The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. By using them below, I am in no way claiming them as my own.

Susan had listened to Hermione's story only vaguely, still being half-asleep. She was fairly sure that Hermione had just had a bizarre, vivid dream. As she paused in her retelling, Susan held up a hand for silence.

'So where is this time-turner then, if they were all destroyed?'

'Well...' Hermione frowned. 'It just sort of dissolved into the ether. It had been too long out of it's own reality.'

'Aha,' Susan nodded. Hermione had definitely been dreaming this entire debacle. Susan was certain she had existed the entire time she'd slept, instead of Hermione's perceived course of events where she'd been dead for the last ten years. Still, Hermione seems pretty happy about the dream... who was she to spoil her friend's fun?

'Oh, Susan, that reminds me. I have a question for you.' Susan yawned and leant back against the pillows of her bed.

'As long as it's not too taxing for this time of the morning.'

'Did you used to sneak off to the room of requirement with Seamus Finnigan?'

Susan jolted upright, narrowing her eyes at Hermione.

'I knew I saw you that one time! How come you never said anything before?'

Hermione's pulse raced, realising her theory might have some standing.

'Did you help me get that internship at the Daily Prophet?' Susan suddenly looked slightly uncomfortable.

'You got in on your talent.' She shrugged, 'I may have said a few good words about you as well, but I'm pretty sure it was your talent. Mostly. Maybe 60:40.'

Hermione grinned and hugged Susan enthusiastically.

'Thank you. You've no idea how much that internship meant to me.' The real meaning behind her words was unspoken - if Susan hadn't aided her at the newspaper, Hermione would have ended up as a stripper. A stripper who'd be forced to marry to the loathsome Lucius Malfoy, of all people.

'Think nothing of it,' Susan replied, feeling slightly awkward. She smiled as Hermione released her. 'So, you've found yourself another writer. That's a nice twist of fate.'

'Writer?' Hermione frowned. What is she talking about?

'Yeah, you know. Draco's books.'

'His books.'

'Yeah,' Susan repeated, wondering whether Hermione's dream might have knocked her brain out of focus. 'D. M. Granger.'

'Draco is D. M. Granger?' Susan nodded and Hermione felt herself pale.

'Are you OK?' Susan asked, concerned. Hermione brushed her friend's worry off.

'Um, yes. I just need to go get dressed.' She climbed free from the bed and Susan smirked.

'Yeah, I'd imagine that shirt isn't professional enough for today's interview.'

Hermione had found the lace-and-velvet dress back in her wardrobe, as if it had never been removed in the first place. She slipped out of Draco's shirt and pulled the dress back on, then made a rough attempt to neaten her hair by tying it back in a fresh braid.

She crept down the stairs, wondering where Draco might be in the house. She hadn't yet encountered the master-suite, and had no idea where he might have disappeared to. Her news was bad. They clearly had returned to a reality which was close, but not identical to their own. Now the joke would be on Draco, this future having him set in the career of chick-lit writer, the genius behind 'The Pirate's Booty' and other semi-erotic stories.

She wondered how he would take the news that they had failed, yet again.

She found him in the dining hall. He was sat at the top of the table, a roughly-woven blanket over his bare shoulders, sipping a cup of coffee. He glanced up as Hermione entered the room and smiled. 'Want a cup? Mibby's got a pot on.'

She was partly distracted by the tempting display of chest the blanket gave her, and shook her head at the offer of coffee. 'We've got a problem.'

'Susan's not here?' He set down his cup, looking seriously at her.

'No, she is. She was asleep and has no clue what's been going on.'

'That's ok then,' he exhaled with relief.

'But this isn't our reality,' Hermione moved closer until she reached the table, her fingers skirting the smooth table-top. Pensive, Draco frowned at her and reached for his cup again.

'Why do you say that?' He took a large gulp of the dark liquid.

'Susan says you're D. M. Granger, the chick-lit author.' Draco choked on his coffee, spilling the cup. The hot liquid splashed onto his jeans and he leapt up from his seat, his hands batting at his crotch to alleviate the burning sensation. Hermione watched the display in awe.

Grimacing, Draco glanced up at her. He tightened his hold on the blanket, moving it closer around his bare chest.

'Well, yeah. That is me.'

'You write chick-lit?'

'... Yeah.'

'You write erotic chick-lit?'

'Yes,' he scowled. 'You don't have to be so high-and-mighty about it. I have as many readers as you do.'

'Right.'

'It's a skill, you know. It requires just as much, if not more thought than your articles.'

Hermione couldn't help herself and broke out into a grin. 'Wow.'

Draco rolled his eyes and sat back down, sulking. 'I thought you already knew, when I found you in the study with them.'

'I thought you just liked to read them,' she replied, embarrassed.

'I'm hardly the target demographic.' She raised an eyebrow at this and he smiled weakly. 'OK, I guess I deserved that.'

'So... this is our own reality.'

'I've not seen anything to the contrary... yet,' he moved the cup back into an upright position, its contents lost.