Bubbles perfumed with lavender drifted across the bathwater. Hermione trailed her hand along the surface, watching as they collected around her bent knees. She tucked her chin into the hot water, luxuriating in the feel of it cupping her skin. Then her eyes focused onto that spot on her chest—that thing she hadn't thought of in days.

Dolohov's scar.

Even through the cloudy water, she could make out the line of raised flesh, the color like pink pearl against the rest of her pale skin. She touched it. It did not hurt. Which was to be expected, of course. It had been miraculously healed the day she landed in that Azkaban cell.

She realized then, as she traced the scar, that she hadn't thought of her friends in days either. How long had it been since she arrived here? Four days? Five? It seemed like far longer. Time had sent her hurtling back, then speeding forward with such ferocity that she had given up on counting the days. Of course, she had thought of home in the general sense. It was all she wanted—what she wanted more than anything. But what she wanted from home, her friends and her future and her career, had become distant. Out of focus.

Hermione tipped her head back against the lip of the tub and sighed. Ron , she thought heavily, squeezing her eyes shut. What would he think of her? First she accepted his proposal, and then she disappeared. With Lucius Malfoy, of all people. Harry had seen her that day in the prison, had watched her explode the cell with that stolen grenade. Harry would have told everyone—Ginny, Ron, Kingsley, the rest of the Weasleys. Everyone Hermione cared for or respected must either think she'd gone mad, been so stupid as to have been duped by Lucius, or…that she had fallen for the death eater.

She knew which option Ron would believe. And yet she barely cared. Not because there was a magic scar sucking out her soul, making her numb and emotionless, but because Ron was, well… Ron . He had watched her shrivel into a husk of her former self for years and did nothing. He stayed in their relationship for years, taking and taking and acting as if nothing were wrong. As if she hadn't been sick. Ron had stayed with the shell of the witch she had once been. Ron wanted that shell. And she had an inkling that if she returned to him tomorrow, alive and well and awake, he wouldn't want her anymore.

Even Harry and Ginny hadn't seen how sick she was. And she couldn't blame them—they were busy with their own lives, their own careers and family and now a pregnancy. The only person who had truly seen her, saw how sick she'd been, how close to dying she was, how much she needed help, was Lucius.

Lucius Malfoy. Her knight in shining armor. She laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. At how even in the midst of such chaos, he had saved her. Who knew if he would have followed through on their plan to hunt Dolohov. Who knew if killing Dolohov would have ended her suffering. But she did know one thing for certain: if she hadn't freed Lucius from that cell, if she hadn't blasted a hole through time, she would very likely still be numb and cold and dying. Lucius saved her. And it almost… almost made staying here worth it.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door. Water splashed as she jerked back to reality. "Yes?" she called out.

"It's almost time to go to breakfast." Lucius's voice was muffled through wood, and perhaps still from the remnants of sleep. "I need to…freshen up."

Shit. How long had she been in the bath? Hermione had woken up around six that morning, too nervous about the day's classes to sleep in. Lucius had been fast asleep when she crawled out of bed and into the bath. "I'll be right out!" she said, as the water sloshed around her well-pruned body.

After draining the tub and tossing her curls into a towel, Hermione snagged one of the grey silk robes, wrapped it around her still dripping form, and hurried to the door. It opened with a gust of cool air and a face-full of Lucius's silvery chest hair. She quickly glanced up into his eyes instead of his very half-naked body. He was clothed only in the thin linen drawers he'd gone to bed in. "Excuse me," she said hastily, ducking her head to hide the heat rushing to her cheeks. When she made it across the hall, she couldn't help but turn and watch Lucius disappear into the steamy bathroom, back bare and toned, hair loose and tangled from sleep. Even in the first hours of the day, Lucius was more beautiful than she thought it possible for a man to be.

In an effort to calm the heat in her cheeks and the tightness in her lower belly, Hermione busied herself with dressing. She quickly mulled over her options in the armoire and dresser before setting her garments on the bed: a thin shift, stay, a pair of drawers from Lucius's side (she had learned back at Malfoy Manor that it was proper to go knickerless in this time for women, and Hermione was very firmly against this custom), stockings, petticoat, pockets to tie onto her stay, and a set of plum outer robes that seemed to be a cross between a gown and traditional witch's robes.

The bedroom door opened just as Hermione was directing her wand to fasten the buttons down her spine. She spun, lightweight skirts swishing around her legs, to find Lucius stepping inside. He wore one of the silk robes, though his hair was unbound and combed, leaving wet spots blooming wherever his locks touched the slippery fabric.

Lucius stepped over to the dresser on the opposite side of the bed from where she stood, rooted to the ground. When he began to reach for his clothes as if she weren't even there, she began stammering, "S-sorry, I'll just…"

"You know, just because we're living three hundred years in the past, we don't actually have to take on their ridiculous notions of propriety." Lucius tossed his garments on the bed and gave her an amused once-over.

"You're thinking of the Victorians. We're a little early for that."

Lucius chuckled, and the tension in Hermione's body began to ease. She perched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap, not quite turned away from Lucius, not quite facing him. A good compromise. She found herself not wanting him to know how…how heated he made her as of late. Because if he knew, what would that imply? That he embarrassed her? That he made her uncomfortable?

That he turned her on?

She watched him as he dressed, peeling off the silk robe to reveal a body that surprised her in its vitality for a man who'd been imprisoned not long ago. Though his muscles weren't overly-pronounced like a body builder, nor pulled taut against his skeleton like Ron, his frame was strong and protected beneath a layer of flesh and muscle. Like a sculpture begging to be touched. Fortunately, the height of the mattress was far greater than her bed back home, cutting him off where a trail of silvery hair disappeared between his legs. Unfortunately, he seemed determined to dress his top half last. They chatted about his plan for his first class as he dressed, like they were old friends, like her legs weren't pinched together and her face wasn't bright red.

It was absurd, this idea of arousal, and yet it was a problem that had been growing in frequency and intensity since Malfoy Manor. Logic dictated that her apparent attraction was simply a byproduct of their shared trauma and unusual circumstance. Logic dictated that she hadn't been capable of feeling arousal for years under the magic of Dolohov's scar, so it made perfect sense that her hormones had startled awake and attached themselves to him. Logic dictated that Lucius Malfoy was, by any standard, an objectively and exceptionally handsome wizard. But logic also dictated that Hermione Granger was decidedly not supposed to find any part of Lucius Malfoy, former death eater, former blood-purist, twenty-five years her senior, father to her prior classmate, convicted felon, exceedingly arrogant, pompous git of a man attractive.

Her arousal was a paradox. One she was determined to smother, before she did something foolish and Lucius changed his mind about helping her get home—or changed his mind about sticking it out with her in this time, if returning wasn't an option. Because if she knew anything for certain, it was that Lucius Malfoy returning her attraction was even more absurd than her attraction to him.

"Hermione?"

She blinked and refocused on Lucius, pleased to find that he was now thoroughly covered in fabric. "Yes?"

"I've been waiting to know if you're ready for breakfast for at least two minutes."

Merlin, she was pathetic. She'd have to be more diligent about a no-zoning-out-about-Lucius-Malfoy policy. "Of course. I was just…busy thinking."

"Of course," Lucius echoed, giving her a smirk before leading the way from the bedroom.

Viridian had handed Hermione her class schedule and a copy of the current syllabus the previous day at supper. Her first class of Defense Against The Dark Arts was at eight in the morning, seventh-years, a mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins.

To say she was nervous was an understatement.

At the very least, her only other class today was with first-years, leaving her plenty of time to track down Juliet and begin her machinations against Birdwanker. At least that was something to look forward to.

Now, though, she was facing a sea of teenagers in classroom 3C, wondering if the likes of Gilderoy Lockhart, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, and every other ill-fated Defense professor had felt as sick to their stomach as she did. Dear God I hope the DADA curse doesn't start with me , she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat and unclasping her sweaty palms.

"Good morning, everyone," she said in what she hoped was a clear, confident voice, "and welcome to Defense Against The Dark Arts."

Chair legs squeaked. A quill tapped at an ink well. She scanned their faces—nineteen boys, one girl. Their expressions were a mix of uncertainty, amusement, and boredom. Only one student, sitting in the back with his chin in his palm, stared at her with curiosity. Hermione's eyes locked on Corvinus. He raised an eyebrow. Her gaze darted away, and she cleared her throat.

"While reviewing your current syllabus the other day, I was rather surprised to find that even in your seventh year, you haven't been taught how to duel."

A burly blonde Gryffindor by the front snorted. "That isn't true."

"Oh?" Hermione cocked her head. "Enlighten me. How do you practice the curses and spells you've been taught in The Dark Arts?"

"On the dummies, mostly."

"Ah, the target dummies…" Hermione clasped her hands behind her back and looked pointedly at the lineup of misshapen, charred straw dummies on the wall across from the windows. The poor things had seen better days. The one closest to her lifted an arm, either in hello or defense, before it dropped back down. "Useful, when first learning a spell or perfecting your aim. But they don't exactly fight back, now do they? Surely a wizard like you is brave enough to face a real opponent. Or were you sorted into the wrong house? With all the changes going on around here, I am sure Headmaster Viridian would welcome a new addition to Hufflepuff."

The Gryffindor's chubby cheeks bloomed with pink as the Slytherins snickered. "I am not—I am brave enough!" he spat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just because I haven't dueled doesn't mean I haven't practiced on real targets!"

"And who were these targets?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably. "Well…sometimes the curses are necessary."

"Quite right," agreed a pale, drawn-looking Gryffindor. "Sometimes a wizard needs to defend his honor," he sniffed.

When it was clear no one wanted to elaborate, Hermione said thoughtfully, "An excellent cause. Let me guess…the curses are necessary against first years who get in your way in the halls? Perhaps a muggle who wanders too close to the estate during the summer? Sure, there's that new Statue of Secrecy, but there's nothing like sending a hex at an unarmed muggle to get some practice in, is there?" Her scathing tone echoed through the silent classroom. "Tell me…what is the difference between that kind of practice and a duel?"

"It is against the rules to duel," a student offered. "But practicing every so often is…natural. Expected, if not sanctioned."

"And why is that?"

"Because we're very likely to maim or kill each other if we're constantly flinging curses at one another," came Corvinus's posh, quiet voice from the back of the room.

Hermione met his eyes. They had lit up with a cold kind of interest. Like she was a specimen to be studied. A shiver rolled down her spine. "Correct, Mr. Gaunt," she said, turning away to pace across the front of the room. "Because dueling is dangerous. And I assume that when you heard me announce that the Dark Arts is now Defense Against The Dark Arts, you believed that danger was something I would teach you to hide from. To avoid." She paused and turned back towards the class. "Defense does not mean you hide from danger. It means that you acknowledge it, head-on. In my class, you will not hex first-years or muggle-borns or anyone else you deem worthy of your frustration. In my class, you will duel each other. You." Her eyes snapped to the blonde Gryffindor. "What is your name?"

"Erm—Mathew, Lady Jean. Matthew York."

"Professor Jean will do," she said coolly.

Mathew nodded hastily. "Yes, Professor Jean."
"Stand up." The boy clambered noisily out of his chair until he was standing in the center aisle facing her. "Take out your wand." He pulled it from his robes' pocket. It quivered between his plump fingers. "Now curse me."

The boy blinked stupidly. "Curse you?"

"Must I repeat myself?"

"No, I—I cannot, Lady—Professor. I cannot curse a woman."

Hermione drew her own wand and crossed one arm across her chest. The tip of her wand tapped thoughtfully against her chin. "And why not?"

"It would be wrong."

"Why?"

"Because…" He looked around at his classmates, clearly exasperated. A few snickered. The girl, another Gryffindor, looked excited. An amused smirk played on Corvinus's sunken features. "Because you are defenseless."

"Is that it? Or do you simply not wish to be bested by a woman? By a muggle-born at that?"

Whispers fluttered behind Matthew, who blanched. "I…"

"Go on. Curse me. I insist."

Matthew lifted his clenched fist. His wand wobbled as he aimed it at her chest. Then, with his eyes screwed up in determination, he shouted, " Flipendo !"

Protego , Hermione cast silently, and with a flick of her wand, the spell disappeared harmlessly into her shield charm.

Matthew's mouth dropped open. He looked between her and her wand like he wasn't sure what had just happened. " Flipendo !" he cried again.

She blocked it with another wordless shield. "Try something else, perhaps."

The boy glowered as the others laughed. He rocked back on his heels, then with a jagged slash shouted, " Petrificus Totalus !"

Hermione threw up a shield. "Not that one, then."

Matthew let out a snarl of frustration. " Furnunculus !"

She deflected.

" Locomotor Wibbly !"

Hermione yawned behind her shield.

" Slugulus Eructo !"

"That is a fun one."

" Reducto! "

The wall crumbled where a streak of blue light hit it.

" Brachiabindo! Impedimenta! Vermiculus!" When the last curse bounced off her shield, Matthew's face contorted in rage. " You ," he seethed, spit flying from his lips. "You think you're a professor? You think that because you know some fancy defense spell, that you belong here?" He stalked towards her, wand held high. Hermione didn't move. "You are nothing but a mudblood whore. Crucio! "

" Protego! " Hermione cried, and the invisible force of the spell smashed into her shield. As Matthew threw up his wand for another curse, Hermione spun on her heel, wand arcing in a circle as she shouted, " Protego Diabolica !"

Screams rang through the classroom as a ring of pale blue fire burst to life around her. The flames writhed, licking up towards the ceiling. Heat poured off the shield charm as the students scrambled away. Matthew had crashed into a desk in his haste to run away, his back against the desktop, his feet dangling as he screamed and struggled to right himself.

"This is what I will teach you," Hermione called out, her gaze on the terrified students, their faces hazy through the ice-blue flames. "A shield charm, to protect yourself. Or a shield of flames, when your dueling partner thinks a Crucio is an appropriate response to his mudblood whore of a professor." She slashed her wand horizontally and muttered the canceling spell, and the flames disappeared. The classroom was unburnt; she'd warded it before the students had arrived. The only damage was, apparently, inflicted upon the Gryffindor vomiting in the corner. Hermione tucked her wand into the waistband of her skirt. She smiled. "This is Defense Against The Dark Arts. Any questions?"

The next class of first-years was, to Hermione's relief, devoid of any name-calling, torture spells, or exhausting feats of magic. In fact, the group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw eleven year-olds were delightfully open to the concept of defense.

And now, after a quick bite of lunch, it was time for her third lesson of the day.

Hermione found Juliet in the transfiguration courtyard exactly where Toad had claimed she'd be. The supposed Castle Matron sat on a ledge beneath one of the mossy archways, cradling a teacup and staring out into the grassy courtyard like it had personally wronged her. "Juliet?" she called out, coming to stand in front of the girl. She could see now that Juliet was straddling the ledge, stockinged legs dangling where they stuck out from her wool dress. Apparently Juliet didn't care about propriety any more than she did her duties. Hermione was impressed.

Juliet took a dainty sip of tea. "I'm quite busy, can't you see? If you need something, ask the elves."

"I did. Toad told me I'd find you here."

A scowl twisted the witch's face. "Bastard."

"I just have a quick question. Are you…familiar with any boggarts in the castle?"

That caught the girl's interest. Juliet gingerly set down her teacup on the ledge and leaned her head back against the stone. Her green eyes squinted at Hermione. "Possibly."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Suppose so."

"Can you tell me?"

Juliet flicked her ginger braid over her shoulder. "You going to finally be the one to get rid of it?"

Hermione grinned. "Absolutely. But first, a certain librarian deserves a visit with his worst nightmare."

She learned two things from Juliet: that the witch despised Birdwhistle as much as Hermione did, and that a boggart had lived in a locked fifth-floor classroom for the past thirty years. Apparently not even the professors knew the defense spell to get rid of it or bothered to look it up.

How ridiculous , Hermione thought, smirking as she approached the padlocked door. She stuck the key Juliet had gladly given her in the keyhole and squeezed inside, careful to shut the door behind her.

The shadowed classroom was coated in dust. Hermione coughed as she scanned the room. With one hand clutching her wand, and the other holding a wooden toolbox Juliet had given her, Hermione slowly spun around the room, searching, wondering…

A sudden scuffling sound had Hermione spinning around. Her eyes narrowed on the heavy drapes cascading over a window. They stirred. Her heartbeat raced. She wasn't terrified of what the boggart would be, but she did feel uneasy with the uncertainty. Merlin knew it wouldn't take the form of Professor McGonagall handing her a failing grade anymore. Her child fears had disappeared long ago.

"Hello little boggart," Hermione said softly. Moving slowly, she set the toolbox down on the floor. "Are you ready to come out?" The curtains shivered, then grew still. Maybe the boggart was just as afraid of them as they were of it. Hermione rolled back her shoulders and adjusted the grip on her wand. A floorboard creaked underfoot. " Flipendo ," she whispered, and the curtains flew back in a rush of dust. Hermione coughed and waved a hand in front of her face, clearing her vision. Then she froze.

No.

God, no, it wasn't possible.

It wasn't fucking possible .

A teenage version of herself writhed on the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange straddled her, carving into her arm with a bloody blade. And behind them stood Lucius. Arms crossed. Watching with a smirk on his face. Watching her with pleasure .

Her wails filled the classroom.

Hermione gasped and stumbled back, ankle catching on the toolbox. She shrieked, falling, landing hard on one hip. Her wand skidded away. She wanted to run—wanted to hide. But her eyes stayed transfixed on the scene. Not on herself, not on the madwoman carving into her flesh, not on the blood pooling sticky on the floor, but on Lucius. How could he just watch? Why wasn't he saving her? Didn't he care for her? Didn't he want to protect her?

"Filthy little mudblood!" Bellatrix cried, her face twisting into a vicious grin. "Now the whole world knows what you are!"

"That they do," Lucius drawled, stepping forward to loom over the sobbing young Hermione. "Nothing but filth." His head lifted. His eyes met Hermione's. They were cold. Grey. Lifeless.

Hermione sucked in a breath. Those weren't Lucius's eyes. Those didn't belong to the man she knew. Her Lucius was warm. Her Lucius was filled with life. Her Lucius hadn't watched Bellatrix carve into her arm with nothing but cold contempt. She remembered that much. He had watched with terror in his eyes. With helplessness. With regret.

Scrambling backwards on her hands, Hermione grabbed her wand just as Bellatrix started again with the knife. As her teenage self let out an ear-splitting scream, Hermione brandished her wand, focused on the first image that popped up in her mind, and cried, " Riddikulus !"

In an instant, all three of the figures were dressed like Spice Girls. Lucius as Posh Spice, a skin-tight lace dress hugging his figure and platinum hair swinging around his rouged cheeks in an angular bob. Bellatrix as Scary Spice, showing off her claws and rubbing her leopard print jumpsuit. Hermione in a baby pink mini dress with pin-straight pigtails protruding from her head.

She was too stunned to react.

"If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends," Lucius sang, sashaying to the front and swaying his hips.

"Make it last forever, friendship never ends!" Bellatrix jumped in, throwing her arms around the two of them.

Teenage Hermione threw up an invisible microphone. "If you wanna be my lover, you have got to give. Taking is too easy, but that's the way it is!"

Weak laughter cracked out of her. Hermione flicked her wand at the boggart, and it streaked into the open toolbox. With a clang of the metal clasp, the lid slammed shut. Hermione turned and stared down at it, speechless.

The library was nearly empty when Hermione arrived. A few students milled towards the back shelves. A group sat huddled at a table. Good , Hermione thought as she strode briskly towards the librarian's desk. Just enough students to bear witness, but not too many as to confuse the boggart.

Hermione set the shut toolbox down on the empty table nearest to the librarian's station and directly in line with Birdwhistle's chair, then approached. Birdwhistle had his head bent over a book as she stepped up, cleared her throat, and said primly, "Professor?"

He slowly lifted his head. Recognition soured in his bugged-out eyes. "Lady Malfoy, do you have the note?" Birdwhistle sneered.

"Oh yes, I do." She dug into her pocket and pulled out the folded parchment.

Birdwhistle snatched it from her hand. His brow furrowed as he read. "You signed this yourself."

"Quite right. I am Professor Malfoy."

The librarian crumpled the note in his fist. His face grew red. "I said signed by your husband !" he hissed. Spit flew from his lips. His Adam's apple strained against the collar of his robes.

Behind her back, Hermione aimed her wand where the toolbox had been set down. "Oh, is that what you meant!" She pressed the back of her hand into her forehead and let out a heavy sigh. "Here I am misremembering. How silly! I thought you said it needed to be signed by Professor Malfoy."

Alohamora , she thought. The clasped opened with a soft metallic clink .

Birdwhistle rose to his feet and slammed his hands into the desk. "Do you think yourself amusing, Lady Malfoy? Wasting a wizard's time? At Hogwarts , where I worked for ten years , witches are taught to respect their betters !" He froze. As soon as his words stopped, she heard it too.

The buzzing.

Birdwhistle's face rotated slowly towards his left. Hermione stifled a laugh with her hand. Hovering just a meter away was a swarm of bees. Hundreds of bees vibrating in unison and pointed straight at the sickly green librarian.

"W-what is—" he stammered, trying to back away. But as he knocked into a shelf, the swarm dove forward. The buzzing intensified. The bees were angry . " Depulso !" he cried, wand trembling in front of him. But the bees just moved closer, a great swarm dipping and diving in unison. " Depulso ! Evanesco ! Evanesco !" Tears streaked down Birdwhistle's face as he slid to the floor, cowering under his arms. The swarm swooped down, flying sporadically around his balled up body. "Do something! Stop them!"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Me? Why ever would you ask me to do that? By your standards, I'm hardly a professor."

"I-I didn't mean it like that!" Birdwhistle choked out. His glistening eyes peeked out through his folded arms at her. "Please, do something! Get rid of them!"

"I suppose I can think of a spell," she said, rising her voice over the torrential hum of the bees. "But you'll have to do two things for me."

"Yes, yes, anything!" He let out a strained wail and tucked further into himself, rocking back and forth on his heels.

A twinge of pity shot through her. She almost wanted to end the spell early. Almost. "First, my name is Professor Malfoy to you. Say it." Buzzing silence answered her. "I didn't hear you. I suppose I'll just…"

"No, wait!" Birdwhistle threw up a hand as she was beginning to turn. He immediately snatched it back as the bees swarmed it. "Professor…Professor Malfoy," he cried.

"Very good. Now promise me you'll give me access to the restricted section. Without a note."

"I will! I will! I promise! Merlin, just DO SOMETHING!"

Hermione snorted. Of course he had more issue with calling her Professor Malfoy than with the actual request. She aimed her wand at the swarm and said coolly, "Riddikulus ."

The bees burst into rainbow confetti. Hermione giggled as the paper floated down over Birdwhistle. With another wave of her wand, the confetti zipped into the toolbox, then the lock clicked shut.

Hermione turned to face the rest of the library. Every single student was staring at her with an expression of pure shock. She gave them a smile, snatched the crumpled note off the desk, then stepped up to the whimpering Birdwhistle still cowering on the floor. "I'll come up after supper for my first visit in the restricted section," she said quietly, before dropping into a crouch. Hermione set a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "Do try to collect yourself before then, Professor. You're disturbing the children."