Everything hurt.

'You're hallucinating,' came a calm voice. There was the distant sound of footsteps; the clink of glass. The voice came again; but it sounded like they were underwater. Her fingers searched for something to grip; her nails clawed at soft cloth. Another clink of glass.

'Merlin knows what they're thinking,' the voice came again. It didn't sound as calm as before; instead it was more of a rasp; something like rubbing stone on stone. She wished she could open her eyes, but they felt like lead. Pain seared through her, yet again.

'You're hallucinating, my girl. In my days, we called it what it was - sabotage. Now they make it a spectator's streetshow. Next they'll bring in flamin' dragons and Merlin forbid, Mermen or other lots. Stupid, that's what I call it. After all, they ain't even paying you lot for it. But it is honour, bloody stinkin' honour- what's honour when you're dead, I ask? Frankly, it is quite illegal, akin to Obliviation, almost. And then we get kids who do human Transfiguration on themselves, oh Merlin, what can I do, study your injuries? Training sure as hell didn't cover this aspect-'

'Constance.' A new, deep voice. Some more footsteps. Why couldn't she open her damn eyes?

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Who is this? And where is Fleur?'

'This?' rasped the woman called Constance. 'This is the fourth champion. Said champion- poor girl-'

'Where is Fleur?'

'The bed beside her. Got it easy, she did. She made it out first, didn't she, lesser effects that way. Anyways, ma'am we absolutely must complain; this is illegal-'

'Fleur's state, please.'

'Minor burns on arm and left side of face. Dis-orientation. The general; bruises, tiring, shock.'

There was a relieved murmur. Hermione shifted in her bed. Pain swept through her again.

'You are right, though, Constance,' said the woman; there was another clink of glass; the tinge of smoke in the air. 'This is certainly illegal. Madame Maxime will be notified.'

'I don't like him, ma'am.'

The woman tsked, there was the sound of curtains being drawn. 'It is certainly a precarious situation. Madame Maxime won't like it.'

Something cold was wrapped around her neck. Salt tinged the air. But it didn't feel free- no, the air was cold, suffocating. It surrounded her, the cold thing around her neck pulled tighter. Her feet flayed madly, her hands searching for something. The world blurred.

Dementors, she thought blearily. She couldn't breathe- something like ice had lodged itself in her throat. Cold, salty water dripped down her neck; and then she was going under.

'MURDERER! Filth, that's what you are, a filthy parasite; a leech!'

Her hands clawed at her own throat, flakes of dried blood under her dirty fingernails. Her knees were objecting to the pressure on the cold stone floor, spit issued from her mouth, dribbling down her chin with blood.

'Crucio.' came a high, cold voice.

She could not scream anymore. She felt like she was swallowing her own blood. Her lungs were burning.

This was when she should laugh, when her death was near. This was where she should think, at least I'm dying for something, on my own feet, head held high-

But the pain was too much. It took over, long before she saw green light.

'It's nice here, right?'

The girl's voice was like music, something that seemed to float in the air. She had long, glossy hair in pretty braids; her bare feet running across the grass. A little, beautiful alcove of flowers was wrapped to her right.

'It's beautiful.' said Hermione. It was; the endless, brilliant blue sky; the vibrant, eye-catching flowers; the musical lilt of the girl's voice, the cool, inviting breeze. She could have lived this moment for a thousand years.

The girl nodded, her bright blue eyes focused at the little garden. There was something extremely familiar about her, but Hermione simply couldn't remember who she was. She had the underlying thought that this was someone she was supposed to know, but her thoughts were like the wind, floating in different spheres.

'I've always wanted to live here, you know, Hermione? That's what all hardships are for, right? That's what they tell us anyway.'

'It's how it's supposed to work.' said Hermione. Everything was clear, peaceful, there were no underlying mysteries, no strange taunts. Everything was perfect.

'It must have been a dream,' said the girl. 'Like a dream, to move out of a dreary orphanage to this colourful, magical world. You're magical, after all. You wear robes, you use quills, you've got their slang on your tongue. You're their miracle Muggleborn. You work hard. You act like those huge books don't scare you. You learn which staircase to not use; which corridors to not enter. You act like you've always known it. You work hard. Memorize spells and potions ingredients from all over the world. Because you need to be the best. Because you need to prove yourself. And it's still a dream. A nice, beautiful, magical dream. You can do magic. You can always wake up. So you say you're equal to them. You work harder. Spend late nights. Put up security charms around your bed. Bite your tongue, stay polite. You're their miracle Muggleborn. And then, one day, it all ends. Your hardwork disappears. You're no miracle muggleborn. You're a dirty mudblood. You don't deserve Hogwarts. Don't deserve to come here, to be equal to them. You work hard, anyway, but you know you'll never be equal to them.'

She let out a long whistle; it was music, enchanting, captivating music. It was perhaps, the most truthful anyone had ever been with her.

Something shifted in the air.

The rays of light faded; a melancholy evening, a deep red sunset, and then, the pitch-black fear of the night. Hermione shuffled forward in the suffocating dark, there was the crunch of dry leaves and twigs. The smell of something sick pervaded the air.

But she knew this place, even if the last time she had been here, she'd been running for her life. This place was alive.

Frigid air whipped her face; the echo of a lost howl reached her ears. She moved. She was alone.

Then, the sound of agony; a crack like a bone breaking; the whistling of the wind stopped. She knew this place very well. This was home, her home.

'The Forbidden Forest.' she said out loud.

'You're right,' came the girl's voice, soft tinkling music. It reminded her of frosted windows and warm drinks. 'Don't be scared, Hermione.'

'I'm not scared.'

She laughed; soft, long fingers found her own. She had undone the messy braid her hair had been in, she ran her fingers through it, braiding a little pattern in it.

'You're brave. You aren't like me. You won't give up half-way through. You'll get what you want, through any means possible. You're brave, that way. To try. But you need to be braver. You need to be stronger, fearless. Untouchable. That, that's the only time you'll be their Miracle witch; not their Miracle Muggleborn.'

For a second Hermione had the blinding impression that she was talking about herself.

And then, those, soft long fingers found her throat.

'Oh my God,'

Her eyes were burning, probably red and swollen. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks; rough hands were holding her own. Her mind was a roit of confusion; jagged lines.

'Yes, that sums it up neatly.'

Hermione exhaled heavily, pulling the blankets around her tighter. Her bed at the Durmstrang infirmary was covered in a swirl of green curtains; Viktor sat beside her in a chair. She took another deep breath, ignoring the burning sensation in her lungs.

Professor McGonagall had just left, after a lengthy talk on her various injuries as well as the assurance that this would be dealt with.

("Not acceptable, this sort of business," she'd said. "Dumbledore is very unhappy; Gracious, I've never heard him so angry.")

'How long has it been?' she asked him, hating herself for the weakness in her words. She'd come last. This was the worst she'd been humiliated in months. This, this hurt.

Perhaps this was how it felt to disappoint someone.

And it was made a thousand times worse because of her mudblood status. She knew what they thought of her; even when they'd praised her for her performance in the First Task, she'd always known what their comments meant. Like some amusing trick their pet had done. Hermione had the sudden impulse to vomit.

'Two days,' said Viktor, voice calm, slow. It calmed her too. 'I think it became vorse after-'

'Yes, your Headmaster wouldn't have wanted you to become a delirious, drooling mess.'

There was a dry silence.

'It vas not I who decided to make the tasks.'

'No, of course not,' she said softly, twisting her hands together. 'Sorry.'

Delacour and Viktor were tied for first position. She'd been placed last and to top it all off, spent the last two days hallucinating in a bright white, cold, infirmary room. She hated the fact that the boy beside her had seen her like that; vulnerable. She suddenly hated him too.

'You are feeling better now, yes?' he asked, and the feeling dissipated.

'Yes, thank you.' Her nails dug into the soft sheets. 'It's just...scary.'

'It's over, Hermione.' He'd managed to perfect the pronunciation of her name. It was strangely charming.

'Yeah, yeah, it is. I'm being stupid, that's what.'

'Don't lie. You are not stupid. Besides, you are only fifteen and you know so many things I do not.'

'They're all useless facts,' she said thickly. 'Who cares about when the Statue of Secrecy was implemented or why Gornuk started a goblin rebellion-'

'If it's you talking, I care.'

She smiled. 'How are you so charming all the time?'

A bemused expression on his face, he frowned slightly, then said: 'It's the...climate?'

I don't know what's fucking wrong with me. I don't know why I go all frozen up when the task starts. I don't know why I came last or why I've been screaming my throat raw for the last two days.

Ink blotted messily at the last word, smearing it into the parchment. A second seemed an eternity as Hermione waited for a response.

She was still in the infirmary rooms, but had been moved to a different, less bright-white one. They'd opened the dressing on the large burn on her fore arm yesterday and she'd nearly fainted. It was not the pain; pain she could manage, pain she could accept; no, it was the sight of her skin like that; the sickening feeling that all of this was for entertainment-

Voldemort should have considered this plan. It seemed very fool proof; if all they wanted was her corpse.

She bit her fingernails, then stopped immediately; because she could almost hear Ms. Rehana's reproachful voice in her head. A breath. Why was everything so silent?

How...are you?

Slow, decisive writing, as though he'd put a lot of thought in three words, Ron Weasley's writing appeared on the parchment.

Bad. Very, very bad. It's a fucked up situation.

Look, it's not your fault you came last, Hermione. Not at all.

Was this why she always came back to him? Self-validation?

No. She came back to him because he was her best friend.

Bloody well it's my fault! I was the one competing, remember, not some demented clone?

Oh, can Muggles do that as well?

Once again proving his limited attention span, but she was smiling.

I don't think so. Not yet, anyway.

Blimey, they're scary these muggles. Anyways, look, don't be too hard on yourself. You didn't ask to be selected. It's just enough if you survive. And judging by Dumbledore's statement in the papers, I'm pretty sure McGonagall will cut you some slack while awarding points.

What did Dumbledore say?, she wrote hurriedly, the only sound in the room being the scratching of her quill.

All the pep talk I give you and you latch on to that. Typical Hermione. Do you even listen to half the things I say?

She laughed. It was so Ron, she couldn't help it. Another suffocating itch to put up an illegal Portkey to Hogwarts.

To be fair, I doubt you understand half the things you say. Besides, I don't have the money for a psychiatrist. Yet.

Right. I'm hoping you don't mean you've started an illegal part time business.

Not here. Probably when I'm back in Britain though.

She didn't write Hogwarts.

Yeah, when you're back.

She pressed her lips together tightly, blinking back tears. How could he always be so optimistic, so hopeful? The belief that somehow, everything could be sorted out. Was that something you were born with or something you learned as you grew up? No one had taught her that. Perhaps, it was some inherent defect in her. That she could never just see the good in anything.

She missed Ron so much it hurt.

So, she wrote, and if she had been talking, she knew her voice would have broken down then and there. What does Dumbledore say?

Well, he's published a statement in most newspapers saying that it was "uncalled for" and "a disappointing action by the Durmstrang authorities" and "am very grateful that all our students have made a full recovery" and "will inquire into the matter..."

Will you stop using so many quotation marks?

It's grammar, Hermione. Besides, he and the judges have decided to ban media activity there, which is probably why there hasn't been a cover story with a picture of you yet.

That's good.

But pictures of the Task leaked out anyway. It's kind of a trade here in Hogwarts. Some stupid firstie got detention for it.

Fuck.

It's alright, they were mostly Viktor Krum fangirls. Now, how are you?

I told you it's bad.

You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to. Merlin, this is so pointless on paper.

It's scary. It's messed up with my mind. I really don't want to say anything else.

Okay.

She paused, quill in hand. The problem was she could still remember it all; still remember how those cold hands had wrapped around her throat, choking, spluttering, as she disappeared under. She had to change the topic before she had another hallucination. That wouldn't do. They'd toss her into an asylum or experiment on her or...

Okay.

Yeah well, did you hear about that raid on Knockturn Alley?

Nope, I didn't.

Right, so, Dumbledore's put up a temporary ban on the trade on Veritaserum and the like for two weeks. And then the Aurors cut upon Knockturn Alley; they've sealed more than six shops shut by now, for selling illegal products-

Did they shut Borgins? wrote Hermione excitedly.

Unfortunately, no, they didn't. You remember Terry Boot- he was going on and on about this black market trade in ancient artifacts-

Reminded of Roza, her tall, thin frame in the doorstep, Hermione dipped her quill in the ink pot, and started to write.

So he was right then.

He's a nutter, yes, but not Trelawney level. Apparently she really pissed off Harry last week; he's decided to ditch the class.

Oh, really?

Yeah. Some prediction about his parents, or so he says.

Your standards of company are really dropping, eh?

I'd actually say its rather an improvement. Anyways, the point is, because of the Knockturn Alley raids, there's been a HUGE influx of criminals being chucked into Azkaban.

That's er, good...?

Probably. I think its just an excuse to round up Death Eaters without any incrimination.

But why's Dumbledore worried about Death Eater reputations?

He's brilliant and all, but he's crazy too. Must be some side effect of being a genius.

You don't think Dumbledore sparked this whole affair?

Huh?

Like, I dunno, he started this dark artifacts trade so he could find some proper reason to arrest Death Eaters. I mean, otherwise, they'll never let it happen so quick with so many of their members in Law Enforcement.

Well, I think it's good, he's at least doing something unlike the rest.

Oh Lucius Malfoy is being very busy indeed.

Right, did you see that Malfoy's article?

Yes, I did, that absolute wanker...

Abusing Lucius Malfoy always made for interesting pastime.

Hermione downed the goblet of steaming potion, her hands cupping her chin. A rack of books towered in front of her, but for once in her life, she couldn't focus. Her mind kept drifting, deviating. There was no light streaming through windows, only a bitter taste in her mouth. As she placed the empty goblet on the table, it disappeared.

There were no clues to the Third Task. There was no energy left in her to do anything more than survive; to just go on with the tide till it either took her under or she was cast on some shore.

At Hogwarts, she had often felt like she had a flame inside her; a flame to be better than the snooty purebloods, a flame to be the best. Hermione was ambitious, almost unrealistically so, but she supposed it was alright as long as she recognized it in herself. At Hogwarts, she didn't need to circulate in her own thoughts; because Hogwarts was an organized chaos. She could get lost in new books, in new people, in new theories.

I need to do something, was what ran in her mind, but practically speaking, what could she do? She had no one to fight her way through a political system; she had no legal Wizarding guardian, no contacts to do anything and to top it all off, once this Tournament ended, she would be officially expelled ( she was fucking sure Lucius Malfoy would make sure of that ). She tried not to think about it, most days, this twisted, impeding deadline.

Blackmail was a nice way to gain power; but for that, she needed leverage first. And before, all of that, she needed to mold herself into someone better, someone more.

Her scar throbbed. She closed her eyes; a high pitched scream echoed in her ears.

She was suddenly reminded of Sirius. What had he said in the dream? That Hermione trusted him. She did, that was true. Then why hadn't he struck yet?

Maybe this whole fucked-up task was part of that. But Voldemort had explicitly said he didn't want Hermione's name to have been entered in the Tournament- and that it was evident someone among his Death Eaters had done it? Had he tortured them all, interrogated them till they surrendered to the truth? Threatened to have their family killed?

And had the criminal given up?

She would have known if Voldemort'd found out, that she was sure of. But why would Death Eaters go against his judgement? Didn't they preach utmost loyalty and all that other tosh?

("Power, Miss Granger, tempts. It pulls, it attracts, it is an addiction. An obsession.")

An obsession. Yes, she had to be obsessed. Obsessed to be invincible. To be stronger, to be a worthy opponent. She would win this Tournament, not just survive it. Work hard.

(But you'll never be equal.)

She suddenly remembered that conversation with Potter in Grimmauld Place, so many moths ago, the two of them eavesdropping.

("I don't think you know what its really like. You didn't grow up hearing what we did.")

So what if this world didn't want her? She wanted this world and she would get what she wanted. Any means possible.

Her scar throbbed again. She opened her eyes, glancing at Pucey, who was sitting across her, looking out of the arced window.

Diagon Alley, the cold Slytherin Common Room, the summer of her third year; the werewolf law protests, blonde hair, dark artifacts-

Hermione sat up straight, hands twisted together.

'Do you have this, like gap, in your memory?'

'A gap?' asked Pucey, furrowing his eyebrows. He turned to face her, scowling slightly.

'Yeah, like you can remember everything, except those few minutes. You know why you went there and everything but you can't remember what you were doing. Like a few words trigger something you know you know but, you've like forgotten it.'

'Granger that sounds like Obliviation. And very illegal.'

Maybe Pucey had had it a little better than her, but he'd been affected too. She'd seen him only once; in the middle of the night, illuminated in wandlight in the bed across her, muttering hoarsely to himself. She hadn't told him about it, because it seemed like something private, something to be locked away.

And well, she herself had woken up screaming herself hoarse for the last two days.

'A thousand years, and we would have never expected this, eh?'

'No,' said Pucey, very slowly, as though he was choosing his next words very carefully. 'We wouldn't have expected this.'

'But do you feel it?'

'Feel what?'

'Like there's someone in your head.'

He had gone very white. His eyes were feverish, as they looked around the empty room. 'Have you told your boyfriend about this?'

'If you mean Viktor,' she sniffed. 'no.'

He leered, a maniacal grin. 'Pretty foreigners won't stick around long if they know you're a nutter.'

'Excuse me,' she said coldly. 'Viktor's already seen the worst of it's effects. He's not as a shallow as you and your yearmates. Besides, I know you got it bad too.'

'Yeah,' he said, nodding, as though a big weight had been lifted off his shoulders. 'Yeah, we both Hogwarts champions got it bad. I'll tell you the truth, Granger, because its giving me a fucking headache.'

His voice became brusque, low. 'It messes with you that thing. Let me tell you, I'm not some arrogant little shit; my aunt's an Unspeakable.' He paused at the look on her face. 'I often forget you're not one of us, Granger. Someone who works in the Department of Mysteries.' he clarified.

It was so casual, this prejudice. Not one of us.

'And I have a cousin who's in Law Enforcement; anyways, what I mean is, I've grown up hearing 'bout all this, okay? About Legilimency and Occluding and Veritaserum resistances and untraceable poisons. For every book you've devoured; I know twice the amount in information. And yet,' he said, continuing in that same brusque tone. 'yet, I've never heard of such a thing. It's mindboggling. It feels like-, Merlin, I don't know. You're right here, now, physically, but in your mind, you're somewhere else. I'll tell you what it feels like. Like being in a Pensieve, except you don't know if it's your memories or someone else's. And the worst thing-' His voice dropped even lower, becoming hoarse. 'You know you'll never be able to get out.'

There was a ringing silence; the words broke into meaningless syllables in her head. They'd fucked up her mind. She was going insane.

Pucey shook his head, his eyes somewhere far away. 'But then, we'll all be alright in a couple days. That's what they say anyway. You got the shit hand, Granger.'

'Thank you for reminding me.'

He laughed. 'Who needs a bloody reminder when it's all in your head?'