AN: Sorry for the delay! Nerve-wracking exams, senioritis, and a little writer's block got the best of me (I was also playing Sims 3) - but I am now back in Kick Butt Writer Ninja Mode. Thanks sincerely for all your reviews and support!

And yes, I fully agree that Hermione's mother is a toe rag (Akaru-chan, quit making me snort laugh. It's very ugly.).

"Inmate," a voice shouted, as if from down a far, distant tunnel. Laboriously heavy footsteps came to a halt outside of a dark-haired inmate's cell, and the sound of a dozen keys jangling against iron bars roused him as some nameless guard set to work on unlocking the barred door. "Hey sunshine, wake up. You got a visitor."

Voldemort opened his stone grey eyes, so swiftly and unhesitatingly the guard paused in the entrance of his cell, wondering if the inmate had been sleeping at all, or simply lying on his cot in wait of an interruption. Whichever one it was, he spoke, smoothly and managing to be even more derisive than the guard's barked orders. "By visitor do you mean my attorney-" Eyes cold like the permafrost flashed toward the guard, and an uncomfortable sweat sheathed the man's meaty palms simultaneously. "-or an actual visitor?"

The guard shifted, scratching the back of his neck unconsciously under the inmate's relentless stare. "Well. Your attorney."

Malfoy again. Can't that useless idiot do anything by himself? Voldemort thought in exasperation, sitting up, and running his fingers through his normally more subdued ink black hair warily. The charcoal waves were curling around his head in many unprecedented directions. He snorted to himself. That's what his life had become in the past month since he arrived, jaded and shackled, at Azkaban, hadn't it? Unprecedented directions.

He could've used a hot shower, mint tea, and a mirror to speculate the dark mist of stubble audaciously growing along his jawline at 8AM – none of which were available to him until an undefinable later date – but instead he was being escorted by a cowed, overweight prison guard with a hairstyle from 1972 to the Azkaban visiting room.

Yet again.

As they walked through the steel-walled, grid-like halls of Azkaban – pausing at various checkpoints to be administered through bolted gates, at which guards stood waiting to examine their IDs – their presence did not go unnoticed. Or at least, Voldemort did not go unnoticed.

Gazes followed his orange form through doorways and the safety glass windows of prisoner workshops, stuck to Voldemort's handsome silhouette like snails on a damp surface. Such a classically beautiful face and infamous reputation called for nothing other than utter fascination, although those things were not the reason for all the attention bore down on him at late.

Since day one, Azkaban had been leeching off the money in Voldemort's back pocket. From the prisoners and guards to the cooks and bathroom janitors, everyone looked to him for hard cash and directive. The kitchen staff had designed him a special meal plan, and whatever he desired was sent to his cell when he didn't feel like coming down to the cafeteria. He only did community service if he wanted to, and he skipped the mandatory daytime classes while the teacher, Ms. Merrythought, loyally penciled him into attendance.

Inmates who didn't already belong to the Noble Blacks would soon, their fates were inscribed by the game of numbers Voldemort had set up in the library, active whenever a guard wasn't circulating, and a prisoner was bored or desperate enough (or sometimes, both) to put what little he owned on the table for a smoke or two. The inmates gambled items from commissary and their loyalty for cigarettes smuggled in by a few guards that had been quick to succumb to Voldemort's seemingly endless cash flow from the very beginning of his sentence.

It was only a matter of time before the foolish inmates were so broke and indebt that they'd be better off in prison for the rest of their lives than out of it. Behind bars or not, Voldemort made a point to be in control wherever fate befell him. The only obligation he couldn't snake or cheat his way out of were Dr. Dumbledore's idiotic therapy sessions, which he loathed with significantly dark passion.

He didn't need shrinks, for God's sake. He needed a plan.

Malfoy reviewed the usual stats, while Voldemort corrected this here or gave the confirmation of that there. But the young mobster's mind was elsewhere, plotting what needed to be done to reinstate the Noble Blacks as the underworld hierarchy – not only of New York this time, but half the nation and more – how he was to convince the jury he hadn't killed his uncle with a caliber come his trial at the end of October, what he had to do to prove himself to his men and Cygnus, how to discern the family traitors – and through them, find out who exactly they were working for…and if any of this connected to their rivals, the Three Brothers, who he would thereby destroy systematically and mercilessly.

But most relevant of his unending list of problems was the shipment of heroin stranded in a perilous, media-mobbed Nonthaburi with the Noble Blacks' name on it.

How the hell, he wondered not for the first time, did his foster father expect him to smuggle three hundred keys out of Thailand from the inside of a maximum-security prison? Voldemort's nefarious talents scoped far and wide, in fact he was well-known for his ruthless methods, cunning cleverness, and a wit as sharp as a diamond cutter's wheel, allowing him to sweet talk or dissuade his way out of the deadliest situations…

Still. He wasn't a freaking sorcerer.

With this tumult of distressful thoughts in mind, Voldemort barely noticed it when the Thailand news segment snapped onto the TV screen as he passed by the daytime room. "A death toll of eight hundred has been counted by authorities so far, and over two thousand citizens are still missing," a woman's voice said compassionately. "Survivors take shelter in the few streets that have withstood the wrath of this major earthquake, where makeshift infirmaries for the wounded have been set up, and people live in tents made of debris found floating in flooded streets, or the wreckage of levelled buildings…"

Voldemort grinded to a stop, staring inside. The inmates within were debating over the channels, skimming past cooking shows and cartoons and FX movies. A massive man squatted in front of the television set, his shaved head as tattooed and perspiring as the rest of him. He flipped past the news segment.

"Go back."

The other loiterers in the room looked up at the sound of his voice – unmistakable for its surprising gentleness, so at odds with the imposing wearer – and those who already owed him cash or other forms of pay up hastily looked away, crouching over the pool table or busying themselves with a book as if objects would hide their guilt. But Voldemort wasn't concerned with debts today.

"Back to what?" Shave asked gruffly, thumb hovering over the remote buttons. He looked like he hadn't slept in months. His irritable grizzly bear scowl faded when Voldemort met his red-rimmed eyes with a cold, powerful gaze the color of slate and thunderstorm.

"The news," he answered. He rose his eyebrows expectantly when after Shave had changed the channel, he didn't move. Shave realized this at about the same time and scrambled up off the couch, scratching the back of his gleaming head awkwardly as he trudged away, muttering. Voldemort stared after him for a moment. Something would have to be done about that.

Another time, he thought with an inward sigh.

Sitting down, he sat on the edge of the funnel Shave's gigantic body had created in the couch, and turned up the volume, heedless of the others although the braver ones glanced at him curiously and murmured to each other.

Up, up, up. Even on high, the volume sputtered weakly out of the busted speakers.

He leaned forward when the segment resumed after soda and laundry detergent commercials, propping his elbows on his knees. A brunette news reporter in a bright, banana-yellow rain jacket faced the camera, standing in pouring rain in front of the wreckage of what had once been a bridge in Nonthaburi, and recounting the losses of the city, such as damage costs, casualties, et cetera. When another five minutes of this passed by, Voldemort had nearly lost all interest when the reporter suddenly mentioned a New York senator in Nonthaburi today, visiting to show his support.

The camera switched to a view of an airport – the video had clearly been recorded last night, the sky was dark azure in the background, and the lights of the parked private jet shone bright like beaming owl eyes in the nighttime darkness– showing Senator Fudge stepping off his private plane and waving absently at a gathering of reporters trying to shove their microphones down his gullet. The video switched back to the reporter, who explained his niece had married a man from Nonthaburi not too long ago, which was why Fudge was in the city for the week to help the recovery effort, flying food and supplies back and forth from America for survivors.

Like a stroked match, an idea hissed and sparked into brilliance behind Voldemort's narrowed silver eyes, trained intensely on the TV screen.

Cygnus Black had always liked to give advice, probably far more than a man who had spent his life organizing new, inventive ways to profit from people's foolhardiness and misfortunes ever should have. Ironically, only one of his three sons ever humored his inner philosopher – not the exile, or the second eldest Regulus, but the charity case. Voldemort.

The story of how Cygnus had discovered his adopted son's hidden worth – an unlikely knack for cruelty and cleverness disguised by an archangel's face, ensuring the godfather would never fail to share his morbid, worldly knowledge with Voldemort whenever possible, to this day – was a long and complicated one, not worth, in his opinion, recounting. (He despised sentiments, especially those of the familial nature.)

But in short, the two had been thicker than thieves through Voldemort's teen years, their closeness quickly forged by conniving, brilliance, shooting practice on the roof of their penthouse in Tribeca on Sundays – the pigeons never bothered the neighbors again – and his eagerness to learn the art of the ultimate trickery. Theirs was not a typical father-son relationship, for his true father had probably been pale and waxen in a ditch for years by the time Cygnus took him in, and was deader now to him. But Cygnus was an excellent teacher, Voldemort his willing, equally genius pupil.

One of Cygnus's lessons – or tenets of business, as he liked to call them – was that everyone had a price.

The portly figure of Senator Fudge, swathed in a fox fur coat and bowler hat, disappeared inside the airport on the grainy television screen. Voldemort cocked his head, intent on some obscure vision only he could see. "I need to make a phone call," he said, glancing up at the guard lingering on the perimeter of the room. He stood. "Immediately."

When Hermione woke up for school Monday morning, she was groggy and troll-haired from five hours of crappy sleep, her brain plagued by the gluey remnants of strange dreams of endless, cyber green codes and uncrack-able networks that emitted digital laughter at her dream self's futile attempts to solve them.

Long night, she thought, didn't even cover half of it.

A firewall on the pirating website she had to break into and hack passwords from for some troll, jtrackey79, last night had proved more difficult to infiltrate than she'd initially thought it would. She'd had to go manual on a brute force attack when the security all but sneered at her programs, keeping her up past 2AM typing in random commands like an amateur. By the time she finally collapsed into bed, brain-dead and exhausted, her burning red eyes felt like sand pits. Hours of staring into a luminous computer screen was hell for her retinas – without doubt, she'd regret ever inventing Gryffindor once she was half-blind and eye-patched in her mid-30s.

"Crook…Crook… MOVE," Hermione ordered, through a mouthful of warm, rumbling cat belly hair. Her Kneazle had snuck up onto her pillow sometime during the night, then migrated onto her face in his sleep. She swatted his furry behind when he feigned sleep, and the cat sprang away with a spiteful yowl, giving her a glowing yellow glare full of feline accusation before emitting a hiss and launching himself under the bed.

Groaning, Hermione sat up and pushed the haywire coils of her nappy brown hair away from her face, squinting at her bed stand alarm clock. Her hair was always frightening in the morning, like the before pictures of a shampoo commercial, meant to horrify customers into buying hair products they didn't need. The alarm clock told her she'd woken up a half hour late. Oh…

Oh…

She sneezed. Plucking a long auburn cat hair off her tongue, she shot an accusatory look at the hissing underside of her bed. The hissing underside would have snickered in reply, if manic aggressive cats could do such things.

The school day at Hogwarts proved uneventful, save for the pop quiz Hermione's Chemistry teacher Mr. Snape was rumored to be giving tomorrow, janitor Filch's tirade over the innuendos Sharpied on the girl bathroom stalls, and the fact Harry Potter had still somehow not forgotten all about her. Hermione was unpleasantly shocked every time the scrubbed specimen of Hogwarts Finest – no, the captain of Hogwarts Finest acknowledged her presence. Saying hello, beaming at her as he and his polished friends strolled through the commons, and especially when he clapped her amiably on the back on his way to soccer practice with Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan at dismissal.

On Monday, her responses to this bizarre behavior had ranged from confounded blank stares to perplexed scowling, and by the middle of the week, they hadn't changed much, except to transcend into an annoyed wariness.

What did Harry want from her?

Yesterday, he'd called out to her from within a circle of boat shoe and polo shirt clad boys on the crew team in FACS class – the only class they had together, although Harry hadn't seemed to be aware of this fact before this week – and when Hermione pretended not to hear him, he'd proceeded to walk over and sit on her desk. With utmost graveness, he'd asked what her opinion on Mr. Snape's possible asexual status was. "Highly likely," she'd said, prickly as a cactus, with a Sphinx-like gaze that sent him quickly backtracking to his seat, much to the amusement of his friends.

Although, Hermione's abrasiveness hadn't been enough to keep Harry from appearing at her locker before homeroom the next morning, to make sly references concerning Gryffindor and online criminal activity, as if Hermione's illegal side job was a sacred inside joke to be shared between them.

It was not, for the record.

To make strange matters stranger, Ginny Weasley had begun to send her long, indecipherable stares whenever the two girls crossed paths. Ginny was a lovely but jealous creature, and every human with self-preservation instincts could tell she thought Harry was her territory. Any females encroaching on that territory were bound to get burned at the stake, unless they were either Ginny's trusted, equally beautiful friends, or ugly enough not to feel threatened by.

If Harry knew about his girlfriend's possessive habits, he didn't let on. All he did was smile, effervescently and infernally, the corners of his green eyes crinkling when his sunny grin predictably gave way to a wave of merry laughter.

God, he was annoying.

Harry's unfathomable interest in Hermione would've been the strangest thing to happen to her all week, if not for her visit with the East Manhattan Chief of Police days ago, or the rescue dog activist she met at the Three Tithes Wednesday afternoon, a middle-aged woman in need of guidance in the art of identity theft. She'd brought a three-pound Chihuahua named Meatball in her knockoff Coach purse, and had dog fur sticking to her vibrant purple pantsuit like a dangerously spreading, hairy rash.

As days rolled by without word from Chief Grindelwald, however, Hermione started to wonder if the chief had forgotten all about her and his proposal. She should've felt relieved – wasn't it a good thing she didn't have to go through with her impulsive, scatter-brained plan to work at a maximum security prison? – but instead she felt oddly…bereft. Almost anti-climaxed somehow.

Hermione sat in World History, watching a dull Powerpoint on the comeback of French monarchy when Binns was cut off mid-monologue by the sound of the phone ringing. As he spoke into the receiver, the class broke into fervent chatter, and the girl sitting beside Hermione, Katie Bell, uncovered her Algebra II homework and started working on question thirteen with renewed vigor. Binns hung up after mumbling a few pleasantries.

"Hermione," he said, jerking his thumb at the classroom door. She looked up. "Go to the main office, you have a phone call."

Binns resumed class without any more explanation. Gradually, the students quieted again, and Hermione got to her feet. Tossing some wayward spirals of her recalcitrant frizzy hair behind her shoulder, she walked out, closing the door lightly behind her. She wondered who on earth would call her at school. No one ever had before. After all, Hermione didn't have any family to speak of beside her mother – at least not strictly speaking. Sure, she had a grandmother who lived in Albany and cousins in New Jersey, but she hadn't seen hide or hair of either since Christmas four years ago… Then it hit her.

Mom.

At once, she rushed down the mahogany-fitted hall, feet slapping against the glossy hardwood hard enough to smear the wax as she all but dead-sprinted out of the history building – narrowly avoiding a collision with a furious Finch, who had just mopped the floor she almost broke her neck on – and across the vast green grounds to the main entrance: Aragon Hall. Aragon Hall was a small castle with imposing gargoyles hunched behind the quarry balustrades lining the turrets, as if about to spread their bat-like wings and launch into the sky for battle, and a towering façade that blended into a bronze-tipped pinnacle embellished with intricate stonework. The Hogwarts crest, a combination of a rearing lion, curled snake, regal badger, and a raven mid-flight that represented the four founders, pressed into the ashlar stone in a glittering stained glass rendition above the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the main office resided.

By the time she burst in, out of breath and sweating, she half-expected to find the piteous looks of strangers waiting for her, a paramedic inside with Mom snow-white and frozen on a stretcher. But the secretary behind the desk only smiled at her.

"Hermione?" she asked, in a voice made of maple candy and honeydew.

"Yeah. I mean, yes." Hermione made an attempt to compose herself, but her hair had already conformed around her head into a massive curly pom-pom from all the running. Grimacing as the secretary's eyes travelled upward, she said, "Er, Mr. Binns said I have a call?"

"Yes, yes," the secretary chittered, fluttering a hand of burgundy nails toward an ivory antique dial phone Hermione had always thought was just for display. "A relative, let's see…" She shuffled through some papers for a second, while Hermione's hand hovered over the phone. "Gellert Grindelwald," she finished triumphantly. At Hermione's nonplussed expression, she added, "He said he has urgent news for you." She smiled brightly. "Maybe you've won something!"

"Um…yeah. Maybe." But inside, her blood pressure levels were decompressing, a heady relief crashing like a wave under her skin. She's fine. Nothing happened to her. Nothing happened, she told herself a few times, before taking a deep breath and raising the phone.

"Hello?" she said warily.

"Oh good, they finally got a hold of you," said Grindelwald. He didn't sound as though he'd been on hold for nearly fifteen minutes. Once again, the Chief gave Hermione the disconcerting feeling that all old people weren't the same, and this one in particular might be the one she could grow to like. He also sounded like a campfire: warm, cozy, and crackling with untold stories. But how did he manage to do that over the phone? she wondered. "How are you, Hermione dear?"

"Good, I guess," she said, glancing at the secretary, who was typing away at the desktop in an effort to give her some privacy, but beaming excitedly at the monitor. She turned around. "Why?"

"I was being polite, my dear. Manners were all the rage in the 1800s. You're in class now, aren't you? I didn't interrupt anything too life threatening, did I?"

Against her will, a tiny smile started to creep across her face at the notion of missing Binn's class being life threatening. Grindelwald had probably done the opposite of putting her livelihood in danger, by pulling her out of it. "No," she said. "Just Napolean's misguided attempt to take over Russia in the middle of winter in spring clothes."

Grindelwald clucked. "Sounds riveting. Now Hermione, the reason why I've called is to confirm your agreement to my proposal…"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, the un-reassuring images of Shutter Island and One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest flashing through her head, but she replied, "I signed the contract, didn't I?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the secretary's brilliant smile falter slightly.

More clucking. "That you did. It was very difficult to get a hold of you, you know," Grindelwald said chidingly. "Why don't you have a phone?"

Because I've owed the phone company $300 for two years. "Phones are overrated." She toyed with the old-fashioned spin-around dial, yanking her hand back when the dial tones of ten different numbers blurted across the line. Oops.

"What was that?"

"Er, nothing," she said hastily. "What did you need to call me for again?"

"For confirmation, which you've given me," said Grindelwald, sounding satisfied either with himself or her answer. "Since I've got that, I will now send all the necessities to your house so you can prepare for the trip on Friday." The sound of muffled shuffling came from his end.

"Friday?" she repeated, startled by the nearness of the date, and also musing what Grindelwald could mean by the necessities. "Um, but- what time do I go? I have school."

"All the details are in the package," he assured. "Just keep an eye on the post."

Hermione frowned. The post. It seemed so…archaic. "Can't you e-mail the stuff to me?" she pressed.

"Not this time. Keep an eye out for it, Hermione. Patience is a virtue," Grindelwald added, "And we'll have a meeting sometime after you get back, to see how you're adjusting to the new environment and work out an officialer schedule." He was about to sign off, when Hermione suddenly remembered one of the most pressing questions that had been chasing around inside her head since she'd last seen Grindelwald.

"One more thing," she said, clutching the phone to her ear. Grindelwald came back on. "Yes?"

"Who's the…" She glanced back at the secretary, dropping her voice. "…you-know-who I'm supposed to watch? Or is that in the package, too?" She waited, but Grindelwald was silent for so long Hermione thought he'd hung up. "Hello?" she asked, and his voice came back on, confident and deep and reassuring.

"Tom Riddle, if it's any help." He said, "But you won't be able to find him on any public records."

"Then how do I-"

"You're a bright girl," Grindelwald said craftily. Hermione had the clear visualization of his bright clever eyes, shining mischievously at her. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. Too-da-loo."

The dial tone came on, telling her he'd hung up, and Hermione reluctantly lowered the phone. Tom Riddle. Already, she was itching for her laptop, which she realized as she patted the empty space over her hip where her messenger bag usually resided, she had conveniently forgotten in the history room.

"Do you know the number of – uh – Uncle Gellert? I forgot it and I need to call him back later," she said to the secretary, who looked up with a surprise that was a little too exaggerated, but instantly started to rifle through a pile of papers. Hermione waited, drumming her fingers on the mahogany counter in a jagged staccato.

"Here it is," the secretary said after a few minutes had gone by, straightening in her swivel chair. "Do you want to write it down or-?"

"No, that's alright. Just show it to me." Hermione moved closer, standing on toe when the secretary held the folder up to her. She studied it for a second, then stood back. "Thanks," she said. "Can I go back to class now?"

"There's only five minutes left of the period," the secretary answered, with another honey smile. "Why don't you just stop by your class at the end to get your things?"

Hermione agreed, because it was easier, and she thought about what Grindelwald had said on the long walk across the commons back to class. She ate lunch in the abandoned courtyard, hidden in the back of the labyrinth campus near the sciences buildings, and cracked open her laptop to research. In less than a minute, Google was bringing up search results for Chief Grindelwald's…special case.

Leaning in, she scanned the list. There were some social media turn-ups for Tom Riddle, but all the profile pictures were either of celebrities or anime characters. She tried a few different search engines, but with the same results, and finally used the background check website she normally used for Gryffindor's clients before meeting them in person. Nothing turned up. Her pointer finger tapped the touchpad pensively, while she cocked her head at the laptop screen. How do I find you, Tom Riddle? Because by the Web's standards, he didn't exist.

Friday, she consoled herself, would bring all the answers.

Two more days sped by, and Hermione soon forgot about the mystery convict. She received Grindelwald's package, containing a print-out of directions to Azkaban, her work schedule, a visitor's pass with her school ID picture on the front – how did he manage to get that anyway? – and to her astonishment, a brand-new smartphone worthy of a real Hogwarts student. The stickers hadn't even been taken off the package.

Too bad I can't use it, she thought bitterly, playing with the glossy touchscreen as she laid in bed late one night. But upgraded cellphones don't make the phone bill pay itself. They didn't transform her into a high class social elite either.

Hermione petted Crookshanks on the head. He hated it, but she could never resist trying every now and then. Quickly, she hopped up and clamped the front door shut behind her before the vengeful Kneazle could get any ideas about biting her good hand off. Hermione slanted her eyes against the blue morning light slashing through the thin gaps spacing the teeth-like rows of brownstones lining her street like braces, and took a deep, bracing breath of October air. It tasted like dead leaves and greasy hot dogs and laundry detergent from the Laundromat down the block and oil-rainbow puddles.

If only she'd known what a disaster this day was going to be, she never would have walked out the front door.

As had been per usual that week, Hermione was condemned to endure Harry's confusing tendency to exchange pleasantries or velcro himself to her side whenever he saw her around campus. All week she'd been trying to shake him off, pretending not to see it when he waved at her in the Great Hall, ignoring him in class, and never laughing when he gave her the punch line of some lame joke he'd found on the back of a candy wrapper… although it was a tiny bit funny that he found them so hilarious.

None of her efforts ever worked, however, even when she proceeded to become ruder and colder in the face of Harry's attempts to break her iciness. Hermione couldn't fathom why he was trying so hard to get her to like him – except for the sneaking suspicion she had that every time she shot him down, Harry became more determined to change her mind about him. Or he was just flat-out obnoxious. Or unaccustomed to being dismissed. Or – more likely – all three of those things.

What was worse was that Hermione couldn't even genuinely not like Harry Potter.

He's too nice, she thought irritably, changing binders at her cubby with a touch too much force. Hogwarts had an honor system all students swore to abide by when they enrolled in the school, which meant no locks on the cubby doors, and loads of opportunity for pranking or worse.

Still, the Harry Potter Situation (Hermione had christened it in her head) wouldn't be too utterly terrible, if not for one problem: Harry's psychotic girlfriend.

Hermione didn't pretend to be oblivious to the hostile looks Ginny – and eventually, Ginny's friends – shot her in the hallways. She even returned them with a choice finger, if just to pop a bubble or two. Hermione wasn't the type of girl to sit back and suffer in silence. This was exactly why eighth period Gym was such an issue.

Ginny and Hermione shared this class, and it was the first day of the volleyball unit. Conveniently, Hermione had made the epic mistake of briefly forgetting Ginny was the captain of the Hogwarts girls' varsity volleyball team. They won championship last year, thanks to Ginny's infamous, winning move: a royal spike. Hermione knew because said spike clocked her right in the side of the face when she was checking the time on the buzzer board during a team rotation – one ball of wham!, ominous crunch, and a blaring shock as she smashed to the floor.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, Hayley. I thought you were ready," Ginny cried, coming over to help her up. Hermione winced, prodding her left ear, which promptly screeched like a banshee. The ominous crunching noise had only been her neck as it snapped aside, not bones. Still, the gymnasium wavered behind Ginny's long glimmering red hair. "Are you alright? Did I hit you really bad?" she asked.

Hermione blinked a few times to refocus her eyes. Through the giddiness of agony, she could see what answer Ginny wanted from her in those Bambi, almond-shaped green eyes of hers: defeat. Pleas for mercy. Tears, if applicable. Sucking in a terse breath, she tried to tell herself those concerned eyes looked like duck crap, not emeralds.

"No, I'm fine," she assured through clenched teeth. "You just caught me off guard."

Ginny's eyes narrowed a touch, but she smiled – venomously. "Well, you better start paying attention, huh? Otherwise, you might get hurt again." She stood back, holding out her hand to help Hermione up.

Hermione smiled once she was on her feet, although her eyes watered when the movement made her ear burn. Note to self: start bringing Taser to class…and ibuprofen, she thought. "Sure thing," she said. As Ginny was striding away with the ball tucked under her long arm, she added, "So long as you do too, I mean."

Ginny looked back at her, making no effort to hide the waves of hatred lurking behind the pink lip gloss and bleached teeth now. "Don't worry, Granger," she said levelly. "I already am."

On that note, Hermione Granger had made her first enemy at Hogwarts Institute for Gifted Children…and the painful bleating of her inflamed eardrum promised another poor soul would be soon to follow.

Because of a detour in the Hospital Wing, which turned out to be located in the fine arts building on the bottom floor and the size of a modest doctor practice, Hermione had missed half of last period and knew much more about the perspective of cardboard boxes than she'd ever wanted to. She went over the speech she'd prepared in her head while sitting in Nurse Pomfrey's office holding an icepack to her cheek, slowly replacing books in her cubby while the students in the hallway buzzed about the upcoming weekend and weaved around her.

"Hey Gryff!"

Right on time. Hermione looked up to see Harry lope toward her, waving off a group of tan Hogwarts boys in khakis and boat shoes. He made himself comfortable on the cubby next to hers, his gaze quickly falling on the side of her head. "What happened to your ear?" he said, puzzled. "It looks like a wilted grapefruit."

Hermione glared at him. "You sure you don't have any bright ideas?"

"Um…no." Of all things, Harry seemed amused by her hostility. He tilted his head to get a good look at her. Self-consciously, she touched the bump next to her eye that Nurse Pomfrey gave her an icepack for and promised wouldn't swell. "Unless, you had a run-in with some angry redcaps?" he guessed creatively. Harry took Irish Lit, and he wielded his Celtic knowledge wherever possible. Hermione was not amused.

"Listen Harry, this has to stop," she said bluntly. When Harry only looked at her uncomprehendingly, she rolled her eyes and clarified, "You messing with me all week. It's not funny."

"Messing with you."

"That's what I said, isn't it?" she said testily. "You haven't left me alone since I saw you at the Three Tithes last Friday."

Harry still didn't seem to understand. Why doesn't he understand? "I haven't?" he asked, playing with his choppy bangs and scrunching his face in apparent contemplation, seeming to try to remember a point during the past week when he hadn't left her side. Hermione's eyes narrowed further at him.

"What do you want from me?" she demanded. "Why won't you just- just back off already?"

At the intensity in her expression, Harry was so surprised he laughed. This served to make Hermione resemble a humanoid version of Crookshanks on bath day, and her unruly hair may have grown bigger simultaneously. "What?" she growled.

Harry rolled his eyes, dropping his hands at his sides. "I'm not stalking you. This may be a foreign concept to you, but we're friends, Gryff-"

"Stop calling me that!" She rubbed her temples with her fingers. The earlier volleyball-to-head collision was giving her a migraine. "And what made you think we're friends?" she muttered.

Harry looked at her, taken aback. His cheeks flushed slightly. Annoyed, he said, "I don't understand, all I've been is nice to you. Why on earth do you seem so…so offended?"

Because you mock me just by existing. She turned away. "We don't have anything in common, 'kay?" Hermione said coolly, pretending to straighten some binders in her cubby. "We wouldn't be good friends." Deeming the conversation over, she walked away, but Harry easily matched her pace.

"What makes you say that?" he said hastily.

Hermione glanced at him, scrunching her eyebrows. "What doesn't?" she said, looking over his outfit. It's probably all designer labels, she thought with disgust. I bet his shirt costs more than I make in a month, made of 100% llama fur or something.

"I know about your dad."

She stopped dead in her tracks. Harry, who was still speed-walking, barreled right past her before he realized she'd stopped and turned around. He seemed to regret what he said, but it didn't matter – it was still unforgiveable. Hermione stared him down, burning all over. Slowly, she said, "How do you-?"

"And I know you're here on scholarship."

Hermione looked dumbfounded. That expression quickly disappeared, however, replaced by a deep suspicion. She looked around the mostly empty hallway. Slipping open her messenger bag and cocking her finger at Harry, she gestured for him to come closer.

Looking chagrined, Harry stepped toward her with his hands fidgeting like jumpy ants in his shorts pockets. "Listen, Gryff – er, Hermione, I didn't mean for it to come out that way- OW!"

Hermione dropped the Calculus II textbook back into her bag, while Harry held the swelling bruise on his jaw and let loose a string of curses. She said, "If you tell anyone about my financial situation, or if you already have, I'll tell Principal Dippet all about those changed Chemistry grades and get you expelled. In fact, I might do that whether you tell or not."

"What?" Harry was bewildered. "I wasn't going to tell-"

"Oh really?" she scoffed, poking him hard in the chest. He jumped back. "Then what are you doing? Rubbing it in? How pitiful I am? Are you going to try to throw a charity ball in my honor with all your rich friends? Going to laugh at me and my lowly apartment? My job?" Her eyes more unnerving than ever, she snarled, "I won't be ashamed of the fact that I work for what I got, just because everything pretentious assholes like you want is-is given to you."

Harry's eyes widened.

Glancing over his stunned face, Hermione seemed to be satisfied she'd scared him enough. She hiked her messenger bag up higher on her shoulder, tossed her wild hair, and walked off. Harry Potter watched her go in astonished silence, rubbing the bruise on his cheek with a frown.

AN: Oh Harry, you should've known better than to try blackmail with Hermione, really now... She does own a Taser. *tut tut*

Next chapter: Welcome to Azkaban. (A certain Voldyboy may or may not meet a certain hacker, I'm not really sure. I just hear things. Whaddawhadda. Blehdbloop. Ignore me.)

If you have any predictions, exciting riddles, feels, and/or death threats for me, please leave them in review format below!

Kisses!
ImmortalObsession