A/N: Those of you still following this are wonderful! I really appreciate hearing from you and hope that all these years between posts have also treated you well. I'm particularly fond of these characters, which is why I just couldn't let them die in an unshared file.

The Greatest Kindness

Another few weeks passed. Hermione had immediately begun to teach herself Advanced Occlumency, and, at every possible opportunity, she escaped to the library, where she discovered five basic Universe B truths:

1) Thanks to Dumbledore's fascination with and later integration of Muggle technology, Muggleborns and Mixed-bloods had for decades been prized for their inborn familiarity with both the non-magical and magical worlds - while Old-Bloods were simultaneously dismissed for their lack of it. (As if they wouldn't be able to learn, Hermione thought irately.)

2) As the adopted daughter of the Sovereign's First Viceroy, My Granger Evans was part of a small but powerful aristocracy called "the Elite." Although this hallowed class held some prominent wizarding families like the Weasleys, Longbottoms and Prewetts, it seemed to consist of an equally proportionate if not disproportionately high number of Mixed-Bloods and Muggleborns, a seemingly egalitarian achievement that, as far as Hermione knew, not even Universe A's prewar Ministry of Magic could claim.

3) If Sovereignty-written material could be believed, the International Confederation of Wizards seemed to have completely bought into the load of crock propaganda about the once-free conservatives' pernicious intentions. Many leading foreign diplomats had even praised Dumbledore's decisive management of the United Kingdom's "dangerous insurgent demagoguery,' instead of criticizing him for green-lighting the brutal suppression of human rights it truly was. It was enough to derail Hermione's hope that, somewhere in the world, someone in power still had a shred of decency, but some part of her did question the likelihood the IWC had been given the full story. Still, simply the idea of sorting out how to test those waters without poking her head too far above the sand was one she couldn't begin to contemplate because:

4) Hogwarts' library held enough books on Dark Arts translation spells and alternative dimension theory that she would need months to read them, and the ones she'd blazed through already still hadn't described her white-light/body-piercing-and-swapping experience.

5) To make matters worse, she'd quickly discovered that, while all House-Wizards were technically considered the permanent property of the State, the private leasing market for them was purely capitalistic: the only way to take possession of a House-Witch or Wizard was for the present owner to literally sign the deed and the lead over to the new owner.

This was the final blow in a series of factual hits that had left Hermione reeling and discouraged. It was fairly clear that neither Ronáld nor Ginevra would ever relinquish ownership of Draco for any price she could offer. Even if they did consider it, simply proposing the acquisition of a wizard that My supposedly found repellent would surely arouse considerable suspicion.

In all, she'd been exposed to a glut of information, and little of it had been good.

There had to be another way, she told herself. To return home to Universe A; to help Draco escape in the time she was here...

Those answers simply hadn't appeared yet. But they would.

They would.

It was as much a prayer as it was a desperate reassurance.

In perhaps the only positive development, Hermione had befriended Draco's cousin Peia, who turned out to be a chatty, insightful girl with a curiosity and stubborn streak not unlike Hermione herself. The child had surprisingly accepted her rather quickly, especially given My's minor reputation for disliking young children (according to Pansy, My had claimed she found them "grubby and uncivilized"). After swearing Peia to secrecy, Hermione showed her how to access the Head common room and reunited her with Pansy, who Peia seemed to know well.

After a heated debate, she was also able to convince the wild-haired girl that she'd be more useful keeping Pansy company in My's quarters than sneaking over to see Draco.

"We can't just leave him alone every day!" Peia had argued. "You haven't seen him at his worst. He needed me last year. I know he says he doesn't, but he can't do it by himself! He needs to know someone's there for him!"

Hermione's stomach twisted, first at the thought of what Draco had already endured for over a year, and then at the idea of Peia placing herself in the line of fire every day in a brave effort that would sadly get Draco nowhere and Peia herself badly punished, at a minimum. She wanted to argue that she imagined Draco had been at or very near his worst during the few times she'd seen him, but she reminded herself she was talking to a twelve-year-old.

"He's an adult now; he can handle himself," she said firmly, even though the words felt hollow on her lips. "But he wouldn't be able to bear it if something happened to you as well."

The latter, she at least knew was true.

"Sod me!" Peia exclaimed, dark eyes wide and wild in an eerily unmistakable resemblance to her mother. "What they do to him, the horrible, terrible things... he can't, Hermione. You know he can't!"

Hermione worriedly glanced upward toward her head quarters - they were in the common room now - hoping that the elevated shout wouldn't carry to Pansy; the last thing she wanted was to cause the kind-hearted witch unnecessary worry over the horrific situation in which one of her best friends was trapped.

"You're right, Peia. He can't do it by himself," she said in a low voice, if only to placate her, and quickly.

Peia tilted her head at Hermione momentarily, before her eyes widened hopefully. "So you mean, you'll - you'll go be with him instead!"

Hermione's mouth opened to argue, and then closed quickly.

Peia had her there.

And, she was ashamed to realize... Peia was right.

Whether she'd been in denial over the impossibility of the House-Wizard situation or the magnitude of the abuse, Hermione had been so consumed with spending every waking hour in the library searching for answers to her own Big Problem - interdimensional travel - and Draco's and Pansy's Big Problem - the House-Wizard bond - that she had neglected to consider not only Pansy's, but especially Draco's, basic but very pressing needs on a day-to-day basis.

Guilt twisted inside her. Even if the backup healing enchantments cast upon Draco would ultimately keep him from slipping beyond the Veil, in what world had she ever thought it was alright to ignore the rest of it: that it would be sufficient to only assist him when she knew his injuries were severe or when she needed emotional support, leaving him to fend for himself the majority of the time?

She focused back on Peia, nodding once, resolutely. "Yes," she said, despite the curl of fear that clawed through her chest at the thought of the risk such a promise might entail. "I will."

Peia searched her gaze, then nodded, too. "Good. You can help each other."

Whatever that meant.

So Peia began to make frequent trips to Hermione's quarters to spend time and study, using a galleon equipped with a Protean Charm like those for Dumbledore Army to alert Hermione when she wanted to come by. If Hermione's response was warm, it was safe to visit; if it was cold, Harry was around, or Hermione was away.

In the meantime, Hermione kept her promise to Peia: As often as she could, she'd bring Draco much-needed nourishment she'd smuggle regularly from the Great Hall. Although the Gryffindor Common Room was usually sparse at the hours she'd choose, she would still weave her strongest Shield charms along the stretch of wall holding his claustrophobic-inducing prison cavity and toss her Invisibility Cloak over her shoulders as a final measure. (To her frustration, she hadn't been able to reproduce the Eighth-Level Invisibility Charm since her first casting of it.)

Though Hermione was careful to be deliberately vague about her own past and her plans for the present, she was surprised that Draco never once inquired about his fellow conservatives or mentioned his previous relationships with them.

Rather, sometimes they spoke quietly about Peia, or the political and societal structure of Universe B, or various spells and their uses.

Sometimes when too much or too few thoughts of home sent Hermione into a despondency as severe as she'd had during the depths of the Second Wizarding War, Draco, remarkably, would say something comically witty at which she couldn't help but laugh, or would purposely goad her into an indignance that spurted fire back into her veins.

But far too often, he would simply lean exhaustedly against the bars of the cage, eyes closed, as a silently distraught, frequently fuming Hermione healed wound after open wound, then cast glamour charms on him to make it appear as though she hadn't.

"It'll… all be alright," she choked out at one point when the entire skin of his left arm looked as though it'd been singed off.

His head hung limply, as if even the strength to hold it upright had left him. Shadows that weren't only from tiredness dotted his face and neck; although she'd never walked in on him being directly assaulted again, she'd helplessly learnt that bruises would reappear on his pale features almost as quickly as she healed them. "You don't really believe that," he rasped dully, his voice hoarse.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to answer that honestly and didn't trust herself to lie to him convincingly. Instead, she slowly reached her hand in through the bars and took his gaunt cheek in her palm, drawing his exhausted gaze, willing her apology through her eyes. A moment later, she silently sent the most advanced healing charm she knew into his arm. As the searing bite of the swiftly regenerative magic gripped him, he stiffened and inhaled sharply, his eyes squeezed shut.

Slowly, he relaxed back into her hand, his breath ragged.

For seconds or minutes, they didn't speak.

"Hermione," he suddenly said faintly, "no matter what happens, you need to know-"

Something wrenched deep within her, and she quickly placed a gentle finger to the chapped skin of lips, halting his words. "I know, Draco. I know," she said quietly, her jaw tight - even though she wasn't quite certain she did. But she wasn't prepared for "no matter what" statements yet... wasn't prepared to accept the emotions and the attachment and loss that came with them.

Aside from fear and desperate determination, hatred was the emotion that drove her most those first weeks.

She hated the Weasleys for what they were doing to Draco.

She hated every student and professor at Hogwarts who stood by uselessly or eagerly, facilitating not only his persecution but that of every House-Wizard there, with not a single word of condemnation or act of compassion.

She hated that no matter how painstakingly she searched, she couldn't find anything she could do to successfully extract him without tipping off the government and bringing its wrath upon them.

She hated that this was probably happening to countless other witches and wizards across the Sovereignty, and a wider world existed which either didn't know, didn't care, or knowingly condoned it.

And she hated that she was afraid to let herself care as much about it as she wanted to.

Because if Hermione started to care too much about this place… what could she do about it? She had no allies who weren't virtual slaves, and the entire militant Dark Arts state she'd be up against if she helped a single one of them was running like a well-oiled machine. Anything she could even conceive of trying would in all probability be discovered eventually, so beyond failing the good, the decent in this world… she would also fail to return home.

And returning home was the objective that mattered to her most.

If there was anyone here she was prepared to trust with the full truth of who she was, Hermione admitted it would be Draco.

Yes, he may have looked like the foul little cockroach she once loathed and sometimes smirked like him, too, but beyond that, he was nothing like him. In fact, Hermione thought the strength, sanity and for Merlin's sake, humor that he'd somehow managed to preserve through his confinement was extraordinary. But with the Weasleys' control of him through the House-Wizard bond, she didn't see how any information she placed with him could remain fully secure.

To her surprise, he never once asked her, either, although she'd sometimes inadvertently make references to her other life and world that would leave him examining her with a searching gaze, and she knew he must have wanted to.

She actually found Draco Malfoy's Universe B alter ego so jarringly genuine in a sea of Sovereignty sycophants that she casually breached the topic with Pansy one day. Her memory of Universe A's thoroughly self-serving ferret was strong enough that she couldn't shake the smallest suspicion he was simply manipulating her to his own ends, whatever they were.

But Pansy had immediately put that fear to rest. "Oh, he's wonderful, Hermione," she gushed. "So many people only look out for themselves, but Draco - he truly cares about everyone. He has for as long as I've known him."

Well, that could explain why he'd been so shockingly nice to her from nearly day one.

Still, Pansy spoke so highly of him that for some reason, Hermione felt compelled to ask, "You and he weren't... dating, were you?"

After all, while she knew more than most that it was very possible for an unrelated man and woman to be platonic best friends, she also remembered the emotions she'd felt for the last third of the Golden Trio.

"No!" Pansy's response was immediate. She even wrinkled her nose slightly. "No, he was like a brother to me. I've never thought of him like that, and he certainly wasn't interested in me, either."

"Oh? Someone else, then?" Hermione didn't know why she was so curious about Draco Malfoy's romantic life; she supposed that in the midst of the dark, heavy subjects that usually surrounded her every thought and discussion, a conversation as innocent as a who-fancied-who was a luxury.

Pansy shook her head and shrugged, her gaze distant. "Draco was funny. He never... seemed to overtly fancy anyone. Much to the disappointment of many girls, I should add." She smiled slightly in recollection. "But I know he did."

Hermione couldn't help but smile too, remembering the moment she'd first noticed that Ginny had liked Harry, and then, eventually, vice versa. "How?"

"Because when I asked him once about the type of girl he'd fancy, he didn't even need to think about it." A strange expression crossed her face. "He described her... perfectly."

Hermione waited. When Pansy didn't say anything else, she raised her eyebrows. "And?"

Pansy blinked. "Well, nothing really. Only... Well, you can't get that specific unless you have someone specific in mind, can you?"

Hermione considered her reasoning. If someone from her own world had asked her about the type of man she might prefer, would she have instantly described Ron? Someone who made her laugh, who wasn't afraid to disagree with her and make her think, who was loyal, caring, stupidly stubborn on occasion, brighter than they gave themselves credit for?

"Did anyone fit her description, then?" she asked after a moment.

Pansy shook her head slowly, her expression still ruminative. "No one I'd known, at least."

Hermione couldn't deny that she was grateful for the presence of the reserved, kind Slytherin witch. It gradually became impossibly difficult - and more and more impractical - to watch the dark-haired woman perk up whenever Hermione inquired about a topic that could conceivably link her to the rest of the conservatives, whom Hermione suspected Pansy dearly hoped were simply in hiding somewhere, just waiting to make comeback. Rather than allow the assumption that Hermione was spying on behalf of some extinct faction to continue, she eventually sat down with Pansy and offered some truth behind her origins: that she had, somehow, been transferred to this world from another, similar in structure and species, one that also possessed magic but hadn't embraced the Dark Arts on a global scale.

Hermione realized how utterly mad that sounded and had no idea if Pansy actually believed her, but at least the blind faith in the other woman's blue eyes shifted to an acknowledgement that Hermione was just as human - and, in many ways, uninformed - as Pansy herself was.

Hermione didn't tell her that she knew everyone in this universe, but that they were all bizarre opposites of themselves. She didn't tell her that she was the brightest witch of her year. She didn't tell her that she'd for seven and a half years helped another boy battle the advances of a Dark Lord intent on destroying him, or that Muggleborns had also been hunted, that she'd survived torture, that she'd been at the forefront of her own universe's stand for independence.

She didn't tell her it was a war they'd finally won.

The risk of what could happen if anyone else here discovered that information was something Hermione didn't want to contemplate.

It took hours of regular practicing with Pansy, but pretending to be My Evans became slightly more second nature. Pansy had taken to making a pointedly obnoxious noise whenever Hermione fell out of character (or as close to obnoxious as she could come; when Hermione had first tasked her with it, Pansy had burst into giggles whenever the sound left her mouth).

Apparently, Hermione had needed to substantially increase her frequency of whining, pouting, and huffing - tips that she could instantly put to good use, both out of the classroom and in it. After she'd received solid failing marks on every Potions assignment she'd attempted since the start of the semester, Snape asked her to stay after class. Pansy had told her that it had been My's worst subject, followed closely by the Dark Arts, and Hermione hadn't wanted to stray from character.

She couldn't say she hadn't expected Snape's attention, but she was still apprehensive about squaring off with the astute Potions Master one-on-one. He certainly didn't seem to have been spy in this universe, and thus probably hadn't needed to learn Legilimency, but she absolutely couldn't risk being caught off guard if he had.

Breathing steadily to keep her heartbeat calm, Hermione flippantly sat down at his desk, focusing closely on Snape's smartly dressed doppelgänger to keep any incriminating thoughts from the forefront of her mind. When she'd overheard Romilda Vane tittering to Leanne Matherson last week about Snape's supposed attractiveness, to say Hermione had been revolted had been a substantial understatement. But she reluctantly had to admit that his grooming habits here did much to improve his appearance... had his decidedly over-the-top personality not negated any net positive effect.

"Will this take long, Professor?" she asked sweetly. "The girls are outside; I'm in a bit of a hurry."

Snape tilted his head at her, dark eyes studying her shrewdly. "Well, 'the girls' will have to wait, Evans, won't they?" he said with no little snark - the only instructor who didn't call her by her 'Elite' title, or demonstrate any respect toward the Sovereignty status that honorific supposedly conferred.

He opened a lower desk drawer, pointedly swooping down dramatically to reach inside. After a moment, he sat back up and tossed a small, stoppered phial on the desk. Hermione immediately recognized her initials on it.

"Bulbadox powder to boil cure potion," he said with almost theatrically exaggerated flair.

She let out an excessively loud breath of annoyance and pasted a bored expression on her face.

Snape regarded her for a moment, then reached back into the drawer and tossed another vial on the table.

"Magnesium to fire protection potion."

She resisted the urge to tense and instead looked blankly around the room, wondering where he was going with this melodramatic display.

Again, he reached down and threw a third vial on the table.

"Mandrake root and wolfsbane to dreamless sleep potion."

He sat back and abruptly held up a hand as if asking for an explanation, his gaze not so much accusing as curious.

Hermione pointedly rolled her eyes, injecting as much attitude into her voice as she could. "So?"

"Every ingredient I just named - every ingredient you used - is the exact opposite of the correct one. The exact. The antidotes to each of those potions would be utterly useless without them."

In a rush, unease gripped her stomach.

He was right. Hermione hadn't even realized she was doing it nor how obvious it was; for each potion, she'd simply reached for the ingredient that had made the least amount of sense to use. Somehow, the fact that this small but blatant error hadn't even occurred to her made the ground beneath her feet feel that much more unstable.

Stupid, Hermione, stupid!

Reminding herself that Snape hadn't actually accused her of anything yet, she swallowed back her growing unease and sniffed scornfully, scowling at him. "Yes, yes, the world knows I'm terrible at Potions. Must you rub it in?"

He snorted. "Terrible? It's brilliant. Only problem is you're trying too hard to cock it up." He leaned toward her, smirking triumphantly; anxiety abruptly crushed her chest. "You don't have to be embarrassed about being smart at something, Ms. Evans."

Oh thank Merlin.

The adrenaline ebbed as quickly as it had surged, while Snape unexpectedly frowned. "Although, depending on your choice of mate, I'm told it may decrease your sex appeal."

Hearing Snape voice the words 'mate' and 'sex appeal' wasn't even enough to throw her anymore. Hermione focused on him quickly, relief flowing as readily as the lie that easily formulated on her lips.

"Professor, I… I was doing so poorly that this summer, my mother had me… tutored." She curled her lip in an attempt to emphasize her disgust at the idea. Snape hadn't attempted Legilimency yet, but just in case he did, she pushed memories of her working diligently over a cauldron in Universe A through her mind. "When I was still assigned to Remedial Potions, well - you know how it is. I didn't want to embarrass the girls." She huffed a sigh. "They can be so petty over that sort of thing."

"Yes, well, intellectually-challenged sabotage and bursts of jealous rage aside - which I'd be quite keen on witnessing, mind you-" his gaze became momentarily distant, as if imagining this sight, before snapping back on her, "-I assure you your status as reigning Queen of Hogwarts will likely not be drastically affected if you allow yourself to begin to pass my Potions class."

Hermione widened her eyes ingenuously. "Oh, do you really think so?"

He snorted. "I know so. But you can't sic your mother on me in the case it is."

She let her face fall. "So you don't know so."

Snape sat back and cocked his head at her with the sliver of an amused grin - an utterly bizarre image that, while not an infrequent occurrence here, she still wasn't used to. He waggled his finger at her. "You are far more intelligent than you seem, Evans."

The words weren't voiced suspiciously so much as encouragingly. Still, Hermione couldn't help but hold back a small twinge of triumph. You have no idea.

"Are we done here?" she asked rudely, standing before he even gave an answer.

He glared at her sternly, then sighed loudly and dramatically rolled his eyes. "Alright, yes, now you can go join the girls," he said mockingly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him as if she was not amused, and, really, she shouldn't have been: on the whole, it appeared Severus Snape, comedic or dour, would be ill-mannered and sharp-witted no matter the universe in which she found him.

"Professor," she said dryly by way of parting. Without another word, she turned, sashaying toward the door.

"Oh, Evans!" he called abruptly. "Catch!"

Startled, Hermione barely swiveled in time to snatch from the air the phial that Snape flung her way with his wand. She squinted down at it. It was empty of liquid, but a folded piece of paper was corked inside.

"Lady Weasley's latest missed assignment," he explained. "Since I can only assume she's one of your loyal subjects, be sure to relay that if she doesn't return that fully completed by our appointment at five, her mark will be sunk faster than she can score at Quidditch."

Hermione glared at him. "Do I look like a Messenger owl?"

Snape gave her a befuddled expression before widening his eyes and opening his mouth slightly, as if astonished to realize she wasn't. The effect was so unexpectedly hilarious that Hermione quickly ha-rumphed, haughtily shoving her nose in the air, and fled the Potions classroom before she could burst out laughing.

To their credit, Lavender and Parvati were still waiting for her when she emerged. After some disagreement, they pointed her in the direction of Ginevra's possible location.

"Quidditch practice, likely. By the lake. She's obsessive." Lavender sounded bored.

Parvati shook her head vigorously. "No, no - weren't her knickers in a twist about something?"

Lavender's eyes widened. "Oooo. Right, she was. The deliciously unattainable Harry Evans doing his dirty worst again." She chortled once. "Don't know why she keeps trying, really; there's so many other blokes she could easily have. It's like watching a kitten try to climb a Swooping Evil... not that, erm, your brother's evil, or anything," she added hastily at Hermione's arched brow. "He just likes - swooping... on his broom?"

Hermione wasn't certain she agreed with Lavender's assessment of this Harry as non-evil, but her annoyance was sincere; this tangent still brought her no closer to actually learning the witch's location. "In other words, she's…?"

Parvati sighed self-sufferingly, as if anyone with half a brain should have known. "Oh, of course the spare Dark Arts classroom, My!" she exclaimed. "But I'm not certain now's the best-"

"Why not?" Hermione interrupted impatiently, a verbal tactic she'd quickly noticed was utilized often by the limited number of "Elite" students to emphasize their power over the conversation and, presumably, the student social stratum.

Parvati blinked at her. "Well, she'll be busy," she said pointedly.

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, please, Parvati. You should know by now that no one's ever too busy for me."

Though the statement was utterly preposterous in its arrogance, Lavender made a silly face of contemplation, and then giggled and nodded. "Yeah, that's about right."

Playing My really was becoming easier, Hermione thought as they parted ways. It simply consisted of amplifying an already egotistical response to the absurd, and delivering the performance as if her behavior was perfectly acceptable.

Apparently, while Ginevra was failing Potions, she ruled supreme at the Dark Arts, which didn't surprise Hermione after witnessing the redheaded witch nearly detonate her own brother's head on the Hogwarts Express. With her unpredictability and uncontrolled temper, she reminded Hermione of a deadly combination of Bellatrix Lestrange and Ginny herself. She was also the Universe B female who seemed to know My best, which meant Hermione had to maneuver especially carefully around her.

Hermione easily found her way to the spare Dark Arts classroom - like so many spaces here, it had been used for the same purpose in Universe A, although for Defense Against the Dark Arts. When she passed the vampire statue supposedly guarding Lucius Malfoy, she didn't even look at it, though she was well aware of its presence.

Her gut twisted uncomfortably, and she bit her lip, forcing herself to stifle any twinges of guilt. The Dark forces at work here were far greater than any counter ones she alone possessed, she told herself for the hundredth, thousandth time.

She couldn't get involved.

She was already too involved.

Carelessly discarded on the hallway floor beside to the spare classroom door were Gryffindor Quidditch practice robes and a sleek broom. Cautiously stepping over them, she entered the room at the same time that Ginevra shouted, "Diripio epidermal!"

Hermione stopped dead, her heart in her throat.

The otherwise empty classroom had long been cleared of desks for dueling practice. In the very middle of it, Ginevra, her back to Hermione, was tautly standing like a vulture perched over the stiff, prone form of Draco Malfoy. A jet of red light stretched from her wand to his stomach, branching to flow across his entire body.

The air vanished from Hermione's lungs.

No, no, no, no...

Momentarily forgetting her reason for being there in the first place, she swiftly examined Draco's body for some visual indication of what Ginevra was doing to him. An ugly discoloration marred most of his cadaverous left cheek, new gashes that almost resembled claw marks slashed across the front of his chest, and while he didn't move - he was body bound, she realized - his eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead with the most horrific expression of the purest agony Hermione had ever seen.

The desperation to do something immediately and the knowledge that she couldn't surged through her system in a shock of adrenaline, and it took every ounce of control she possessed to keep her countenance devoid of any indication of it.

"Ginevra!" she exclaimed in greeting, hoping a distraction might be enough to end the effects of the spell like it might the Cruciatus Curse, for example.

The word emerged more shrilly than she would have liked.

Ginevra spun, wand outstretched and pointed directly at her chest. Hermione's immediate instinct was to defend herself; she wrestled the knee-jerk response and her wand arm to her side, shoving a scandalized expression to her face instead.

"What is your problem?" she gritted out with a theatrical huff.

As soon as Ginevra saw it was her, she lowered her wand and glared at her. "Bugger, My. Trying to get yourself cursed?"

"I thought you stopped being so paranoid," Hermione snapped in reply - she'd learned from Pansy that My did sometimes use slightly bigger words, if they were insulting. She flounced forward, all but flinging Snape's phial at Ginevra; despite its forcefulness, the athletic witch easily caught it one-handedly. "Love Potion from your favorite professor. Says you've only got an hour to finish your assignment."

Ginevra scowled. "Bloody hell, not Snape again." She all but ripped the cork out of the phial. "I swear, if I were allowed to go mental on one professor here, just one, it would be him..."

As she read the note, Hermione subtly glanced beyond her to Draco. Her breath caught in horror. His eyes were still frozen in pain, clear, wet trails tracing streaks along his dirtied temples to his ears. Every visible ounce of his body had began to turn a deep red, as if he was bleeding profusely just beneath the surface.

Without being obvious, she edged her wand slightly out of her sleeve and pointed its tip toward Draco. Finite incantatem! she thought desperately.

No obvious change was immediately apparent; if the spell hadn't worked because her nonverbal magic was too weak or Ginevra's spell too powerful, she need to figure out the counterspell, and fast.

Diripio epidermal… Diripio meant 'to separate, tear apart,' and epidermal meant… skin.

Oh sweet Merlin.

So much shock exploded through Hermione's brain that her head literally jerked forward, every physiological response in her body that could go off simultaneously going off. For a second, she honestly thought she was going to pass out.

You cruel, heartless savage!

Like a righteous wave, hot fury swiftly swept through her and commandeered control of every nerve in her body.

At that moment, if she thought she could get away with it, Hermione didn't doubt she could have killed Ginevra Weasley.

She set her jaw to stop herself from saying something she might regret; she was actually afraid she might start screaming. Never in her life had she attempted to cast a nonverbal advanced healing spell, but again subtly pointing her wand, she gathered the energy behind her rage and briefly closed her eyes, forcing the most powerful one she knew toward Draco in an invisible wave -

The sound of shattering glass jolted her from her concentration.

"…nothing better to do than rabbit after students," Ginevra was saying, her voice bitter. Hermione focused back on the redhead in time to see her toss Snape's note to the ground - next to the broken remains of the phial - and fire an Incindio at it. In an instant, it'd turned to ash.

"But… don't you need to… do that assignment?" Hermione managed to choke out through the haze of horrified anger dotting her brain.

Ginevra snorted. "I'll make Father handle it, just like your mum does. I'm hardly concerned."

Oh dear goddess, please let me get through the next five minutes without doing anything incredibly daft.

Hermione threw another quick glance at Draco. She was unspeakably relieved to see his body had returned to a less bloody shade, eliminating that pressing hurdle, but now she was faced with another: She had to distract Ginevra; better yet, clear her out of the classroom for good. It was obvious this was her last chance with Snape, so why had she destroyed the assignment?

"You're sore about something," Hermione noted snottily.

"I'm not sore about anything." Abruptly, Ginevra threw another fireball straight at Draco's head. Hermione's hand jumped to her wand before she could stop herself, but the spell thankfully slammed into the floor an inch away from his face instead. "Why would I be sore about something?"

Hermione tried to focus on the conversation and not the rush of blood pounding through her temples. "If it's Harry -"

"I don't want to talk about Harry," she said flatly.

Hermione began to get a sick suspicion that this conversation might go as badly as the one she'd had with Lavender Brown over the death of her rabbit, but there was no way in heaven or hell or anything in between that she was simply going to leave Ginevra to continue her afternoon torturing session. "Fine then. Perhaps if you raise your Potions mark, you'll feel better about yourself. Snape seemed to think-"

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO SNAPE!" Ginevra shouted shrilly, causing Hermione to jerk in surprise and Draco's eyes to flinch. Ginevra spun back toward the incapacitated blond wizard. "All I want to do - is stay right here - and make this filthy animal feel half as bad as I do," she gritted out, jabbing her wand at him with each verbal punctuation. "So if you have any idea what's good for you, My, you'll sod off."

Hermione was shaking; her hands were actually shaking. You cannot kill her, you cannot kill her…

Something must have changed in Draco's expression, because Ginevra suddenly laughed. "Oh, he's had such fire lately, too." She continued to chuckle, twirling her wand around her fingers before she raised it with a flourish. "It's times like these when I take such pleasure in breaking him."

Against her better judgement, Hermione's gaze shifted to Draco. He'd closed his eyes tightly, and something plummeted inside her chest. There was obviously nothing else she could say to deter Ginevra that wouldn't look like My was behaving desperately and suspiciously. The better question was, how could she stop Draco's suffering without making it appear as though she was helping him?

In an eerily calm clarity of vision, the realization of the only thing she possibly could do - had to do - crashed into her.

"Rigamor-"

A moment before the redheaded witch could finish her next curse, Hermione casually stepped right in front of her, her back to Ginevra's wand. "I want a go at him," she announced, offhandedly gesturing at Draco.

For a moment, only silence and Draco's shallow, struggling breaths met her declaration.

"You what?" Ginevra asked in a low behind her, her tone a mix of astonishment and dangerous irritation.

Draco's eyes slowly opened, shifting toward her. The once-lifeless gray pools suddenly held the same fear and dread Peia's had when Hermione had accidentally scared her to death at their first meeting, and she forced herself to look away from him. With a toss of her hair, she turned back to Ginevra. "You know I'm just awful at the Dark Arts… They're so hard! If this is how you get better, I want to try."

When Ginevra frowned, she whined, "Oh, come on, Ginevra, my exam's on Tuesday and I don't know a single thing. At least let me practice the basics!"

"Practice on your own House-Witch."

"As if I would actually do homework in my bedroom," Hermione retorted disgustedly.

Ginevra let out a snort that could have been a laugh, but she continued to scowl irately. "Since when d'you become such a swot?" she sneered.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, lighten up, whatever it is you're on about, Harry'll come around eventually and the world won't end. Now," she placed her hands on her hips, jutting out her chin in a pout, "can I get on with it, or do I have to listen to your whinging all day?"

She held her breath as Ginevra pursed her lips. Finally - thank Merlin and all the gods - she stepped back slightly, lowering her wand. "Fine. But you owe me."

Hermione could live with that, and she smirked smugly, lifting her chin as if claiming victory over the argument. She twirled back to Draco.

"What're they teaching you in Remedial these days?" Ginevra asked, stepping up alongside her. Hermione couldn't quite tell if her tone was curious or mocking.

"Trifecta," she said unaffectedly, forcing with all her might any emotion from her face as she regarded Draco disinterestedly.

Ginevra chortled. "It really is remedial, isn't it? Which one're you trying - Imperius?"

"No." Hermione sighed self-sufferingly. "Cruciatus."

The shadow of her once-close friend laughed; her amusement turned Hermione's blood to ice. "Should've guessed that. You always did hate getting your hands dirty." Her dark mood suddenly seemed to revive. "Right then. At least this'll be entertaining."

With a flick of her wand, Ginevra lifted Draco's stiff body into the air and approached him. Roughly, she seized his face, her nails digging into his cheek where the letter 'W' was seared into his skin like a brand. But it was her next words that made Hermione silently swear she'd see the day Ginevra Weasley suffered a slow, painful death.

"Breathe easy while you can, you filthy, Light-loving louse," she purred as Draco's again-lifeless eyes winced and blinked rapidly. He squeezed them shut, choking in a ragged breath through paralyzed lips. She tutted. "Afraid, are you? Stupid fusty. You shouldn't be - she won't be able to do you real damage. But I will." A pitiless smile stretched across her face. "Enjoy this, then. It's the only relief you'll be having anytime soon."

Hermione gripped her wand so tightly she feared the possibility it might snap in two. We'll see about that, you monstrous bitch.

Ginevra stepped back from Draco and gave Hermione a nod. "Go on, then, My. You can't miss him if he's at eye level - at least, one would assume." She smirked wickedly. "Let's see if Lupin's come up with a technique even My Evans can master."

Hermione shot her a murderously snide expression before focusing back on Draco. All thoughts of acting any assumed role dissolved as his gray eyes locked on hers, again incredibly open, glittering with a thousand emotions that Hermione couldn't even begin to name, except for one.

Pleading.

As if he'd realized exactly what she was thinking and was begging her to actually go through with it.

Which was wrong. That the Cruciatus Curse could be considered a relief from far greater suffering was so terribly wrong.

She stiffly raised her wand, staring at its tip if only not to look at him. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself mentally, slowly releasing her careful cap on the fury and frustration and hatred she felt toward Ginevra and Ronáld Weasley and all this world for what it was doing to defenseless, innocent living beings.

She didn't just want to cause Draco pain. She wanted to cause him so much pain so quickly that he passed out immediately.

'Believe me, Hermione,' she heard his voice whisper through her mind from their conversation weeks earlier, 'it may be the greatest kindness you can ever do them.'

In less than a blink, she shifted her gaze back to Draco and flung the tip of her wand at his chest.

"CRUCIO!"

The sound of the spell smashing into him literally echoed through the stone classroom; it blew through Ginevra's suspension charm in the same resounding crack, and Hermione hardly had a chance to frantically cast a subtle, nonverbal cushioning charm at the wall behind him and ground below before he slammed into both, landing in a heap.

She warily lowered her wand, continuing to clench it to keep her hand from shaking. Quickly, she scanned his face. His eyes were closed, his body limp.

She prayed she hadn't damaged any more of his skeletal system than everyone else already had.

Ginevra looked between Hermione and Draco, her mouth partially agape. "What in the name of Godric was that?"

Hermione opened her eyes wide. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No, you bloody well didn't. But you certainly put a wrench in my plans," Ginevra snapped. She walked over to Draco and prodded him with her boot as if he was nothing more than an inanimate object, then shot the equivalent of a renervating spell into him. Even that didn't rouse him, and Hermione silently sighed in relief.

Ginevra turned toward her, her eyebrows narrowed. "Bollocks, My. Retaking the Dark Arts is obviously paying off."

Hermione scoffed, studying her nails. "Not especially. You know I just can't stand him. So backward. So annoying."

"Yes, that's perfectly clear." Ginevra swept her hand at Draco and he disappeared; back to his cage, Hermione assumed, or at least desperately hoped. "Finish that tomorrow, then. Scrotal Snape it is." She scowled as they exited the classroom, her eyes glittering with vexation. "I'd almost rather shag a Slytherin than experience an hour of agony with that slippery slug and a cauldron."

Her idea of what constituted 'agony,' given the circumstances, was horrifically ironic. Had Hermione been as cold-blooded as the world around her, she would have humorously pointed out that Snape was a Slytherin. But as it was, she'd almost rather curse a Gryffindor through the heart.

After Ginevra had headed toward the dungeons, grousing all the while, Hermione muttered several Shielding charms around her and slid down the the hallway wall to the floor. Pulling her knees to her chest, she gulped in deep breaths, desperately trying to clear her mind of what had just transpired.

Ginevra was seventeen years old. Yes, Hermione had seen with her own eyes the type of 'training' involved in learning the Dark Arts, had heard the dark humor and selfish, aggressive comments the students around her typically made, had witnessed every Seventh and Eighth Year Gryffindor male laughing over Draco's suffering in the Common Room. But was no one in the Sovereignty concerned that so many of these children - and now, like Ginevra, adults - were speaking and acting like unrepentant sociopaths - potentially unrepentant killers?

And Draco... What Draco had endured, was enduring, and there was nothing she could do...

Before she realized it, a muffled whimper passed her lips. She quickly covered her mouth and then placed a silencing charm on herself, reminding herself to breathe, breathe, breathe.

How much longer could she continue this? Witnessing such - such barbaric acts of savagery and being unable - unwilling - terrified to stand up to them? Who was this person she'd become? Not only had everyone else around her become complete strangers, but so had she... and that, possibly, was the most terrifying bit of all.

The speed of her breaths unintentionally doubled; clenching her hands, she tilted back her head and screamed with all the repressed misery and rage inside her.

The silenced sound still echoed wildly through her mind, joining the memory of Draco's gray eyes boring into hers, pleading for mercy, pleading for death. That she'd been able to grant one with a curse used for the other seemed like no form of mercy at all.

Ginevra's comment about "finishing this tomorrow" hadn't escaped her, either. Hermione had thought she'd seen how bad things could get for Draco, but it appeared Peia was right yet again: perhaps she truly hadn't.

She shoved her forehead into her palms, so tired of this - of fighting, of losing, of everything - but even that couldn't block a determinedly repeating scene from days earlier, when she'd arrived at Draco's common room cage to find him in a troubled sleep.

When she'd tried to rouse him, he'd awoken with a start and a hollow scream. But then he'd seen her and gone still; even his very breathing seemed to stop. Hermione had sat, frozen, as he silently gazed at her - differently, somehow, than he had any other time before, as if he wasn't lucid or fully conscious. For a split second, she'd feared whatever had been done to him last had finally been cause for him to lose his mind, like Neville's parents had in her universe. But then, slowly, he'd lifted shaking fingers toward the bars and croaked, "How... How are you... here?"

As if, in his exhaustion, the very existence of someone besides his cousin who might help him was shocking to him, and even the continuity of her presence was worthy of doubt.

How much longer could he carry on without physically and mentally breaking entirely?

Yet again, Hermione at once hated herself and the smothering immensity of the terrifying Dark Arts machine that was the Sovereignty that was keeping her hands tied. She knew she had to get Draco out of there, and for his sake she needed to do it quickly, oh Merlin, so quickly. She just didn't know how, and her inability to find or rationalize a solution to one of the most horrific situations she'd ever faced infuriated her more than she could say.

Tears blurring her vision, Hermione gripped a handful of hair and stared despairingly in front of her. As the moments passed, her attention was invariably drawn to the vampire statue farther down the hallway. She gazed at it blankly, then blinked back the wetness at her eyes and stood abruptly.

She might not be able to help the son. But perhaps she could help the father.

Hermione whispered the password that McGonagall had used to close the statue so many weeks ago, her Invisibility Cloak wrapped securely around her. With a low grinding noise and slow movement, it grated open, revealing a curled, dimly-lit staircase leading into the castle's bowels.

She descended them cautiously, gripping her wand... and stopped in surprise the moment she reached the base. She was standing in a dark, cave-like stone chamber no larger than her own living quarters, sparsely lit with only two torches. A white, chalky line extended down the length of the chamber, essentially partitioning it into two halves. The half closest to her held some metal chairs and gnarly devices, the use for which she'd rather not consider.

On the other half of the room was indeed Lucius Malfoy, curled on a metal bed set into one side of the wall, wearing the same bedraggled gray prisoner's garb as the other House-Witches and Wizards had. A few books were scattered on the ground near him, but from his unkempt state, it was obvious he had been held prisoner here for a very long time. Tired lines were etched into his face, extremely long, somewhat wild platinum hair falling into his eyes and down his back. He didn't give any indication he'd heard the staircase open, though he must have - it hadn't exactly been quiet.

Suddenly, a sharp motion to her right caught her attention. Her gaze jerked toward it - and froze.

Inexplicably, a Muggle video camera was floating in the upper corner of the room, pointing directly at Malfoy. It was slowly sweeping her way.

Her stomach lurched in panic.

As the camera smoothly finished its turn in her direction, Hermione dove back into the passageway, her heart pounding. Her Muggle Studies class hadn't gotten into the specifics of the engineering involved with magically-altered Muggle devices, but surely this was one of them: No doubt it would have the ability to detect not only magic, but possibly even a human presence, Invisibility Cloak or not.

Heart racing, she barreled up the stairs and into the hallway -

"Oof!" she gasped, colliding hard with something very solid. Something that grabbed her Invisibility Cloak and pulled.

Before Hermione could react, she found herself staring up at Harry Evans' hard face.

Bloody Morgana.

Both of them reacted quickly; she lifted her wand to Obliviate him, but he drew his just as quickly. "What d'you think you're doing, Granger?" he asked in a quiet, threatening voice as the Vampire statue scraped shut.

"I could ask you the same thing, Evans," Hermione said, trying to sound arrogant instead of alarmed.

His glower deepened. "Innocently strolling though a hallway doesn't quite equate the same crime as emerging from illicit passageways."

Hermione could have built a solid case against several holes in that argument, but she doubted My had that logical ability, so she instead hardened her gaze and didn't hesitate to fall back on the vague but powerful blackmail My held over him. "If you even think of reporting me for whatever mad thing you believe I did," she hissed, "I swear to you I'll follow up on what I promised, and you'll regret you ever opened your mouth."

His knuckles tightened around his wand. "You're bluffing."

She smiled saucily, that she even managed it a feat in itself. "Don't you wish I was." At his deadly expression, she laughed and waved her wand. "Go on, then. Bugger off."

For a moment, he didn't move at all; in fact, it appeared as if he was preparing to lunge at her.

"One day, Granger," he said in a low, deliberate voice, "I will kill you."

He sounded like he meant it with every inch of his enraged soul.

Ice shot straight through her chest. Damn, damn, damn; she desperately needed to Obliviate the past five minutes of his memory, but she simply rolled her eyes, feeling as if she were waving a red flag before a bull. "Empty words. Hate to break it to you, brother, but you need a new hobby. Why don't you go somewhere else and find one?"

Hermione held her breath and waited for him to turn his back and leave, her wand gripped tightly at her side. But as if he expected the very thing she had planned, Harry backed up the entire length of the hallway with his wand still pointed at her. Once he reached the end of the corridor, he turned it and disappeared.

The instant he did, she plunged her hand into her skirt's waistband, where she kept a shrunken Marauders' Map. She couldn't let him walk away from this with that memory. Though her exhausted mind protested, fear and adrenaline powered her surge of energy.

She wasn't prepared to get caught, or murdered.

After a quick scan, Hermione spotted him without much effort, heading quite rapidly toward the Head Common Rooms. If she could cut past the Great Hall and get ahead of him before he reached the third floor, he'd never be able to defend himself from someone he didn't expect, let alone couldn't see.

Yes. She could do this.

She sprung to her feet and reached for her Invisibility Cloak, but it - Where was it?

Her heart jumped to her throat. Quickly, she felt around her shoulders, and searched the floor at her feet.

Her Invisibility Cloak - correction, Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak - was gone.

A/N: Uh-oh. Two guesses as to who has it.