.-.

Welcome To Hell

The remainder of the train ride and subsequent carriage trip to Hogwarts provided the sort of enlightenment that only revealed more mysteries rather than solved them.

After her near-assault (courtesy of Ronáld), Hermione felt it wisest to feign sleep for the rest of the journey. In the conversations between Harry, Ginny, and Ronáld that followed, she was able to glean snippets of random information that would probably make more sense to her once she could read up on the general history of whatever universe or mentality in which she was trapped.

First, Harry was Head Boy to Hermione's Head Girl, and while she – or this 'My' version of herself – had apparently 'bought' her way into the position, however that worked, Harry had actually had the grades to be appointed to it. Ronáld had also referred to Harry as 'Evans' several times, leaving her to conclude that it, and not Potter, must have been his surname here. Hermione - or, rather, My had also spent some or all of the summer with Harry... or so she assumed from the very brief passage between the two boys shortly after she had "fallen asleep."

"Seems you've been burned yet again, O Dearest Brother," Ginny had said in the same insincere, sickly-sweet voice, incredibly pausing in her one-sided lovefest with Harry to do. Hermione heard a slight rustle, as if the black-and-redheaded witch had gestured with her hand. "Either My really is sleeping, or she's avoiding you by sleeping. If you can't sort out how to transfigure yourself from a lout to a lord very quickly, she'll be gone for good this time." She suddenly laughed. "Oh wait, that's right - You haven't got a chance. You've always lacked the sophistication William and Charles have."

"Actually, Ginevra, I believe the term for My's behavior is 'hard to get,' " Ronáld countered sneeringly, twisting out his sister's name as if it were a dirty word. "Probably got the idea out of one of her Witches' Vogue articles. If you were a man, you'd find it, shall we say, stimulating. Perhaps you should try it out on Evans here; he obviously isn't responding to your efforts to throw yourself on him."

Hermione found it rather odd that Ronáld had enough control over the conversation to make a reference to Harry as if Harry wasn't even in the compartment.

Ginny's - or perhaps here, she went by Ginevra - voice darkened. "That's none of your business, Ronáld."

He laughed. "Is too; it's bloody entertaining is what it is. I do so love watching you make a twat of yourself in public."

Hermione braced herself for the threat of another duel, but no growls of death or mutilation came from the other side of the compartment. She could hear the smile in Ginevra's voice when she spoke again. "Insult me again, brother, and I'll see to it you never get a go at our House Wizard this year."

"I'd like to see you try; I'm primary owner on him, aren't I?"

"Aye, but your locks aren't half as good as mine."

"I'll call Father if you do."

Her voice darkened. "You wouldn't."

Ronáld didn't respond. By now, on top of everything else unclear about this world, Hermione was at a loss as to what they were fighting over so vehemently. At first she'd thought they'd meant a House-Elf, but no - Ginevra had clearly said "House Wizard"-

Bam!

At the loud noise, Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin.

"We'll see about that," she heard Ginevra mutter darkly; Hermione wondered if the youngest Weasley had just broken or hexed something. Hopefully Ronáld. "Harry, darling, this compartment has become so very dull; I might go look for Brown and Longbottom. D'you want to come?"

Instead of an answer, silence met her words. It was broken after a moment by Ronáld's none-too-discreet snort. Bugger it, Hermione thought - apparently, Ginevra hadn't hexed him. "What did big brother tell you, eh? My might be a daft dimbo at everything else she does, but she bloody well knows how to trap a bloke in her spell." If they hadn't been closed, Hermione would have rolled her eyes at the smug pride in his voice. " 'Hard to get,' Ginevra. Remember that."

"I CAN'T FIGHT THIS WORLD, I HATE IT, I HATE EVERYONE –"

Out of nowhere, muffled, screaming music and heavy bass suddenly erupted throughout the compartment. It was only by a minor miracle that Hermione managed to remain relatively limp, though she flinched slightly at the loud noise and dug her fingers into the plush pillow beneath her head.

"Blimey, Ronáld, can't you turn that blasted thing down?" Ginevra snapped angrily.

"Of course I can't turn it down, you cow, it might be important. Now shut it." The angry music increased in volume and clarity, as if whatever contraption was behind it had been uncovered. "Bloody hell, it's father again. Give him the latest mobile model and he can't get enough of the bloody thing - What do you want?" he snapped as the music abruptly, thankfully stopped playing.

A garbled, unintelligible response could be heard in the ringing silence that followed.

The entire situation suddenly became so utterly preposterous that Hermione almost burst out laughing. So absurd was everything that had happened to her since she had somehow left the site of the final battle that this latest revelation didn't even shock her.

" – Yes, father, I get it, all right? Don't ring me again. I'm going into the Great Hall now; you know the service in here is bollocks..."

Ronáld Weasley was using a Muggle mobile phone. And what was more, not only was he lying through his teeth, both he and his father apparently seemed to know how to use it.

"Yeah, the train got in early… Right. I'll tell her. Bye."

Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better.

She mentally frowned as she backpedaled to one of Ronáld's offhanded comments about taking his mobile into the Great Hall. She knew from experience that outside of Muggle studies, Muggle technology typically wasn't allowed at Hogwarts...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something snapping shut.

"Anyway. Evans," Ron continued shortly, sounding only slightly put-out, "Was My acting all shirty and stroppy like this with you at the manor? While it's sexy and exciting now, I don't fancy putting up with it for long."

As the conversation paused, Hermione held her breath. Her grip around her wand, tucked beneath her robes, instinctively tightened.

"Somewhat," Harry finally replied curtly, the word more grunted than spoken.

Though Hermione had no idea why My would have been around Harry long enough 'at the manor' for him to have been able to produce that answer - they certainly didn't seem to be good enough friends for her to make a social call - she silently released the trapped air in both relief and surprise, briefly sending up a prayer of thanks to whichever universal spirits were looking down on her. As she learned more and more about her surroundings, she was becoming increasingly convinced it was imperative she didn't give away the fact that bimbo-istic My had been taken over by a considerably more intelligent self.

Harry had not spoken another word for the rest of the journey.

Aside from realizing that Harry didn't have a lightning bolt scar, Hermione's second most earth-shattering observation occurred at the end of the train ride. The door to their particular compartment had a decorative mirror inset where a window to the hallway should have been, apparently both a convenience and form of privacy for the Head Boy and Girl.

It was courtesy of this mirror that Hermione first saw My.

Initially, she still thought it was a window to the corridor, until the pseudo-model in said corridor started imitating her movements motion-for-motion, and then froze at the exact moment Hermione did, staring, wide-eyed, at the image.

Her red-stained lips parted in shock.

Hermione's 'free-spirited hair,' as she had fondly referred to its bushy-ness, was longer than she had ever grown it, tumbling over her shoulders and down her chest in impossibly perfect, voluminous curls that held not a single ounce of frizz. Its brown shade was lightened just slightly with blond highlights that hadn't so much changed the color as brightened her face, which was already covered so flawlessly with makeup that it was neither too much nor too little, simply accentuating every feature she had ever liked about herself - and even those she hadn't. Her normally fair skin was tanned to a glowing, tawny shade of brown that, short of spending an entire summer on the Costa del Sol, had surely been accomplished through magical intervention, and her uniform was so form-fitted, her skirt so short, Hermione was certain it would fail to meet every Hogwarts dress code since the school had been founded.

Holy mother of Merlin.

She hardly would have recognized herself if she hadn't known it was herself she was looking at, and if Ronáld hadn't let out an impatient sigh, said as if addressing a five-year-old, "Now, now, the world knows you're the fairest of them all, pet; let's get a move on," and shoved her none-too-gently toward the doorway, Hermione probably would have forgotten herself completely and let out a scream.

As it was, she ground her teeth and followed him out the compartment door.

Good Merlin, that - that is not me!

Now the the world had jumped from being downright creepy to absolutely terrifying. Just how in Merlin's name was she supposed to pretend to be this 'My' person for - for... for Godric knew how long? When was the last time she'd even attempted to apply makeup so well? One and a half… two years? Bill and Fleur's wedding, that was it…

It wasn't as if Hermione couldn't do it, she had just never had the patience for it. Quite frankly, she had always been far more concerned about what her grades looked like than what her hair did, end of story. But if she stopped now – or, rather, if the person that everyone in this world knew as My stopped making herself up like a sodding supermodel – Hermione assumed it'd be a dead giveaway that something was seriously off.

Every breath she took felt like another cautious step across a field encrusted with land-mines. Simply being around Harry, Ronáld, and Ginevra was stressful enough: trying to say just enough without revealing too much nor too little, dodging Harry's little blank but calculating stares the moment she voiced a word with more than six letters in it. She felt disturbingly like a spy in the midst of an enemy camp during a war, even though it hardly seemed like wartime here, wherever she was, and no one seemed to be after her.

Even so, something… no, many, many somethings about this world had dark, dangerous undertones to them, including every underclassmen she had passed walking to the carriages in a downpour of rain that unnervingly reminded her of the storm during the final battle. To be sure, their conversations had all the energy of companions reunited after long summer months, but the content wasn't bubbly and bright. Instead, it was filled with Dark Arts references and jokes that Hermione found more cruel than funny.

Sweet Morgana, she had to at least suss out who 'she' was supposed to be and what she was dealing with here, and as quickly as possible. How did people expect "My" to act? Who governed this chilling place - the Ministry, or some sort of Dark Lord?

The second Ronáld let out a hoot of greeting and sauntered over to a Neville Longbottom who was about fifty pounds lighter than her world's version of him, a whole lot more built, and actually stunningly good-looking, Hermione snapped.

Swiftly, she caught the sleeve of her dark-haired best friend's apathetic double and held him back. "Harry," she hissed in a stage whisper.

Harry stopped abruptly and silently looked down at her with Ginny…evra clinging to his side like static electricity, though the youngest Weasley was so preoccupied with Harry that Hermione doubted she would be a hindrance. Without allowing herself the opportunity to lose her nerve, she again broke out the six-week drama course she'd taken during the summer after fourth year; she had subsequently put the skills she'd picked up there to great use, both in her world and, now, this one.

Closing her eyes and wrapping her left arm around her stomach, Hermione pressed the back of her right hand to her forehead and half-moaned, "Oh… Oh dear, Harry, I feel simply awful." Swaying a bit for effect, she opened her eyes and stared at him desperately. "I just can't sit out in front of everyone like this. It'll completely sod my image!"

For the first time in at least two hours, Harry spoke, his deep voice still as flat as it had briefly been on the train. "Where're you going to hide, then, My, hmm? You abhor the Hospital Wing, and Headmistress McGonagall hasn't given us the passwords to the Head dorms yet. You might be drop-dead gorgeous, but charming a landscape portrait to let you in without the magic words is a skillset you just don't have."

Ginevra cackled, while Hermione flinched at the sound of such sarcasm from a person who was usually, at a minimum, considerate of the people he cared about. Ignoring a sharp stab of sadness, she focused instead on analyzing how she should respond based on her and Harry's relationship, or lack thereof. The strength of his scathing remark, interlaced with a virtually nonexistent compliment, surprised her, especially if they were supposed to be 'friends.'

Another panicked thought suddenly struck her.

Perhaps here, Harry and I aren't friends at all!

The thought was so devastating that for a moment she couldn't properly breathe. Still, the Hermione of this world probably wouldn't care less about it, would she?

An airhead, Hermione! Think airhead!

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find someone to get me somewhere," she replied flippantly with a feigned, pained smile and a blasé wave of her hand, slipping the fact that McGonagall was Headmistress here into the mental file she had begun to call 'Universe B.'

"Well, then." Harry's choleric gaze shifted toward Ronáld's back as, like a king, the redhead swept out of the foyer at the centre of a rowdy group of Gryffindor boys. After a moment, he glanced back down at her with narrowed eyes. "I suppose this means I'll have to cover for you, then, won't I?"

Instantly, Hermione realized what he meant and was doubly happy she'd decided to opt out of the Sorting and Welcome Feast: Leading around first years with loads of curious questions to which she had no answers was not an experience she cared to fudge her way through.

Ginn...evra rolled her eyes and rudely began pulling Harry away from Hermione toward the open Great Hall doors. "Harry, Harry, come on; everyone else is going inside-"

As Harry scowled and attempted to untangle himself from Ginevra's hands, Hermione widened her eyes and purposely curled a lock of hair around her finger, twisting it in feigned puzzlement. "Cover?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, My, cover. And would you get off-" An ounce of actual irritation leaked into Harry's otherwise toneless, icy voice, and he physically flung Ginevra away from him before turning back to Hermione. Ginevra looked briefly mournful before stomping off into the Great Hall irately. "Taking the first years to their common rooms? Explaining rules and protocols? All the Head Girl responsibilities of which you, Gryffindor's resident moronic tart and frankly most unsuitable candidate for Head Girl this school has ever seen, have absolutely no knowledge?"

Hermione bristled, grinding her jaw. Whether or not he was speaking the truth about 'My' was one thing, but who was this soulless shell into whom her beloved Harry had morphed? It was enough to break her heart, but she didn't have the time to mourn, and rationally prepared an appropriate comeback that wouldn't be over My's head.

"Oh, well, best you did it, then, isn't it?" she told him sweetly with a loud and very forced giggle. She patted his tense shoulder amicably before twirling around and prancing off down the south foyer exit with one last wave of her hand at his now-scowling face. "Ta, Harry!"

Now he probably thought she was simply skiving off, but he hadn't seemed too surprised about it, either.

Good, probably something My would do.

Once Hermione made it to an empty hallway, she didn't dare look back, nor did she need to consult a portrait or statue for directions as she started to sprint toward the library.

CLICK CLICK CLICK-

She wobbled and lurched to a stop. Pulling her wand from its rightful place up her sleeve, she irritably flicked it at her feet and sighed in relief as four inch heels transformed into comfortable – and silent - flats. As for the reaction of others, Hermione didn't care. She wasn't planning on running into anyone else that night.

The library, thank Merlin, was just as she remembered it: Musty and dim with just enough light, the air filled with the smell of much-loved leather.

Hermione slipped into the back entrance she knew well, near the Restricted Section, and glanced around discreetly, though she doubted Madam Pince or whoever this universe's librarian was would be there during the Sorting Ceremony. She had a vague idea of what she was looking for, and only hoped that it wasn't in a different section of the library in this vastly different world.

Moving carefully through deafening silence, Hermione distractedly cut through the Restricted Section. Distraction swiftly turned to horrified astonishment as she faced what must have been her hundredth shock of the night: Rather than the typically forbidden volumes about the Dark Arts, the Restricted Section held rows and rows of heavily dust-covered tomes on Light Arts culture, beliefs, and values. Most terrifying? A decently-sized section on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Restricted.

Hermione swallowed a wave of nausea and forced herself to continue on… until familiar words froze her feet to the ground.

Sweet Merlin.

Slowly, she reached out in dazed horror to lightly touch the dusty, cracked spine of her standard sixth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, jerking her fingers back just as quickly when several spiders scuttled out and spilled across the bindings.

The book – well, all of them, really - looked as if they hadn't been moved in decades.

Bloody Morgana, what kind of world is this?

Finally, she blinked rapidly and numbly stumbled backward a step. Come on, you're never going to survive here if you lose your head! If this really is a new world, you've got to find out as much as you possibly can right now!

Gripping her purse-like, designer book bag that was so lacking in practicality Hermione doubted it could support more than one textbook, she turned and quickly continued on her way, passing an enormous section labeled Dark Arts that encompassed what would have been, in her world, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms combined. It was becoming scarily apparent what Universe B's Hogwarts valued most, though she was extremely surprised to find a rather large section on Muggle Studies and Technology as well.

She nearly collapsed in relief as she finally reached the History of Magic section, right where it should be, tucked away in the northwest corner of the library. Whether in her universe or this one, Hermione noted somewhat fondly that it still looked as though it hadn't been visited in ages.

Perfect for someone who temporarily wanted to disappear.

She leaned toward a bookshelf, conjuring a non-verbal Lumos and holding up her wand as she peered at the titles. A thick but smooth wave of hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it back in annoyance. Her new hairstyle included long bangs swept to one side, and they, along with high-heeled shoes and thigh-high stockings, were quickly becoming the bane of her minute-to-minute existence.

Nimbly, she scanned the bookshelves, finding titles both familiar and sinister.

The Goblin Revolutions, 1301-1352. No, too early.

Her eyes moved forward to the shelves labeled 20th Century Relevant.

Foundation of an Empire, WWII On. Muggle books in the magical section?

Our Sovereign, an Autobiography. Sovereign? Was there no longer a Ministry here? Did Voldemort win? Is that what this was? But then why were Ron and Harry parading about as if they ruled the world? No, it was probably talking about Grindelwald, but she didn't recall him ever referring to himself as 'Sovereign.' Interesting…

Hogwarts, A History. Ah, my darling, we meet again!

Hermione's fingers inched toward her literary friend, but she stopped short when she noticed A Brief History of the Modern Wizarding World a few books away. Setting down her book bag, she lifted the latter from its place, sending a cloud of dust from the surrounding books belching upward.

Carefully, she studied the cover. A Brief History of the Modern Wizarding World, 1945- 1997 looked far newer than any of its counterparts, and since it covered everything up to 1997 - only the previous year - it was exactly what she needed. All she knew for certain thus far was that she was clearly stuck in some sort of mad, twisted world, but she would feel considerably better, relatively speaking, if that was at least confirmed in writing.

Warily surveying her surroundings, Hermione moved to a small alcove off the bay windows overlooking what would have been the lake, but now only reflected utter blackness in the transparent glass. Squeezing into the small, lighted niche known only to the rare Hogwarts booklover who wanted some serious privacy, she sighed and opened the dusty cover. The table of contents was filled with names of historical events she didn't recognize – at least, things that hadn't happened in her universe, Universe A. She stared down at it, uncertainly wondering where a relevant starting place would be.

Finally, she dug her fingers between the pages near the middle of the book and just flipped the entire thing open to a random page, again irritatedly sweeping her bangs out of the way so she could read.

She was grateful she was sitting down after only one paragraph.

It was an hour before Hermione came up for air. Heavily, she leaned her head against the stone wall at her back; it connected with a small thunk, but by now she felt so numb she hardly noticed the sting of pain. Her astonishment and horror had faded to a dull, resigned acceptance that she was going to have to make the best of the hell-like world in which she was suddenly, inexplicably stuck:

A world in which the twinkling-eyed Albus Dumbledore had ruled as 'Sovereign' of the Sovereignty of the Phoenix, this world's equivalent of the British Ministry of Magic, ever since he defeated a man named Gellert Grindelwald.

Grindelwald, who, along with his father before him, had overseen a peaceful United Kingdom with the whole of continental Europe for decades beforehand.

Grindelwald, who, here, had been on the so-called 'good side,' though the book certainly didn't portray him that way.

In this narration, Dumbledore had taken power in the name of "progress" and Muggle innovation integration, proposing that, wrapped in his conventional ways, Grindelwald was holding the magical world back from achieving true greatness, which Dumbledore defined as combining the wisdom of both the Muggle and Magical worlds. Unfortunately (though Hermione's mind, and not the book, inserted this annotation), Dumbledore had found that Dark Magic seemed to bind more readily to Muggle technology than Light Magic, so the Dark Arts had been prioritized substantially above the Light.

It was also a world in which Tom Riddle, better known to her as Lord Voldemort, had during the late seventies and early eighties become the leader of those whom the Sovereignty had labelled 'Conservative insurgents.' Though not directly stated in the book, Hermione got the impression that these 'Conservative insurgents' also favored the Light Arts, but the book portrayed them as separatists who resisted adopting cutting-edge Muggle/Magical inventions in favor of maintaining narrow-minded, archaic traditions.

Despite this, the Conservatives' uprising - the response to which the book called "the First Conservative Intervention" - turned out to be a surprisingly powerful force, but it was nonetheless quelled when several of its leaders, Tom Riddle and a certain Lucius Malfoy included, mysteriously vanished in the mid-eighties. No stand-off between Riddle and Harry Evans/Potter seemed to have occurred, further explaining why Harry didn't have the famous scar of Universe A.

According to A Brief History, after this Dumbledore had only mildly oppressed those families which had supported the side of the Conservatives: many Pureblooded traditional families like the Malfoys, Blacks, Lestranges, and Parkinsons had been stripped of most if not all their wealth, land, titles, and reputations until they were 'poor' by most Wizarding standards.

These Purebloods (the book called them Old-Bloods, which Hermione supposed didn't give off quite the same superior connotation as "Pureblood," and likewise Half-Bloods were called Mixed-Bloods) were derogatorily referred to here as "Fusties" in much the same way that "Mudblood" had been applied to Muggleborns in Universe A. But the discrimination in Universe B went a step further: Businesses were given legal right to turn known Conservative supporters away from their doors and positions of employment. In this way, the Sovereignty had continued to control followers of the Light Arts until what would have been the middle of Hermione's fifth year.

That was when everything changed.

Riddle escaped from Azkaban, apparently where he had 'mysteriously vanished' to, and Conservative insurgents began to again emerge across the Sovereignty. After fifth year holidays, Hogwarts School was placed on hold so all hands would be available in what had become a full-out war of suppression... but of course was only formally titled "the Second Conservative Intervention."

By the middle of Hermione's sixth year in Universe A, Universe B's Sovereign Dumbledore, his Viceroys (Arthur Weasley and, surprisingly, Lily Evans), and the Sovereignty of the Phoenix had jointly defeated forces led by Bellatrix Black, Tom Riddle and Narcissa Malfoy.

Well, actually, Hermione rephrased, Riddle had simply 'vanished' again as soon as the war had ended. Not 'mysteriously vanished,' though, which perhaps meant that this time he might not have been in Azkaban...

It was completely flipped, she thought in shock, bowing her head and curling her knees to her chest in as tight a ball as she possibly could. In this world, good was bad and bad was good, and the good had lost. Hermione supposed it was comparable to soundly losing to Voldemort, in her world.

Still, her mind was throbbing with pure disbelief at associating any of those names – Malfoy, Riddle, and for Merlin's sake, Bellatrix? - with 'Light,' just as much as she was having a hard time imagining those who'd been members of the Order of the Phoenix as evil. And the book had mentioned Lily Evans, which meant that Harry finally had at least one parent who was alive!

Then again, Hermione considered, that wouldn't do him much good if she was as evil as Hermione was getting the impression Dumbledore was.

Slowly, she lifted her head again, taking several slow, long breaths before she kept reading. According to the book, the delay of the educational system due to the Second Intervention meant a year of school had to be made up, which would explain why she was attending classes now when she would be nineteen; the others in her year eighteen.

In a way, Hermione supposed she should be relieved she was on the winning side, apparently. But could she really pretend to be some brainless, materialistic woman who supported the Dark Arts for as long as she was trapped here? Hopefully with a little research, she'd be able to determine how to get herself back, but… what if it was irreversible?

The walls of her mind began to close frighteningly quickly while her breathing became shallow and ragged; her heart pounded.

What if I'm here… permanently?

Instantly, spots of black began to dot her yellowing vision.

Oh Bloody Morgana, she couldn't breathe; she couldn't… couldn't…

Her brain's logic centre reined in her careening thoughts before hyperventilation could set in, setting a firm boundary and shoving outward until her vision became clearer.

Slowly, she breathed in, and out. Again. And again.

Good Merlin, Hermione, this is why you think rationally rather than with your imagination. 'What ifs' will get you nowhere. Keep reading until you're fairly confident, and then figure out a plan.

'A plan?' some part of her felt steady enough to echo dryly.

Well… something! Come on, you've fought in a war! This isn't even that! This should be easy compared to that!

She snorted to herself.

Right... easy.

Sighing heavily, she admitted the truth of her mind's advice and allowed her eyes to flicker back down, flipping though the remainder of book. Most of pages were filled with an extremely long… index?

Frowning, she leaned closer, squinting and holding the lit tip of her wand closer to make out the small print in the dim light. It appeared to be a clearly marked and evidently very thorough register of those who had once been Conservative insurgents, except here the label atop the page was 'House-Wizards and Witches.'

Hermione stared blankly at the classification as Ronáld and Ginevra's argument on the Hogwarts Express flashed back to her. She knew all too well about the wizarding world's stance on House-Elves, but there had never been any record of witches and wizards being used like…

Swiftly, her stomach lurched, and she nearly vomited as the realization hit her all at once.

… being used like House-Elves. Like servants. Like slaves.

And with that, Dumbledore could end the threat of revolt for good.

Horror flooded her every nerve, and she looked back over the list of names with a fresh wave of numbed outrage. The index was arranged by location rather than alphabetized. More than two pages, filled with names and numbers, were devoted to a place called The Phoenix, but Hermione's gaze was drawn to a bolded Hogwarts. Beneath it were many names she didn't recognize, along with several she did. Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Flint, Montague, Black, Nott, McNair…

All her life, these names had been associated with the darkest of the dark - bigots, zealots, hunters and killers.

But now, if this book was to be believed... these people might very well be the opposite of that: the only decent people she might find in this world. And they were enslaved.

Her horrified gaze traveled downward. At the bottom of the Hogwarts section was a separate list – Personal House-Wizards to Students. On it were only five names; five lines. Apparently, only that many students were wealthy enough to afford their own, personal House-Wizard, Hermione thought in revulsion, ready to slam the book shut and dive headfirst into the Dark Arts Translation Spells and Enchantments section of the library, to find some way to get the bloody hell back to her world…

But her breath froze on her lips the moment her eyes skimmed the fourth line of tiny print.

The first three House-Wizard names, she didn't recognize.

This one, she did.

'A015, formerly Malfoy, Draco. Personal House-Wizard to Lord Ronáld Weasley (Primary) and Lady Ginevra Weasley (Secondary). 40,000 g.'

An image of the pompous platinum-haired wizard instantly flashed into her mind, his expression permanently set to sneer; she could even remember the haughty remark that usually came along with it: 'What are you looking at, you stupid Mudblood?'

Sure, Malfoy had been annoying, immature, and more than occasionally cruel, but no one – no House-Elf, no human, no one - deserved to have their basic rights taken from them.

Somehow, though, Hermione doubted a S.P.E.W.-type lobbying movement for human welfare would be very acceptable here.

And 'Lord Ronáld?' 'Lady Ginevra?' When had that happened - unless the Sovereign State was an aristocracy, and Mr. Weasley's status as one of Dumbledore's right hand Viceroys had also granted the Weasley family titles from the Sovereign himself. It was certainly a strong possibility.

Considering it from a purely objective standpoint, she found it odd that Ron, not Harry, would have chosen Draco, but this world was, again, turning out to be vastly different from the one she knew.

After a moment, her gaze was drawn back to the page, and she read the last name under Hogwarts.

'C128, formerly Parkinson, Pansy. Personal House-Witch to Lady My G. Evans. 10,500 g.'

Hm. So Harry had a sister. Obviously, if his parents survived, there was no reason why they couldn't have more children-

Ohhh wait.

A dangerous twinge of familiarity surged through her, and Hermione's mind lurched violently into rewind, going back ten, twenty minutes… an hour…

"My? You all there, pet? My-y…"

"Yes, My, cover."

"Was My acting all shirty and stroppy like this with you at the manor?"

Lady My G. Evans.

My G.

Hermione Granger.

Bloody hell.

A/N: Please do be kind and leave a review on your way onward. :-)