerous thing to think about, so he was very careful to admit it even to himself, but this moment, this chance, was what he had been waiting for since he was twelve years old and had witnessed the cruelty and terror of Voldemort's reign.

"I will," he said slowly, carefully, pushing each word out of his lips like feet moving on tar. "But allow me to ask you a question first. Only one."

She nodded, kindly, with a small but tight smile. There was the hope of a good ending for them, and the fear of not succeeding.

"During my first year at Hogwarts, one night I couldn't sleep so I went to the Gryffindor common room to sit by the fire. Hermione Granger was there as well, reading a book. I commented on its title, believing it stupid. What book was it?"

Hermione frowned, bringing her brows together, forming an expression that truly resembled her past self, of so many years before.

"Such thing has never happened. You should have been a Ravenclaw."

"Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin… those are merely names. They do not define us, and they certainly do not make us."

"That's very profound."

"Go on with your story, Mrs. Nott, or Ms. Granger, or whoever you are. I do not have all night, my presence will be missed."

"Oh, yes, Luna Lovegood, was it not? Curious woman. Nonetheless…"

With a flick of her wand, she summoned two chairs from the other side of the big room, motioning for him to sit before settling down herself.

"You know the beginning of this story, Ronald. Voldemort found a way to come back in a corporal form, using unicorn blood and later the Pilosopher's Stone invented by Nicholas Flamel; he gained power, and strength. The Death Eaters began to rise again, and to support him even more than before. They grew in number. They became more ruthless. And then they started to kill not only muggle-borns and squibs, but muggles as well. I was scared, and my parents wanted to take me away from Hogwarts, but the Death Eaters found a way in. There was a battle, as you well know. Only minutes before the main attack, Professor McGonagall led me and a small group of other muggle-borns through some secret tunnels under the castle. I don't know how she knew about the attack in advance, although I have some suspicions. Well, Professor McGonagall brought us to the muggle world, to a small town I'd never been to in Wales. She also told us that all out parents had been killed in the previous two days. I'll spare you the story of my grief."

Her eyes darkened as she said the last sentence, and Ron recognized his own mourning in her tense posture. He had lost a brother and a father, and his mother had never fully recovered.

"McGonagall put us in contact with some witches and wizards who had been living in the muggle world, some in hiding, some for academic research. They… they had spell, a ritual… to change our DNA. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

No, DNA was not something that was known in the wizarding world, but Ronald Weasley had spent his childhood in a muggle-loving family, and he also happened to be quite a learned and curious young man. Even better, he was married to an intelligent, book-lover Ravenclaw, and brainy conversations had been the first thing that had drawn him to Luna.

Nevertheless, Ron frowned, not seeing how something like that was possible. Of course, he didn't know much about the subject in question, close to nothing in fact, but the basic information he possessed made it hard for him to see the truth in Hermione Granger's statement.

"I do," he told her, his mind wandering in countless of different direction for a few moments, until her rhythmic voice drew him back to focus.

"They never explained the whole process; we didn't have much time and they probably felt that we were much too young to comprehend such a thing. Years later, I tried to research it, but the ritual was of their own invention and I had to be careful, one wrong move would have cost me everything. In short, what they did was take samples of pure blood, free it from the most defining traits – such as dominant eye and hair colour, and other recognizable features – and then carefully mix it with a drop of our blood. Once sure it wasn't going to react in a bad way – it apparently could turn out to be poisonous – they spelled it into our veins. Therefore, we all became purebloods. Our appearance changed, and our character was also altered in some ways. I've become subtler, colder, more calculating. Although that was partly due to my personal experiences as well, no doubt. They –"

He held up a hand, motioning for her to stop. It was a lot to take in. Slowly, he looked at her again. She was so different from Hermione Granger that his first-year housemate was the last person he'd think about when seeing her, and yet – yet if he truly thought about it, and most importantly knew what to look for, he could see it. Her hair was darker, her skin paler, she was taller and… well, sexier, but somehow her face, not counting the eyes, could easily correspond to the one Hermione Granger could have had in her mid-twenties.

Her story was incredible, hardly believable, astounding. But for some reason he knew she was being honest, and so he braced himself to hear the rest.

"Go on, Hermione."

It was a small thing, to say her first name, and her real one at that, but it made her smile. She could see that he was still uncertain on some level, and she couldn't blame him in the least (she would have been more suspicious had he simply taken her word without a second thought), but it showed trust.

"They provided us with new names, and tempered with official documents to create real family trees and references to our invented families. We were all given a sound story as to why we weren't living with our family – I was born in France and I'd spent my whole life, there; in fact, my family still lived, and continues to live, there, but I had been sent to Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons because of traditions. The following September, when things had calmed down some, I started Hogwarts as a first-year once again. That is where you met me, Ronald Weasley.

"Well, you know the rest. I was sorted into Slytherin, and I led a typical Slytherin life. I later started to date Theodore Nott, whom I then married. I'm teaching Charms now, and I enjoy my job, but it is not my highest… vocation."

He saw her smirk, and for a moment he was almost afraid of her, glimpsing if only through intuition what she was capable of.

He cleared his throat, trying uselessly to shake the uneasiness from his limbs.

"You have a plan?"

"Yes. I vowed to get revenge, Mr. Weasley. I vowed it to Hermione Granger as her DNA changed, intertwining with that of a pureblood that hated her for her only existence. Now, I believe I have the key, and I believe I have the oil to treat it so that it doesn't squeak when I go to unlock the door."

"The door…"

"The door to the past, Ronald, and to our future. Just a name. Let's see if you can guess it; some people are afraid to speak it, and cover it up with silly-sounding titles…"

"You don't mean – no, it can't be the Dark Lord. Then – I wonder – Harry Potter?"

"The one and only," confirmed Hermione with a sad sigh, remembering that tragic Halloween night when the boy of the prophecy had been killed in Godric's Hollow.

Lily Potter's famous protection spell had been essential – but it hadn't been strong enough. A little more, Hermione knew, just a little more strength and it would have worked. Although, she had discovered, a different spell would have worked better. And that spell was what she had the intention of using.