Carpe Noctem

by APermann

"Remember when I told you I'd read her mind? I saw something peculiar. Bella, I think there's a possibility she could be— she could be a venor floccus." AU, centred around Hermione Granger, a very best friend of Draco Malfoy, back when she was just a fifteen-year-old kid dealing with her inner demons, trying to deny the growing interest in a mysterious Bellatrix Lestrange.

24. Saving Buckbeak

CARPE NOCTEM / SAVING BUCKBEAK / CH. 24

Hermione was taking the stairs three at the time as she hurried up them to the seventh floor. There wasn't a soul about which briefly reminded her of the classes she was missing but the burning sensation in her cheek drowned all, even the most substantial of her academic concerns.

She didn't want to see or talk to Bellatrix ever again—not after being treated like a damned slave for simply opening her mouth and telling the truth! Hermione was stupid for running away! She should have stayed and hit Bellatrix right back! So what she was an adult; so what she was her teacher now! With manners like that what kind of reverence did she deserve? Eye for an eye, Hermione thought, angrily wiping off the tears oozing down her face.

If this was a perfect world, respect would be proportional to one's behaviour and not just given away for reaching a particular age or having a reputable job—especially not when one acted like a prick most of the time rather than a decent human. While Bellatrix might think aristocratic origins and a vault dripping with money gave her a certain right to act any way she pleased, that it counted more than the integrity, that it made her somehow superior to Hermione, in the girl's eyes such misconceptions only made her look pathetic and poor. Sure, Bellatrix might be big in terms of money, however there were still things like manners or compassion that she could never never afford. Oh, and that blood status she loved to boast about so much? She was so rotten that it wouldn't balance her ugly behaviour even if it was gold running in her veins! Damned woman; and she had the nerve to berate Hermione… She didn't deserve any respect! Any!

There was a shrieking sound behind Hermione's back and, spinning, she caught sight of Peeves just in time to swerve so that his transparent chest wouldn't fly through her head. The hasty movement, however, made her shoe slip and she fell, skinning her knee on the sharp edge of the marble stair. Hermione hissed, feeling warm blood blending into her knee-high socks. Peeves, floating above her, roared in laughter before reciting:

"Lookie here at Granger, she can hardly walk!
They say she's smart but Peeves knows she's just a clumsy dork!"

"Leave me alone," Hermione gritted through her teeth as she struggled to stand up. She'd felt weak and lightheaded since waking up from her astral trip but now it was most likely the sugar in her blood dropping to an extremely low level which made her want to stay in place until the dizziness subsided. Unfortunately, she couldn't afford to wait around with the lunatic witch somewhere close. Scarcely she scooped herself up and without inspecting her stinging leg continued rushing upstairs. The irritating poltergeist decided to pursue her, singing his stupid rhyme over and over until Hermione hit the point of such unbearable fury she shot a Petrificus Totalus at him. She'd missed, of course, hitting the stone baluster of the stairs instead and although it stayed completely untouched, the banging sound was enough for Peeves to turn thespian and zoom off, screeching like a banshee. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the noise wouldn't alarm any of the professors that might be lingering nearby and hurried up the stairs as fast as her spinning head allowed her to. Thankfully, by the time she'd reached the seventh floor, Peeves was all gone and there was no sign of anyone approaching either.

Hermione scanned the empty corridor, her gaze pausing on the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy before landing on the bare ash-grey wall straight across from him. 'Please, don't let me down.' She staggered forward and, facing the wall, squeezed her eyes shut. Three times she walked past the place before opening them and spotted a polished ornamented door that definitely wasn't there before and through which she pushed past immediately. As it closed behind her back, she took a rough notice of the cosy room before collapsing onto the cloud-resembling four-poster bed that stretched in front of her. The feathery blankets smelling of lavender oil moved and closed around her body like soothing arms, probably trying to provide her with a bit of comfort and lull her galloping heart. Hermione let herself relax as much as she could in spite of the terrible symptoms of hypoglycemia. She knew she had to get something sweet into her system to steady her blood sugar levels and stop the shaking but she had nothing at hand. Her bag, which usually carried at least a granny smith apple for a quick snack had stayed in her dorm. She didn't need any books or writing supplies until much later today, so she thought she'd go and get them after the double block of Herbology—bugger!

Without even checking, Hermione was positive there was nothing to eat in here either—this was the Room of Requirement she'd read about in Hogwarts: A history quite a long time ago and which she'd discovered randomly in her fourth year upon leaving the North Wing, annoyed she had nowhere to study because thanks to the Triwizard Tournament there had been people everywhere. It had saved her skin plenty of times since then. The room was believed to have some level of sentience because it appeared for anyone in need, equipped with just what the individual desired at the moment. It was a brilliant—brilliant place,—which, however too, had its limitations, like creating meals. The thing was, food was the first of the five principal exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration; it could be summoned if one knew where it was kept, could be doubled in amount but could never be created out of the clear blue; therefore Hermione didn't even bother searching.

Trying to roll onto her stomach, her injured leg brushed up against the linen sheets, halting her attempt. She freed herself from the cosy blanket and pulled her right knee toward her face. Rolling down her sock to her ankle, she revealed an about two inches long horizontal cut on her shank from which blood traipsed in a thin stream. It didn't look that bad. Hermione wiped the carmine fluid off with her index finger and, closing her eyes, plopped back onto the bed, breathing hard and listening to the cracking sound of the fireplace somewhere to her left.

Perhaps she could try calling Sammy, the smiley house elf she'd remembered from her detention at the beginning of the school year. She wasn't in charge of him so it wasn't like he'd have to come plus it was strictly against her beliefs but... desperate times called for desperate measures; besides, she could still bring him a couple of galleons later today.

"Sammy," Hermione called weakly and let out a sigh of relief upon hearing a soft crack.

A surprised voice squeaked at her feet: "Miss?"

Hermione sat up with a martyred groan, her eyes landing on a tiny creature of huge grey eyes and even bigger ears. "Hello, Sammy!" She tried for a smile but the muscles in her cheeks didn't collaborate. "I hope you remember me. My name is Hermione. Hermione Granger. I helped you in the kitchen… in September with my friend, Draco..." she inhaled, deciding not to talk around. "Listen, Sammy, I don't mean to bother you in any way, I know you're super busy but please, could you get me something to eat? A fruit; a small piece, doesn't matter what kind… I'll be grateful for anything sweet actually."

"Of course, Miss! Sammy will be right back, Miss!"

"Thank—"

Crack!

"—you."

Not even three seconds later, he was back with a stuffed tray in each hand and balancing the third one on the top of his bald head. He placed the food right next to Hermione, the glistening pieces of evenly cut fruit making her already salivating mouth water even more. Her trembling hand grabbed the triangle slice of watermelon and took the first bite, its juice splashing inside and over her mouth, dripping onto her robe. Hermione didn't even care, she probably looked like she hadn't eaten in months. What mattered was that she was feeling better with each bite travelling down her throat into her growling stomach.

Hermione ate two more triangles before glancing up at Sammy and giving him a small smile as he handed a big snow-white napkin to her.

"Thank you! You saved my life!" She wiped her fingers and pulled her wand out but before she could clean up the rest, Sammy snapped his fingers and the sticky rosy pink juice disappeared from her robe, her face, and the ocean blue bedding.

"You're too kind, Sammy," Hermione said, making the little creature blush and bow his head.

"It is Miss Hermione Granger who is too kind! Could Sammy do anything else for her?" He beamed, looking as though he'd take a bullet for Hermione.

"No, you've already been of great help!" She pulled the trays toward him. "Thank you!"

Sammy's eyes filled with tears before they slid to her broken knee and his face faltered.

"It's nothing," Hermione waved her hand dismissively upon noticing his expression. "I can heal it in the blink of an eye, don't worry!"

The little house elf looked unconvinced. "Is Miss Hermione Granger sure? Sammy could help," he offered and it hit Hermione right in her freshly filled up stomach, just how big of a heart did this little guy have; much bigger than the whole Lestrange family combined for sure.

"I'm positive," Hermione nodded. "But thank you anyway!" She bit her lip before continuing. "Sammy… it would mean a lot to me if I could pay you for your services."

Sammy's eyes widened in horror. He shook his head, his ears slapping his face. "Oh no, Miss! Sammy could never accept anything from Miss Hermione Granger! Sammy was just doing his job!"

"Exactly—job! You're an employee, not a slave," Hermione proclaimed passionately, straightening her back. "You should get paid for everything you do!"

"Miss Hermione Granger must excuse Sammy; Sammy is needed in the kitchen now." The house elf looked up to his right and begun fiddling with his fingers. He wasn't telling the truth, only wanted to get himself out of the pep talk; Hermione knew that very well because conversations of such topics were always gravely uncomfortable to all the house elves she'd ever spoken to but she considered it her duty to shake some sense into at least Sammy. Taking a deep breath, she prepared for a long speech but before she could say anything, the house elf hurriedly said his goodbye and disappeared together with the silver trays and a quiet pop.

Her mouth parted, the girl let out a resentful sigh. She had yet another reason to hate on Bellatrix. It was the fault of purebloods, after all—the enslavement of house elves. Thanks to the likes of Bellatrix, those poor creatures were treated like objects incapable of any feelings when it was obviously the other way around. It was the purebloods whose hearts were made of stone. Cold, ruthless people, trying to inflict their non-existent superiority on every magical creature there was. And what for? Hermione had always thought it was just a matter of fear. It was no secret house elves were truly gifted when it came to magic. And surely, if one wanted to rule, the first thing he thought about was eliminating the potential enemies. In recent times it might sound ridiculous—the suggestion that house elves could overrule the wizardkind; however, if one thought about it, they really manipulated with the magic that wizards could only dream of; besides, who knew what they were like before the enslavement. They could be strong and courageous, full of spirit, maybe confident in themselves—as hard as it was to imagine; perhaps that's why wizards saw them as a threat—such a huge one they had to break them.

Hermione gritted her teeth. Such injustice! House elves definitely were no underlings—actually, they seemed to her more humane than most of the people she knew. She wondered how noble Madame Lestrange would react if Hermione told her she knew a house elf who was twice the human Bellatrix was. She'd probably keep slapping and cursing her until the killing point. But hey, at least Hermione would have a chance to do what she should have done a couple of minutes ago—slap her senseless.

Hermione laid back onto the sheets, reconstructing the whole scene inside her mind.

"But I must dare! Otherwise I'll end up a coward just like your husband."

Smack! Bellatrix striked her but this time instead of running away, Hermione straightened her back, lifted her chin and with a look full of resentment raised her hand and—

The real-life Hermione, lying on the comfortable bed inside the Room of Requirement, furrowed her brows. Who was she trying to fool? She could never hit Bellatrix. Hermione hated the witch for sure but not enough to be capable of treating her like garbage, even though Bellatrix probably deserved no less as such.

God, and when she imagined she had been dreaming of doing such things with her! Hermione felt sick in her stomach. And that insensitive venor floccus! He had told Bellatrix about them—not specifically but the witch wasn't as stupid as to not put one and one together. It was actually a miracle she hadn't figured it all out by now.

"She went for you straight away even after waking up."

That bloody 'even'!

How on earth could Hermione explain that to her? 'Oh, I was just caught up in the heat of the moment. It was a matter of proximity, really; had there been anyone else in your place, I would've gone for them in the same way. No, it definitely isn't like I'd find you attractive, I mean, that's absurd! I'm straight…Who was I dreaming about then? Well, Ron, of course, and when I woke up I realised too late it wasn't his wrist I was holding but yours. Total misunderstanding.'

Hermione let out a weird chuckle. She couldn't decide what could potentially infuriate Bellatrix more: confessing she, Hermione, had dreamt of a steamy moment with her or that she'd mistaken her for Ronald Weasley.

A second later she shook her head, snorting scornfully.

Whatever. Bellatrix could think whatever the hell she wanted. Besides, why should she even have to explain herself to her? Hermione didn't owe Bellatrix anything, let alone the courtesy of the truth or worse—an apology.

Alright, Hermione had probably gone a bit overboard with insulting Rodolphus Lestrange but it was still no reason for Bellatrix to go all nuts! It wasn't like she cared for him enough to defend his honour, was it?! Perhaps she took it so personally because a filthy half-blood decided to give her a taste of her own medicine—rudeness; people generally hated the very traits in others they themselves possessed.

Hermione sat up on the bed, the blue blanket curling around her waist, keeping her warm. Her eyes strayed to the burning fireplace next to the massive oriel window behind which the snowflakes as large as galleons were falling slowly.

What was she to do? Hermione pulled her knees toward her chin, her gaze jumping to the reddened cut on her skin. She was definitely set on never speaking with Bellatrix again, that was without a question. She must drop the duelling lessons, too, which were a waste of time anyway given Lockhart was a hopeless narcissist without any real talent. She must avoid the less-frequented areas of the castle and would always have to keep close to someone—at least until the lessons were over for good and Bellatrix was gone from Hogwarts.

Yeah, Hermione nodded mechanically, that should eliminate the majority of possibilities of bumping into the witch. From now on she must ignore her at all cost. She would not let herself be threatened or blackmailed. Not anymore. And she would never let herself be manipulated into astral projecting ever again. She had had enough experiences for a lifetime, thank you very much.

Incubus; that bloody Incubus! Posing first as Blair, then this wayward woman…

Hermione remembered reading about them while still in Greece. She had found a book on astral beings in the 'Αnagnosi' bookshop which was kind of peculiar, considering it was a muggle place but she didn't really look too much into it. Hermione had bought a copy, and while reading its pages in the shadow of a pomegranate tree, it seemed obvious to her that if she ever encountered one of the mentioned beings, she would have no trouble identifying them and knowing exactly how to handle them. Clearly she had overestimated herself.

An incubus was a demon, an evil entity, taking the form of an extremely attractive male—somebody his victims fancied a lot in real life. It was known he targeted women, mainly nuns or celibate Christian girls, whom he visited in their sleep in order to have sex with them. According to old Chinese scriptures, sex wasn't namely just about physical pleasure. It was more about aural energy, and it was exactly what the Incubus desired. Being intimate with someone meant an exchange of energies was happening between the pair. The more intimate they became, the more their aural energies intertwined. However, being with an incubus was a whole other story. It didn't matter if he had to steal the energy by rape or get it with consent in exchange for an otherworldly pleasure. In both cases he was just taking without giving back which left spiritual debris within the attacked women, leading into depression and anxiety. There were a couple of cases where targeted women even died of exhaustion after having been visited for a prolonged period of time by him.

Hermione was finding it hard to believe she could have been as impaired as to never even consider she was being seduced by such entity; perhaps it was the circumstances that had misled her. The incubus was believed to come in sleep, waking women to the point of sleep paralysis, wasting no time to create all the little details Hermione had experienced herself. The only explanation that came to her mind was that she must have gotten stuck somewhere between the lucid dream and the astral projection. That way she might have involuntarily led him into her own head, which meant free access to her memories, deepest dreams, and desires.

It couldn't have been hard for him then to construct any kind of scene so that he could get under her skin...

How strange though, that he had appeared to her in the form of a woman. Hermione had never heard of such case—but then, there were no references on how the Incubus approached gay people. There was actually a female equivalent of him called Succubus, who haunted dreams of men and which, Hermione thought, would fit the label of her attacker better, however she decided to go with what the venor floccus had said. Considering the man knew all about her preferences and that he had most likely seen everything that was happening inside her head or whatever that place was, Hermione didn't think she should doubt his judgement.

Standing up from the bed, Hermione walked over to the only window in the room, her steps slightly clacking against the wooden floor.

Maybe exchange of aural energy was possible only in between a female and a male, Hermione mused. But… wouldn't that suggest that being gay wasn't actually right? That the opposite was needed in real life too? Hermione wondered what happened when the energies of the same sex tried to intertwine with each other… Maybe it clashed—or perhaps, and Hermione almost chuckled at that—it made the people involved even gayer.

Jokes aside, it was a curious thing to think about.

Sitting on the window sill, Hermione let her eyes roam over the falling snow for a few moments, replaying her astral experience over and over again. There were so many questions running through her head. Like why had the Incubus changed from Blair to Bellatrix? And how exactly did Bellatrix end up in the room again when the peculiar man had ordered her to leave? Perhaps, after Hermione had drifted off, flying over time and space, he'd called her back in; and Bellatrix, seeing Hermione all sweaty and most likely (the girl felt herself blush) moaning must have come over to her to take a closer look at her and that's when Hermione had woken up.

That would be the preferable scenario.

If only Hermione could ask—no, she scolded herself subsequently—screw it! She didn't need to ask anything—because it didn't matter! Bellatrix was ancient history. Hermione had put this experience behind her back as though it had never happened. Period! No more venor floccus crap! Last night she didn't even dream; maybe it was all over. God, she hoped it was over!

Taking a deep breath, she looked away from the window, her eyes stumbling over the analogue clocks sitting on top of the vintage nightstand beside the bed. She froze. It was noon—she'd been out for almost four hours! Hermione narrowed her eyes anxiously. She'd missed History of Magic and Muggle studies, which wasn't that bad, since she'd already gone through all the recommended books and had the required essays pre-written but she'd also skipped Arithmancy, which was unacceptable since she was supposed to have had a consultation with Professor Vector precisely an hour ago. Oh no! She must go see her and apologise!

Hermione's slowly easing anger directed at Bellatrix Lestrange burst anew. This was all her fault! The humiliation she had to face, the missed lessons and skipped meals which made her feel like crap. It was her fault she'd broken her knee and it was her fault she had almost had sex with Blair who wasn't even Blair, just an imposter who had bloody stolen half of her aural energy! It—

Hermione realised how childish she sounded even in her own head.

Damn that woman! Damn her!

Hermione grabbed onto her robe, squeezing it at her stomach. Her eyes dropped, her forehead frowning. Through the fabric, she could feel a piece of paper. It must have been the letter she'd received this morning. Hermione pulled it out of her pocket. Unfolding the yellow parchment and spotting a familiar italic handwriting, she thought immediately of her mom's loving face.

My dearest 'Mione,

I haven't heard from you in a while. I hope everything's going well and that you're not buried in books all day long! Sweetie, you have to take a break from time to time!

All is relatively well over here. Dad as usual doesn't have a day off but at least they're letting him spend the Christmas holiday with us.

I went to see Blair perform in the American theatre last week. She was outstanding! I wish you could see her. I've got some big news, which I'm actually not meant to share—Blair had me swear on my life I wouldn't, I guess she wanted to tell you herself, but I don't see any harm in at least hinting, she might have found herself quite a handsome fellow. ABOUT THREE MONTHS AGO! Could you believe she hasn't said a word about him until now—not even to me? But I can't hold it against her. I don't have a heart to stay mad when she looks so happy. I haven't seen her smile like that since forever. Well you'll see for yourself because (here comes another surprise I wasn't supposed to tell, but you know how bad I'm at keeping secrets) dad and I decided to spend New Year's Eve with them! Tell me it didn't just make your entire day!

Anyway, we cannot wait to see you! Just a few more weeks and you'll be here with us! Until then, take a good care!

Love you the most, mom.

Hermione didn't know for how long had she stood there, staring at the letter loosely settled in her flaccid hands when it began: the feeling of a lump in her throat, spreading into her chest, then down to her tightening stomach, where it landed like a well-aimed punch; her teeth gritted, her tongue pressing against her palate.

'...found herself quite a handsome fellow.'

Hermione looked up from the letter. She felt as though her lungs could not draw another breath. Her feet moved on their own toward the messy bed on which she sank slowly, the sides of the parchment scrunched under the pressure of the sudden iron grip of her fingers.

Nevermind.

Sucking her cheeks in, she bit hard, nodding to herself.

Nevermind.

Blair had a boyfriend.

She had had a boyfriend for over three months now… which meant… they must have gotten together right at the end of the summer… right after Hermione had left.

Right.

Cool.

It wasn't like Blair had to stay alone just because Hermione had told her she loved her… her feelings did not bind them together in any way; Blair had been single… she was allowed…

Hermione's lower lip wobbled.

Stupid.

Blair seeing someone was hardly any crime, Hermione tried to reason, going against every feeling beating her chest sore; hardly any sin against her.

Then why did Hermione feel cheated on, a voice inside her head pointed, why did she feel as though Blair had betrayed her?

Hermione's back hit the sheets, her eyes filling with the tears she refused to shed.

Maybe it was because she had still hoped. A part of her must have still hoped Blair might love her too. But she didn't. She had feelings for someone else.

An image of a tall dark stranger with his arms around Blair entered her mind; looking at her, kissing her temple, her forehead, her smile…

Hermione didn't even know the bastard's name but she already knew she hated him with all her heart.

Why did it have to be some man and not her who got to love Blair? Why?! What did he have she didn't?

A penis, an intrusive voice inside Hermione's head noted casually, making her face scrunch which pushed the first drops of tears out of her eyes.

Beside being handsome, as her mom had described him, who was this man? How strongly did he feel about Blair, really? Did he, too, see her as this enamoring being, graceful and intelligent or just a hot woman to have fun with until he got bored.

Could he care about her more than Hermione did? Would he notice all those weird, all those cute little things there were about her? Would he find it amusing she peeled the little juice bubbles on oranges and ate them one by one which took her forever but did it anyway? Would he care that she found the word 'flibbertigibbet' funny? Would he love her staccato laugh which made her twist and lean back? Would he adore her crazy dancing, the extremely sensitive palms and ellipsed-shaped scar on her left arm? Would he take the time to count all the freckles on her body and love each and every one of them?

Of course he would; he had been doing it for months now; knew Blair better than Hermione ever would.

They might marry at some point, Hermione continued torturing herself; maybe have kids. Blair was still young enough to have them. Would she want that? Would she actually love him that much to give him something as extraordinary as a child?

Hermione couldn't bear the thought of this little baby growing inside Blair. What if they were together right now; being together like that.

God, did it hurt.

If only Hermione didn't dream about her—if only the stupid astral projection wouldn't have showed her what it was like to hold her so close. Hermione half-sobbed, half-snorted. What was she on about? She'd never held her. It wasn't her mouth she'd kissed, her skin she'd touched…

Hermione would never know the feeling. He would. He did.

The sharp pain in her throat intensified until insufferable and she let it all out. She cried and cried, thinking the tears would never stop but then, weary and defeated, she descended into a dreamless sleep, losing herself to painless indifference.

The lightly gray sky outside the window seemed to have not changed one shade darker when Hermione woke up curled in those warm, soft blankets, her nose stuffy, the bushy strands of her hair stuck in tendrils to her forehead. She felt strangely mellow as she was still yet to shed the sleep off her mind but it took her just a single glance to her left for her stomach to twist under the weight of the recollection.

Hermione let her eyes linger over the letter covered in blotchy ink infused with her tears before averting them to the soothing fireplace opposite her and observing the tiny bluish flames with a not-really-there gaze. Thought after thought started popping inside her head as though during her sleep a lot had been sorting out within her.

Hermione was absolutely certain she could not go on like this anymore.

She must try more than her hardest to forget about Blair.

Once and for all.

She'd better thought of a good plan as to how to avoid going to America for New Year then. It would hurt more than anything seeing that stranger man kiss Blair at midnight absolutely sure of himself, without any fear of rejection but surely feeling not even half of the emotions Hermione would have if she had that privilege. He would most likely forget about that one kiss mere seconds after, too, because for him, there were plenty of those before and plenty more to come... Hermione didn't want to be forced to sit there with them, smiling at both, Blair and that lad as though she was happy for them. She wasn't that good of an actress—or masochist for that matter.

Sighing, Hermione rolled onto her back, lifting her gaze from the dying fire to the moorish-styled ceiling above her head.

Why did she have to fall for a straight woman? Would this unrequited love always hurt so much—would it always stay rooted within her or would Hermione actually forget about Blair someday? And if she, by any means, would, what were the odds she'd actually meet somebody who would want her back?

What did she have to offer?

Not much, really. She was just a kid, after all; an insufferable know-it-all as Professor Snape liked to call her, average-looking as the girls liked to whisper since the Yule Ball in fourth grade, too pathetic as Bellatrix just loved to point out whenever she had a chance.

Wait…

Hermione pushed her back off the mattress, sitting down. Why was she entertaining these self-pitying thoughts like a complete idiot? She wasn't that bad; she was smart and friendly—sometimes even funny. Perhaps she was a bit more sensitive than other people but since when was that a crime?! The only one who bashed her for it was Bellatrix Lestrange who didn't even know what the word sensitive meant so…

Hermione reached out for the tissue sticking out from the carved box set beside the bed on the wooden nightstand and blew her nose.

She shouldn't have put herself down. Nobody's perfect. Besides, she had managed just fine all by herself until now and she could surely do it for a little longer! Maybe, when she's older… maybe then Blair would…

No, enough of Blair!

Hermione put the blankets aside and stood up.

Screw it! Screw them—all the intelligent, charming, straight, middle-aged women, bound to suck the love out of gay girls with a single look only to leave them yearning for something they could never ever get.

Taking the letter from the sheets, Hermione walked over to the fireplace and placed it onto the glowing embers, watching it burn, feeling the warmth of the freshly burst flames on her skin. When the last bits of the ink disappeared in ash, Hermione cast around, reasoning it was probably time to pull herself together and go.

She couldn't stay hiding here and shying away from her responsibilities forever.

Hermione cleaned herself up, rubbing her eyes and the cut on her knee with a murtlap's essence that she'd found in a spruce-coloured bowl right next to the bed and that surely must have gotten there throught Sammy's endeavor. He must have come back to check on her while she was still asleep, Hermione thought. She must go see him later today to bring him the money he deserved or at least thank him if he refused to take them.

When Hermione concluded she looked relatively normal, robe clean, eyes no longer red, hair still bushy, she gave herself one last look in the ornate mirror hanging over the fireplace and walked out of the room into the still empty corridor. She wondered where to direct her steps first. Whether to go visit all the professors whose lessons she'd skipped or—

"Granger!"

Startled, Hermione turned around seeing Draco striding toward her from the North Wing, the study room he'd never gone alone to, except for with Hermione.

"Where have you been all day," he half-groaned as he came close enough for her to hear without him shouting. "I was looking for you everywhere and then out of nowhere there comes Loony Lovegood and tells me you left in..." he paused, scrutinising her face. "What happened? Why do you look as though someone has just died?"

"Because they did."

Draco's frowning face smoothed out, his lips parting. "What? What are you talking about? Who died?"

"My hopes."

They looked silently at each other for a couple of seconds before Draco's eyebrows lifted. "Could you be any more tragic?" He smirked. "Come on, you'll tell me all about it over lunch."

"Not hungry."

"Then let's go outside."

"Okay."

—

"Oh well, that sucks," said Draco as Hermione had finished telling him all about the letter. They were wading through the mud beside the Great lake, keeping their shawls close to their necks as the wind whipped at their exposed faces. "Though you can't say you had not expected it to happen at some point, right?" Shrugging, he looked at her briefly.

"Actually… I had not," Hermione confessed, surprised at how true that statement was. She had been afraid, it might happen, yes, but hadn't really thought it would; Blair had been too preoccupied with Bill at the time so it had seemed unlikely to Hermione she'd forget about him in a matter of a few months.

Draco let out a surprised chuckle. "What, you thought she wouldn't get into a relationship because of you? Wow… if that doesn't scream narcissist, I don't know what else does."

"That was so uncalled for, Draco," Hermione frowned. "I feel bad enough even without your taunting."

"Well, I hope you do. And I certainly hope it's not that much because of the letter but because of how, forgive me, stupid you've been acting since that trip to Greece."

Hermione stopped walking.

"Excuse me?"

Draco paused too and, turning to her, shook his head. "I mean… you seem like a completely different person. You hardly smile or joke anymore—even your interest in bloody books had somehow gone out of the window. And I don't know what you're trying to achieve by eating hardly anything but if—"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione interrupted him, staggered.

"That Blair woman, what else?" he said. "You're losing yourself over her!"

"Don't be ridiculous! Loving someone doesn't—" Hermione objected but this time it was Draco who cut off her.

"I am being ridiculous? What about you then, walking around with this look of despair as though you've never known happiness? Do you have any idea how many times I've caught you all spaced out? You probably think about her day and night. Granger, that's not okay, you have to let it go and move on! I get that it's not easy to picture her with someone else but come on, you have never even been together! And it's not like you've broken up either. You cannot be that upset!" Draco paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "You're talking here about love but tell me, have you and Blair ever even rowed; has she managed to infuriate you so much you wanted to kill her? Or have you ever, I don't know...just.. felt a need to share things with her? To tell her about your passions and dreams? I highly doubt that you thought about yourself just for a second when with her. You've put her on this pedestal as though she was some glorious angel… Trust me on this, you'd tear yourself to bits for her had she said yes to that ridiculous idea of getting together with you! You'd lose your identity, putting her before everything and everyone else! She'd become the only reason you'd want to wake up in the morning... I hate to break it to you but that's no love—that's obsession." Draco finished breathless, glaring at the astounded Hermione who had to take a moment before replying.

"I'm not obsessed with her," she stated quietly, trying to react without getting all defensive and mean, even though she felt like screaming.

"Oh yeah? So you think you're in love? Then how come you got upset over her being happy?" Draco asked, rising his eyebrows.

"I'm not upset over her being happy!" Hermione's voice arose slightly. "You talk about my feelings as though you've experienced them through yourself but you didn't, Draco; you don't know what it's like for me, so please, drop it."

She could not get mad. She could not get mad!

"Oh come on, don't give me this nonsense! You're not the first nor the last person to have their heart broken! Get over your ego and look at things as they really are," Draco went on mercilessly.

"How dare you—!"

"You're starting to sound like my aunt, Granger. Get over your damned ego I say, and tell me I'm wrong!"

"Yeah, you are!" said Hermione childishly, tearing her gaze from his face and letting it roam over the heaving trees in the distance before returning her attention back to him. Draco's words were hurtful but what was worse was that they were also true. "Listen, I know I have to forget about her okay? I know! But it's just not that easy… I feel like she…" Hermione paused, not even knowing how to explain herself. "Nevermind. I just… it feels bloody impossible, you know?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," said Draco, making Hermione bow her head. "But you've got the perfect conditions," he went on. "You're in no contact with her, right?"

No, she was not, except for the hot dreams… but Draco didn't need to know that.

Hermione nodded awkwardly.

"It would be for the best if it stayed that way until you're over her completely. I don't think that going to America would do you any good at this point."

Shrugging, Hermione turned to the icy surface of the Great lake."I know, but what will I say to my parents?

"What about the truth?"

"You're kidding!" Hermione turned to him in disbelief. "You think it's a good idea to go to my parents and say: Hey, I cannot go to America with you because I'm obsessed with your best friend who, don't worry mom, doesn't want me back so I'm trying to forget about her. It would slow down the process so please, respect that. But anyway, say hi for me."

Draco smirked. "In a nutshell."

"Yeah, right…"

"Well, then don't go home at all," he suggested slowly but Hermione shook her head.

"No, I've spent hardly any time with my dad during the summer; you know he's always working. This is the first time in years he got a couple days off."

"Okay, then go but come back right after the Christmas," said Draco, watching Hermione tug her flying curls behind her ears. "Here's an idea: tell them you and I have made plans to spend the New Year together. Tell them I'd be really upset if you cancelled on me cause I'm going through a horrible heartbreak."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat up. "Stop it, Draco!"

"What—it's true."

Shaking her head, Hermione pulled her coat tighter to herself. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go on."

"Have you been reading those self-help magazines from the library basket by the shelf with Russian literature? Because all of a sudden you seem more knowledgeable about relationships than the Patil-Brown gang."

"Shut up, Granger."

—

Draco agreed to accompany Hermione back to the castle to see professor Vector so that she could apologise and reschedule her missed consultation. The talk went relatively well even though the professor wasn't particularly thrilled about 'having wasted a full hour waiting for the student who did not bother showing up until late afternoon'. However, given Hermione was her favourite student, she closed her eye to the first and, as Hermione promised, the last trespass she had made on her lesson.

"Unbelievable! If I said I was feeling queer, I'd lose fifty points and get a telling-off for not going to Madame Pomfrey," Draco grumbled as they headed down to the Great Hall in the hope there was still some food left from the lunch.

"That's because you're untrustworthy," nagged Hermione, casting around.

"That's rich, coming from a liar."

She turned to Draco with a scowl but didn't say anything; he got a fair point after all.

"No, but seriously, Granger, why'd you miss your classes? You promised to tell me later!" Draco demanded but Hermione looked away, pretending to be interested in the way her shoes moved in and out of her sight as they scurried down the stairs. Draco kept pestering her about whether it had anything to do with Bellatrix and the venor floccus business until Hermione confirmed it had but apart from that refused to tell him any more. She needed the time to assess how much she could afford to reveal so that she wouldn't get caught up in more lies and then admit to something she'd rather keep to herself—like dreaming inappropriate dreams about his aunt. So instead, she shifted the topic to his parents and Draco filled her in on how they were finally on speaking terms; though only because they heard from Nott's parents he and Hermione were no longer talking.

"...so then my mother sends me a letter, urging me to invite Astoria for a cup of tea during the Christmas break. I think she's deadly serious about—Granger?" Draco paused, nudging Hermione with his elbow.

"What?" She turned to him. "I'm listening. Your mom wanted you to invite Astoria for a cup of tea and?"

Draco shook his head, his eyes pointing somewhere in front of them. "There's some weird man over there who's been staring at us for quite a while now."

Hermione followed Draco's gaze. Just a couple steps ahead of them, right at the end of the stairs stood the silver-haired man dressed in a long dark robe, the venor floccus Hermione'd had a privilege to meet this morning. She quickly cast about, trying to spot a mane of jet black curls, but Bellatrix was nowhere in sight.

"I've never seen him in Hogwarts before," whispered Draco. "I wonder who that might—"

"Doesn't matter," said Hermione, trying her best to ignore the man's presence as she hopped the last few steps down, passing him by. "Would you come with me to see Sammy?"

"Sammy? Who's Sammy?"

"Hermione Granger!" The tranquil voice behind her back made her pause, her eyes closing momentarily. "Can we talk?"

Hermione glanced at the man who came standing in front of her, her gaze darting to Draco next second. Had the situation been less serious, she would have laughed at his weirded out expression, probably caused by the man's empty eyes.

"I'm afraid we can't," replied Hermione, already skirting around him.

"I'm here of my own will," he called after her, attracting the attention of a bunch of Hufflepuffs leaving the Great Hall and forcing Hermione to come back to him. "This doesn't have to do anything with Madame Lestrange," he added.

"Excuse me but who are you?" Draco asked inquisitively but the man ignored him, having his attention solely on Hermione.

"I have nothing to gain from lying," he replied to the question she was just about to ask.

Hermione took a step closer. "What do you want from me?"

"I'd like to explain what really happened with the—" he started but then Hermione remembered the man had no problem saying the most intimate details of her mind out loud.

"All right, I think we should talk privately, I'm sorry Draco, we'll see each other later," she blurted quickly.

"What…?!"

"See you," she repeated, leaving the scowling Draco behind her as she hurried away, boldly pulling the venor floccus with her by his forearm. She knew she was screwed; next time they saw each other, Draco would surely demand an explanation.

"He'll understand," said the man and Hermione had a lot to do not to flip out on him for reading her bloody mind—but then, he probably heard that anyway.

Hermione ushered them into the first empty classroom she could find, locking the door behind them. She turned to the man with an expectant look, his face, just like before, showing no emotion.

"First, I'd like to say I'm sorry," he started calmly. "I shouldn't have made you hop on an astral plane when I knew you weren't ready; and secondly, I shouldn't have let Madame Lestrange get violent. My apologies."

Hermione took a moment before curling her lips down. "So you're here to balance your karma?" she joked.

"Exactly."

Oh, okay, he really was.

"I suppose you're familiar with Saint Germain and the violet flame, the seventh rate of Holy Spirit," he said.

"You already know I am."

"No, I don't, you wished I'd stop reading your mind."

Hermione's cheeks heated up. "The violent flame changes negative energy into positive energy," she said, ignoring his comment. "The key is forgiving the ones who did you wrong but also yourself for being angry with them; feeling sorry for the mistakes you have done and being of help to someone without expecting anything in return—that one actually increases the vibration of the positive energy."

"Correct."

"All right, I forgive you," Hermione said a bit too sardonically. "Is there anything else I could do to even out your karma?"

Hermione felt she should be more polite, however she was still mad about the slap.

"You could allow me to take you back into your past," he suggested. "You've said you'd like to know why you have this gift," he added. "The answers are up here, all you have to do is unlock them." He touched his temple with his index finger. "I can help you with that."

Hermione's stomach turned around."How?"

"Astral projecting."

"Absolutely not!" She shook her head. "There is no way I'm doing that ever again. Besides, not to be mean or anything, but you must know this method isn't accurate. It's labeled as traveling through the different timelines but everyone knows it's just your mind constructing the scenes however it pleases. I wouldn't see the truth, just some modified version of it—something similar to a dream."

"Ordinary people would see, as you say, only a modified version, but your brain works differently; that sixth area you got up there is extremely powerful; it allows you to see the real happenings you could never recall in a conscious state—everything from the past lives to growing inside your mother's womb," he explained.

"Don't be afraid of doing things twice," he added when he noticed Hermione's eyebrows remained knitted together. "Just because it didn't work on your first try, doesn't mean it can't on your second. You know better now."

Biting her lip, Hermione folded her arms, still unconvinced. "How can I be sure Madame Lestrange isn't involved? How can I be sure she won't barge in on me just so she could slap my other cheek for no apparent reason?"

"Would you like to read my mind so you'd know I'm here for a good cause and not because she made me do it?" the venor floccus asked, the offer making Hermione's spine break out in goosebumps—the things she could see; it was no secret she was practically obsessed with learning everything she could, however this man in front of her was someone who possessed the knowledge of the degree just a tiny piece of which could make an average man go insane.

"Besides, I only called her in because it was impossible to wake you up," he said. "I presumed the voice of someone familiar, someone who made you so nervous, could penetrate into your unconsciousness; stir something in you and bring you back but all it has done was help the Incubus; I should have known it was a bad idea, especially because he sensed she was someone you fancy."

"I don't fancy Bellatrix Lestrange!" Hermione gritted resentfully, folding her arms. "I would never! She's the most vicious human I've ever met!"

The venor floccus took his time before saying: "Have you ever thought there might be a good reason behind her being 'so vicious'?"

"Yeah—she enjoys it!" Hermione blurted hotly.

"Or maybe it's something else," he suggested, making the young witch frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, only that even the whitest marble blackens at twilight," he said. "You shouldn't hold so much anger toward her. She's got already enough of it for herself."

Hermione stared at him wide-eyed. Bellatrix being angry with herself?! What for?

"Now," the man raised his voice slightly. "Do you want your answers?"

Hermione licked her lips, pushing Bellatrix's anger issues out of her mind. Just a couple of months ago, she'd do anything to know all about her dreams but now it all seemed too scary to her. Did she truly want to find out? Did she have what it took to bear the truth? And last night, there had been no dream, anyway—however, to miss such an opportunity would be unbelievably stupid...

"Yes," she let out finally. "Yes, I do."

Nodding, the man neared in. "Alright, but be prepared. You may gain more than just the knowledge of your venor floccus abilities."

Hermione parted her lips, her whole body tingling with expectation but she didn't say a word.

"If you're really sure then let's not waste any more time."

The process went similarly to the first astral trip: Hermione lay down onto the familiar wood, her breath sucked out of her lungs just as abruptly as before—only this time she did not slip away so easily. She remained half-conscious with the venor floccus' voice inside her head, calm and clear, guiding her through the light tunnels and sealed doors of the thick mist. She'd swear she could hear them whisper—hear them cry and laugh in thousands of tones and colours, so familiar and close as though they were a part of her. Hermione wished to enter at least a few but knew she had to keep on walking. And as she did, the voice inside her head began to fade and the lights started shining brighter and brighter until they became blinding and she could not see any longer. Hermione advanced up front with her hands outstretched, until they brushed against a solid surface and she pushed at it.

Then her eyes opened.

Nonplussed, Hermione found herself standing in the middle of Hagrid's pumpkin patch, his giant gray hippogriff Buckbeak tied with a thick chain to the wooden pillar right next to her. She began backing away immediately, her legs gliding through the colossal pumpkins without the slightest touch. It scared her just for a split second before she remembered her body wasn't solid and that Buckbeak couldn't get mad at her for approaching him without bowing first because he could not see her.

She took a hesitant step forward, observing him lying among the colourful squash, unable to recall any memory that would connect her to Buckbeak other than seeing him once in her third year in one of Hagrid's lessons. What on Earth did he have to do with her venor floccus abilities?

Hermione sensed a movement behind her back but before she could even turn around, someone—a girl—ran through her body and rushed away, jumping behind one of the orange pumpkins in front of her. Trying to see who it was, Hermione strode after the figure when the same thing happened again. She watched the back of a black-haired boy sprint after the girl and disappear on the same spot. Hermione crept after them, reeling as her eyes fell over their features—it was unmistakably Harry Potter and… her; it was her a couple of years younger self, dressed in a dirty pink jumper and denims, her hair bushier than usual. She and Harry were gazing at Hagrid's hut from which, through the opened window, his hoarse voice was proclaiming: "Great man, Dumbledore, great man!"

Wait… was this…?!

"Here they come," said Harry to the crouching Hermione, his eyes darting toward the stone path leading from the Hogwarts castle to Hagrid's hut where a trio of people was approaching. "I'd better hurry."

As he was trying to stand up, the other Hermione's hand closed over his upper arm, pulling him back. "Fudge has to see Buckbeak before we steal him," she said urgently. "Otherwise, he'll think Hagrid set him free!"

They both turned back towards the window, hearing Ronald Weasley's relieved voice: "Scabbers, you're alive!"

"That's Pettigrew!" whispered Harry, his voice seeping with anger.

"Harry, you can't!"

"He betrayed my parents," he tried to stand up again but Hermione wouldn't let him. "You don't expect me to sit here."

"Yes and you must!" she emphasised, pulling him behind another enormous pumpkin. She turned to him and, taking a deep breath, got to explaining: "Harry, you're in Hagrid's hut now. If you go bursting in, you'll think you've gone mad. Awful things happen to the wizards that meddle with time. We can't be seen!"

The astral Hermione could not believe her senses. She was witnessing one of her venor floccus dreams from years ago! Could something have happened at this very moment? Something that had triggered the dreams in her?

She watched the other Hermione throw a tiny stone straight through the open window, which, judging by a sudden hiss, clearly hit someone.

"We're coming out of the back door," she whispered hurriedly. "Go!" The young witch leaped from their hiding spot and ran into the forest, which was just a couple steps away from the patch, Harry and the astral Hermione following.

They managed to jump behind the thick trunks of spruces just in time when the backs of Ronald, another Harry, and the third Hermione appeared bending behind the pumpkins. They were clearly surveilling the incomers who, as Hermione remembered from the dream was Dumbledore, Fudge and the executioner, Macnair.

"Is this really what my hair looks like from the back?" The astral Hermione heard behind her.

She turned but then quite an extraordinary thing happened. For a short span, she could see herself through all the three Hermiones. She saw her own face quickly disappear behind a tree in the forest through the eyes of the Hermione hiding behind the pumpkins; she saw herself crouching behind the pumpkins through the eyes of the Hermione in the forest. But she also saw her true self, in her own timeline, hurrying to the DADA lesson in her Third Year, which she would've missed completely had it not been for a bit of magic in the form of a time turner…

She saw herself turning the tiny hourglass necklace at the exact same time the two Hermiones spotted each other.

She had no time to process anything before the scenery darkened and altered completely.

Now, Hermione appeared in the living room of her parents' house from, she dared to guess, at least seven years ago. The threadbare couch on her left was the same as the one in her baby photographs and was yet to be replaced by their beige chesterfield sofa; the dining table seemed much smaller than the one they used now and the viennese piano she loved to play from time to time was missing too.

Hermione looked around, curious like Alice Kingsleigh and twice as confused. What was this about? What so impactful could have happened in her childhood that she was reliving this memory now? How exactly was it connected to her dreams? Had someone tried to kill her just like Lord Voldemort had little Harry Potter? And had she too survived but instead of a scar got away with the dreams?

No, that didn't make any sense.

"You may gain more than just the knowledge of your venor floccus abilities."

With an uneasy feeling, Hermione strode out of the living room and, crossing the spacious foyer, entered the kitchen but didn't find anything unusual, save for the unwashed dishes. She backed away and checked the entire floor before climbing the stairs. The first door was the one leading into her parents' room. Hermione walked right through it and froze.

On the hickory flooring beside the painted crib in the corner of the poorly furnished bedroom was sitting a much younger version of Jean Granger. She was gazing unseeingly in front of her, her eyes absent and unblinking. She was dressed in a simple white chemise, even though it seemed to be a perfectly bright afternoon outside. There was an odd energy encompassing the entire room and Hermione could sense something wicked was due to happen. She willed herself to come forward and leaning over her mother peered into the crib. On the snowy sheets, a toddler Hermione was sleeping peacefully.

For a moment, her mind had wandered off because what a curious thing it was to be looking at this little girl of tiny hands, curly hair, and rosy cheeks that would grow into the sixteen-year-old Hermione one day. Gosh, if only this small human could comprehend that she would become a woman. That she would do things, feel—

Hermione heard a pained intake of breath and rounded back to her mom. She took a closer look at her young features, which suddenly seemed so broken Hermione felt the heart in her own chest somewhere out there clench.

Bending down to her, she whispered: "Mom," but Jean could not hear her and kept sitting, legs outstretched without a single shift. It was the shadows on the walls and her face that began to move though—as rapidly as if someone was urging the sun to fast forward and set right now because Hermione had already seen enough of this particular moment and needed to move on to the very core of the memory.

The room turned dark in a matter of seconds and only when the sky behind the windows settled with ink-black did Jean move. Hermione watched her stand up and, turning the lights on, scuff towards the small wardrobe beside the door where she changed into a pair of jeans and a chunky sweater. She seemed to have forgotten all about her daughter for she didn't look at her once as she left the bedroom. Worried, Hermione followed her out and into the foyer, watching her put on her black oxfords, curious to see what was going to happen next, but Jean only grabbed her purse and stepped into the night, shutting the door behind her and looking as though she was never coming back. Hermione thought of going after her, but something was telling her she needed to stay in the house, for what was important to the memory would be happening right here.

She went back upstairs, beating her brains out with the possible reasons for her mother's bizarre departure. Why had she left Hermione all alone? Had she and dad been arguing? She had looked upset, after all; but then, if they had rowed, she wouldn't have just left without her (possibly) two-year-old child, Hermione tried to reason; and she surely wouldn't have sat like a statue for half a day.

Something wasn't right.

A soft exhale escaped the lips of the little girl as she began to shift inside the crib. Hermione leaned over her, seeing her huge cinnamon eyes blink rapidly a couple of times before they closed and opened again, and continued doing so until fully awake.

"Mommy?" called out her sleepy voice.

Hermione anxiously looked around. Her baby self was up and her mom was only God knew where and it seemed unlikely she'd get back anytime soon even if she just quickly stepped out to buy something—which surely wasn't the case anyway.

"Mommy?"

Hermione strode to the window. Where was her dad? Working probably. But why did her mom—

"Mommy!" The girl cried out more earnestly. Hermione watched her toddler self sit up, her chin wavering. She kept calling her mom again and again but every time got the same eerie silence as a response. Getting to her tiny feet, she tried peering over the rail that went barely to her belly and clumsily started climbing out. Hermione jumped to her, anticipating the nasty fall and really, the little girl fell over almost immediately straight through Hermione's outstretched arms onto the hard floor.

She began crying grievously but there was no one to hear her. Hermione kneeled beside her, observing her own scrunched face damp with the waterfall of tears.

When was anyone coming home?!

After a moment or two, the still weeping girl commenced staggering towards the door and calling her mother again, left to check all the other rooms upstairs only to find them dark and empty. The small Hermione wept harder. She advanced towards the staircase and scuffed down them in a way that suggested a very high risk of breaking her neck but Hermione couldn't do anything to help her.

She watched her miniature self totter through the bottom part of the house, knocking with her tiny fists on the doors, which were locked, and crying harder and harder as she continued to meet nothing but silence.
Straying to the living room, the only place that was left to check, Hermione was a bit surprised the little girl wasn't afraid to step into the unlit room. Quite the opposite, she saw her, shoulders heaving with crying and groping around, head for the half-opened French doors.

"No no no, where are you going!" said Hermione out loud. The toddler Hermione was suddenly out in their garden illuminated by nothing but street lamps, sobbing and calling for her mother over and over again.

Hermione ran after her into the soft rain that was just beginning to fall, seeing the little figure stagger barefoot through the darkness and freshly wet grass, stuttering. "Mo-mo-mmy!" She watched her fall to her knees and continue climbing and trying to get through the thick leylandii hedge that surrounded the entire garden but without any success. The crying turned into squealing as the neighbours' cat ran across the lawn, scaring her. Trembling and sobbing, the girl ran back towards the house but the wind shut the doors right in front of her nose. She was trying to open them, breathing and crying so hard Hermione thought she was choking.

After a couple of failed attempts, defeat settled onto the infant's face. She regarded the house with one last longing look before stumbling toward the wooden den that her grandpa had built for her as a birthday present when she turned one. She climbed inside, from where Hermione could hear her bawl her eyes out.

Why didn't she use magic to get back into the house, she wondered. It was natural for magical children to use it unconsciously when scared or angry as a form of self-defence… Could it be her shock was too overpowering?

Hermione gazed at the den, the sound of sobbing so morose and broken she could not help feeling the same, however bizarre that might be. Her little self must have been so scared and cold; it would be no surprise if she caught pneumonia in such weather.

When the hell was anyone coming home?

It seemed like an eternity had elapsed when the crying sounds faded into the now heavy rain and the lights in the house gradually lit up, followed by the sound of a doorbell ringing.

The little Hermione peeked out of the soaked den, supporting herself on her trembling arms, her damp hair sticking to her reddened cheeks and forehead.

About the bloody time, Hermione thought bitterly. She watched the other Hermione hesitate before slowly clambering out of the den, pausing in the middle of the lawn, getting even wetter, eyes swollen from crying.

Eventually, the living room behind the marigold curtains sparked to life, too, and within seconds someone pushed the French doors open and, stepping onto the brick patio, froze.

Hermione surmised that the tall, slim frame that appeared in front of them must belong to a woman but due to the late hour could not make anything out of her face—still though, she could say with certainty it could be anyone but her own mother.

"Oh my God!"

Her eyes followed the figure as she hastened through the outpouring of rain to the broken child. A sudden thought sprung inside her head. Could it be…?

"Love!" She heard the woman say before she bent down and scooped the little Hermione up into her arms. The girl began sobbing anew, her arms wrapping tightly over her rescuer's neck as she let herself be carried inside.

"I found her, John! I've got her!"

Hermione followed them in, her inkling turning out true as soon as the light from the scavo glass chandelier hit the woman's face; it was Blair—no more than five years older than Hermione and with golden chestnut hair and no bangs at the time. Had Hermione's astral body been solid, her stomach would have definitely turned upside down and filled with mad butterflies flying through her like a hurricane. Goodness, how lovely Blair looked even windswept and with her hair damp and her black mascara smeared underneath her widened eyes—and it was she who had saved her!

Hermione had no more time to enjoy looking at her, though. There, into the room burst her dad, panic written all over his face, adding him the extra couple of years he surely did not have.

"Hermione!" He reached his arms and, touching Hermione's shaking back, tried to take her from Blair but the girl began sobbing harder, tightening her grip around Blair's neck, a couple of raindrops falling from her eyelashes.

"I'll take care of her," said Blair in a sweet voice that was still yet to deepen.

John's eyes glistened with tears, his outstretched arms falling to his body. "I…"

"It's all right!"

"Thank you," he whispered, looking completely lost. "I…"

"Look," said Blair firmly, adjusting the girl in her arms. "Make yourself a cup of strong tea and try to calm down. Jean will eventually come to her senses."

"Right… sure… I'll do just that." He formed a small smile but as soon as Blair left the room with the crying girl attached to her like a hot melt, he sagged onto the carpet, hiding his face in his palms.

Hermione was in a complete shock. She had never seen her dad cry. What was going on? Had her mother left them? Why would she do that? And how come Blair was in London at the exact same time such a thing happened?

A part of her wanted to stay with her dad to console him but her palm went straight through his shoulder as she tried doing so. Hermione remained looking at him for a while, feeling so unbelievably upset but she knew there was nothing she could do for him. Backing away, she went after Blair, finding her in her parent's bedroom. She was standing in front of the opened drawer with the colourful clothes folded neatly inside it. The Hermione in Blair's arms had her head snuggled in the crook of her neck and was playing with the golden tips of her hair, twirling them around her tiny fingers as her sobbing slowly faltered.

Blair pulled out a pair of tiny pyjamas from the first drawer box and a sage-green towel from the third. The ease with which she found the items suggested this wasn't her first time doing so. Hermione only hoped it was because she'd been coming over often 'cause she loved spending time with Hermione and her family and not because her mother used to run away from home from time to time and it was on Blair to take care of Hermione.

That would be just unimaginable. She had always considered her mother the prototype of reliability and Blair… well, Blair had always been this carefree spirit who, even though loved children, wouldn't really know what to do with them. At least that's how Hermione perceived her—Blair herself kept saying she wasn't responsible enough to become a mother. Hermione had heard her state once that she'd be that kind of parent who would give her children the drug and sex talk on the note of—"Hey kids, here's some drugs, don't do sex."

Hermione was looking at that young woman with the toddler-herself huddled to her, feeling an unbelievable rush of warmth buzz through her.

"Alright, sprinkle," said Blair lovingly, closing the drawer with her right hip since the other was occupied by the little Hermione. "What would you say if we run a hot bath and—" she started but Hermione shook her head vigorously, panic hitting her anew.

Blair put the arm in which she held the towel and the soft pink pyjamas over Hermione, pressing her tighter to herself: "Alright, alright, shhhh! We won't, okay? But we need to get these clothes off of you." She pulled away, pretending to be very serious as she tugged onto Hermione's bodysuit with her fingers. "I don't want you getting ill! Who would I play with if you—my bestest friend in the world—ended up lying in bed with a terrible fever, hm?" Blair was looking at the little girl with a raised eyebrow and such a sweet innocent expression that Hermione wasn't surprised in the least that her smaller version surrendered—she would have, too.

"O-okay."

"Okay? 'Kay!" Blair smiled at her before getting them past the hinged bathroom door right next to the unmade bed. She turned the lights on, exposing the bathroom of the still navy blue which would become entirely white in a couple of years. She knelt down onto the small bath mat in front of the acrylic tub and Hermione unhooked her legs from her waist. Her dirty bare feetsies thudded against the floor but she still let her hands rest on Blair's blouse which was now, thanks to the rain and Hermione's own wet self, dark instead of light green.

Casting a scrutinising look over the tub, Blair narrowed her eyes. "Are you really really sure you don't want to have a bath? Because I'd let you put in as much foam as you'd like! We could even have a bubble fight!"

The warm sensation inside Hermione intensified.

"A bubble—bubble fight?" Her younger self repeated, her eyes suddenly brighter.

"Sure! Don't tell me you've never had one!" Blair parted her lips, pretending to be shocked. The little Hermione shook her head.

"Well then, we must certainly fix that!" said Blair and, leaning over the tub, let the water run, occasionally checking its temperature.

Despite having no tear ducts, Hermione felt like crying. She had never met a manipulator kinder and sweeter than Blair Alderidge.

She watched her take the wet clothes off of the little Hermione and laugh as they got stuck and couldn't get over her head. It managed to make the girl chuckle a bit, too. Eventually, the white bodysuit slackened and Blair could finally take it off and put aside; then she gently picked Hermione up and put her into the steamy bath. Soon a third of the tub was filled with warm water and another third with thick foam that went all the way up to Hermione's shoulders.

Blair seemed to be doing everything she could to erase the sadness from Hermione's eyes and it was working miraculously. She was blowing the foam into Hermione's face and tried to look super indignant as Hermione did the same, which made the little girl giggle. She made spiky hairstyles out of Hermione's curls and told her she should do her hair like that every day.

"Nooo!" laughed Hermione, destroying Blair's masterpiece. Then she looked at her with sparkling eyes, saying: "Come on in, too!"

Smooth little doodle! Despite the innocent nature of the statement, the teen Hermione couldn't help the burning rush of heat spilling over her like fire.

Was this happening?

"Maybe another time," Blair smiled at her, trying to wipe the foam off of her now even wetter hair. "It's time to go out now."

Oh… right. Was there another time?

Nevermind!

Little Hermione tried protesting, but Blair seemed to have a knack for making her do exactly as she wanted.

She wrapped the girl into a thick towel and hoisted her over her shoulder, head hanging down, making Hermione squeal as she spun around. Chuckling, Blair put her back onto the floor. She lay the towel aside and gently rubbed the baby skin with lavender oil before dressing Hermione in her fluffy pyjamas. Then she took her into her arms again and went back to the bedroom.

Hermione's dad was just coming in with a baby bottle full of warm milk in his hand. He didn't look any better but as soon as he spotted Hermione all calm and clean, he put on a small smile.

"Hey, captain," he spoke softly as he came to them, his eyes red. "Are you all right?"

Hermione almost forgot he used to call her that!

The little girl in Blair's arms nodded, pressing her right cheek against Blair's left while playing with the collar of her chiffon blouse.

"I… I thought you might be hungry." He held out the bottle and Hermione took it from him without a word, drinking its content immediately. She must have been famished.

Blair seated her onto the bed, looking as though she wanted to take John aside and talk to him privately but the girl grabbed her hand.

"Don't go," she cried out.

Blair's eyes seemed somehow watery as she sat beside her. "I'm not, I'll stay with you, alright?"

Hermione nodded before returning to her milk but still leant against Blair's arm.

John kneeled down, eyeing his daughter. "I've already called my colleagues five times," he told Blair. "But they keep saying the same thing over and over again. 'You have to wait twenty-four hours before making a report, John. She's an adult, John. There's no record on her being unstable, John…' blah blah blah! Like I didn't know! But it's my wife, damn it! One would have thought they actually cared… "

"Don't ever rely on the police to help you—no offence," said Blair, drawing a genuine quick smirk from him. "But if you like, I could drive around the area and check some places. Perhaps I—"

"No, no, no! That's very kind but I could never ask anything like that of you." He shook his head. "Besides I don't think Hermione would be willing to let you go." He smiled at the girl who already had half of the milk inside her tiny belly. "But I'll go. You stay here, make yourself at home, get something to eat—oh, what am I talking?! I should have made you something, I'll be right—"

"No, I'm fine, John. I'm not hungry and if I was I know where the kitchen is, alright?"

He gave her a grateful look. "Right… but you surely must be very tired. I'll put Hermione to sleep and you can—"

"Go find your wife," Blair cut him off. "I'll take care of the little thing."

"You'd do that for us?" asked John but Blair only rolled her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you!" He stood up from the floor, taking her hand in his. "Please, take our bed and sleep here with Hermione. I'll take the couch if I come home, though I don't suppose I'll be back before the morning…" He leant to his daughter. "Be good, Hermione!" He gave her a quick kiss and dashed off.

Hermione could not believe what she'd just witnessed. This was a nightmare. What in the world could have possessed her mother to make her do such a thing?! To disappear without telling anyone where she was going? Moreover, the police was involved?!

Her eyes strayed to Blair and her mini-self. The little girl had already finished her milk and was climbing back onto Blair's lap. She put her tiny arms around her neck and her legs around her hips and gazed into those big dark blue eyes. Hermione noticed Blair's wet clothes and hair had started to dry and clean themselves up.

So now, her magic decided to demonstrate…

Blair looked down at her blouse before glancing back at the child. She put on a sad smile and took Hermione's face into her hands, kissing her cheek three times in a row without actually moving her lips away in between each peck. Then she hugged her close.

Oh, how Hermione wished to be viewing this memory through the little girl's eyes! She'd even be willing to endure the rain and the certain headache little Hermione must have had after so much crying.

"My beautiful girl," Blair whispered, her voice seeping with compassion. She put her hands, one over the girl's arm and the other into her hair, stroking them. She moved closer to the wooden headboard so that she could lean her back against it and provide more comfort for the child.

'My beautiful girl'— It echoed in Hermione's head. It was the same thing the Incubus had said to her when he… Oh God…

Was that what this was all about? Flabbergasted, Hermione asked herself, suddenly thinking she might have solved the meaning of the memory. Was this the reason she was reliving it? To find out why she wanted to be close to Blair all the time and in any way possible? Was this why she found it arousing being treated as though she was a small girl? Was it all because of a traumatic experience—because it had broken her and had taken its toll on her sexuality? Blair had given her so much attention, so much care… and Hermione was in such a tender age when all these patterns were forming in her...

She watched her little self lay her head against Blair's collarbone. "Will mommy come back?" she asked, playing with the buttons on her blouse.

Blair's eyes closed momentarily before answering. "Of course she'll come back!"

"She left because she doesn't love me very much."

Blair made the little girl look at her. "Listen to me, Hermione, your mommy does love you very much—more than anything in the world! She's just not really herself right now… but that doesn't mean she—" The words got stuck in her throat.

"I love mommy, anyway," proclaimed the girl. "I wish she'd come back."

"And she will!"

"I love daddy, too—and I love you!" said Hermione to Blair.

"I love you, too, sweetypie." Blair's stiff expression melted and the little girl leant in and kissed her fully on the lips. It was the most innocent gesture and yet the teen Hermione couldn't help feeling absolutely shocked—shocked and jealous, and all the while disappointed that she could not recall anything. She would give away her soul to remember what her lips felt like.

She saw the small Hermione lie back down on Blair who wrapped a blanket over her tiny back before hugging her to her. The position seemed extremely uncomfortable, but she did not move an inch. None of them did.

Hermione was looking at Blair, noticing hundreds of emotions passing through her beautiful, still a little child-like features.

Was what Hermione felt for her truly just an outcome of trauma and not a real emotion? Had she mistaken love for craving for the affection she did not get from her own mother when she was little? And was Draco actually right about her being obsessed?

The room got suddenly very dark and time sped up again. There were no more prolonged memories. Only fractions.

She saw her mother, crying and asking her to forgive her. She saw her pack her case and leave again but this time she'd said her goodbye, explaining she needed to see a doctor to get better.

She saw the days spent with Blair while her mom was away. She saw her building puzzles with her, taking her to the park and singing silly songs to her before bed. She saw Blair making her raspberry crepes for breakfast and herself giving Blair raspberry kisses on both of her cheeks in return.

She saw her dad being too close to Blair and Blair pulling away just in time before their faces could touch. She saw him apologise and say he was being stupid and that this was a huge mistake, that he didn't mean it and was just confused because Blair was there for them through all this.

She saw herself cry her heart out when Blair was leaving. And she saw her mom coming back and promising her she would never abandon her ever again.

Then Hermione woke up. She was crying.

She heard a conciliatory male voice somewhere close by, instructing her not to move and elucidating that all was just a memory and that she was safely back at Hogwarts now with nothing to worry about.

Her eyes fluttered. She pressed her fingertips to them, wiping off the tears pouring into her sticky hair and trying to bring her ragged breathing under control. Her head felt like exploding. She'd seen far too much all at once and had no idea how to deal with any of it.

"How are you feeling?"

Hermione zoomed in on the figure that was leaning over her, recognising the hollow face of the venor floccus.

"I… just give me a moment." Disoriented, she let her eyes roam over the ceiling, recollecting—she was back now, it was—

A soft sigh escaped her lips as the cool skin of the man's palm met her burning forehead, making the brain fog clouding her head leave within seconds.

"Try to sit down," he said, retreating and waiting until Hermione did so before offering her a glass of water which she took from him with quiet words of gratitude.

"Better now?"

Gulping down the last of the liquid, Hermione nodded. She placed the empty glass onto the floor right next to her where it disappeared into thin air.

"I've seen everything you have," the man started flat-out. "I've been there with you through all the memories and I understand this is a lot to process. But for now I suggest putting those childhood memories aside. You should talk about them directly with your family. I think it would be only fair to give them the opportunity to tell their side of the story before you misconstrue their actions."

Hermione remained silent.

"What is really important here," continued the man, "is that first memory. Do you understand what happened?"

"I," started Hermione hesitantly, pulling her knees toward her chin, "I saw seen myself." She glanced at him, licking her lips and trying her best not to think about Blair, her mom, and dad.

"Yes, you saw yourself; in other words, you interfered with time and got caught. Do you know what that means?"

Hermione could feel her stomach turning around.

"A fracture in time was created," he explained, kneeling beside her. "A loop through which you're able to see to the other side."

"I created a fracture in time?" asked Hermione, bewildered.

The man took a moment before shaking his head. "No, not you. It was someone else who opened the loop precisely when you spotted yourself—someone compelling—someone who made sure you would see yourself in the first place."

"But who would…?"

"I don't know their name, neither their face. All I can tell you is that it wasn't anyone from this world," he revealed, making a rush of goosebumps travel down Hermione's spine.

"Why would anyone from the other side," she started slowly. "Wh—why would they care about me having an insight into their world?"

"Maybe they thought you could help."

"Help?" She leaned in. "Help with what?"

"With preventing the war."

Hermione was gazing at him with her eyes wide as plates for a good ten seconds before she recovered. "What do you mean, war?"

"Our world is in danger," he let out, standing up. "And Madame Lestrange is walking straight forward with open arms ready to embrace it." He glanced at her with those eerie empty eyes. "It's either you stop her or else our society will fall."

Hermione got to her feet, too. "What danger are you talking about? And how could I take any part in preventing it? I'm sixteen! How could I possibly—"

He took a deep breath. "You need to gain her trust. Talk to her!"

Hermione let out a forceful laugh. "Never! I will never talk to her ever—"

"This is not about you or her or your feud anymore. It's the future of our world that is at stake! Go and ask her about Corpus Deus, go and tell her you'll keep her informed about the dreams. You must convince her you are on her side. But," he took a few steps to Hermione, pausing just as they were eye to eye. "Under no circumstances you're to actually take her side. You must stay mindful and watch your back and hers too. She doesn't understand what it is she's unleashing."

"Wh—no! I don't want to have anything to do with this—or her!" objected Hermione. "I'm not—"

"You have no choice," he leaned in, making her take a step back. "It's your duty and that's settled whether you like it or not. It's not as if you could run away from your dreams, they are here for a reason."

"If they're here for a reason, why didn't I dream any relevant dream last night, then?" she challenged, raising her eyebrow. "What if they've stopped?"

"They did not stop—they've lost the trigger—the corpus deus," he said silkily. "Think! This is not the first time the dreams ceased for a night or two, is it? Tell me, didn't you give up something yesterday? Something you keep near your pillow at all times otherwise?"

Hermione's mouth opened agape.

How she could have been so stupid!

—

It was getting late when she and the venor floccus finally left the classroom.

"I understand it is a particularly bitter pill to swallow," he muttered to her as she conducted him to the entrance hall that was full of jubilantly-looking students leaving the Great Hall from dinner. "But I'm positive you'll find a way."

Hermione's blood boiled. "Yeah I'll find a way to magically save the entire world, right? A teenager without a complete education. I'm sorry, that is just ridiculous," she gnashed, folding her arms across her chest.

"If it was ridiculous, I wouldn't be here," he said. "I don't have time for nonsense."

"But this is nonsense," Hermione retorted quietly so no one but him would hear her. "It's absurd to ask of me things that are beyond my power! It's absurd to force me into sucking up to Bellatrix Lestrange! I don't want to be friends with her! I don't want her in my life and I certainly don't intend to go after her and pretend to be interested in her wellbeing so that I could—" she paused when a couple of passing Gryffindors gave her curious looks. "I'm just not doing that," she sibilated finally.

"Think about it carefully," the man stopped as they reached the exit. "We're talking about one of the most violent bloodsheds that could go down in the history of not only the magical world but the entire world, was the war to happen. As I've said before, I've seen Madame Lestrange's mind; she's driven by the ideology of clearing the world of non-magical people. She wants superiority. You do realise muggles and muggle-borns would be the first on the list, don't you? Just think of your family, your friend Blair. Isn't their life being at risk enough to persuade you?"

"People would never allow anything like that to happen," Hermione objected but could still feel her stomach tightening.

"With Corpus Deus," he said. "People's opinions wouldn't matter anymore."

She gave him a long searing look as his words slowly sank in. "But how do you expect me to stop Bellatrix from finding those Corpus Deus items?" Whatever they were.

"Oh no, you're not to stop her from finding the items. Quite the opposite. You do your best to help her with locating them."

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Hermione suppressed the urge to stomp her foot. "How—"

"You'll figure it all out soon enough. Good luck, Hermione Granger." And just like that, cutting her off in the middle of the sentence, he was gone.

—

With the chaos of inexplicable half-answers, Hermione ambled outside, oblivious to the curfew that was to start in thirty minutes and headed towards the greenhouse at the back of the castle. She felt as though today had lasted a whole week, that the morning was as far from her as the pale moon up above her feverish head.

She hardly knew what to contemplate first—the possible war she was expected to stave off (at the age of sixteen, which was absolutely ludicrous) or some items called Corpus Deus that Bellatrix was after and that the venor floccus refused to shed any light on? Or maybe her mom suffering from some form of delayed postpartum depression and Blair taking her place which resulted in Hermione's weird infatuation with her? Or that her dad had tried to kiss Blair because he had felt lonely?

This was too much to cope with in one day.

Hermione buried her face in her palms before running them through her hair, desperately pulling at a few strands. Why did all these things have to keep happening to her?

She stumbled through the entry into the greenhouse, the wet air so hot in contrast to the cool night outside, and meandered straight for the corner with eucalyptus plants, inhaling the minty fragrance in the hope it could calm her growing anxiety at least comparatively.

But it didn't. There was a faint sound of fabric swooshing somewhere close by, making Hermione's heart skip a beat. She knew she had no business being here and that she'd be in so much trouble if she got caught but there was no going back from now. Trying her best to stay still, she tried listening for any more sounds. Maybe it had been just mandragoras moving their leaves, she tried to reason after a while of silence, it was known they used to stir like crazy in their sleep.

"Well, well, well, isn't someone asking for detention?" she heard a tired yet somehow silky and arrogant voice as the pale face of Bellatrix Lestrange came into the moonlit view.

Suppressing a yelp, Hermione placed her left palm over her stomach as though to stop it from turning around. She could not believe her misfortune. Why did it have to be Bellatrix of all people she had to bump into?! Hermione had no strength or desire to deal with her right now. Turning on her heel, she headed for the entry.

"Fifteen points off, muddy."

Hermione paused. "You cannot do that."

"Another fifteen off for questioning my authority."

Gritting her teeth, the girl tried her very best to stay calm.

"I'd like to take off more." She heard Bellatrix smirk. "The points I mean—don't get your hopes up—but I'm afraid your house doesn't have enough to cover you being a sick-minded twist."

A sudden coldness hit Hermione at the core; her body stiffened, her muscles turning rigid. Was Bellatrix implying what she thought she was implying?

Bellatrix's heels began clicking against the ground while Hermione stood there, unmoving with her heart beating madly. "I must admit, I didn't want to believe it when the thought first occurred to me," she proclaimed slowly. "I said to myself: don't be stupid, Bellatrix, no one could be that sick in the head, but dear, dear..."

Hermione gulped, her eyes blinking rapidly.

"Tell me." The clicking moved closer. "How hard is it to live with yourself, knowing what a distorted little fiend you are?" she merely whispered.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. She would not cry! She would not cry!

"I'm surprised you're still here instead of St Mungo," the witch went on placidly. "I'd personally pay for your treatment, were they to try to Crucio that disease out of you."

Hermione scooped up the last bits of her courage and turned around to face the woman. Her stomach clenched the second her eyes locked with Bellatrix's cruel ones, that were looking at her as though she was the most revolting thing they had ever seen.

"What is wrong with you?" asked Hermione in a weak voice.

"Me?" Bellatrix snorted. "I'm not the one forcing myself on women!"

"I did not force myself on anyone," objected Hermione angrily, taking a step closer.

"Don't even think about it," Bellatrix actually stepped back. "I don't want you anywhere near me! God, you make me sick," she barked. "I've always thought mating with muggles should be outlawed. Just look at how you've turned out! Sick little pe—"

"You listen to me!" Hermione walked up to her in three long strides, making Bellatrix back away, her back hitting the shelves with plangentines. "I'm sick and tired of your pathetic insults! You're the only one who's twisted here!" Bellatrix's eyes fluttered, her forehead glistening with tiny beads of sweat, but Hermione didn't pay attention. She was set on getting everything off of her chest. "And it is your erroneous views that are disgusting! You have no right to treat me like—"

Bellatrix sank to her knees. Hermione stopped in the middle of the sentence, her eyes widening. Without thinking, she lunged for the woman, making her head land on her lap instead of the hard floor. The waterfall of the softest curls spilled over her forearms and hands. Thunderstruck, Hermione was holding the unconscious witch in her arms, helplessly staring at her unmoving body.

"B—" Her trembling hand reached to Bellatrix's face, carefully brushing the heavy curls out of her eyes, their rich scent diffusing quickly all around her. She was terrified to touch her any further but what else could she do?

"Bellatrix," Hermione whispered, her fingertips lingering above her cheek. She didn't want to experiment with magic to awaken her. She'd never used a healing charm on humans and she didn't want to cause more harm than good.

"Come on, wake up," she whispered desperately but only after a half of a minute did Bellatrix begin to stir. Hermione let out a sign of relief but then her stomach tightened.

The witch was going to kill her after finding herself in such position!

Bellatrix's eyes blinked; and truly, it took her just a second to realise whose lap it was she was huddled to before leaping to her feet, the abrupt movement making her stagger.

"You…! What have you done!" she fumed at Hermione, who quickly stood up as well.

"Nothing, I swear! You fainted! I couldn't do anything…"

"Get out of my way!" Bellatrix roared and clutching her forehead marched out of the greenhouse.

Hermione was staring after her, her anger long since gone.

What was going on?!

---

Hello, I'm actually crazy so here's a 16k+ chapter. I love you all so so much! Thank you for being so patient! Thank you for the beautiful reviews that made my heart melt! Thank you for still being interested in reading this story! And a huuuuge huge thank you to my beta reader Irymia who's just the best! (Now I feel like I've won an award for thanking so much, but I'm just that grateful, haha)

Anyway, hope you liked the new chapter! I cannot wait (literally jumping here) for your thoughts!

All my love, AP!