A/N: I LOVED all your theories! So far the leading ones are: Hermione is, definitively, the subject of the prophecy, Hermione and Draco are the subject of the prophecy, there's another prophecy no one knows about that will make answers clearer, Peia brought Hermione to UniB, Snape loved Narcissa, Draco and Hermione might need to have sex (prophecy theory and/or simply hopeful Dramione fans, unclear ;). Anyway... prepare yourselves for the longest chapter I have ever written. Didn't see that one coming when I started working on it.

Confessionals, Part III

"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 on the sofa 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. Draco and Lucius had found seats close enough to the flickering fireplace to keep warm in the cooling evening, but far enough that the crackling flames didn't send every ounce of adrenaline in Draco's body careening through his veins; still, he was grateful his father had sat in the chair between him and the fire.

"The seemingly harmless pile of books you see before you," he informed her in a dramatically hushed voice, "holds the only compendium of every magical spell on earth needed to create entirely self-sustaining worlds, like the one we have here inside this Chamber. And your father has enlisted us to be shared keepers of these profound secrets of life."

For a split second, Peia cast a strangely uncomfortable, sidelong glance across the common area — where Riddle and Blaise were pouring over Blaise's lead at the long activity table at the opposite end — before she looked back at Draco, grinning.

"Wicked!" she said enthusiastically, flipping open the book in her hands. "Can I be a secret keeper as well?"

Draco leaned over and tilted his head sideways, peering at the silver roman numeral elegantly engraved along the binding. "Oh, nope — that one's on agroforestry. That's Pansy's area." He rummaged through the stack of hand-written books — all Tom Riddle's notes about his Chamber experimentation and final spells and enchantments — to pull out Volume VI. Then he plucked Peia's current book from her hands and replaced it with the new one. "Here." He flipped it open. "Chapter Three. Poultry and livestock. Since your inspiring level of affection for the resident Chamber menagerie exceeds anyone else's by at least two orders of magnitude, it'd be brilliant of you to start with that, Pei."

Peia laughed. "I know you're fond of them too, Draco."

"Not enough to name them. What'll you do if we have to eat Winthorpe?"

"We aren't," she said unconcernedly, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch. "Pansy told me chicken and goats provide much more value for us if they're alive."

As she began to read the journal in earnest, Draco's amusement faded.

Exactly like House-Wizards, he thought sardonically, remembering Riddle's recent explanation of the previously unheard-of Pacemaker Charm that was apparently the sole reason why he'd survived two years of what the Sovereignty had put him through. First a hippogriff; now a chicken.

Draco briefly returned his attention to the healing plants and herbs chapters he'd been reading before he surreptitiously glanced back over at Riddle and Blaise, who unfortunately had arrived in Tribute A's common area only a few minutes after Draco, his father and Pansy had. (Once Peia arrived with Evans, Pansy and he had immediately ducked off to do Draco knew not what, nor did he want to know.) Blaise had flung one short, unreadable look at Draco before the pair began to examine his lead.

They hadn't spoken to each other once since their explosive argument.

Draco still felt sick thinking about it. By the nature of Blaise's decidedly excitable personality and Draco's playful but considerably more cautious temperament, they'd certainly had their share of disagreements through the years.

But this had been different. This time Blaise had deliberately meant to damage Draco and Pansy both where it hurt them most. And for what? Anger, of course, and resentment and hurt as well for some perceived 'betrayal' due to their romantic interests. It was something Draco had always conceivably known Blaise could do — he'd certainly seen him 'lend' his opinion plenty to everyone else.

But it was something he had hoped he never would do, not to the two people who had only ever wished him well.

Draco tried not to pay attention to their conversation, but the threads of it carried across the building's open expanse nonetheless.

"—no difference between yours and the others," Riddle was saying. "Six spells, none which damper magic - further evidence toward a different method of extraction. And all of them, theoretically at least, breakable with a powerful enough Finite Incantatum." The ingenious man surprisingly sounded bewildered. "I greatly feared it would be a restraining magic far more binding and absolute. This alone truly bespeaks their arrogance in victory."

"Well?" Blaise demanded after a moment. "What are you waiting for, then? Why can't you F.I. the sodding thing, get us out of this?"

The resistance leader picked up the lead, turning it over in his hands, and then shook his head. "I cannot attempt to break any of your leads in the likely case the tampering would trigger an alert within the Bureau of House-Wizard Regulation. No, the day we take definitive action to destroy every one of these bonds must, unfortunately, be the day we put this theory to the test."

Blaise must not have looked terribly happy about this, because Riddle added, "Don't be disappointed, young Zabini. That day is coming much sooner than you may think."

Draco's ears perked up and his heartbeat quickened, but before he could overhear any more of the conversation, Peia shifted, craning her head around him to look at his father. "What are you studying, Uncle Luc?"

Lucius winced. "You picked that up from your mother, didn't you?" he asked, sounding at once pained and amused. His gaze briefly shifted to Draco's with a wry smile. "Bellatrix knows I detest diminutives of Lucius. She overheard your great-grandfather Tiberius call me Lucie once, and my dignity still hasn't recovered from what ensued after."

Draco chuckled. "That would explain the disapproving expressions mother always gave her whenever she spoke of you. I never once heard her call you anything but Luc."

"Do you want me to call you Lucius, Uncle Luc?" Peia asked solemnly.

Lucius appeared to think rather pensively, then shook his head. "No, you, Cassiopeia, can have the distinct pleasure of knowing you are the only person in the entire world who I allow to call me Luc." He lent her a mild smile. "We'll see how your mother takes that."

Her eyes widened. "Will mum be very angry?"

"Oh, heavens no. Irate, certainly, but she'll eventually abandon the effort if we give her nothing to go on. She thrived off my mortification." He shook his head, shuddering slightly. "Not even I could have comprehended the sheer number of ghastly words in the English language that rhyme or alliterate with 'Lucie,' but that woman knew them all…"

"Somehow, that isn't a surprise," Draco said with an amused smile, easily recalling the nimble dexterity of the almost madly bold barbs toward the Sovereignty he'd overheard Aunt Bella spit out over the years.

Peia sighed. "I can't wait 'til she comes back," she said, burrowing into Draco's side with a contented smile. He stiffened for only a moment before he slowly released a breath and wrapped his arm around his cousin's back.

Moments like this were still so surreal to him — his father, alive and well, so many memories streaming back to him now that it was really only a matter of time before his entire self had returned to him again; freedom, or at least what seemed like it; the safe warmth of a harmless fire; more food and books than he could ever ask for and a beautiful space that wasn't confined or dungeon-like; and the three of them sitting here reminiscing about people they all knew and loved, like they were just another halfway normal family.

A deep warmth pulled at his chest and the corners of his eyes as he thought that, somehow, somewhere, his mother must be looking down on them in that moment and beaming.

"Did mum call you anything else?" he asked.

"Oh, no — She was much more sympathetic than her sister. Always only 'Lucius,' of course," his father said. Then he smiled nostalgically and chuckled, "Although she did begin calling me 'pumpkin puff' quite a bit after we were married and started having more—"

Draco's eyes widened in horror, and he almost slapped his hands over Peia's ears. "Father!" he exclaimed, crossing his index fingers in front of him in an 'X'. "Boundaries!"

Lucius started, then focused back on them, looking sheepish. "Oh! Oh goodness, that was a bit much, wasn't it?"

"Details perhaps best saved for a Skeeter tell-all, not family story time," Draco said with a laugh, while surreptitiously lifting his hand up and behind Peia's head to gesture down at the twelve-year-old pointedly. His father's grey eyes crinkled in a smile of understanding, while Peia followed his gaze suspiciously and then swiftly tilted her head backward; Draco instantly hid his hand and smiled down at her innocently.

"Dra-co!" she exclaimed.

He raised his eyebrows. "Is something the matter, love?"

"You're hiding something from me!"

Draco furrowed his brow in confusion and shot his father a perplexed expression, trying to keep his mischievousness from his gaze. "'Something?' Whatever could it have been, I wonder? You couldn't have possibly seen… this!"

His hand shot out to her only ticklish spot: left side, beneath her elbow; Peia shrieked and began laughing wildly, squirming away and tumbling to the ground. "Draco!"

"Well, this research session certainly appears to be progressing splendidly."

Draco quickly halted his tickle attack and looked up. Riddle was standing beside one of the empty armchairs on the other side of the coffee table, Blaise hovering slightly behind him, avoiding looking at any of them and appearing to be entirely uncomfortable standing so nearby. Draco's laughter ceased immediately, and he felt the same mild, somewhat irrational panic welling within him that was just waiting for Blaise to again blurt out the truth to the people here who didn't know.

He straightened in an effort to pull his over-reacting head from his arse, and realized that the somewhat awkward hesitation that had ensued wasn't just the fault of the tension between him and Blaise; Riddle, oddly, didn't appear to be his usual relaxed self either, his dark gaze cast toward the ground at Draco's feet. Draco frowned slightly and followed the older man's line of sight for it to land on Peia, suddenly quiet and unsmiling, who was facing Draco's knees rather than the two new arrivals, dully picking at a thread of the soft green carpet upon which she'd fallen.

His brows knit. Had she and Riddle fought? he wondered in concern. About what? And should he really start thinking of Riddle as 'Tom' following the still-unexplained but clear fact that legendary resistance leader was the father of his cousin?

Lucius, true to form (and Draco found he loved him all the more for it), hadn't seemed to have noticed Riddle's ironically pronounced words or the strain cloaking the group of them. "Oh, we've encountered a spot of trouble here and there, considering direct practice is impossible to attempt until we've reacquired better use of our magic, in my case," he said with a wry expression, "but we've made rather substantial progress through the theory over the last few days, haven't we, Draco?"

Draco nodded. "Inhaled it, actually." His mind was so blessedly excited to learn anything new again that he had almost rabidly consumed eight chapters of the complex spellwork since Riddle had given them the assignment last Monday.

"That's good to hear. And I'm more than happy to provide any kind of additional clarification, or a demonstration, if needed," Riddle said. He looked back at the still-silent wizard standing behind him. "Blaise, as soon as you're ready, I'd like you to join them. I don't plan on going anywhere, but I'll be more comfortable knowing the ability to build a safe haven isn't only locked inside me."

"Oh yes, you must," Lucius said enthusiastically, holding up the scroll of parchment upon which he, Draco and Pansy had divided their desired areas of interest and expertise. "There's still a great number of yet-unexamined subject areas simply waiting for one of us to take the lead in mastering, particularly in structures and construction, if that's of any interest."

Blaise nodded. "Sure. Whatever you need."

After a second, he cast a sidelong glance at Draco, but quickly looked away, his expression closed.

Draco swallowed hard, dearly hoping Blaise had done enough damage to be content, and forced himself to focus on Riddle instead. "Sir," he said uncomfortably, "anything on…?"

He trailed off in the hopes that Riddle — Tom? — would know what he meant. Thinking of the powerful wizard by his given name strangely made him seem more human and less invincible… probably why, in his boyish hope, Draco had so stubbornly stuck to calling him Riddle while Narcissa had always referred to him as Tom.

He was grateful when Tom's dark eyes shifted to his, clearly understanding his inquiry. "Closer, Draco. Much closer. But not yet."

Draco's chest clenched. "You promised by—"

"Next Sunday. I know. I'm waiting to hear back on a few things first."

Draco let out a breath and nodded reluctantly, the same unease that he'd felt a week ago crawling back into his stomach.

Next Sunday. Only eight days.

It might as well have been a lifetime.

Tom's gaze returned to his daughter. "Peia, I'd like to speak with you for a moment, please."

Without looking at him, Peia reached up to the sofa and pulled the journal Draco had given her earlier into her lap. "I'm busy," she said, opening to a random page and hunching down over it.

The slightest tightening of his jaw and sudden hesitation was the only indication that Tom hadn't anticipated such a response and wasn't quite sure how to proceed.

"You know, I… wrote that book you're looking at," he tried again. "Some of the magic in it's very advanced, but I could help you with a few shortcuts to pick it up, if you like."

This time, Peia ignored him completely.

"Cassiopeia, do not make me beg you," Tom said so quietly that Draco almost didn't hear him say it, but he did, incredulously. He still wasn't quite certain how he felt about Tom's relationship with Aunt Bella — he hadn't ventured to ask Tom about it to form a conclusion, to be honest — but he still respected him greatly. It was clear he was trying to do his best with Peia, though Draco had never seen him attempt anything as spectacularly unsuccessful as this. Whatever their disagreement was about, he felt genuine sympathy for him.

Draco leaned down, rubbing Peia's back. "Hey, Pei. I actually think your Uncle Lucius and I are about to finish up here for the night." He glanced over at his father pointedly. "Aren't we?"

After a split second of confusion, Lucius jerked and hastily closed the journal. "How very astute of you, son," he said, rolling up the scroll of parchment so quickly it was almost comical. "My head's positively bursting with spells; I don't think I can possibly take another moment of reading tonight."

Peia looked between the two Malfoy men uncertainly. "Really?"

Draco nodded. "Pansy said she was going to try her hand at her mum's French apple tart with Chantilly cream later—" Peia's eyes lit up, "—and you know she's going to need a few willing assistants. Why don't you have a talk with Tom. By the time you're finished up we'll have put all this away here and be ready for you to lend us a hand in CV as well."

After a few seconds of silence, she asked cautiously, "Could I roll the dough?"

Draco smiled. "Of course you can." He looked up at Tom's carefully closed expression and nodded to assure him that Peia was about to bend. An uncharacteristically vulnerable gleam was in the older man's eyes, and he responded with the weakest of tugs at his right lip and a single, grateful nod in return.

Peia sighed and finally looked up from the journal, closing it reluctantly. "Alright, I suppose," she said dully.

"Good girl," Lucius said with a smile, already gathering up the books spread across the table to return them to the library.

Tom moved to place his hand on Peia's shoulder as she approached, but she quickened her steps and walked past him before he could, continuing on toward the Tribute's back door without a single glance in his direction. He sighed visibly, turned to look over his shoulder at Draco once more, his gaze this time unreadable, then followed her out.

"Does Pansy know she's going to be making Alora's apple tart this evening?" Lucius asked after they'd gone.

"If she and Evans ever re-emerge," Draco said, ignoring Blaise as he stiffened at the mention of the two together. He stood, helping his father gather up the last of the tomes. "Even if she doesn't quite get around to baking it now, Peia can make the dough ahead of time and I'll douse enough apple slices with cinnamon and sugar for her to peck at, so I don't think she'll be too disappointed with the results."

"Do set some aside with just cinnamon for me, would you?" Lucius requested. "I'm afraid my body's been a bit slow in remembering how to handle anything that isn't completely bland. Your kitchen concoctions have been exceptional, I assure you, but I thought I might jump out of my skin after that last pudding you and she made."

Draco chuckled, managing to slide one more book on the precariously balanced stack cradled in his left arm while still grabbing his cane with his right. "No sugar or caffeine for you — Check."

As they set off for the stairs, he was astonished when Blaise suddenly cut in front of them.

"Mr. Malfoy — Lucius — let me take those, would you? I've had to become rather adept at lifting things — could probably get the last of them, even," he said, nodding at the two books still left on the table.

Draco froze. A part of him dearly hoped his father would say no, but Lucius — again, ever true to character — unsuspectingly handed them over, and fetched the leftover few to add as well. "Jolly thoughtful of you, son."

He and Blaise walked the entire distance to the library in silence that Draco made no effort to break. It was only when the journals had been returned to their proper shelves that Blaise spoke. "Look, Draco, I —" He turned toward him, his voice tight, and Draco's shoulders' automatically tensed. "I probably shouldn't have said what I did."

Draco stared at him. "Probably?" he echoed in disbelief.

The edges of Blaise's lips tugged downward. "Alright, I shouldn't have said it at all," he said, the apology in his voice sincere. "But you and Pansy — I was only trying to protect you, brother."

An incredulous laugh slipped past Draco's lips before he could stop it. "Right. You're telling me you threw out my—" his voice caught, and he struggled to find the proper words for what he needed to say, "—my private experiences to the rest of the world in the name of protection?"

"How was I supposed to know she didn't know? It took me all of ten minutes to realize something like that had happened to you; you weren't exactly brilliant at hiding it, were you?"

He felt sick and forced himself to think about breathing rather than the fact that one of his most crippling secrets was apparently no longer that. "Well, she didn't, did she. No one did, because I have worked harder than you can possibly imagine to purge those memories from my mind. But thanks to your sexual fixation, it's all right back in my head again like it happened yesterday!" He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted a hand to his throbbing forehead. "Merlin, Blaise, who are you going to tell next? My father? Hermione?"

"There; foul on that!" Blaise exclaimed. "Look, you egghead, I didn't mean to bugger up your recovery process, and if I'd known, I might've chosen a different tack. I was only trying to make an important point, and that is that it's dangerous to be with one of them!"

"Merlin's ghost, not this again…" Draco shoved his fingers through his hair and turned away, letting out a heavy breath.

"No, wait—" Blaise held out a hand before he could walk past him. "Come on, mate, just - just hear me out, would you?"

He knew Draco well enough to know that he would, and did, his feet reluctantly dragging to a stop two steps from the door.

When Blaise spoke again, he'd lowered his voice. "For two years I have wondered if my father was the reason why the entire defiance collapsed and our lives went belly up. An hour ago, Riddle so kindly informed me that, yes, it was. But it wasn't just his fault. It was ours. My mother's and mine. Because we decided to make a sentimental journey back home before we met up with you in London, where he probably found us and followed us, and someone used him to pinpoint us at Mayfair."

This was the first time Draco had heard that Anna Maria and Blaise had breached strict movement protocol before they'd reunited in the posh Mayfair apartment (and Blaise's father, Tomas Felixisson, had found them). He twisted around to stare back at Blaise, stunned, while Blaise's contrite dark eyes burned into his. Neither needed to say that Narcissa's life had been inevitably caught in the crossfire.

"That's all on me, now, brother," Blaise said grimly. "It was Zabini and Felixisson mistakes that buggered us over. And I have a responsibility to make up for it. To keep as many people out of their hands as I can."

"We've told you, we aren't in 'their hands,' " Draco said wearily.

"Well, I didn't know that at the time, did I? How would you feel if you suddenly learned Red-Faced Weasley was fighting for us, and oh, he's coming over later for a cuppa and a chess match as well, so be sure to play nice. You wouldn't believe me either, I bloody well guarantee it."

Draco sighed deeply and stared past him, his jaw clenched. He truly understood the guilt that must have eaten even further at Blaise every time he saw another House-Wizard suffer, and the part of Draco that cringed at the very thought of conflict wanted to forgive him on the spot and be done with it. But another part of him — was this his pride? It had been so long since it'd activated inside him, he couldn't quite remember— that had taken two years of constant verbal abuse in near silence didn't want him to bite his tongue yet again, to brush off an 'act of friendship' that had hurt both him and Pansy so deeply.

Blaise's voice grew more desperate. "Listen, you — you don't have any idea what it's like, Draco. Two years of feeling like your family is the reason why everyone around you's been sentenced to the depths of hell—"

"Actually, I do," Draco said, his back and shoulders straightening. "Your father may have exposed us, but my mother and I were the last two people to stand between the Order of the Phoenix and all of you, and they crushed us like giants on ants. They told me you were all dead, worse than dead, and it was our fault, because whoever else betrayed us evidently didn't care if my mother and I died in the process of getting to you. How often do you think I wondered if I could've found some way to send a message to you before I gave myself up? That I should've realised they were going to kill mum anyway and tried to get away instead, to warn you? I know, Blaise!"

He paused to suck in a breath, whilst Blaise simply stared at him, looking struck. Draco felt the fight drain from his shoulders. "The only difference, mate," he said tiredly, "is that I've never treated anyone else like rubbish because of it."

A shadow instantly darkened Blaise's features. "Well, sorry, Draco," he hissed. "I suppose not everyone's as bloody perfect as you are."

He brushed past him, slamming the library door shut as he left.

Draco's palms stung.

Gingerly, he uncurled stiffly clenched fingers and lifted his hands. Small, bloody crescents that his nails had left behind were carved into his skin, joining scores of similar but faded marks already lining the centre of his palms. Wincing, Draco sighed softly and scrubbed at his face, then left his hands pressed against the sides of his nose, briefly closing his eyes.

He was well aware he was the reason that potential reconciliation had derailed. Yes, he had finally let himself say what he wanted to…

And he still felt absolutely terrible.

Well, shit, he thought.

He walked unsteadily to the chair nearest the curved windows, wondering when exactly he had become an old, old man. He didn't want to be alone then, not really, but he felt a certain shame about, well, everything, and couldn't bring himself to face anyone else at the moment either. In the deafening silence surrounding him, he leaned his cheek against the cool glass, gratefully allowing the cold to seep into his burning face, and looked out into the twilight.

He could just make out the dark heads of Peia and Tom, sitting on the steps far below.

Draco could only hope for both their sake's that their exchange was progressing far better than his had.

Peia sat on the farthest edge of the back steps of the Tribute and wrapped her arms around her knees, ignoring Tom even as she sensed his presence close the door and, after a moment, join her on the stoop.

She wondered which of the four Toms he was going to pull out for this 'speech': Professor Tom, Commander Tom, Analytical Tom, or Chameleon Tom, the latter of which encompassed Charming Tom and Everyman Tom. In the year and a half she'd known him, whether before a group of hundreds or in the confines of more secretive meetings, she had seen him slip easily between all with deliberate dexterity.

None of them, however, felt much like the way Draco would look at Uncle Luc and say father and Uncle Luc would say son, as if, even though they'd only really known each other two weeks as adults, their time together when Draco was very young had solidified an unshakable knowledge deep in their depths of what each meant to the other. They knew they loved each other. They knew they loved Aunt Cissy. They knew the whole truth about where they'd come from and the family they were a part of.

With her own 'father,' Peia didn't know any of those things.

Regardless, whichever Tom made its appearance, she was determined not to apologize.

Yes, she had yelled at an adult, but what she had said was all true — She hadn't done anything wrong.

Except, possibly, being born.

She watched waves of Mediterranean grasses rustling in the breeze, noticed how the they seemed to be bowing their farewell to the sun as it sank in the west, its brilliant colours streaking through the sky. A few yards away, Winthorpe the Rooster foraged around the brush while Hilda and all the other chickens pecked away happily in their evening coop. With a sigh, she saw that her favourite, little Tilly the Silky Chicken, was, as usual, feeling out of place amongst the much larger Sussex and Orpington breeds, and had taken up exploring her own corner of the pen a bit desolately.

Though she was finally, finally starting to feel like part of a family again with Draco and Uncle Luc and Pansy and Harry and Hermione, Peia greatly empathized.

She and Tom sat in silence long enough for the last of the sun to sink below the horizon and the lanterns at either side of the doorway to flared to life before he said, "Your mother told me you loved to have her read you stories before going to bed, while you were growing up."

Peia frowned. She hadn't quite known what she'd expected him to say, but it wasn't that. She tugged her knees more tightly to her chest, resting her chin on them, and nodded once, staring at the ground.

"I know it isn't quite that time yet, and of course you're much older now, but… I'd like to tell you a story as well, if you'll let me."

She thought sincerely about turning him down, but he was right… She did love being whisked away to imaginary places and new lands, especially those that held people who had strange or unique magic like she did. And her mother was always so good at giving life to the voices of different characters that every night was a grand adventure they went on together.

And, well… Tom had never offered to tell her a story before.

Curiosity won out, and she tilted her head to the side to look at him hesitantly. Instantly, she recognized a problem.

"You don't have a book," she said accusingly.

He shook his head. "For this, I don't need one. It's in my head… and here, in my hand." He held out his fist, closed tightly. From the cracks in his fingers and palm, she could see rays of light trying to escape, and she lifted her head completely, trying not to look intrigued and failing. "But you'll need to come a bit closer, if you're to see clearly."

Peia shifted her gaze upward to search his perpetually closed face suspiciously, but what she could see of his expression held no artfulness. Then again, rarely had she been able to read him enough to tell if it did.

"What's the story about?" she asked warily.

His dark eyes met hers. "The truth, Peia. Mine — and yours."

She looked back down at the dynamic glow coming from the centre of his closed hand. Most of what she knew of him, she had either observed or heard from others. The truth, whatever about, from him himself seemed so refreshingly appealing. Slowly, she turned her knees forward and scooted a few inches closer across the stoop — not right next to him, exactly, but close enough. Peia decided she could choose whether or not she was prepared to believe him afterward.

"That'll do," he said quietly after a minute, turning over his hand so his palm faced upward. Slowly, he opened his fist, and to her amazement… the beams of yellow light solidified into ghostly pensieve-like animations that floated above his palm, solidifying into moving images that accompanied his narration.

"Many, many years ago, a rebellious, independent witch eloped with a poor Muggle builder whom she had met while both were helping to repair a local orphanage damaged in a fire. She came from a powerful and influential wizarding family who hadn't initially approved of the match, so she took only a small dowry rather than accept the overbearing influence that would come with full financial support, and resolved that they would make their way on their own. They raised two sons in the mixed world of Muggle and magic to believe that by working hard, asking the right questions, and making decisions for themselves so that they were in control of their own lives, anything was possible."

The light-powered scene whirled around a dark-haired family sitting at a humble but warm table covered with half-constructed model airplanes, woodworking projects and Arithmancy books. But then Tom's hand clenched, snuffing the light, and his voice darkened.

"The oldest son, a true engineer and Spell-Maker if ever there was one, was away studying at a school of magic — very much like this one, in fact — when a great and terrible world war arrived on the steps of the modest but happy home of his childhood. It was that alone which saved him from what, in those days, was called a blitz — Muggle air warfare that the rest of his family did not survive."

Peia's eyes widened, and she looked up at him quickly. Perhaps it was only the growing night, but his gently aging face was deeply shadowed. She didn't know Tom was an orphan — there were no books on him in the library; she had looked — but then again, this was the first she had heard of her past on her father's side at all.

After a minute, he reopened his hand… and a very young (at least, in comparison to today), red-headed image of the Sovereign appeared, speaking before a crowd with great enthusiasm.

"At the same time, a powerful Sorcerer had begun to spread tales of the merits of Muggle inventions, but the Spell-Maker had seen how Muggle inventions had killed his family, so he did not embrace such ideas as readily as so many others like him did. Instead, he threw himself into what he could control and understand — magic. With the guidance of a compassionate and brilliant young Sage who herself had lost her brother in the war, they created a protection spell targeted toward the most destructive Muggle technology, so that others could be spared a tragedy like that which befell them both."

The images had shifted now, to show what was definitely her father, here perhaps a bit younger than Harry, Hermione and Draco, and a bright-eyed, blond-haired woman who looked to be only a few years older pouring over volumes and volumes of books around a work-table in what looked to be Professor Lupin's office — although, of course, he hadn't been a professor at the time.

"The Spell-Maker and the Sage shared an immense respect for and affection toward the minds — and faces," Tom added with a small smile, "of the other, and after some years they were very happily married. Meanwhile, the great Sorcerer became a King with the power of a hundred wizards and the visionary brilliance of at least that many. He took a liking to the Spell-Maker, and allowed him to delve into the great mysteries of the universe — of Alchemy, magic, the very fabric of the most fundamental spell magic and other areas of mystery and intrigue for which the Spell-Maker's mind so hungered."

Peia's eyes widened as the animations showed many scenes of the Sovereign himself and her father together, both dressed in the finest robes, walking through an immense palatial atrium unlike anything she had ever seen, speaking with each other quite pensively and then laughing — genuinely laughing — while others passing by would stop to nod their heads in respect before going on their way.

"For the Spell-Maker, immersed in the deep analytics of the Ministry of Mysteries and away from politics, it was easy to pretend the world was well as it was. But the Sage, in her wisdom, knew it was not, and witnessed with her own eyes the effects of the Sorcerer's new decrees. You see, while the Sorcerer's powerful mind could balance the Light and Dark Arts so deftly that he could magnify his own power exponentially without falling into Dark Magic's ultimate trap — a completely blackened, twisted soul condemned for all eternity — many others could not. Some, most from old wizarding families who had seen for themselves over many centuries the temptation — and consequences — of the Dark Arts, recognized this and refused to include dark magic in their regular Light Arts practice, but they were in the minority, and they suffered great abuses at the hands of those who did."

The scenes swirled, but Peia didn't need to look at them to see what her father meant — she had seen enough with her own kind of sight of what she suspected were very similar things.

"The Sage saw these offences and would not stand for the great injustice of it. Like a quiet storm she gathered the Light wizards who were willing to stand with her, led protests, drafted proposals to amend current laws. Even her apolitical husband spoke to the Sovereign on her cause's behalf, but he was systematically and politely refuted. And, after some years, the Sorcerer saw his chance to not only incite fear in conservative rights activists but remove two obstacles in one: a woman who was both an annoyance to his growing Muggle technology-based empire and an impingement on the time and loyalty of a man of whom he had become quite fond."

Peia filled with dread at the execution notice that materialized above his hand.

"The Sorcerer gave quite a convincing argument to all — the Spell-Maker included — that the Sage was deeply misled. Mad, even. Entirely in the wrong. But the Sorcerer sorely underestimated one thing: the power of love over the power of… power.

"He allowed them one last meeting in the most secure prison in his empire, and the Spell-Maker planned to use his immense understanding of magic and the building to try to escape with her. But the Sage, wise even to her last breath, knew such an attempt would likely result in both their deaths, not only hers... a last stand that would have no impact on the greater suffering of the Light wizard community.

"So she told the Spell-Maker that, favoured as he was, no one was better positioned than he to put an end to the cause for which she was giving her life, before more like her were wrongfully condemned. She told him to dry his tears, to walk back out of the cell rather than destroy it, and to swear to her that he would live; that, rather than giving his life that day, he would devote himself instead to her final wish: To defy the Sovereignty carefully, behind closed doors and with alliances, from a position of empowerment rather than of disadvantage, and to never stop until the Light Wizards of the Sovereignty were free to practice their own beliefs without persecution."

For the first time in the narrative, Tom's voice cracked. "And he did."

Peia's eyes filled with tears as she watched the moving animations show her father's last embrace with a woman she had never known but now, in a small way, felt she did, tears streaming down both the woman's and Tom's tired, heartbroken faces before Tom's expression became one with which Peia was well familiar:

Perfectly unreadable.

She watched him sit stone-faced beside the Sovereign through the Sage's execution with only the slightest of convincingly weak emotion, and nod his thanks when the all-powerful wizard who had condemned his wife patted his shoulder in sympathy that was surely only a social courtesy. And she watched as, afterward, he Apparated to a desolate cliff, wrenched his hands through his hair and crumpled to his knees on the wet rocks, for the first time allowing wild, horrified emotions to rip across his face in a silent scream.

Behind him, the entire cliffside exploded outward and crumbled into the ocean.

Peia realized she was crying readily now, hurting so much because he had hurt so much, and she suddenly understood why her father had turned into the machine he was; why he possessed facades, used them frequently and hardly ever lowered them, even for her. She wiped at her face, sniffing, and Tom abruptly broke his narrative, placing his arm gently around her.

"I can stop if you'd rather I did, Peia," he said quietly.

"No, don't," she said immediately, shaking her head and swallowing back her tears. "I... I want to know."

After a moment, Tom simply nodded once and pulled her a bit closer to him, rubbed her back, and continued the narrative without another word.

He told her how the Spell-Maker had returned to his former School of Magic, and used the relative freedom he had there to build a master plan and a sanctuary, to closely observe students in order to best sense where to build loyalties, and to seek guidance from trusted acquaintances about the most effective way for Light Wizards to end or escape the Dark Arts state.

"The Alchemist believed the Spell-Maker would be powerful enough to enact change if he simply outlived the Sorcerer, and provided him a secret potion to do just that, one which the Sorcerer believed had already been destroyed," he said. "But as the oppression worsened, simply 'waiting it out' did not appear to be the most humane choice, so the Spell-Maker began to build a resistance with the help of his most trusted friends the Academic, the Kind-Hearted, the Rebel and the Warrior, and sought the wisdom of a herd of famous astrologers as he began.

"They had their own insight into this conflict, and because of their predictions felt certain his efforts as a wise and shrewd elder would eventually be met with success — but it was too soon. As the defiance began and went on, the Spell-Maker sensed a growing… evil. The Sorcerer was hunting him with the aid of dark and terrible magic, one that had already resulted in the loss of the Rebel's fiancé, the Warrior. The Spell-Maker feared that his own end or incapacitation was approaching sooner than any of them had expected. Yet if it was not him the stars had predicted, then who?

"By then, he and the Rebel shared a deep friendship and understanding, and in their grief following the Warrior's death, they came together and devised a plan in the hope that one day, if he, if they, were not meant to succeed, perhaps one who would follow after them was."

Tom turned toward her then and gently brushed back some of her hair, his dark eyes burning into hers with a powerful intensity. "This is something you must understand. Your mother and I may not love each other in the same way we each did our first partners, but you were conceived out of a deep concern we had for each other. Out of love, Peia. You are love." In the light of the lanterns, his eyes had begun to glitter, but certainly not from tears like those that were suddenly burning inside her. "I love you, kit, as much as I have ever loved in this life, and I assure you, I have loved most deeply."

Peia's eyes began to sting and swim.

She so desperately wanted to believe him.

She nodded, clenching her chin to keep it from trembling.

He nodded once, and wrapped his arm around her again before he turned back to the images that had paused above his hand. "We've almost reached the end, for now. Only two days later, the Sorcerer succeeded in ensnaring his prey. The Defiance had lost its leader and its will, and for eight years the Spell-Maker hovered between life and death in a ring of one of the darkest forms of magic known to this world, while the discrimination against them reached new depths."

Peia stared in horrified fascination at the circle of perfectly round, black stones smothered with glittering, glistening dark red liquid that looked like blood, but Tom swiftly waved his hand and the image passed before she could study it more.

"But all was not lost. The Spell-Maker had one last trick, and at last the opportunity presented for him to use it. Which bring us, now, to the day he first met the Intuitive… his daughter."

For the first time in the stream of images, Peia saw herself, reading with Lori in the small living room of Uncle Rastaban's distant cousin's house, while her mother, Aunt Cissy and Uncle Rastaban were meeting down in the cellar. When they emerged, a strange man was with them, walking alongside her mother, who introduced him first as Uncle Tom.

Peia remembered that afternoon well... because her father had hardly spoken to her.

They both watched as light-Tom slowly crouched down in front of her small, animated self, studying her closely. She had forgotten how much thinner he was then, deep shadows beneath his eyes and gaunt hollows carved into his cheeks, his hair longer but tucked neatly behind his ears, with a full beard. But Mum was with her and Peia was not afraid, so she had smiled at this new person brightly in greeting, immediately looking curiously into his eyes.

Then she had realized: She couldn't read them.

"I'd prefer… Tom, actually," she remembered him saying. He asked her what she'd been reading; when he learned it was about Muggle and Magical creatures, and she was currently focused on monarch butterflies and their migration, he'd smiled, held out his hand and wandlessly conjured three of them in his palm. Peia had laughed in delight and on a whim reached out to place her hands around his; immediately, a pale purple passionflower appeared in his palm beneath the insects, and they happily flitted onto it.

For a moment, Tom simply stared at her. Then, he carefully placed the flower and (likely quite confused) butterflies into her cupped hands, stood, and briskly strode from the room, silently Apparating away before he'd even reached the door.

"He has a rather irksome habit of coming and going like that," Mum had said. But now, Peia remembered that she also looked worried.

"Why did you leave?" she cried, staring down at the images that had again frozen in his hand.

Tom released a quiet breath. "Because you were right, Peia… the Spell-Maker had not planned for nor anticipated fatherhood," he said quietly. "But then he saw you… the brightest, happiest, most intuitive eight-year-old he had ever met. When you touched his hands in that very first moment, he felt your goodness, your earnestness, your power, and he was gripped with a profound fear unlike any he had felt since the Sage's final days. He knew what had happened to the Sage, to the Warrior, and to him, and he did not want you to ever meet such a fate."

"So you avoided me," she murmured.

"Yes, I did. To protect you. I see now how much it hurt you as well. But I found I couldn't always stay away, as you may also recall."

Tom closed his fist, and the light of the visuals snuffed from it completely. Then he turned toward her and held out the same hand. After a moment, Peia accepted it, and climbed into his lap. She hesitantly looked up into eyes as dark as her mother's, and he gave her a sad smile. "I can't be a perfect father, Cassiopeia. You're right, I am committed to this cause, and now I hope you have a better understanding of why. But you are my daughter, and I will do everything I can — everything — to keep you safe."

She shook her head — she knew exactly where 'being safe' had gotten her, and it wasn't a safe place at all. "But I don't want to be safe; I want to be happy."

His smile quirked upward slightly. "Can you not have both?"

Peia frowned, contemplating this deeply, and after a moment, he said quietly, "I will also try harder to be there for you in moments of happiness as well." He gently rested his hand on the side of her head, stroking his thumb beneath her eyes. She suddenly realized tears had again begun to slip from them, and she blinked rapidly, bowing her head. "Will you forgive me for the mistakes I've made? Can we begin a new story, a better story between us?"

She stared down at his dark knit jumper for several seconds, biting her lip. A part of her wouldn't have ever believed any of this to be true, but in twenty short minutes Tom had already told her more about his life, her life, her family than he ever had before. He'd even admitted he was wrong, and if there was one thing she had learned, it was that adults rarely ever did this, and if they did it was certainly monumental.

She wanted to know her father, to have a father.

She just didn't want this to end like it had so often before.

Peia took a small breath and looked up at him, this time determined to stop her tears before they fell. "I-I - It's only that I've... m-missed you, daddy," she whispered tremulously.

Something inexpressible shifted in his eyes. For the briefest of moments, she could see that he meant it, that he really was trying, before he pulled her to him, his eyes glistening with tears, and briefly kissed her forehead. "I've missed you too, baby," he said thickly.

Peia knew then that no matter what might happen between them in their uncertain future, no matter if it proved to be, again, only a temporary reconciliation…

She would always have the memory of this.

Plonk… Plonk… Plonk…

As Hermione descended the spiral staircase into the Chamber of Secrets, her eyes narrowed at the strange, rhythmic sound. In the moonless mid-November evening, it was well past dark, torches lighting the pathways between Tributes. The noise appeared to be coming from around the unoccupied structure immediately beside the staircase.

Plonk… Plonk… Plonk…

Curiously, she crossed the bridge that led to the temperate ecosystem, entering its chilly autumn atmosphere. She shuddered, shooting a warming charm through her pullover, and lit her wand, moving though dewy grasses and fallen leaves and between bare blueberry bushes that stretched well above her head until she reached the back of Tribute. She'd never wandered here before, and was surprised when, hidden between the thick berry briers, she stumbled upon a small pond.

By the light of a single lantern, Blaise was sitting on the edge of a small dock perched on top of it, wearing a casual hooded fleece and jeans. He was bouncing a quaffle off what appeared to be the rubbery surface of a massive and highly intelligent Sensate Water Lily. Every time the ball fell, the plant would fling it back up at him — almost gleefully, it appeared, if the projectile's speed was any indication.

He looked miserable.

Hermione frowned and stepped closer, desperately hoping that his apparently rocky reunion with Draco hadn't worsened into something else, and, even more, that it might have anything to do with her. Then she realized she was still wearing her Invisibility Cloak and slipped it off, clearing her throat.

Blaise noticed her just after he'd dropped the ball.

"Blimey!" he started, and the quaffle almost hit him in the face; he spun back around to catch it a heartbeat before it did. Then he turned again, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other warily.

When he didn't say anything, Hermione ventured, "You don't… seem very happy."

Blaise blinked, and shifted his attention back to the pond and lily pad. "I'm not."

Plonk… Plonk… Plonk…

Hermione sighed and gingerly stepped up onto the dock. She sat down on the edge of it. Despite Blaise's somewhat abrasive personality, he was Draco's friend, and she didn't want to be the cause of any awkwardness between them. "I know we don't exactly know each other, but d'you… want to talk about it?" she offered.

Blaise looked over his shoulder at her. "Draco know you're talking to me?"

Her brow knit. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't, no." He began to limply bounce the quaffle again. "Though he probably wouldn't want you anywhere near me right now if he did."

Ah. So they were fighting.

"I don't think Draco would ever forbid me from speaking with anyone. Especially not one of his best friends," she said. When he didn't respond, she asked, "So are you going to tell me what this is about? I can leave if you prefer."

Blaise caught the quaffle, and didn't bounce it again. After a minute, he said, "His mother died. Because my father, my mother and I decided to be selfish wankers, all," he said without turning back toward her. "And I royally fucked up my apology, and now Draco won't talk to me at all."

His admittance caught her by surprise. She'd pieced together elements of the conservative's last downfall between the rest of the group who'd experienced it directly, but she hadn't known that Blaise's family had played such a prominent role. Suddenly, Riddle's quick acceptance that Blaise be the next House-Wizard brought into the fold made more sense.

Still, she couldn't imagine Draco holding a grudge against anyone. "He won't forever, Blaise. If anyone's going to forgive someone for something, it's Draco."

"Well, some of the things I said were pretty sodding unforgivable, even for Draco."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. She had never seen Draco completely shut anyone out, unless they tried to dig further into his captivity or treatment than he wanted to discuss. What would cause him to draw the line so firmly?

"Have you tried to make it up to him?" she asked.

"What part of 'he won't talk to me at all' didn't you hear?"

Hermione frowned at Blaise's derisive tone. "He doesn't have to talk to you for you to make it up to him," she said sensibly, remembering her many fights with and grievances against Harry… and how their relationship, thank Merlin, was finally improving. "Do something nice for him. Or many somethings. Don't repeat whatever it was that drove a rift between the two of you. Say you're sorry anyway. Things like that. Sometimes people just need a bit of time to work out their own hurt and come back around. Even if he doesn't want to talk to you immediately, if you can consistently show him through your actions that you sincerely meant your first apology, I feel certain he will."

After a few seconds, Blaise finally turned to face her, setting the quaffle beside him on the dock. A moment before his scrutinizing stare stretched long enough to make her uncomfortable, he said bluntly, "This is fucking weird."

"What?"

"You… being a sodding pragmatist and looking like — like that." He gestured at her pulled back hair and the oversized jumper that hung over her dark leggings. "Sodding Slytherin, can't you at least try to be sexy and My-like for old times' sake—"

"No." Hermione rolled her eyes. "And you'd best bury that fantasy straightaway; I am certainly not My nor have I ever been, and I have sod all interest in ever acting like her when I don't have to."

Blaise let out an annoyed breath, tossing a fallen leaf into the pond. "Well, shite, if you have to be so bloody practical, you might as well be helpful. Riddle has us doing a load of research on how he built this thing, and beefing up our defensive knowledge for the supposed showdown on its way. Before we had to abandon this place, I hid some of my best defence books and a few… personal items in the library. Restricted Section, Stack 3, bottom shelf, RS 425.02 and onward. Don't suppose you could nick them back for me, could you?"

She shook her head apologetically. "Riddle doesn't want us bringing anything from upstairs down here but ourselves. He's concerned about bugs and other surveillance devices finding their way inside — rightfully, especially now that Percy's arrived."

Blaise looked genuinely disappointed. "Bugger. Ah, well." He paused. "So, you and him…"

He trailed off pointedly. Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about, and it wasn't Riddle, but she simply raised an eyebrow in question.

"You're actually serious about each other."

Hermione smiled slightly, feeling the motion tug at her eyes and chest as well, and gazed at the gently swaying reeds dabbing the pond's edge. "Yeah. We are."

And, for as interesting as this interaction had been, it had delayed her from one of the very few things she had truly been looking forward to. She clapped her hands on her knees and shook her head. "Speaking of which, I must be off." She stood. "I do hope you and Draco make up soon," she said earnestly. "I've seen best friends fight before, and the longer it goes on, the uglier it tends to become."

"Aren't you a sodding spot of sunshine," Blaise muttered. He cleared his throat, looking over at her. "Well, thanks, M— err, Granger. It's been strange."

"You can call me Hermione. Not enough people here do." Hermione glanced between him, the quaffle and the giant lily pad. Her eyebrow lifted slightly. "And, erm… likewise."

Snape had managed to cast a successful Imperius obscuro on Percy Weasley two days earlier. Even though his interest in her had subsequently appeared to wane, she and Harry had worked out a careful schedule that would ensure at least one of them was occupying the head dormitories at night, leaving the other free to spend time in the Chamber. Between her own, frustratingly constant stream of social obligations, Head of Students meetings and patrols, Percy's arrival, and tutoring with Riddle, this was the first opportunity she'd had to stay here overnight since the week prior, and she'd sent a (sealed) message down to Draco with Harry yesterday that suggested they try another night without DSP if he thought it could help.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to immediately incinerate the brief note Draco had written back like she and Harry normally did with theirs; it was still in her back pocket.

The answer to that is absolutely yes.

Be safe. Don't stab anyone. -D

He wasn't in his room when she reached it, though, the comforter on his bed oddly missing. A scribbled note left pointedly at the foot of his sheets directed her to the top floor of the tribute, and through the last door at the edge of the half-moon hallway.

Hermione hadn't had a chance to fully explore any of the Tributes, so she was surprised when said door opened to a lantern-lit landing and an outdoor staircase that clung to the side of the Tribute. Nervously, she glanced over the edge and the several story drop to the two lanterns dotting the back of Tribute CV's entrance far below, then silently lit her wand for better light and began to climb, gripping the railing tightly.

She was astonished when her head poked up over another flat platform, this one hanging off the back of the peak of the Tribute itself. Oddly enough, the room-sized square space also possessed a slightly rolling topography, and was carpeted with moss and vines that spilled over the edges. Beneath the platform, she could hear the sound of rushing water — the source of the waterfall that cascaded down the Tribute's front, she assumed.

It was as beautiful as every other place in the Chamber and was clearly meant to be an astronomy platform. An impressive telescope was set up at one end, and on a moonless night like this one, the Milky Way and every star in it spilled across the expanse of the enchanted sky like a billion grains of sand.

It also didn't possess a single guardrail.

Hermione gulped as her eyes landed on Draco and his missing blanket — all she could see of him, since he had bundled himself securely in the massive, plush expanse of dark fabric — reclining against one of the platform's gentle inclines, thankfully nearer the centre. Merlin, the entire thing looked a bit precarious…

"Draco," she whispered.

The top of the blanket shifted, and a second later a blond head emerged from the dark green folds. "Hermione?" he asked when she wasn't obviously apparent, looking around the platform in search of her voice.

"Over here," she said dryly.

From his perspective, given her firm perch as far down the stairs as possible, only her head must have been visible. His brow knit in confusion; with his tousled hair and green blanket burrito-like appearance, Hermione didn't think he could look any more adorable, but not even that could spur her a step higher.

"You are allowed to come up here as well, you know," he said, sounding amused.

She stood up on her toes to better observe the platform, and frowned apprehensively at the seeming drop into eternity at its abrupt edges. "As lovely as this all is, I'd really rather not take one wrong step and tumble to my death…"

In the faint light of a single lantern hanging from the top of the staircase, Draco's eyes widened slightly, as if in realization. He sat up, the blanket falling downward to reveal a high-necked jumper from Harry's collection. "You won't, promise. Barrier charms, around the whole edge. Give it a feel yourself — they start right beside that gap for the staircase."

Hermione carefully reached out… and, instead of thin air, her fingertips met a smooth, solid wall that began as soon as the base of the platform did. Her shoulders collapsed in relief, and thought it was ironic that, rather than the typical illusion of safety, the barriers here gave the illusion of danger.

"Would you like me to throw you a rope?"

If she hadn't been clinging to the staircase's railing and her wand, Hermione would have put her hands on her hips to glare at him. "I expect I'll manage perfectly well without one, thanks," she retorted, the distinct teasing in his voice enough to spur her to motion. She ran her hands upward along the invisible wall as she gingerly climbed the rest of the stairs to the top, holding tight to the railing the whole way. "How far up does it extend?"

He shook his head. "Don't know. High enough. I've leaned up against them plenty of times — haven't had to fall back on the kickstarter around my heart to revive me yet." He winced. "Absolutely no pun intended that time."

"Shame, it'd've been one of your best if it was," Hermione said, trying to focus on Draco rather than the fact that she was now at eye-level with the vast Chamber's highest entrance… but was only standing on a tiny platform.

As soon as she reached him, he unfurled the left side of the comforter from around himself and held it out like a giant wing in invitation. "Don't have a warming charm to offer you, but I hear this isn't a half-bad substitute."

Hermione silently removed the warming charm she'd placed on herself earlier, instantly shivering in the bitingly cold night. "Merlin, it's freezing!" Swiftly, she kicked off her shoes and dropped down beside him on the soft fabric, relieved to be that much closer to — seemingly — solid ground, and quickly threw the blanket back across them, the both of them tucking in the edges as best they could from beneath it.

Once they'd successfully snuffed out any inlets of cold air, Hermione asked breathlessly, "So, what — are we doing this Inuit style?"

At Draco's sudden start and quirk of his eyebrows, she pulled the plentiful top folds of the blanket up and over her head like the hood of a massive parka, clenching it at her chin so that only her eyes to her lips were visible.

He collapsed into laughter. "That is… significantly less risque than I… expected for something described as 'doing it Inuit style,'" he said between chuckles. When Hermione flushed and narrowed her eyes at him in exasperation — clearly spending time with Blaise before their disagreement had dirtied his mind — he only laughed harder.

"What is so funny?" she exclaimed.

"For a year or two, Peia had a — a deviant puffskein named… Irascible Albert," he wheezed. "My mother got it on clearance for her birthday because no upstanding Sovereign citizen wanted a Slytherin green-coloured one, or an irascible one… and every time anyone tried to pet it, its little face would morph into an expression of the most supreme disgruntlement, and… oh god, you just looked exactly like it…"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and she let out a laugh of disbelief. "Draco, are you comparing me to a bogey-eating furball called Irascible Albert?"

His face instantly sobered, though his eyes were still dancing with mirth, and he quickly shook his head sombrely. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

Then he broke down into chortles again and hunched down over himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to get himself to stop.

Hermione highly doubted he really thought she looked like a puffskein, and at his contagious gaiety, she desperately fought to keep a smile off her own face. "Well, I wouldn't get too haughty if I were you. When I first saw you tonight I thought you looked like a green burrito."

Draco finally caught his breath, and looked over at her with a grin. "Ah, I love a woman who knows how to give a compliment."

That caused her to start laughing. "Right, it seems that calling your—" For a split second, she paused abruptly; what was she to him? Certainly not just a friend, anymore, but they'd never exactly defined what their more-than-friends relationship was, either… "—girlfriend Irascible Albert hasn't quite made you an expert on the meaning of that word," she finished teasingly, taking the risk.

She held her breath. When Draco didn't say anything immediately, she tentatively looked over at him, but he was already staring down at her in surprise. In the faint light of the lantern reflected the same tender gleam in his eyes that she had never fully understood. Something inside her centre of being began to pulse and race as his hand haltingly reached the few inches between them to brush some of her long, side-swept bangs from her eyes.

His gaze shifted away from, and then toward her again.

"Hermione, could I… put my arms around you?" he asked quietly.

It seemed like such an innocuous request compared to the first kiss they had shared, and even the second, but from the sudden hesitance in Draco's eyes and the uncharacteristic tension in his shoulders — at least uncharacteristic for the time they usually spent together — Hermione could tell this was no small thing to him.

Without a word, she slid the final inch or so toward him beneath the blanket in answer. His hands slid down along her arms and waist until his arms enveloped her, gently guiding her against his side. Hermione unhesitatingly curled into him — so different from the first time, weeks ago, he had invited her to do the same — gratefully soaking in the warmth and expansive thrill that surged through and simultaneously calmed her.

They settled back against the small berm, staring up into the night. Her ill-placed ponytail abruptly dug into the back of her head, and Hermione groaned under her breath, reaching up though the blankets to release it. She fanned out her hair slightly until the lump was gone and reclined again.

A few seconds later, Draco's careful hold around her tightened slightly, the side of his head gently pressing against the top of hers. He must have buried his face in her hair, because she felt more than heard him release a soft, warm sigh against her head that he probably didn't intend for her to notice.

She let a long, contented breath herself, completely relaxed. She had never been held with such intimate intention before, had never been so physically enwrapped in another human being, and she found she liked it — Liked being near to him, knowing there would be no pressure nor demands; that there was nothing he wanted from her at all except to be with her, just like this.

Safe.

Hermione stared up in awe at the incredible expanse of stars; it was the first time in months she'd had proper opportunity to study them. It was honestly no surprise to her that Centaurs and other beasts and beings had built entire belief systems and immense cultural traditions, mythology and celebrations around them. In the absence of light pollution, nothing was more spectacular.

"It's beautiful up here," she breathed.

"Isn't it?" Draco shifted, tilting his head backward to join her stargazing. "I found it a few days ago. Haven't quite been able to tear myself away from it in the free time I've had since." He hesitated. "Sure you're alright with this? Given the whole plunging to your death thing…"

Hermione smiled slightly. "I didn't go through all the effort of getting myself up those stairs to turn back now; I fully plan to enjoy it. As long as we stay right in the middle like we are now, I'll be fine." She tilted her head back, glancing at him. "I take it you aren't afraid of heights, Mr. 'Oh I've Leaned Against This Plenty of Times,' " she said, dropping the name in an affected, mock-male low voice.

He chuckled quietly, though this time it held a certain dearth of humour in comparison to his laughter a few minutes ago. "One of the few things that doesn't completely throw me, would you believe. Quidditch. Mother gave me a broom for my eighth birthday, and even though they only let us play three years at Hogwarts, it did the trick." He tilted his head down slightly, his inquisitive eyes meeting hers. "You must have flown at least some in your universe, haven't you?"

"I have, but I've hated it every time. Harry and Ron forced me to play Quidditch with them a few times and I was absolute rubbish at it. The fact that I was being chased by Death Eaters and Fiendfyre during the two times I've had to use a broom in earnest since mandatory first year flying lessons hasn't helped. Oh. And breaking out of Gringott's hanging off the back of a dragon. That was smashing good fun as well."

A humoured puff of air escaped Draco's lips, and he shook his head, a small smile on his face. "So casually, she says it. One of the world's most secure wizarding banks, on a dragon. You're better and braver than you think, you know."

"No braver than you are," she said, thinking of how he'd willingly walked into a circle that would soon be wrought with raging fire when she knew how much that element terrified him; she had healed enough burns on his body in the first few weeks of their acquaintance to more than understand why.

That thought triggered a recollection of a comment he'd made earlier. "You know about the Pacemaker Charm?"

"Riddle told me about it, yeah." He sounded surprised. "Did you… know as well?"

Hermione hesitated. "I did, but… Pomfrey told me about it right when everything was still so awful and you were so set on dying, Draco," she admitted. "I didn't want to say anything to take at least the illusion of that last freedom away from you. And afterward, there was so much to absorb, I honestly forgot about it. I'm sorry."

Draco shook his head. "Probably better I didn't hear about it 'til now anyway. At least now I fancy I have a bit of control over it. Riddle said Aun— a Mediwitch might be able to lift it, but it would be complicated. Anyway, a part of me would rather keep it. If this all does come to a fight, I'd rather use their own magic against them to live and defy them another day."

There was a sudden, determined edge to his voice, and especially after how badly she knew his encounter with Percy had shaken him, she was glad to hear it. "Then you absolutely should. The goddess knows they deserve that and so much more, and we're going to need all the advantages we can get."

"How's everything going up there?" he asked in concern.

She shrugged. "As well as it can be, for now. The ponce has his first meeting with Lily Evans in two days, so we're monitoring that situation. Other than that, there's nothing new, really."

She thought about breaching Riddle's insights about the Source and prophecies, but she had come here to enjoy herself, not wallow in the uncertainty of her future. And anyway — she wasn't sure she was prepared for Draco to ask her the same question about returning home that Riddle had. "This is honestly one of the few chances I have to escape it entirely, so I'm perfectly happy not to talk about it, if you don't mind."

Draco let out a long, heavy sigh against the side of her head. "Believe me, I understand."

When he offered nothing more, she asked sympathetically, "Fight with Blaise, eh?"

For a moment, he didn't respond. "How'd you know?" he asked cautiously.

"I ran into him when I got here."

She immediately felt him tense. "He talked to you?"

Sweet Morgana, whatever their disagreement, it must have been bloody serious, she thought in astonishment.

"Didn't you hear us?" she asked. "He was making enough of a racket with a quaffle and a lily pad I would've thought the sound would've driven everyone else in the Chamber half mad."

Draco shook his head. "The sound barriers around the Tributes must extend up here as well. I usually don't hear anything else beyond all this… nature." After a few seconds, he said dully, "How'd that conversation go, then? Did he offer you the opportunity to have him 'slither in your griffin door?' His line, not mine," he said as Hermione groaned. "I'm quite certain he used it on My and Lavender Brown both at least twice. I've no idea if it actually got him anywhere."

"Well, he didn't miss the chance to inform me how much he'd rather I dressed like a slag."

Draco let out a snort of air, shaking his head in disgust. "Of course he did," he muttered, sounding tired.

"Believe me, I set him straight about it. He isn't going to make any friends here talking like that." She twisted round to look back at him. "But before he did, erm, 'Blaise out' on me… Draco, he seemed as miserable about whatever this is all about as you sound. What happened?"

Draco was staring hard at the bump in the blanket that was her knees, curled up over the top of his legs. His breaths, she noticed, were deliberately very even, as if he was trying to control them. "He just… said… things, about my past. That he didn't have a right to say for me."

Hermione suddenly noticed that his fingers had, probably unconsciously, begun to curl tightly into her sides. She swiftly slipped her hands beneath his, holding them tightly instead. As if he suddenly realized what he was doing, he sucked in a breath and jerked; his grip on her loosened. "Oh! Hermione, I'm— I'm so sorry, that wasn't meant to—"

"I know, Draco." She took his right hand in hers, rubbing it comfortingly. "Tell me more?"

After a few moments, he said, "Blaise isn't exactly… pleased about Pansy's and my choices of companions, and he made it known quite abrasively. He tried talking to me yesterday, but I found I wasn't… quite ready to talk back. At least not without being an absolute tosser about it as well," he said, sounding guilty.

"Somehow, Draco, I can't imagine you being an absolute tosser to anyone, and I'm quite certain Blaise is convinced he's the only one in the wrong between you two," Hermione said. She found it interesting Blaise had cited his family's inadvertent betrayal of Draco's mother for the rift, and Draco had cited their relationships. Perhaps it had been both. "Why do you feel badly for telling him you still need some space?"

Draco shrugged. "He did apologize, and I could tell he meant it." He let out a breath. "Only I… I'm the one who tells people to let things slide, that there's much more important things in life than being angry, aren't I? And I can't even forgive my best mate when he asks for it?"

"There's a difference between being forgiving and allowing yourself to be trampled because of it! If what Blaise did hurt you so much that you still weren't ready for his apology, then you would've hurt yourself more by pretending everything's better when it clearly isn't." Hermione shook her head. "If you need more time, then you simply need more time. You will reach a point where you're ready. I've seen it with Ron and Harry. With a friendship as old as yours, it'll mend itself, I know it will."

Several seconds passed of nothing but the sound of a mild breeze and tumbling water. Then, Draco carefully brushed her hair behind her right ear and pressed a soft kiss to the side of her head. "You really do help everyone who knows you become stronger, Hermione," he said quietly in wonder.

The starry night suddenly blurred before her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, every inch of her filled with the indescribable fire and life that his presence sparked inside her. A familiar tingle shot straight up her spine and down her arms as he leaned his head against hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, and snugly wrapped his arms around her, both their breaths rising and falling as one. She could feel his heartbeat through their jumpers and her back, and in this moment, there was nowhere else, with no one else, that she belonged than right here, in the arms of this man.

In this moment, she didn't want to think about going home.

"You have no idea how much you do the same," she whispered.

Her eyes nimbly found the star system of Draco's namesake, stretched widely across the expanse of the northern sky. If she'd had a galleon for the number of times Draco Malfoy had boasted to the entire Astronomy class that his constellation, as if his being named after it made him entitled to it, somehow, had once held the North Star, and eventually would again. (In 20,000 years, Hermione would remind him flatly, at which point he would scowl and scoff at her — under his breath so Professor Sinistra didn't hear, of course — to sod off like a good little Mudblood.)

Never in her life could she have imagined that, five years in the future, she would be sitting somewhere else in the universe beside that awful boy's kind, sensitive doppelganger, contemplating a depth of friendship and attraction packaged in a comfortingly understated, natural stability that she had never before experienced in her life. After the roller coaster of emotional heartbreak that was her secret crush on Ron, and her constant but sisterly friendship with Harry, she hadn't thought all three things could ever actually be present in a relationship at once — not for her, at least.

"Hermione, when you look at the stars, what do you see?" Draco asked suddenly.

She tilted her gaze upward thoughtfully. "How infinite the universe is. Being transferred here's only compounded it. Most people say it makes them feel small, but—" she let out a small sigh, shaking her head with a soft smile, "it's always made me feel big, like I'm part of something immense and beautiful and significant, even in my own small way, and that all of that — all of it — is inside me as well. And you?"

For someone who had asked the question originally, Draco didn't respond for quite awhile. "Hope," he said at last, faintly. "I see… hope."

The statement was filled with words unspoken.

Unexpected, he continued tightly, "Whenever I was… in the process of being transferred between locations, sometimes they'd… leave me out, overnight. Caged, obviously." She craned her neck toward him in surprise, but his gaze was lifted toward the night sky. "Once or twice, I could… see the stars, and I—"

His voice caught, and Hermione felt an abrupt emptiness inside her when he didn't go on.

"What?" she asked softly, afraid that if she spoke any louder, he'd abandon his recount for good. Except for the details about Dumbledore's magic-stealing machine, she'd never heard him speak this forthrightly of his imprisonment. She'd always hoped he would, at the very least so she could better understand him, through what he had gone through, but she hadn't ever wanted to prod him about it. She'd had to come to terms with the idea that he might not ever be ready to share it, with her or anyone.

Draco shook his head. She felt his hands clasp tightly together, resting gently against her stomach. "They were just a… small comfort, I suppose. Like I… wasn't alone, somehow."

But his voice was different than it had been a second ago — more closed. She could tell that was all he wanted to say about it, but she couldn't shake how much, in that moment, he still sounded… so alone.

Hermione suddenly desperately wanted to say something to make him smile again like he had done so often for her. She thought for a moment, and then smiled. "So… your father cornered me the other day…"

Draco's head jerked up and swerved toward her worriedly.

"…and asked me what my intentions were regarding your and my relationship."

"No he didn't."

"He absolutely did."

"Oh my god." He buried his face in his hand, but Hermione couldn't stop grinning.

"I thought it was all rather sweet. He wasn't accusatory about it at all. He's quite protective of you; it was really wonderfully fatherly of him."

Draco spread his fingers slightly to peer at her from between them. "What'd you say?"

"That my greatest ambition was to have perfect little Mixed-Blood babies—"

He burst out laughing. "Hermione…"

"—with your hair and my eyes…"

He caught his breath. "No… really. What'd you tell him?"

"That is what I told him. And he said that as long as we named the first boy child Lucius II, he'd be perfectly accepting of it."

Draco shook his head, still chuckling. "I know you're having one over on me, but that is something he would say. Might not be quite so insistent on Lucius the Second, though; apparently there's far too many mortifying nicknames that could befall any unfortunate boy that name is bestowed upon."

Hermione smiled, but bit her lip for a moment, hesitating between the thought of making herself vulnerable and telling him a truth she thought he deserved to hear… especially if knowing it could help give him additional strength to battle the demons still haunting him.

Finally, she said quietly, "I told him I didn't know where we were headed — Merlin, even our being here, just like this - this is all so new to me, Draco. But…" She twisted around completely to face him, her knees curling into his side and heart racing. Her gaze earnestly searched his. "You are the only man I've ever known who I've wanted to walk that unknown path alongside to find out."

For a moment, Draco simply stared at her, his lips parted slightly, his breaths calm and even and his expression frustratingly unreadable in the shadow between him and the faint light of the lantern that her own body had caused. A sudden gust of autumn wind swirled around them, whipping a flurry of leaves and her hair around her face, and her chest clenched anxiously — she had hoped so desperately for a response, and this… silence wasn't it.

Just as she was about to pull away in disappointment, his hand lifted above the folds of the blanket and haltingly reached for her face. For a split second, he actually drew away, as if he was fighting some inexplicable struggle within him, but then his hand cupped her cheek with such a gentle tenderness that she barely registered the touch at all, his gaze flicking downward toward her lips. He leaned forward falteringly, but he jerked to a stop only inches from them, his rhythmic breaths noticeably ragged.

Hermione's chest heaved with its own shallow inhalations as, with a jolt of electricity, she realized she'd mistaken a growing intensity for non-reaction. It was the first time Draco had ever come so close to initiating a kiss between them himself, and she could actually feel his entire body trembling, though she didn't know whether it was the fault of the strengthening breeze or something else entirely.

"Draco," she whispered, and was astonished when her voice emerged in a throaty whisper. His gaze shot to hers, though in the dark she couldn't quite make out the unspoken words or questions held deep within it. She nodded encouragingly. "Please."

Something in his chest and shoulders seemed to expand. His left arm, still wrapped around her back, gently drew her close enough she was flush against him, his unreadable grey eyes still locked on hers. After another breath, or perhaps five, his head at last dipped down, his hand tangled back in her hair, and he closed the last few heartbeats of air between them.

The bitter, windy night became nothing but an afterthought.

Such a tentatively begun kiss was nothing like it at all the moment their lips met. For all his hesitance, Hermione could recognize instantly that Draco's experience in this ranked far higher than hers, and she was grateful he was moving slowly enough with her for her to learn. It was easy to follow his lead, to somewhat uncertainly part her lips when he wordlessly asked, to begin to explore the terrain of his teeth and his tongue like he also was hers and once she understood how it worked and what he was doing, to fall into a deliberate, rhythmic dance deeper than anything they'd done previously that gradually increased in its intensity.

At the end of her only snog with Viktor, the Quidditch star had in passing brushed a tender spot on her lower lip that had made her gasp. Draco had found the same spot almost immediately during the first time they'd kissed, and had apparently noticed her instantaneous reaction enough to pay a dizzying amount of attention to it now, so much so that she had to remember to breathe and floundered around for something grounding to grasp — his jumper, his hair.

The very small but definite streak of envy inside her wanted to know who else he had kissed to become so bloody amazing at it, but Hermione knew that fell in the category of 'not your business,' so she simply tried to do her best to respond in kind and hope it made him feel halfway as incredible. She wanted to feel more of him, more of the body he covered up and hid when he had no reason to be ashamed of it, and she tentatively ran her hand down his jumper, past the rapid beats of his own heart, up and down and up and down again until the tense muscles of his abdomen relaxed against her ministrations.

Then she slipped her fingers beneath his pullover to the warm skin of his torso. He inhaled a sharp, muffled gasp against her lips, and slowly, ever so carefully, she traced her hand across his stomach, recognizing every uneven bump, every faded burn and lesion, every scar.

Then, suddenly — he was gone.

Hermione sucked in a quick breath and opened her eyes, breathing hard, trying to stem or slow the buzzing flow of life that threatened to burst from her every pore.

Draco had pulled away from her completely. He wrapped his arms across his rapidly rising and falling chest, his body faintly shaking, his stare avoiding hers. "I… can't— do this yet," he croaked. "I— I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

She stared at him uncertainly, her eyes wide, her own limbs so electrifyingly alive that she was trembling as well. Any disappointment she felt at this coming to a speeding halt was far overshadowed by concern for him; she couldn't bear to think that she was the reason why he suddenly seemed so upset. "Draco, was it — Shouldn't I have—?"

To her relief, Draco looked back up at her with a tender gaze and shook his head fervently. "No. No, it isn't you, I promise it isn't you." He unfurled himself as quickly as he'd contracted and found her hand. Pulling it to his lips, he gently kissed the top of her knuckles before he held it close to him. "You are wonderful, Hermione. More than wonderful."

But from the pain lining his expression she could tell he was deeply conflicted, and she didn't know why.

She did know that his encounter with that demon Percy Weasley and his flashbacks and possibly Blaise had dredged up shadows that, less than a week ago, even, in the healing sanctuary of the Chamber, had seemed to finally be settling. What was worse, they had clearly affected Draco deeply. It was a journey she knew she couldn't battle for him, as much as she wished she could… but it didn't mean she couldn't stand beside him while it was happening.

"Draco?" she said quietly. "I am here if you ever need to talk, you know."

He let out a deep sigh and bowed his head. "I know," he said after a minute. He shook his head, shoving his hand through his hair. "This is my fault; I — shouldn't have started that if I wasn't prepared to—"

"No, no. There's nothing and no one to fault here," Hermione interrupted reassuringly. "We said we'd go as fast or slow as we're comfortable, didn't we?" She comfortingly rubbed her hand up and down the side of his arm, trying to think of anything else she could to do alleviate some of the weight he carried, especially when she could certainly imagine but not fully understand what it was. "I took my bloody sweet time early on in this; it's only fair you're allowed to do the same."

Draco nodded without looking at her, his chest still shuddering with unsteady breaths.

"Did you still want to try the non-DSP approach tonight?" she asked him uncertainly.

This time, he nodded without hesitation. "If you… don't mind doing it." He cleared his throat, finally looking back at her with a weak smile. "It does involve you doing considerably more work than me."

"I don't know about that; you're the one who has to listen to possibly tedious stories from the Granger family vault." Hermione rolled off the side of her legs and sat back alongside him. She abruptly realized that the blanket around them had fallen, very much unnoticed, to the ground sometime in the last ten minutes, but the air felt… warm.

"It actually isn't as cold as before," she noted in amazement, which triggered an idea that could help lessen Draco's sudden disquiet. Leaning close to him, she put her hand up to his ear like a child about to bequeath a great secret and whispered, "Psst. D'you know what we should do?"

Light sprung back to Draco's eyes, and she literally saw his shoulders lift slightly, as if the weight around them, had, temporarily, disappeared. He leaned toward her, visibly straining to withhold a smile, and mirrored her cupped hand of obvious secret exchange. "Psst. What?" he whispered into her ear so loudly his breath tickled against it.

Hermione shivered at the sensation, giggling once, then leant back to his ear and whispered, "Obviously, we should conjure up a mattress and add a warming charm and sleep out here. It's awfully hard to derive hope from all the beautiful things in this world when one's lying closed up indoors, isn't it?"

The radiant smile of agreement that slowly spread across Draco's expression was enough to light up half of London, and all of her heart.

Hermione had no idea how late it was when she was jolted awake. In very faint light that appeared to be cast from a single lantern, Draco had sat straight up beside her; from the sudden cry that had pulled her from sleep and his sweat-soaked form, he had clearly awoken from a nightmare.

"I know!" he gasped.

"What — What?" Hermione tried to shake her head awake and wondered why in Merlin's name a river sounded like it was about to pound down upon them.

Then she remembered they were sleeping outside. On a bloody roof.

Whose brilliant idea was this?

Blinking blearily, she forced herself to sit up, still getting her bearings, as Draco turned toward her, breathing hard. He gestured slightly with trembling hands. "Can you… conjure some parchment? A quill? It… helps me remember if I write it down…"

Hermione nodded, fumbling in the dark beside the mattress to pluck two leaves from the 'ground.' She transfigured them into the necessary items, the quill self-inking, and held up her lit wand over the top of the paper as he leaned over it and started scribbling.

"Draco… what is it? What do you know?" she asked, her heart racing.

"The — The machine. Dumbledore's," he said distractedly. "I don't know where it is, but there's blueprints of it, and I know where they are. Or, at least, a copy of them."

Her eyes widened. "What? Where?" She craned her head, trying to read his small, elegant print — slightly less now that it was probably around two in the morning.

"Viceroy Weasley's private study. I overhead him talking, once. Didn't put together all the pieces of what he'd meant at the time." When Draco finally stopped scribbling, several half-legible bullets lined the parchment. He took a small breath and turned, as if to set the paper and quill on the ground. At the sight of the dewy moss, though, he halted and looked unsure.

Hermione gently reached over and took both from him, vanishing the quill and casting a document preservation charm on the paper before she tucked it securely beneath the mattress.

"Thanks." Draco sat back, shoving a faintly trembling hand through his hair. "Merlin, I can't believe I didn't think of it until now. I just — There was so much I tried to block out that I…"

"It's alright. Now's as good a time as any to remember it." Hermione rubbed his shoulder, clad now in one of the long-sleeved shirts he normally wore to bed; she in the tamest pair of My's pyjamas. "How long ago did you hear this?"

"This summer." He shook his head, following her descent as she curled back down under the blankets they'd tossed over their makeshift bed, her wand still lit between them. "I suppose we don't… even know if they're still there, do we? But if it was completed at least two years ago and he's kept them there this long, I can't imagine he'd be inclined to move them anytime soon, yeah?"

"One would think. From what Harry's said of his intimate involvement in the development of all this Magical Signature technology, perhaps he even helped build it." She lightly brushed her thumb across his cheek, eager to consider this development more in the actual waking hours. She was certain it hadn't been easy for him to relive — re-dream? — whatever experience had brought him close to such information. "Well done, Draco. This is incredibly valuable."

A puff of air burst from his lips, the warm breath crossing her own. "Yeah… Never thought I'd see the day these blessed nightmares had an actual upside."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Really? That's their only upside?"

Draco's eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. "Well, that… and this too, I suppose."

He lifted his arm, and she smiled and rolled over, extinguishing her wand. His arm wrapped around her waist as he curled up behind her, the curve of her back nestled flush against his chest in the same position in which they'd fallen asleep earlier that night. She sighed deeply, snuggling into the warmth he always so readily exuded, and together, they breathed as one.

"So how is it having creepy zombie me sleeping right next to your bed in the Head Girl dorm?" he asked sleepily near her ear.

"It's completely unnerving. The first night I could hear it breathing and had to muffle the noise. It looks exactly like you, Draco."

"Does it? I bet you stare at him dreamily every night."

Hermione laughed. "You wish. I can't get too close to either it or Pansy's because it'll trigger some kind of alert in Riddle's head for him to tune in."

"Doesn't mean you didn't call him darling from afar…"

"I don't!"

"…told him he would be the perfect human being if only he had a real personality and mind of his own," he mumbled playfully. "Aren't you lucky that tonight you've got the complete package with you instead?"

Her cheeks hurt from smiling as their laughter faded. "I am, actually," she commented.

Draco brushed her hair slightly aside and briefly kissed the nape of her neck, sending a shiver straight down her spine, then nestled his face against her back. He sighed softly. "So am I," he murmured.

At the very centre of her soul suddenly swelled a wave of… Merlin, such indescribably powerful feeling. "Draco?" she said before she could stop herself.

"Hm?"

Hermione stopped short, quite unsure of how to say or explain out loud what she wanted to, except that she meant it with her whole being. "Thanks for… giving me a place where I always feel safe."

Draco's grip around her tightened slightly; when he spoke again, his voice was slightly hoarse. "I'm quite certain that sentiment holds true for us both."

Stealing from Muggles should have been easy.

These days, of course, the particularly resourceful and/or stupidly wealthy buggers had gone and gotten themselves magical security technology. Just when the woman thought the Sovereignty couldn't sink any lower, it had apparently started pawning off its products to select, lucrative non-magic markets… like the Italian mobsters that such a system had tipped off to her use of magic to break into a well-sealed crate, which left her where she was now: trying to appear fractionally intimidating while stuck in the body of a hideously out-of-shape, fifty-one year old warehouse maintenance man named Luigi.

All five of the dimwits were currently pointing ray guns straight out of a lame 1950s sitcom at her. They had caught her by surprise while she was in the midst of liberating the last of the wands she'd needed from the top floor of their black market storage warehouse, and were now standing between her and the very special Portkey she could not lose or replicate. She hadn't encountered Muggles with this kind of wizarding technology before, and perhaps she hadn't taken fully adequate precautions because of it, or perhaps her lack of sleep in the past 36 hours was finally catching up to her.

Still, she couldn't help but snicker, waving her wand at them lazily. "What's this? Going to try to stun me with your little water pistols— Holy bloody ghost, what was that?" she yelped as a jet of blue light shot past her ear, blasting a hole straight through the wall.

The thickest one's mouth stretched into a decidedly hideous smile. "Reducting gun," he said, his raspy voice speaking the ugliest version she'd ever heard of the usually melodic Italian English. "The newest toy off your wizarding underworld market. Dealing magic goods along with our kind, we thought we would need the ability to… how do you say it… speak your language, no?"

She cackled. "Speak my language? Then you might want to make that a 'Reductor,' not 'Reducting.'"

None of them looked amused.

"What? Don't I at least get a free pass for the magical language lesson? That isn't even English, you daft baboons, that's Latin, which, correct me if I'm wrong, originated in Italy. Right, here's one in your language: Tuo padre è un pollo."

Thickster McThick, perhaps the only one among them who actually understood what she was saying, cocked his gun. "Drop your wand. And the goods."

These Muggles! No bloody sense of humour!

"Erm, let's see now…" She pretended to think hard, then pointed her wand back at him. "Vada via che sa di aglio."

Hoping her Italian was accurate enough to get the message across — it'd been so long since she'd slept she really wasn't sure if her words were making sense anymore — she swiped her wand, casting a silent Expelliarmus at all five of them.

The guns didn't move.

She frowned. "Huh."

Perhaps the old chap wasn't quite as thick as she gave him credit for, because he smiled, clearly realizing what she'd been trying to do. "Not so bold now, eh, mago?"

She grinned. "Oh. I'm always bold."

With that, she ducked behind the nearest crate, narrowly avoiding another Reductor curse and a jet of green light that had her cursing again, and slashed her wand rapidly five times, muttering swiftly.

When she was finished, two turtles, a cockroach, a hamster and a chameleon were all blinking up at her dumbly.

She reemerged from behind the now-destroyed crate. "Ah. Bad luck, boys," she said unapologetically, stepping over the warehouse's newest menagerie to levitate up the now-fallen wizarding ray guns - one of which, it seemed, possessed the ability to fire a Killing Curse.

With an angry squeal, the hamster charged at her (Luigi's) scuffed shoes; she fired an Obliviation Charm and then harmless Spooking Jinx at it and its little friends. "Allora, vattene!" she shouted, and they all scattered down the rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling cargo crates.

Swiftly, she retrieved the Portkey — a very old chocolate frog trading card of Albus Dumbledore— and then carefully checked each of the smooth weapons for tracking hexes. Of course, they had one — the Sovereignty wasn't that daft — and she lifted it off each of them, clicking on the safeties before she began to slide them into her bag—

"Laggiù!"

She looked up.

At least fifteen more leather jacket-clad sleazeballs were spilling out of the staircase, no ray guns, but Muggle weapons in hand.

She groaned. For the love of Slytherin — she was she was too bloody tired to deal with this rubbish!

"Al ladro! Sparate a quell'uomo!"

She thought it was greatly ironic that members of a major crime syndicate were calling her a thief when they were the ones in possession of stolen wands, but she just went with it.

As they started shooting, she fired the ray gun in her hand at the warehouse wall, ran at it and hurled herself through the hole. She promptly activated the Portkey before gravity could take its course, and once it'd flung her through its usual whirlpool and she finished falling, she slammed into a thick silence and a very different kind of night.

She gasped in a breath, grateful when air refilled her lungs. "Blast! Sodding… cushioning charms never… take in time…" she wheezed.

After a second, she hauled herself to her feet, stumbled over the bridge into the humid air of the nearest Tribute and up the stairs to the first bedroom she encountered, collapsing face-first on the bed. She was asleep within seconds.

Bella Black was finally home.

SUPER LONG A/N, but do read: Oh my gosh. #Bellaisback! Whoa, it took me some real chocolate chip cookie therapy and chocolate chip walnut pumpkin bread therapy to get through writing these three chapters. (I highly recommend both.) So many different POV's and personal drama. SO UNEXPECTEDLY LONG! **Please** send me some Dramione-worthy love if you're feelin' it, 'cause good Lord, I've got a raging headache, I haven't slept in about as long as Bella hasn't, and it would make my entire weekend if we could smash 2,300 reviews.

-.-

REVERSE WORLD FANART: Guys, the wonderful Mens Dominatus Potentia has just pulled together a fantastic collection of "Reverse world" pics on tumblr and it is the best thing ever. I am not even kidding. They are just delightful and fun. You don't even need tumblr to check them out! If "Tom Riddle through the ages" isn't a note that gets you excited, then I don't know what will.

Oh. There is also a gloriously delicious (and to me hilarious) 'picture' of Witches' Vogue's Most Beautiful Man in the Sovereignty Sirius Black. That might.

To see them, go to:

mdominatusp DOT tumblr DOT com (forward slash) tagged (forward slash) reversefanfic

Remove the dots and forward slashes (and the spaces) and replace accordingly. You may have to refresh the page once to get the pictures to load correctly.

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SPELL COLOURS:

I did as much research on spell colours as I could (there isn't a whole lot out there, and I didn't have time to comb through every inch of the books to double check), but if there's one or two random spells JK Rowling stuck in them that are whitish that I didn't stumble across, please, for the sake of this (also fictional) story and world I have created, try to overlook it. If that doesn't sit well with you, then I am sincerely sorry for that, but it is part of this story.

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ITALIAN:

Vada via che sa di aglio = buzz off, garlic breath

Tuo padre è un pollo = your father is as smart as a chicken

Allora, vattene = get lost