Disclaimer: Mine? I wish.

A/N: Again, I have to apologize for a long wait. Unfortunately, the last ten days were consumed by studying for finals, so I've had to grab any chance I could to edit this. (It's quite long, actually, and the Shout Outs even longer.) I'm so so so sorry, but it couldn't be helped.

Still, read on as always, and let me know what you think!

Last Time –

"Shut up," Malfoy said, beginning to laugh. "Just shut up. You're making a fool of yourself, Granger." She looked away, blushing fiercely. "Look at me. No, in the eye, not at my chest." She grudgingly raised her eyes, staring at his nose instead. "Granger, I don't mind you using my first name. Here, if you want, I'll go first. Hermione."

She met his gaze. The blood still inflated her cheeks, still pounded at her ears, but she took the time to search his intention. There wasn't any spite, any flicker of vengeance flickering in the depths of his eyes. "Good," she said tersely, and left it at that.

"One thing," Draco said. "Don't use my name outside of our meetings. I don't want to be embarrassed."

Hermione bit her cheek, bitterness bleeding from the cut in her mouth. "Come on," Hermione said curtly, standing up. "Class will be beginning soon."

Chapter 11 – Surrender

Shadows strained at the corners of Cruelty's veil, scrabbling for a hold in her pitted flesh as she crept towards the edge of the orange flames. Its light peeled the darkness from the hollows of her body, illuminated the terrible expression of ecstasy caught in her small eyes.

A hand crawled forward from the recesses of her black robes. Its fingers were long, brown-spotted twists of bone that trembled as they spread apart. Their joints were old, round and sore with age, the palm thick and scored with many lines. Her nails were broken, yellow tips stained red by the embers.

At once, her chains were thrown into radiance. They plummeted to the swallowed emptiness where Passion's puppets had once danced, sought the wrists of the helpless shadows.

The chains rattled coldly, dragging a silhouette limp with obedience upwards into the light.

"Draco."

The name fell as a noose around his neck, coarse rope of syllables tugging his unwilling eyes upward. The vision in the flames – bare legs spread wide – vanished with the smoke up the cold chimney. The Common Room fire burned on, unaware that its logs lent heat to far more than outstretched hands.

"What?" Draco answered, more sharply than he meant to. His gaze flickered back towards the glow in front of him; he was reluctant to stay longer in reality. Life's calloused hands were rough at times, and there were moments when one had to unburden oneself in the depths of imagination.

Pansy flinched, mutely handing across a bottle of butterbeer. "Here," she said shortly. She gripped her own bottle tightly in her palm, knuckles white with displeasure. "You looked like you needed this. You've been staring into that bloody fire all night."

Draco snorted. "What else is there to do?" He threw back a swallow of butterbeer and spluttered, eyes streaming yellow tears. "What's in this?" he asked thinly, holding the bottle at arms length.

Pansy smiled maliciously. "Firewhisky." Draco raised his eyebrows at the brown bottle and cautiously swallowed a bit more.

Pansy didn't hesitate; her throat rolled, the burning liquid burrowing a glistening path to her gut. She looked at the ceiling, blinking red rimmed eyes to wash the alcohol away. She glanced around the Slytherin Common Room briefly, noticing tangled hands scattered on thick couches and armchairs, then turned back to study Draco.

His blond hair was tangled, his shoulders low with an invisible weight. Blue crescents puckered beneath his grey eyes, whose gaze wandered back to the fire. His hands, long-fingered and pale, clutched at the bottle. Pansy felt the hate rise, as it had done so many times before as she watched him disappear, locked behind thick walls of thought that barred his mind from hers. Her own fingers shifted on the neck of her bottle, itching to tear his fingers away from the glass and wrap them around her waist. Why were there no longer whispers, no slender bones sliding through and around her? she wondered. Where had their intimacy gone?

The clock ticked above the mantle.

Suddenly, Draco felt a pressure on his legs, breath creeping across his cheeks. A hand splayed in his hair, another on his chest, and Pansy thrust her face in his. Her lips, tongue, teeth traveled his mouth with drunken passion. "There," she gasped, resurfacing between each frenzied kiss, "and there, and there." She dipped her head again and again, drawing blood to the surface of his thin skin. She must force suffering upon him, her slow wits commanded. She had to make him feel the ice-rimmed gap that yawned between her ribs and her hips.

Draco remained motionless. He returned none of her alcohol embraces, but waited until her frantic abuse had broken itself on the stone of his impassiveness. It happened not long after its beginning; she collapsed in the crevice of his shoulder, sobbing furiously. He coldly shoved her off his lap, watched as she crumpled in a wet heap by his feet.

"What," he asked, "what the hell was that?"

At this, Pansy cried even harder, tears pouring down her face. She reached a trembling hand to his butterbeer balanced precariously on the arm of the chair, and gulped it swiftly. She coughed bitterly, then slammed the bottle down on his foot, golden droplets glimmering on the floor. "That's what," she cried. She laughed piercingly between wrenching sobs, whipping his toes again and again with the hard glass. "That's what!"

Draco didn't move, his face frozen in quiet anger. He didn't attempt to stop her painful attempts of physical revenge, nor did he make a sound.

Pansy stood shakily with the aid of a chair, teeth bared in a wild grimace of rebellion. "I don't know what the bloody hell has gotten into you, Draco!" she said shrilly, her voice slurring in her rage. "Ever since that fucking ball, you've been moody and pissy and—and a perfect little bastard. You haven't paid a shred of attention to me, even when you're fucking me! Even when you're on top of me, you don't see me!" She brought the bottle up, and shattered it on his hand. He didn't say a word, throwing her into further hysterics. Her hands shook at her side, begging to bruise his pale cheeks. "Don't you get it? It's Valentine's Day. We're a couple. If you want to continue this, if you love me as much as you say you do, I want something back! I expect a good fuck now and then!"

Her voice rose to a shriek, echoing through the Common Room. The students looked up; Slytherins were by nature close-lipped and subtle, and almost never resorted to physical violence to extract vengeance. Draco felt their eyes and stood, his head rising far above hers. It was time to push this out of sight, to sweep it into past and memory. Pansy had no such intention. She raised her hand, bringing it down with resounding force to his cheek.

It never reached flesh – his fist curled painfully around her wrist, and ignoring her snarling curses, he dragged her thrashing body down the stairs. He tore through the dormitory door, cold eyes signaling Crabbe and Goyle out of the room. Blaise Zabini followed slowly behind him, cool smirk firmly in place.

Draco threw Pansy on the bed, his fists plummeting to his side. "Don't ever embarrass me like that again," he hissed. He brought his hand up to strike her, and Pansy flinched away, heaving with weeping again.

His fingers hesitated at the climax of their trembling journey, suspended in the air above the sheets. His chest heaved with the fury of sleepless nights, of hours spent tossing in a tangle of confusion and strangeness. He looked down at her prone body, tortured with the grief of the overlooked. His hand slowly descended to rest on the mattress beside her, and the terrifying expression in his eyes dripped away, anger pooling around his feet to leak through the stones in the floor. He leaned against the bed frame, exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Pansy's cries softened, hiccups ripping the rough sobs in many places. "You're right. I guess I've been a bit...withdrawn recently."

Her back jumped with tears again. "F-f-for more than a m-m-month," she gasped.

He felt a sudden tenderness towards her curled form, sunk deep into the mattress, and sat down beside her, gathering her weak body into his arms. He sat there in silence, cupping her tears and snot in his palm, his face buried in her hair. She smelled like stale alcohol, he noticed, and ran a hand softly down her arm. Deep crevices marked her wrist, where gnawed nails gripped in insatiable fury. Had he been away this long, separated himself so completely from the people that most mattered? "Oh God, Pansy," he breathed, "I'm sorry."

Many minutes passed before she answered. She quieted in his arms, eyelids drooping with the warmth of his body. Waves of sweaty alcohol trickled down her skin, cleansing her drunken system. "'S okay," she murmured. "It will all be okay."

"I hope so," Draco whispered. He looked up, wondering whether the Fates watched him now. "I hope so."

Harry and Ron bent their heads over their Charms homework, exchanging a whispered conversation hidden from the ears of Hermione.

"I dunno, mate, she just seems a bit off. Ill or something," Ron muttered. He cast another look at Hermione, in an armchair not far away, stroking Crookshanks and staring at her feet. Her skin seemed thin and brittle, pale with stretched anxiety. Her hair, so usually wild in rebellion to all combs, brushes, and Sleazy's Sleak Oil, fell in a limp slump to her shoulders.

Harry followed his gaze and frowned. It was true: Hermione was not herself. She had no parchment spread upon her lap, no quill behind her ear, no book propped before her nose. Everything that made her Hermione had receded, replaced by chewed lips and sunken eyes. "I haven't seen her this bad since Third Year, when she was taking that insane number of classes," Harry agreed. "But even then, she was actually doing work."

"She just sits there now," Ron said.

Both of them stared hard at the blank paper in front of them. Ron couldn't imagine anything so grave that it ate one from the inside out. She would tell him, he told himself, she would tell him if anything was really wrong. She had kept secrets from him and Harry before, but nothing serious. Well, nothing more serious than the Time Turner, anyways, but that had been on a teacher's instructions.

"You noticed she hasn't been at lunch, right?" Harry said, thinking along the same lines Ron had been.

Ron shot him a dirty look, reminding Harry that Hermione had been in his arms at the Masquerade, that he rarely took his eyes off her. "I figured she was in the Library. It's not like the lunch vanishing acts are anything new," he said.

"But usually we know something about what she's doing," Harry whispered. "We at least know a bit about what's going on. She hasn't said a word about anything this time."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe it's the holiday."

They both worked in silence for a time, but Ron's quill hardly moved. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table, shifted his knees until the springs beneath the couch squeaked. Finally, he rolled up the parchment and threw down his quill. "I'm going to talk to her," he told Harry.

Harry nodded. Ron waited.

"I mean, talk-to-her talking to her." Harry continued writing. "As in, a private conversation."

Harry looked up. "Yeah, so?"

"Just leave, will you? I want to do this alone."

Harry's green eyes brightened in understanding. He didn't argue that Hermione was sitting far enough away that he wouldn't be able to hear a word of their dialogue anyways, but simply collected his stuff hurriedly. He grinned at Ron, and, emitting several loud and obnoxious yawns, strolled towards the bottom of the staircase. "G'night, Hermione," he said. "I'm off – I'm exhausted."

Hermione bid him goodnight without looking up.

"Good luck, mate," Harry mouthed to Ron, and walked briskly out of sight.

Ron twisted his hands nervously; now that he made the commitment, he found himself less sure of what he was supposed to do. He gazed at her from the couch, his joints momentarily rusted in self-doubt. His tongue felt swollen and clumsy in his mouth – what the hell was he going supposed to say anyways?

Just do it, he told himself firmly.

And he did.

"Hermione," he said uncertainly. He stood behind the back of her chair, hands shoved in the pockets of his robe. He cleared his throat and repeated a little louder, "Hermione."

"For goodness' sake, Ronald, come around where I can see you," Hermione said.

He winced at his full name, but couldn't help but feel heartened. This, at least, sounded more like the old Hermione. He crouched by her knee, and played with the fraying fabric lining the bottom of chair. He nervously looked up into her face, fingers still absently pulling blue threads. She smiled vaguely at the area above his head. "Listen," he said, "we – I mean, me – well, Harry too – but mostlyme –"

"Yes?"

Ron took a deep breath. "Hermione, I'm worried about you. You haven't been acting like yourself."

Hermione met his eyes, alarm sharp in her gaze. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Ron suppressed a grin of triumph at his connection. "It's just that you've been...well, distant. You disappear at lunch, and sit there at night. I haven't even seen you do your homework."

"I haven't been forgetting my homework, Ron."

"But you've been weird the last month," he insisted. "I just want to know what's going on."

Hermione looked down at her lap. She laced her fingers together, gripping them tightly together, strangling the guilt in her veins. "I've been thinking," she said simply. She smiled at him reassuringly, and she cursed herself. "I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to shut myself off or anything, it's just that... I'll try to do better."

Ron tentatively placed his hand on her knee. Hermione automatically shifted her leg, and the fingers slid to the floor. He took no notice of this, but stood with the intention of joining Harry in the dormitories. "Can you tell me what you were thinking about?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

Hermione shook her head. "Maybe later."

Ron bent close to her, lips brushing her cheek. He hastily straightened, his face pulsing a deeper red than his hair, and strode away.

Victory! he grinned to himself, and whistled tunelessly as he jogged up the stairs to Harry.

When Hermione next opened her eyes, she was met by the shadows of rows upon rows of books. She looked over her shoulder, mouth gaping wide, and saw the door to the Library swinging shut on her heels. Her handprint slowly faded from the glass window in the center of the door.

She grasped a candle from the scones in the wall, its faint aura illuminating the tables skulking against the shelves. She should have been unsurprised to be here, she knew, and yet couldn't quite get over the apprehension spreading through her cold veins.

In the far corner, the light alighted on a pale figure whose form she knew perhaps too well. She sighed, and knowing full well why she was sent there, when the hands of the clock skulked upright, walked gingerly towards the table. He was asleep, mouth slightly open as he breathed deeply. Hermione set the candle down and sat down beside him. Beneath his eyelids, the swell of his irises swerved from side to side. He was uneasy in dream.

Her fingers grazed a purple bruise just beneath his cheekbone, senses trembling in rebellion against her clearer judgment, hesitating before she snatched her hand away. "Draco," she whispered. His name stumbled off her tongue. "Draco," she repeated, shaking his arm. "Wake up."

He raised his head, then sat up hastily as he realized where he was. "Sorry," he murmured. "I haven't slept in a long time."

"I know what you mean." The words rested between them. She leaned back in her chair, studying the ceiling. Webs of darkness lowered strings of ghosts and nightmares towards her upturned eyes. She looked away hastily, and found instead the candle warriors burning bright on the wall. "Listen," she said hesitantly, "I think that this Fate thing has gone too far. It's taking over my life. I haven't slept well in weeks, I'm falling back on my studies, I'm ignoring my friends – I can't go on like this."

Draco twitched. He flexed his palms in what he hoped was an unconcerned matter and said, "Then stop thinking about it. Just live like you never knew about it. Act normally."

Hermione stared at him. "You mean it doesn't bother you? It doesn't bother you that we're slaves, that we have no choice?"

Draco shrugged. "Not especially."

She didn't mention that she could hear the tremor in his voice, the fear and the lie that lay heavy in his words. Hermione sighed. "Well, I can't go back now that I know. It's not the kind of thing you can forget."

There was quiet. After a moment, he said, "Think of it this way: The Fates can't be watching us every second of every day. There are moments when we're outside their control. They planned our life, but didn't add every little detail in. So, yes, there's a deliberate progression and a definite end – a fate – but some choices are still in our control. I doubt that the Fates choose what color clothes you put on each morning, for example."

"That makes sense." He noted with some pleasure that her tone was lighter, more vibrant. It rapidly grew in hope as she continued to convince herself, "They plan our direction. It means we have purpose, that's all."

Her eyes swept the table in relief; a loose scrap of parchment scuttled across the table in the stillness, rocking on the edge for the moment before its courage sprang through the black space, towing ink and paper behind. She caught sight of the book that had started the entire incident, a book she wasn't quite sure she was grateful to or she hated. "Speaking of purposes," she said, "I don't think you ever told me why you picked out this particular book. What were your reasons for taking it? I don't think we'll ever know what the Fates' were."

Draco pulled the volume towards him, and regarded the title – Myths You Thought Weren't Real: True Stories About God and Fate – impassively for a moment. "I was trying to figure out what the Dark Lord was up to," he said finally. "The day before I was supposed to catch the train, I overheard my father talking in his study. I could only hear parts of the conversation – I still don't know who he was talking to – but I thought maybe I could figure out my father's instructions."

"Did you?"

"No, of course not. Do you honestly think I'd still be sitting here?"

Hermione shook her head and smiled at her foolishness. "Oh, you would have gone to tell Dumbledore immediately."

"I would have been helping them."

The crevices around her mouth deepened. She did not find the truth in the statement, but he did not mind. It was important to keep his loyalties hidden, at least until he understood them himself. "Well, what did you hear?" she prompted.

Draco hesitated. They were in this together, after all. Besides, if he couldn't figure it out – a son of a prominent Death Eater, a Slytherin brimming with perception – it was doubtful she could. "I heard that my father was to go on a mission, and that it had something to do with a legend. It was something only he could do. He had to carry a knife, an everburning lantern, and know a number of really Dark incantations. I don't know what they were for, though; I couldn't read them. I know, it doesn't sound like much, but--"

"I know what he's doing," Hermione said. Draco stared at her. She smiled slightly at his expression of disbelief. "He's Sensing. I don't know what they're looking for, though. I haven't quite worked it out yet."

"Who's 'they'?" Draco interjected.

"Your father and Wormtail – I mean, Pettigrew. In any case, it's also one of the reasons I took the book."

She laid a blue volume on the table between them, where the word "Sense" flickered in the candlelight.

"How—how do you know?"

"Never you mind," she said. She studied the cover, deep in thought. The blue was cold, she thought, and unforgiving. It was the color of the space between wrong and right, the line that swayed on the edge of rule-constricted and having none. "Hold on... I have an idea. I mean, it might not work, but—" She turned to Draco. "You say that these are Voldemort's instructions?"
"I assume so. I didn't hear the other man speak – it was like my father was talking on one of those things Muggles use instead of Floo Powder. You know, the black rods that attach to the wall?"

"A telephone?"

"Probably. So I could only hear my father's part of the conversation."

"I wonder..." Her voice trailed into silence, broken only by the rhythm of her fingers against the cover. The clock above an abandoned desk ticked once, twice, thrice, and then was still. Draco watched, impatience invisible in the shadows. Finally, Hermione stirred, her eyes turning to his in the glow of possibility. "I think I know of who might be able to tell us what they're up to," she said. "Do you remember when I left earlier this year?"

"Your mum died."

She closed her eyelids briefly, shivering in the cold toll of the words. "Yes, that's right. I don't suppose you know how she was killed – I don't think I've even told Harry or Ron." Draco shook his head. "Voldemort killed her in a Muggle attack."

Draco shrugged, but quickly turned it into a shoulder-shaking cough that echoed off the leathered walls. "I'm sorry. Still, he does do those often. I can't say it's anything new."

"Yes, but has he ever tortured thirty Muggles all in one blow? Thirty Muggles, just that one day. He had killed fifty the week before that, according to the Daily Prophet. It's never been that bad before, not even sixteen years ago before he was first defeated. It's my guess that these numbers mean something, that he's planning something with the Muggles – or their bodies. And it's more than extermination."

She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Dumbledore told me that eight of the Muggles survived the riot, but most died hours later in St. Mungo's. My mum was one of the last three, but I bet that at least one of them lived through that night. I thought maybe we could find one of the survivors, and see if any of the Death Eaters slipped and gave them a clue about what they were planning to do."

It was likely, Draco reflected. In triumph, many did not remember caution. The drum in their ears and the blood in their veins drowned all tastes but the bitter laughter of superiority. Too many times, he had done the same, and too many times, he had suffered. "So, when do we leave?" he asked.

Hermione beamed. The candle warriors stretched high, smiling and bowing as the defeated darkness applauded reluctantly. "Soon, I hope. We've got to get permission first, of course, and that may take awhile—"

"Permission?" Draco echoed. "We can't tell anyone about this, are you crazy?" Hermione stopped speaking, her mouth yawning wide in disbelief. "You can't expect us just to walk out of Hogwarts, no questions asked!"

"I most certainly do." Hermione shoved back her chair, and gathered Sense to her chest.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," he pleaded. "If we tell anyone, they'll just ask a bunch of awkward questions. I know you don't want to be discovered with that book. And none of the teachers trust me, they'll just think I'm trying to go talk the Dark Lord or something else ridiculous."

Hermione walked briskly towards the door, leaving his arguments echoing in the disapproval of her footsteps. At the door, she paused. "I'm sorry, Draco," she said softly. "But even Voldemort's not worth expulsion."

The fetus stared at and through Lucius Malfoy, who stood caught in the stillness that radiated from the unborn. Wormtail cowered behind him, and whispered moans and curses that tangled in the blue veins that fed the womb. The sound snagged on the branches of blood, and hissed slowly to silence as the veins strangled the words to nothingness. It was a cathedral, Wormtail muttered, a place sacred and untouchable. He was afraid his every footprint would bleed destruction, that the taut walls would crumble and bury him under heavy flesh.

"Why am I here?" he asked the floor over and over. And over and over, the plea choked in the tender arms of blood, of time. Wormtail moaned and cradled his heart, rocking it in frenzy.

Malfoy turned to him. "You are here because the Dark Lord commanded it. You may not be loyal, Pettigrew, but you have your uses. Now get up, you imbecile; we have work to do."

Malfoy circled the dip where Hermione lay, hidden behind the bulk of the fetus. "My master did not say how to reach the next stage," he muttered, rubbing his left forearm, eyes creased in thought. He pulled up the sleeve as if hoping the answer would be scarred upon his pale skin, but only a skull stared up at him, impassive and immovable. He thought out loud, murmurings dropping unheard in the dead air: "Blood. I need blood and an incantation. But where to make the cut?"

His eyes hardened, an understanding shielding his intentions. He stretched his hand forward. "Pettigrew. The knife."

A/N: Another long chapter for you wonderful readers! You guys really made my day this last chapter – the reviews were just beautiful. Thank you so much for taking the time to read the fic and write about it. It makes the process that much more enjoyable.

On another note, this may be the last chapter for awhile. This week finished the finals time, and is to be followed by nine glorious weeks of summer vacation. I'm going to try my best to update at least once this summer, but plan to spend a lot of the time getting ahead on future chapters. That way when I get back from break, I can update every two weeks, no exceptions. In any case, we'll have the real Harry Potter July 16th, right?

So, a bunch of one-hundred percent genuine thank-you's to deliver before a long break:

StarAngel Caelum SunSoarHey, darlin'! Thank you so much for your kind words, they sent this heart a-beatin'! Sorry for the long wait (Finals are picking up – the end of the year approaches!), but I hope this chapter satisfied. You said you got confused a few times, right? Feel free to drop a question or two to clarify – I know this story is pretty confusing. Let's see if I can do a quick summary for you first, though: The Fates control all life – which direction it goes in, when and how people meet. They do most of this through "puppets," where each person is a marionette to be jerked around at will. However, as in the case of Hermione and Draco, they can literally step into a person's body, and gets some hands-on control. Now, we don't know why the Fates are doing this to Draco and Hermione, but as illustrated in the first part of every chapter (with Snake and the Fates), we know it was ordered by Snake. What this has to do with his plan, however, we'll soon find out. The fuss last chapter was related to Hermione's realization that all life is controlled, that every choice she made was already made for her. Her future course is set, and she can't change the path she was put upon. There's no way to break free from them. Does that help at all? Let me know if it doesn't, and I'll try to answer any questions. Cheers, my dear!

Sirius: Ello! Fabulous questions, my friend – I'll try my best to answer them without giving away the whole plot (heh heh, as a "sneaky devil," it goes against my nature). So, the deal with Snake – we don't quite know the entire workings of his plan, but we do know that his destiny is to destroy the human race. He doesn't need to kill the Fates because he's already stronger than them – he conquered them in an early chapter. It would be senseless and unnecessary. So with Draco and Herms (how they fit in the plan, why their strings were switched, etc.), we actually don't know yet. We don't even know whether it's really them in the fire; I'll leave you to figure that out. We do know, however, that the Fates are taking an interest in them, most likely on Snake's instructions. Onto the Dream sequences: you actually touched upon some really good points there. I know the Dream stuff is confusing, but the basic idea is that Hermione is "Dreaming" a journey of Lucius and Wormtail (as a Dreamer, she just watches but can't actually do anything – like touch or make a noise). Up until this last chapter, we didn't even know if it was truly occurring, but she just figured out that Lucius is Sensing – the art of seeing the way the world works. It's almost as if there is a universe hidden behind the life and world we knows, one that could almost be considered metaphoric. There's a Heart that pumps Time (the blood stream), a Womb where Life was born (that Fetus could even be called Life itself). As for Hermione's memory, I'll be getting to that fairly soon. She does remember it, but she hasn't figured out what that means for her. It will all be explained, my dear – trust me. Please, if you have any more questions, feel free to ask! Thank you so much for you thoughts.

Jiinx: Wow! (Blushes fiercely) Thank you so much, love! I feel so honored to have gotten such a review, really. It completely made my day, week, month, etc. And the metaphor (of the dark chocolate) was perfect. That atmosphere was exactly what I was going for – the bitterness especially. The story will have a happy ending, but in the meantime, the dark chocolate taste is so much fun to explore! Ah, the beauty of angst and darkness... I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this latest chapter – it's a bit different from the others.

Lady11Occult: Actually, when I wrote the fic, I was going for the "different" theme. It was a point I struggled with, trying to find an interesting way to bring Draco and Hermione together. It's been fun to develop though, even if it is a bit...complicated. So you say you don't know where it's headed? Not at all? Heh heh...probably just as well. I'll probably run in the opposite direction. (Bad habit of mine, if you know what I mean.) So, my darling, what do you think of this latest chapter? I can't wait to hear from you! (You think of any theories about how this is going to end, I'd be interested to hear them. Questions, too. Questions are always good.)

Prin69: Ah, I know what you mean about life spinning out of control. Yes, that's exactly what I'm experiencing right now, as a matter of fact. No worries about missing a chapter, though – I'm just thrilled to hear from you! So, the idea of life planned out, the journey set before our feet, creeped you out a bit, eh? It freaks me out, too. Actually, one of the ideas of this fic is to examine religion – because a lot of time, that's exactly what religion tells us. Well, not quite – this is dealing more with destiny, but religion does say that we'll be judged for all our actions. In the end, there's a set ending point, determined in a way that's out of our control. In any case, I'm glad I made you think, for that's the first goal of the story. I'm so excited to know that I reached it with you. I look forward to hearing any new thoughts about this latest chapter.

Ally: Yay, you're here (huge, HUGE hug)! I was so happy to hear from you! (Sorry I've left off emailing, by the way. I deleted your latest by accident, but I plan on chatting with you as soon as I can post. Life has just been a whirlwind recently – no time whatsoever.) So, darling, what did you think? I was actually really glad that you could see Draco's and Herms' relationship evolving – you're quite right to say it's fragile. Got a ways to go, I think, before it can ever truly become something more than a simple attraction. Draco and Hermione just keep messing it up for each other – every time they take a step forward, the other pulls them back to base one. I think neither can quite get over their mistrust of the other. So, review when you've got the time, as always. I hope that things have slowed down and looked up a bit since our last talk. I hope to chat with you soon, m'love! Many hugs and even more kisses to you.

Slyswn: So you could feel some feelings blossoming, could you? Excellent...my master plan is working (laughs in a disturbingly sinister way). But, my friend, don't get optimistic too fast – they've got a ways to go, unfortunately. Hermione didn't come off looking too good in this last chapter. Still, it's perhaps becoming more than friendship, delicate as it may be. They're fate lies together, as we know. (Hah! What a clever pun! What? You don't think it's funny? C'mon, that's me at my best right there...) Well, I hope that life isn't treating you too roughly, though 'tis the season for things to swing out of control. Much love to you, sweets!

Draco: Well, hello, my dear! I hope this chapter sufficed, and am so glad that you liked the story. I know I've responded to your review once already, so I'll try not to be overly repetitive. Actually, I have a question about your review: "I really like it despite my entire disconnection with power hunger." So does that mean that the Draco in this story isn't portrayed as power hungry? Enh, I suppose not. Then again, he hasn't gotten much of a chance to be ambitious. I'm afraid he probably won't be, either, unless I can figure out a good situation to work that in... Hm, you've given me food for thought, my friend. That'd be interesting to play with. I hope to hear from you soon!

Lorett: Words fail me. When I got that review, I turned to my dad and said, "This is an amazing woman." I've never received such a well-thought-out and (almost) accurate review! Well, unless you don't count the one for chapter 9... So no pressure to slap another one of these on the table, because I'd just be content to go to the grave with those two. Right, so I suppose you want some answers. Sigh...you can be so demanding! I'll try my best to answer without giving the whole plot away (though I have a sneaking suspicion you might already know it all – my story notes are missing). Actually, there's not much to answer (you've done it all for me) – check! for the final weapon (you heard that right), check! for Hermione's revelation, check! for Draco's blundering attempts towards friendship. Concerning attempts for friendship, I actually have a slightly different interpretation than that which you gleaned from it. I think that Draco's sabotage is simply a sign of lingering mistrust. Too much has gone on too long for him to drop it at the first opportunity. Hence the lame excuse, "I'll be embarrassed." That's just Draco trying to rationalize the friendship in his own mind, slowing down the progress so he doesn't bite of too much too fast. Now, whether he is actually thinking that or not, that's different. He probably does believe he's ashamed of the friendship, but his subconscious motives are much nicer. Hm, what else did you say? You said someone is watching our twosome...I'm going to let that slide without comment. You'll see! And your final point...cookies to Lorett for the question of the day! That was exactly what I was getting at. The giant fetus what kind of new life? I don't know if you picked up on it, but it's sustained with veins of Time (the blood flow was incased by veins, which ran to the fetus). So it could possibly be considered all life, feeding on time and prospering. Not quite a new lifeform (yet?)... Have you figured out the metaphorical map of Sensing yet? First, the Heart, sanctuary of time; second, the Womb, home of life...where to next, eh? Ah, most looking forward to your review, my dear. (I was so glad to see you updated, darlin'! I'm heading over to review right now...I was wondering when the next chapter of KEYS was going to be put up.) Cheers, tons of chocolate, and more kisses than you could count!

Niah: (Grabs the knife away from you) Didn't your mother tell you not to play with knives, young lady? Huh, and give me those matches, too. Tsk, you poor dear. I hope that life's looking up a bit from soon-to-be (if not already) summer. Anywho, so glad to see you're back! And as for the words...they don't ALWAYS flow out "like that." It can sometimes take a bit of pushing...fine, more than a bit. But only sometimes! What? Stop looking at me like that! Okay, for example, this chapter turned out to be harder than most. I meant to have it up earlier (as in, two weeks ago), but the Pansy/Draco scene took two tries to get it right. And then, Herms'/Draco's conversation in the Library took awhile, too. Then again, I don't know whether it was because I couldn't find the words or procrastination. But thank you for the compliment anyways! Have a fabulous day today, darlin', you hear? No if's, and's or but's. And that's final. Cheers, and can't wait to hear from you! (Oh, and of course you can call me Alison.)

Unspeakable May: Hey, darlin'! Thanks so much for your review – I couldn't tell you weren't a native English speaker, really. As you said, I do sort of stress religion and philosophy, simply because it's what I'm interested in exploring right now. I'm not committed to a religion yet, and am just seizing the opportunity as a chance to experiment. Work out all the bad points and the good points for myself. I hope to hear from you soon, my dear!

Fiona McKinnon: Heh, sorry for the long wait, my dear...life's been a bit crazy. I'm glad you like my story so far, though – it's been so much fun to write! It's the greatest gift an author can have to have readers like you, who appear to enjoy reading it almost as much as the author does writing it. So thank you for that. And I see that you, like others, aren't quite sure of where it's headed. Heh heh...THE PLAN IS MINE! ALL MINE! (No, that means leave the story notes – no! Drop them! Bad girl!) Well, if you find yourself confused, please ask questions! I was thrilled to hear from you, darlin', and hope to hear from you again!

Minty: Heya, love! You came back! I'm so happy to see you! So...I heard through the grapevine you think the story is building up, eh? Well, my dear, you haven't seen anything yet! We're about halfway through, if that, and the excitement hasn't even started. You should have an idea about what these next couple chapters are going to deal with though (in the most general of terms, of course). Ah, this interlude is almost over – then, phase two! And no, can't tell you what that is either, as much as I adore you. Which is actually why I do individual responses (I also love it when authors do it, it makes the relationship between author and reviewer a wee bit more "personal," so to speak) – I personally think that if a person takes the time to read a story and review it, then the least the author can do is answer their questions. It's common courtesy, and works both ways. Cheers, my love! Waitin' eagerly for your thoughts!

Accio: (Runs over and gives you a BIG hug – smack, smack!) Yay! You made it! Whee! Oh, happy day, my love, happy day! Oh, and what a glorious review to return to, as well. Let's see if I can answer some of these thoughts you posed...So, starting with the Fates: Yes and no. I think you may be the first to connect the Fates with Draco and Hermione, meaning that you are able to guess a bit about what the pair is doing resulting from the Fates (brilliant, my dear, brilliant! Just what I was hoping for). But no, the two don't quite happen in the same time block – well, they do to an extent. I think that time is slightly different for the Fates, remember how at the beginning, the Fates were just lighting their fire, receiving their puppet strings? I guess I've sort of planned the Fates as living all times simultaneously: the past and the present and the future all at once. So yes, as that Fate scene takes place, the effects soon (if not immediately) come to pass in the real world, but the Fates themselves aren't in the same 'time pattern,' as Hermione once referred to it. The blood (time) doesn't flow at quite the same rate around them as it does for humans. Now, as for your query about Cruelty (born to betray)...I could start a philosophical debate that would last forever. You wondered whether we were all made to betray, if every human relation begins with passion and ends with cruelty. Obviously, I can't answer that, but personally, I think not. It's not truly betrayal, though it causes another pain – it's not betrayal until one betrays him or herself. Only when you turn your back on your desires and your beliefs, when you bow to another's tears or rage or pleas, that is cruelty. Of course, that's not the stance I'm going to take here, I think, but that's what I believe. Right, onto the fall from imagination: believe me, I was disappointed, too. It's why I had the dance in there, actually, so I could break their characters for awhile and create a world different from the one J.K. Rowling made, which I am borrowing. Sigh. Too bad it was only one chapter. Things will start to pick up again in a chapter or two, though (if all goes well, the next chapter will be the last one with mostly talking), and we'll soon forget all about the fall. I promise. Oh, and before I leave (it's almost midnight, I'm afraid), I LOVED your interpretation of Draco. Cold and bitter, you say...I like the sound of it. Who knows if that's the way it will end – I'm not even entirely sure who these characters are every single moment. It's the kind of thing I don't know until I read back over it, for when I write it, I'm caught up by instinct and imagination. Not until reflection is there meaning, that kind of thing. So, hugs, dearest, and drop by when you can – it'll be a good long wait before an update, I think, so no rush! (And I mean it this time, I really do.) Much love!

To everyone who's reading but not reviewing: thanks for stopping by. If you've got any questions or comments (I know this is a confusing story), please don't hesitate to drop a line. I'll do my best to answer.

Alison