A/N: I have received a couple of reviews and several messages about the dream scene in the last chapter. I am sorry if you do not like the way I have chosen to portray Dumbledore. I would like to suggest that if it bothers you that much, stop reading this story. I promise you that I am not going to change it or him in further chapters. This is not a cheery, lemon-drops-and-flowers kind of fic. I am not interested in writing that kind of thing. If that is the kind of story you mistakenly thought this was going to be (though God knows why when there was someone already dead in the first damn chapter), then you should turn back now. There are hundreds of very nice, sweet, romantic fics on this site, and most of their Dumbledores are good guys. This is not one of them./Also, for those of you who do not like the way I have portrayed Hermione's character, I would like to remind you that this story takes place twelve years after the end of HBP, and eight years after the end of the war. Hermione is no longer a little girl, she is a twenty-nine-year-old woman. I never said Dumbledore was evil. Never. This story is written in third person narrative, but for the most part, the opinions are those of Hermione, who is my main character. I think that I have been honest with these characters to the best of my abilities./I also know that there are only a few people who think these things, and that these are not the opinions of everyone who has read this. My love to all of you. I just thought I could save some time and aggravation by responding to this for one final time, instead of answering all of them individually. Forgive me for taking up so much space with this A/N, now on with the story.

Sometime later, perhaps as much as a week—she still wasn't sure about the passage of time—Hermione was once again standing alone, chained to that heavy wood table, waiting for a visitor. When Mad-Eye Moody walked in, Hermione just stared at him with her mouth open. He wasn't the last person in the world she had expected (that honor went to Ron himself, for obvious reasons), but he was pretty far down on the list.

"In a helluva fix, aren't you Granger?" he said in his gravelly voice. His wood leg made thick clunking sounds on the stone floor as he crossed the room and sat down in the chair across from her.

She stared at him. She didn't really know what she was waiting for. Maybe for him to condemn her as a murderess like everyone else, or abruptly shout CONSTANT VIGILANCE! at the top of his voice.

He didn't do either of these things. He sat down, folded his scared hands in his lap and looked at her with his one beady brown eye. The other one, the large blue eye, was swirling around crazily in his head. "Why don't you close your mouth Granger? I do believe I feel a draft on my nether regions."

She closed her mouth with a sharp click, then laughed. "You always did know how to make an entrance, Alastor," she said.

"Practice, Granger," he said. "Lots of practice. Now, how about you tell me just what the ruddy hell's going on here."

"Didn't you hear? I'm a murderer."

He made a rude snorting sound at that. "I know you better than that, Granger. And you should know me better than that by now. Don't expect me to believe such tripe. You may be a killer, but you're not a murderer."

She sighed, and for what felt like the millionth time, said, "I don't remember."

"You don't remember," he repeated. "Yeah, I read that part in the paper. Didn't believe it much though. As I recall, you had a pretty sharp mind about you, Granger. Not one for forgetting things."

He said this in a thoughtful way, like he was considering the possibilities. She could almost see his quick mind working, beating at the problem without mercy. It made her smile and remember standing shoulder to shoulder with him, wands drawn, Death Eaters circling them. His quick wit and experience had saved them then, and she found herself hoping that maybe he could do it again.

"DARK MAGIC!" he suddenly barked, causing her to jump. "I'd bet my eye on it. What's wrong with you, Granger, letting someone get the drop on you like this? You're one of the best there is, the best I've ever seen. What did I always tell you? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

She couldn't help the amused smile that sprang to her lips.

"You think this is funny, Granger?" he demanded.

"No sir," she said.

"Bet your ass it's not," he said with a satisfied nod. "Damn shame, really. A war hero locked up in Azkaban. A shame. And just look at you. You look like shit Granger, and that's an understatement."

"Thanks, Moody," she said. "You're such a charmer."

"Well, just look at ya," he said, gesturing at her with one knarled hand. "You've lost so much weight you look like you're swimming in an elephant skin. Aren't they feeding you? They damn well better, or by God, I'll—"

"You can't do anything, Moody," she said. "Not in here. They didn't listen to me, they sure as shit aren't going to listen to a crazy old dog like you."

His one beady little eye narrowed. "We'll see about that, Granger," he said. "Goddamn Ministry's gone in the toilette since Scrimgeour became Minister. Almost makes me wish for the days when Fudge ran the place. He was incompetent, no doubt, but this—" he waved his twisted hand at her again "—this is wrong."

"How did you hear about this anyway," Hermione asked him. "I thought you were in Paris, looking for Lupin."

Lupin had gone crazy after Tonks was killed in a little skirmish in Italy. They had gone, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, George, and Hermione, to rescue Olivander, the wand maker. Fred had been killed, and so had Tonks. George had become quiet and reserved, and Lupin had just gone feral. The last time anyone had seen him was ten years ago, and he had been running through the forest on all fours, chasing down dear and rabbits, and whatever other creatures unfortunate enough to cross his path.

"Did you find anything?" she asked. "Did you find him?"

"Nah," he said. "False lead, just like all the rest. There's none better at not being found when he doesn't want to be found than Remus. He's a good man. He probably thinks he's doing us a favor, staying away. Good man, but a real bastard as a wolf."

Hermione had to agree there. For the last eight years, since the war had ended, she and some of the other Order member had been trying to find Lupin, but thus far, he had eluded them all.

"Owl brought me the post in my hotel room, and there you are, blinking up at me from the front page of The Daily Prophet," Moody said. "That Skeeter woman really can write a load of shite when she puts her quill to it, can't she?"

Hermione chuckled. "What did she say?"

"Some rubbish about you killing Weasley in a moment of passion, and—"

"What!" Hermione had thought she was above caring what anyone said about her. She knew that none of it was true, so it didn't matter. So she had thought, but this . . . "That makes it sound like I stabbed him to death in the middle of sex. That's the most revolting, preposterous—"

"I said it was a load of shite, didn't I?" Moody said. "Weasley's been seeing that silly chit Lavender Brown again. Besides, anybody that knows you two, knows that you haven't been together since that night—"

"But people believe it," Hermione said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Some do. But some will believe most anything, Granger, you know that. As long as it's in black and white, it must be true, right?"

Hermione put a trembling hand to her forehead and prayed that what she was feeling was not the onset of a headache. They didn't give out ibuprofen in Azkaban. "I have to get out of here, Alastor. I'm going to go crazy soon, if I don't."

"Paper said that about you to," Moody said. "I have to say, Granger, I found that a hell of a lot more believable than you slicing and dicing Weasley."

"I'm glad someone believes me, Moody," she said tiredly. "Even if it is a crazy old dog like you."

He grinned, though it looked more like a grimace on his twisted features. "Off with ya, Granger. You're going to make this crazy old dog blush."

She snorted.

"So tell me what you do remember," he said. "Exactly. What's the last thing you recall doing?"

She thought about it for a minute. "I made tea," she said at last. "Earl Grey with lemon, no cream—"

"Come on, Granger, don't give me a damn menu here. What happened?"

She glared at him. "You said 'exactly'," she reminded him. "I'm giving you the details."

"You can skip the consistency of your tea then," he said wryly.

"Fine, fine," she muttered. "What next? Oh, then I got a book from the shelf. It was—oh, you probably don't need to know that either. So, I was reading, drinking my tea, and the fire was—"

"Fire?" Moody interrupted.

"Well, yes," she said. "I lit the fire when I got finished doing research for the day. I'm helping Guenevere Bloodstone with this book on the properties of—"

"The fire, Granger," Moody reminded her. "What kind of fire was it?"

"What do you mean, what kind of fire was it?" she asked. "It was just a fire. It was a bit chilly when I got home from the library, so I lit a fire, made some tea, and sat down to read a book, and that's the last thing I remember. Next thing I know, I'm in a bed holding a knife, I've got blood all over me, Ron's dead, and there's a pack of Aurors pointing wands at me and shouting."

"A fire," Moody mused to himself. "Connected to the floo network?"

"Of course."

"A fire," he said again.

She rolled her eyes. Maybe it was about time to start reevaluating the depth of Moody's madness. "Moody, what—?"

"Got to go, Granger," he said, abruptly getting to his feet. "I'll be by to see you again in a few days. Don't think you'll lose all your marbles in the meantime, do you?"

It was a very real possibility. "I might have a few left," she said with a smile. "Moody, what are you thinking?"

"Thinking the same thing I thought when I walked in here," he said. "Only now I got something to look into. Take care of yourself, Granger, and remember, CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

"How could I forget," she said as she watched him limp out of the room.