Decided to post this early so I can focus better on Act Ten.

xx Jess

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any profit from this.


"Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands."

Anne Frank


She loved the man, she had since her school years, and not in the way the rest of the world believed. He had been her mentor, her friend, and a leader she would have followed anywhere. He inspired that kind of love, that kind of loyalty, and she was just one among many who would have laid down their lives that dark night on the tower.

But there were times, specifically right then, that she had trouble restraining herself from dousing his portrait in petrol and warming her hands over the flames of Dumbledore's canvas.

"You speak in riddles, old man," she said tiredly. She had been listening to his spiel on Hermione for so long now that she wouldn't have been surprised to find bits of sand in her aging eyes. All she had asked him for was a paraphrasing of her seventh year—it was clear she was an old maid, not even able to remember one of the happiest times in her life—and Albus had begun a narration worthy of the biography of Merlin.

"I only speak truth, Minerva," was his response, airy and light and too full of delighted humor for her liking. "You asked about the events of your seventh year, 1943 to 1944, and I was telling you them."

"I did not, however, ask about the Ministry's decision to outlaw centaurs from public goblin events."

"Ah." Albus nodded, chastised. "I thought I had taken it a tad too far."

Phineas Nigellus snickered. He was ignored.

She sighed and put her elbows on her desk. She hadn't gotten far in her search for Miss Granger-Dumbledore—Hermione, in her mind. It seemed every lead she got, from portrait or newspaper, dead-ended quite quickly, no matter how promising it looked. She didn't know what her friend had done outside Hogwarts. Minerva had known for sure then that Hermione had taken quite a few unscheduled and rule-breaking vacations from Hogwarts, Slytherin students telling professors she had taken ill. But Albus—then Professor Dumbledore—hadn't seemed worried, so neither was she. Hermione had been a strong, capable witch, able to take care of herself and more, and she had known she wouldn't get into much trouble. Too much trouble, at least.

She had thought—although hoped was a better word—that her escapades out of Hogwarts would have stuck in someone's head or been put in the papers, but nothing turned up. It seemed as if her disappearance after NEWTs was final, the only thing to make the newspapers other than her marks.

"Albus, you are hiding something," she persevered. "Something that could be important for my search."

"Are you so sure she is alive?" he asked, smoothly avoiding her. His eyebrows were raised quizzically, as if it was a new thought, even for him. "I don't believe so. There was never any sign of her after her disappearance. Do you think me so harsh an uncle not to search for my own niece?"

She narrowed her eyes in fierce objection, but didn't speak on it. "Whether she is alive or dead, I intend to find her."

"Time-travel is a funny, intriguing thing," he said, ignoring her, hands folded together serenely. "It crosses universes causing chaos and discord, influencing events, and creating alternate-universes so like ours but compiled of every decision we did not make, every word unspoken, every thought unthought and every dream unsought. Shockingly familiar, but so very, very different. Whole shelves of books have been made of its intricacies and nuances. I think you can imagine its complexity when several of its theories double back on themselves, canceling out itself by paradoxes."

"Get to the point or shush up," she interrupted before he could continue. She could tell, by the way she had always been able to sense things in Albus Dumbledore which had made her such a reliable Deputy Headmistress, that he wasn't speaking as plainly as he could for a reason, a reason she knew she would not like one bit.

"The Ministry keeps registration of every life-alternating decision. You may want to check there before you give up."

She immediately began packing her handbag, not one to let a lead like this sit while she thought over it. Hogwarts didn't need her either, students wouldn't be arriving for a year now, and she and the other professors had plenty of time on their hands between restoring.

What he was inferring wasn't bad at all, but sent her into elation almost unknown. Now she would find Hermione. She just had to.

"Did you happen to ask Professor Slughorn what might help in your search?"

She looked at Severus Snape, surprised that he was back in his frame. He always seemed to be visiting the monks when he got tired of his liquor. Which was quite frequently these days. "Yes," she sniffed, pausing in her packing. "He informed me he could remember nothing useful about Hermione. Too long ago for him, I suppose."

Severus raised an eyebrow, the patented Slytherin smirk appearing on his painted pale face. "Did you not ask for her records? I have it on good authority Horace keeps a set of his own for every student he believes will get him further prestige."

"That low down, pompous, scoundrel Slytherin!" Minerva growled, already out the door and on her way to the dungeons, packing forgotten.

When she got to his quarters, she found the door propped open, as if the Slytherin Head of House was waiting for her. She walked in with a sharp tap on the door as the only warning of her entrance. He had taken over Severus's quarters that year as his own from under the Hospital Wing had been partially destroyed during the Final Battle. It also catered to the wizard's massive ego by living in the celebrated war hero's rooms. Minerva thought that type of attitude despicable, but Potions Masters were rare and Horace Slughorn was the best on the continent with Severus dead. She knew, she had searched for better.

It was unsurprising to find the Head of House snoring loudly on the sofa, the bulge of his belly hanging over the edge. A goblet of wine was turned on its side on the floor, obviously having tumbled from his hand when he had fallen asleep. The dark red liquid soaked through the carpet, blood on white, as his baritone snores continued. Minerva rolled her eyes at the behavior of what was supposed to be a respected Hogwarts professor.

Now that she knew Slughorn was out for the count, she was free to look through his quarters for the files without him interfering with her plans by blubbering about Severus lying like he would undoubtedly do. But where to look? She had no earthly idea where the man would keep the files Severus spoke of, and as his majesty wasn't able to show her, she was on her own. There was always something. She hoped the registry wouldn't be like this.

So lost in the reverie of contemplating the location of what she needed, a clatter startled her into jumping and almost knocking over a coat stand. She walked slowly to the open door of Slughorn's bedchambers, making sure to step quietly across the lush carpet, reflexes still on edge from the war.

Another noise, a thump of wood, and Minerva had her wand out and ready. There were Death Eaters still on the loose, ones who hadn't been caught in the aftermath of the war and had escaped imprisonment. There was no telling who could be in that room, and the Headmistress of Hogwarts would not take any chances. Horace slept on, and it brought to mind how alert he ordinarily was. Her gut churned.

Minerva almost laughed at her spell-happy wand when she finally saw the noisemaker. A house-elf stood in front of a large armoire, looking at her with large, terrified eyes, holding a small bag in its clawed hands. She lowered her wand.

"You startled me," she told it with a chuckle. She looked around the room, glad that there had been no real danger. She might not like Horace, but she would never wish a Death Eater on him. It also meant the wards around Hogwarts that had been broken by Voldemort during the battle that were replaced afterwards were up to par.

"Missy is sorry, Headmistress," the elf said, making it known she was a female elf.

Minerva nodded, sharp eyes looking around the bedroom. "It's fine, Missy. Since you are here, however, you can tell me where —"

"Missy is sorry," the elf repeated.

Minerva almost rolled her eyes again, but the Stunner hit her before she could.

"I is sorry."

ooo

"Minerva?" someone called, sounding half-annoyed, half-anxious. "Minerva, wake up."

Minerva, struggling to open her eyes, groaned as her recurring back pains flared to life; agony comparable to the sadomasochism wing of Hell burning through her spine. Ever since the Stunners that doxy shit for brains and her cronies had hit her with, she had been having trouble getting up in the morning, her back aching so much. With treatment, the pain had begun to go away, but now they were back full force. She would have to get her cane out again, and wasn't that just an end to a perfect day?

But wait. Why was someone waking her up? A better question was why was that person Poppy and why was Poppy in her bedroom?

"Buggering fuck," Minerva groaned out, remembering the house-elf. "I'll wring that bloody elf's neck when I'm able to get off this damn bed."

"Language, language," tutted Madam Pomfrey. "You won't get out of the Hospital Wing for a few hours at least, your elf will just have to wait. Do you know what happened to you?"

"I was attacked —"

"— with a severe case of exhaustion," Poppy interjected before she could finish.

That made Minerva open her eyes. She hadn't believed it, but she was back in one of the places she loathed the most. The Hospital Wing was the picture that it had always been: everything a sterile white reminiscent of bleached rocks with the smell of brewing potions permeating the air and sticking to a person's skin for days afterward.

"I was attacked by a bloody house-elf!" she growled, making to stand. The heavy blankets holding her down stopped her, along with the hands of Madam Pomfrey as she shoved her back down on the small bed with an impatient noise.

With a noise of her own, one of unbridled anger, Minerva reached for her wand to Stun the damn woman to make her feel how she felt. To her consternation and Poppy's well-being, her wand had been confiscated when she had been taken in.

It was evident that the healer remembered Minerva's propensity for violence when sick.

She would Obliviate them all—as soon as she got her wand back.

After finally convincing Hogwarts' Healer that she was not exhausted, but, in fact, had been Stunned by a house-elf—which was a feat in itself, as it could be compared to arguing with a brick wall—she was let go after gagging down a Backache Potion and a Pepper-Up for good measure. She went immediately to her office. Well, as fast as she could with pain flaring with every step she took. She didn't think the elf would still be in Slughorn's room, as it didn't seem the type to stay for the after-show, but she sent her Patronus down to Slughorn's just the same to call him to her office.

"I want to know if she hexed Pomfrey," she heard Phineas Nigellus say as she opened the door to her office.

"She took my damn wand," Minerva muttered, still in one of the foulest moods of her life.

"Pity," murmured Phineas.

Most of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts looked at her with concern from their safe canvases, but she appreciated Phineas Nigellus's rare tact at not bringing up the reason why a scowl weighed down the lower half of her face. Their relationship typically consisted of him picking at closed wounds until they were red, raw and bleeding and she was threatening to place his portrait in a room off the kitchens where the house-elves laundered the school's garments.

Their relationship was comprised of death threats and scorn. It was a happy one for the most part.

She supposed he understood the firm set in her jaw that meant someone else's hide would be threatened, and would leave off his scathing comments until after he watched the show.

Sometimes Minerva hated Slytherins. Useless, the lot of them. Always trying to take over the world or—what annoyed her first and foremost—smirking.

They probably imagined it made them look indolent and sophisticated, but which Minerva thought made them all look like complete and total twats.

Although that could be her letting her prejudice for a few Slytherins taint the rest.

She sat down behind her desk, contemplating whether she should call in the house-elf that attacked her right then or save it until she had no witnesses to the event. It injured her Gryffindor pride to admit that she had been sideswiped by a house-elf of all things, much less have other people—namely Phineas—witness how much it had surprised her. She was a war veteran, for Godric's sake! She shouldn't have been defeated by one diminutive elf.

She conveniently passed over the fact that most house-elves' magic was stronger than the highest of wizards'.

If an elf could get one up on her, what did that mean for her as Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after two such prestigious wizards?

Minerva didn't want to admit that she was cowed by the position she was in, by the shoes she had to step into. The first being the most celebrated Gryffindor since Godric Gryffindor, and the second a spy who had in effect won the war for them with his skill in Occlumency.

How much could she offer the Headmistress position with only her crotchety self and her admittedly mediocre skills compared to her predecessors?

But if she could just find Hermione…

It might just be the one thing that could redeem her, if not in the world's eyes, than her own. The prospect of searching for her childhood friend who she had mourned since that fateful day she had disappeared so mysteriously, however, loomed over her like a dragon preparing to use her bones to clean its teeth. The line where Hermione Granger ended and Hermione Dumbledore began blurred together, wavering like the invisibly visible currents of heat that emanate from the fire that the dragon breathes.

But she could do it, she told herself. Because if she couldn't bring her friend and student to peace—living or dead—how could she have her own?

She couldn't slay the dragon, but she could damn well scour the world with a comb and find it.

Not to mention that without Hermione she had no prospects for the Transfiguration Professor.

Minerva took great pride in her office, as much as an artist prides himself on a masterpiece or his best work of art. She hadn't changed much since moving to the tall tower that housed the Headmaster's office and living chambers, but the adjustments that she had done made a significant difference to the way it was when Albus then Severus were sitting behind the clunky and uncomfortable desk. At least it was uncomfortable for her, being a head shorter than the both of them. It had been one of her first orders at Hogwarts; the boring, dark and heavy desk being shifted to an abandoned classroom for use for another teacher if they so chose, while the gleaming whitebeam and rowan desk, striations of pale, light brown wood flowing through the opaque, ornate desk like water came through behind it. She caressed her desk then, the grain under her fingers as smooth as glass and as calming as any yoga pose.

As calm as that made her however, her ire rose to the peak of the highest precipice when Horace walked through her door after a perfunctory knock.

"Horace."

"You called me, Minerva?" he asked, patting his belly as he gave the portraits a small smile in greeting.

"I did." She waved her hand at the chair. "Sit." The good humour on Slughorn's face disappeared with all the speed of Apparation. Lowering himself into the stiff-backed 1800 colony chair, a bead of sweat formed on his brow.

My, that was quick, she observed. She supposed she must have been echoing Severus more than she had thought.

"Is something the matter, Headmistress?" Horace smile was congenial but strained at the edges. "I thought I had submitted my lesson objectives and plans last week to you for approval."

"It was duly noted, Professor," she said, changing to formal names as fast as him. She tapped a nail on her calming desk. "This is about the matter I brought to you earlier today. Miss Hermione Dumbledore and your memories of her."

"Right, right," he acquiesced, as he shifted in his chair, eyes darting around the room. "I told you everything I remember, Headmistress. A lovely, if reserved, student; an admirable Slytherin for sure. I suppose if she had been educated at Hogwarts since first year she would have been in your spot as Head Girl. Well," he amended with a chuckle, "if Tom hadn't been Head —"

His lips closed abruptly on his words, looking anywhere but at Dumbledore's portrait.

She would have to ask him about that later.

"Actually," Minerva said, a grim smile appearing on her face, "I was informed of your outstanding record-keeping skills. As Albus's niece, Miss Dumbledore would have surely been rated among your files."

"Really, Minerva," declared Horace with a surprised cough. "Do you think so little of me?"

Yes.

"My opinion of your personal character does not matter, Horace." She kept her tone even but the edge to it was as hard as onyx.

"I want her file on my desk within the hour. You are dismissed."

"But - but, Minerva," he stammered, eyes wide with dread. "This is a serious violation of ethics, not to bring up my personal —"

From behind her, Albus spoke. "The Headmistress wants the file, Horace." His voice was as cold as ice, but it was able to make the sweat on the Potions Master's brow increase tenfold.

Now she was beyond curious to what had transpired between the two. It was rare for Albus to speak out while she was in a meeting, preferring to keep his silence unless Minerva asked him to put in his two cents.

Yes, she could already see herself asking what all the hubbub with Horace was about.

Horace left at a speed he was rarely known for.

Minerva turned in her chair to look at the grey haired wizard's portrait. Albus smiled at her, holding up his hand before she could open her mouth.

"You will be told everything when the time comes," he said, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners until the amusement turned into worry. For her. "For now there are more important things, like the house-elf that Stunned you."

She bristled, indignity heating her cheeks like a chimney.

"It will be dealt with."

Phineas' portrait scoffed, shaking his head at her. "Either you are very stupid, Headmistress, or you are very naïve. With your position as Headmistress, I hope for the children's sake it is the latter."

She narrowed her eyes, the humiliation of said event and him bringing up her worries in so bold a fashion. In her hand, her wand twitched.

Phineas Nigellus, seeing the way her wand had mysteriously aimed itself at his portrait, held up his hands in supplication, a wry smile on his lips.

"Perhaps it would be better if Severus explained," he amended congenially.

"I don't know how I could ever compare to you, Phineas," came said portrait's darkly amused drawl. "I have every assurance of your competency for the job."

"Now, now, Severus —"

"Will you two stop with your first-year power plays!" Minerva interrupted, eying the two portraits with severe dislike. She valued their opinions, but she hated them with equal fervor half the time.

"Now," she continued calmly in the silence of her office, "what is it you were telling me, Severus?"

She had the immature urge to stick her tongue out at Phineas Nigellus.

The old Head of Slytherin rolled his eyes, having heard the juvenile thought in her words.

"Very well," he intoned. "What Phineas meant to say was that it is unheard of for a Hogwarts house-elf to go rogue and attack anyone—much less the Headmistress. Therefore, I think we can all agree that this was not a Hogwarts house-elf."

"But—" Minerva started, not comprehending. It was impossible? So what had attacked her?

"Are you saying people are bringing dangerous house-elves into Hogwarts?" Headmaster Dippet exclaimed. "Serious action should be taken immediately!"

"That is not what Severus was saying at all, Armando," sighed Albus from behind her. She turned in her chair to have a view of them all, not taking the chance of missing anything. She had an idea, but it was so outrageous that she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

"What are you saying, Severus?" Headmistress Dily Derwent patted her coiffed silver hair nervously.

"I am saying that the elf was not one of Hogwarts'," he said darkly. "No house-elf of Hogwarts would have done such a thing."

"You… you believe it was ordered here to attack her?" Dippet gasped.

"No," Minerva said slowly, catching on. "It didn't expect me to be in Slughorn's quarters. It was just as surprised at my appearance as I was at its."

"But why would a house-elf break into Hogwarts to go into the Head of Slytherin's quarters?" asked Fortescue, taking on the roll as speaker for half of the confused portraits. "You are inferring that the elf broke in, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Then why would it?"

She had no earthly clue. The house-elf had been in Slughorn's bedroom, not in his potions storage cupboard where the most valuable potions were. There were many people who would like to get their hands on some of the vials locked away inside it. But the house-elf hadn't been in Horace's personal study, nor had it been in the Potions classroom. It had been in his bedroom.

Some busybody with a kink sent the elf? She shook the thought off immediately. She didn't want to think about kinks involving Horace Slughorn's y-fronts.

The door slammed open, startling a few portraits into a scream and Minerva to jump. Horace stood in the doorway, out of breath. He leaned over, putting his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He looked ready to fall over from exertion, the tuft of hair left on his head soaked with sweat.

"Minerva," he gasped out in between breaths. "Some - someone broke into my files."

She stood up to her full height, eyes wide. "Were any stolen?"

Her gut knew the answer.

"Her-Hermione," he panted, vest soaked with sweat, "Dumbledore. The files you wan-wanted. My wardrobe. Shattered."

"Buggering fuck."

"Oh dear," said Albus happily. He sounded as if he had just heard that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were real and dancing on the roof. "I believe I know who did this."

Minerva whirled on him. "Tell us then, so we may catch the culprit."

Joviality inappropriate for the happenings in full steam, Albus Dumbledore only gave her his infuriating half-smile and twinkle.

"Oh, you'll never catch her. To think, using a house-elf to do her dirty deeds!" He chuckled, as if this was all a fond joke. "I reckon if you check the wine that Horace was drinking, you would find Sleeping Draught. Very sly of her."

"Tell —!"

"Who do you believe did this, Albus?" Severus asked, cutting across her impatiently.

Albus grinned a full thirty-two shining teeth grin. "Why, my niece, of course!"

There was a hell, Minerva thought, collapsing into her chair, and it was Hogwarts.

ooo

She knocked on her Uncle's door, feeling more foolish than she could have ever believed.

She had been transported to the past by a demonic book, been Sorted into Slytherin, had said book stolen from her dormitory, and, to make things worse, agreed to be the Dark Lord's date to a silly gathering.

She hadn't the faintest clue when everything had gone to the sewers, but knew she was now swimming with the rats. And not the small, relatively harmless rats that all you had to worry about was them getting into the cupboard. No, these rats could eat a ten pound cat for breakfast and ask for seconds.

"Come in!"

She opened the door and the scent of freshly baked biscuits hit her full force. Her mouth watered as she stepped inside, closing the large wooden door quietly behind her. Professor Dumbledore smiled at her from behind his similarly large desk, a plate of biscuits in front of him.

She wanted to get straight to the point and ask what he wanted, but the biscuits called to her. Dumbledore saw her eyeing them like a goblin eyes gold and motioned for her to take one.

"Ish there something you wanted?" she asked, swallowing. Comprise was key.

Uncle Albus waited until she had chewed and swallowed the biscuit before speaking. "Yes." The smile that had been on his face disappeared to be replaced with grimness. "I have been thinking on the facts, and I believe the Founders book was the cause of the attack."

Dubious, she furrowed her brow. "You mean it turned into a monster and broke my arm?"

He shook his head, still oozing ominous news. "If I am correct, the book conjured the creature and planted it into your dreams. Or brought you into the book. We all know what Salazar Slytherin was reputed for."

"So you believe this is all Slytherin's doing," she said, tone vicious. "That makes sense, since he was so obviously evil—being the Founder of Slytherin."

They were both surprised by the amount of anger behind her words, but Hermione adjusted to the idea quickly, eyes smoldering with fury.

"It's always the Slytherins, isn't it? Just because we won't go charging wand first into battle, or always follow the straight and narrow, or expect everyone else to hold our ideals. I'm sorry I'm not as brave as you, Professor. I can't help that I would rather be alive at the end of a war than die in it."

Her jaw set, she glared at him.

She had been appalled when Harry showed her Professor Snape's memories, appalled by how Dumbledore disregarded him as important until he needed potions, degraded his love of Lily Potter, and, most importantly of all, said the Sorting Hat Sorted too soon. She couldn't believe that the wizard who valued unprejudiced ideas above all had blatantly scorned Slytherin House. So what if he was a Slytherin? That Slytherin had essentially won the war for them and Dumbledore's precious ideals but few honored him publicly.

She had already been disenchanted with him, but once she had seen the memories of one of the bravest people she had known, she had loathed him.

Seeing the infuriatingly patient look in Dumbledore's eyes, she pushed back her anger and irritation with the wizard, letting it simmer in the back of her heart and mind like a festering boil. She couldn't reform his beliefs, she knew, just as he could not change hers.

"I was merely referring to Salazar Slytherin's Mastery of the Dark Arts and his infamy for cursing Muggleborns, though I do believe you are correct," he amended, that same infuriating sorrow in his eyes she had seen so many times before. "Slytherins are discriminated against for being what they are. It is unjust of them."

Them, she thought derisively. Like he wasn't a perpetrator of said prejudice. It was everybody's fault but his.

"The book was stolen," was her clipped reply.

Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair, worry quickly overfilling his somber eyes. "Stolen?" he said slowly, as if testing the words.

Her jaw still clenched, part out of humiliation, part of the still simmering anger. "As in it has disappeared from my trunk."

"Stolen." Professor Dumbledore sighed heavily, a hundred years weighing him down. "A stolen book we cannot bring attention to, no less. When did this happen?"

"It was gone before the attack," she answered. "I don't know the exact date, however. I—" she paused, searching for the correct words of her failure, "I forgot to ward my trunk. I didn't notice it was gone until three days later when I looked for it."

"You do not believe it was the book's magic?" he asked, eyes shrewd. "It brought you here. It may have other qualities we have not found."

She nodded, acquiescing silently instead of starting another row. "You may be right, sir."

"But you believe it was stolen." It was a statement. Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap, gazing at Fawkes fondly. "You know what must be done then, Hermione?" he asked softly, still watching his familiar.

Hermione paused before speaking, thinking furiously as she tried to arrange the thoughts in her head.

"Search for it and the culprit quietly," she said slowly, feeling each syllable lay an even heavier weight on her shoulders. She had been searching for the book since she had noticed it missing, and though she wished she could have Dumbledore's expertise help in retrieving it, she was glad that he could not due to drawing unnecessary attention to said book. Right then, she just wanted to leave, more troubled than she had been before knocking.

Hermione left with an even heavier load than she had been dealing with, for now Dumbledore was waiting on her to find the book. She wished she was a child again and her parents able to solve all mysteries for her, make every monster disappear. It would be so much easier to let them sort it all out.

It is a little known fact, but parents are like superheroes. With just a few magic words they can make you feel ten feet tall and bulletproof, they can slay the dragons of doubt and worry, the can make all problems disappear. But of course, they can only do this as long as you're a child and let them. When you've become an adult, become the master of your own universe, they're not as powerful as they once were. Maybe that's why so many people take their time growing up.

But Hermione hadn't made use of her parents' powers since she had received the visit from Professor McGonagall telling her she was a witch. Her parents' magical powers hadn't been real and when she found out she'd had her own, she never went to them for help. It was always only the magical world that could help her. What could two Muggles who didn't understand anything help with in a war they could not fight, a war where they were only victims?

What value did their freedom and choices hold when Hermione could make them forget their names in mere seconds?

She had loved that she could do all sorts of things the majority of people couldn't. She had loved that she had a world completely separate from her parents'. She had loved that more and more as she got older. Then the war started, and her magic wasn't the gift she thought it was anymore. It was a weapon, and she hadn't had anything in common with her parents for three years.

And now not only did she not have their opinions and help and—most importantly—their love, but they didn't even have a child to worry about as they basked in Melbourne's sun.

Did anyone remember her at all?

ooo

Dear Father,

I am sure that you have already heard, but I decided it would be prudent to inform you of the details the press didn't seem fit to inform the general public.

Hermione Granger is not vacationing in Barbados. In fact, I doubt that she is having much relaxation at all, seeing as she went back in time to when both my grandfathers were in seventh year and has consequently enrolled as a student.

I have enclosed a page from the Hogwarts library records. Hopefully you may glean additional knowledge from it.

I plan to visit you and mother soon.

Love,

Draco

Lucius stared at the page perfectly torn from some book from Hogwarts' vast library. The picture moved only occasionally, a blink here, a smile or smirk there. Though it was sepia toned, printed to look ancient, he thought that the Slytherin common room had been photographed just yesterday, it had barely changed.

He stared at the charmed picture, willing it to change, to show him that what he was seeing wasn't really what he was seeing, that it was only a mirage of a man condemned to die and seeing his salvation. It couldn't be true, it couldn't.

Yet here was the truth in his hands, the truth that could get him and his wife out of this hellhole and their family back in Malfoy Manor. Barely five inches lengthwise, it was such a small deliverance from the fate he had thought only an hour ago he was destined to receive.

He looked back at the letter from his son—he wrote faithfully, trying to find a way out of the sentence they all knew he would be given—and imprinted the words on his memory before he studiously ripped it into shreds smaller than his pinky nail then ripped those shreds in half.

Hermione Granger stared up out of the picture at the destruction of his son's letter, blinking sluggishly at the camera flash. She sat on the right arm of Tom Riddle's chair, and his arm was slung casually over her legs.

Possessively.


Author's Note: Hope everybody likes it!

xx Jess