Hello all! Thanks for reading!

This is the last chapter left until the Battle in the Department of Mysteries and the second meeting between Bellatrix and Hermione.

Mortcia Gore: Thanks for your words of encouragement. I think I know why people aren't thrilled with this story, but alas! I can only write it the way my muse demands.


On a typical evening, Crookshanks liked to hang out under the Grangers' dining room table, alternating being plaintive meows and sulky pawing as he tried to convince one of the humans to share their meal with him. While Hogwarts was full of rats and other delicious vermin for him to snack on, the muggle humans insisted on putting some sort of bizarre dry pebbles next to his water bowl. He'd tried delicately pointing out that he couldn't possibly be expected to eat that by leaving hairballs in the kitchen for a month, but to no avail.

No, the humans merely presented him with a new type of dry pebble, but saltier. Oh the sighs he could have sighed - if only Kneazles could sigh.

But on this particular night, Crookshanks, with the particular insight of his kind, found himself waiting patiently by the back door, though he knew not for what. Right as the cuckoo clock in the hall chimed seven, the door opened. Seeing that no one had entered, he sniffed the air carefully, and decided to venture outside. There seemed to be no one in the garden, but a familiar smell lingered in the air. Familiar, yet...different.

"Hey there, you little orange monster," a voice whispered, and miraculously, a hand appeared from thin air to pet him. "I missed you."

The hand turned over in supplication. An arm followed the hand, and then the whole crouching form was revealed - it was his witch!

"Did you miss me too?" she cooed, scratching under his chin (an act that would have cost another a finger, at least).

"Meow," he responded. It meant "you're lucky you have your uses, human," and "fetch me something juicy and alive at once," and "I just saw you inside, but it wasn't really you" and "your shampoo smells awful", but he knew that these giant, clumsy creatures could only grasp one simple concept at a time. So he just swished his tail, brushing against her legs gently, and bounded off into the night in search of prey.

Hermione let out a low chuckle, watching him burrow beneath the neighbor's fence. When even the tip of his bottlebrush tail had disappeared, she turned back toward the house.

It was only a few weeks ago that she'd come here to read Judith's journal, but it seemed a lifetime.

Crouching down to keep below window-level, she circled the house until she could see right into the living room. It was dinner time; she watched her dad bustle about with trays of food, followed by the other Hermione. Her mother lay on the couch, and she fought to sit up as the others entered, as though determined to move without assistance. A news program came on the radio, and the three ate in peaceful silence, oblivious to their observer.

Many odd things had transpired since the death of Mr. Engel. The very next morning, Mrs. Granger made a sudden and inexplicable recovery, and though her head wound had left her struggling with memory and speech, she was very much alive. Agatha kept her promise to refer Hermione to St. Mungos, and her doctors were puzzled to find the young girl had vanished from her cot, only to be returned days later in perfect health. Better still, past-Hermione seemed to have no memory of her encounter with her doppelgänger.

But not all developments were good. Somewhere in the chaos of those first days, Hermione's makeshift time-turner had gone missing. One of her theories was that it had simply blinked out of existence on its own, to prevent the paradox of her return to a future where the conditions of its invention would never take place.

The event that prompted this single-minded quest - her mother's death - did not apply to the other-Hermione. How could they coexist within the same timeline, and at what point could she return to take the other-Hermione's place? Especially since the other-Hermione would never need to travel back at all?

These unanswerable questions plagued her every waking moment. She'd been so foolish to think that preventing the accident would solve all of her problems. Instead, every step along this journey seemed to plunge her deeper and deeper into the black hole of paradox.

Having decided not to tempt fate, she'd stayed away from the house as long as she could, to avoid running into her other self. But the need to see her parents again eventually won out against her better sense.

Seeing the three of them alive and well again was more than she'd ever hoped for, and Hermione should have been happy, having accomplished the impossible. But, kneeling there in the dirt outside the window of the house she grew up in, she had the strange sensation of being a spectator to someone else's life. Like watching a nice, relatable sitcom family on the telly, and wishing it was really your family.

And it was, except… it felt as though someone else had been cast to play her part, and everyone pretended not to notice the substitution. And who was the true impostor, after all? The other-Hermione? Or her?

She may not have belonged in that cozy familial scene, but there was something she could still do. Remembering her conversation with Tonks many months ago, when she'd complained that Dumbledore had ignored her request to ward her home, Hermione took out her wand.

"Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum," she chanted again and again, erecting a shimmering shield of magic. Completing this process left Hermione utterly drained, but she was satisfied that she had done a good job.

"Goodbye," she whispered, trying to commit to memory the peaceful look on her mother's face. The future was more than uncertain, and she didn't know when she'd return.

Disapperating before anyone could notice her presence, Hermione rematerialized in the front parlor of a decrepit manor. Ironically called Heaven's Gate, it was an old Auror safehouse from the Wizarding War that had definitely seen better days. Dust had made its home in every nook and corner, and the spiderwebs bloomed like ghostly flowers all across the ceiling.

Taking off her coat, Hermione tossed it on the table, right on top of her neatly-organized stacks of research. Tonight - well, tonight she just couldn't be bothered. The more she cleaned this place, the dirtier it seemed to get - and wasn't that the metaphor for her entire life, lately?

While Other-Hermione was out there, running around with her parents in blissful ignorance, she was stuck hiding from the world in this damp mausoleum, surviving on takeout, with only Agatha's infrequent visits to break the monotony of days. What she would have done without the elderly woman's help, Hermione could not say; Agatha had brought her to Heaven's Gate, and had even found her some work writing reports for the Surveillance Department, which Hermione sent into the Ministry every morning - anonymously. The rest of her hours, she spent trying to reconstruct her missing time-turner and work out a plan to reintegrate herself back into the timeline.

The clock struck nine, sending its rhythmic vibrations echoing through the house.

She tried pacing restlessly - isn't that what miserable people did, after all? - but the whining of the floorboards was truly unbearable, and she was forced to stop. Sighing with resignation, Hermione picked her coat off the table, draped it neatly on the rack, and began to straighten her notes. As she shuffled through the piles, a small, yellowed parchment fell out and landed on the floor.

Strange, Hermione thought, that's definitely not mine.

But there was so much old rubbish here, it wasn't surprising that it had gotten mixed up with her things. She picked up the paper and unfolded it, seeing that the inside was covered with tiny, spiked script.

...

My darling, it read.

The smell of you lingers on my fingers and I breathe you in all day - an apéritif to whet the palate as I await the feast, a beggar at your table, a penitent before your shrine.

It seems an age since I have had you writhe beneath me, at once begging me to stop and to fuck you to the brink of madness. I am haunted by my name on your lips: soft and pleading at first; then rough with desperation; and finally, the sweetest moan of your surrender as you fall apart.

Has it only been two weeks? I go mad with desire, mad with visions of your body tangled in my sheets, here where you belong. You will return at once.

I implore you.

Bellatrix

...

Oh good Lord, Hermione thought, blushing faintly. This was surely the most absurd, most pretentious love letter she'd ever read (not that she'd read many) but, still, it sent her pulse to skipping. There could be no doubt as to the author's identity, and more than that, Hermione suspected that it was written to a woman. Was she insane for thinking that, perhaps, this made the impossible … a little less impossible?

But that momentary lapse was over all too soon, and Hermione managed to get ahold of her racing thoughts. Yes, she may have dreamed of having the Death Eater up against the wall in Azkaban a time or ten, but surely she didn't need to fool herself that that fantasy was anything more. Not to mention how unlikely it was that Bellatrix Lestrange's letter had somehow wound up in an Auror hideout. No, it was probably some other Bellatrix with awful penmanship and an exaggerated sense of her own importance.

She was just starved for human contact, that was all. She'd finally shaken loose of her embarrassing fixation with Cho Chang, and it seemed her treacherous mind was only too eager to provide yet another unattainable object to torment her. It was, however, a distraction she could hardly afford at the moment.

There were hundreds of pages of calculations to work though, at least a dozen books to read, scores of references to trace, all laid out, right there on the table…

Where, looking closely, Hermione now noticed the faded scars of scratch marks across the surface. Tracing her fingers in the grooves, it was obvious that the marks had been gouged by a human hand - in a moment of pleasure perhaps, or a moment of agony. She couldn't help but wonder: had Bellatrix been in this very room?

Had she...taken her lover on this very table?

The idea of it made the air seem unbearably thick, the house claustrophobic. Everywhere Hermione looked, a shadow seemed to linger - a quivering, viscous, terrible shadow - threatening to take on a human form. The cloying taste of decay was on her tongue... and in her imagination, it tasted like Bellatrix.

I have to get out of here, Hermione thought desperately. I'm going stir crazy.

She'd always loved her solitude, but as it turned out, it was indeed possible to have too much of a good thing. Harry and Ron had been the ones to force her to socialize, and now she made a mental note to thank them - if she ever saw them again, that is.

But going outside meant running the risk of running into someone who knew her. Did she dare to risk it? Especially since the entire Order was currently staying in London? No, it was beyond foolish.

It was then that she remembered that she still had Polyjuice in her bag. Digging it out frantically, she didn't hesitate to chug it down, having grown inexplicably reckless over the past few months. There was nothing like finding yourself entirely severed from your timeline to make you live for the moment.

Stepping out into Muggle London looking like Lucius Malfoy was a strange experience, stranger even than the first time she'd done it after breaking into the Ministry. She walked down the street anxiously - afraid to draw attention even though she'd transfigured his clothes and hair to look mundane - but the passerby hardly spared her a glance.

It was such a relief to look at the sky again, utterly starless in the city. She strolled aimlessly, down this street and that, for what seemed like hours, til her legs grew tired and she spotted a nondescript little pub up ahead.

Bad idea, Hermione, her common sense counseled, but the thought of having a conversation with another human being for a change (instead of just the mounted troll-heads at Heaven's Gate) proved an irresistible temptation.

Just beyond the door, she found a wall of noise and a crowd of people. It was jarring, and, not knowing what else to do, she wandered over to the bar and took a seat. All around her, people were talking and laughing with their friends, and she watched them with something like bitterness, feeling lonelier even than she had these past weeks. Lonelier even that she had watching Other-Hermione steal her family right out from under her nose.

Hardly five minutes passed before she felt a tap on her shoulder, and looking up, found a woman gazing expectantly at her.

"Excuse me…" she began hesitantly, "But you're an actor, right?"

Hermione almost turned around to see who the woman was talking to, only to catch herself at the last moment when she remembered who she was impersonating tonight.

"'Cause my friend over there swears she's seen you before," the woman continued, gesturing to the corner, where her companion was staring at them in embarrassed hopefulness.

"Sorry, no," Hermione managed after an uncomfortably long silence, surprising herself with the sound of her voice, which had turned deep and rumbling.

"Really?" the woman pressed, clearly disbelieving. "Because you do look awfully familiar…" She drew closer, so close that her perfume overwhelmed Hermione's senses completely, and gazed at her - at Malfoy, that is - as though she were expecting something.

But what? Hermione had no idea. It was as though she'd accidentally wandered into some sort of foreign social ritual, one whose customs and conventions were entirely incomprehensible to her. "You're… probably thinking of someone else," she replied, uncomfortable. The fact that this stranger was quite attractive made it all worse, somehow.

For the love of God, don't stare at her cleavage, Hermione lectured herself, growing more anxious by the second, eyes dancing frantically across the bar, the wall, anything...

"Let me guess," the woman went on, now all amused resignation. "You're married? Or gay?"

"Yes," Hermione sighed, relieved to be given an out, though she couldn't bring herself to specify which of the two she was agreeing with. Her cheeks were on fire, and she was sure it looked even more comical on the face of the patrician Death Eater. Thank Merlin the lights were so dim.

"Pity," the woman murmured, her eyes sliding appreciatively over Malfoy's features. "Well, have a good night, then."

"Goodnight," Hermione croaked out, watching out of the corner of her eye as her tormentor returned to her friend and they took up giggling in the corner.

Well, she certainly felt like a fool. You should never have come here, her rational self reproached, while some other, devilish part rejoined with, and you just missed your chance to get laid.

Shut up shut up shut up! she wailed at herself, refusing to admit that that was ever a possibly. Take advantage of some hapless Muggle in the guise of a wizard she despised? Could she ever sink so low?

Hermione honestly couldn't say. After what she'd done to poor Engel, she had no idea what she was capable of anymore.

Just then, she felt a prickling on the back of her neck - the familiar sensation of being watched. Instinctively, her fingers searched for her wand in her pocket, and she tried to look about discreetly.

There were too many people crowding around her, and no faces she recognized. Perhaps she was just being paranoid.

But the feeling refused to pass, and, in a flash of insight, Hermione closed her eyes and tried hard to concentrate on the magical signature in the air, to pinpoint where it was coming from. Catching ahold of it, she turned, and opening her eyes, found herself ensnared in the arctic stare of the woman from the British Library.

Fear ballooned out in her belly and she gasped: here was incontrovertible proof that she was being spied on! But how could they have possibly found her here? And who were they?

It didn't matter; she had to run, right now.

Edging out of her seat and ducking low behind the crowd, Hermione backed toward the toilets - a solitary place to apparate. But as luck would have it, the little hallway seemed to have been overtaken by a couple locked in a drunken embrace.

"Erm… excuse me…" Hermione muttered, trying to awkwardly edge past the tangle of moaning, flailing limbs. But they were deaf to the world, and she had to push them aside roughly, rushing past as they tripped over each other's feet and fell to the floor.

"Oi! You rude bastard!" came the slurred response, "Git back here - "

But the rest was cut off as she hurtled beyond the door, and shut it. She was just about to apparate, when the door opened and the loud clink of metal on metal reverberated across the tiles.

It was a chilling sound, though it took her a moment to place it.

"Turn around," came the icy command, and as Hermione obeyed, she came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.

She swallowed loudly. For some reason, this was infinitely more terrifying than having a wand pointed at her.

"Not in a million years did I think I'd find you out in muggle territory, Cousin," the woman from the library said menacingly, her delicate features hardened with loathing.

Cousin? Hermione wondered. She can't think I'm Malfoy, can she? And yet the resemblance was hard to deny, from the superior expression, to the pale hair, to the slate-color eyes. It was hard to say whether this development was good or bad.

"But that's twice now," the woman continued, "And I want to know why."

Hermione licked her lips nervously, scanning the room for inspiration, an excuse, an escape. But there was nothing - only the useless realization that the pureblood Death Eater probably wouldn't know a gun from a trowel, so why wouldn't this woman use a wand?

"Unless…" her assailant murmured thoughtfully, scanning the petrified face before her, "You're not Lucius. Are you." It wasn't a question.

Hermione just stared mutely. Nothing was making sense. What the hell was going on here?

As if of their own volition, her fingers fluttered to her coat, searching for her wand, but the woman was faster, shoving Hermione viciously back to the wall. Her head collided with tile and she saw stars.

"Don't even think about it," her attacker hissed, twisting the wand from her hands and pocketing it. "Here's what's going to happen. You and me are going to walk out of here - calm and quiet - like nothing is going on. You so much as breathe wrong, I'm going to make sure you regret it. Understand?"

All Hermione could do was nod as she felt the nudge of cold metal at her ribcage. The fear was paralyzing as every contingency rushed through her mind, each more unspeakable than the last. Not least was the ever-present threat of triggering a paradox, causing the destruction of everything she knew and loved.

The woman led her forward, keeping companionably close in order to hide her weapon. They weaved through the crowd to the exit, and once outside, Hermione was forced to cross the street and enter one of the nondescript townhouses. Her captor kept the gun trained at her head as she led Hermione to a chair and tightly bound her legs together, checked the windows, then walked slowly back and sank into the sofa across.

All of this transpired without a single word. Adrenaline pumped manically through Hermione's veins, transforming her terror to irritation, then to panic, to rage, and back. Of all the stupid, stupid ways to get yourself killed...

"Now what?" she snapped, eyeing the woman wearily.

"Now we wait for the Polyjuice to wear off," came the measured response, in tones suggesting that they were a couple of old friends having tea, and not captor and hostage.

Silence settled like a thick layer of dust all around, broken only by the muffled sounds of traffic and their quiet breathing. Hermione studied the room, which was decorated in mid-century style and probably hadn't been inhabited since then either. There was a staircase to the right, and an archway to the left, through which she could see the kitchen and the back door. Could she escape through there? Untie her feet somehow and make a run for it?

But all too soon, the tell-tale spasms of the fading potion wracked her, and she found herself again in her own body.

A sharp inhale came from across. "But...you're Hermione Granger," the woman said, sounding truly shocked. Something like shame flittered across her face - perhaps regretting having attacked a young girl - and she unconsciously lowered her weapon.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Who else would I be?" she demanded, angry and confused. "Why are you spying on me? Who are you working for?"

Her captor gazed at her in what seemed to be sincere confusion. "I'm not spying on you."

"Oh, don't pretend you weren't following me that day," Hermione countered incredulously. "I know you were, I saw you."

"I wasn't really. I know you from the papers. I was just surprised to see a witch there, wanted to say hello."

"And why don't I believe that?" Hermione said, all sarcasm. The terror had abated somewhat now that the gun was out of her face and she noticed the ropes had slackened when she shrunk back to her own body.

"You know, you shouldn't be accusing me of bad intentions when you're the one impersonating Lucius Malfoy," came the airy retort. The woman lounged there, no longer strained and dangerous, as though she considered Hermione no threat at all. For some reason, this annoyed Hermione immensely.

"You're the one who called him cousin," she reminded, trying to keep the conversation going as she studied different parts of the woman's body, trying to remember where her wand had been hidden.

"He's a distant relation."

If she could just figure out where it was, she could try and summon it. Accio was the only wandless, nonverbal spell Hermione was confident with.

Gaze settling on her captor's black sleeve, Hermione had a sudden, fearful thought. "Let me see your arm," she all but whispered.

"You first."

Pursing her lips at the absurdity of the request, she tugged up her sleeve, exposing her unmarked forearm. Across from her, the woman mirrored her action. There was nothing there.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "So this is just some sort of weird coincidence?" It was a little too bizarre to be true, but the woman was either a very good actress, or she'd truly not known who it was she abducted.

"It depends...why are you Polyjuiced to look like that?"

"I needed to look like someone else to go outside, and I happened to have a bit of his hair, alright?" Hermione explained, now hoping that it was possible to de-escalate the situation, and even walk out of here without coming to arms.

"And why would you need to look like someone else to go outside?" the woman asked skeptically.

"Well, it's…" what the hell could she possibly say? "It's complicated."

The woman shrugged lightly, looking genuinely curious. "I've got nowhere to be tonight."

Something had been niggling at the back of Hermione's mind since the pub, a whisper of an idea, and she finally caught ahold of it. It would explain everything, the location, the gun, the barely-there trace of a magical signature...

"You're a squib," she declared, almost certain that she was right. "I bet the Malfoys weren't thrilled about that."

One pale eyebrow slowly rose, as though impressed against its will. The woman may have been a product of centuries of inbreeding, but she was a very pretty product nonetheless, Hermione had to admit.

"I was ...disowned," the woman admitted. "Which if fine with me, since I find their beliefs abhorrent."

"Their blood-purity beliefs?"

"Not just. The way my family treats house elves and other magical creatures is terrible."

Hermione couldn't help it - maybe that didn't make her like the woman instantly, but the feeling was certainly close. How often, after all, did you find a pureblood who recognized the mistreatment the house-elves suffered? For that, she could almost forgive being held at gunpoint.

The woman stood, walking over to the sideboard and taking out a couple of glasses. Her back was turned, and Hermione took the chance to scan her body, noticing the faint outline of her wand at her hip with relief. But there was something else, something familiar that she just couldn't put her finger on...until her eyes wandered down shapely legs to a pair of brutal-looking high-heeled shoes.

And she remembered that winter night when she'd wandered the streets near the Ministry, remembered that she'd seen this woman before, remembered that she'd been caught staring with undisguised lust. But in the regular timeline, that was still several months away.

"I haven't seen Lucius in a decade at least, not since his trial. Never wanted to again, either," the woman explained, pouring twin measures of amber-colored liquid and offering one to Hermione, perhaps as a peace offering. "I may have gotten a little carried away."

"I saw you coming out of the Muggle Ministry of Defense," Hermione blurted out, unsettled under the woman's intense scrutiny.

"I work there. On assignment from Magical Law Enforcement, to keep an eye on things."

She resumed her seat, crossing her legs casually, curved thighs practically demanding Hermione's attention. Now that it was no longer clouded with fear, her mind began to wander into more dangerous territory.

Trying not to fidget, Hermione took a sip of her drink instead - the very first she'd ever had. It burned as it traveled down her throat, leaving a not-unpleasant throbbing in its wake.

Just take your wand and go, you idiot, Hermione told herself, it's not like she can stop you. Sure, she was armed and lightning-quick, but Hermione was a witch, and a good one at that. But she just couldn't seem to move, her eyes glued to the lightly bouncing foot in front of her.

There was a knowing smile playing about the woman's mouth, as though she knew exactly what Hermione was thinking. "So, rumor has it that you assisted in the second escape of Sirius Black," she said.

And just like that, Hermione was on edge again. "W-why would I do that?" she stuttered, nervously sipping her drink.

How could anyone possibly know that? Frankly she was shocked that her name was even familiar to her erstwhile captor; she'd always assumed that she flew under the radar as just some muggle-born classmate of the Great and Famous Harry Potter.

"Please, not everyone is as stupid as the Minister," the woman scoffed. "The Aurors know Black wasn't a Death Eater."

Hermione's face grew incredulous. "Then why are they still hunting him?"

"Because the public needs a believable scapegoat. If it came to light that an innocent man had been imprisoned for more than a decade, that Peter Pettigrew was still alive, and working for You Know Who-"

"Wait a second," Hermione interrupted, "All of this is so Fudge can keep his job?"

This thought was closely followed by, she's just admitted the Aurors know about Voldemort.

"No, it's to prevent mass panic. To preserve people's faith in the legal system and the Ministry as an institution."

Hermione just gaped at her, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. She'd always known that the Ministry was awful, corrupt... but hearing it stated as simple fact was another thing entirely. "And what happens when people start dying again?" she demanded furiously. "When Voldemort comes out in the open?"

The woman's involuntary flinch at the name was subtle, but unmistakable. "They'll probably toss Fudge under the bus then," she said, with a minute shrug. "He'll be blamed for mismanaging the whole situation, of course."

"But people need to be warned!" Hermione insisted, not knowing how naive she truly sounded. "They need to protect themselves!"

"People can't 'protect' themselves against You Know Who," the woman explained, with the patience one reserves for an obstinate child. "They'll just become paralyzed with fear, lock themselves in their houses, like they did last time. Everything - commerce, international relations - will completely fall apart. The Department wants to resolve this quietly before that happens."

"But it's … it's..." Hermione couldn't quite find the words, instead jumping to her feat in agitation, hardly noticing that she'd easily stepped out of the ropes which had bound her. "How are they going to manage to 'resolve it'? They think they can kill Voldemort? And people have a right to know! It's completely unethical to hide the fact that we're on the brink of a war!" she went on heatedly. Regret caught up with her a moment later as the room tilted slightly on its edge, and she belatedly realized that at some point she'd finished her drink.

The woman watched her, thoughtful, as Hermione leaned against the sideboard for balance. "I didn't say I agreed. I'm just telling you how the world works."

Hermione crossed her arms defiantly. "Well, I don't accept that."

That seemed to draw an involuntary smile from her companion, and she rose, walking over to the younger girl. She stood a little too close, and as though pulled by some invisible force, Hermione's eyes traveled from her eyes, to her mouth, and lower...

"I saw that girl talking to you at the pub," the woman murmured, her voice almost sultry. "She was pretty."

"She - she was?" Hermione gulped stupidly, noticing for the first time that the woman's lipstick was red, bright red.

"Didn't you notice? What is she, not your type?"

"I … umm, I don't have a type," Hermione barely managed to croak, trying desperately to shrink back into the wall. But there was no where else to go. And if she were honest, she didn't want to go anywhere anymore.

"Really? Well, I do," the woman whispered, drawing impossibly closer. "That hopeless idealist thing you've got...it's terribly sweet, you know."

"Oh," Hermione breathed, mesmerized by that blood-red mouth, hardly understanding what she was hearing. "Oh."

Oh my god, is this really happening?

"My wand…" she begged, with the very last shred of her better sense.

The woman gave a throaty chuckle. "Take it."

Hermione let out a ragged breath, and reached for her wand, fingers brushing along woman's waist. She grasped the thin wood at last, but her treacherous fingers lingered, and it seemed not even Circe herself could have stopped their journey downward, to the hem of the woman's skirt.

Hermione Jean Granger! a voice that sounded disturbingly like Mrs. Weasley scolded. You are drunk!

And so she was, though how it had happened so quickly, she couldn't possibly say. They were pressed urgently together, Hermione's mind swimming in a haze of excitement, when she felt just the faintest trace of a spell probing her mind. But it was over in a second as her hands slid over a bare stomach, and she watched as the woman moaned, distracted.

Everything after that was a blur of clothes, and skin, and mouths, and she was dimly aware of being awkward and graceless, but it didn't seem to matter at all in the moment.

But of course, it was the first thing she thought when she woke the next morning, wondering if she'd been as terrible as she always suspected she would be.

"Ughhh…" Hermione groaned, half in pain and half in embarrassment, as she struggled into a sitting position. Trying to ignore the dreadful throbbing at the base of her skull, Hermione squinted at her surroundings, seeing that she'd somehow ended up in a bedroom. Moreover, she was completely naked, and completely alone.

It was probably for the best; if she looked half as bad as she felt, the last thing she needed was a witness to the entire sad mess.

"Definitely not your brightest moment, Hermione," she muttered, nearly flinching at the loudness of her own voice. Scooting to the edge of the mattress carefully, as though afraid that any sudden movement would bring up the contents of her stomach, she rose to unsteady feet and begun to search for her clothes.

It all seemed to be missing, save for her bra and one shoe, but fortunately she did find her wand, and was able to transfigure some things from the sheets.

The sound of clinking china came from the room beyond, and Hermione nearly jumped out of her socks with fright, and considered just apparating right then. But that would be too much like slinking away with her tail between her legs, wouldn't it? She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, was she? But more importantly she had questions, loads and loads of questions. Like: what had the woman seen in her mind last night? Why had she revealed so much of the Ministry's schemes? What exactly was her role in all of this?

Steeling herself for what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation, she forced herself to the door. She'd been expecting to find the woman on the other side, but instead was shocked to see only a wizard, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the Daily Prophet open before him.

Hermione stared at him in utter bewilderment, as he looked up from his paper and nodded a cordial good morning.

"Where is-" she began, only to realize that she had no idea what the woman's name even was. "Where is she?"

"Evelyn?" the man said, his voice betraying no awareness of how intensely awkward the situation was. "At work, I imagine. She called me. I've been waiting for you to wake."

"And who exactly are you?" Hermione asked, studying his grey-streaked mane, his hardened face, and the familiar badge on his chest with a growing feeling of dread.

"Rufus Scrimgeour, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he introduced, gesturing to chair across. "Please have a seat Miss Granger. We need to talk."

She gulped, the sound unnaturally loud in the little kitchen. "A- About what?"

Scrimgeour gazed at her levelly over the rim of his spectacles, as though sizing her up like a prize lamb for slaughter. "About the death of a certain Muggle named Engel ," he said at last, tone giving nothing away. "And about what you're going to do to keep yourself out Azkaban."