A/N: Violence warning for this chapter.

Let Me Die

Hermione was on the verge of speaking the password to exit the Head dormitory through the portrait hole when it slid open on its own. She clamped down on the inside of her lip to narrowly restrain a yelp of surprise at the hulking figure on the other side of it, her frayed nerves overly sensitive.

She relaxed only slightly when she realized it was Harry. How was he so much bigger in this world than he had been in hers? Could the eleven years Harry Potter had spent with his aunt and uncle really have stunted his height so significantly?

Harry, for his part, seemed just as startled to run into her. He was sweaty and flushed, his thick, messy hair even wilder than normal, as if he had just come in from Quidditch practice. As his surprised expression swiftly hardened to an icy glare, Hermione abruptly noticed he was still wearing the same robes he had sported at dinner...

Meaning that Universe A's Marauders' Map was most likely still inside.

Should I switch them back now? Can I even do it that quickly?

The memory of Trelawney's words suddenly slammed into her:

'Tonight… Yes, tonight… The switch must begin and end tonight…'

Bloody Morgana. If – If that could possibly be applied to the situation in which she found herself currently… Had the old bat really been on to something?

Despite the general contempt that she held for the entire "art" of Divination, Hermione had no desire to tempt Fate any more than she already may have done over the course of her tumultuous nineteen years. She quickly swerved as she exited the portrait hole while Harry entered, deliberately bumping him hard.

"Son of a-"

Harry whipped around and grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward him as easily as a rag doll. "Twice in a day? Already?"

Hermione yelped, desperately bracing herself against the stone wall to stop from pitching forward into the common room. "It isn't my fault you can't keep yourself off me!" she retorted, futilely trying to shake herself from his grasp as all six feet or more of him glowered down at her.

Harry squeezed her wrist so hard she gasped. "Shut it, Granger. Shut your bleeding mouth!" he hissed. "No matter how much you might have on me, you do not have permission to muck with me! Is that bloody well clear enough for your depraved, selfish mind?"

Hermione's thoughts spun frenetically, although the blood pounding through her temples threatened their clarity. What did he mean, having something on him? Was it simply a random word choice, or could it possibly mean...?

Though it would be taking quite a leap, she lifted her chin, trying not to let her expression belay her growing alarm.

"Let go of me," she said coolly, praying that she sounded calmer than she felt. At her words, his grip conversely tightened, but she determinedly repeated evenly, "Let go of me, Harry. Now."

He stared at her for several seconds... before he grudgingly but actually released her hand.

Hermione yanked it to her chest and quickly stepped rather unsteadily away from the portrait hole, as the man who until the past two days had always been her best friend rigidly took a jerky step back into the common room. A vein visibly throbbed furiously at his temple.

She honestly couldn't believe it had worked. Was this why he had been so angry at her from the moment she'd first seen this version of him - because My was blackmailing him? But… about what? What secret could the dark, distant son of the Sovereign State's Viceroy be so desperate to keep hidden away that he would actually obey her orders?

Whatever it was, all Hermione cared about now was that it gave her the power to keep a strong, dangerous wizard away from her… for the moment, at least.

"If you ever touch me like that again, understand this," she breathed slowly. "I will have all the permission that I want… to do whatever I want." Swallowing back a tremor before it could affect her voice, she raised her eyebrows pointedly. "Got it?"

Harry glowered at her with the ferocity of a thousand suns, then spun, slamming the portrait hole shut behind him so hard the crack! reverberated painfully in her ears.

The soft whoosh of air that followed the abrupt motion lightly caressed Hermione's face. At the gentle whisper of a touch, emotion overwhelmed her, and it took everything not to sink to the ground and sob. She surrendered to the first urge; her legs all but gave out as she collapsed to her knees. Looking down at her throbbing wrist, she grit her teeth, her hand shaking slightly.

Sweet Morgana, I can't keep doing this… I can't…

You have to, another part of her rationalized dully. You have no other choice.

She really didn't.

Blinking back tears burning hot at her eyes, Hermione bit her lip, wincing, and shook out her aching hand. A moment later, she sighed, heavily pushed herself to her feet, and mechanically started off in the direction of the dungeons, apathetically fingering a now perfectly working Marauders' Map in the pocket of her robe.

"No, it's alright, I've found… other uses for her. If you know what I mean," Hermione purred airily to the oily-looking old man who was leaning, arms crossed, against the ironclad entrance to the dungeons.

Argus Filch didn't smile. He leered, his breath smelling suspiciously like Firewhiskey. Brushing some greasy hair from his wizened face, he peered down at her in the dim lighting, clearly in dire need of a pair of glasses. "That I do, missy," he said with a darkly amused chuckle, making a note beside a name on the long piece of parchment in his hands. "Off the list she goes, then… for a little while, anyway, eh?"

Another blast of frigid air slipped past the metal doors and into the hall, and Hermione suppressed a shudder. The chilling surroundings were even more disturbing now that the dungeons were truly being used as dungeons. To her frustration, she hadn't been able to see inside them - Filch had come to the dreary entrance the moment she'd rang.

"Your..." she hesitated for the right word, "competent assistance is ever so appreciated, Mr. Filch." She smiled insincerely and began to back up before he could focus on her again. In an exaggeratedly earnest voice, she added, "I hope you have a simply delightful evening."

"Oh," he chuckled with a pleased leer, "Believe you me, I plan ta, Lady Evans." The sinister amusement to his words made her feel sick. "You and yer House-Witch, eh," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "you have a good 'un yerself."

Oh, lovely, you bestial man, and what exactly do you think we're going to do? Hermione thought disgustedly.

She gave Filch a forced, sickly sweet smile and turned, striding away as quickly as she could in heels to put as much distance between herself and what was certainly Filch's gaze on her bum. Once she'd reached the ground floor, she tiredly removed the Marauders' Map from her pocket once more and tapped it with a mutter of the usual password, absently rubbing her aching wrist where Harry had grabbed it earlier. It was after curfew, so the halls were largely empty, but she didn't doubt there were mischief-making Universe B students she would have to be on her guard against when she did begin her own running about after hours.

Of course, the first section she inadvertently flipped to was that of the Vampire statue area, Lucius Malfoy still boldly hovering above it. Her stomach turned when she saw it, and she quickly shifted the map to another location to put off dealing with the subject. Really, what could she do about it? She wasn't here to get involved, she didn't have enough information to get involved, and, frankly, she was afraid she had no idea of the can of worms she might be opening if she tried.

When Hermione came upon two dots in the kitchens labeled Dennis Creevey and Jimmy Peakes, she smiled slightly, fondly recalling the former: a cute, wide-eyed little boy who, unfortunately, was never too far from his rather overzealous, Harry-worshipping older brother.

The smile froze on her lips when it occurred to her that neither boy would probably be anything like the ones she remembered.

She sighed and returned her gaze to the Map, treading her way down corridors so familiar she could in all likelihood maneuver them blindfolded. Painfully, she felt a pang of longing for the two boys who normally roamed these halls at her side, and her gaze was drawn to Gryffindor Tower. It was obvious that most of the House had turned in for the night; many of the labeled dots were bunched in the dormitory areas.

Then her gaze shifted to the common room.

The familiar names of several students came into focus, including Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and a certain Ronáld Weasley.

They were all clustered around a single dot marked Draco Malfoy.

Her feet froze. Her heart gave an abnormal lurch in her chest before it began to pound faster.

No.

The part of her that valued self-preservation — and oh, even Hermione Granger possessed such an instinct, though she had learnt to weigh it evenly with other rational though perhaps less self-preserving responses — screamed at her to forget it, to walk on, to pretend she'd never even looked at that area of the Marauders' Map…

But it was too late.

Because she had.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Hermione willed herself to calm down, to quell the intensity of the distress and anger and fear that abruptly streamed through her veins that she could not afford to be feeling about a simple dot. Not here, in this dark world, with little historical knowledge and no allies.

She wasn't daft. She had little doubt what might have been – and most likely was - happening in her old common room at the moment. And dear Merlin, it wasn't as if she condoned it – Merlin knew she did the farthest from it! But…

Her newly regular chant, one that in Universe A she wouldn't have dreamed she'd ever use, again began to repeat itself in her mind. She couldn't get involved in this! Not only did she hardly even know the Draco Malfoy of this world, the odds were ugly, and they were against her! Even if she did try to help him, here he was as good as a slave. Not only was she was leagues above him socially, she supposedly couldn't stand him. Just how was she supposed to walk in there and tell them to stop doing to him whatever the bloody hell it was they might have been doing without utterly breaking from My-character?

For perhaps the fortieth time that day, the cloaked woman's sultry, powerful words slipped through her mind like poison.

'If even the slightest hint of suspicious behavior is displayed by either student, staff, or otherwise, we have plenty of people who specialize in interrogation…'

Indecisively biting her lip so hard she eventually tasted the bitterness of blood and forced herself to stop, Hermione hovered stiffly, breathing shallowly, at the end of the first-floor hallway for at least two minutes.

She was so tired... so tired, and her arm and several other areas of her body positively ached from Harry's thoughtful decision to slam her into a wall. All she wanted to do was crawl back to her bedroom, set up a cot for Pansy, and sleep… sleep…

Until the equally exhausted gray eyes that had bored into hers so dumbfoundedly when she'd said she wanted to help him pierced her mind, and the memory of a brutally beaten human being locked in a cage assaulted her like a phantom that wouldn't disappear.

A rush of anger swept through her. Merlin be damned, what was wrong with her? She was Hermione Granger, the so-called champion of the underdogs and queen of lost causes! The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare was enough proof of that! She helped people and beasts and beings; it was what she did, one of the things that drove her very existence. How dare she — how dare she — let fear stand between her and the values in which she believed?

Swallowing the maelstrom of firing nerves in her gut, she resolutely turned toward Gryffindor Tower and began to walk, vexed she had hesitated for so long. She had no idea of what she would do - of what she could do - if Ronáld and his pack of Gryffindors were tormenting Malfoy. But Godric help her, she couldn't let it go on... not when she had the power to do something.

She just needed to sort out what specifically that something was before she got there... and hope to all the ghosts she wouldn't be caught in the act.

Right, Hermione, her weary mind thought bleakly. Better start sorting fast.

To anyone in the Gryffindor common room who was not yet in his or her respective dorm, the celebrated arrival of new Head Girl My Evans was nothing out of the ordinary.

While younger girls watched enviously, a gaggle of seventh and eighth year women (the extra year temporarily added to make up for the one lost during the war) instantly hovered around her, chatting about boys, clothes, and life, fighting to be the one upon whom My bestowed her attentions. As My brushed them all off, as usual, every boy and man present stopped what they were doing and stared – or, more specifically, drooled unattractively.

And really, how could they not? The Muggle-born Elite had been on the cover of Witches' Vogue twice, more recently just that summer for usurping her adopted mother as Most Beautiful Woman of the Sovereignty (counter to Sirius Black's Man), and, of course, there was that little way she wore her uniform, walked, talked, breathed –

Little did they know how different she really was.

Honestly, don't these people have anything better to do with their time? Hermione thought irately, giving Lavender and Parvati a thoroughly insincere smile. After she'd sufficiently hidden the Mauraders' Map, she'd rolled up her skirt several times, shot a volumizing and revitalizing spell into her hair that Pansy had taught her that morning, lifted the collar of her uniform oxford shirt, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of it, hoping that would be enough to work the 'My' charm.

Apparently, it was.

Ignoring everyone else (she'd found they'd eventually get the hint and disperse), Hermione focused on the strange environment around her. Raucous voices, most of them masculine, had exploded in her ears the second she had entered the familiar-looking common room… as had loud, pounding rock music. In surprise, she looked quickly for a live band of musicians, but found none. Instead, her gaze landed on a sizable boom box sitting boldly atop of the mantle.

A boom box that looked very Muggle.

She nearly did a double-take when she saw an equally massive-screened television sitting on the carpet nearby. The machines were another conspicuous reminder of how very different this world was: Not only mobiles and small computers, but any form of Muggle technology was apparently accepted and allowed here—

A shout interrupted her astonished analysis.

"Oi, ev'one, looky 'ere! The party's fine'ly started; My Evans's off an' decided'a visit us!"

It took her eyes a moment to identify the trim, leagues less awkward and newly christened "Ville" standing in the midst of a thick crowd of mostly upperclassmen boys gathered near the fireplace, many of whom were holding slim, dark glass bottles — some of which Hermione recognized as Butterbeer, but the rest most certainly were not.

Immediately, most of said boys' heads swiveled toward her, and rather overzealous bellows of greeting subsequently erupted.

"My! Com'on an' join the party!"

"Look'it this, it's hi-larious!"

"Bloody 'ell, witch, what took yeh so damn long?"

"Sorry, I was primping," Hermione snapped automatically before quickly reining in her tongue. The last call was from Dean, who she could only see because his tall head poked out above most of the other boys. He smirked at her broadly, lifting his bottle into the air and tipping it toward her in a toast, then swayed and nearly fell over from the force of his own actions.

The boys around him laughed loudly, slapping him on the back.

Good Merlin, they're all flat-out plastered!

The abnormally suave Ville swaggered unsteadily toward her from amongst the general horde. He looked her up and down, his smirk widening.

"Well, it was cert'ly worth the wait, then," he breathed in a low voice. Before she could respond to that, he continued loudly, "Fine'ly foun' time'a make a – a return trip'a the Motherhouse, eh?" He swung his arm out in a broad circle, as if making a grand gesture of annoyance. "That's more'n I can say for the - the other one'a you Head people. Lord - Lord Wan'-up-'is-arse Evans."

Hermione cautiously made her way closer to the other boys with him. From what she had seen on the Marauder's Map, Malfoy must have been at the crowd's center. The question was, how in Merlin's name was she going to get to him?

Another collective shout erupted from the group, one that was followed by a wave of roaring laughter.

Hermione's stomach lurched when she considered what might have been the cause of it.

She was struck with a desperate desire to shove Ville and anyone else in her way out of it, but before she could succumb to the rash impulse, an unmistakable head of red pushed through the depths of the throng.

"Budge up, c'mon, outta m'way, yeh lit'le berks – My, pet!" Ronáld breathlessly exclaimed over the hard rock beat; it sounded as if the mild physical effort had been too difficult an endeavor for this aristocratic version of him. He shot Neville a venomous look. The latter laughed and held up his hands, swiveling back toward the crowd… leaving Hermione face-to-face with the new nightmare of her thoroughly screwed-up life: a slicked back, smarmy Ronáld Weasley.

"Finally com'ma see me, then, have you?" he continued, looking pleased.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione pasted a thoroughly bored expression on her face, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. "Tosh. I missed the common room, is all." She sashayed in a small circle, pretending to take in the golds and reds around her as if she hadn't seen them for years. "The Head dorms are just so big… and lonely…"

Unexpectedly, Ronáld caught her up around the waist from behind. She stiffened, then forced herself to relax as he brought his head down alongside hers. The nauseating, nearly overpowering stench of alcohol instantly permeated her senses. She swallowed hard to restrain another wave of bile as he purred in a tone she assumed he thought was seductive, "I'm sure I could help y'out there, Snugglepuff…"

Snugglepuff? she thought disdainfully.

"FIN'IGAN! That was a good'un!"

More loud laughter thankfully delayed any need to form a response. From the experience she'd had observing Slytherins in Universe A, she knew continuous raucous laughter was never a good sign.

Come on, Hermione! Focus on the endgame!

Her heart began pounding so hard she hoped to Merlin Ronáld didn't feel the tangible shudder of each beat through his grip. "Oh, but Ronáld, we're still playing hard to get, remember?" she replied sweetly. With a rather impressive twist, she slid from his grasp, prancing ahead of him to the outer edge of the group of boys. She hesitated, then, thinking quickly, glanced back at him and pouted. "You haven't been having fun without me, have you?"

Ronáld laughed and shook his head. "Nah, nothin' you'd find fun, pet. Y'know... getting y'hands dir'y an' all'a that." He curled his palm around the back of her neck and smirked. "It's the Fus'y, though… you'll think it's funny." He started to make his way back through the crowd, his heavy grip on her neck essentially forcing her to follow beside him.

How lovely. I'm being led about like cattle, she thought sarcastically, but reluctantly let him steer her through the group of men - at least it was getting her where she needed to go. Her eyes quickly scanned ahead for Malfoy as her so-called boyfriend swatted at the sniggering boys clustered around the large hearth of the fireplace. "C'mon, c'mon, you lot, off wi' yeh, you've a whole year f'this."

With several pointedly loud grumbles, they grudgingly scattered, or, more aptly, stumbled away...

Leaving one wide, red-rimmed gray eye to stare straight into hers.

Hermione froze in unutterable horror; her feet stopped moving, but Ronald's grip didn't. As she lurched, catching herself before she could tumble forward, the gray eye closed.

The other was already swollen shut beneath an ugly greenish-black bruise.

The Marauders' Map hadn't let her down: Draco Malfoy was slumped on the ground beside the crackling fire, his hands tightly bound to the wall above his head... and that was probably the only reason he was still upright.

She hadn't thought it could be possible for him to be in worse shape than he'd been the night before, but, horrifyingly, she realized she was wrong. His ragged shirt had been lost between then and now, revealing not only more dried blood, bruises, and absolute filth darkening every inch of his body, but fresh patches of badly burnt skin all over his chest. Standing out starkly amongst the painful-looking marks was a large M, which she could only assume stood for Malfoy, seared in the very centre. An even larger X had been burned through it, as if to cross it out.

For a moment, Hermione felt as if she'd been sucked into the vacuum inside a seashell, an empty void in the midst of a crowded room. She vaguely registered that the loud, almost painful booming of the radio had been turned off and replaced with the obvious sounds of a television. She hardly noticed Ronáld move his arm from around her neck to around her shoulders, taking a lazy swig from the gold flask in his other hand. He spoke again, but whatever was said was no more than a distant buzz.

This couldn't be legal; this... this - this was utterly barbaric, inhuman, a merciless cruelty the likes of which Hermione had hardly witnessed, even in her own universe. This sort of prisoner treatment surely should have been considered a heinous war crime, yet here Malfoy openly suffered, and here Ronáld stood without consequence, Sovereign state royalty, still worshiped - and joined - by his peers.

More obvious injuries were becoming apparent to her: Malfoy's right leg was twisted at an abnormal angle; blood pooled around it, the femur obviously badly broken. His chest heaved raggedly, as if he was struggling and failing to breathe. Sweet Merlin, sweet Merlin, if someone didn't heal him soon, and it didn't look like Ronáld or anyone else would, Hermione didn't doubt there was a possibility he could truly die.

But what could she do?

This place is sick, she thought fiercely, desperately using all the willpower within her to maintain an expression of detached interest. She was suddenly hyperactively aware of Ronáld's arm around her and wanted to rip herself free of it; she was about to when he, thankfully, let go himself.

Drawing his wand with a drunken flourish, he pointed it at Malfoy. " 'Ey. Look'it this, pet."

Or not so thankfully.

Ronáld slurred out a spell with which Hermione was unfamiliar but that literally translated to 'flame writer,' although his pronunciation was rather dodgy. A lick of fire flew from the fireplace and hovered in front of them. As if he were concentrating immensely, Ronáld slowly gestured with his wrist, and the flame moved to the left side of Malfoy's cadaverous face like a bludger to a chaser. Malfoy instantly stiffened, his eye momentarily flying open as a sharp, muffled gasp of pain escaped his lips.

"Sorta a-artistic, eh?" Ronáld asked, looking back down at Malfoy as the fire continued to sear what appeared to be a block letter across his skin. His eye had squeezed back shut, his jaw clenched in pain. Sneering, Ronáld snarled, "Now ev'yone'll know yeh b'long t'me, y'filthy Fust-"

At that moment, Hermione recovered enough from the sheer shock of the brutality taking place before her to instinctively grab Ronáld's wand arm, violently wrenching it away from its target.

Effectively ending the spell...

...Blatantly defending Malfoy.

Abruptly, the sadistic monster beside her stopped laughing.

Too late, Hermione realized exactly what she'd done.

She hastily tried to think of a legitimate excuse as Ronáld stared down at his wand hand, his brow furrowed deeply, then looked over at her.

Two trains of thought screamed though her head: the first being, Oh bugger, oh bugger – stupid, Hermione, stupid!, versus the overwhelming sense of relief that she had stopped the torture of another human being… even if it had given her away.

I'm feeling faint… I just remembered I left my extra makeup kit at home… I saw a spider... I -

Ironically, it was Draco Malfoy who saved her then.

"I… hope you… burn in hell, Weasley," he choked out hoarsely, his chest shuddering as he gasped in erratic gulps of air.

A large, sloppy W was now boldly burned into his left cheek.

Ronáld's attention was instantly drawn from Hermione to him. "Oh, sun'ly so bold, are yeh? CRUCIO!"

The spell was short - he was probably too drunk to remember how to hold it on - but it hit Malfoy squarely in the abdomen. Hermione cringed as the Slytherin violently slammed backward into the wall, the side of his head cracking loudly against it.

Her vision began to dot black; she suddenly realized her lungs had stopped working and forced herself to take steady, even breaths, if only to maintain an adequate flow of oxygen to her strategic centre.

I can Stun him. I can Stun Ronáld, blast the rest of them out of the way and hide with Malfoy in the Room of Requirement.

Except someone here probably already knew about the Room of Requirement. And didn't Pansy say that all Hermione had to do was say Pansy's name, and she would appear? So wouldn't that ability apply to Ronáld with Malfoy as well, making some form of 'stealing' him impossible?

The unworkable situation made her want to scream, but she tried to focus on Ronáld rather than the fact that Malfoy had suddenly gone completely limp, blood streaming down the right side of his face.

"Tryin'a show off for my girlfriend, eh?" Ronáld continued without notice. He looked over at Hermione, taking another swig from the flask. "Y'know, you ri'lly should 'ave a go at 'em, My. What with 'ow 'e asked yeh to the Ball an' all. Narked the 'ell outta yeh."

Her brows furrowed. "Wha—? Huh."

Swiftly, a plan – granted, a rather far-fetched plan, but one better than blasting Ronáld out of the way, stealing Malfoy and trying to make a run for it – struck her.

Hermione ran with it while she had the chance.

Quickly pasting a bright smile across her face, she tucked her arm in his. "Why Ronáld, that's simply a wonderful idea."

The redhead began to nod smugly, as if to agree, but then stopped, frowning. A second later, he jerked and squinted down at her, astonishment scrawled across his face. "What?"

"Oh, you are a genius!" Hermione went on cheerfully, playing the part for all she was worth. "I've had an awful, dreadful day. First my mobile disappears, and then after Divination, I broke a nail!"

Behind her back, she hastily ripped off the top of the manicured nail on her middle finger and vehemently held it up for him to see. Luckily (or disappointingly), Ronáld didn't catch the double meaning of the gesture, and rolled his eyes.

"Oi, My, it's only a-"

"No, don't you even say it, Ronáld. It isn't 'only a nail' or 'only a mobile.' They're part of me. And now they're gone." Blinking back tears for a different reason entirely, Hermione sniffed and tilted her head toward Malfoy, who hadn't moved from his distressingly lifeless position save his heaving chest. "Tonight, I could do for a little… private torture."

She almost choked on the words.

Ronáld's expression had morphed into that of a dismayed child whose favorite toy had just been taken from him. "But - But tonigh' you're suppose'a be mine!"

Erm, I don't quite recall receiving that memo…

Hermione summoned the same spoilt-girl pout she'd often seen the Pansy Parkinson of her world wear. "Oh, but Ronáld, you just said I could have him! And it really would make me feel better... Pleeaase?" Swallowing repugnance, she slowly ran her hand up and down his arm, then pushed herself up on tiptoe, leaning up to his ear. "And then… maybe tomorrow…" she whispered, trailing off in a manner she hoped was suggestive.

Unexpectedly, he decided to take advantage of her proximity and dropped his mouth to her neck in an attempt to snog; Hermione disgustedly yanked herself away and danced a step beyond his reach, resisting the urge to reach for her wand and stun him senseless. "I promise I'll give him back when I'm done!" she added innocently, trying not to sound as if she was begging.

"My!" he whined.

He sounded so tortured that if she'd had no idea of who was speaking or the context, she would have actually felt sorry for him. She gestured at Malfoy unconcernedly, then arched her eyebrow suggestively. "Give me him," she purred, twisting the right side of her lip upward in an attempt at a seductive expression, "and I'll give you a kiss."

Ronáld went silent, as if deeply pondering the possibility of this exchange. Loud, violent noises from the television, the low, muttered laughing of some boys who had remained in the armchairs in front of said Muggle contraption, and Malfoy's laboured, uneven breaths were the only sounds around her.

Hermione held her breath.

Please Godric… Please work… Please…

After several seconds, Ronáld began to fumble with something on his wrist, looking displeased. "Alright, My. F-Fine. You can have 'em." Once he managed to remove it, Hermione saw that it was a gold-plated watch, which took him three attempts to shove into her hands.

She started at it blankly. It was a Wizex, the most expensive brand of Wizarding watches available. She assumed that, in this situation, it was supposed to have some other significance. Why was he was giving her this and not Malfoy?

"Oh goodness… thanks, Ronáld," she said carefully, trying to restrain an injection of sarcasm.

Now Ronáld was the one pouting. He lowered a finger on her sternly. "Bring'um back t'morrow."

At once, Hermione made the connection: Pansy had said that one of the stipulations of the House-Witch bond was that she could be summoned at will by her owner. Perhaps the person who was doing the summoning had to have a key that linked the two. A wand acted as a summoning channel for House-Elves, who could pop into appearance around any wizard. Perhaps around humans who were only being made to act as House-Elves, a different sort of key had to be used... similar to a Portkey.

She hoped to the heavens she was right.

"Of course I will. Oh, Ronáld, thank you!" she exclaimed again, shoving a bit more happy enthusiasm behind it now that she had a faint idea of the watch's purpose.

Clutching the Wizex, she hastily turned toward the portrait hole, planning to summon Malfoy directly to her in the hallway instead of demonstrating her magical ability by levitating him out.

She had only walked a step when Ronáld grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip, abruptly yanking her to a stop.

"Now, 'bout tha' kiss," he breathed in a low voice, pulling her toward him.

Don't touch me, you beastly savage!

Hermione frantically tried to wrench herself from his grasp, but he was holding her too tightly. A jolt of pure panic about her own immediate safety stabbed through her stomach; she suddenly hated that Parvati, Lavender and company had retired to their dorms and left her completely alone...

What would My do, what would My-?

A second before his mouth was on hers, she hastily kissed her fingers and then pressed them to Ronáld's lips, using the same motion to shove his face from hers. In motions slowed thanks to his intoxication level, Ronáld's eyes flew open, before he pulled back and gaped at her as if she'd suddenly turned into an exotic species of skrewt. In his surprise, Hermione managed to wiggle from his grip without looking too desperate about it and nearly tripped over a footrest and two coffee tables in her haste to move safely away.

When she'd placed more than half the common room between then, she winked at him.

"I said I'd kiss you, Ronáld, but I didn't say how," she purred teasingly with a breathy laugh. He still looked absolutely baffled, as if he honestly couldn't believe she had just done something like that to him. She forced a giggle. "Oh, Ronnie, you didn't think you'd get that lucky, did you?"

Giving him one final, coquettish smile, Hermione turned on her heel and flounced toward the portrait hole.

"That's dead sexy, that is," she heard Seamus comment bluntly from in front of the television, its screen flashing in an almost three-dimensional manner as some sort of building appeared to explode.

That knocked Ronáld into motion. "Don't even t-think 'bout it, that's all mine," he growled loudly enough for anyone still awake to hear. "My!" he barked.

Sweet Morgana, all I have to do is make it to the bloody door!

Blood pounding in her ears, Hermione 'coolly' glanced over her shoulder in time to see the redheaded wizard drunkenly lunge after her… and gracelessly fall over the same footrest she'd narrowly managed to avoid a minute earlier.

Oh thank Merlin.

She dove out the portrait hole to gales of laughter behind her, though none sounded like it belonged to Ronáld.

The cool air of the stone corridor was a welcome relief. Hermione gasped in a thankful breath, transformed her heels into flats, and took off down the dark hallway, her mind on overdrive.

Within thirty seconds, she'd made it to the nearest turn and skidded to a stop halfway down the next corridor. Without pausing to catch her breath, praying, praying that the Wizex was what she thought it was, she tightly gripped the solid gold wristband and said in a clear but hushed voice, "Draco Malfoy!"

In less than a second, the man she'd never dreamed she'd be fighting to save popped into appearance as if he'd simply Apparated there. His hands were still chained, though no longer to the wall, and the heavy metal was the first to drop as he slumped to the stone floor, visibly and audibly struggling to breathe.

Thank you Merlin, I was right.

Bending double, she rested her forearms on her knees, panting heavily. What she wanted more than ever was to find the nearest soft patch of ground and collapse onto it, but she allowed herself no more than five seconds to recover from both the sprint and trauma of the last thirty minutes. She feared she was going to have a great deal more running to do that night, and she wanted to be done with it all before Ronáld had begun to feel the slightest hint of a hangover.

Hermione took one last, slow breath and focused on Malfoy. The passageway was so dark that if it weren't for his ragged breaths, she wouldn't have even known he was there. Awkwardly slipping the too-large watch around her wrist, she drew her wand, crouching in front of him.

"Lumos," she muttered.

As the soft light illuminated the extent of the ghastly contusions darkening Malfoy's pale skin, her breath hitched.

Oh Sweet Morgana, he was in devastatingly bad shape.

Doing her best to block the sheer emotional response his injuries provoked, she swiftly and objectively evaluated them once more, or what she could see of them from his sprawled position on the ground. She had some healing experience, yes, but a trip to the Hospital Wing was looking more and more necessary. For the burns, she needed a restorative cream, which she didn't have, nor did she have the training to fix a broken femur entirely, either. But what worried her most were the decidedly abnormal, gasping sounds Malfoy made whenever he sucked in a sharp gulp of air. If his lung or lungs was punctured, Madam Pomfrey was the only one who could help him.

And she would need to help him very, very soon.

"Malfoy. Malfoy, how long have you been breathing like this?" she hissed urgently, hastily throwing a cagey glance over her shoulder toward the main hallway.

Weakly, he lifted his head to stare at her, his jaw clenched in obvious pain. "W-Why in the - name of - Merlin's ghost are you - helping me?" he croaked out faintly between wheezing gasps of air.

His response was enough to trigger harsh memories of the miserable git of a Malfoy she knew and loathed, the same Malfoy who had stood aside and watched while she was tortured on the floor of his home. "Really? You're actually asking me that question right now?" she snapped in disbelief.

At the pure force behind her words, he shrank backward into the wall like he had when she'd raised her voice around him the night before, coughing roughly.

His entire body was shaking.

Guilt instantly flooded her. Bloody Morgana, Hermione, it isn't that Malfoy anymore! Remember! Remember!

She forced herself to take a deep breath, to slow down, to breathe.

"I'm sorry," she said after a second. "It's the situation, not you. I'm not going to hurt you, Malfoy. You have my word."

Belatedly, she realized that My's word probably meant very little to him. Though he didn't move in response, she muttered her favorite healing spell on the ugly, bleeding gash near his temple. "I'm helping you because I can," she said quietly as the faint orange glow settled around it, closing the wound. "And that's unfortunately the only answer I can give you."

A single gray eye exhaustedly cracked opened again, wordlessly staring up at her. For a moment, Hermione met his gaze, but quickly shook herself, moving on to his upper body. If he wasn't going to tell her, she was going to have to evaluate him herself.

Gingerly, she gently pressed two fingers against the left side of his chest, being careful to avoid any of the burns. His dirt-covered skin was gritty beneath her fingers, wet with a feverish sweat, but he showed no physical response to her prodding.

"Good, good," Hermione muttered, moving to the right. At the slightest bit of pressure, the Slytherin gasped sharply, the breath painfully deep and sucking, yet, at the same time, visibly not providing enough air. She sat back as he began to cough uncontrollably, surveying him worriedly.

Bugger, it had to be...

Hauling herself to her feet, Hermione pointed her wand at him. "Right, we're going to the Hospital Wing."

"Won't… help me…" he said faintly, and with an alarming amount of difficulty.

"Ohhh yes they will." With a flick of her wrist, Hermione levitated him beside her, then hurriedly pulled the Marauders' Map from where she'd shrunk it and stuck it down her blouse, scanning the route to Hospital Wing. Aside from the nearest floating label, Charity Burbage, two floors down, it appeared to be clear -

"Granger!"

Malfoy suddenly grabbed her wrist with both of his chained hands. She nearly dropped the Map in surprise, but he continued to cling to her with a strength she didn't expect from anyone in his physical condition. His unswollen gray eye desperately met hers, glistening in the light of her wand.

"Please… just - let - me - die," he breathed fiercely, a sharp, struggling gasp of air punctuating each word.

Hermione stared at him in horror.

Absolute, fierce sincerity cloaked every pleading aspect of his expression. His request was genuine.

The bottom fell out of her stomach, and she was suddenly unable to breathe herself.

Honestly, a part of her - a part of her understood. Even if he was healed now, the cruel cycle would only begin again when she had to return him to Ronáld... who, astoundingly, had obviously managed to keep him from dying of his wounds in the past. This was probably his only way – his only chance – to escape.

But then the will to live, the same will that had carried her through the last year of the war, took control as it always had, and didn't just speak but screamed in her ear:

No, damn it! Giving up is not the answer! Dying is not the bloody answer!

There was no certainty that Dumbledore was going to rule Britain forever. He'd have to die of old age sometime soon, wouldn't he? What if the totalitarian society had a change of regime and of morality?

And where was the rest of the world through all of this? Even in a universe of opposites, there still seemed to be societal complexity; surely some countries existed that would be willing to condemn the humanitarian crisis occurring here. What if someone, perhaps even she, could seek the International Confederation of Wizards' help and bring external support to the House-Wizards' aid; what if laws were changed and slavery revoked; what if everyone who had once thought they had nothing left at all were given another chance at life?

Merlin help her, she didn't care if what she did next was right or wrong… but she couldn't simply stand by and watch the happily smiling boy in the yearbook photograph die. Not when hope still existed, no matter how faint it was.

"No," she whispered.

The desperation in his gaze was visibly crushed by the single word. After a moment, his eye rolled back, and he limply slumped in the air, long overdue for a loss of consciousness from what Hermione could only imagine was unimaginable pain.

For another minute, she remained frozen, her heart still pounding with the enormity of the life or death decision she had just made for him.

Good Merlin, don't just stand there! her mind finally yelled.

Her feet began to move mechanically along the corridor, taking Draco Malfoy with her.

Because if she didn't make it to the Hospital Wing very quickly, his request might very well come true.