.-.

The Moving Statue

The moment she was safely within the depths of the castle and away from the delivery courtyard, Hermione swerved down a corridor leading to the dungeons. She nearly let out a shriek when she came face-to-face with an eerily life-like vampire statue. Heart racing, she gasped, placing a hand on her heaving chest before she gritted her teeth and hastily ducked into the niche behind the statue, just to be safe: A minute earlier, she was convinced she'd heard a muffled scream from beyond the walls nearby.

In the protective shadows the hulking statue lent, she refocused her attention on the yearbook and breathlessly flipped through it, nearly dropping it twice in her haste to find what she was looking for.

Ravenclaw… Ravenclaw... Hufflepuff… Hufflepuff … Hufflepuff… Gryffindor… Gryffindor… Gryffindor… Gryffindor? - Good Merlin, you'd think there's only one House; I can take a fair guess as to where all the first years want to be sorted… Gryffindor again, great Godric…

Suddenly, a flash of green passed her eye, and she swiftly caught the page.

Ah-ha.

The section was miniscule compared to half a book of red and gold, with the remainder devoted to the other Houses... as if the yearbook editor had done their best to obliterate any evidence of this particular House's existence altogether.

Quickly, she shifted the rather bulky book in her arms and whispered, "Lumos-"

" 'ey, Macmillan! Is it true you managed to snuff a Firestorm out of the parents?"

"Damn straight I did. Got an extra one, too, if anyone else on the team wants one, so my Gringotts account is open for offers -"

If only I had Harry's Invisibility Cloak! Hermione thought in frustration as the mature voices echoed down the corridor, signifying that the Welcome Feast must have come to an end. Quickly extinguishing her wandlight, she pressed herself deeper into the wall behind the vampire, still under the Disillusionment Charm, as a group of older Hufflepuffs noisily passed, Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley at the centre.

"-going to murder the Ravenclaws with Kendy out, Chang and Boot don't even have a Firebolt; can you imagine?"

…and not sounding much like the patient, kind, and gentle Hufflepuffs of her world, either.

Hermione let out the breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding when they made it to the far end of the hall. A second later, her wand was lit and her eyes were on the yearbook again, perusing the sole two pages – the front and back of a single page – dedicated to the House of Slytherin.

Even with the few group pictures it held, though, it was instantly obvious that there was something very different about this House from the arrogant smirks and wicked grins and cold glares from much of Gryffindor and also Hufflepuff.

The Slytherins looked truly happy.

Hermione scanned the student photos. Many included people she was used to seeing with a sneer or scowl or a hateful expression, but now, the only feeling the images gave – was positively radiating from them, actually - was that of pure genuineness. Bright, true smiles lit the faces of most Slytherins, save a few first and second years who were impishly making faces at the camera, and a few older students who, tellingly, just looked tired.

And these overall happy students – no matter that they had been pricks in her world; it was clear to her that they were very different here, and she was the prick – were now being treated worse than the most oppressed of beasts or beings.

Hermione didn't want to imagine what it was like to be a House-Wizard or House-Witch in a Dark Arts-fueled totalitarian wizarding world. Frankly, she hadn't the foggiest idea – it wasn't as if she'd had any need to learn the intricacies of slavery-type bonds in her world. Not only had they been outlawed since 1797, she had simply been too engrossed in learning every bit of information and incantations that she, Harry, and Ron would need to survive, both in a war and out of one.

Her gaze were drawn to a small group picture at the bottom of the page, recognizably taken outside The Three Broomsticks in the thick of winter. In it were none other than a fifth year Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy.

The loop showed Malfoy sneaking up behind the dark skinned boy and dumping a pile of snow on his head. Pansy took one look at the expression of utter indignance that instantly exploded across Blaise's face and started laughing, particularly when Malfoy narrowly avoided a somewhat violently thrown snowball á là Blaise. He wisely scooted around Pansy, chortling, and caught her up in a bear hug from behind to shield himself from Blaise's attack. This, incidentally, only caused her to laugh harder and try to wriggle from his grasp, but in the end all three of them fell in a heap on the snowy ground, laughing wildly, and then the photographic loop began again.

An hour ago, the animation of three teenagers Hermione had always known as nothing but 'pompous gits' - in Ron's words - may have surprised her. But after her encounter with Malfoy, Hermione doubted there was much left that had the power to catch her off guard anymore.

She lost track of the time she simply stood there, staring at the image, unable to quell the overwhelming wave of biliousness and absolute isolation that had swept through her with alarming strength. It reminded her so much of her Ron and her Harry, and the world that she had been inexplicably ripped from…

To here. A living hell of nothing but darkness in which the people she loved had turned into the very people she had been fighting against; here, where she doubted an ounce of good even existed - or at least not one that wasn't tossed into a cellar and chained away.

Finally, Hermione briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again, forcing herself to study the photo more closely for anymore clues to differences between her world and this one. This Blaise sported a wild head of natural curls that was very unlike the Blaise of Universe A, but she didn't know him well enough to make comparisons beyond that.

Pansy, however, was a different story. Her face wasn't twisted into the judgmental, haughty scowl or smirk she'd always worn in Hermione's world. With said girl smiling in a surprisingly shy manner, Hermione was struck by the unexpected glow of understated beauty about her.

Somewhat hesitantly, Hermione moved on to the last member of what must have been a trio. His graphically beaten form was still hauntingly fresh in her mind, which was why looking down at the Draco Malfoy of three years ago was like looking at a completely different person.

Instead of being snarled dark with muck and blood, Malfoy's white-blond hair was loose, locks of it falling messily into his eyes, which were sparkling in a mischievous, curiously Dumbledore-esque manner. His pale features, flushed from the cold, were completely relaxed and comfortable despite the fact that Blaise was in hot pursuit, an easy smile on his face rather than a smirk.

Save for his distinct gray eyes and fair hair, he hardly resembled the great bouncing ferret of her world, let alone the battered, captive young man she had seen less than fifteen minutes earlier.

Breathing hard, Hermione slammed the yearbook shut and leaned her head back against the cold stone wall, finally allowing her exhausted eyes to close. She had absolutely no desire to see anymore pictures of laughing individuals when she knew that the light in their eyes had most certainly been snuffed out since.

But a low, scraping noise, as if stone was grinding against stone, rudely interrupted her brief moment of tranquility.

Her eyes flew open. Swiftly, she temporarily vanished the yearbook and looked around her in a futile attempt to locate the source of the sudden sound.

What on -

Suddenly, inches beside her, the vampire statue itself slowly began to move.

Hermione let out a muffled squeak of surprise and leapt out of the niche into the deserted hallway. The statue wouldn't be moving unless someone was going to emerge from it – someone who, most likely, wasn't on Hermione's side. Whatever room or passage the vampire statue covered, it wasn't on the Marauder's Map, and Hermione didn't quite fancy the thought of being caught and Obliviated in the name of secrecy, even if she convinced them she'd only stumbled across it accidentally.

In her utter exhaustion, the memory of her Disillusionment cover flew from her mind. She had never more clearly felt the absence of Harry's Invisibility Cloak, she desperately searched for another statue or anything she could duck behind... but only bare stone walls lined the corridor save a single, closed wooden door near the far end of it that she'd never be able to reach in time.

Sweet Morgana, if only she were invisible!

Invisible…

Hermione froze as the notion struck her. An invisibility charm, of course! It would be so simple…

It would be so impossible.

The main reason behind the invention of the Invisibility Cloak was because the most advanced invisibility charm - one that cloaked the wearer from even human-presence-detecting charms - was so difficult to cast that it was rarer to find a person who could complete it than a person who owned a Cloak. Many considered the Charm impractical anyway: like all magic, the spell did have its limitations, and performing any other magic while under its influence would effectively cancel the invisibility and nullify the spell. Even still, Hermione had attempted it a number of times after the Golden Trio had fled Hogwarts their seventh year, but it was one of the few high-level charms she'd never been able to execute successfully.

Despite that, Hermione mentally ran through the nonverbal charm, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears.

As the twisting vampire came to a halt, revealing a gaping black hole in the stone floor beneath it, Hermione quickly inhaled several breaths and squeezed her eyes shut, swiftly turning her wand on herself. Deliberately, systematically, she summoned her store of magic until she felt it humming through her veins. As the sound of a woman's voice became audible, Hermione channeled that power toward a single, unspoken incantation with all the will she possessed.

OCCAECO!

"- waste of time and space. Be done with him already, for Merlin's sake! With all due respect, I have more things to do with my staff than trying to keep him functional enough to answer the Phoenix's questions."

Please work, please work, sweet Morgana please work…

Swiftly, Hermione opened her eyes in time to see an almost unrecognizable Minerva McGonagall climbing from the gap in the floor, as if there were stairs beneath it, a pointed wizard's hat in hand. Stepping aside and straightening richly-designed, very clearly marked Headmistress robes, she absently threw a glance in Hermione's direction… and looked straight through her.

Hermione's shoulders slumped. Letting out a soft breath, she briefly closed her eyes in amazement and relief, the fingers of her wand hand still warm and tingling with magic. The spell had worked!

The knowledge that she could finally perform the wizarding world's most advanced invisibility charm lifted unspeakable pressure from her shoulders. So minuscule a percentage of the population could produce eighth-level charmwork that it wasn't even taught in NEWT-level courses, and most security wards (ironically) almost never guarded against it. As long as this wasn't simply a one-off, she could at least rest easy in the expectation she'd be able to maneuver the castle safely and covertly in the very likely event she would need to.

Feeling a bit giddy and rather pleased with herself, Hermione's gaze shifted back across the hallway, studying this world's iteration of her former Head of House. McGonagall's face looked startlingly younger and much less wrinkled, almost as if she'd had Muggle plastic surgery. Hermione mentally chuckled at the idea, but the fact that McGonagall did appear less aged remained nonetheless, her hair now smoothly down and framing her face in a sleek, unbelievably chic Pageboy cut instead of a severe bun, the gray dyed pure silver.

Curiosity kept Hermione in place as McGonagall continued to speak to a slender figure draped in a black, hooded cloak who was also ascending from the new, well-guarded passageway. "It's been fourteen years, and he still hasn't said any words you want to hear. Somehow, I don't think you're going to get much more -"

Abruptly, the cloaked person held up a hand. Hermione was surprised when McGonagall actually obeyed the motion and stopped talking, looking more concerned than exasperated. "My lady, what – "

"I… felt something, a second ago," a younger, throaty but feminine voice slowly said in a sultry, breathy tone that sounded very much like the one Hermione was trying to feign. The unknown woman's head fluidly twisted toward the very area where Hermione stood. "Something… powerful. Something dangerous."

Despite this assertion, the woman seemed eerily calm.

The 'I-am-untouchable' attitude that the invisibility charm had inadvertently conjured in Hermione's mind quickly began to fade at the unconcealed authority dripping from the woman's low purr as she continued, "Something that I haven't felt here in a long time, Minerva.

Something in her voice sent a jolt of terror into Hermione's heart, even though she knew they couldn't possibly see her. She recognized that tone. It was troublingly intelligent - dark, calculating - just like Voldemort would always be before he –

Bloody Morgana!

Her heart pounding wildly, Hermione instinctively fell to her knees and then flat to the ground a split second before the woman unexpectedly flung the point of her wand toward the spot where Hermione's head had been a heartbeat before. "SPECIALIS REVELIO!"

The force behind the spell was so powerful that it slammed into the wall behind Hermione with a resounding Crack!, instantly charring the stones around the impact point black and sending a shower of sparks cascading down around her.

In the pause that followed, Hermione gasped in a silent breath of relief, clutching at the cobblestone floor. Looking up again, she desperately tried to see the cloaked woman's features, but the long, draping hood blocked all visibility of them except a slender, pale jawline leading to a pair of deeply red lips that were currently pursed in the same manner Hermione's own did whenever she was deep in thought.

Holy Mother of Merlin. Who is this?

Apparently, not sharing the woman's concern nor her heightened senses, McGonagall asked, "Are you satisfied?" She reached over into the vampire statue's gaping mouth, maneuvering her hand between two fangs and briefly holding it somewhere behind them with a mutter of, "Intercido."

As the statue again rumbled to life and shifted back over the dark slice in the floor below it, the cloaked figure's head cocked slightly in Hermione's direction. "Hm," she said coolly. Ignoring the Headmistress's question and the fact that she had just damaged Hogwarts property, she crisply turned on her heel and briskly strode off down the hall. "Must have been nothing."

For as offhandedly as she had thrown out the words, Hermione didn't think she sounded entirely convinced.

Lovely. I've been here for little more than six hours, and I've already drawn a great deal of very much unwanted attention to myself. While I'm invisible, no less!

"Of course." McGonagall caught up with the other woman quickly, carefully fitting her pointed wizards' cap back over her head. "Hagrid is moving the personal House-Wizards and Witches back in today; the castle does feel out of sorts with that filth being taken about the main corridors."

The response was sharp, crisp, and detached. "Regardless, if even the slightest hint of suspicious behavior is displayed by either student, staff or otherwise, you know where to report it. We have plenty of people who specialize in… interrogation."

"Oh, the faculty and students are well aware of that, my lady; it's always best to keep a close eye on things so soon after an intervention. Do you want me to find the current password to your children's common room?"

"No. I spoke with them earlier; I have no desire to see either again for at least a month. I'll get it the next time the Sovereign wants a personal cross-examination of..."

As their voices faded around a corner and down the next hall, Hermione quickly rose to her feet, straightening her impossibly tight uniform and wincing as she rubbed her knees where she'd fallen on them. Within seconds, her eyes were drawn back to the point at which the woman's spell and the wall had collided.

It was still smoking.

Gripping her wand with a shaking hand, Hermione abruptly took a rapid step backward, and then another, until she was blindly backing down the hallway in the opposite direction that McGonagall and the woman had walked. Of course, she had guessed this ruling Sovereignty had to have been intelligent and vicious to have so unconditionally suppressed both Conservative rebellions, but to actually witness that power was another thing entirely. What she had just seen and heard had scared her more than she expected it would, more than reading about the upturned history of this world, more than seeing how terribly Draco Malfoy was being treated, and almost more than seeing how different Ronáld and Harry and Ginevra were from her beloved versions of them.

For all of Hermione's knowledge and talent and the power it gave her, she was only one person. In her world, even in the midst of the war, she'd always had someone beside her, whether it was Harry or Ron, or one of her classmates, or the Weasleys, or the Order of the Phoenix.

Now, were she to be picked out or suspected as a Light supporter, whether by an automatic display of repugnance at the cruel mistreatment of any human being or magical creature, by a slight slip of her mannerisms, or by even the slightest hesitance to act like they did… she had no one.

She was nothing but a tiny, solitary pinhead of light in a pitch black Great Hall, and if she wasn't vigilant of her words and actions during every every second of every day, the humane, intelligent beliefs with which she had been raised and cherished deeply could very well get her 'interrogated.'

Or killed.

As Harry had alluded earlier, the painting that covered the entrance to the Head common room was a still life of a rather chilling night scene of the Forbidden Forest, and was therefore unable to relay a message to whoever was inside.

Hermione stared at the canvas for at least a minute before she gathered enough dignity to lift her hand and knock.

And knock.

And knock.

Come on, Harry, I know you're in there.

Sighing in frustration, she unsteadily shoved a hand through unnaturally smooth, voluminous curls and blew out a shaky breath, still thoroughly shaken from her too-close-for-comfort encounter. After a moment, she lifted her hand to again pound on the wall beside the life-sized frame when an abrupt thump and subsequent painting shift revealed Harry's scowling form.

It was odd, but he really was much taller and broader than she remembered him being. Obviously peer-reviewed research might be a bit lacking, but was it possible for a person to grow more in one universe than he did in the other?

"About bloody time," he muttered, instantly turning on his heel and stalking back into the depths of the common room. He still wasn't wearing glasses - given Harry's terrible vision, he must have either been using Muggle contacts or had a procedure to repair his vision entirely. In a strange way, the physical difference helped to remind her that this wasn't the Harry she knew and loved.

Hermione decided it wouldn't be the wisest choice tell him the reason for his current irritation stemmed from her need to avoid the school's Headmistress and a high-ranking Sovereignty official after stumbling upon a particularly secret passageway and interfering with Hagrid's and Filch's apparently legal human trafficking activities.

Forcing an expression of indifference to her face, Hermione instantly changed her gait to a strut and sashayed inside after him. Although on a slightly smaller scale, the common room seemed to be modeled after Gryffindor's, complete with a crackling fireplace and a red and gold colour scheme, which probably wouldn't have been the case if either of them was in a different House.

"So sorry," she began offhandedly, lowering her voice a few notches and softening it to more of a purr so she sounded appropriately My-like - or what she hoped was appropriately My-like, "I simply seem to have gotten myself… turned around."

"Gotten yourself 'turned around?' " Harry scathingly echoed, stiffly pausing at the foot of the staircase up to his dorms without even looking at her. "In a school that you've attended for almost seven years, you've gotten yourself 'turned around?' " He snorted, shaking his head, and crossed his arms. "That's so like you, My. That's so like you."

For someone who'd said hardly a word on the train, not even to his girlfriend, he certainly didn't seem to have any trouble coming up with insults for her now.

"Now, now, Harry," she cooed, holding back a wince of disgust at her own tone, "We used to be such good friends… and now, we're practically family," she added in a sickly sweet voice, giving him a little, deliberately artificial smile in an attempt to extract any useful information from him. "Why oh why do you hate me so?"

Instantly, Harry's head swiveled toward her, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "No matter what sort of magic the adoptive enchantments work, you will never be my sister," he spat acidly, his speech unnaturally slow, as if he was doing everything possible to reign in a wave of fury. He leveled a glower of loathing at her that would have sent even Snatchers squeaking away for their lives. "And you know damn well why I hate you, I'm not about to play this game again."

Hermione refused to be intimidated. First Draco Malfoy's 'come for a bit more fun' comment, and now this: What had My done to Harry? Whatever rift was between them, she couldn't successfully pretend to be My around him if she didn't have the slightest idea of what it was.

"But you know as well as I do that I have such a terrible long-term memory," she breathed saucily, prowling up directly behind him and idly tracing her fingertips down the smooth wood of the banister. She paused in her motion and glanced up at him demurely. "Why don't you… tell me again?"

Harry briefly stared down at her, his lifeless emerald eyes suddenly dark with fury, before he yanked himself away. "Go to hell, Granger," he hissed. "You bloody well deserve to be there!" He spun and stormed up to his room, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him with a BANG.

The angry sound drove a sharp pain through her chest like a knife.

In the deafening silence that followed, Hermione stared at the top of the landing. Her hammering heart abruptly ached, and tears began to sting her eyes. This man might not have been the best friend she knew so well, but he looked looked exactly like him. Hearing him spit words of detestation directly in her face hurt badly and only reminded her that she very suddenly had no one.

At least she'd played My well, Hermione supposed tiredly. The breathy, insincere, over-exaggeratedly-naïve-but-in-reality-far-from-it Marilyn Monroe type seemed to be working perfectly, but so far, all it had gotten her was that yes, she had definitely been adopted by the Evans/Potters, and yes, Harry hated her with a passion for a reason that she should apparently be well aware of.

While both the Ronáld and even Ginevra of this universe seemed to unmistakably possess sadistic characteristics, Harry didn't seem like he was entirely evil, in the worst sense of the word. He just seemed... angry. And empty. And that was really all. But if the history book was to be believed, his mother was alive in this universe. He seemed to be well-off, and a 'Lord' at that (whatever that meant). What had happened to him to cause such profound unhappiness?

Hermione shook her head in exhaustion. It was a mystery. This entire world was a mystery that she truly didn't want to solve, and if all went well, she hoped to Merlin she'd be out of here before she had to.

Sighing heavily, she trudged up the stairs to the Head Girl suite, unable to hold back several successive and rather massive yawns. It'd been at least 48 hours since she'd properly slept, and all she wanted was for this to be a horrible dream - well, nightmare: for her to fall asleep and wake up in the middle of the very battlefield from which she'd come.

At the thought, she nearly laughed. Imagine, that she'd rather be there, at the final battle, than safe – "safe" – at Hogwarts! It was ridiculous. This… This was all absolutely ridiculous!

Wearily removing the uncharacteristically plentiful makeup from her face with a mumbled cleaning spell, Hermione blearily stumbled to the massive bed and collapsed onto it without even bothering to turn on the light, without looking around what had become her temporary new home… without even removing her clothes.

A/N: Welcome to all new readers! Thank you so much for your great reviews... it means so much to know you're following along! Theories as to the mystery woman's identity?