Hermione stared at the words till they were just funny, intersecting lines, the parchment crumpled in her white-knuckled grip. Whatodowhatodowhatthe-

A breath.

The little bottled flame she'd conjured a while ago, slipped off the table, splinting into a thousand pieces at her feet. Hermione got up hurriedly, as though in a trance, knocking the chair over and hurrying out of the compartment. Where was Zaidi? Why was the bunk empty; but looked slept-in? The door swung open, Hermione skipped over the threshold and out.

It felt too quiet.

The chilly air blanketed her; she muttered a lumos. Even in the dark night, the painted phoenix kept fluttering, shimmering golds and reds seemingly embedded in a dark, blank canvas. Her breath fogged in front of her. The parchment crumpled tighter in her fist. As she walked down to the compartment at the end, the Hogwarts Express shifted to the large carriage. She could not hear her own footsteps.

The lights were on; she could see the yellow hue burning through translucent windows. Her fingers found the clutch of the door, but it was locked. Alohomora, as expected did not work. She smoothed out the crumpled parchment, looking at her own hysterical writing a few moments ago.

Ron?

Are you there?

Ronald Weasley?

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? RON- are you okay? RON-

Why had he written that? I should be. What in the ever loving name of Merlin was that supposed to mean? She was countries away from Hogwarts. And now he wasn't answering. Her mind was a riot of confusion and panic. She was spinning through possibilities and nightmares; each scenario darker and darker-

The compartment door opened noiselessly. The beady glare of the painted phoenix stared sideways.

'Oh my- Cedric-what the fuck is going on- did you hear from Hogwarts- I am positively going mental- '

Her words were nonsense, slurring into each other in a way that made Cedric visibly flinch. His tall frame was in the doorway; he extended an arm; she took it.

She climbed into Minerva McGonagall's personal compartment, tension perceptible in the air. The wide, sparingly decorated room was filled. Zaidi, Johnson, Pucey, that boy with the sharp nose and long hair who was always at Johnson's side- almost everyone was there except for McGonagall.

The room was silent. She broke it.

'What on earth is happening?'

Zaidi met her frenzied, anxious stare. 'Feydor Zenik is missing and Aurors have found a massive stack of Polyjuice hidden in his quarters.'

'Don't be so fucking diplomatic, Aafreen,' sneered Johnson. 'The Aurors were called in; of course, because of those werewolf rumours and so Hogwarts has been shut down in the name of investigation. No human, creature, owl, nothing is allowed in or out. Not even the bloody Minister of Magic can get in.'

Hermione bit her lip. 'So McGonagall-'

'She'll only be allowed into Hogwarts after their permission.' said Cedric gloomily. 'And yes, two weeks would be speed for the Ministry.'

It felt like the summer all over again; the moment she settled into a routine; everything seemed to erupt at once.

'No one knows who Zenik is, anyways,' said Pucey suddenly. 'No one's heard of the man. He just appeared; took on a position and now he's missing. I reckon he got murdered by that werewolf. Be glad if it happened- Zenik'll be gone and the werewolf will be put down, as it should.'

'No one doesn't mean Slytherin,' snapped the boy with the sharp nose and long hair. 'I'm rather sure Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix knows. Besides, Pucey, no one's forcing you to stay here. I'd be glad if you left.'

Pucey shrugged; he had dark shadows under his eyes, and looked like he hadn't had decent sleep in weeks. Hermione wondered if she looked the same.

'C'mon, don't argue, everyone. We can't do anything but watch the stupid Tournament for now,' said Zaidi, surprising Hermione for being the one to resist a fight.

Zaidi usually loved to start, encourage and lengthen fights- the better if they were bloody.

'Polyjuice,' said Hermione quietly, meeting Pucey's eyes. 'They said Polyjuice stocks. You-you don't think, it could be true- that there's no person named Feydor Zenik really, that it's just a very clever disguise and now he's been caught, so he's trying to make it off...'

Cedric smiled sadly, like she was a little child who knew nothing about what really lurked behind wide smiles.

'Hermione, have you ever heard about Obliviation? A man who pulled off a disguise, as you say, for nearly a year, don't you think he would have known how to deal with a few snoopy kids? Besides,' he added, shaking his head slightly. 'this is Hogwarts without Dumbledore. Even the smallest truth cannot come out or the Opposition will lose the popularity they have now.'

Hermione sat beside Zaidi, who had a hand wrapped around Pucey's waist. The gesture was strangely intimate.

Hermione shifted slightly, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes. The parchment was still crumpled in her fist; she stuffed it into a pocket. She could not tell them anything about this now. She didn't think she could trust them that much yet.

'But they'll still hold the Tournament?' she asked. Pucey laughed.

'Of course they will. It's their entertainment.'

She wanted to cry.

Hermione leaned forward, hands cupping her chin. Why had she always assumed Feydor Zenik was on Dumbledore's side? Was it because he had never openly associated with Selwyn? Or that he'd never thrown masked insults at her in a classroom? Had it been because of her stupid, selfish, naive need for someone to act like everything was normal?

But Dumbledore had said this, the time when he'd visited Durmstrang- "You were safer at Hogwarts. I know you've heard about the Order. Severus, Filius, Pomona, not to mention Feydor - they would have all protected you. "

Feydor- but who was Feydor? Why had she always had the nagging feeling that this was someone she had known as a child?

If Feydor Zenik was not on Dumbledore's side; he had no reason to flee the castle. If he was not with Dumbledore, there was only one more side. There was no neutrality here. There should be no neutrality, even if it was a childish worldview. War could hardly be called straightforward. (War. Such a small word. Something that seemed so normal now.)

If Feydor Zenik was with Selwyn; why had he even bothered to run? If he was with Dumbledore, then wouldn't Dumbledore take more control of the situation? He was Minister for Magic. He could have done something indirectly without actively interfering into Hogwarts- he could have given any excuse and maybe overruled- Hermione could not be so foolish to think that Dumbledore was just an eccentric old man- no, Dumbledore was powerful- he was shrewd.

If you had lived as long as Dumbledore had, you should be.

Then maybe Zenik was on Dumbledore's side and Dumbledore simply did not care. But this only affected Selwyn's reputation, his image for not managing Hogwarts properly without Dumbledore's interference, without his appointed Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. If this had been Dumbledore's plan all along; well there were easier ways to damage a reputation, there were less important people to sacrifice.

Like Snape. Like Jacob fucking Selwyn. Draco Malfoy. Parkinson. Fucking anyone.

She buried her face in her hands, feeling sick at herself. Parkinson, Malfoy, Zabini, they were all her age. They were fourteen. Would she be the same, if she had been brought up like them? Even if she had a choice, would she have taken it? Was it right, if you had had it drilled in your head since childhood that it was wrong?

But she was not them, whatever hypothetical moral scenarios her brain brought up. She was the mudblood Girl Who Lived. She was an orphan. She had lived more than half her life in a Muggle world. She could never be anything like them. She didn't want to be like them however nice manors and magic sounded. The world had to be black and white, in a war.

The more she thought about it; the less she understood.

The minutes dragged on into hours. She did not sleep. If she slept; she might dream. She was selfish and afraid of what she would see, because those were not nightmares, were they? They were different. In the dreams, she was Voldemort, in the dreams, she lived in his mind.

She was waiting for morning; for some news from Hogwarts; this felt like a never-ending loop-

Hermione glanced at the parchment for the tenth time in two minutes. There was no response. She had never felt so restless in her life. There was Bulstrode's silver coin, of course, for small messages, but even Millicent wasn't answering. Shaking her head slightly, she looked back at the compartment. Nearly all of them were asleep; except Pucey and Zaidi, who were whispering together.

Zaidi met her eyes for a second, faltering in her words. Almost immediately, she turned, so that her back was facing Hermione.

Hermione sighed. She was by no means religious, but Ms. Rehana was, and she'd often heard those foreign words Miss Rehana muttered during prayers. She liked the feel of them against her tongue. Bismillah-irrahman- damn her, she'd forgotten.

She was just going to pray no one died.

Hermione did not receive the Daily Prophet for breakfast. She was not surprised.

'But I still don't understand, Angelina,' the boy with the long hair was saying, a few seats across her. 'Why are they taking so long? They say they've sealed the Hogwarts grounds. No one can apparate in or out of Hogsmeade- which is also pretty much sealed. They say there's no way they're out of Hogwarts either. Then what's taking them so long?'

Johnson put down her spoon, looking up from her cold toast to meet his eyes. 'It's politics, Jason,' she said. 'They're trying to do something but even I can't understand what. I just hope nothing happens to anyone, though.'

'You know Dumbledore kept firing all those pureblood supremacists who were head of departments?' said Cedric. 'Maybe they've paid someone to do something at Hogwarts and put Dumbledore in a bad light.'

'But Dumbledore isn't in charge of Hogwarts anymore,' said Pucey. 'There's no point.'

'But Dumbledore heads the Aurors, indirectly. Now, say for instance, like they found Pettigrew last year, what if they found someone like, I dunno, Barty Crouch or something?'

'Isn't that the guy who was impersonating Mad-Eye Moody?' asked Johnson, suddenly thoughtful. 'And he's rumoured to have killed his own father.'

'Yeah, yeah,' said the long-haired Jason. 'Last year, when Pettigrew was found, we all moaned about the Ministry, didn't we? That's what Cedric's saying, if they find something like that- they'll make it look like Zenik was some victim of a Dark Ritual and Barty Crouch was there and now he's escaped the Aurors even in a place like Hogwarts-'

'If they find Barty Crouch dead, isn't that good for them? That'll boost their popularity, of course, especially if they rescue Zenik,' interjected Johnson. 'Pettigrew's different, he was meant to be dead, they gave him a fucking Order of Merlin in 81-'

'Yeah, yeah, but you get what I mean, don't you? They'll be like "Barty Crouch spotted in Hogsmeade- Aurors let go once again!"' said Jason, putting up a shrill voice. 'Or- "Barty Courch, extremely dangerous and insane criminal, escapes Dumbledore's highly ranked Aurors, once again!"'

'Yes,' said Johnson darkly. 'They'd love that.'

Hermione sighed, bit into another piece of toast, and decided to go research for the Third Task anyway.

...in the Second Task of the 1884 Triwizard Tournament, champions were forced to team up in order to win. Each champion had to get out of a closed room, and could choose another champion to move onto the next Task without actually participating. This therefore, usually led to champions picking the weaker ones, so that their competition was considerably easier...

Hermione opened another book, but her mind was not on it. She was worried to death. The anxiety and panic felt like a living thing in her. Should she write to Andromeda, perhaps? She glanced at the book- Ten ways to tame a Dragon- and decided to write anyway.

She made sure to keep it curt, and with very less adjectives and tried to charm it so that the contents changed into small talk if anyone else was looking at it. It didn't work as the book said it would; Hermione was frustrated as well as nervous.

Fuck it. She was going to post this anyway.

Hermione returned to her morbid obsession of staring at the colourful dome they had been building for the Third Task. It was nearly over now, but there was still a flurry of activity on site. Feydor Zenik had been pushed to the back of her mind. Standing here, now in this moment, she was thinking about Voldemort and Sirius Black again.

She was anxious and scared for Ron, but this didn't seem like the Chamber of Secrets were students were randomly getting petrified. This felt like what Johnson had said- politics.

(Even though he hadn't answered yet.)

Everything would be all right, she repeated emptily. Maybe they were sitting in full supervision of a teacher. Maybe they weren't allowed to be on their own. Maybe they'd found out and made him burn it. Maybe he - he had other things to worry about.

He would be alright, she repeated again.

Here, though, in the wide grounds, it didn't feel that suffocating. After all, she and Ron had been chased by a Grim in the Forbidden Forest. They'd blown up the Shrieking Shack. And Ron was way, way better than she was when put on the spot. He was strong, reliable, resilient. He never panicked. He never froze on the spot or forgot important wand movements, even if he didn't know many.

He would be alright. He should be.

Besides, there was also the minor fact that she might die, three days from today.

She thought again about her last dream- Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange sniping at each other; even as they stood in front of Lord Voldemort. A time-turner would be useful...hadn't Delacour told her Pucey had one, just days ago? She'd gone on another reading spree from the library- and Time-Turners just seemed dangerous and insensible, but she could not deny that it would be useless. Pucey could disillusion himself, go back in time, alter a few events and then, just like that, he would win. Slytherins were notorious for winning by any means possible.

But she wanted to win this. She needed to win this. The mudblood who won the Triwizard Tournament. She would get her name in a book for something other than the murder of her parents.

What would Sirius do? Would he really kill her? Could he, after getting to know her for so long? She supposed being a spy meant you had to be pretty used to that thing. How hard was killing if you thought the human being in front of you was just a rabid animal that needed to be put down?

Pucey had said that, about werewolves. He had said "put down". And a werewolf called Remus Lupin had been his teacher for nearly half a year. Someone whom he'd gotten to know, who was very much human, after all and still, he thought Lupin was just a dangerous, primal beast. But Lupin had always been so kind, even if Hermione hadn't liked it- she stifled an involuntary chuckle at how blindly shed trusted Mad-Eye Moody-because laughing made it seem funny and it had been anything but.

Remus Lupin, with his chocolate, and calm, kind voice- his lined face, tired eyes, but at the full moon he would be a savage monster, no longer human, no longer Professor Lupin who'd taught them about Dementors-

Perhaps that was how Death Eaters saw people like her. Would you falter if you had to kill a mosquito? Would they falter if they looked into a mudblood's eyes and didn't see anything human in that face? Did they never realise that the person at their feet was human, a living, breathing, person, who had a family, a dream, a life-

She wondered. Had Voldemort seen fear in Jean Granger's eyes? Had he seen defiance? Had he known, how much she loved her daughter, that she could die for her?

But it didn't matter now, did it? It mattered only to her, because she would never know.

She wondered then, if she could kill.

She thought of Draco Malfoy, and then she realised, for all his torment, he was just a boy. He was fourteen and mean. And she'd nearly killed him. How difficult would it be for someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, than, who had gleefully tortured someone to insanity? Antonin Dolohov, who'd killed the Prewetts? Ron's uncles, she thought belatedly. How much closer did a war get?

Was Sirius still a double agent then- still in contact with Dumbledore, with the Order? Had he shifted loyalties, perhaps, after being persuaded by family, what was the saying-

Blood is thicker than water.

Lucius Malfoy; brother -in-law. Regulus Arcturus Black, deceased brother. Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black; cousin. All Death Eaters. All Slytherins.

Hermione remembered Lestrange's name embroidered in gold thread on that old tapestry Sirius had so hated. A thin, golden thread that linked her with Rodolphus Lestrange, another Death Eater, probably. Her gaunt, pale face in the Azkaban mugshot. The ghost of her features in Andromeda, or maybe it was the other way around. How close were cousins, anyway? Maybe purebloods took the family thing very seriously. After all, the Gaunts had married their cousins. And Sirius's parents had been first cousins too...

Siblings would have been close, though, look at Ron and Ginny, Potter and his little sister, Padma and Parvati-Bellatrix and Narcissa- Bella and Cissy-

But Hermione had never got the impression that Sirius liked his family, or that he was the sort of person who was easily influenced by his surroundings.

He had been disowned, he'd said? Or perhaps he'd run away? She didn't think she'd ever asked.

She didn't think he would have answered honestly, anyway.

'I hope they chuck him back in Azkaban so that he can rot to his death with the Dementors,' grumbled Hermione. 'I hope he dies like Pettigrew, slowly and painfully. I hope Voldemort tortures him-'

'Hermione?'

She started, and blushing, discreetly tried to stuff the parchment in her robe pockets. She smiled at Viktor Krum, who was looking very windswept.

'I went for a ride,' he explained. 'The veather...it is very good.'

Hermione choked, then giggled nervously as she pulled her jacket over her. It was bloody freezing.

'I think good weather means you need a bit of sun, honestly,' she said, as he sat down. Hermione very much hoped he hadn't heard her cursing Barty Crouch- his limited English and her imaginative language did not seem to make for a good impression.

'You do not get much of that good veather in Durmstrang, unfortunately. I take it, you do not like the cold?'

'I like it when I have a large mug of hot chocolate,' said Hermione. 'but no, I am not used to this cold.'

'It is difficult to get used to such harsh veather, sometimes, I suppose. I like it very much, personally.' said Viktor, nodding slightly. 'I hear, however, that the Hogwarts teacher, Mileva Maconogall-'

'Minerva McGonagall-' Hermione corrected.

'Yes, yes,' agreed Viktor, leaning back in his chair; his hands idly tracing patterns on the wooden table. They were sitting in one of those large halls meant specifically for the Durmstrang students to socialize. It reminded her a little of the Common Rooms in Hogwarts. Ginny said hers was all red and gold and cozy, comfortable armchairs and a nice view. Slytherin's, unfortunately, was located under a fucking lake and always in a shade of damp green. The view wasn't for much; because there were hardly any windows- and the Giant Squid did not grace them with its presence much- but she would say that the design was pretty elaborate.

She often thought it looked like a random ballroom with many armchairs and snide portraits and a little fire stuck in the bottom of the sea.

'-and that you haff all been very vorried, I did not understand, even as I read that newspaper of yours, the Daily Professor, I believe?'

Hermione laughed. 'Its the Prophet,' she clarified, still smiling. 'And its almost as useful as a toerag.'

'A toerag,' Viktor repeated, and she giggled again at the bemused expression on his face.

'Yeah. You should teach me to curse in Bulgarian, sometime.' she added, surveying his thin face with amusement.

His eyes widened slightly; he coughed abruptly. 'You are a very strange girl, Hermione,' he said.

'Oh, I get that a lot,' she said.

'But I vill teach you, anyways,' he said quickly. She laughed again and then kissed him, because she wanted her normal, and Hogwarts was far away.

...and in 1888, the champions were forced to endure a three day journey across a frozen desert, with several avalanches along the way...however the Task, which had been meant for five days, was cut short to three when one Champion died of hypothermia, and the other by drowning. Unfortunately, the second Champion's circumstances of death are not very clear, further doubted by the evidence of Obliviation being done on the third Champion, who inevitably won the title for 1888...

She pushed the book away.

'Well, good luck,' said Pucey gruffly, as he wolfed down his sandwiches. The table was noticeable empty, except for Zaidi, who was simply staring at some unknown spot.

Hermione shrugged and took a swig of pumpkin juice, which was atrocious. The other option was something that looked like dried blood, so she took another sip.

'I just want to know what's happening at Hogwarts. I can't stay here like this, it's making me mental-'

'Shut up,' said Pucey, now facing her. 'They can do nothing to Hogwarts.'

'You don't look very confident,' she said weakly. The day of the Third Task had dawned, and all she could think was that she wanted someone she really cared about there. Maybe Ron. Wouldn't that have been brilliant? Ron, on the stands, with even Bulstrode, maybe, even fucking Potter would be wonderful at the moment.

She didn't know anything. She couldn't think what she would do if Voldemort suddenly apparated in the middle of the Task and sent a flash of green light her way. Worse, now worry for Ron was sitting like acid in her stomach.

Hermione let out a long whistle.

'I hope you win, at least, if I don't.'

She did not say it out loud. Maybe she didn't want him to know that she'd almost started to like his company a little.

'I know what you're thinking, Granger,' said Pucey suddenly. 'I just want to say, don't do anything rash. This is my day. Slytherin's victory.'

Hermione snorted. 'Keep dreaming, Pucey.'

Pucey shrugged, finished his large array of sandwiches, and then he was gone.

Hermione waited for ten seconds before she followed him.

She rushed to the Hogwarts Express, and waited for a second before she wrenched the door to her compartment open.

He was snogging Zaidi.

Her long hair was everywhere; bare shoulders and dark skin clashing with his pale features. Hermione sighed; why now?

'Fuck off, Granger,' came Zaidi's exasperated voice, as she was now literally straddling him. 'We're busy.'

'Yeah, okay,' she called out, shutting the door. 'Just remember that its my fucking room.'

Without waiting for a response, she hurried to the other compartment. This was Pucey's, she was sure of it. It had golden and scarlet feathers painted across it; covering most of the image of Fawkes. She pushed the door open, and stepped in.

If she'd had any doubts before, it vanished at a cursory glance of the room.

There were books everywhere. Dirty robes hung over the unmade bed. She shuffled through the room, searching through books and groping under the bedcovers, till she knelt and looked under the bed. Ah.

Hermione dragged the heavy trunk out, and then immediately flinched. The trunk was scalding to the touch.

She cast a freezing charm, and then started to work through the enchantments. Why did he have to place wards on a school trunk?

There could be only one reason. Perhaps Delacour had said the truth. It wasn't hard to believe Adrian Pucey had a time-turner; he was a Slytherin pureblood and highly ambitious and desperate. In equal measure.

She pulled out a hairpin from her messy braid. How often had Luke and her done this? And every time that little metallic click- oh, that was satisfaction.

It worked. She couldn't fucking believe it. The lock had been charmed resistant to being broken, but he hadn't thought about this possibility. How stupid. How fucking dense was he to have overlooked this? She almost laughed, but then stopped, eyeing her battered watch.

What if snogging Zaidi bored him and he decided to come back? No, she had to be quick. Hermione opened the heavy trunk, kneeling on the floor. She spared a harried glance at the door.

Oh, fuck, she'd forgotten to disillusion herself,

Cursing herself, Hermione pointed the wand at her own head, and said the incantation. Slow. Make sure the pronunciation is right.

It was done. She focused back on the trunk, which was filled with clothes. A particularly handsome set of dress robes. A small vial of potion; probably headache reliever or something. Another book; Quidditch through the Ages. She shook her head; this was taking ages.

'Accio time-turner.'

It didn't work. Okay, that would have been too dense, even for Adrian Pucey.

She rummaged through the contents once, again- broomstick polish, twig clippers, the dress robes-

Something felt wrong about the dress robes. Too new, too perfect, too neat-

The cloth was weird. The feel of the cloth in her fingers, it was almost like magic. And if she pressed hard it felt like the gentle tick-tock of a clock...

Her wand streamed red light. A Time-Turner slipped in her hand.