A/N: SO MUCH EXCITEMENT! An unforgettable Women's World Cup championship! Over 2,900 reviews! YOU ALL ARE AMAZING - THANK YOU FOR KNOCKING MY BIRTHDAY WISH OUT OF THE PARK!

My present to you? That light at the end of the tunnel I mentioned a few chapters earlier is here. This chapter is slightly shorter, but it was meant to be part of the last one, before it simply became far too long. Be forewarned that the following 6000 words include a good amount of fluff after the angst, and some calm before the insanity. Don't fear - Chapter 45 and some plot-furthering excitement will be coming along very soon!

Clearing Skies

What had begun as a stressful, tumultuous day had somehow evolved into the laziest, most peaceful afternoon Hermione had experienced in recent memory. Save for the occasional twittering of birds and buzz of cicadas, she lounged in quietude beneath the blankets beside the vase of daisies, the cushioned floor as cozy as a luxury mattress. Behind her, she felt Draco's chest rising and falling in sync with her own, his arm encircling her waist in a mantle of warmth and serenity.

Minutes or hours ago, he had drifted off, his inhalations deep and slow, finally allowing himself a desperately needed kip. Meanwhile, Hermione's mind simply drifted, from the blissful contentment of lying here, so close to him— something she was still getting used to, but simultaneously wondered how she had ever gone without it…

To the indescribable distress and anger that his recount of his captivity had evoked within her, but, as much as that, pride — in him, and his courage to face his horrific demons and allow himself the space to heal and tangibly strengthen in the course of only a few hours. She felt a deep sense of honor and responsibility as well — honor that Draco had trusted her out of anyone to walk through it with him, and, particularly because of that, responsibility to provide him the sort of support he'd find helpful…

To deep loathing that began bubbling up toward the selfish, superficial woman she was meant to play, the Dark Arts culture in which she lived that propagated such odious and incomprehensible values and moral choices, and the countless witches and wizards who'd bought into it, who stood aside or participated while innocent people like Draco were enslaved and horribly abused…

To what "the strength of the Source" could be, if it had anything to do with "the Ancient Ones' Magick," and whether or not it was all rubbish or if some mythological magic truly could manifest itself in a useful way, especially given there was absolutely no historical precedence for it in any civilization Hermione had read about, in Universe A or in this one…

To 'rekindling her relationship' with Ronald, toward whom she immediately felt pure venom and temporarily banished any vengeful planning from her mind entirely; she wouldn't allow even the thought of him to intrude upon how wonderful, how expansive and powerful and calm she felt when she was with Draco like this…

Trying not to wake him, she burrowed a bit more against his chest. Draco released a soft sigh and stirred slightly, his arm ever so gently snuggling her closer.

A faint smile pulled at Hermione's lips.

Yes. She could certainly get used to this.

She reached up, tangling her fingers with his, and his hand closed around hers.

One of her many wafting thoughts settled into a question.

"Draco," she breathed, eyes still closed.

"Hm?" he mumbled.

"What does it mean?"

His voice was gravelly, thick with sleep. "What does what mean, a chuisle?"

The endearment's sounds were all softness and melodious, like a whispered caress against her ear to help succumb to the final tendrils of sleep. Renewed curiosity energized her, and, still curled in his arms, she carefully rotated until she was facing him. "That. Your mum used it in her note to you in your journal as well. A chuisle mo chroí." Draco's silver eyes had cracked open slightly, and she searched them intently. "You said before it was Gaelic?"

"I… did, didn't I." Draco hesitated, then shifted a bit, shrugging aside some of the blankets to better see her. "My mum…" he cleared his throat, sounding a bit more awake now, "she always told me she reserved it for only the most special person in her life."

The light of fond remembrance shone in his eyes, and Hermione sighed quietly. "Your mum sounds like she was a wonderful person, Draco. I wish I could have met her."

Draco's lips twitched weakly, though the motion appeared half-hearted and bittersweet, his gaze distant. Then the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile, and he returned his focus to her. "In a way, you have. Or — the other way around, I suppose. I always told her about my dreams of you." He reached out, gently brushing back a curl that had slipped across her cheek. "She liked you, Hermione."

Hermione's sinuses stung; her eyes abruptly began to burn. She blinked rapidly and took a steadying breath, giving him a wavering smile. "Well, I imagine you relayed only the good things."

Draco shook his head. "Oh no, she was particularly impressed when you slapped the other me once and tried twice after he was being a special sort of arse in third year—"

A laugh burst from her lips. "Draco! You didn't tell your mum about that!"

He smiled as well. "I did. We were both supremely entertained by it. She told me, 'Draco! If she didn't seem to hate you so much, that's exactly the sort of girl I'd like to see you—'"

He stopped speaking abruptly.

When Hermione's gaze shot to his, his pale face flushed slightly.

She immediately guessed what Narcissa had said — a declaration most parents made to their children at some point, even her own — but instead of feeling at all flustered, Hermione was flattered. Still, Draco did look like he needed a bit of rescuing.

Holding back a smile, she said, "It had to be strange. Dreaming of yourself acting like a spoilt git. Your other self could be an absolute nightmare." Although looking at it now, even Universe A's Draco Malfoy seemed rather tame compared to some of the more vicious student personalities in Universe B.

"It was," Draco said readily, seeming glad for the change of subject. "Hermione, it really was. At first I was… afraid he was some sort of subconscious manifestation about how I really felt about all my classmates, but that didn't make any sense because I knew I didn't actually disdain anyone like he did — or hippogriffs, for that matter… Then I decided to try looking at his prejudice against you and your friends as some reverse form of comic relief…"

"Merlin, how did you manage to turn out so normal?" Hermione teased.

His lips twitched deviously. "Excellent breeding." His brow furrowed. "Although I'm rather certain your bouncing ferret would say the same."

They both chuckled, but as their laughter faded, so too did Draco's smile. "You know, in some ways, knowing that he is a real person… I do admit I feel a certain pity for him."

Hermione couldn't hide her surprise. Any iota of pity she might have felt for Universe A's Draco Malfoy had begun to fade the moment Harry relayed how he had played a key role in the plot to kill Dumbledore rather than seek any help to stop it, and had vanished entirely when he had fought with the Death Eaters during the final battle — even if he hadn't given up Harry in Malfoy Manor when he must have immediately realized it was him.

"Why? His choices led to a good man's death," she said harshly. "He stood aside and watched while people were murdered and tortured, whether or not he wanted to be part of it. Seeing what I have here, knowing that everyone always has a choice, no matter how frightening it may be, that's become nearly as wrong in my view as perpetrating the acts themselves."

Draco shrugged, his gaze conflicted. "Fair enough, and I don't disagree with you there. But he grew up in a house with parents who were… colder, it seemed. As afraid as they were bigoted, in the end. He never knew the kind of relationship I had with my family. And that does make me sad." He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "Anyway, enough about that Draco Malfoy."

He looked down and found her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.

"A chuisle mo chroí…" he began slowly, the words rolling off his tongue in an Irish brogue that made his pronunciation sound much more authentic than hers had and drew her full attention immediately. "I suppose informally, it means, 'my darling,' but…" Draco hesitated, then met her eyes, his own a bit shy. "Its literal translation is, 'pulse of my heart.' "

Her lungs stopped moving.

As Hermione stared into the soft gray of his eyes, a buzz of such — such happiness and life and energy bubbled and swelled through her — as if his words themselves had planted the most sensual of kisses over her heart.

She hadn't expected this, hadn't expected to be so — so moved by a simple endearment, but at once, her eyes stung with emotion while her gaze traveled straight to his mouth.

Abruptly, she remembered to breathe, and her chest heaved outward. Now, more than ever, she was acutely aware of what she would be asking of him if she even began to initiate any form of physicality right now, and — and no, she couldn't, not so soon after he'd recounted the awfulness of the sexual abuse that had been forced upon him over and over…

Hermione forced her gaze back to his eyes instead.

"That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," she whispered.

Draco tilted his head closer to her, their foreheads only inches apart. Gone was the deviousness and diffidence from his expression; it had been replaced with a solemnity not unlike one would expect to find in a sacred place. "Hermione, compared to the sound of your laugh," he whispered, "it is nothing."

Were it any other person she might have said they were deliberately trying to seduce her, but Hermione had begun to realize that when it came to her, Draco meant everything he said with his entire being.

Blood started to pound through her body, hard and desirous, and her gaze again shot from his eyes to his lips. She swallowed hard, then carefully slipped a hand between them, lightly touching a single finger to his lips. "Draco…" Sweet Morgana, her voice had never sounded this throaty! "…If you want to… Can we…?"

Draco's face relaxed into a soft smile, though the intensity within his eyes was anything but. Gently, he slid his hand beneath her head to support it and, without the exceptional hesitance he had initially shown in many of their kisses, closed the final few breaths between them.

When their lips met, there was no doubt of what either wanted.

Tom surveyed the fifteen rudimentary Muggle mobile phone models aligned in neat rows of three inside a sleek silver box on the old world pedestal desk in front of him. His fingers hovered over them before he selected a squat gray one, flipping it open. The small, pixelated screen flickered on dutifully, thanks to a few Phoenix-developed spells that allowed him to channel a constant charge without electricity through the regular Muggle technology.

This particular model was Russian. He contemplated briefly, then in Cyrillic, swiftly typed,

Three weeks.

When the message sent, Tom returned the mobile to its appropriated space and closed the lid, transfiguring the entire case into a fully-functioning silver watch — one that sported an extra hand and fifteen different-colored dots interspersed around its face to indicate new messages.

As he slid it back on his wrist, his head tilted slightly toward Momento Mori's study door. Lucius was approaching… he knew it before the sound of the other wizard's footsteps even became audible. It was the unstable pulse to his magic, still present, but erratic — and moreso than usual, right now.

Tom had a good idea of why.

A moment later, the blond man burst past the door without so much as knocking. "It's been nearly five hours now, and they're still in that room," he reported without preamble, wringing his hands in an exceedingly nervous gesture he hadn't possessed before his imprisonment. "Bella tried climbing the Tribute wall to see if they were alright — in Animagus form, of course — but the stones beneath the waterfall atop the upper floors were so slick she couldn't quite find the grip she needed…" He began pacing from one end of the half-moon study to the other. "And I know — I know what you're thinking — he's a grown man now, Lucius, no need to over-parent him - but over the last week, Tom, I've seen such a depression beset him—"

"Lucius — Lucius," Tom interrupted when it became clear his old friend had neither plans of slowing nor stopping.

Abruptly, the absentminded man halted, looking up at Tom as if surprised he was there.

He approached the elder Malfoy slowly, setting a reassuring arm on his shoulder. "Whatever's happened inside that room," he said firmly, "I can say with almost full certainty your son has pulled through it."

Lucius nodded distractedly, his long ponytail bobbing with the gesture. "Yes — Yes, I've been telling myself that as well. But when I —" he fidgeted, then began to pace again, "When I begin to imagine what those monsters did to him to cause this, and — and now, with this ghastly mission — Forgive me, I know it's necessary, but it doesn't make it any less formidable for him to face—"

After seven decades of existence, Tom was beginning to understand what it truly meant to worry for a child. "I know Draco has only just reentered your life, and the trials before him have you worried, old friend," he said sympathetically. "But if you can steady yourself for just a moment and come with me, I believe I have something that may hearten you."

Lucius stopped moving again, regarding him with a mixture of doubt and hopefulness.

Tom held out a hand toward the door. In his long career at Hogwarts, he had found that experience-based learning was far more effective than any form of telling, and what he had observed over the last several hours was much better seen than explained.

No evidence of the dirt-sculpted chair he had conjured for Bella the night before remained on his quarters' balcony. In the daylight, the platform provided a fine overlook of the Chamber's other five tributes, but none more so than Absit Invidia, directly across from them, covered in lush foliage and flowering trumpet vines that cascaded down the structure from top to base, their vibrant red petals shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun.

When Lucius came out beside him and grasped tight to the railing, as if the slightest breeze might tip him backward, Tom nodded toward Tribute A. "Tell me if you notice anything out of place about Absit Invidia."

His former pupil fished out spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his nose, squinting. After several seconds, with the tentativeness of an uncertain schoolchild, he said, "I'm afraid I'm… not certain what you mean for me to perceive."

"What season is it in that biome, Lucius?" Tom stressed.

The man's charcoal gray gaze returned to Absit Invidia, before his eyebrows lifted slightly. "Late autumn," he said, his voice assuming a tinge of surprise. "But it — it appears to be spring."

A small smile of affirmation pulled at Tom's lips. "And you've got it in one. Those vines aren't scheduled to bloom for another five months, yet in the course of two hours they've matured from bud to blossom to cover the building entirely." He leant his forearms on the balcony, assessing his Eden-like creation with a calculating gaze. "These blooms, this morning's unexpected thunderstorm and then monsoon that materialized and ceased faster than any predesigned weather pattern should have… As we stand in this Chamber, something powerful enough to subconsciously affect the complex enchantments governing it is here with us."

Lucius turned toward him in bewilderment. "And… what has this to do with Draco?"

Tom held his gaze equanimously; the initial delivery of this, he knew, would be particularly important in soothing the elder Malfoy's fears. Based on what he had just witnessed, he expected there would be many.

"I have reason to believe," he began, softening his voice considerably, "Hermione and Draco are those of purest intention whom the prophecy has foreseen. And I think they know it, too. It may even be part of the reason they've spent so much time together after I shared the conclusion of the prophecy today."

In a matter of seconds, Lucius's pale face became whiter. He stared at him in disbelief. "Are you… Are you saying the ancient magic of the Source truly does exist… and they are the ones meant to manifest it?" His voice was faint.

Tom nodded. "In some form, I presume, yes. Whether or not they're conscious of it yet, they already are. I suspect the environmental changes outside Absit Invidia may have directly correlated with the evolving mental status of Draco, Hermione, or them both."

He didn't mention the swells of power he had, very rarely upon his return, sensed emanating from some point inside the Chamber, like a vast, rising ocean wave… only to entirely vanish in the blink of an eye moments or minutes later. He'd felt such a surge today, but unlike most of the others, this one had taken much longer to ebb.

At Lucius's struck expression, Tom continued gently, "And that is what I am saying. Look around you, Lucius. When it comes to your son, the rain has ended, and his skies are clear."

Lucius swallowed hard, clasping and unclasping his shaking hands as he stared silently across the Chamber. "I didn't want this for him," he finally whispered, his voice slightly hoarse. "Narcissa—" He broke off momentarily, clenching a fist to his mouth, then repeated, "Narcissa and I — We only wished for him to be happy — to have access to a life unencumbered by the discrimination we ourselves experienced. And— And now—"

"I know, Lucius," Tom said quietly. "No parent ever wants to see their child swept up in circumstances far beyond their control, especially like this. I know only too well. But," he continued emphatically, "we must remember that something beyond our understanding trusts Draco and Hermione have the strength needed to assume this role. This power would not be available to them otherwise." When Lucius's appearance remained deeply troubled, Tom took a small breath, then spoke his last persuasion. "And that is something in which I myself take great comfort."

After a long pause, the blond man nodded once, distantly, but otherwise remained silent, leaving Tom's affirmation to echo in his own ears. Given the magnitude of the obstacles that remained between them and their ultimate aim, he found he had little choice but to subscribe to the very beliefs he'd professed as encouragement.

The prophecy and the mysteries surrounding it were not the only hope he had.

But in the midst of a complex web of constantly shifting pieces, some divine favoritism would certainly improve the odds.

The few, soft thuds were so quiet that at first Hermione thought she'd only imagined them.

The deepening gold of late afternoon sunlight filtered through the window. By now, she was certain they'd been in the lavatory at least half a day, but she didn't care — she'd been under so much pressure over the past few weeks, and knew she would be from the moment she stepped outside again, that she was more than happy to extend this as long as she could, and she knew Draco must have felt the same.

Still, she lifted her head off the top of his chest, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

Through her silk blouse, she could feel his fingers tracing slow patterns along her back. "Only Peia's dodgy chameleon, I'd wager."

Hermione stared down at him. "Peia has a chameleon?"

"Aunt Bella brought it along from Spain. It's been skulking about the Tributes for the past two days now." His brow furrowed. "I could swear it was perched on my bedroom wall watching me dress this morning. As I said — dodgy."

"I'm rather certain chameleons don't skulk," she laughed, snuggling back against the weaves of his knit jumper.

"Of course they do. They can turn themselves invisible, can't they? Classic skulking device."

Knock, knock!

This time, both Hermione and Draco looked toward the door.

After a moment, Hermione let out a long breath. "I suppose we have been missing an exorbitantly long time," she admitted, sitting up reluctantly. Her stomach rumbled rather pointedly at the sudden motion. "How long d'you suppose we've been in here?"

Draco sat up with a groan. "Longer than I hope to Gaia and all the gods I'll ever need to spend in a loo again."

She burst into chuckles, combing her fingers through snog-tousled curls that had long fallen from her bun. When Draco said nothing more, she glanced at him inquisitively. He was gazing at the door, a hesitance in his eyes that hadn't been there a second earlier.

"Would you rather we left it a tad bit longer?" she asked in concern.

He wavered, then shook his head with a sigh. "No. I could go for an entire banquet table at the Halloween Feast right now, and I imagine so could you." His expression faltered. "I only… remember how I left off, with everyone else." He shoved a hand through his hair. "Merlin, I can't even begin to imagine what they all must think…"

"Then don't." Hermione rubbed his knee reassuringly. "They'll understand, Draco. Even if you don't want to say a word."

Pale gray eyes met hers, gratitude shining from deep within them.

She tilted her head toward the door. "Why don't I see who it is," she suggested. "You can join us if you'd like."

Draco wordlessly nodded his agreement.

She hoisted herself to her feet, pulling on her jacket. After she re-wrapped her scarf, Draco reached up to catch her fingers.

"Hermione… perhaps you should return the toilet?" Faint mischievousness had replaced the heaviness lingering in his eyes, and his lips twitched upward slightly. "Or eventually there's going to be one very unhappy wizard or one very unhappy bunch of flowers…"

"Oh. Right." Hermione found herself smiling as well. With a few twists of her wand, the daisies transfigured into their original manifestation. "Yes, lovely as those were, I imagine they might come as a rather unwelcome surprise to some."

She crossed the loo and removed the Locking and Imperturbable charms she'd cast upon the door when she'd first entered, opening it slightly.

Of all the people who could have been standing outside, she didn't expect to see Pansy carrying a serving tray with a large, steaming teapot and cups. Behind her, looking a bit more uncomfortable, was Blaise, holding a plate with several large slices of quiche.

The dark-haired woman smiled when she saw Hermione, although ill-restrained worry was in her eyes. "We don't want to interrupt anything, but it's, erm… it's been quite a few hours," she said in a low voice, her gaze briefly darting toward the door as if she wished she could see through it. "We thought you might be hungry?"

The thoughtful gesture left Hermione touched and surprised. "Oh. Thank you!" she exclaimed, opening the door a bit more to step outside. "Mmm, this looks wonderful!" she said in delight, levitating the tray from Pansy's hands and eagerly accepting the plate from Blaise with a grateful smile. The savory tart's aroma wafted past her nose, causing her mouth to water. "The both of us are nearer ravenous than hungry now, I think."

Blaise crossed his arms, cocking his head toward the partially-opened door, and rocked back and forth on his toes. "Is everything… alright in there?"

Despite the tautness to his voice, Hermione could detect concern beneath the show of apathy. She nodded immediately, reassuringly looking between him and Pansy both. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."

Draco's trauma had been so severe she didn't know if this morning's turning point would mark the end of his nightmares or only the beginning of the end. But more than anything, after this morning, at least he knew an end was there, and it was possible he could reach it.

Suddenly, Hermione sensed more than saw the lavatory door fully open behind her.

Blaise's back stiffened ever so slightly.

Draco stepped out beside her, his hands shoved in his pockets. Over the past three days, Hermione had come to recognize the repentant gleam that was now in his eyes again. Looking between the two old friends, and from Pansy's suddenly nervous expression, it was immediately clear they hadn't yet reconciled.

After a few beats of rather uncomfortable silence, Draco's gaze landed on the plate of quiche in Hermione's hands. He stared swiftly at Blaise. "Sweet Salazar, don't tell me you made that," he said, sounding concerned rather than antagonistic.

"Of course not, you tosser," Blaise replied tersely. "You know you'd be dead if I had."

"Blaise!" Pansy gasped.

"Because I'm a shite cook, Pansy! Blimey, bird, what'd you think I meant?"

Draco briefly set his hand on Pansy's shoulder, then stepped toward Blaise. "I am, though," he said. "A tosser. Completely and utterly. You were trying to smooth things over, and I mucked everything up all over again. I'm so sorry, mate." He held out his hand, his voice tentative. "Can I — Can we call a truce?"

Blaise stared at him, then Hermione, then back at Draco again, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he uncurled his crossed arms. "Reckon s'long as you can forgive me for being a crusty, insensitive git."

The rigidity across Draco's shoulders dissipated immediately. He tilted his head pensively as Blaise took his offered handshake. "Yes to the insensitive, no to the crusty… I've already told you Aunt Bella can make you an ointment for that."

The broad-shouldered Slytherin snorted as the two pulled each other into a brief hug. "Still an egghead," he muttered.

Pansy grinned broadly, looking relieved, while Hermione shook her head. What was it about men reconciling via insults?

"Perhaps I can make it up to you," Draco said, the difference in their body language within mere moments of the accord remarkable. "I imagine Riddle must have some Quidditch brooms around here somewhere. Up for a bit of one on one between architecture spells soon?"

"Make it up to me? Make it up to yourself, more like," Blaise retorted. "You and Theo were always loads better at that stuff than I was."

Draco gestured at his leg. "Yeah, well, I'm handicapped for the moment. Should give you a fighting chance, at least."

Blaise glared, seeming torn between insult and incredulity. "Really, Draco? You actually went there?"

Hermione looked up from nibbling at one of the tart slices, surprised by Draco's unexpected use of 'for the moment.' "Draco, is your aunt helping you with…?"

He simply gave her a small, sidelong smile, and one of her own formed in relief that the injury she knew still hurt him constantly would finally be properly healed.

"Just for that, yeah, I think I will whoop your skinny Seeker arse," Blaise decided. He flexed his bicep with a chuffed expression. "Finally got a Chaser build now, don't I? Probably the only useful thing those manky mutters gave me." He scowled briefly in remembrance. "Anyway, I'm long overdue for a skive off. Those sodding Tribute-building spells have given me a permanent headache — only bloody thing I've been going at for a week and a half straight."

Draco's eyes had lit up with excitement. "I reckon Tom could help us erect makeshift goalposts on both ends of the Chamber."

"D'you s'pose he'd think it completely irreverent if one of them went in that gap between Salazar Slytherin's teeth? Hell of a target, that'd be—"

Pansy leant toward Hermione. "Boys and their brooms," she said, shaking her head. "Some things don't change no matter what happens, do they?"

Hermione stared at the dark-haired woman, then clasped Pansy's arm and heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Merlin!"

Pansy looked at her in concern. "Hermione, what—?"

"In my world, it was boys and girls and their brooms, and then there was me, sitting on the sidelines," Hermione explained, remembering the hours of flying Harry and Ron and Ginny would accumulate during Quidditch practices and at the Weasleys, and their mostly unsuccessful wheedling of her to join their informal matches to even the numbers. "I didn't mind, of course — I had plenty of reading to do, and Merlin knows I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere near a broom — but it is rather refreshing to have an ally."

The Slytherin woman began to smile. "Oh, yes, I'd take my feet firmly planted on the ground to flying any day," she agreed. "I made the mistake of letting Harry convince me to go out with him one night fourth year. I should have taken a flight sickness tonic first, but I'd never done it before so I didn't expect I'd need it, and — oh, it was awful. After that disaster he promised he'd never make me go flying again!"

"That's awfully nice of him," Hermione said. "I once dated a lovely Quidditch player, but he never stopped trying to talk me into flying with him even though I assured him I'd only hate it. He seemed convinced going on one good flight would be able to 'convert me to the beautiful vay in vhich flying is truly meant to be experienced...'"

Draco came up alongside them. "I don't know, Hermione, that sounds uncomfortably like a euphemism to me," he said, slipping his arm around the small of her back. "Krum was three years older than you… are you certain he was talking about Quidditch and not, erm — any other broom he possessed?"

Hermione cast him a dry expression even as she unconsciously leaned into his touch; his face was serious, but his eyes were clearly trying to restrain a smile. "Don't tease, Draco. Of course he was. Viktor was always the consummate gentleman."

"Wait — What?" Blaise asked, swiping a cup off the hovering tray and pouring himself a cuppa. "Viktor Krum? You've dated a professional Quidditch player, somewhere off in your — your weird world?"

"My weird world? I'd say yours is far weirder," she retorted mildly, spelling the quiche plate with another Levitation Charm before reaching for the teapot herself. After hours on the floor, no matter how comfortable, it did feel good to be standing now. "Anyway, I don't know why you sound so surprised. Aren't you the one constantly prattling on about My's, erm, level of fitness?" Her lip curled slightly at the thought.

Blaise raised his eyebrows at Draco. "Yes, but my brother here told me your version of her was homely."

Draco's head shot up. "What? Hold on — I never said you were homely," he told Hermione firmly before focusing back on Blaise. "I only said she wasn't My."

"Same difference," Blaise said with a shrug.

"It is not the same difference," Pansy exclaimed at the same time Hermione asked in disbelief, "And that equates homeliness in your mind?"

Blaise glanced around at their unamused expressions, then held up his hands. "Alright, alright! Shite, you lot. Every bloke's entitled to a few errors in interpretation…"

He reached for one of the slivers of quiche, but Pansy swatted his hand away. "Don't you dare, Blaise Zabini. That's your fifth already, and these two haven't even eaten lunch," she chided maternally.

He groaned. "Oh, come on, bird — I'm a growing man!"

"Only perhaps not quite in the directions you're hoping," Draco said with a twinkle in his eye, plucking the slice his friend hadn't quite managed to snatch off the plate and tearing into it. "Thank you for thinking of us, Pans. I could eat about fifty of these."

Hermione was glad to see his appetite had returned, and she withheld another doggedly persistent smile as she watched the three of them interact. Aside from their photo in the yearbook picture, this was the first she'd seen the whole Silver Trio together, and in a bittersweet way, their easy rapport and acceptance of her — even Blaise, at his reluctant, juvenile level — made the entire Chamber feel a bit more like home.

As if he sensed her gaze, Draco glanced down at her in the midst of their recalling a time Blaise had apparently challenged Daphne Greengrass to a Cauldron Cake consumption contest in which she'd not only managed to eat him under the table, but made him forever swear off chocolate in any form. His smile softened, and he briefly, gently rubbed her back.

Hermione felt herself begin to smile softly too.

Despite the vast challenges that lay ahead, at that moment in time and space, all truly seemed well.

"I'm so glad you're alright, Draco," Pansy said quietly then, breaking their gaze. "After everything that happened… today and — and with the…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Well, I just am."

Draco's smile faltered momentarily, and for a second, his eyes sobered. "So am I," he said just as quietly, his voice composed, relieved and weary all at once.

After a brief silence, Blaise cleared his throat. "So, er — this is one buggered up mission Riddle's got you two on, isn't it?"

Draco winced slightly. "Positively inspired topic change, brother."

"Whatever — I mean it." Blaise leant back against the railing, cradling his cup. "I can't imagine you're exactly falling arse over tit to go back. I mean, bollocks, I may talk a good game, but I'd likely be pissing myself right now if I were in your shoes."

Now it was Hermione's turn to wince — Blaise's earlier assessment of himself had been spot on; it was apparent he really could be an insensitive git. She tilted her head, exchanging a brief glance with Draco as Pansy scolded in a low voice, "Really, Blaise, now may not be the best time…"

For a moment, Draco simply stood stiffly, the lines of his face troubled. Subtly, Hermione slipped her hand in his. He grasped it tightly, bowing his head and swallowing hard. Then he took a small breath, giving her the faintest of nods, and focused back on his childhood friends.

"I think," he said slowly, the faintest edge of determination lifting his voice, "we've resolved ourselves that we're the only ones who can do this… and so it simply must be done."

-c-

A/N: Less than 100 reviews away from 3,000, and I honestly could not be more thrilled. (Perhaps we can reach that goal this time? :) The energy you've given me helped me bite the bullet and hammer out the final plot details of the remaining sixteen (very full) chapters of Reverse. Get excited, everyone! Thank you, thank you to every single one of you who has commented and wished me happy birthday— it was a lovely day, and made even moreso by your kindness and encouragement. I hope you enjoyed this calm before the storm.

Much credit to MDominatusP for her coinage of 'The Silver Trio.' Also, to clarify for those who have asked, Draco and Hermione -still- have not had sex, lol. If/When that happens, you will know.