"Ronald is at perfect liberty to think whatever he likes," Hermione announced, shoving a book forcefully into a slot on her bookcase. "I really couldn't care less. But it was just a dress, and he had no need to become so territorial about it."

"Well, would it bother you if he was walking around practically nude?" Harry demanded, leaning against her desk, his arms folded across his chest, his green eyes following her through his glasses.

"What are the chances of him doing that?" she snorted, shoving yet another book almost too forcefully into its slot. She'd never do it with too much force. After all these years, shoving her books into place had become second nature. When she was angry, she'd use only so much force, never risking damage to the books, just expressing her anger.

"What are the chances of you doing that?" Harry responded, his voice perfectly neutral.

"I have a best friend who likes revealing clothing and who is pregnant, so I can hardly say no, now can I?" she flung at him, still not looking in his direction for fear of meeting his gaze. "You'd never make Ron walk around wearing something like that. And it's not like I was walking up and down the street, begging people to 'take me', or whatever it is, and -"

"I probably would make him do that," mused Harry lightly. "For a bet, or something. That'd be an interesting bet."

"Harry!" she spun around, a book still in her arms, her eyes wide with shock. "You'd never!"

Harry laughed, and Hermione knew he probably would. "Don't you dare even think about it," she warned, turning back to the bookcase and placing the last book in its position.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"It'd make him awfully uncomfortable, don't you think?" she retorted angrily, flitting over to her desk and ruffling in the drawers for some papers on Goblin Rights.

"That's what you'd worry about? Not someone else suggesting -"

"Harry, even if they did, Ron'd say no," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's a lot of things, but not a cheater." She found the papers and closed the drawer, sitting in her chair and shuffling them so she could pretend to seem busy - anything to not meet Harry's eyes.

"Would you say no, though?" Harry asked softly, after a minute of awkward silence.

"Of course I'd say no!" Hermione screeched furiously, meeting his surprised gaze without hesitation now, the fury in her chest unconquerable.

"How does Ron know that?"

"Does he really think there's even the slightest chance of me ever betraying him? I'm not some low-life desperate girl waiting for 'someone better'! I've been his best friend for seven years and his girlfriend for five, does he think my loyalty might change because of... boredom, or something else imaginary?"

Harry held his hands up as if to say he surrendered. "Ron's territorial, Hermione, he won't realize that. He's always been shown up by someone or other, remember?" he looked at her and some of the angry red from her cheeks faded. "His brothers were always better than him, I was famous, you were smart, and he was just the tag-along."

"He was never -"

Harry interrupted her. "Maybe he's just scared he'll get shown up again."

Hermione had always thought running a bookstore would be great; but then again, Healing was also a profession she'd like to strive after. But bringing Wizarding peace over the tainted world they were in was what the entire war had been about, and she wasn't going to adapt because it was over - you never know when the next might come along. Her work, and Ron's and Harry's, had been decided before they'd taken them. Hermione had turned down the Auror's job, to the shock of everyone but Harry and Ron, and had chosen the more up-front but still sitting-behind-a-desk job. Though now, she questioned what her motives possibly could've been, because Malfoy Manor, in all its splendor and elegance, was as frightening as it was beautiful. The same albino peacock strutted consistently above her head as she knocked on the door, having passed the always-open gate. There was an immediate answer. The door was pulled open by none other than a House Elf, its eyes huge and glassy, disproportional to its small and withered old body, but one of them was surrounded by black swelling. She frowned immediately, and fiercely, too - but at the Elf's look of shock, she remembered she wasn't mad at the elf, but the one who'd done this to him. Arranging her features into a look of polite neutrality, she said, "I am Hermione Granger. I have an appointment -"

"Ah, yes," said the elf, his voice lower than normal elf voices - almost a human's. "Master Malfoy said for Rudy to bring Mistress Granger to him whence she arrived. Come, Miss."

Hermione followed the elf immediately as it turned and walked down the hallway, her frown slipping back in place. The lighting in this hall was almost blue-ish in its darkness, the torches that lined the walls flickering unsteadily. The house was in a bad case of disrepair - it seemed there had been a duel. The walls had peeling paint over crumbling walls, the floor was cracked and chipped, and one crooked picture hung with a splintered wooden frame at the end of the hall, on a green door with a silver knob. As they drew closer, she began to make out shapes in it. There were Lucius and Narcissa and Draco, and they were all ignoring the camera completely, and they were in a struggle. Draco was pushing away the body of someone she couldn't see, though it appeared female, and Lucius and Narcissa were tugging on it, trying to pull it closer. When she looked closer, Narcissa only had her hands wrapped around the arm, but wasn't applying any force; she was faking. Draco looked hell-bent on getting the person away, his eyes wide with terrified determination, but Lucius was looking haughtily at whom he was pulling, as if pulling her into his midst would cause her to suffer from his pompous manners. Wondering who the girl was, and not realizing she'd come to a stop in front of the portrait, she narrowed her eyes, trying to see.

There, on the girl's wrist.

She stifled a gasp and looked at her own wrist and the bracelet that sat upon it - the bracelet identical to that of the one in the picture.

And then Hermione watched as Lucius succeeded and brought Hermione into the picture, her bushy hair smoothed, oddly, and her lips crying out for help, and then there was a flash of green light in the otherwise mono-colored photo, and picture-Hermione fell immediately from view, and Draco cried out, and Hermione, the real one, saw Lucius's wickedly delighted face as he looked down upon the girl he'd killed with the wand that was still outstretched.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had bolted. Rudy had mysteriously vanished, and sprinting through a random door, she found herself in a room full of portraits, Lucius in every one, all of his faces glaring at her with anxiousness of the deed she'd seen. They all laughed, and the silence, because they were photographs, not true portraits, pressed so loudly on her ears she felt they might burst. Her pulse only accelerated, its speed unhealthy now, she could feel her body reacting to the painful drumming of it as it smacked against her ribs over and over, as all the Lucius's raised their wands and pointed them at her, and with a warped smile sent a jet of green light -

Hermione sat bolt upright in her bed, giving a sort of strangled scream, her skin doused with a cold sheen of sweat. She gasped for oxygen, her heart still thrumming unnaturally, and then exhaled loudly, repeating until she could hear over the constant pulsing that resounded in her ears. She quivered under the covers, which felt too cold and too damp to be comfortable, and closed her eyes, trying to shake off the image, only to have it replay itself behind her eyelids. In response, she jerked her eyes open again, and looked around the room, still breathing heavily. The walls were the same, the floor was the same. Her sheets were the same, her blanket was the same, her door was the same. The ceiling was the same. Her dresser, her closet, everything was the same. But she felt alienated from the place, as if it was a tomb. Throwing the sweat-dampened covers off of herself, she rose from the bed and forgetting her slippers on the floor, headed directly for the door.

Leaving her bedroom was a good thing, she guessed, but the rest of her empty apartment felt exactly as it had. She wished fervently that she'd taken Ron up on his offer to live with him. But, because she was oh-so independent, she just had to live on her own. The cold of her kitchen stung her feet and she tried to walk on her toes with light steps, wincing every time the linoleum engulfed the warmth in then. She walked through the kitchen into the dining room. The hardwood floor wasn't much better, but in here, she saw her fireplace. She thought wryly of her options. Stay here, alone, afraid to close her eyes because of her dreams? Or go tell Harry and Ron?

Harry and Ron, most definitely. And the floor being so cold over here had absolutely nothing to do with it, she told herself.

She was about to step into the fireplace, and then remembered how ridiculous she was being. Go to the Burrow in the middle of the night? For what, a nightmare? She'd tell Ron and Harry at work, when she was more awake. Also, she was still in her pajamas, and barefoot. What a sight she'd be, waltzing in as if she owned the place, going right to Ron's room. Ugh, to his room. How would that look to everyone else?

It was just a simple nightmare. Shuddering slightly as the cold seeped through her feet to her ankles, she hugged her pajamas close to her and turned back to her kitchen. She spied the clock over her stove. It was only four fifty-two a.m.! She'd never be able to get to sleep, and she knew it. She groaned out loud at the unfairness of it all, and decided almost immediately she might as well take a shower. Plodding quickly through the chilly rooms, she wished it weren't such a cold October. But it was, she reminded herself, almost November, and at least they hadn't gotten any snow yet. Making her way through her 'cozy', not small, kitchen, she entered her bathroom and flipped on the lights. It was a bland, beige-colored bathroom, and its simplicity was welcoming. Sighing with gratitude when the hot water started by itself, she stripped down and got into the shower, closing the curtain only for the sake of not getting her towels wet.

What had the picture meant? Why on earth had she dreamt of Lucius murdering her? And why had Narcissa pretended to help him; why had Draco fought back with such animation? Nothing made sense.

As the hot water relaxed the tense muscles in her back and neck, she felt her own mind relax. She was just stressed over the task she had to do tomorrow. That was all. Her memories of him had become twisted over the war period and peace period after it and she'd been subconsciously thinking of a worst-case scenario. She closed her eyes and let the jets of hot water run through her hair and down her shoulders, the smoke curling into wisps around her. She was just stressed. It was as easy as that.

She had no idea how long she was in the shower, just enjoying the streams of water coating her soft skin, but when the hot water began to run out she emerged and wrapped herself in a towel, feeling like she was nude in the middle of the tundra. Rushing to her room, she quickly dressed in appropriate clothing, noting how, out her window, the light was beginning to grow more and more prominent above the city around her. Her warm, brown cardigan was extremely comfortable and still professional-looking, and she put on tan slacks, so as not to clash. She hesitantly chose a dark brown pair of heels, the actual heel part higher than what she normally wore, a full three and a half inches, but she could wear and walk in them.

Going once more to the kitchen and flicking on the lights, she made her normal pot of coffee, filled Crookshanks's food dish and gave him some more water, and sat down to the Daily Prophet. Avoiding the article about Lucius's latest release, she scanned and saw the announcement of Luna and Neville's wedding date. Christmas Eve. How absolutely romantic. She smiled and took a sip of her beverage, listening to the uneven crunch of Crookshanks eating.

She glanced out the window at the vibrant sun, rising one more day to give life to the planet. Rather what she was doing, she thought, but instead of giving life, she was preventing the taking of it for prejudicial reasons. Peace-makers. The sun gave life, and she kept it going. "Good morning, partner," she said to it serenely, bringing the mug to her lips once more.