.-.

Changing Alliances

The hunt to find a possible method for destroying Horcruxes had gone slowly but surely, just like she remembered… until the Battle of Knockturn Alley in their attempt to reach a valuable encyclopedia of ancient spells from a dodgy bookstore there.

"REDUCTO!"

Hermione blasted her way out of the shop, sending several Death Eaters flying backward as the store door slammed into them on its chaotic explosion outward.

"Harry, I've got it!" she shouted over the volume of the skirmish. She shoved the book into her shrunken supply pack and lunged out of Tomes and Tonics toward her friend, who was fighting alongside Remus Lupin several yards away. "I've got it; we've got to get out of here now!"

Harry was draped in a dark cloak in a failed attempt to hide his identity. He fired off a blue jet of magic, its incantation lost in the melee, then swiftly turned toward her and yelled in reply, "Find Ron and go! I'll be along in a min–"

His words were cut short.

At that moment, instead of managing to dodge Snape's Sectumsempra like he had in Hermione's memory, he got caught dead in the middle of it, and his blood – his blood was suddenly everywhere.

"Harry!" she screamed. She dashed toward him, hurtling over bodies, ducking curses and blindly firing Stunning Spells at any dark form that darted into her line of vision. When she reached him she fell to her knees, her hands shaking. "Harry, Harry - Wake up. Wake up!"

But when she ripped back his hood...

The pale, lifeless face belonged not to Harry Potter, but to Draco Malfoy.

Hermione let out a muffled shriek and heaved herself straight up in bed, gasping in panicked breaths.

CRASH!

Abruptly, a very real shatter ricocheted off the walls to her right.

Hermione's frantically pounding heart nearly stopped beating, and her mind automatically whirred to the defense. Before she even realized she'd moved, her wand was in her hand, pointing in the direction from which the noise had come. The bedroom was dark, and she had absolutely no idea what time it was, but someone else was unquestionably inside.

She quickly muttered a general lighting spell, and illumination flickered to every nearby lamp and candle. She was surprised to find the luxuriously large living space extravagantly decorated in deep burgundies and violets rather than Gryffindor red: it held an opulent desk, two very oversized bureaus, a bookcase, a partially open door that seemed to lead to a large closet, and another that was likely to a toilet.

Everything was incredibly orderly… and empty.

Hermione frowned, her eyes narrowed. She definitely hadn't imagined that crash...

Just then, she heard the softest tinkling of glass beyond the opposite side of the king-sized bed.

Gripping her wand tightly, Hermione crawled out from under the covers and cautiously, silently edged across the bed on her hands and knees. The task was more difficult than she'd anticipated; with each motion the ridiculously plush mattress bobbed like a bloody trampoline. As she reached the end of the bed, however, a head appeared beyond the excessive pile of blankets Hermione had flung aside sometime during the night.

From the way both persons froze, it was difficult to tell who was more surprised: Hermione or the thin, white-faced woman whose pale countenance was even more accented by dark hair pulled back into a tight braid.

The girl from the yearbook picture.

But she was older now, with deep shadows beneath her eyes and an exhausted face that did not glow with happiness, wearing what appeared to be a rumpled, worn gray uniform. Her hands were poised, frozen, above a pile of broken glass at her knees.

It took Hermione a few seconds to register that this was Pansy Parkinson, and at least a few more to figure out how to proceed from there. She and Hermione both were vastly different people from the last time Hermione had encountered another Pansy Parkinson in this castle: now two adult women who rightfully shouldn't have even been at Hogwarts anymore.

But why is she in my room? At seven in the morning!

Wait… I own Pansy.

At the thought, a sudden chill passed through her.

She remained still, partially afraid to open her mouth for fear that something intelligent would pop out. Should she pretend to be My? But if she did… Well, Pansy looked terrified. No doubt My was horrible to her, which Hermione flat-out refused to be. On the other hand, she wasn't yet prepared to trust anyone with the fact that she was someone else entirely, and someone who'd played a significant role in dealing the folding hand to the Dark Lord of her universe at that, even if Pansy was supposed to be on 'the good side.'

The words Hermione had heard the night before were still frighteningly clear in her mind:

"Regardless, if even the slightest amount of suspicious behavior is displayed… you know where to report it."

"Oh, the faculty and students are well aware of that…"

So who should she be? My? Hermione? A mix of both?

"L-Lady E-Ev-Evans, I – I'm so sorry," Pansy abruptly stammered out in a soft voice, jerking into motion as she quickly bent over the shards again. Fumbling, she began to pick up the shattered pieces with bare, shaking hands. "I h-hadn't expected you up so soon, I… I'm s-so sorry…"

Hermione's surprised mind unstuck and snapped into action. Whatever had fallen had been completely demolished. Pansy would never be able to gather up everything - and why should she, if Hermione had a wand?

In a split second, she'd made her decision. She wanted her room to be her refuge, not another stage. She was determined to have one place where she could be herself, and if that meant swearing Pansy to a modified secrecy, then that was what Hermione would do. In any case, Pansy would undoubtedly be a good source of information, and information was what Hermione needed more than anything else right now.

She held out a hand, trying to stop Pansy's frantic attempts to eliminate the mess. "All right, now just – just wait a moment before you-"

Suddenly, Pansy let out a soft gasp and grasped the fingers of her right hand, dropping the shards she'd managed to collect back to the ground.

"...hurt yourself," Hermione finished weakly.

Sighing, she briefly glanced down to make sure her clothes were still somewhat on – it was the five-sizes-too-small skirt she was worried about - before she slid off the bed, being careful to avoid the broken glass.

"Here... let me see your hand," she said kindly.

As Hermione crouched down across from her, Pansy froze again. It was painfully evident she was afraid to comply; the pale-faced woman, who, strangely, looked quite unlike the Pansy Parkinson of her world, must have been living under a none-too-forgiving slave driver for the past two years, though her conditions were still nothing like Draco Malfoy's, thank Merlin and all the ghosts for Pansy.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Hermione said reassuringly, still holding out her hand. What she said and did from that moment on was going to make a lasting impression, and Hermione intended for it to be a good one. "Let me see your hand. Despite what you may think, I can fix it, I really can."

Reluctantly, slowly, Pansy released her grip on her fingers, revealing a bleeding crimson line across the length of them. Her deep blue eyes never left Hermione's face as she silently held out her hand, and she jerked once when Hermione gently took it in her own. If My had been as idiotic and/or cruel as it sounded like she had, Hermione supposed Pansy probably had more than legitimate cause to be concerned.

"It's alright," she said, giving the woman a reassuring smile. Pansy looked like she couldn't quite decide whether to be frightened or confused, so Hermione sighed and turned back to the task at hand, expertly casting the same healing charm on the nasty gash that she'd cast on Malfoy the night before.

One Episkey later and Pansy, still frozen in place, stared at Hermione, the mild distrust in her eyes mingling with astonishment.

Hermione wasn't especially eager to dive into an explanation she knew she'd have to give sooner than later, so she sent a basic repairing charm at the splintered glass. A beautiful jewelry box with the letter 'M' engraved in the middle reappeared on the floor before them.

"See?" she said lightly. "The box is whole, and so is your hand. No harm done."

She sent the Pansy another small, friendly smile, but Pansy quickly lowered her disbelieving gaze. "T-Thank you, Lady Evans - I - I'm so sorry... Here." Quickly, she stood and grabbed a rather long, familiar-looking roll of parchment off the nearby bureau. "This… This came for you…"

After practically shoving it in Hermione's hands, she stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her, bowing her head as if waiting for more instructions.

Hermione didn't bother looking down at her timetable of classes. She simply stared at Pansy, her heart aching. She had hardly spoken to the woman for all of two minutes and yet she couldn't take another moment of it, the whispering and the bowed head and shoulders and the glances of terror - couldn't bear to see anyone so bloody afraid of her, especially when Pansy had no reason to be. Not anymore.

Nor was she especially keen on keeping her as her House-Witch. While she didn't know the specific stipulations of the House-Witch bond, she assumed that, as Pansy's owner, she could technically 'free' her. Still, Hermione had seen the hatred that came with war, and she had to be realistic. She could only imagine that any Sovereignty supporters – which seemed to consist of the entire country, and probably most students at Hogwarts – would only attack Pansy and enslave her again if Hermione dropped her off at the Hogwarts exit.

No, as much as she hated to consider it, the safest place for Pansy at the moment was probably right where she was. Hermione certainly wasn't going to start treating her like she was her House-Witch, no matter what My had previously expected from her… but now she needed Pansy to realize that.

Hermione pushed herself off the floor, her tired muscles aching in protest, and sat back on the bed, literally sinking into the plum-colored quilt. The overly buoyant mattress let out a happy little 'blurch,' and she wondered if it actually was a waterbed. She almost rolled her eyes; of course her superficial alter ego here would have something so excessively extravagant it was uncomfortable.

"Pansy, I need to talk to you," she said slowly, still trying to come up with a semi-believable/semi-true story. "Why don't you come over here?"

Pansy stared at her, confusion evident in her gaze. She eventually nodded and whispered in an eerily subservient voice, "Yes, Lady Evans." Tentatively, she drew up alongside the bed and stood nervously, staring at the ground.

Hermione noticed that the knuckles on the Slytherin's tightly clasped hands were quickly turning a deeper shade of white, and she smiled sympathetically. "Please, have a seat if you'd like," she said genially, patting the bed.

If anything, Pansy looked even more jumpy at this request, particularly when Hermione led it with 'please.' Slowly, she sat down on the very edge of the bed on the other side of the bedpost, the mattress releasing another blurgh and shooting Hermione up like the other side of a seesaw at the additional weight.

Hermione frowned down at it briefly before she took a small breath, focusing back on the nervous woman across from her. "Right. While I was on the train, I… hit my head. It was a bit of a life or death, paradigm-shifting experience and I had a… slight change of heart." Merlin, there's no possible way she's going to believe any of this, Hermione thought with a groan. Still, she continued, "So – disregarding everything I've told you in the past – I don't want you to start acting House-Elf-like just because you're… bound to me like you are."

Pansy stared at her for a moment before her brow scrunched in perplexity. "H-House-Elf-like, my Lady?" she echoed hesitantly.

"House-Elf-like," Hermione confirmed with a nod of her head. "I want you to be yourself around me, which means that I don't want you to be afraid to act like yourself. In return, I'll listen to what you have to say and not order you about as if you were a House-Witch."

To say that Pansy's uncharacteristically hollow face was stunned would be an understatement, but she quickly closed her open mouth and asked uncertainly, "So, in other words, you… you want me to say what's on my mind?"

Probably the last thing any proper House-Witch owner would do, Hermione expected angrily.

"Yes. Precisely," she said. "And when I say 'House-Elf-like,' I mean that you don't need to say, "Yes, my Lady,' and 'No, my Lady,' and wait on me hand and foot."

"Isn't that what a House-Witch generally does?" Pansy asked listlessly, staring down at her hands.

"No, a House-Witch generally does what her owner wants them to do," Hermione countered logically, even though she hated the words coming out of her own mouth. "You're not a robot, you're human, and as such, I'd rather you acted like one. For example, do you normally speak to people like you do me?"

Pansy lowered her head a bit. "After… After two years, Lady Evans, you begin to forget how to speak to people," she whispered faintly. Then she flinched and quickly glanced at Hermione, as if she expected some sort of retribution for her words.

Great Godric… what kind of cruel person was My?

"Pansy, please listen, because I mean what I'm saying now with everything I am." Hermione lowered her head until her earnest gaze met Pansy's. "I might have been horrible to you before, but… I've changed my mind about a lot of things. Were it possible, you'd be free right now, but with the situation as it is, I suspect you'd only end up as a target. Regardless of that, I am truly, truly sorry for everything I've done to you throughout the years."

Pansy tore her gaze from Hermione's and sat stiffly, her jaw clenched. Finally, without looking up, she said quietly, "You really expect me to accept that… m-my Lady?" she quickly added tremulously.

Hermione sighed quietly. "I know it's a lot and I won't force you to believe it, but I sincerely hope that the longer we spend time together, you will. I realize you're not going to understand the reasons behind most of this, but that's irrelevant. The point is…" Pausing, she mulled indecisively over her next words before deciding that it might be to her advantage to say them. "The point is, my alliances may be changing, and I think it would be very beneficial to the both of us if we began to work together."

For a moment, only silence met her words.

"Your alliances may be changing," Pansy repeated doubtfully. Suddenly, and with surprising temerity, energy sprang to her timid voice. "Your alliances may be changing when you've already won the war? When you've been adopted by the most influential woman of the ruling class? When you've never even cared about anything beyond your own prestige and looking pretty?"

The moment the words exited her mouth, she looked shocked that she'd said them, and quickly bowed her head again, shooting another fearful glance at Hermione.

But Hermione just felt an overwhelming sense of relief that the woman still had some fight left in her, and that the subjugation hadn't simply turned her into an honest-to-goodness walking corpse, like it had some imprisoned Muggleborns that she, Harry and Ron had encountered and helped free from the Nott Estate a few weeks before the final battle. After they'd been flung from Death Eater to Death Eater for over two years, they'd been reduced to mere shells of human beings.

Their empty eyes - eyes that, if Hermione had been captured, very well could have belonged to her - still at once haunted her, infuriated her and broke her heart.

"It doesn't make sense," she agreed. "No matter which way you look at it, it doesn't, and I know that. The way I'm speaking to you right now doesn't make sense either, does it?" she added pointedly. "Does My utilize, much less possess this sort of vocabulary? She doesn't, does she?"

Pansy stared at her for several seconds, a multitude of decipherable emotions – bafflement, doubtful enlightenment, and then hesitant hope among them – crossing her face until she whispered, "Who - who are you?" Her voice was still diffident, but there was a new, underlying vein of excitement in it as she continued more quickly, "Do I know you from – Are you… under Polyjuice; what -?"

Hermione shook her head. "No," she said quickly, before Pansy's imagination could fantasize too many incorrect conclusions that might leave her terribly disappointed if and when Hermione told her the full truth. "For now, just take my word that I've changed. Considerably. I also seem to have forgotten a few things along the way, so don't be surprised if I ask some rather basic questions," she added with a wry smile. She lay the schedule aside and stuck out her hand. "Call me Hermione. No 'Lady Evans' or 'My' or any of that. Just Hermione."

Pansy ogled the offered handshake for a substantial amount of time before she took it quite warily. "Pansy… Parkinson?" she said uncertainly, phrasing it as more of a question than a statement, as if she still wasn't certain whether or not My Evans had somehow changed into a different person entirely, in which case a full introduction on her part would be necessary.

For the first time since she'd arrived 'here,' wherever 'here' was, a spontaneous smile settled itself across Hermione's features. "Pansy Parkinson, you must think me completely barmy at the moment, but it's really very, very nice to meet you."

A tentative grin tugged halfheartedly at the right side of Pansy' mouth, the expression in her eyes torn between confusion and relief.

As Hermione gave Pansy some time to process everything she'd sprung upon her, she picked it up the timetable again, scanning it. It was sparse, and Hermione vaguely wondered how My was managing to graduate in seven years. The Dark Arts, Lupin… Divination, Trelawney; sod it all, not that again… Potions, Snape; thrilling--

Snape!

Her mouth fell open as she gaped down at the paper. What on earth was he doing here?

"Hermi- Hermione," Pansy finally repeated, sounding out Hermione's name as Hermione snapped her mouth shut, her ears trying to decipher Pansy's words while her mind tried to understand the logic behind Snape's presence. "That's why My stands for?"

Snape had been "bad" in her world… but he had been a spy for the good side… but then he had murdered Dumbledore and defected to Voldemort's forces and hadn't come back to the Order of the Phoenix since… so which side had he really been on? Did that mean that in this world, was he still a spy, this time for the good side?

Or…

Hermione blinked at the staggering other possibility: Had he really been, somehow, still working for the Order when he'd killed Dumbledore? If so, it would place him, as what seemed to be the case, firmly on the side of the Sovereignty in this world. But was it possible for him to be any more of a pernicious prick here than he had been in her world?

"Erm… yes," she eventually said distractedly, her voice half-strangled. After a second, she tore her eyes away from the timetable, and, more specifically, Snape's name. She'd have to think on it extensively later, once she'd had a class with him. "Bit unusual, I know," she added in a more normal tone. She pushed the schedule away from her again and glanced at Pansy in surprise. "You didn't know that?"

The Slytherin shrugged, shooting an uncertain glance in her direction. "Well – I mean, I don't know you. Not really," she said, nervously twisting her hands in her lap. "Everyone's always called you My, so we thought it stood for Mya or some exotic…"

Abruptly, a flash of pain crossed Pansy's face. Her shoulders sagged, and she trailed off, as she staring expressionlessly at the finely carved bureau across from Hermione's bed. Hermione knew instantly she was thinking about the 'we' in her statement, her captured or killed friends, and a deep ache of pain and homesickness that was no doubt very similar to what Pansy was experiencing burned at her own gut.

Quickly, she moved the subject elsewhere rather than linger on the seeming hopelessness of both their situations.

"Well, I suppose 'Hermione' could be considered exotic. It has roots in Greek mythology," she said thoughtfully. "It took me two years to teach one bloke I knew how to say it correctly. Two years of Her-mon-ninny." The short, mirthless laugh in her throat couldn't quite make it past her lips as an image of Viktor flashed to mind. In a pained voice, she added, "Please, please do not call me My."

Pansy's focus had returned to Hermione, and she drew her right leg beneath her so she could face her rather than the wall, her braid flipping over her shoulder as she shifted. She took a deep breath, looking nervous. "So… basically… you've had a complete turnabout in conscience, name preference, and mannerisms because you hit your head, but you… you won't tell me why?"

"Basically," Hermione responded cautiously, glad to hear some of the timidity fading from her voice. "For example," she started, suddenly grateful to release some of her frustration now that she had someone to talk to, "Everyone I've met so far – that would include Harry, Ginevra, and Ruh-naahllld" - here she melodramatically said his formalized name with nasally scorn – "seem to be nothing but cruel, loathsome monsters, and if only I knew I could, I'd - I'd..."

Jinx them until they felt the pain they apparently so seemed to enjoy causing others.

Run away and never come back.

Somehow find a way out of this insanity without being killed first?

Restraining a moan, she buried her face in her hands, shoving her fingers through her hair. Merlin, how in the bloody hell was she going to continue associating with the lot of them - everyone at Hogwarts, really, if every personality had assumed the twisted forms they'd appeared to - as if she actually liked them?

Pansy was silent for several seconds, bunching and unbunching the rough material of the gray skirt. "You must've off and hit your head something awful," she finally offered rather hesitantly.

Hermione sighed tiredly. "You've no idea." She slumped down on the bed - the bloody water mattress and billowing sheets and comforters nearly swallowed her - fumbled for the nearest pillow and stuffed it over her face. So much absolute insanity had happened in the last 72 hours, between this universe and her own...

"My head hurts," she mumbled.

She didn't know how much time passed while neither woman moved or spoke another word.

"Oh, there's something—" Pansy said suddenly, and Hermione easily felt her weight shift off the bed.

Reluctantly, she lifted the pillow from her face and pushed herself up on one elbow, which only caused her to quite literally sink further into the mattress's clutches.

The other woman pulled open the door to what appeared to be a walk-in closet. "I unpacked all your things last night, but I didn't know where you wanted this."

She emerged with a dark, vaguely familiar-looking bag.

Hermione froze, her breath catching low in her throat.

It was the same rucksack she'd had on her during the final battle.

"I don't remember you packing it," Pansy was continuing in her soft voice, but she stopped when Hermione practically leapt off the bed. She'd never been more grateful (and elated) she'd insisted upon carrying the Trio's supply bag - mostly because she'd been afraid Harry or Ron would lose it. Because in it – Good Merlin, if it still held everything they'd put inside for safekeeping – in it was a gold mine.

Without pause or hesitation, Hermione pounced on the rucksack, slid to the floor and unlaced it, plunging her hand inside…

Her fingers connected with the water-like coolness of sleek material.

Briefly, she closed her eyes and sighed in relief, offering up a prayer to whichever spirits had decided to take pity on her in some small form. She hastily pulled the object out and dug around the bag again, enlarged with an Undetectable Extension Charm. When her initial grasping proved unsuccessful, she simply stuck her wand inside, summoning the Marauders' Map that she knew was there-

"Is that… Is that an Invisibility Cloak?" Pansy whispered.

Hermione twitched in surprise, unused to having someone who wasn't Ron or Harry in her sleeping space at the crack of dawn.

Merlin, almost forgot she was there! Must not do it again!

She glanced up to find the blue-eyed girl looking between her and Harry's Cloak, open-mouthed. "Yes," she said, lifting it and holding it up to Pansy. "Have you ever seen one before?"

"Yes, but..."

Pansy trailed off, taking it from her and turning the material over in her hands. Then, strangely, she lifted it to her face, as if to examine it extremely closely, or smell it, even. Hermione's brow furrowed slightly, but then she shook her head, turning her attention back to the bag.

Below the Marauder's Map was the real treasure: about half the stock of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, which Fred and George had generously donated toward the war effort. Fake wands… Wildfire Whiz-Bangs… Decoy Detonators… Portable Swamps… Headless Hats… Fainting Fancies… Extendable Ears... Shield Gloves... and an unbelievable amount more.

Many, Hermione would have normally condemned at any academic institution, but certainly not in the midst of a war, and certainly not here, in the midst of a seemingly totalitarian Dark Arts state.

Not that she'd be putting any of them to use. Merlin no, she thought. She was going to find a way out of here, whether 'here' was a confused mental state, the after-effects of a curse, or a real place... and she would be finding it soon. If necessary, though, the Wheezes could certainly be excellent survival tools, and their unexpected presence was an immense comfort; a reminder that somewhere, whether in this universe or another, there was a Light side, and it had prevailed.

Here, however, was a different story.

Setting the bag aside, Hermione stood, turning to a woman who in her world she'd hardly known and certainly hadn't liked… and who she was most likely going to be seeing quite a lot of in this one. "Pansy, I need you to explain to me what you can and cannot do under the House-Witch bond."

Pansy jerked in surprise from her tight grip on Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak and looked at her abruptly, as if she had momentarily forgotten she was there, but she nodded with only a slight expression of suspicion. She folded the Invisibility Cloak over her arm in more of a preoccupied motion than anything else and seemed to be ticking points off a list she'd memorized as she said with a sigh, "I can't touch you without your permission, I certainly cannot harm you, I can only enter and exit a room if a free person escorts me, when you say my name – no matter where I am – I'll reappear where you are instantly, and I must do whatever you Order me to. And I can't... do magic. Obviously," she finished softly.

Hermione nodded, but she mentally winced as she realized what she needed to do next. Like Malfoy the night before, she doubted that Pansy would be especially keen on running to the people who had enslaved her and spilling secrets, but for her safety, and Pansy's too, probably, it had to be done.

"Right," she began slowly, try to choose the most diplomatic words possible, "I'm not... happy that I have to do this – give you an order – but it is crucial that you do not tell anyone about what you see and hear about me, or that I'm acting any differently." She lowered her gaze on the taller girl, willing the seriousness of her message to reflect in her expression. "Do you understand?"

Pansy stared at the ground for several seconds before looking back at Hermione and nodding again. "I won't say anything anyway because you ordered me, but - I do understand why."

"All right." Hermione sighed, unable to shake the deep feeling of guilt at what she'd just done. Distractedly, her eyes wandered to the etched clock along the wall. "Bugger!" she gasped abruptly. "Classes are in two minutes!"

"It doesn't matter." Pansy handed Hermione the Invisibility Cloak and walked back over to the bed. She started to glance at Hermione, as if looking for permission, but then she shook her head before she could continue the habit and simply sat down on it. "Last year you never went to your first class on Mondays."

Surprised, Hermione momentarily started at Pansy's rather blatant statement of 'it's obvious to me that you have either completely lost your memory-slash-mind or you aren't the person you used to be at all.' Of course, she'd probably have to be blind and deaf not to, which was why it was so essential that Hermione did everything in her power to act like My around the rest of the world.

"Riiight," she said slowly, folding the Cloak back into the bag and then tapping the pack with her wand to shrink it.

Brilliant, Hermione. Now she's most likely convinced that you're some My impersonator on Polyjuice, and a right poor one, at that.

Still, the idea that Pansy realized that My was 'someone else' – though Pansy may have had a vastly different idea of who that 'someone else' was (someone working for whatever Light forces were left holed up somewhere, perhaps) – didn't bother Hermione as much as she thought it would. At least Pansy seemed to be more willing to provide information now that she thought My was an entirely different person – which she was, for the most part.

Well then, I suppose that solves some of my problems.

And anyway, speaking of people's problems…

Hermione thought of her nightmare, and she couldn't stop her mind from traveling back to the night before... to a pair of gray eyes emanating a devastating combination of honest-to-Merlin decency and utter pain.

She knew she shouldn't get involved; she knew she shouldn't let herself care too much…

But for a reason she couldn't rationalize nor explain except to chalk up to the same bewildered sense of horror that had driven her to help him in the first place, she had know why Draco Malfoy was kept brutally beaten in a cage while one of his closest friends was sliding by as more of the hired help. Even if his parents, and he, had played an important role in the two insurgencies here, it was no explanation for why the youngest male Weasley would revel in his role as chosen jailer… and torturer.

"Do you know," she began tightly as she placed the now thumb-sized backpack into the pocket of her robe, "how Ronáld Weasley felt about Draco Malfoy?"

An astonished expression exploded across Pansy's face. After at least fifteen seconds, the dark-haired woman said faintly, "He… hated him. More than he hated most any other person, I should think."

Although the truth of Pansy's words was obvious, the response still surprised Hermione, and she frowned. "Why?" she burst out, while Pansy still seemed to be reining in whatever shock Hermione's initial comment had elicited. "Aside from any Gryffindor-Slytherin enmity, obviously, but I should think there would've been others Ronáld disliked as well..."

She couldn't help but remember Malfoy's twinkling, playful expression in the yearbook picture and the almost understated maturity that he had managed to exude last night, even in the state he'd been in. Given how different Pansy herself was, she wondered quite honestly if this version of Draco Malfoy would have even succumbed to such a petty rivalry in the first place.

Pansy shrugged. "He would have hated Draco even without that - it was the non-conservative Old-Bloods, you know, who detested us the most for trying to stand up to the Sovereignty," she said sadly; it was an interesting piece of cultural information to have. "But everything exploded when Draco asked you to the Yule Ball in Fourth Year."

Hermione's eyebrows flew up. "Pardon me, but - what?" she managed. Of all the possible 'histories' that Malfoy and My could have had between them, she had not expected that to be among them!

Pansy nodded. As if recalling a dream, she continued in a distant voice, "Of course, it was only a prank - Greg and Vincent were the instigators behind it, really - and you turned him down just as publicly, but… Weasley never forgot the attempt."

Something twisted in Hermione's stomach, and she abruptly felt the urge to pace.

"Oh," she said weakly, legitimately astonished.

Swiftly attempting to digest this new information, she abruptly began to walk back and forth, turning on her heel at the closet and striding back to the main door. The Malfoy that Hermione had seen the night before had given her absolutely no indication that he even liked her as a person, so the answer to Pansy's Yule Ball revelation of course had to have been the simplest one: something that involved a prank.

Even so, Hermione couldn't help but ask carefully, "You're sure he just… did it as a prank? There wasn't any… fancying going on in there, was there?"

She was clueless as to what she'd do or think if the answer was 'yes.'

Luckily for her, Pansy shook her head. "No... No, I certainly wouldn't go as far as to say that. Draco – " she gave a slightly sad smile, "Draco could be a right charmer when he wanted to be, but - no offense to you – he wasn't one to go simply on looks alone for that sort of thing, if you know what I mean."

"No, he didn't seem like he would be," Hermione murmured in agreement. But before she change the topic, Pansy quickly stood, reaching out as if to catch the sleeve of Hermione's robe, though she didn't quite complete the motion.

"Please," she begged, "Oh Merlin, please, I beg you, will you tell me – is he all right?" Unmistakable desperation filled her voice. "Is he… is he alive?"

An icy wave of understanding and unspeakable horror simultaneously swept through Hermione. It had been two years since the war had ended here, and My and Ronáld weren't exactly on cold terms with each other. Hadn't Pansy been able to at least see Malfoy at all in some kind of crossing; hadn't My told her, or at least said something, that would have given some indication Malfoy hadn't been killed?

"Pansy, you don't have to beg me to talk about your friends," she said kindly. "Malfoy - Draco - He's alive." Sympathetically, she watched the flurry of relieved emotions that crossed Pansy's gaze. She suspected they would soon vanish as she added carefully, "He's... He's in a situation... a bit similar to yours, in that he's the personal House-Wizard of Ronáld and Ginevra Weasley."

Pansy's pale face drained of any of the remaining color it held, if that was even possible. Stepping away from Hermione with an expression of utmost horror, she actually stumbled backward to sit on the bed as if she truly wouldn't have been able to stand otherwise. Her blue eyes filled with tears and her hands began to tremble visibly; she brought one to her mouth, clenching it into a fist, and squeezed her eyes shut.

A rock settled in the pit of Hermione's stomach. Pansy's wordless reaction only confirmed everything she'd feared when she'd seen Malfoy yesterday:

That he wasn't a bad person... but he was suffering the worst kind of fate.

Hermione easily imagined how she would have felt if Harry or Ron had been captured by one of the Slytherins – worse, by Lucius Malfoy or another Death Eater. For Merlin's sake, she had really only been a second's breath away from experiencing the same horror that Pansy currently was. In her world, if Voldemort had lived, and Harry had died, then she very well could have been in Pansy's exact position at this very instant, without knowing what had happened to Ron or her parents or any of her friends. And if Harry had lived, and been given as a slave to someone like Bellatrix Lestrange...

She released a long breath, sitting heavily on the bed beside Pansy. She hesitated, then lightly placed her hand on the other woman's back, rubbing it gently. Pansy's shoulders jerked slightly before she hunched over, covered her face with her hands, and began to weep.

Hermione's own eyes filled with emotion. She blinked rapidly, closing them tightly to ward off any inevitable flow. When she did, Malfoy's exhausted, battered face and his emotion-filled gaze returned to haunt her.

Her shoulders stiffened.

She couldn't try to help him, she told herself firmly. She didn't even know this world, or what to say or do that wouldn't immediately give her away and easily get her killed. For all she knew, Universe B wasn't even real; if it had been a mind-altering curse or coma enchantment with which she'd been hit, this twisted place could be a figment of her imagination entirely; to get involved with it might be the equivalent of allowing herself to go further insane.

No, her best chance, her only chance, was to find a way back to reality - or her reality, at least - as soon as bloody possible.

Even if it meant turning her back on the quiet voice inside her heart urging her to help these people that, before this day, Hermione had never ignored.