Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fan fiction.

AN: 4/21/2011. I'm sorry for the long span of time in between these last updates… I leave for Peru on May 16, so I want to try my best to get out as many chapters as possible before my departure. I won't be back until late June, so here's hoping! As always, please feel free to drop any thoughts, comments, or suggestions in a review! :) I always feel more inspired when I hear what people think about how it's going so far.

Also, as for the title of this chapter? There are subtle implications about the specific word choice, which can be determined from the information below:

(from )
col·lab·o·rate
–verb (used without object)
2. to cooperate, usually willingly, with an enemy nation, especially with an enemy occupying one's country.

Thanks!

Well done, Hermione. Well done.

Hermione was not unused to the blackness of night that came with living so near to a forest in the outlying countryside, nor was she unused to the soft dissonance of the wandering critters tracing patterns on the walls. McGonagall and her merry band of trinkets had done their best to provide her with comfort in the dankness of her cell, and her limbs were rather warm under her mound of blankets despite the inevitable draft. These matters were appreciated by Hermione, in the strongest sense of the word, but they were far away from her current train of thought.

Bloody well done.

"I need to find a way to contact the others," she said to herself, trying to drown out the sounds of dripping and crawling. "I wouldn't dare ask them to come look for me, but I need to let them know that I am safe." Hermione hugged her knees closer to her chest, deep in concentration. "But how?"

And who were those men in the forest? What was it that they were looking for?

"Hermione?"

A voice startled her from her bitter thoughts, and she cleared her throat to hide her previous daze. "Blaise?" Her voice had gone ragged from the night's events, but her concern leaked through. "What are you doing down here?"

"I just wanted to come look after you, is all." Hermione frowned as he slid through the rusting bars of her prison cell.

"What time is it? You know he'll punish you if he sees you lingering."

"Oh, bollocks, he won't bother to check. Besides, it's been hours, it's nearly dawn."

"Still..."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about my safety, dear Hermione," he said as he hopped to her side. She gave him a dubious look. "Honestly! When it comes right down to it, the Master's temper is no match for my bravery." He waggled his eyebrows, but the impact of the statement was lost in the small cough that escaped from his lips afterward.

"Indeed," Hermione's lip twitched into a near-smile despite her exhaustion. "Which is why you handled yourself so handsomely earlier this evening while we were backed into the corner of that parlor?"

"A facade, I assure you. It wouldn't sit well within the castle hierarchy to have two alpha males, now would it?"

"I suppose not."

"Of course not! Besides, bravery is nothing compared to cunning, and I have plenty of that to spare."

With a mischievous grin, Blaise winked at the girl buried in the mountain of comforters who rolled her eyes, but smiled in spite of herself. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind for next time."

"Next time?" Blaise eyed her in half jest, half wonder. "Do you make putting yourself in danger a habit, milady?" Hermione's expression quickly darkened, and she leaned back against the unforgiving expanse of the stone wall behind her.

"Only just as of recently," she admitted.

Who were those men in the forest? The thought struck again. Could they have perhaps been looking for me? What have I really lost tonight?

"Well, my dear Hermione, I assure you that if trouble-making is what you aim for, then look no further for an accomplice." Hermione watched him make an impressive bow, and smiled softly once more, subduing her persistent questions.

"I appreciate your assistance, Blaise," she laughed quietly. "But I'm actually hoping to retire from this lifestyle as soon as possible." Blaise eyed their surroundings with a critical eye, holding his gaze on one of the more intricate spider webs in the corner.

"I understand your hesitation," he said, shifting away from a rodent that scurried about in the corner. "But just as well—please know that my aid—criminal or otherwise—is always at your beck and call!"

"Goodness," Hermione mused. "Offers of collaboration in crime, dexterity in cunning, mentions of experience with services of... a more physical nature... You really do live a devious life. Is there anything that your impeccable morals won't allow you to do?"

"Physical?" Blaise piped. "Just what are you—oh... Oh.You wouldn't happen to be referring to the conversation that Dean and I were sharing just yesterday morning, would you? About me... exchanging... things? And... services?" Hermione smiled playfully.

"Perhaps."

Mortified, Blaise's wax features contorted, which Hermione found all the more amusing. "I thought you'd forgotten! Look here, Hermione, just let me explain-I promise that under no real circumstances—"

"Pipe down, Mr. Zabini," called Madam McGonagall as she rounded a corner. "I do not wish to know the explicit details of how you choose to spend your free time, which, you should know, I'm beginning to believe you have entirely too much of."

Hermione hid her smile with her hand as Blaise sheepishly turned to the wall and proceeded to mock his superior with every ounce of his stealth abilities. When her hand rested at her chin, however, Hermione's smile transformed into an abrupt and harrowing cough.

"My dear, you are not faring well." McGonagall was at Hermione's side in an instant, watching with immense disapproval as Hermione steadied her chest with her free hand.

"It seems I have something lodged in my throat," Hermione rasped, ignore the burning sensation she felt at her neck.

"Nonsense," McGonagall cut in. "You're growing ill. The Master should never placed you here—let alone forced you to stay down here for this long. Thank goodness he finally came to his senses and alerted me to release you."

"Release me?" Another cough.

"Indeed," McGonagall's lips pursed. "We need to get you upstairs and into your bed immediately, before you truly catch sickness. No, no, please take the blankets with you, that's right-"

So that was it? Hermione thought, perplexed. Blaise and McGonagall were bustling about her, but she couldn't help feeling as if there were suddenly some other force that was controlling her body for her. This couldn't be it. Not after the grand fuss he had made about preserving his dignity at the sake of her well-being. Not after the way that she pushed him the night before.

"Did he... Did he provide any sort of explanation?"

McGonagall and Blaise paused in their handiwork of wrapping the blankets around Hermione's shoulders, and shared a glance. Hermione pondered the intensity of Blaise's surprisingly serious expression and the strain within McGonagall's dark eyes.

"I'm sorry, child," McGonagall said more softly, resuming her work with folding the blankets more securely around her frame. "But the Master does not... apologize. At least, not easily."

Hermione looked into McGonagall's eyes for a moment longer, desperately trying to read what lay in their depths. She was sure that the older woman was trying to gauge her reaction, to read her thoughts, and Hermione could only wonder what might be so important to her. Feeling herself at an impasse, she nodded gently, and unsteadily pulled herself to her feet.

"I understand," she said quietly. "I'm not entirely sure what the general expectation was, but I know that I was not expecting to see upper floors of the castle ever again, so this is actually quite an improvement." Hermione turned to the hat on the floor with a rueful smile, and with what she hoped look like sincere relief, but McGonagall did not seem any less displeased. "In a way," Hermione scoffed. "I suppose choosing to let someone not die in a deserted prison cell is something of an apology." She quelled the growing bitterness that threatened to creep back into her thoughts, and instead, turned to Blaise. "I'm just sorry that now I will have no choice but to disappoint you, Blaise... it seems that my career in imprisonment was short-lived."

"It seems that we'll just have to make do," Blaise lamented with a dramatic flourish. He bounced to the cell door that McGonagall had just opened, and dragged the corner of one of her many blankets with the handle of his base. McGonagall rolled her eyes, but managed to keep her comments to herself.

As she passed through the dungeon's door, Hermione glanced back at the dreary cell behind her, hearing but not hearing Blaise's muffled chatter of "a new life."

I don't know where those men came from or what their purposes were. And for now, there's nothing I can do about them... I was a fool, but I shall not make that mistake again.

If another moment of escape presented itself to her, she would take it.

Without hesitation.

"Ah-choo!"

"Miss Granger!"

"Hermione!"

"You're back!"

And such was the way that Hermione was greeted into the kitchen for breakfast. After another few pointed words from McGonagall, a fresh set of nightclothes, and a blissful, exhaustion-induced sleep that she had been denied in the dungeons, Hermione greeted her audience clad in a dress that was forced upon her by Parvati and Lavender, and with a billowing sneeze.

"Good morning, everyone," she managed to say with watery eyes.

"How are you feeling, child? Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Please, sit down, Miss Granger!"

"Hermione, I'm so glad you're with us again!" Dean appeared on the tabletop just as Hermione found herself seated. "We were all so worried."

"Good morning, Dean," Hermione replied graciously. "I'm faring much better now, thank you." She looked around the kitchen at all of the marvelous creatures around her, stricken by the number of objects who had come to see her. "And thank you to all of you, for your help last night."

"Speak nothing of it, Miss Granger," said a burly pot from the stove. "Anything for a lady like you."

"Indeed, Miss Granger," said a delicate piece of china from a nearby counter. "It was the least we could do."

"Speaking of what we could do," said Seamus, who appeared at Hermione's side. "We've all made you a fine breakfast this morning and we'd love for you to enjoy it."

"Oh, why thank—"

"Not at all, Miss Granger, it's our pleasure!"

"Please," Hermione said slowly, and with clarity. "Call me Hermione."

"Well, Hermione," Dean smiled broadly. "You've certainly given us all quite a bit to talk about here in the castle. It's not often that something this exciting happens every day."

Hermione looked at him blandly. What on earth do you mean? You're a talking paintbrush. But then the reality of what he had said hit her, and she inwardly groaned. "Oh," Hermione said with dismay, running a hand the no longer neat bun that her hairbrush had prepared for her. "Yes, I do suppose I let myself get carried away, unfortunately."

"Nonsense, Hermione!" A napkin to her left cried.

"Not necessarily, Hermione," Dean countered. "It's just that nobody's ever talked to him like that before—"

"Not even Sir Snape!"

"—And it's, well... a little overdue." Dean unconsciously checked his surroundings and pressed on. "We're so sorry that you had to spend the night in the dungeons, Hermione, and we hope that our assistance made it a little easier on you... But what you did was amazing."

"Yes, miss!" Said one of the larger miniature teacups. "You're very brave." It shyly shuffled itself in its spot on the table, and Hermione smiled sadly.

"Yet very silly, for getting myself wound up in the dungeons for the night." She placed her chin in her hands and gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Serves me right for essentially inviting the idea."

"Don't kid yourself, Hermione, that was a rotten thing for him to do," said Blaise as he appeared at the edge of the kitchen and loudly hopped his way to Dean's left.

"Mate," Dean said in surprise. "You were almostlate for breakfast?"

"I overslept," Blaise sniffed haughtily. "It happens. Besides, I was assisting a certain someone in a certain location due to a certain sentence for most of the night while you were 'guarding the room,' thank you."

"But," Dean replied incredulously. "It's food. You never miss a meal!"

"And I'm here now," he replied smoothly. "And so I never shall." Dean shook his head, but someone was already picking up Blaise's speech. It was the grave tone from the familiar drawl of Sir Snape, that caught Hermione off-guard, and before she knew it, her laughter had converted into rapt attention.

"Enough of this," Sir Snape commanded as he emerged from the shadows of a dark corner, where had been lurking. Hermione could swear that she heard Dean mutter "hedonistic buffoon" under his breath, but no one else seemed to notice anything other than Snape's intense scowl.

"Hermione, what you did last night surprised all of us, and no one more than the Master himself. He has great power, but that does not mean that you are without your own. While I would not recommend suggesting punishment again, as you did last night," Snape paused to offer her a tired scowl and a pointed glare, and Hermione felt her breath freeze in her lungs. "What you did was significant. Likewise, while his reaction was not surprising, it was inexcusable." Sir Snape lowered his eyes. "Perhaps not among royalty, but certainly among greater men."

The air had grown thick with tension so quickly, so heavy with a bitterness that reached all of these creatures, a bitterness that Hermione could only share a taste of, that she felt compelled to slice through it, lest she lose herself in that moment.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said with a repentant smile, tearing herself from this unnerving daze and feeling a rush of shame wash over her. "I'm very much in agreement, and I should have known to bite my tongue. I shouldn't have expected any better results after insulting someone with such little maturity and such great authority."

"Hmmm," Snape said slowly, his scowl unchanged and lips barely moving. "Indeed." And with that, Snape turned for the exit, snapped at the servants to get back to work, and he was gone.

Whatever this was, this spell that momentarily captivated the room of servants, it was broken. Hermione felt relieved, but remained wary; there were too many mysteries appearing before her in this castle, and she feared that she would never find the answers she sought. And for some reason, she found that she could not relax around this Snape; she couldn't place it, but something about his tone and character evoked these feelings of indignation and defensiveness.

And I thought it was just the Prince who fell victim to mood swings... Apparently it's the whole kingdom!

"It's a wonder you came back, Hermione," said the same teacup with undeniable gratitude, and Hermione immediately felt guilty for her judgmental thoughts.

Many of the expressions in the room had taken on a wistful glaze at the youth's statement, revealing traces of a sense of long-forgotten hope. Perhaps this girl was truly the one to break the spell after all? They wondered. Hermione, however, did not notice, for she was too busy looking into the teacup that she now cradled in her hands. "I wonder at the very same thing, myself, to be honest," she whispered.

"You're not going to try to leave us again, Hermione, are you?"

Hermione stared at the cup, biting her lip, torn by the child's hopeful face. "I have so many other loved ones to take care of back home," she said softly. "I'm sorry, little one, but I can't promise that. You've all been very kind to me, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything that you've done for me." She looked around the kitchen, and the servants were all listening. "I'll do whatever is in my power to help you transform back into your human selves—"

"Well, there is something you can do!" The little teacup proffered. "All you have to do is get the Prince to—"

"—to find the cure," said a mothering teapot before anyone else could interject. "Pardon me, Madam, but I'm Katie Bell, at your service. The gypsy never told us the real cure"—the teacup started to protest, but the pot sent a warning look, and it became silent—"but we are grateful for your thoughts, Miss Hermione."

Hermione smiled sadly again, and gave another mirthless laugh, nodding. "Unfortunately, it's clear that Prince… Malfoy, is it? It's clear that he would rather I not be anywhere near this place, and to be honest, it's quite reciprocated. I dearly miss my friends and family back home… they have no idea where I am, and I must go back to them as soon as possible." She frowned into her cup's face. "I'm sorry... I don't even know your name."

"It's Colin," the cup supplied dejectedly. "Colin Creevey." Hermione smiled.

"Well, Colin," she prodded. "I'll be sure to make my stay here as meaningful as possible, for however long that may be."

There was a tense silence that rose among the other servants again, but Hermione was still immersed in the conversation with her newfound friend. Colin offered her a small smile and gestured that she take a sip of the warm brew he was holding, but as soon as he was out of her line of vision, he let his face fall and confess his blatant disappointment. Hermione sipped her tea from the cup, deep in thought, and the servants made their silent decisions that it was finally time to return to work.

And so this is how it came to be that breakfast time on this day was spoiled, and the rest of the morning passed by gloomily.

"I promise," Hermione insisted.

"But," Blaise countered. "Are you positive? We have all sorts of activities planned!"

"Really," she pressed. "I would just like to rest in my room for a bit. It was a long night." He was distraught.

"Come on now, Blaise," Dean said, exasperated. "We can come back in the afternoon. Right, Hermione?"

"Of course," she said, not able to turn down his earnest face, but at the same time simply willing them to just leave already.

"See?" Dean said victoriously. "We'll be back soon!"

"Very soon!" Blaise said joyfully. "With an itinerary!"

Hermione lazily waved goodbye, a combination of disbelief and bemusement on her features. As soon as she stepped into the room, she braced herself to be attacked by her furniture, which were no doubt sure to scold her for letting her hair come loose. It seemed, however, that her companions had taken their leave to the gossip of the servants' quarters, and Hermione was instantly grateful. Releasing a tremendous sigh of relief, she rotated her shoulders uncomfortably, marveling at how even the simplest dress in their selection could still feel so disagreeable against her skin.

She immediately froze upon hearing a noise behind her and prepared to make a mad dash down the hallway at the first sign of danger. After a few brief moments of silence, Hermione heard the sound again.

"Midas?" She spun on her heels. There on the foot board of the bed, Midas was perched contentedly and staring at her. Moving slowly, she placed a hand on her hip, and eyed him suspiciously. "You again. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to trust you or resent you." Midas cocked his head to the side, in what Hermione told herself was alarm. "That's what I said. Just last night, you went and got the others when I asked you to, but I obviously cannot know your true intentions. You could have done it solely for the sake of your Master." She advanced toward the bed, keeping her steps small and cautious. "And who was it that lured me here in the first place?"

Midas leaped from his perch, glided across the air, and landed at a window sill. He stared at Hermione, then glanced toward the forest, and then back again. Hermione narrowed her eyes in confusion, and Midas repeated the process.

"I don't know how they ever learned to understand you," Hermione whispered, but she relented and moved toward the window. Midas looked at her earnestly. Or, at least, she thought so. He could very well have been looking at her and thinking that she was a loon. Or more likely, he could very well not be thinking of anything at all. Except mice.

Midas had apparently given up hope on trying to make Hermione understand something for the moment, which was all right by her because she was in no mood to translate. With a sigh, Hermione plopped onto the pillows in the nook at the sill, and extended her legs, causing Midas to squawk in distress.

"I'm still upset with you, you know," Hermione told him miserably. "But I suppose I shouldn't have alarmed you just now, no matter what you may or may not deserve." With a sigh, she placed and elbow against the window pane and rested her chin in her palm. "But then again, you're in his in-circle," she told the owl absentmindedly. "Who knows what you're here for?"

Midas hopped closer, turning his head all the way around in what Hermione was convinced was confusion.

"It doesn't matter," she said at last. "The only thing that matters right now is that I need to contact the others—ah," Hermione hesitated, eyeing the owl with uncertainty. "I need to contact… Ron. And I don't know how."

By the time Midas moved again, she had actually forgotten about his presence. He left without warning, a flurry of feathers, and left Hermione with her unanswered questions.

"Figures," Hermione whispered, hugging her knees to her chest. "That's what you do best, you silly owl! You fly away and let other people handle life on their own."

She was just about to take her leave to go find Blaise and Dean again when Midas swooped in through a previously unseen compartment near the ceiling, carrying a small scrap of parchment and a quill in his mouth. Stunned, Hermione watched as the owl carefully placed the items on the seat before her, and sat back on its haunches to wait. Hermione glanced at Midas, then back to the parchment.

"Is this…?" Hermione picked up the quill with trepidation. "You've already inked it?" Midas merely cocked his head. "If this is what I think it means," Hermione said pointedly at the owl. "It means that you're giving me the materials to write one letter to the outside, under certain conditions, I'm sure… and that you'll deliver it for me?" No reaction.

Hermione inhaled and exhaled deeply in annoyance, but took hold of the parchment anyway. "You're incredibly frustrating, but… if you can truly understand me? Then you have my sincere thanks."

And without any further prompting from Midas, Hermione looked to the small scrap of paper in the palm of her hand, and wrote.