Challenges: TeddyRemusPotters' The Variety Challenge on HPFC; DobbyRocksSocks' Harry Potter Chapter Competition; Screaming Faeries' Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge on HPFC; MelodyPond77's Long Haul Competition on HPFC.

Prompts: Quote #109: The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do; Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, chapter 5 - Diagon Alley: write about someone being amazed by something new. (Bonus prompt: Really?); 51. Helen: Write about Polyjuice Potion.

Word count: 2,674

"Hermione, could you please check the supplies of food for the kneazles? I need to know if I need something set aside "

"Sure, Mrs Figg."

Aabella Figg was a rather old woman, though her eyes retained the same glimmer of energy that Hermione supposed had attracted a fair amount of trouble. Her hair was frizzy and grey, flyaway beneath the hairnet she used in an attempt to contain it; it was in her face more often than not. The combination of a leg that had been wrecked in a car crash years ago and her considerable age made it rather difficult for her to shift supplies with the regularity that everything involving the store demanded. At least, that was the excuse the muggles were given for why a woman who could barely support herself on her meagre income would hire a seventeen-year-old stranger from somewhere else entirely.

The pet store was not a particularly popular attraction. It was a cornerstore, kept neat by the obsessive pride of owner, with a dark wood exterior and windows filled with opaque textured glass. The inside was simultaneously light and dark, moody and friendly, soothing and eerie; every animal unusually quiet for what they were, kept calm by complacence.

The dogs were subdued and friendly on their side of the store, a motley collection of Siberian Husky pups that had been sold to Mrs Figg a month earlier, a fluffy Bolognese she'd rescued from an abusive old man, and half a dozen Finnish Lapphund specimens Hermione had procured herself, her first transaction. There were more cats, though, than dogs, purely because they weren't as popular with the muggles as the dogs were - and, of course, the magically gifted individuals were hardly free to purchase anything of their own. A parrot cage sat on the counter, but the bird itself, an African Grey, preferred to perch on the shelves in the centre of the room, or, when it could get to the back, on the banister of the stairs leading up to the flat.

Hermione had never been to the flat, but she had been shown the back room. That was where most things were stored, and since she worked on displays and tending to the animals while her employer tended the register, she had to know how the meticulous system worked. In the back room were two staircases, one going up to the flat, and one headed down to the basement, where Arabella's biggest secret was kept: the Rebellion.

Maybe it was dark and a little damp in the basement, but that didn't change it from being Hermione's favourite area of the property. The same size as the store above, and without any windows, it was rather dark - if one didn't know where the light switch was beforehand, they would almost certainly trip over one of the boxes. It would be an absolute fluke if they made it without almost killing themselves. Once she got past them, though, she was in something that was as close to Heaven as she'd get given her current predicament.

Hermione loved reading. It was a fact of her existence and had been for as long as she'd been capable of making sense of the characters on the pages on the table and later, when she was stronger, in her hands. The pages felt right in her hands, like they were home. It took the edge off of her loneliness, that was for sure.

So, when she found the stacks of books in Arabella's basement, she was understandably pleased. She wasn't surprised, though, when they turned out to be about magic. The first time a muggle had come into the store while Hermione was at the register, the woman had looked around, her hand tight on her highly rather muscular sons' hand as she dragged him through the door. The woman looked like a thin-lipped waking nightmare, with blond hair and an abnormally narrow build. Her voice was shrill and ridiculously piercing to listen to. It certainly didn't help that she looked like a horse and demanded instantly, "Where's the squib?"

Hermione had flinched at her voice, double checking that the dustcover for Pride and Prejudice was secure over her crumbling copy of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charms. Then she'd looked up, torn between indignation at the womans' lack of common courtesy, and curiosity regarding the small blimp behind her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, never mind, I suppose you'll do just fine if Mrs Figg isn't available. Perhaps you can help my Dudders? It's his birthday."

"Oh, how wonderful," she had claimed, moving to help them after hiding the book. But all the same, the word played out in her mind. Squib.

She knew about wizards and witches. She knew that muggle meant 'non-magical person'. Later, after Mrs Figg returned, Hermione disappeared downstairs to find the definition for the unknown word in one of the many books. She discovered that it referred to those who had magical parents but no magical abilities themselves; the people muggles considered 'success' stories out of their own bigotry.

"Poor Mrs Figg," Hermione mused to herself, closing one of the books she'd 'borrowed' from the pet store basement. She leant back against the weirdly thin wall, wishing she wasn't horrendously nervous about her plans for the next day. Staying awake too long could potentially ruin the plan in the long run, after all, and she couldn't imagine failing anything. This entire scenario was something she had both dreaded and looked forward to all week: she had never managed to not succeed at anything. The first thing she had absolutely had to succeed in was leaving home; it was the first time she'd been aware of other people in the world, people in worse circumstances than her.

She'd never been able to resist the lure a social cause, having a long history of convincing her muggle parents to sponsor things in their world: guide dogs, survivors of genocides, rainforests on the American continent, just to name a few. When she finally, for the first time, noticed, really noticed, that there were oppressed people out there who weren't so much as fighting for themselves, it was like a slap in the face. Wake up, Hermione, it ordered, first only in her subconscious mind as she slept, and later interrupting her thoughts constantly. You always wanted to save the world; here's your chance.

As she shut off her bedside light that night, the only piece of furniture she'd bothered to buy alongside her sleeping bag, she clicked her tongue impatiently. Twenty-four hours, she chanted in her mind. Twenty-four hours. Then we'll know if all this effort was worth it. Even with the lights off and the neighbours quiet, she did not sleep until she'd slipped her hand under her pillow, pressing her fingers against the one comfort she'd allowed herself.

Twenty four hours.

Draco wished his dreams would stop changing, but they had already started and, thus far, hadn't slowed down at all. The changes weren't huge; they were quite minor, really. The formerly faceless bushy-haired young woman had been standing at the edge of their usual clearing, at the base of the hill. She'd turned around and looked right up at Draco, as if daring her to stop him. "It's too cramped in here," was all she offered by way of explanation, at least at the start.

This served more to confuse Draco than it did anything else. The way he saw it, they were in a clearing in the middle of a forest. It was far from his idea of a paradise, but it was better than the dank cell he faced during the day. Additionally, as he discovered quite quickly, it was considerably more open than the forest that surrounded it, where the shadows were pitch black, hiding monsters he couldn't begin to imagine, and the gaps in the trees so dark and hazy they seemed to take on a violet hue. The greens were emphasised, though, where columns of moonlight drifted through to ignite them in an enchanting spotlight. "Eerie and beautiful," he murmured aloud, just as his companion said the same thing.

She must have paused at some point, because she was suddenly right in front of him, staring through a gap in the trees. He couldn't see anything through it, but it must have been an impressive sight, to give her pause. She moved like she had purpose, always had; even his dreams from childhood, when their time was occupied with silent games and muted laughter, were full of her moving deliberately with precision more common in the older and wiser members of the populace.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Why? Do you want to go back?"

"I - no - don't be ridiculous. If you're fine, I'm fine. That's how it works in these dreams."

"Are you sure these are dreams?"

"Obviously."

"Really?"

He opened his mouth to snap at her - yes, of course - but hesitated at the last possible moment. He wasn't sure at all, he realised. When he was little, a child, he'd long been confused by the blurred line that seemed to have been drawn between his waking reality and subconscious experience. Hadn't he been slapped for asking his father where the girl had gone? The girl hadn't stayed away, though, unlike all the other dreams that had caused him some kind of trouble, and all Lucius had snapped at him was that he was dreaming and to get his head out of the clouds. But then again, the taste of sugar was still strong on his tongue, a mocking reminder that this wasn't real.

"I really wish you'd stop doing that," he stated drily.

Hermione chuckled aloud, amused by him. "The greatest pleasure in life, Draco, is doing what you are told you cannot do. I'd have thought you'd have realised that by now."

"What's to realise? You just showed up, Hermione, out of nowhere."

"And why do you think I'd have chosen to do that?"

"I don't know. The only version of you I know is this one, isn't it? The one that exists inside my head."

"I think you might find we're more alike than you'd normally expect."

"If you're going to start spouting some crap about parallel universes -"

Hermione tilted her head to the side, but when she opened her mouth this time, all that came out was an obscenely infuriating siren.

"Shit, that's goddamn loud," Draco muttered to his cellmate, who, it seemed, he'd never be free of. Zabini had swiped the wands and managed to smuggle them past the pair of guards who had come to collect them, and everyone else, from the cells lining their hall. The two were right behind the large-eared man Hermione had described. He was even still muttering about Alice and Neville, whoever they were.

"It's just a drill," the Italian prisoner shrugged, absently straightening his sleeves. "Is she bringing clothes?"

"I don't know. Either she brings some, or she takes us to - why am I telling you this?"

"You owe me a favour, remember."

"I think I've held up my end of the bargain, Zabini."

"I'm still in chains, Malfoy. We're not even yet." He wasn't being metaphorical. Though Draco had initially been confused as to why such an inhumane facility would evacuate individuals in case of an emergency, especially a fire, he'd since had quite a few answers explained slowly by Zabini, though his tone was constantly condescending. As it turned out, the staff were avoiding extra paperwork.

Draco wasn't sure why he was at all surprised by the selfishness of muggles anymore, but this - this - was extraordinary. Beneficial to him, sure. That didn't make it any less disturbing.

The entirety of the population of cell block B were in chains, which they weren't at all pleased about. There was a kid behind them somewhere, though, maybe thirteen years old, who was thrilled. Clearly, this was his first emergency exit. Granted, it was Draco's as well, but he wasn't particularly excited. Nervousness and paranoia were getting to him. Every possible way this could screw up was flashing through Draco's mind: he could be caught, Zabini could be caught, a wand could be broken, hell, she could be caught.

"Cell B104. Numbers 53431 dash 886, 543831 dash 002. Accounted for. Cell B105. Numbers..."

Draco flinched as the guard checking their presence passed by far too close for comfort - of course, anywhere in a three-kilometre radius was too close for the liking of any sane wizard. Or maybe he was just jumpy because time was almost up and she wasn't there.

"Oy. Malfoy."

"Can it, Zabini. I'm not in the mood."

"At least he's relatively nice to look at, I suppose."

That caught Malfoy's attention. He shot a sidelong glance at Zabini. Something was off, though; something not quite right. He was leaning a little away from Draco, slightly to the left. But Zabini had always had perfect post -

Oh.

"What's next?"

"Well, they're about two thirds of the way through role call. Now they'll start taking the front of the line back, three pairs at a time. We're the thirty-seventh row back; just follow the pair in front when they leave. Right...now."

He did as he was told, ignoring the chafing of the heavy metal against his thin wrists. His mind was spinning, how had she pulled this off? It took a considerable amount of effort for him to focus on the job, more than it should have. Focus, Draco. This is what you meant to do.

His subconscious belonged to a version of Hermione he hadn't known existed or was even based on the real thing, but that didn't mean his conscious mind was entirely his own. Lucius' voice in his mind was there: You're taking orders from this nobody, my son. You better have a plan that makes this all worthwhile.

No, father, not right this second.

She wrenched him to the left, into a small alcove, not that he was sure why it was there. It didn't seem to fit the design of the rest of the huge facility at all, which was all boxes fitted together in perfect rows. "It aligns with the water and power meters in the higher levels, and the muggle offices aren't quite in a position that makes sense. Now stop hesitating, Malfoy, and get out your wand. I want you to tap me on the head, and say the word evanescere, imagine me disappearing completely."

"Evanescere? Is that an incantation? How do you -"

"Questions. Say it."

"It could be dangerous!" Understatement. The magical community being what it was, verbal spells were not safe. Almost no spells were remembered from before the war between muggles and magical people. How could they be? Wizards oppressed, the records burned or locked away

"It's magic, of course it's dangerous. That's why I'm asking you to cast it on me first. That way you won't accuse me of trying to kill you, or whatever your mind could twist my intentions into. Just cast it. Tap me on the head. Before I start turning back into myself."

More than a little loss, and only just realising that the chains were still a problem, he finally did as she had ordered. To his complete and utter surprise, the word - spell - made her completely disappear before his eyes. He barely noticed her movements, just the feel of wood against his skull, and then the chink of metal falling away, being snatched up by her before the cuffs could hit the ground. "Did -"

"Silencio," she hissed, forcing him to shut up. It wasn't until a minute later that she had found and grabbed his hand that she began to pull him away: away from the cells, and out into the world where neither of them would really be free.

But running away, however far, was a victory. At least for the day.