The only downside to meeting in the Chamber, is that being the only parsletongue among them, Harry has to sit outside the chamber for half an hour to let everyone in as they arrive—which means a lot of facetime with Myrtle.

Which—he's happy to be friendly with her, but the more she talks about watching him and every other wizard in the baths….

(well. He thinks it's fair to feel very, very uncomfortable with the situation, however tragic the circumstances surrounding her death.)

Five after start time, once they've sent out a last-call on the DA galleons, he heads into the chamber himself, where the entirety of ASA is talking at top volume, eyes wide as they take in the space.

(Naturally, their eyes are drawn to the mammoth decayed basilisk corpse and bus-sized snakeskin, though the statue of Slytherin's likeness pulls quite a bit of attention as well.)

Everyone had heard about the truth of the Chamber's existence three years ago, of course, but an elderly Headmaster assuring you it's reclosed is not quite as belief-inspiring as being inside the millenia old space of legend.

(Hermione finds herself fondly remembering that time, however horrible it had been then, for being when Draco came into her life—as himself.)

(They had no idea, then, how they would come to be each other's world.)

Hermione stands near the likeness of Salazar, looking tired but less stressed than Harry's seen her in weeks and weeks. He makes his way to stand next to her; raises his eyebrows in the way that silently asks if she's okay and waiting for the smile that promises she is before attempting to get the room's attention. "Hello! Er—everyone!"

A few of the people standing at the front quiet down, but the rest of the room can't hear him over their own conversations; he sighs, casting a sonorous before trying again. "All, can I get your attention, please! We're about to begin."

The noise simmers down, and they all turn to him and Hermione expectantly, though still wide eyed and overwhelmed by the gravity of the new meeting space.

"Right, then." She clears her throat. "Glad you all made it. Harry and I want to apologize for the breech in security, and any anxiety you all experienced due to the situation—the beauty of our new meeting space is that even if our location is somehow exposed again, it is impossible for Umbitch to get in."

The other students cheer, both at the announcement and her use of the nickname.

(Anti-Umbridge sentiment has been rampant all year, but since Dumbledore's departure, as her treachery has grown worse the student body's unification against her has exponentially exploded.)

Harry picks up where she left off. "That being said, we're going to have to be more careful than ever before. OWLs are right around the corner, though, and summer, which—for some of us, may be a more difficult and unsafe time, so we aren't going to let the circumstances affect how hard we're working. Of course you all have to make whatever choice is best for you—if you want to devote less time to ASA, we support that as well, but for Hermione and I this remains a priority in light of what we're currently facing."

"And," Hermione adds, "while I want to trust all of you, and do care for each and every person here, what happened proved that even those close to us are capable of betrayal—and we don't need to talk about who it was, or why they did it. But, I want you all to know I have strengthened the security enchantments on our roster contract, and the results of any mention of anything at all ASA will result in some very unfortunate consequences, which only I am able to reverse." She clenches her jaw as she stares the room down. "And if anyone in this room is put in danger, I doubt I will be very inclined to do so. So I suggest not trying to find any loopholes."

Lavender looks at her with wide eyes. "As glad as I am…some days I really do think you should've been in Slytherin."

A scoff from Pansy, as well as varied laughter and disagreement from the rest of the Slytherin members.

Ernie McMillan puffs up his chest. "What, you lot can't stand the thought of a muggle-born in your house?"

Hermione opens her mouth to attempt to defuse the situation—they'd made it this far into the year with relatively good interhouse relations, but this is a fuse with centuries of kindling, with the potential to blow sky high.

But Pansy gets there first.

"Merlin and Morgana," the dark haired Slytherin says, rolling her eyes in an exasperated way. "Always assuming the worst. Of course. Listen, none of the Slytherins in this room have a problem with muggle-borns, or we wouldn't have joined a resistance group that most of our family's would literally crucio us if they knew we were a part of, yeah?" She blows out a breath, tucking flyaway hairs behind both ears, not meeting anyone's eyes as the other houses realize the statement is not an exaggeration, and the whispers of other houses abruptly go silent. "You think we're these awful people, but that's not us. You don't know us—and we're not the horror stories your parents have told."

Daphne snaps her fingers in agreement, Theo nodding beside her.

Blaise speaks up as well. "We all laughed because Hermione is the farthest thing from a Slytherin—doesn't have much of an ambitious bone in her body. She's cunning and clever, sure, but those are skills she's using for protective purposes—defending the people in the group is what she actually values, and that's about as Gryffindor as it gets."

Ernie, along with a good number of people across the houses, looks flabbergasted—but this is good.

The confusion means that they're listening—means they're actually processing the information.

(This is where change begins, where unity grows, Hermione just knows it.)

(it's the beginning of something—something bigger than just them.)

"Um—er—" Neville gets to his feet, wringing his hands but expression confident. "I know a lot of us have heard a lot of rumors about each other—especially about Slytherin—over the years," "And I know that some of the negative commentary has come from authority figures, so we trust it implicitly. I mean, I grew up in a house that praised Dumbledore, but he incites division constantly, embodies partiality and injustice when it comes to interhouse matters—and that's coming from a Gryffindor, who constantly benefits from his favoritism. So I can't imagine how much of it I haven't even noticed because it hasn't negatively impacted me. But while there are definitely some individuals who hold onto old prejudices, many if not most of the Slytherins I've met personally have been anything but their reputation. And there are terrible people in every house—Barty Crouch sent Sirius Black to Azkaban without a trial and let loose the man who tortured my parents, and he was a Ravenclaw."

Several of the Slytherins give him nods of respect and appreciation, Theo reaching to clap him on the shoulder in a friendly way.

Hermione smiles proudly at him—his willingness to bare his soul to the room to support what's right, his even tone while asserting his opinion—this is why he is the best of Gryffindor. Why he'll make a great Head Boy, in a few years.

"Neville's exactly right," she says. "The word Slytherin is not synonymous with evil—hell, the very man who betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort and resurrected him last year was a Gryffindor." She waits, cocking an eyebrow as shock fills the room. "Exactly. Our house—at the end of the day, it means nothing in regard to our morals, only the values with which we live them. If you ask me, the only reason Slytherin has such a negative reputation is because their ambition and cunning make them likely to succeed in all endeavors—including achieving power for corrupt purposes."

Lavender raises an eyebrow. "What about the blood supremacist founder? Are we just ignoring that?"

Hermione shakes her head, feeling her heart rate spike with excitement at finally getting to correct the misconception that pervades England she's been contemplating alone for years. "See, I've actually done a lot of research into the history of the house and Salazar himself, for—obvious reasons." A gesture to herself, mind bursting with hundreds of memories of being eleven, falling asleep amidst the ancient historic shelves of the library, trying so desperately to understand why her new world was the way it was. "Salazar cautioned the way the other founders were bringing muggle-borns into our world. He disliked mixing muggle and magic, as it posed a serious danger to magic society—and to be fair, at this point in time the number of witches and wizards in the world is incredibly low, and anyone accused of witchcraft was burned at the stake. He was especially cautious because the parsletongue ability that he and some pureblood families possessed was one of the most dangerous things for muggles to find out about, as they always saw it as devil speak or satanism. Salazar didn't want himself or the people relying on him to face that kind of risk.

"Which, is honestly understandable, as there was a massacre at a wizarding school in Greece a century before Hogwarts was opened, because one pupil's parent believed their son to be possessed, and together with their entire muggle village showed up at the magic school in the dead of night to attack. Only two people in the entire school survived." She takes a sip of water before continuing. "Salazar actually initially only said he would require any muggle-borns in his house to cut all ties with their muggle family to keep themselves and their peers safe; the other founders said that wasn't a fair thing to ask, and so he said in that case he wasn't willing to take the risk of muggle-borns in his house. Of course, if you have one house that has only students with ancient ties, all of whom come into Hogwarts with eleven years of magical experience and generations' worth of lineage and knowledge…well, it's no surprise that the policy was contorted into something prejudiced and sinister, however genuine its roots. And when you-know-who rolled around, it was a perfect rallying point—he was seeing how effective it was in the muggle world as his followers coalesced around his power, what with the second world war stirring while he was in school."

She finally stops to take a breath, then blushes at the way the entire room is staring at her, deathly silent. "Sorry. That was—my bad. Too much of a tangent."

"No, that's all really good for everyone to know," Harry smiles encouragingly, though his eyes are far away. "Makes sense. I always wondered why a half-blood was the leader of a blood supremacy movement."

"He's a half-blood?" Susan Bones asks with wide eyes. "What? Are you sure?"

'Er, yeah," Harry scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "I spoke to—I mean, read his diary—second year, and he said his dad was a muggle."

The chamber erupts in whispers, but Hermione shoots up sparks to get everyone's attention. "I know that's a lot of new information, and it might be a bit hard to focus after that, but—we've already lost almost fifteen minutes, we need to go ahead and start practice, okay? Go ahead and cast your numbing charms and then we're practicing stinging hexes for fifteen minutes."

As Harry's walking around to observe and see who needs help where, he feels a tug on his sweater; he turns to see a Hufflepuff first year, biting her lip nervously. "Hi, bud, what can I do for you?"

"I—" her expression is nervous, but she grounds herself decisively. "I'm a parseltongue."

"Oh!" His eyes go wide, and he's first shocked, then excited. "Really? I've never met anyone else who could speak it! Unless you count Voldemort, I suppose, but it's not as though I'm going to sit down for tea with him to talk about it."

The girl giggles, pushing a few of her braids over her shoulder, looking just a bit less tense after his silliness. "Yeah, I—I haven't told anyone here, because—well, the rumors, and the superstitions, and all. My grandparents on my mom's side used to live in the Congo, they actually met working with tropical snake species because they're both parseltongues. There are a lot more species of snakes there, so there's a really high demand…" She shrugs, as though worried she's rambling. "Anyway, I just wanted to say, if you need help letting everyone in, or anything, or if we're ever worried Umbridge is coming or anything…well, this is a girl's bathroom, so I would probably be less suspicious. I'm happy to help."

Harry smiles at her. "That's so kind of you, and it would be a big help; god knows I almost lost my voice doing it tonight. Your name is Aaliyah, right?"

She beams, nodding in confirmation, and they make plans to chat about it one day soon during breakfast, and he moves on with his rounds with just a bit more spring in his step.

As much as Sirius, Remus, and Andy have spent the last two years trying to hammer home that parsletongue is not evil or a skill only possessed by dark wizards…well, he's worried quite a lot.

(A part of him has always wondered if he didn't defeat Voldemort because he was an even more powerful dark wizard—wondered if some day he might become the one everyone around him feared and fought against.)

(It's a thought that's kept him up more nights than he cares to admit.)

But hearing what Hermione had to say about Slytherin, the root of the rumors that parseltongues are evil, and talking to Aaliyah, who sounded as though in countries with significant reptile populations the ability isn't at all uncommon—

(makes him feel just a bit less isolated. just a bit more like a part of the wizarding world.)

(a bit more like a normal wizard.)

When the meeting ends, everyone begins to filter back up to the entrance via the now rubble-free staircase (thanks to several hours of Harry, Hermione, and Ron levitating and vanishing it), rather than taking the phoenix mode of transport Harry had made use of second year.

Hermione waves him ahead, mumbles about needing to finish up a few things and smiling as he leaves, before turning her narrowed eyes to her target.

She approaches him carefully, making sure the people with him aren't paying attention, grabbing his sleeve just before he makes to approach the staircase. "Can I talk to you for just a minute?" she asks, putting on her sweetest smile.

She watches Roger's eyes flicker down to the v of her sweater, a smirk forming on his face that makes her want to gag. "Of course, Hermione—it is Hermione, right?"

"I—yeah, wow, I didn't think you'd know who I am," she simpers, forcing a blush.

It's the worst acting she's ever done, and if his ego were any less mammoth he would realize it—he's been coming to meetings (back before she knew the truth and conveniently made sure meetings were always scheduled when he couldn't come—this is the first she hasn't done so for in ages, and solely for this purpose).

This girl who's unsure of herself, is surprised whenever anyone realizes she exists—she hasn't been this girl in a long time.

(But she's not at all surprised he falls for it.)

(Men like him…they think the world begins and ends with their own breath.)

The darkest part of her whispers all manner of suggestions as to how to deal with him—she's not proud of the things she considers.

(all three unforgivables. A basilisk fang to the chest. A wingardium leviosa'd brick to the head and a claim that he'd tripped.)

But she resists, waits until they're alone in the chamber.

Roger smirks, moving to take a step closer to her. "This is very…private."

"Mhm." Her lips curve, before she whispers "Expelliarmus."

It doesn't even cross his mind to be worried—he merely assumes she's making a move. His gaze just grows hungrier, and he moves to tug his shirt off.

"Flipendo," she says, the words quiet but crisp. She tries not to enjoy the thud of his flesh hitting the cement as he's thrown back against the well.

(but this is the bastard who hurt Pansy—who bruised her skin and her soul, broke her bones and her spirit, made her bleed and hurt.)

(traumatized her the way Hermione knows all too well.)

(she wants him to suffer—so much so it scares her.)

"Incarcerous," she casts next, slowly striding to where ropes bind him in place, his face just beginning to grow upset.

"What the hell, Granger? Is this some kind of—kink, for you? You need to cut it out."

"Why?" she whispers. "Don't like being at someone else's mercy? Don't like not being in control of what happens to your own body?"

He starts tugging at the restraints in earnest, but instead of getting scared he gets angry.

(it doesn't even cross his mind to fear her. underestimating her, of course.)

"Listen, you little bitch—"

"Oh, no, I think I'm tired of hearing you speak, now. Silencio. Immobulus." Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Much better. This will take much less time without you interrupting."

Standing here, staring into his eyes—she never knew she was capable of this kind of anger.

(she's always hated her uncle, of course—thoughts of him have always been painful and nauseating and all kinds of complicated awful.)

(but she'd never in a million years to take up arms against him. she's not—he's a monster, and she's glad he's gone from her life.)

she can handle the horrors done to her.

But Pansy's pain is unacceptable.

"You are very lucky," Hermione tells him, the hate in her eyes now visible. "that I believe so strongly in my moral principles. Otherwise you would already be dead." His mouth begins to move soundlessly, and she holds up a hand. "Ah, ah, I don't care. If you're attempting to give a reason why I would be unable to kill you, rest assured I have thought up many, many different plans as to how I might get away with such a thing. As I said, you're lucky."

He glares, but a bit of nerves are beginning to edge into his eyes.

(Good.)

"I considered so, so many ways to hurt you—ways to make you feel even a fraction of the pain you've caused. You still don't know what I'm talking about, do you?' A bitter half of a laugh escapes her. "You're so far removed from it. My god."

Hermione crosses her arms, staring him dead in the eye. "Well, Roger, as it happens, Pansy Parkinson is one of the people dearest to me in this world. Oh, now you're scared?" she asks, noticing the way he goes pale. "You probably should be. You should be terrified of people knowing the kind of monster you are, you absolute piece of shit."

She takes a step closer, till she's just inches away from him—trying not to tremble at the proximity to a known predator, however incapable of hurting her he is at the moment. "This is you getting your due for what you did to her. No, I won't have the same done to you," she says, when his eyes go wide. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, however much you deserve it. I did consider stealing one of Umbridge's quills—would've been interesting to have you write lines till you had a scar that said I will stop being an abusive rapist, don't you think?"

Shrugging, she moves her arms to take down her hair and redo her bun. "But again, morals, so I decided against it. I think I've found something suitable, though." She stretches her arms a bit before taking her wand back out. "I've been doing some research into lesser known magic, and stumbled across a rather complex but suitable spell—and we both know I'm quite good at casting.

"Tell me, Roger, are you very familiar with the Bible? This lovely magic is called the curse of Cain—though the name is a bit inverted." She clears her throat, before holding up her wand carefully—as much as she's been practicing, it's a delicate piece to perform. "Septem dolorum." Carefully, so carefully, she completes the motion, letting out a deep breath when she feels the magic settle, despite the drain on her magic that makes her have to work hard not to lurch.

She smiles at Roger. "For the rest of your life, any pain you cause, you will feel sevenfold. Pity we can't backdate it," she comments, making a face. "You know what the beauty of this is, Roger? I'm not hurting you—I am genuinely causing you no harm. But you…" another soft, bitter laugh. "Men like you just can't stop yourselves from hurting people. As much as I would love for you to never harm another soul, I know you will. And so you'll do the dirty work for me—and pay, for every other person you hurt. Every other girl you try to take advantage of, every other vulnerable good person you want to assert your power over—you will have to face and feel exactly how horrible of a monster you are."

Straightening, she crosses her arms as she stares him down. "That's it—no need to keep freaking out, I won't hurt you or hex you, however much you deserve it. The only conditions are these: you will not tell anyone what happened here today. You will keep your disgusting hands off every girl in this school. You will stop coming to ASA meetings. And—listen, this is the most important one—you will stay the fuck away from Pansy. Not a word, not a letter, not even in the same room as her if you can possibly help it."

The hatred of her gaze burns into him. "If I find out you in any way broke any of these conditions, I will come for you. I will not be nearly as kind. And I will not be alone." Her lips curve upward. "My guardian is Sirius Black—the only person to ever break out of Azkaban, and the patriarch of one of the most powerful families in England. He used to be an Auror, you know?" She cocks her head to the side with an empty smile. "Sirius doesn't like abusers. And he really doesn't like rapists. So if I were you, I would follow my rules."

A wave of her wand, and his bindings are gone, the only indication that he's no longer silenced the heaving breaths of fear he's sucking in.

"You can go, now," she tells him. "I hope we never cross paths again."

He hurries out of the chamber with all the speed of the Quidditch star that he is. She waits a few minutes, wrestling with the encounter.

(Worried she went too far. Worried she didn't go far enough.)

But it's—she's spent months, grappling with how to handle it. With what he deserved and what punishment it was moral for her to exact. With where the line lay.

(But there is no line. The world is grey.)

(Crime and punishment only more so.)

After giving him a five minute head start, to make sure she definitely doesn't bump into him again, she heads out of the chamber and up to the RoR.

When she arrives, only Draco is there, already half asleep, though he smiles when she approaches, moving to cuddle her without opening his eyes when she's changed into her nightclothes and crawled into bed beside him.

"Y'okay, love? What took you so long?"

She considers telling him—asking if he thinks she did the right thing. Letting him reassure her or judge her as he sees fit, so long as there's a second opinion.

But—she's exhausted, and drained, and now that the adrenaline is fading it's hitting her how terrified she was deep down to be left alone underground with a known monster.

(And maybe, for now, it's okay to trust that she did her best.)

She'll tell him eventually, of course; Draco makes every burden easier to bear.

(But at this moment, she's going to sleep, and recover, and just—keep breathing.)

(Sometimes, that's as much as she can manage, and that's okay.)

"Don't worry," she says, feeling the tension in her body ease just a bit as his form curls around her. "Just—dealing with some loose ends. Managing some trauma things. I'll tell you soon."

"Okay, baby."

After a moment or so, she can't help but roll over and face him; he blinks his eyes open, knowing she wants his attention.

She chews on her lip. "Do you think I'm a good person? Am I—do you think I could ever go too far, do the wrong thing? Become…dark?"

Draco lets out a long sigh before responding, one hand rubbing her back all the while. "Well, I think—I think all of us are capable of going too far. And I think when you go through the kind of shit we have…it can be easy for the darkness to feel familiar. To grow too accustomed to it. But you…Mia, you are the epitome of goodness. I've always wondered if fate made a mistake, us being soul mates, because I can't possibly deserve the kind of goodness you have at heart. And that's not to say you're perfect, because of course you're not, but at your core you have a strong moral compass and a soul that cries with the hearts of the downtrodden. Anything that could be considered bad I've ever seen you do has been on their behalf, and I don't think that constitutes a wrong."

"Thanks," she says thickly, trying to choke back tears at his soothing reassurance. "Who knew you could wax poetic like that, Romeo?"

"Shut up and go to sleep, my ridiculous girl," Draco mutters.

(she's out before he finishes the sentence.)

/

There's a sense of foreboding in the air.

It spreads through the castle, intensifying till it's almost palpable as the end of year quickly approaches; every house, every class, every student.

Ron gets a letter from Percy—the mail is being read, so he's written carefully coded messages, outwardly advising him to stop associating with Harry but beneath the cipher warning that Umbridge is planning something big, has been in contact with several higher ups in the ministry besides Fudge with increasing frequency.

So they do their best to brace themselves, but they have no idea what they're in for.

(They're not ready, when it comes.)

They're taking their astronomy OWL—Hermione's nervous but doing fine, of course, while Harry and Ron bullshit their way through the exam knowing they're about as likely to pass as they are to meet Merlin himself.

(Unbothered, as it's not a course they'll ever need again.)

At one point, ink creeps along Hermione's wrist, saying number 7 must be your favorite.

(Seven being the question about the constellation Draco, of course.)

She snorts, but before she can make to reply there's a ruckus from down on the grounds; their entire year moves closer to the wall despite the proctor's protests to see a small form that can only be Umbridge, flanked by four officials in riot gear.

(Why the hell would anyone need to be outfitted for war on the schoolgrounds, in the middle of the night?)

They storm toward Hagrid's cottage, and Hermione immediately turns to Harry knowing he's about to do something stupid and reckless.

"Don't," she hisses, grabbing his arm gently to keep him from racing down to interfere. "You won't get there in time to help, and you'll just give Umbridge more ammunition."

"How dare you!" McGonagall races out just behind them as they begin firing jets of light at the cottage, the sound of glass breaking audible even from the astronomy tower. "You absolutely despicable, underhanded—have you no sense of decency?"

They turn their wands on her, then, but before the stunning spells can hit two forms hurl themselves in front of her.

It's only once they've collapsed to the grass that the red of their hair is visible—she and Harry can both hear Ron suck in a breath of horror, even as she feels her own stomach drop out beneath her with worry for them.

"Those idiots," Ron chokes out. "What are they thinking—Percy told them too, not to get in Umbridge's way. She's going to—"

Harry puts a delicate hand on his shoulder, while Hermione speaks to reassure him. "They'll be okay—just stunned, McGonagall will take care of them. They probably just saved her life—if she'd taken four to the chest? At her age? They're reckless, but—incredibly brave."

"No one lays a finger on my Gryffindors!" McGonagall snaps, her voice resonating across the grounds. Her rage fuels a spell so strong it knocks all four stunners and Umbridge to their backs. "Hagrid, we're leaving!"

He hurries out to meet her, a bag that looks like it's been packed for a while over his shoulder; catching sight of the twins, he moves to gently lift them both in his arms before reaching for McGonagall, who pulls a handkerchief out of her robes, whispering "Portus"—

And then they're all gone.

The OWL proctor has given up attempting to corral them all at this point—Hermione has no doubt they'll scratch the exam scores for everyone, and finds she can't care less.

"No Dumbledore. No Hagrid. No McGonagall." Harry's face is as pale and worried as she's ever seen it.

She wants to comfort him, but—"we're so fucked," is what comes out of her mouth.

Ron nods in horrified agreement. "Only one standing between her and us now is Remus, and he's the one she's been after from the beginning."

"And," Harry says glumly, "it's almost the end of term—when Voldemort always makes to kill me and show his hand. We're about to be in the most danger we have been all year. This—this isn't a coincidence. Something is coming—Luna's been feeling it for weeks, but this—this is it."

"Fuck," Hermione bites out.

(she slides down the wall to sit on the cement, head between her knees as she mourns whatever semblance of peace they'd had left.)

A/N: chapter title from nightmare by halsey

I don't really know how I feel about this chapter (mainly the first half), but—it felt right. I hope you think so too.

Next chapter the ~spice~ begins (aka climactic Umbridge/DoM shebang) so exciting stuff in the next few days! Big plans