Hermione woke from a brief, fitful sleep feeling a coil of anxiety tightening deep into her chest. She could feel the weight of sleep clinging to her heavy lids, but the rest of her body was buzzing, thrumming, nearly rattling in place as that anxious, nervous coil wound itself tighter and tighter within her.

It always began with her jaw. The muscles clenched of their own accord, gritting her teeth together with such strength as to cause pain. The pain radiated from her jaw down to her neck, then travelled all the way down to shoulders that were too stiff with anxiety and nerves, trembling as muscles contracted out of her control.

Hermione couldn't remember with any precision the last time she had slept so terribly or woken in such an anxious state. It gave her flashbacks to a time when the only respite she got came from a nearly deadly combination of Ogden's Finest and an extra-potent dose of home-brewed Dreamless Draught.

The Professor sighed, resigning herself to suffer through the day. There were exams to administer, papers to grade—her professorial duties had to go on, no matter what was going on in the world around her. It felt odd—in good and bad ways—to not be in the thick of it any longer. She idly wondered how Minerva and Flitwick and all the other Professors felt when she, Harry and Ron were in school, when their world and community were so troubled.

The sun began to rise from behind her periwinkle curtains, bathing her room in a soft blue light. The birds began to chirp outside and Hermione still had not come to terms with how differently her day would go after her incredibly eventful weekend. In fact, she doubted she would come to terms with anything anytime soon, especially with the sinister implication of the warding provisions allegedly found in Black Manor.

Hermione groaned. Black Manor, now in utter ruin, and Narcissa, teetering on the precipice of becoming a pawn for the Ministry for only Merlin knew what.

It was an unsavoury conundrum, and one that Hermione wanted to thoroughly discuss with the Potions Professor as soon as she had the chance. After that, she would personally knock some sense into Kingsley, with her fists if not with her wand, and Godric be damned.

What hurt her most was the betrayal she felt. Kingsley had been her mentor—her friend, someone she deeply admired as an Auror, as a member of the Order, and as Minister. Why was he being so utterly paranoid?

Because it was paranoia—there was no other name for such a thing: surveillance of innocent individuals, manipulation, blackmail? Who was this person? Where was Kingsley the Order member, the friend, the voice of reason and logic?

Kingsley's actions made Hermione immeasurably angry—his nonchalance at the destruction of Black Manor, taking the opportunity to use Narcissa... It filled Hermione with rage. She wanted to scream to condemn the injustice of it all from the highest rooftops, and she would, too, if only...

If only Narcissa hadn't been confoundingly accepting of the situation.

"Don't fret so much," she had told Hermione before they parted ways the night before, worried and dissatisfied with their recent conclusions and sinister realizations. "The Minister is merely being pragmatic."

"Pragmatic?" Hermione had interjected incredulously, hissing with all the force of her disbelief. "He's completely lost the plot!"

Narcissa startled. "You mustn't take it personally," she said with a knowing look. "I certainly don't, despite the inconvenience the Ministry causes me."

"It's more than an inconvenience!" Hermione nearly shouted, her voice echoing through the darkened corridors. "They want to use you!"

Narcissa's responding look was as empty as her tone when she replied. "Merely politics."

Hermione physically shook her head as she left her private quarters. How would she be able to concentrate on anything after such an eventful weekend was truly beyond her—she would have to figure out a way as she went. She still had exams to administer, so many papers to grade, and then there was always the furore of the last days, the goodbyes to students who would be away all summer...

It was enough to electrify the atmosphere of the castle, as Hermione remembered from her days as a student, as she experienced every year as a Professor. However, as she approached the Great Hall, the atmosphere bubbled with a different energy, an excitement and commotion that were quite different from the usual buzz that signalled the coming end of term.

Students talked amongst themselves in hushed, worried whispers. The rapid, careless flipping of newspaper pages in the hundreds, maybe thousands, permeated the room, creating a cacophony of trepidation Hermione had not seen nor heard since she had been a student herself. It was eerily reminiscent of the days when the looming threat of Voldemort's return was imbued in every conversation throughout the castle.

She then remembered what Kingsley had said, about the grim inevitability of having the news from the Dementor breakout spread like wildfire despite the Ministry's best efforts for secrecy. No doubt the main papers already had something to print, creating that vein of panic in the Great Hall.

Hermione made her way to the Staff table much more somber than she had been already. Neville greeted her with a forced smile, one that was partially concealed by the pages of the newspaper he held. An old picture of Azkaban—and its army of Demenors—was visible in the back page displayed to Hermione.

"Morning, 'Mione."

"Morning."

She sat and they both remained in an uncomfortable silence for several moments. Hermione had no idea how much he knew, nor how much she could tell him if his knowledge of the true extent of the situation was lacking. It was a rather unpleasant feeling of secrecy she wasn't sure was even warranted.

Hermione was the one to break the silence when her thoughts were completely derailed once Neville put his newspaper down.

"Good Godric, is that The Daily Prophet?!"

Neville turned the paper for her to see, smiling wryly. "Indeed it is."

"Merlin. I thought they had gone under, hadn't they?"

"I thought so too," Neville confirmed, flipping the pages idly. "But apparently they have just been in the back shelf of the stands, relegated to the gossip tabloids."

Hermione shook her head. "What are they saying?"

"What aren't they saying, more like," Neville added sourly, brows quirking downward in displeasure. "Dementors on the loose on the hunt for wizards; the Ministry running a soul-harvesting operation all over Britain... my personal favourite is the riveting article on page six, the one about the Dark Lord's imminent return to this Earth in Dementor form, along with his army of the undead."

Hermione could not help but roll her eyes. The Prophet had become even more ludicrous than usual. "What are the other papers saying?"

"Much of the same, I'm afraid. The only exception is The Gazette." He reached over the table, grasping another ream of newspapers that had been put away. "Here we actually get writing that is at least... plausible."

Hermione took the offered paper, eyes already scanning the pages. The headline itself was much drier and factual than most were in the Wizarding world. The main story addressed the sudden and enigmatic breakout, acknowledging the Ministry had absolutely no clue what had happened. It also spoke about the destruction of a prominent Wizarding estate in Cambridgeshire where the Dementors had converged, but gave very little information.

The Transfigurations Professor read quickly, both alarmed and relieved at the article's simultaneous wealth of information and general vagueness. Her eyes finally skimmed over to the bottom of the page, to the author's by-line. Astoria Malfoy. Had Narcissa tipped her off?

"You know," Neville continued after a drawn-out pause. "Black Manor is in Cambridgeshire."

Hermione sighed deeply. Of course he knew she knew; this was merely the most roundabout way of asking for confirmation. The nagging feeling of unwarranted secrecy came to bother her again. Of all people, Neville deserved to know.

"Yes," she whispered softly, looking at him with concern in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Nev."

His hand crumpled the paper he held, and Hermione could see how the harsh set of his jaw betrayed his deep disappointment. She reached out a hand over the closed fist now crumpling the pages of the Prophet, running her fingers over his knuckles in a faint hope to convey her sympathy.

Neville shot her a grateful look. "It'll be alright, really. We'll rebuild. We'll have the Ward running in no time."

Hermione couldn't help but wonder if Neville needed to voice those thoughts aloud so as to make it easier for himself to believe them. She didn't. She also chose not to mention anything about Narcissa's and Kingsley's exchanges... especially about how the fate of the Manor's reconstruction seemed to hinge over Narcissa's willingness to become a pawn to the Ministry.

Her thoughts naturally drifted toward the blonde, and Hermione sighed. She did not like how things were left the night before. She ought to speak to Narcissa, to really talk to her, and find some other way to rebuild Black Manor without the need to Ministry interference.

She gave Neville's hand another squeeze, standing up with a strong determination to find Narcissa. There had to be something they could do.

"We'll do it, Nev. We will."

She didn't stay to hear whether Neville had a reply. Her feet were taking her running down to the Dungeons, her mind a chaotic entanglement of thoughts that drowned out everything else. She was Hermione Granger, and by Merlin, she would find another way.

"Professor?"

She was nearly at the Dungeons when the familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. William White had seemingly appeared out of nowhere by one of the moving staircases.

"Mr. White. How may I help you?"

The young boy hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wringing his hands in an obvious display of deep discomfort.

"William? What's the matter?"

"I... I think I'm meant to ask Professor Black, but..." He bit his lip, his discomfort rising. "I don't know how, Professor. I thought... Maybe... You're a Muggleborn as well, Professor, so I thought you'd understand better..."

His stammering wilted into an uncertain silence enveloping them both. Hermione could do nothing but wait for him to continue.

"I was wondering, Professor, if it would be at all possible for me to stay. For the summer."

Hermione felt her heart shattering into a million pieces in that moment, aching for the young boy before her, merely a lost child who had finally found his true home. She forgot all about the Dementors, all about Black Manor, all about Kingsley's machinations with the sorrow William's question brought her. Despite being a Muggleborn, she could not possibly relate to what he was feeling—not even in the slightest. She always looked forward to going home, to her loving parents, to a part of her identity she would never, ever forget.

How many children felt the way William did—the way he surely would feel every summer hereafter? She knew Harry had. Hogwarts had been his true home; he had felt its loss keenly every time he had to return to the Dursleys. Even Tom Riddle had found a home in this castle—the only one he had ever known.

The fact he was even asking, however, spoke volumes.

"I'm afraid the castle is not open to students in the summer, Mr. White." He looked as if he had been prepared to hear that answer, as if he had been preparing to not show his disappointment, but it was in vain. Hermione could see it clearly in his eyes. "Are... are things alright at home, William?"

She could see how her question startled him. To Hermione's surprise, however, he merely smiled. "Oh, yes, Professor. I'm just... It'll be odd to come back, you know? To... just doing Muggle things in the Muggle way, after so long of..." he waved his hand, gesturing to the castle in general.

Now that Hermione could understand, even if deep down she knew he was not being entirely honest. "It will take some getting used to—especially since you cannot perform magic outside of Hogwarts. But I want you to know, William, should you need any assistance... with anything, you can always send me a letter."

He raised a brow, his confusion evident. "I have no way of owling you, Professor."

"But you can send a Muggle letter," she quipped. "Not to Hogwarts, of course, but to a Muggle address."

His eyes lit up. "Oh, could I really, Professor? I... I wouldn't want to be a bother."

Hermione waved him off. "You wouldn't be, William. I want you to know, you don't have to hesitate to contact me should..." she paused, thinking about all sorts of scenarios that could make the young boy wish to remain in the castle for the summer. "Should you need a friend. I'll get you the address before you leave for the summer holiday, yeah?"

He nodded. "Thank you, Professor. Truly."

She smiled. "Go on, off you go. Enjoy the last few days of term while they last."

His smile mirrored her own, and for a moment, Hermione felt nothing but a bit of relief. There was very little anyone could do for William—however, there was no rule against offering him a sympathetic ear should he need one. It was a technicality, she knew, but it was also the truth. Hermione could only hope the situation at his home wasn't as bad as she feared, though she knew that was to be naively optimistic. At the very least, corresponding with William might provide her with the evidence she needed to remove him from an unsafe situation.

She had nearly forgotten why she had gone all the way to the Dungeons when she arrived at the door to Narcissa's quarters. William's predicament had effectively derailed her line of thought. Hermione raised a hand to the door in an absent-minded knock, lost in too many entangled thoughts that didn't seem to fully connect to one another in any logical way. She could not remember the last time her mind had been so overloaded.

"Come in."

The door creaked open, and Hermione instinctively followed the sound of Narcissa's voice. She was surprised to see Narcissa sitting in her small private parlour, taking tea with none other than Harry Potter himself.

"Harry," Hermione surprised even herself with the animosity her voice carried toward her friend. "What are you doing here?"

Harry's deep green eyes were tinged with guilt. "'Mione, please let me explain..."

"I called on Mr. Potter this morning, Ms. Granger."

Narcissa's interruption startled Hermione for two reasons—the first being its abruptness; the second, the way Narcissa addressed her as Ms. Granger as opposed to her given name. It felt alien in Narcissa's voice, especially after everything they had gone through in the past few days; it planted a vicious seed of crippling doubt that Hermione could not shake away.

"Oh?" was all that she managed as Narcissa motioned for her to sit. She slumped onto an armchair, feeling as if the strength had been robbed from her legs.

Narcissa eyed her with a questioning look, but Hermione could not quite register it. Her mind kept repeating the cold indifference of 'Ms. Granger' on a loop in her head. She almost didn't hear Harry speaking.

"And I wanted to come. To try and explain."

Hermione felt Narcissa's hand softly seeking her own. The gentle squeeze made her turn to meet a concerned blue gaze. "Are you alright, Ms. Granger?"

"I'm fine," Hermione swallowed through the newly-formed lump in her throat. She turned to Harry before Narcissa's gaze broke her resolve. "What did you want to explain, Harry?"

He sighed deeply. She noticed the dark circles under his eyes—he looked like he hadn't slept a wink since she last saw him.

"I... I felt like I needed to make some things clear, 'Mione. Kingsley's idea to ask Madam Black to do some reconnaissance was..."

"To use her, you mean."

Harry grimaced, but Narcissa was the one to speak. "We've been over this, Ms. Granger. This is merely politics."

"Still," Harry continued, raising a hand so Hermione would not interrupt him. "I wasn't happy with it, but I did think it was a fair trade to Madam Black if her surveillance was lifted, and if the Ministry aided with the reconstruction of Black Manor. That's the only reason I agreed to it."

Hermione raised a brow. "But?"

His shoulders slumped. "I never agreed to having the Ministry impede or hinder the reconstruction if she refused to help. I just wanted you to know that I didn't agree to it, and I was caught by surprise too. I didn't want you to think I had anything to do with that."

Hermione could see the sincerity in his eyes. All the animosity and distrust she had harboured since the previous evening evaporated, and in their place blossomed a strong validation of her friendship. This was Harry, her friend whom she loved like a brother, whom she trusted above all others. It was good to know for certain he was on her side.

"Thank you, Harry."

Narcissa's cup clinked onto its saucer. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Potter. While the apology is not particularly necessary, it is certainly appreciated. In any case, my mind is already quite made up."

Hermione did not like Harry's sudden look of guilt. His grimace told her more than Narcissa had just now; she turned to the blonde in utter befuddlement. "Wait a minute. You... Are you actually doing it?"

Narcissa nodded. "I am, indeed. I've determined it to be the best option." Her gaze cooled considerably as she looked back to Harry, though it held no malice. "With or without the Ministry's encouragement regarding Black Manor."

Harry looked ashamed. Hermione began to feel her anger bubbling up in her chest.

"The Ministry can't corner you like this! There must be another way!"

"Even if there were, Ms. Granger, my decision is final."

Hermione's free hand balled into a fist at her side. Narcissa squeezed her other hand once more. "Hermione."

The Transfiguration Professor looked up, hating how all it took for her anger to evaporate into thin ai was for Narcissa to say her name in a voice as soft as velvet. The concern in those blue eyes had turned to pleading.

"I am asking you to trust me. Can you do that?"

It was not fair; it was a low blow, and Hermione hoped to Merlin that Narcissa knew it. "Of course."

She was rewarded with one of those smiles she had come to learn Narcissa never gave anyone else. It almost made the anger and anxiety over the Ministry's machinations worth it. Almost.

"Ms. Black, I want you to know that you can count on me. You too, 'Mione. I don't understand why Kingsley is doing things the way he is, but I will do anything in my power to make sure he doesn't go over the line." Harry said fervently. Hermione could appreciate his support and dedication, but didn't want to tell him Kingsley had already stepped well over the line, in her opinion.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. But as I have told Ms. Granger," Narcissa side-eyed Hermione, as if to remind her of the extensive discussions they had had the night before, going in circles in the same argument, "I understand the Minister's motivations, as well as his strategy." She gave a little wry smile. "I am used to politics."

Hermione sighed. It was useless to say that didn't justify it, because to Narcissa, it did. She grimaced thinking about how Narcissa must view these two young, fierce Gryffindors crying out for the unfairness of it all.

Perhaps Narcissa thought them naïve. The idea didn't sit well with Hermione.


After Harry had left—with more promises and declarations that he would do his best to make sure Kingsley would do the right thing—Hermione found herself still slumped on Narcissa's chair, holding a cup of tea that had long grown cold.

"Would you mind if I wrote a few letters for a little while?"

The question startled Hermione out of her thoughts. She looked up as Narcissa stood, her blue gaze an open question. "Would you like me to leave?"

Narcissa approached, taking Hermione's hand. "I didn't say that." She knelt by Hermione's chair, bringing the young witch's hand to her lips. Hermione felt exposed under the scrutiny of those tempestuous blue eyes, as if Narcissa's gaze pleaded with her to bare her very soul. "Something troubles you."

The Gryffindor had to scoff playfully at Narcissa's suggestion—it was possibly the understatement of the century. "Several things are troubling me." Her gaze met Narcissa's with a defiance she couldn't quite conceal. "The Ministry using you is just one of them."

Narcissa sighed, and Hermione leaned in to rest her forehead upon the blonde's. There was an undeniable comfort to being this close—after their lengthy discussions and having Narcissa call her 'Ms. Granger', a certain amount of insecurity had blossomed, and it felt comforting to quell it with their proximity.

She felt more than saw Narcissa's small smile. "I assure you, Hermione. I'll be using them as much as they'll be using me."

"But I don't understand that" Hermione declared, because truly, she didn't. She could not conceive of any strategy—even an underhanded Slytherin one—that would create a scenario in which Narcissa held the Ministry's reins, not the other way around.

Narcissa's hands found Hermione's cheeks; the blonde held her face so as to look more deeply into Hermione's eyes. "I will take advantage of every situation presented to me, Hermione. It's my way." She smiled faintly. "If it weren't, I would never have kissed you. Not at the Manor, not ever."

Hermione frowned. "That's irrelevant, because I think I would have cracked sooner or later. But with the Ministry..." she exhaled deeply. "I don't know how to help. I don't know how to make this better."

She felt Narcissa stroking her cheek with an agonizing tenderness in her touch. It made her want to forget the last few days.

"It is not your obligation to fix everything. You've already helped me so very much."

Hermione took Narcissa's hands in her own. "What are you planning?"

Narcissa quirked a brow—it was a bit of a challenge, Hermione could tell. "Well, firstly I will... mingle with my old circles once again. I'm sure they'll be delighted to see me," she said with a measure of sarcasm. "At worst, I'll be able to uncover some unscrupulous dealings or two to make the Ministry happen—there are always things underfoot. At best..." she smiled widely now, and Hermione could see, perhaps for the first time, that there was a healthy dose of excitement behind Narcissa's plotting. "Well, at best I'll be able to secure funding from two fronts."

Hermione's eyes widened. "How so?"

Narcissa stood, bringing Hermione up with her. "As long as I can gather information for the Ministry, public funding for Black Manor will be guaranteed. But I sense another opportunity to secure funds and support from my old circles."

Hermione was stunned at the realization. "You're creating a safety net." Narcissa nodded, seemingly pleased that Hermione had worked it out. The thought didn't excite her exactly—especially if the money for the Manor came from unscrupulous dealings, but she supposed the bottom line was to rebuild it, whatever means necessary.

And hell, if Kingsley seemed so keen on playing dirty, why fault Narcissa for doing the same?

Another realization came to her. "Is that why you tipped off Astoria? For The Phoenix Gazette?"

Narcissa looked remarkably pleased with herself. "Rather perceptive of you," she spoke almost cheerfully, as if the thought of working this all out excited her. "Yes. Anyone who is anyone in my old circles will know the 'Wizarding estate' in Cambridgeshire is Black Manor." She took Hermione by the hand, leading her to her private office.

She motioned to her desk, where Hermione could see a moderate stack of letters. Narcissa let go of her hand, motioning to the stack. "I've received these just this morning." She took a few off the top. "Letitia McNair. Paola Zabini. Elizabeth Nott. Margaret Avery. All of them have written me, asking—in varied levels of discretion—about Black Manor. Lady Zabini and Ms. Nott have already invited me to tea."

Hermione leafed through the rest of the stack, bemused and confused all at once. She mulled over those names and the men attached to those families, nearly all of them rotting in Azkaban. She knew that Narcissa's contact with those families had been limited if not extinguished, but how many of those letters expressed true sympathy and support? How many were just... posturing, as Narcissa would say?

It only took her one look at Narcissa to realize it didn't matter. She kept forgetting that posturing in a nest of vipers—she cringed inwardly at the comparison, but really, it was nothing but appropriate—was what Narcissa was raised to do. It was her element.

Narcissa seemed to sense Hermione's discomfiture. She tossed the letters back onto the desk and walked back over to where the Gryffindor stood, taking Hermione's cheeks in her hands. Hermione didn't expect the soft kiss Narcissa bestowed her, but its gentleness went a long way in assuaging her recent discomfort.

"Don't worry, darling," Narcissa said, eyes gleaming as she leaned down again to graze her lips against Hermione's once more. "It's time to do what Slytherins do best."