-.-

Confessionals, Part II

"Christ, don't you dare tell anyone else your ridiculous notions…"

"…about me? That I'm unworthy of your friendship because I love someone you don't like?" Pansy asked, tears in her eyes. "Please, Blaise, say something!"

She pleadingly reached across Tribute CV's dining table toward him, but Blaise swiftly pulled away, wordlessly walking to the sink and scraping his plate clean more vehemently than was necessary.

Draco let out a soft breath of frustration as Pansy's crestfallen blue eyes shifted to his. Briefly, he squeezed her outstretched hand himself and gave her a reassuring nod before he stood and followed Blaise to the counter with his own dishes, leaving his cane at the table.

Neither he nor she deserved the cold silence that had emanated off the last of the trio since they'd all awoken from Riddle's powerful sleeping draught that morning.

"Blaise, come on, mate," he said in a low voice over the running water. "We've all been dealing with Harry Evans for far longer than you have, and even I'll admit he's proven himself trustworthy. Riddle trusts him — he's bound by the same code of silence we all are. The least you could do is try to see things from our best friend's side to make things a bit kinder around here."

Blaise laughed contemptuously. "Kinder?" he echoed in disbelief. "I need to be kinder? More understanding?" He threw his plate in the sink with a clatter before he spun toward the table, looking past Draco at Pansy. "Do you know what your darling Evans did to me last night, best friend? He threatened to slit my friends' — our friends' — throats, while I watched. He stood on top of me and made me beg to save them—"

"He only did that because he had to!" Pansy exclaimed, her eyes anguished. "Percy Weasley was right there!"

"Go ahead and tell yourself that if it helps you sleep better at night, bird. But I'll tell you this — he sounded like the same Harry Evans we've always known; no sodding role playing going on there. And I'll tell you something else – I won't stand by and let what happened to us two years ago happen again. Death follows those who trust the wrong people, and it's high time you two realized it."

Draco's eyebrows flew up. "Where'd you get that, a 'how to survive the Sovereignty' self-help book? I don't disagree with that delightful little tidbit and I'm certain Pansy doesn't either, but Evans isn't going to be the death of us, and you're going to have to learn to work with him! I have."

Or he would have, if Evans ever actually spoke to him, he amended silently.

Blaise gaped at him as if he'd grown antennae. "For some reason that I cannot in any way rationalise, being constantly tortured by the enemy has only fucking magnified your ludicrous and unfortunate streak of pacifism! Look at what they've done to you! Merlin's bollocks, I thought I had it bad — my situation was a sodding five-star resort compared to yours! How are you not so — so bloody furious," he spluttered out furiously himself, "you aren't ready to destroy every single one of the bastards who ever laid a hand on you the second we get our magic back?"

For the speed at which Draco's heart was racing, his voice was remarkably steady. "Because every time I was on the brink of death, the only thing I wanted… the only thing that mattered — it wasn't revenge. It wasn't hate. It was to be at peace with the people I loved. It was to love," he repeated without shame or hesitation as scorn exploded across Blaise's face. "That's what everyone wants when it comes down to it, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, and I'll be the first to nominate you for the International Confederation of Wizards' Peace Prize when this is all over!" Blaise exclaimed sarcastically. "Well, guess what, Draco, I'd give anything to be laying on a beach in Southeast Asia thoroughly loving the fittest witch in Thailand, but here's a slap of cold reality for you: We're nothing but roaches to these people, and they will stop at nothing — nothing— short of our extermination! Do you think they're just going to release their free labour if you ask nicely? Wave us off with a parcel of pumpkin bread and a 'best of luck?'" He shoved a finger at Draco's chest, lowering his voice. "If we stand a fraction of a chance of reaching your warm, fuzzy love fest, we're going to have to bloody well shed plenty of blood for it. I don't know about you, but I intend for every drop of the red on me to belong to as many Sovereignty scum I can lay my hands on!"

"You know I will always fight to protect the people and the freedoms we care about," Draco hissed. "But what you're talking about isn't that. It's indiscriminate annihilation! If that's our goal, we'll be just like them." His jaw tightened. "And I don't ever want to be anything like them."

Blaise crossed his arms, his slanted eyes narrowed. "So you're saying that if you were alone in a room with Red-Faced Weasley, and you disarmed him and had allllll the time in the world, you wouldn't take the opportunity to AK or irreversibly maim him?"

Draco instantly recalled a 'duel' that Ginevra had Ordered him to fight against Ronáld a few months earlier, for her summertime entertainment. Draco was wandless and magic-less, a rematch nearly identical to a similarly unfair attack on him Ronáld had staged in fifth year outside the Greenhouse after Draco'd accidentally left his bag there. That time, to the youngest male redhead's infinite ire, Draco had still managed to disarm him and escape — and he had paid dearly for it during his captivity.

This time, Draco had only been half-alive, but Ronáld had been half-drunk, and his inebriation was the only thing that had saved Draco from certain dismemberment. After managing (and not managing) to dodge hex after curse, he'd desperately rolled into Weasley's path and wrenched his wand from his hand while Weasley pitched over him and went arse over tit to the ground, and then for the first time in almost two torturous years, Draco was the one standing above a Weasley with a wand in his hand.

He could still hear Ginevra's screechy laughter behind him, and the roar of the ocean pounding through his ears in the split second he forgot he'd been made a Squib and stared down at Ronáld's murderous face and panicked and felt the words 'Avada Kedavra' pushing at the edge of his lips.

The second had quickly passed, of course, and after Ginevra had tossed his lead back to Ronáld the Elite had cursed him until every opening in his body bled. But, to this day, Draco didn't know what his choice would have been if his magic hadn't been stolen from him and his free will hadn't been wrenched away.

"I knew it," Blaise crowed, jarring him from his troubled thoughts. "You'd fancy ending that red-headed smeg the second you had the chance, wouldn't you? You're even thinking about it right now! So much for all your talk of love and peace."

Draco swallowed the nausea bubbling through his body and instantly regretted that he'd started forcing himself to eat more after Riddle had taken him aside and told him it was the only way he would regain his strength.

"Until I'm in that situation, I suppose I'll never know," he said tightly.

"Your hesitation speaks volumes," Blaise said acerbically. "I'll admit I'm relieved you haven't been completely neutered."

Draco bristled for the sheer fact that he knew the comment was meant to be insulting, and it was coming from the mouth of someone who was supposed to know him best.

"Blaise, what's happened to you?" Pansy asked from behind him, a slight tremor to her voice. "The boy I grew up with wouldn't be so cruel to his closest friends. He would've wanted me to be happy. And protected. With Harry, I am."

"What's happened to me? Oh, I don't know, bird – Perhaps two years of watching inhuman savages masquerading as 'cultured' stomp the life from our people! What do you think's going to happen in your fantasy world, Pansy? A beautiful wedding with a dark, mysterious Elite before you fly off into the sunset on his first edition Firestorm and live happily ever fucking after at the Evans family estate?"

Pansy's mouth fell open. "I expect nothing like it! All we want is to be together, however we can be!"

"And you think that's going to protect you?" Blaise countered. "The second Lily Evans finds out about you, you're worse than dead! Someone has to step in and make you see reason for your own bloody good, and since loverboy over here's already having his own tryst with the enemy, I guess it's going to have to be me!"

Draco gripped Blaise's arm, his eyes hard. "You are out of control!" he exclaimed. "The last I checked, you have no right to tell Pansy how to live her life or to threaten to destroy it, just like the Sovereignty had no right to destroy our lives and Order us to submit to their will! Now, I realize you're angry and believe me, I understand why, but save it for people who actually deserve it, yeah?"

Blaise whirled on him, yanking his arm from Draco's and pushing against his chest hard enough for Draco to take an uneven step backward to catch his balance. "Why, speaking of! Don't get me started on you, brother. My supposedly aromantic best mate jumping right on into bed with some bizarre alternate persona of the Muggleborn Goddess, even though you claimed you never fancied her, or anyone else, for that matter? Go on and explain that one to me!"

Draco instantly stiffened, his grip on the plate he still held in his right hand tightening.

"Be very careful what you say, Blaise," he said, his low voice deceptively calm. "You know I've always tolerated a blessed lot from you when it comes to your irreverence, but Hermione's off limits."

Blaise's eyebrows shot up. "Blow me, I never thought I'd see the day! Bachelor Malfoy, bloody whipped!" He let out a dry laugh, his lip curled. "What, is this some twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome? Was she the one who so obviously opened your eyes or your legs to the distinct displeasures of sex as a slave? Or with her, was it actually enjoyable?"

For a moment, such shock, anger, and horror rocked Draco's system that he couldn't actually see or think. Before he could succumb to the urge either to retch or to punch his best friend squarely in the face, he slammed his dish onto the counter instead. It shattered, clay shards scattering across the polished wood surface. "Don't you ever compare her to them or the things they did!"

He gripped the counter with shaking hands and desperately fought not to vomit, his chest heaving, his body contracting with the memory of violent sensations and harsh sounds and putrid tastes that after last night he had naively hoped to never actively imagine again. Before Blaise or heaven forbid Pansy could pursue it further, he tried to choke out something else, anything else, but before his mind could form a coherent response, Pansy shoved herself between them and slapped Blaise so forcefully the sound echoed through the Tribute.

"I don't care what this war has done to you or how angry or sorely uninformed you are; how dare you treat your friends like this, Blaise Zabini," she said, her voice shaking with anger. "Draco and I are not your enemies, Hermione is not My, and she and Draco have a lovely relationship that, difficult as it may be for you to believe, did not have anything to do with sex when it began." As Blaise let out an incredulous puff of breath, she added tremulously, "And if you're going to be this spiteful, no matter what we say, well, perhaps it's – it's b-best you didn't speak to us at all."

Draco, still hunched over the counter, looked over at her in astonishment, but her usually gentle features were determined.

Blaise glanced once between them, his dark eyes spitting fire.

"With pleasure," he spat darkly, and brushed past them. "I see where the nutters have me outnumbered."

Draco hauled in a breath and forced himself to unfurl and his shoulders, straightening. "For the record, mate," he bit out, looking up at him as he went, "I never cared about My Granger."

Blaise snorted. "You're a terrible liar, Draco. You might act like you're such a saint, but your fourth-year self betrayed your dirty little secret to all of Hogwarts years ago, and your eighth-year self's only sealed it."

With a single swat of his arm, he overturned a chair on his way to the door, and stormed from the Tribute.

For several seconds, Draco could only stare motionlessly at the empty doorway, his hands and chest clenched. The occasional birdsong chirped cheerfully outside, a distinct juxtaposition to the tension thickening the air of Coniunctus Viribus.

Anger and hurt burned though him like a painful manifestation of the flames that so haunted his dreams.

Pansy inhaled a muffled gasp beside him, as if trying to stifle a quiet sob.

Draco forced himself to breathe evenly, and told himself over and over again in a voice that sounded quite like his mother's that anger and hate over belittling words and actions must be felt and recognized, yes, but then released immediately; that otherwise it would fester and destroy his soul, while the belittlers would often blissfully live on without much more thought to or injury from the mean-spirited deeds.

Just let it go… Just let it go….

As he felt the crippling emotions slowly drain from his body, a hand lightly touched his back.

Draco flinched automatically, and Pansy quickly apologized, her touch vanishing as quickly as it'd come.

He let out a breath. "Sweet Salazar, Pans, you know it isn't you," he muttered dully, wrapping his arms across his chest and tucking his hands tightly between his biceps and ribs.

Another beat passed before she spoke again. "Draco, what you and he said," she began hesitantly. "Not about… Hermione, but about — about what they did… Did — Did those things… Did they really…?"

Draco shook his head. "Don't," he said tiredly. "It isn't worth thinking about; it isn't worth talking about."

"Oh Draco," she whispered, but to his immense relief she didn't say another word. More silence passed, taut and terrible, and then Pansy turned and slid to the ground, burying her face in her hands. "It isn't ever going to be the same with the three of us, is it?"

He sighed, gingerly sinking down beside her. "You know how stubborn he can get when he digs his heels in. Unfortunately the only human targets for it around here are us." He gritted his teeth as he straightened his right leg, then released a heavy breath. "Plus Evans was always a complete arse to him and me when we were students. His reasons are rather obvious now, but Merlin, Pans — getting Blaise to come around to that's going to take a blessedly long time."

"I know," Pansy mumbled through her fingers. "It's just… things were going so well here, weren't they? But now…"

She trailed off, and Draco understood. He could only hope Blaise's presence didn't make things worse rather than better.

"Well, best you try to convince Evans to be civil around him, if you can. And I'll try to direct him away from us and toward the gardens whenever he's in one of his moods. Perhaps between your boyfriend's winning personality and flower therapy he'll come around sooner rather than later."

Pansy let out a pained snort of humourless laughter, her blue eyes profoundly sad.

Draco stared down at the dark knots lining the floor's planks. "This is only the start, you know." He lifted his head and looked over at her seriously. "For you and me both, with Hermione and – Harry. After Dumbledore, the Evans name might as well be the Sovereignty. The farther we go along, the more Light wizards that're brought back into this, the…"

"…harder it's going to become to mitigate Percy's suspicion. He was determined to get to him, Tom. And for Percy Weasley to take that kind of risk speaks volumes as to how set he is on it. It's only a matter of time before he tries again," Hermione said tensely. She, Tom Riddle, Harry, and Snape were sitting around the central table in the war room; it now only comfortably held four people, and seemed to shrink and expand based on the size of the group that would be sitting at it.

She imagined the number of times these clandestine night time meetings had simply held the three men across from her, and she had to admit to feeling a certain grim sense of accomplishment at finally being included at the table.

"Weasley is certainly an annoyance, but I think we have a bigger concern," said Harry, to Hermione's irritation steering the topic away from her biggest concern. "He's only here because she sent him. All his bluster and his rhetoric – stricter rule abidance, more surveillance, mate against mate – those are words straight from her mouth."

Snape tapped his hand thoughtfully on the table. His insufferable attitude hadn't lessened in the least above ground, but during this meeting he thankfully seemed to be more focused on strategy than bloating his ego with his rather juvenile brand of acerbic wittiness.

"Lily was always the most cautious ginger of the redheaded trifecta," he commented. "It's obvious the Sovereign's brushed off the Hangar explosion; she hasn't."

"And she won't stop until she feels she has a satisfactory explanation," Harry said with a sharp look at Hermione.

Thanks to several Occlumency mental and breathing exercises Riddle had given her to practice, Hermione had gotten significantly better at tempering her immediate adrenal responses to the simple mention of particularly dire-sounding situations, but she still couldn't completely cull the nervous tick inside her that Percy might be here specifically because Lily Evans was hunting her. "Is the only way she'll back down if we give her one? Perhaps set some kind of red herring?" she asked.

Snape shook his head. "Too much time and effort, not to mention the added risk of accidentally leaving a single iota of evidence to the contrary for her to find." He nodded at Riddle, who like a judge was sitting back observing their arguments with a neutral expression. "Every now and then, I've seen even the Wicked Witch's instincts be wrong. She'd rather rip off her own nails than admit it, but she knows she can be, too. Judging from the reactions I've seen to Weasel-bee's oh so obnoxious presence, there's plenty of other 'infractions' going on at Hogwarts. Let her uncover whatever else there is to find here, but not us."

Hermione's eyebrows flew up. Her various fan clubs so often vied for her attention it had been difficult to judge the early reactions of anyone else. (They were mostly narked to high hell that in Percy's presence the Betting Booth had surely met its end, though there'd already been talks of it 'going underground.')

She leaned across the table interestedly. "What sort of reactions? From whom?"

Snape rolled his eyes at her. "Where're those critical thinking skills I've been practically shouting at your class to develop, Granger? Nobody at this school with the possible exception of Binns and Flitwick and McGonagall when she taught actually follows all the guidelines the Committee on Educational Health and Safety spits out, and nobody wants an annoying little fizzball fresh out of Hogwarts diapers buzzing around their space telling them how to clean up their act, or else."

Hermione sat back in disappointment. "So no one appears to be upset because they might have been… breaking the rules like we have. To protest the unfairness of this society. To stop this awful abuse."

"My, but aren't you an idealistic one?" Snape snorted. "You aren't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, and you'd better stop hoping to see the best in people here at your own and our peril," he said, his voice hard. "No victor's going to stick their necks out to help the vanquished."

"No? You are."

Riddle cut them off before the situation escalated. "The trifecta and Shacklebolt did a thorough job of rooting out nearly all sympathizers, even if they weren't conservatives themselves," he told her. "That's why so many Ravenclaw House alumni are on those House-Wizard lists. Their fundamental rationality split them between buying into Dumbledore's twisted but persuasive brand of logic that true balance requires proficiency in both the Light and Dark Arts, and recognizing at the same time that conservatives who simply wanted to be free to practice their own beliefs weren't quite the threat that Sovereignty propaganda very skilfully painted them as."

"Speaking of Ravenclaws, a few were biting their nails this morning," Harry commented. "The other Patil twin, one of her ruddy friends whose name I don't remember… A third of their class is doing slave labour, and a third of that number's here. Makes me wonder if they've done anything more than just feel uncomfortable about it. Something to ask Zabini, if he can control his blasted prejudices."

Hermione left the idea that at least one other student in Hogwarts might have a conscience to mull over later. She shook her head, recalling the disturbing House-Wizard 'sale' from the night before. "It's going to take years for Blaise to forgive you for that. I get what you were doing with Percy, but can you imagine how furious you'd be if he was the one who pulled a stunt like that on you?"

Harry sounded thoroughly unconcerned. "I don't give a damn if he forgives me at all as long as he can control himself enough to work with us. Those five minutes were pittance in comparison to what he's gotten from the Sovereignty for two years, I'll say that right now. Mr. Out On The Pull just can't handle the idea of a conservative woman preferring a Sovereign Elite to himself."

"Blaise and I are long overdue for a conversation; I'll put in a good word," Riddle said, and leaned forward. "Now, if Charles Weasley has turned to espionage, he isn't one of mine." His tone had changed, and with it he reclaimed control of the conversation. "We did encounter him a few months ago on the continent; he possesses a sensitivity to magical equines that really is quite profound, but the same didn't appear to extend to social issues. His clemency toward Draco sounds more to me like a rare case of conscience amongst the highest echelons, but I'll ask Bella to sniff around to see if our German friends have other insight."

"And Percy?" Hermione asked tightly.

Riddle studied her, his gaze pensive. "You know, this does raise the interesting question of how a Double would stand up against third-party interrogation."

"We already know how it stands up. Dumbledore didn't suspect a thing."

"Dumbledore was also blinded by his own conviction and hardly gave Lucius id est me a second glance past his initial inspection. Nor did he use Veritaserum or other magical means to ascertain additional information. Would the potion force me to speak my own truth through the Shadow, or would we be able to control the response?"

"You cannot seriously be thinking of testing those limits with a Sovereignty official," Hermione hissed. "I'll give Draco's double Veritaserum to see what happens before I let that ponce get anywhere near my room again. Whatever else he might do to that Shadow would also happen to Draco, and that isn't necessarily something we can control!"

Riddle's dark eyes peered pensively into the night beyond the windows before he nodded. "I don't disagree with you on that, Hermione. In the coming weeks, you and I shall conduct that particular experiment." She let out a breath of relief as his attention turned to Snape and Harry. "No, if Weasley is reporting to Lily Evans regularly, she absolutely cannot be informed of any espionage allegations that would require Draco be pulled in to the Phoenix and thoroughly cross-examined by the highest court for supporting evidence." He glanced at Hermione. "Your quick-thinking blackmail was a start, but not even that will do. Percy Weasley must be managed swiftly and comprehensively."

"Well, the Imperius Curse is out," Harry announced. "My mother has a sixth sense for detecting it and other forms of compulsion. He floos directly to the Phoenix to see her every Tuesday afternoon."

Snape rolled his eyes and his head toward his godson. "Oh, don't give her that much credit. Your mother's good – even worse when her 'instincts' are set to scent hound - but even she has her limits. No doubt her spot-on ability has more to do with some sort of covert magical detection technology on her mobile that ferrets out traces of coercive magic."

Riddle tapped his hand on the table, once, twice. "There is a way to cast an undetectable Imperius Curse."

Hermione swiftly looked at him in shock, and noticed Snape and Harry had done the same. The Unforgivable Curses were unique not only in their effectiveness but because they stood alone: they did not form the foundations for any other spells, and, as far as she knew, were not easily tampered with nor could be dissected into more basic magical elements.

"Like your Impressionem Charm?" she asked.

He tilted his head appraisingly. "Similar only in that it's rooted in the same untraceable derivatives. I worked out the bones of it during my imprisonment and conducted trials during the Second Defiance, but only in these past two years have I gotten it down to an art."

Harry had leaned toward him, a distinctly keen gleam in his calculating eyes. "How's it work?"

"By only affecting the lines of thought or emotion the caster seeks to control, rather than commandeering the victim's entire mentality. As a result, the victim never for a moment feels anything but themselves; when it comes to the controlled material, they'll speak with clarity and conviction within the bounds of their usual mental framework, not through a clouded, hypnotized mind, and feel completely justified of it. Hence, Lily Evans' exceptional observation skills won't notice anything amiss because, for all intents and purposes, nothing is amiss, and the untraceable magic is why any detection technology she might have won't post a challenge, either. I'll instruct you all in it now, but tomorrow, whichever of you proves most adept will perform it on Weasley."

Hermione instantly shook her head. "I'll tell you now it probably won't be me. Of the three Unforg— spells of the Trifecta, the Imperius Curse has posed a… unique challenge."

"Well, I'm already getting close to Weasley and no doubt he'll tell my mother that," Harry said. "Much as I'd love to muck with his highfalutin head, I'd rather not give her anything to go on that she could possibly ever link back to me."

Snape looked between them, then let out a loud sigh. "Oh, alright. I'll do your dirty work. Again."

"Take it as a compliment to your magical skills," Riddle said dryly.

"Do those 'skills' end with a 'z'?"

Riddle's brow quirked. "If you wish."

"Then I'll take it as a compliment."

"Not to mention it aligns perfectly with your character," Hermione muttered.

Snape let out a squawk, surely to call attention to her 'ill will' toward him rather than express any indignation he (likely did not) feel about the comment itself.

As expected, Riddle gave her a stern look. "Hermione, you know what I've said…"

"…about the importance of keeping your mind guarded when you don't expect an invasion."

The emergency secret intelligence meeting over Percy's arrival, not to mention the subsequent acquisition of the complex theory of Riddle's version of the Imperius Curse, had significantly cut into Riddle's and Hermione's every-other-day lessons. He had suggested they focus on Occlumency for the rest of the evening, so they were still sitting in the war room rather than the duelling lab.

"You warded off Snape and Lily because you expected their probing and you prepared yourself adequately," Riddle continued. "I haven't once seen you maintain that protection in a seemingly non-threatening situation. This one detail marks the difference between an intermediate Occlumens and an advanced, and a clandestine Master Legilimens can exploit you for it most readily."

"Approximately how many are there?" Hermione asked. "Snape and a Hufflepuff, Susan Bones, are the only two true Legilimens I can discern at Hogwarts — or, at least, the only two willing to openly use Legilimency on students."

"'Openly' being the key. Accomplished Legilimens tend to comprise 4% of the population. Amelia Bones is extraordinarily talented in the mental arts, so that isn't unexpected. McGonagall certainly knows how to use Legilimency, though it was never came as naturally to her as it did some others — she's too stiff about how she goes about it. I wouldn't be surprised if Lupin has reached Master level, and his deceptively mild demeanour is exactly what you must be on your guard against. How're the exercises I gave you coming along?"

"Well enough," she said. She tried not to think about what she suspected was coming next, but her heart began to beat faster nonetheless. "They're keeping me a bit calmer in other areas of my life, at least."

Except right now when I know you're about to hit me with Legilimency that I won't be able to block and you'll see that I've been deliberately keeping valuable information about the prophecies from the resistance after you specifically asked us if we knew anything more about it…

Riddle nodded reasonably, thankfully looking to be unaware of her internal struggle — for another minute more, perhaps. "Their foundational purpose is general strengthening and stabilisation," he affirmed. "Very good. Well," he rolled his chair a bit closer, "let's do a baseline run to see where you currently stand."

Hermione nodded, but her thoughts were doing the very opposite of what they should have been then — they were racing frantically. Riddle hadn't deliberately looked into her mind since the first day she'd met him, though she had no doubt someone of his genius-level proficiency probably found her an open book anyway. If Firenze's theory hadn't come out to him already, no doubt it would soon, and she'd much rather have control of how it did.

As he lifted his wand to her temple, she swallowed hard, and only hoped he wouldn't be too angry she'd waited so long to fess up to it.

"Wait," she sad swiftly.

Riddle paused, glancing down at her. "Hermione?"

She gnawed on her lip, but not for long; it took only one flash of a nightmare she'd had the night before of little Peia trying to fight Albus Dumbledore for her to look directly into Riddle's eyes. "There's something you don't know that I'd rather you heard from me before you see a memory of it."

He sat back, lowering his wand. For a moment, he simply studied her, then nodded. "And it is?"

Hermione nodded to herself, and then she recounted the entirety of her encounter with Firenze, repeating their limited exchange verbatim.

"He seemed quite convinced the subject of the centaurs' prophecy was me, or at least that I had been brought here because of it," she concluded in a voice more calm than she'd expected it would be. If anything, like everything else she'd experienced along the path from alone to alliances that she'd travelled from the moment she'd arrived in Universe B, it was something of a relief to share the burden of knowing with someone else.

During her entire narrative, Riddle's unreadable expression never once changed. Now, she met it evenly, her nerves on edge, fully ready to defend herself against any ire or irritation that might come from her delayed confessional.

But he only said, "Have you noticed any changes in your magic since you've arrived? Something that would indicate possession of this Source-like magic?"

She relaxed slightly and frowned, then shook her head. "I've been able to produce much more wandless, nonverbal magic. Basic spells only, generally. But it wasn't that I was unable to do it in my world, per se, it's simply a muscle I've had to further develop out of necessity with all the spy work here."

Riddle dipped his head to the side and back slightly. "I wouldn't brush that off quite so dismissively — Many wizards can go their entire lives without the ability to cast a single spell wandlessly or nonverbally, once they've picked up a wand. That you've been able to expand that practice in a matter of months out of necessity is significant."

"Honestly, it really isn't, not to me," she said straightforwardly, her tone in no way boastful. "I've always set a different standard for myself and, most of the time, I've accomplished what I set out to do. Still — you saw how the elemental magic went last night. I can give it my all and with a firm grasp of the theory, the necessary results will usually materialise, but I do have considerable boundaries compared to a wizard with your competence that I haven't yet been able to push."

"What about the Eighth-level Invisibility Charm Draco mentioned you cast the night Dumbledore was here?"

Hermione shook her head. "I can't produce it consistently. That is one thing, though — I was never able to complete Eighth-level charm work before I arrived."

He sat back thoughtfully. "Any patterns as to when that level of magic has been successful?"

She thought for a moment, then smiled wryly at the realization. "Only when all seems lost and the end appears nigh, ironically."

Riddle mirrored the smile vaguely, but his eyes were distant, narrowed pensively.

In truth, Hermione wasn't certain if she found his curiously unfazed reaction and measured response to — what seemed to her, at least — potentially significant news to be reassuring or unnerving.

"Hermione, between your intelligence and inherent magic, I'll be the first to admit that you're a very talented witch," he said. "Most that pass through Hogwarts' doors cannot hope to ever match the power I was fortunate enough to not only be born with but also to have an unnatural amount of years and youth to expand. For your age especially, you've done a commendable job." He refocused back on her. "Still, the prophecy, if we are to take it at its word, indicates a connection, a joining, that will manifest the power of the Source. Have you experienced anything here that could be indicative of such a thing?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. Believe me, I've thought about it — all of it. Do you have any idea what some of the smaller, more specific predictions could be referring to?"

Riddle paused, as if weighing his response, and then returned his gaze to her. "I imagine you analysed it closely. Do you?"

She hesitated. "Yes. No — Well, only three parts of it. Of both prophecies."

At her indication that she go on, she sat back, curling one leg beneath her and crossing the other over her knee to get more comfortable. "I don't work well with Divination, so I focused on terms that, to me, held clear scientific meaning. First, the most obvious: the name of the overtaking binary star system, Cato Hilaris. Cato, derived from the Roman Statesman Cato the Elder, is roughly translated to wise, intelligent or shrewd, and 'hilaris' is Latin for cheerful."

Riddle tilted his head slightly. "True enough. Though Xeranthemus Dai has no direct translation yet clearly seems to indicate Albus Dumbledore, so we may find the name's direct meaning is simply a red herring."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure she could be considered wise, shrewd or cheerful, so she had wondered the same thing.

"And the next?" he asked.

"'Succumb beneath the luminous red nova at the heart of the firebird's power.' Luminous red novae. A direct astronomical term: Stellar explosions, distinctly red in colour, thought to be caused by the merging of two stars. And when paired in conjunction with the heart of the firebird's power, well… could this be a literal reference? Perhaps the machine Draco mentioned?"

The right side of Riddle's lip quirked upward slightly, not in pleasure at her words, she guessed, but in agreement. "I derived a similar estimate as soon as Draco described his experience. That's another reason I've asked us to focus our efforts so closely on eliminating the House-Wizard bonds."

"Precisely!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly, leaning forward. "Could that machine have not only taken the House-Wizards' magic but somehow still be holding or controlling it, and that magic in turn be literally powering — what, the firebird — the Phoenix's power, whatever that is? Dumbledore's clearly taken great pains to keep the conservatives alive for a reason and I'm certain it isn't from the kindness of his own heart; if it's because he stands to lose from their death, then he must somehow be profiting from their life."

Now Riddle was smiling. "What took me a minute to deduce, analysed and summarized within a span of fifteen seconds. Very well done, Hermione." He leaned his elbow on wrist, and his knuckles propped beneath his chin. "No doubt Dumbledore has taken the prophecy more figuratively, and believes the luminous red nova to be himself and one of his Viceroys, and the succumbing that of us beneath their combined driving power of the entire Sovereignty of the Phoenix. Ultimately, whatever the true meaning of the prophecy, we still have a clear path forward to guide our own efforts in restoring the House-Wizards' magic. Now, your third insight?"

Hermione nodded, fully engaged now. "Well… Binary star. A celestial system formed by a primary star and companion star orbiting around their combined centre of mass. As everyone's already noted: Seems like two people rather than one. But must the two prophecies be connected, or can they be mutually exclusive?" she asked, wondering aloud the thought that had nagged her since she'd discovered another prophecy existed. "Perhaps one person is meant to bring down the Sovereignty or Sovereign, and another will be given the power of the Source. Possibly around the same time, of course, thus pointing to a joining or combined effort."

Riddle pursed his lips before he responded; at this theory, it was clear he had other ideas. "Possibly. One would assume that in order to accomplish the former they would require use of the latter, but," he levelled a serious gaze at her, "the distinct lack of clarity lent by each is why we must not assign any one part of the prophecy to any particular person. At least not until we've seen very specifically that some element of the prophecy referring to them has already materialized."

Hermione's brow furrowed slightly. "So you'd rather use the prophecies as confirmations rather than guides," she clarified.

"In the respect of determining their subjects, yes."

She hesitated for several seconds, staring at her hands rather than at him, before she worked herself up to asking nervously, "Then what of your actions regarding… Peia?"

A thick, terrible silence met her question and Hermione suddenly dearly wished she'd bitten her tongue, but it was too late to go back. "You thought the prophecies could be about her, didn't you?" she plunged on. "The result of your and Bella's joining—"

"As I have said, Hermione, I am not willing nor interested in discussing specific possibilities," he interrupted her curtly, the firm note of finality in his voice unequivocally ending her line of questioning.

Hermione gnawed on her lip and fidgeted awkwardly, distinctly feeling like a rude child who'd been chastised by… well, by a Headmaster. Perhaps he was so unwilling to assign the prophecy to any one person because he didn't want to admit what he and Bella had done, or that it could be about his daughter…

She was shocked to her seams when he suddenly said in a quieter voice that had lost all traces of its brusqueness, "But I am afraid of that, yes." She looked back at him quickly, but he was distantly staring at the table. "And that she is not prepared for it, if it is."

Riddle said nothing more, though the silence became a bit less uncomfortable. It reassured Hermione greatly that from those two sentences and his body language during them, he certainly seemed as concerned about Peia bearing the brunt of the prophecy as she was, and hoped desperately they were both wrong.

She guiltily wondered if she'd made her estimate of his reasons for fathering Peia too presumptuously.

After a few minutes, she asked, "If Firenze… was right when he talked about astral transferences… do you think these Ancient Ones, whatever they are, could have been what brought me here?"

He blinked, then looked over at her, his gaze again perfectly composed and focused. "Why don't you tell me the details surrounding that occurrence."

Hermione did, describing at length the piercing white light and the events directly preceding and following it. That no major time jump had occurred between universes, but that night had turned to day. Riddle's dark eyes probed hers as she did, and she knew the thread of Occlumency she was trying to maintain, not that she had anything to hide anymore at this point, was probably doing nothing to stop him from seeing everything she was saying.

"And you'd never… had any experience with this universe, before you came here?" he asked.

She frowned. "In what way?"

He shrugged. "Thoughts, dreams, visions, mysterious artefacts that belonged to My dropping down at your door — something to indicate you might have had any other kind of connection with us before the primary incident."

Hermione shook her head. "No, not at all."

Riddle let out a breath, for several seconds staring ahead at nothing at all. Then he focused back on her and leaned forward, clasping his hands. "Hermione, are you familiar with the theory of Source magic?"

She nodded; she'd looked it up the day she'd found out about the second prophecy, and it'd taken her the better part of five hours to actually locate a library source on it. "There isn't much on it but legends. It's said to be the original, purest form of magic, that which was gifted by the Ancient Ones and held their celestial properties - the source from which all magic stems. But when humans obtained it, they twisted and divided it — some go as far as to say 'desecrated' it — to control it for their own purposes."

"And this, some within the Ministry of Mysteries have postulated, has directly affected the appearance, quality and power of what we know as magic today," Riddle said. "As you know, most wand-cast spells have specific colours of light associated with their casting - visual manifestations of their individual energies. One Source-related theory developed in the Magic Chamber centuries ago holds that this is because each spell - or, possibly, the bastardized form of magic humans have channeled to cast it - only constitutes but a single thread of the most fundamental, undivided essence of Magick energy. As such, no magic required for any one spell can ever physically manifest as white light, which, of course, encompasses every colour and energetic wavelength of the visible spectrum."

Hermione frowned, swiftly wracking her brain for any spell that might disprove such a theory. "But the Patronus-"

"The Patronus Charm is the closest we can get to such an embodiment," he acknowledged with a nod of his head, "which, the Unspeakables additionally proposed, is because its casting is rooted in a powerful harnessing of one of the purest emotions: happiness. As a side note, wandless magic is, with the exception of very rare cases, even more diluted than traditional magic, so it doesn't possess the energy to congeal into visible electromagnetic radiation at all."

She lifted her hand to her chin, thoughtfully gnawing lightly on the tip of her index nail. "I suppose that makes sense; some Eastern theorists in my world have proposed that positive emotions have a higher, and possibly broader, energetic frequency than negative," she noted, recalling research she'd done on the power of positive thinking when Harry (and them all, really) had struggled so greatly with the Patronus Charm their third year. She furrowed her brow, trying to quickly put together the pieces of what he was implying. "But… I assure you that was no Patronus Charm that struck me. If this theory is accurate, that would mean no magic exists that could have produced the strength and power of that white light."

"If the theory is accurate, is hasn't for millennia, no." Riddle paused, his calculating gaze surveying her carefully before he spoke again. "Following the extension that adulterated magic manifests as discrete colours, it was further posited that the original Source magic, unadulterated as it was, was - is - the only magic that could appear pure white."

Hermione froze.

For a moment, her autonomic nervous system couldn't find the knowledge or will to inhale.

Then her heart began racing, and time started again.

Hermione forced herself to remember one of Riddle's breathing exercises - in nose, out mouth; in nose, out mouth! - and realized they'd also probably be extremely useful if she ever went through labor. She abruptly became aware her right leg was now stiff and slightly aching and tried to shift off it, but her sweating hands slipped off the chair's smooth armrests the second she tried to push herself up.

She abandoned the effort - Merlin, she already looked pathetic enough - and returned her focus to Riddle's frustratingly neutral expression.

How could he continue to avoid acknowledging that either of the prophecies was about her when something so obviously indicating that it was was staring them both in the face? At the very least, like Firenze had said, an element of the prophecy had likely been the reason for her inter-dimensional transfer.

"So you're saying it was Source magic that brought me here," she managed to say.

"I'm saying that, with your experiences as described and that theory as it stands, it's a possibility," Riddle responded evenly.

Hermione swallowed and nodded once.

"Right then," she said dispassionately. "That's helpful to know."

And then she threw all her efforts into Occlumensing her gaze in the hope he couldn't see that she was unnerved to the bone.

Despite her acceptance that she was now deeply involved with a desperately needed social uprising in Universe B that might, might have been illogically predicted, some part of her had dearly hoped that the final explanation for her transference would be slightly more reasonable: A Dark Arts enchantment with a clear counter-charm, or an accidental, universe-traveling potion that had exploded on her in the Final Battle's downpour in which the sparkling white light was only a mental side effect... and happened to coincide with a prophecy.

Anything that didn't hold the sheer weight of something as bloody insane as knowing the original Source of sodding magic itself had sent her here!

What did she have that this brilliant magical prodigy sitting across from her didn't? She wasn't anything special! Oh, she was smart and talented and possibly even the brightest witch of her age, but not any more than Headmaster Dumbledore, and he hadn't been brought to save the Light Wizards here, if that was what the prophecy was really about. Wouldn't it have been more effective to shove him into the Sovereign's body one or two decades ago? (Though, if the inter-dimensional transfer really was a true switch between doppelgängers, then Hermione was afraid to imagine the ramifications of an all-powerful Universe B Dumbledore loose in her world.)

Riddle must have seen some of her panic, despite her efforts to the contrary, because he held out a hand and pushed back his chair, standing. "Well, I believe that's more than enough speculation for tonight."

She let out a shaky breath and nodded again. "Right. Agreed," she repeated dumbly, following his lead to numbly stretch out now-stiff legs.

Riddle looked over at her, his expression considerably more understanding and relaxed than it had been moments before. "Hermione, believe me when I say you mustn't let this worry you. We can't change our actions based on speculation; we can only continue on as we always have been until more information is available. I suspect you've had two very trying days — Get some sleep tonight, and take care to avoid the latest Weasley to haunt Hogwarts' halls as you return."

His rapid transition from distant to personable was smooth but slightly jarring.

Hermione narrowly restrained herself from saying that every day was trying and that she doubted sleep would come anytime soon, but thought better of it. Despite the logic of his reminder that the prophecies might not actually mean anything at all, her mind was still digesting and dissecting his comprehensive explanation of Source magic theory and how it could potentially relate to her.

The only, only thing she suspected might actually reassure her or at least calm her down quickly and effectively right now was Draco's presence, but one glance at her - well, Ronáld's - watch told her she had only fifteen minutes until she switched off with Harry for that night's Prefect/Head Patrol.

Still, her gaze longingly shifted through the glass toward the lantern-lit form of Tribute CV a second before she and Riddle passed through the doors to the staircase. She wondered if Blaise had become any less difficult for Draco to deal with today, and even moreso, how things had gone with his father. The night before, she had sat up with Lucius at a deeply sleeping Draco's bedside for far longer than she should've remained in the Chamber, after she'd walked in on the older Malfoy nearly overcome by emotion during his distressed efforts to spread healing cream across the fresh bruises on his son's face and neck-

"I imagine you must miss home terribly," Riddle said sympathetically, interrupting her thoughts as they descended the stairs. "Not having a concrete explanation for why you're here to begin with surely only makes it more difficult."

Hermione sighed. "I try not to think about it. I went a bit mad when I did, mostly because the answers weren't there no matter how hard I looked, and I was torn between helping Draco and Pansy and trying to find a way to leave - I found I couldn't focus on both at once," she explained. "But every day it gets… a little bit farther away."

As she thought of the parental concern that Lucius had so kindly extended not only to Draco but to her after the enchantments' conclusion, her own parents' smiling faces and the sound of their laughter settled in her mind.

A deep ache tore through her chest.

"Some moments are harder than others," she confessed quietly, wincing at the sudden tremor to her voice.

Riddle glanced over at her, then briefly placed his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "We will get to the bottom of how you arrived here, I'm sure of it." After a second, he let out a dark chuckle. "When that day comes, no doubt you'll want to escape from this dysfunctional world as quickly as possible."

Hermione blinked, and then nearly stopped walking at his offhanded comment.

"I… haven't really thought about that," she said in surprise.

Once she'd set upon the fact she could be stuck here for the long term, and at the whim of some unknown magic she herself hadn't cast, Hermione hadn't allowed herself to think about a possibility in which the time of her return might be of her own choosing.

Excitement leapt at her chest as the idea sunk in.

What if such a thing were really feasible? What if there might be a factor for her coming and going she could control?

Even if so, if the prophecy really was about her, Hermione couldn't imagine leaving the conservatives behind to this fate so she could selfishly escape with her own life intact. But, if they managed to succeed with Riddle's impossible goals first… if she'd already done what the prophecy had foretold, and, with Riddle's help, learned that such a controlled return was possible… or, on the contrary, if things suddenly worsened rather than improved, and she was facing her own death with no other way out…

Certainly Hermione would choose home in a heartbeat.

Oh, without a doubt, she liked a handful of the people she'd gotten to know in Universe B well enough, and cared deeply about Peia, but she missed so many people from Universe A far too desperately to stay here. Faces and scenes passed before her eyes - her beloved parents, Ron and Harry, Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and George and Fred and Bill and Fleur and Neville and even Luna, Merlin help her —

The only face that stopped her was Draco's.

She swallowed hard, the pause and sudden lurch at her heart significant.

Of all the horrific consequences of getting into a relationship with Draco (all of them from outside sources) that Hermione had considered when she'd been afraid to breach her feelings about him, her choosing to leave Universe B to go home hadn't been one of them. Hadn't even been a possibility - had seemed far too far beyond the range of possible.

She couldn't help but remember more of her unexpectedly extended and heartfelt interaction with his father yesterday.

"He doesn't want anger, Lucius. He doesn't want pity or attention. He just wants to be normal," she'd told a physically trembling Lucius, remembering her Harry and one of the things he'd struggled with most during his fame as The Chosen One. She gently took the bruise cream from his shaking hands before he could drop it. "Give him that. Don't let your anger over these unspeakable things that've been done to him poison your time together."

After she'd calmed him down and stayed with him for a few minutes, she in a chair, he on the side of Draco's bed with his hand on his son's, keeping vigil by only the light of a single candle, Lucius said quietly, "In all my years, I never thought I'd see a Muggleborn so willingly close to my son."

At her startled expression, he added quickly, "Not that I mind — not in the least; I'm quite glad for it! — it's simply — in the so-called progressive circles the Malfoy name was reviled, you see, even decades ago. Most Muggleborns and Mixed-Bloods would rather spit on us than speak to us. Now it's twenty times worse, and still… you're here with him. With all of us."

She shook her head. "I don't know if Draco told you, but in my world Purebloods — Old-Bloods — looked upon Muggleborns in much the same way conservatives are viewed here. None of it's right. No so-called 'blood status' or background or beliefs should matter when it comes to social equality — to any kind of equality." She let out a sigh. "But it so often does, the universes over."

Lucius studied her with the same astonishment he had when she'd expounded upon the Lithuanian Coup of 1579. "You are quite a remarkable young woman, if I may say so."

Hermione smiled weakly, shrugging modestly. "I just have principles I find impossible to abandon that tend to pull me into fights most people would avoid."

She tenderly gazed down at Draco's peaceful face as he slept — soundly, thank Merlin; Riddle must have added a DSP derivative to the sleeping drought. Even in the dark, she could see his panicked grey eyes locked on hers in the short seconds before he'd fallen unconscious before the second Shadow Double curse had been cast, could still feel how tightly he'd held to her clothing during the very worst of his unexpected, awful panic attack.

As if she was the only thing keeping him from drowning in a sea of acute fear that it had stupidly taken her until that night to realize haunted him during his waking moments as well as his nightmares. Fear he had clearly been very, very adept at hiding with laughter.

That Draco had accepted her promise of safely so immediately and given her his trust so completely after everything that had happened to him made her ache inside. What had she done, really, in the three short months she'd known this man to deserve his unshakable faith in her?

Some white flecks of bruise cream still dotted his pale skin, and Hermione strongly resisted the urge to carefully smooth them in—

"What are your intentions with my son, Hermione?"

She almost choked on her own spit, and looked over at Lucius with wide eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"I must apologize for the forwardness of the question; in Old-Blood society we have quite an extensive courting system that begins with a potential match arranged by the parents, in fact, but I'm quite certain that with the uprisings, little of these traditions were passed on to Draco's generation. I confess I'm not even certain of the seriousness of your relationship, only that there is one," Lucius said, his voice mild rather than chagrined. "So in lieu of all formalities, I will simply ask you why, out of anyone in this world, you have chosen him."

Hermione's mouth opened and closed, thankful for the dim light as blood pounded through her face. Had they really been so obvious?

And yet… Lucius's gentle tone wasn't off-putting at the least, but kind, inviting. She didn't feel unwelcome for her presence, nor the need to defend their relationship, but that she could respond honestly, and he wouldn't try to dissuade her or them (Merlin knew she'd already done plenty of that herself in the days leading up to her and Draco's big talk the week before).

And that, honestly, was rather wonderful.

Hermione hesitated, then reached out, gently laying her fingers on Draco's wrist beside Lucius's own hand. How could she summarize in a simple response the answer to that question? What they weren't, not quite yet… but also what they were?

"To be honest," she answered, "I… almost feel like it was the other way around."

Hermione blinked back to Tribute A, where she and Riddle had reached the ground floor. She remembered his question: Would she escape to Universe A as quickly as possible?

Logic dictated her response, though emotion dictated her delay:

Surely if something like the Ancient Ones had brought her here for a purpose, they weren't going to be sending her home until it was finished. And even though Hermione didn't know quite what it was, it was certainly nowhere near being finished.

Which meant she didn't have to have an answer now. In truth, since all of this was speculation, she might not ever need to have an answer.

She looked back at the dark-haired man's piercing gaze and let out a long breath, shaking her head. "Until the day comes that I'm actually staring the truth of my passage home in the face, I really can't say what I'll…"

"…do with this?"

Peia plopped down beside Draco, holding up one of several thick, leather-bound journals scattered across the coffee table in the midst of a circle of comfortable furniture in Tribute A's living room space...

A/N: Woo, we've delved into some high level prophecy theory here. I would SO love to hear your ideas and theories about what it all might mean! Please chime in; as you can tell by the very nature of this story, no idea is too crazy!

Part III to come with more by the end of the weekend, including some Dramione where Draco is actually awake (everyone cheers). Hopefully the 18,000 words of these two chapters will tide you over until then. :)