#tybt

Chapter Twenty Two- Year IV- Greater Good

"Where is Vici? Dark! Dark!"

"You're fine," Hermione grumbled. She opened her eyes and for a moment saw nothing at all. "Can you see, Vici?" she asked.

"Who is you? Where is Mistress? Mistress, Vici is sorry, Vici is bad elf, please take Vici out of dark!"

Hermione sighed. The house elf's outline was gradually forming in the darkness. But how could that be? There was no light source whatsoever, as far as Hermione could tell. Her wand arm itched to raise and cast some diagnostic spells, but that would hardly help. She couldn't even cast a Lumos. "Vici, come here," she said, cutting off the elf's hysterical squeaks.

Vici obeyed, shutting up immediately, and Hermione watched with sharp eyes how her feet didn't press upon a floor of any kind. When Hermione concentrated, she noticed that the space around her was neither solid nor gaseous, but almost as a liquid. Yet, her movement wasn't hindered in the least.

"Are we even occupying space?" she muttered to herself. "Just where are we?" The answer came almost as soon as she voiced the question: they were in the Nothing, the place between destinations, the place where Vanished objects go.

"Who is you? We must be leaving this place," Vici squeaked, real terror in her voice.

"Soon," said Hermione. Couldn't Vici see what an opportunity this was? There were no, absolutely no records of anyone being in this place. She was sure there would be negative effects were they to remain too long, but a few minutes would hardly hurt. "I am Hermione, and I am your Mistress. Don't you remember?"

She stood- had she been sitting in the first place? Was it perhaps just a matter of perspective? Hermione grasped Vici's tiny hand and focused on the comparatively simple act of moving. Just putting one foot in front of the other didn't seem to be enough, but there was no landmark to use as a focal point.

No gravity, no light, no objects- and so she and Vici were the Something which contrasted the Nothing.

Sooner than Hermione had hoped, she felt the pressure of thought begin to lift away. It was time. "Take us home," she said, and Vici obeyed with stupid eyes.

The noise, the vision, the Presence of Something was both painful and comforting. Yet again it took them a few moments to adjust to their surroundings.

"Who have you brought us, Vici?" cried Rhea, alarmed and calm in the same breath.

That was right. Hermione had a job to do.

She swept into a curtsy, directions surfacing like blisters from a burn through the haze of a swelling migraine. "You look tired, Lady Selwyn," she said, trying not to slur. "Do you jest?"

Rhea stopped short and, in her confusion, allowed Hermione to take her hand. The power Hermione sent through her foster mother was overkill, more than likely, and she had to clench her fist to keep Rhea from jerking away.

It was much, much easier to nudge the appropriate memories into place now that she knew the structure of Rhea's mind. After that initial struggle, Rhea kept still and allowed Hermione to work on her brain.

"What is Miss Hermi... Herman... Hermy doing?"

There was the other problem: Vici didn't remember her. How terrifying it must have been, to be pulled into the Nothing without warning! "Transfer the bond," Hermione said, addressing Rhea. Rhea, still glassy-eyed, raised her wand and spoke the words.

"As I said before, I am Hermione Selwyn. I am your Mistress. You are my companion- now give me your hand."

Vici, now having no choice, obeyed. It took a minute more to transform her into the Vici of the previous timeline. The moral implications never even occurred to her.

Now she just had to find Morfan, and her family would be just the way she wanted it.

*|II8II|*

She didn't leave Selwyn Estate until well into July, and even then only when Vici could accompany her. Her consciousness grew swollen with idle power. Was this how Tom Riddle had felt? Had he grown weary of having no external conflict, of being universally adored? Perhaps he saw it as his due. Perhaps he'd been angry and confused when the rare person saw through his tricks- Albus, for instance.

Hermione was beginning to become uneasy. Men forged in fire did not welcome the tranquility of a still lake. Men borne of battle knew not how to handle peace.

Not that it was peace, exactly. It was avoidance. She knew that, knew that it wasn't healthy, but still she isolated herself.

On July 31st, Hermione decided that enough was enough. She saw Harry everywhere: in the chair opposite hers in the library, next to her on her bed, on his broom in the sky outside. How different she was! Would he even recognize her anymore? She had the same hair, same face, but her mind was no longer the same. Her morals were trashed and twisted. She wasn't golden anymore.

It hurt. She screamed into the baby-gradient walls, tore apart her room with her bare hands and feet, and still it hurt.

"Vici!" she cried, staring at her ruined bedroom.

"Hermy, what has you done?" Vici tsked, and with a wave of her thin little arm everything was as it was.

"Take me to Hogsmeade." Hermione tore a hand through her hair, ignoring the pain as it caught on the knots and tugged at her scalp. "Now."

Even Vici's light touch made her skin crawl, and she pulled away as soon as they touched down in front of the Hog's Head. How Vici knew, Hermione couldn't say, but it was the right choice. Aberforth was her last connection to the future, to the good fight, to her old self.

Still, her feet were as if staked to the ground. For several long seconds, Hermione could not move. Her emotions rose and rose until her vision went black and her breathing stopped, and then as if a drain opened it swirled down into the depths of her again, and she could move.

The Hog's Head was a time capsule. It never changed. Even the patrons, wizards she'd come to know her first year in the past, were the same. Feeling as though she dragged her constraints behind her, Hermione found a booth and sat. "Wine," she said to the scuffed oaken tabletop. "Quality doesn't matter."

Out of the corner of her eye she tracked Vici, the diminutive being reaching up to the counter to collect her bottle with one hand and dropping a few coins with the other.

Not for the first time, Hermione missed her magic with a desperation which ached. Her skin was coated in crumbling concrete, and it was a chore to move. Vici, knowing somehow what she wanted, pulled the cork from the bottle.

Harry... Harry would understand. He would, wouldn't he? She wasn't sure. She remembered his irrational obstinance in the face of Ginny's death, remembered how oblivious he was to Draco's choice to follow him to hell, remembered how stubbornly he clung to the Light. Remembered his fury as they knelt before Ron's makeshift headstone. Remembered how cold it got, how tired they both were, how food was scarce. Remembered the shock in his eyes as the Avada Kedavra hit him. Remembered his belief that everything would work out, that despite everything they would come out victorious. They were the heroes, after all.

She was the last of them. They'd passed the torch on to her, and she'd let it go out. No one could call her a hero anymore. When she saw him again, would he forgive her for losing herself? Even if she ended up failing?

There was only one way he would forgive her, Hermione decided. If she killed Voldemort, if she saved everyone, he wouldn't mind that she'd become tainted. He would welcome her into death as his friend once again. She knew it, she knew it, she knew it.

The wine was gone. Hermione stared into the thick, green glass, feeling an ancient determination mingle with the warmth in her belly. She aches, and for a moment she is acutely aware of the setting sun. It was time to stop filling her well with sludge. It was time to feel again.

Hermione scowled at the tabletop. "Let's go, Vici."

"But we just got here," Vici said. "Vici doesn't understand. Does you not like your drink?"

"The drink was fine," said Hermione. "But it's time to go."

"Where does you want to go?"

"The Ring."

"The ring, Miss?"

"Give me your hand," Hermione grumbled. She'd forgotten to plant the memories of the Horcruxes and their locations when she was reformatting Vici's mind.

The deed done, Vici blinked her tennis ball eyes and took Hermione by the elbow. They were gone a moment later.

*|II8II|*

"Hermione, honey, please be careful," Rhea said, looking very much as though she wanted to hug her foster daughter but knowing better. "I trust you'll make us proud."

"Of course," Hermione said. "With luck, I'll be accepting an offer by graduation." It was a harmless promise, since she knew full well that she wouldn't make it to graduation. Rhea wouldn't care about her grades, anyway.

"I know you've made up a list, but we would appreciate it if you'd send us another based on your personal impressions."

"As you wish," Hermione said, looking behind her at the nearly-empty platform. They were early, at Hermione's request. "I need to go stake a claim before too many people get here. I'll see you in a few months. Take care."

"Take care," Morfan grumbled.

"Take care!" said Rhea.

Hermione pressed her lips together in what passed for a smile and stepped around them to the train entrance. She hauled herself up and inside. She saw not a single other soul but nevertheless passed the first few compartments before choosing one in the middle of the train.

She stretched across the length of a whole seat, one arm dangling off the edge and the other tucked under her cheek. There was no change for some time as she hovered between consciousness and sleep, unseeing eyes trained on the door.

After at least an hour, the door slid open so forcefully that it recoiled from the wall. The glass shuddered, and so did Hermione, who came to alertness with a rapidity that left her panicked for a second or two. "Oh," squeaked a tiny Gwendolyn Morgan. "I'm sorry! I'll find another seat." The future Quidditch player spun and nearly ran, slamming the door behind her with a force that Hermione believed was simply uncontrolled.

From then on it was impossible to relax into the same trance-like state as before, because even when the door didn't open, the footsteps outside echoed like small armies. Hermione shivered in her seat and waited with wide eyes for the train to move.

Soon, the compartments were so full that students stopped passing her by and instead insisted on filling in the seats around her. Hermione jealously guarded her bench, and no one was so eager to have it that they challenged her for it.

At last, the whistle sounded and the ground shook, and they were off.

The hum of conversation vibrated in her head, and Hermione leaned back with a heavy sigh. No sooner had she begun to adjust to the noise level when the compartment door slid open again.

"Edgar Bones, I know it was you!" A stocky, red-headed seventh year girl shrieked. She was flanked on either side by a young Rolanda Hooch and another girl whom Hermione was fairly confident would become Amos Diggory's wife. Diana Fawcett, if she wasn't mistaken.

Edgar Bones, far from being intimidated by his assailant, was shouting with laughter. Aidan Lynch and Benji Fenwick were just as amused.

Hermione squinted at the redheaded seventh year—Amelia, her memory told her. Amelia Bones. Edgar Bones's older sister. Now that she was paying closer attention, she noticed that her shoes weren't shoes at all, but waggling fish tails.

"You tell me the countercurse right now!" Amelia Bones demanded, seeming almost on the verge of tears.

"Not a chance," Edgar Bones snickered.

"It's Finite Piscores," Hermione said. "Same wand motion as Finite Incantatem."

The three seventh years looked to her, surprise and suspicion on their faces. "Thanks," said Amelia cautiously.

"Uh-huh." said Hermione. "But would you mind doing that somewhere else?"

They muttered their assent and closed the much-abused door far more gently behind them.

"You didn't have to do that," Aidan Lynch whined, Irish accent so strong as to render his tone comical.

"Just imagine her having to go to the Welcoming Feast like that!" said Benji Fenwick.

"It would've been better if they'd needed help undoing the whole thing, though," Edgar sighed.

Hermione shook her head. She wouldn't ask.

The boys chattered their disappointment for several more minutes, having evidently forgotten their displeasure with Hermione's interference.

She looked out the window, trying to catch individual trees as they blurred past the glass, and the voices dulled into white noise.

Hours passed like that, with Hermione and the two third-years quietly entertaining themselves and the three fifth-year boys getting louder and louder as teenage boys tended to do when left unchecked.

It was almost pleasant.

Before long, those who hadn't already changed stuffed themselves into their robes. Half an hour later, they pulled into Hogsmeade Station.

The short walk to the carriages was just as uneventful as the longer ride to Hogwarts, and soon they all piled into the Great Hall.

Hermione could taste the excitement in the air. It was hard not to love Hogwarts, even if only because those under seventeen could only perform magic on her grounds.

They didn't have to wait much longer before the first years filed in in neat columns, chattering their nerves like birds. The list was read, and, unlike the year before, Hermione's name was nestled in between Pontner, Roddy and Smethley, Veronica. She stood, wondering whether they'd assumed she would go with the first years for a boat ride and feeling a perverse satisfaction that she'd disrupted their plans. Eyes lined her walk up to the dias, and when she put the Hat on her head she felt them all the more strongly.

"How many times will I have to do this?" Hermione sighed.

"As many times as necessary," the Hat supplied unhelpfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Do your worst," she said.

There was silence for a second, and then the Hat said, "When you were in the Nothing, what was your motivation for staying there?"

"You already know," Hermione grumbled. "Pursuit of knowledge."

"Ravenclaw would suit you," the Hat said, sounding disappointed.

"Then put me there."

"About that... Well, you have some mighty ambition in that brain of yours. And you are a Pureblood now. You wouldn't go amiss in Slytherin."

"Are you kidding? I would be destroyed in an instant. Ravenclaws leave well enough alone, and I can do what I need to do. Not so in Slytherin. They're far too involved in one another's business, and I have no confidence whatsoever that I won't end up ruining this timeline because I can't keep my Housemates in check."

"If you say so. RAVENCLAW."

Hermione pulled the hat off and returned to her seat at Ravenclaw table. At least she was more lucid this time around, and she met the curious, wary gazes with a level of fury which she wasn't even aware of.

No one spoke to the angry transfer student, and that was fine with her.

*|II8II|*

Hermione wasted very little time reintroducing herself to Regulus and Severus. It had become clear over the years that she needed companions, if not friends, and those two at least fulfilled the dual purpose of being useful.

She'd already wasted more than enough time, and she had none to spare. Not for the first time, she cursed her tendency to flounder in the face of the long-haul.

It was vital that she have all the Horcruxes destroyed. Without that, there was little point in doing anything else. Sure, she could leave it to the Dumbledore brothers, but it was no sure thing and even after that Voldemort would need to die. It was too easy to forget that no one had known of the Horcruxes because no one had ever gotten close enough to try killing him. Even without Horcruxes in the picture he was a formidable wizard, and certainly difficult to kill.

In order to destroy every Horcrux in enough time to also bid to destroy Tom Riddle, she would need everything in its place. That was no blind guesswork, either; she'd calculated this problem again and again, and every time the solution was the same.

The easiest was undoubtedly the Diadem, which she'd already collected on her very first night. It was safely in Vici's care. After that were those which were already in position and had been since before her arrival: the Diary, the Cup, and the Ring. That left only the Locket. Of the Horcruxes, it was undoubtedly the most elaborately guarded. That was likely because it was Slytherin's.

What were his plans, then, for the others? Entrust them to other families for a few decades, sure, but what about after the inevitable deaths of his followers? Would he really be so cocky as to think that all of their descendants would follow him? The Lestranges never procreated, true, but Lucius Malfoy's only child turned against the Dark Lord to protect Harry. If the Diary had still been in action, he would have delivered it to Harry and Hermione. That was one Horcrux which was doomed to destruction several ways over!

And Gringott's. He'd given the cup to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange as a wedding gift and they'd placed it in their vault. At least Gringott's was thought to be the safest place to store something, but it wasn't foolproof by a long shot. It just wasn't viable as a long-term plan, and certainly not considering Voldemort didn't plan on ever dying.

His first Horcrux, the Ring, was placed in the Gaunt house, further displaying his arrogance. It was under minimal protection, as well. He relied on the secrecy of the location, which was never a good long-term plan, ever.

For someone so intelligent, he seemed to have put very little thought into the protection of pieces of his soul.

It gave Hermione the jitters. She wouldn't discount the possibility of an ace up his sleeve. She would be stupid to take his carelessness for granted.

If all of the Horcruxes were in place except for one, then she needed to get that one in place. The Locket would be hanging about his neck until the Cave was ready, and she'd have no chance of retrieving it there. How could she speed up the series of events which led to its successful placement?

The potion would have to be brewed, the Inferi created, the blood wards activated. It wasn't the work of a day, or even a week. The potion alone would take a moon cycle to brew, and that was after cutting a few corners. Would he do that himself, or trust someone else with it? She couldn't quite picture Tom Riddle cutting time out of his day to slave over a potion, for it required almost constant supervision. Someone else, then. The reason Severus had been such a prize before he'd ever turned spy was that he was a Master Potioneer.

That was her way in, then, for Severus wouldn't become a Death Eater until after graduation, though he'd been sponsored by Lucius Malfoy by Christmas his sixth year. He wouldn't be immediately saddled with the job, so it would be months before the potion would be brewed and ready.

She would have to find a way to brew it herself, or to get someone to brew it for her. Once that was done, she would have to get it to Voldemort in a way he wouldn't be suspicious of. She needed to know what he was thinking, what he was doing. She needed an in. A spy.

But who would have both the clout to know these things and the conscience to defect? Anyone who attended Hogwarts would still be proving themselves and unlikely to hear anything truly important. She needed someone who was already influential.

Perhaps she was going about it the wrong way. With her magical core still wildly unstable, she couldn't possibly join the Death Eaters herself, nor would she have the time to rise up in the ranks. However, just because she couldn't join didn't mean she couldn't pretend to be sympathetic to the cause, as so many Pureblooded wives and daughters were doing. She was the direct family member of Gwion Selwyn, and in fact her rank within the family surpassed his own, for she was of the patriarchal line and he was not. How could she have overlooked her own influence? It would be the work of an afternoon to find out what she could about him, and then to begin a correspondence.

Her smile had grown too large, and Severus looked up from his book to watch her with unease so clear on his harsh features. "All is well," she assured him. Then she lowered her voice, looked him directly in the eye, and said, "I have a favour to ask of you."

"What is it?" He was unable to look away, not with their minds connected as they were. Hermione spread over his relatively flimsy mental barriers, spreading in a thin layer over the entirety of his walls, surrounding his mind. Once she was hooked in place, it took only a moment to contract, thus pulling his defences out of place. She slipped in through the crack with ease.

"There's a potion I want you to make for me," she said, nudging his mind. "Please?" That word, used with a certain inflection, was programmed to trigger automatic acquiescence, but only when coming from her. She solidified the command, and was pleased to see him nod.

"If that's what you want," Severus grumbled. "What potion?"

Hermione smiled but didn't let his mind go. "The Drink of Despair," she said. "I will give you the recipe. You may make alterations to the preparation so long as the end result is the same. I trust in your abilities."

To Hermione's pleasure, his resolve didn't even twitch. "I'll be expected to fetch ingredients?" he asked.

"No," she said, tilting her head. "I don't suppose that would be fair. I will provide everything you'll need." Sometimes she forgot that Severus was, essentially, a nearly-destitute Halfblood. Some of the ingredients were both rare and outrageously expensive. Hermione wasn't used to having the means to collect such things, herself, but she supposed there were multiple advantages to having attached herself to a Pureblood family of good standing.

She would still have to be careful that she not involve herself too obviously by leaving a gold or paper trail. That meant she would have to use someone unconnected to herself to do the actual purchases. Complicated, perhaps, but certainly doable.

Satisfied that Severus wouldn't argue with her, she slid from his mind. He blinked, and a certain spark reappeared in his eyes. Hermione had to resist the urge to pout. She hoped to someday get to the point with her Hybrid Legilimency skills that her subjects would display no difference at all. Perhaps then it would feel like she'd never meddled at all, leaving no recognizable trail.

"Get me the recipe soon," Severus said, his voice no sharper than before. "When do you need it?"

"As soon as it's viable," Hermione replied. She wished she could design a potion which would be indistinguishable but with less devastating effects, for she knew she would have to imbibe the potion herself, but she didn't need an Arithmancy projection to figure out that Voldemort would thoroughly test any potion he didn't make himself. It must be exactly what he needs, or he would not risk using it.

This answer didn't seem to comfort Severus, but he nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll have the recipe by tomorrow," Hermione said. When she met his eyes again, any cursory test of her Occlumency would have shown nothing but an impenetrable wall of mirrors, and from Severus's expression, he didn't like what he saw.

Chapter Twenty One- Year III- Moral Decline

Almost from the start, Hermione had made peace with the certainty that this year wouldn't be her last. Searching for Horcruxes, therefore, would be a waste of both time and energy.

Still, she felt guilty. This timeline would be hardly enriched by her presence, even if she was pushing some of the Slytherins towards a Lighter path. If she wasn't going to go all out and try to defeat Voldemort, then she had to admit to herself the truth of what she was doing: experimenting. Seeing exactly how much certain players affected the future. Tossing them in the direction of the correct choice but not warning them of the dangers, nor giving them anything with which to protect themselves.

How long could she go on telling herself that she was the hero of this story?

"I wonder what it is that makes an action 'good'," Hermione said, pushing Severus's book closed. She would not be ignored.

Severus glared at her hand and then up at her face. "There's no rigid answer," he said.

Hermione huffed, glaring back without Severus's genuine irritation. "Of course not. I'm not daft, you know. But there must be some kind of loose definition, or else no one could have morals at all."

"An action that prevents harm from coming to someone else is a 'good' action," Severus said when it became clear that Hermione wasn't going to let it go.

"I thought so at first, too, but what if that action causes harm to someone else? What then?"

"Why are you treating me as the authority on morality?" Severus grumbled.

She giggled. "Well, I'm certainly not one! That's why I'm asking."

"I don't know," said Severus. "Is that what you want to hear? Questions of good and evil can be and have been argued since we knew of the concept. No answer is completely satisfying, for often there is no completely good choice."

"That does make me feel better," said Hermione. "I suppose that works."

Having convinced herself that her actions were excusable, Hermione moved on.

The next step was to wait. She dropped hints to the others, took down the Notice-Me-Not, and practiced her Hybrid Legilimency. It didn't take long for some of the Slytherins to seek her out.

She felt powerful, and she wasn't sure exactly how comfortable she was with that.

As much as she could be at that point in time, she was happy. Her every waking moment was occupied by numerology and equations, gathering data and learning how to organize it into something executable. The diagram was really beginning to take shape.

Content. She was content. She only had to work on the project and theorize, and everything would be fine.

Christmas Vacation came, and Hermione had Vici take her back to Selwyn Estate. At Hermione's request, Morfan spilled every little piece of information he'd learned over the past few months. Rhea stayed out of her way unless it was at meals. For her part, she spent her time studying, even though the end of the two weeks showed little marked progress.

Hermione didn't take the Express back to Hogwarts, either.

By the end of March, she found the bulk of the work complete. The diagram included every person and event that she could recall related even peripherally to Voldemort's rise and fall.

Her next move was to perform another spell, a much riskier spell. The paths at that time only responded to the equations, but Hermione couldn't possibly know every action every person performed.

The spell- more like a ritual than a spell, really- involved good old-fashioned DNA. Easy enough to get from a large majority of the people on her diagram, but some would be far more difficult to retrieve. Voldemort's, for example.

She would plan for that later. For now, she would do what she could. The next few weeks were spent collecting DNA samples: hairs from Severus and Regulus plucked directly from their scalps as they glowered at her, hairs from the brushes of Lily and the Marauders, saliva samples from many of the Slytherins and staff members, and a surreptitious fur-stealing from Minerva. Albus was the only one to present a problem.

Albus, naturally, was careful about where he left traces of himself. The more Hermione observed him, the more she realized that his long beard and hair were taunts. Once removed from his body, everything lost all scientific evidence of ever having belonged to him.

As tempting as it was, asking him just wouldn't be acceptable. An entirely separate Arithmancy calculation proved that he would only become suspicious and investigate, and there was little chance that he would allow it, anyway.

Fine, she would figure that out later. She would move on.

Political figures also proved difficult, though not impossible. Hermione asked Vici for help often, as the wards on the Ministry didn't do anything to hinder her. Merlin, that loophole was wide open. Did no one realize how useful house elves were?

With the Notice-Me-Not conspicuously absent, Albus watched her. He knew she was up to something, clearly.

It didn't matter. Obviously it didn't. Hermione wasn't technically doing anything against the rules. Albus would just have to sit his paranoid arse down and wait for her to leave.

Along with May came finals, and Hermione couldn't help being upset. She couldn't really explain it to herself. This had already happened the exact same way before, and she hadn't been sad then.

Severus and Regulus, and especially Regulus, didn't have time to humour her. Hermione offered to help Regulus study, but he declined. Hermione shouldn't have been offended, but she definitely was.

The two people she could even begin to consider her friends were too busy for her, and Hermione didn't have the patience to sulk or find other company. She wished that she had a need to study, herself, but Hermione was thoroughly tired of pretending to find new information from her textbooks.

Instead of puttering around the castle being useless, Hermione took herself to the grounds and paced back and forth. She could pretend that she was doing something else, something more productive, but she was pacing. When she'd acquainted herself with every corner of the fields, Hermione began venturing into the Forbidden Forest.

In hindsight, it was a mistake to be so predictable- to make an effort to present herself as someone with valuable knowledge and then remove herself from protection entirely. It was stupid, plain and simple.

"What are you thinking, Selwyn?" said Travers. Hermione whirled around, reaching for her wand. She nearly tripped on a root, and in her momentary physical disequilibrium she was easy to disarm. "Expelliarmus," he said, lazily, and her wand flew into his outstretched hand.

"I'm thinking that it's awfully rude to disarm someone if you're only planning to have a civil conversation," Hermione hissed. A chill dragged over her skin, puckering as it went. The sun was just beginning to set, but it would be a few hours yet until curfew. During those few hours no one would think to look for either one of them.

"And so it follows that..." Travers prompted. He was smirking, and it wasn't the attractive expression one could have found on one of the Black brothers. The curl of his mouth was both cruel and thoughtless, and it did no favors to the dark hair shorn within an inch of his scalp or the muddy, expressionless eyes. His nose reminded her of Severus's in its length and width, and unlike Severus, it fit his face. He reminded her of a golem, some monster created of clay and wishes to rend without art or thought. If she concentrated perhaps she would be able to make out the fingerprints of his maker.

"You're an arse, and you think I'm daft," Hermione said. "And you don't mean well. If you don't mean to hurt me in some way, you would have returned my wand."

How could she present herself? The truth was unacceptable, obviously, and she could only guess whether his intentions were general or specific. Did he want to know the answers to the exams, or the outcome of the brewing war? Whether he would have a healthy child, or whether wizards would rule over the unworthy Muggles?

"Like you could use it anyway," he scoffed, tossing his head as if his hair were in his face. "You'd just blow yourself up, and then you wouldn't be useful to anyone."

"Point taken," said Hermione. She'd allowed people to believe that her magic was unstable, not missing. Not an ideal, but one that would explain the answers to questions she couldn't admit the truth of. "But no less rude."

Travers shrugged, his wand not quite leveled at her but not at ease either. "Well, while we're both here, why don't you answer a few of my questions?"

Hermione frowned. Of course, that would be his objective. She was useless except for her knowledge. "If I like your questions, then fine," she said.

"Sit," Travers said, waving his wand and Transfiguring her a chair. It wasn't the effortless gesture he wanted her to think it was; she could see the strain on his face from the nonverbal casting. "We might be here for a while. Oh, and Muffliato."

"One of Snape's spells?" Hermione sneered. "He'd be so flattered." His mouth twitched, and Hermione was conscious that he was becoming irritated. Good; she was irritated too.

"Sit," he said again, and Hermione obeyed rather than make him force her, which would escalate the situation. She didn't like pain, and she wasn't looking forward to its inevitability. "What is your business at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"My guardians are encouraging me to find a suitable spouse." The truth. It would be easiest to stick to the truth.

"Nothing else?" His brow was beginning to contract in an expression which could only be disdain.

Hermione forced a chuckle. "Not really, no. I'm hardly here for a magical education, obviously."

"What project do you work on between classes?"

Did she need any more evidence of her gross negligence? "I have an Arithmancy project." Things were already getting too close to the full truth. But then, how else could she explain away her appearance of being a Seer? How had that seemed like a good idea for so long?

"And its object?"

"I've already told you," Hermione said. Her hands were beginning to shake.

"To find a spouse?"

"Yes."

"How shallow," Travis said, smiling.

"You would think so, I suppose," Hermione said, willfully ignoring his sarcasm.

"What is your purpose in seeking the company of Snape and Black?"

Hermione had anticipated this question, at least, and she had a ready answer. "Snape is entertaining and has accurate observations, and I'm considering Black." Even the thought of marrying Regulus made her want to dig her own grave and lie in it, but she resisted the urge in favor of looking convincing.

"What did you say to them that got them to begin speaking nonsense in the Common Room?"

"As I don't know what they're saying, I cannot answer that." Lie number two.

"About you being a Seer."

Her whole body was tensing up. "Oh, that. Just a few conclusions I came to from running calculations." In direct defiance to her body's nervous reaction, her voice was calm and even a bit condescending.

"What conclusions?"

This was the crossroads. She could lie, or say- "Following the Dark Lord will lead them and their families to premature deaths. The Blacks will apparently become extinct after this generation, for example."

"What other families?" His face was closing off, pinching.

"The Princes, the Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the McKinnons, and so on." She didn't dare say the Traverses but perhaps he saw it in how she avoided his eye.

"Why do you say that?" A deep breath. She could see it. He was losing his composure.

It was beyond avoiding, now. He was getting angry already. How did he get off trying to intimidate her? She's Hermione bloody Selwyn. She'd survived Azkaban, she'd survived Voldemort, she'd survived Bellatrix, she'd survived Dolohov. What could this rat-mustached teenage boy do to her that hadn't already been done? Besides, if he wasn't prepared to hear the answers then why would he seek them out? Stupid boy. "You really don't know? It's so easy to figure out," she said, feigning innocent confusion and swallowing instead of spitting at his feet.

"Enlighten me." Oh, look, he's actually twitching. Was it really that easy to rile him up?

"The Dark Lord doesn't actually care about blood purity. It's just the handy springboard for his ascension to power. He's nothing but a corrupt politician- or a cult leader. He doesn't even believe what he preaches."

His breaking point was approaching. "How dare you."

"You asked, mate," Hermione said, borrowing the facetious tone from Sirius.

"You filthy blood traitor." He'd forgotten about his wand- it lay neglected by his side.

"Hardly. How is pointing out the obvious a betrayal to my blood?" Even if he wasn't thinking of his wand right then, his fist was clenched and ready to fly- he was still dangerous. She couldn't afford to get cocky, or she would have her head bashed in. But then she would have something to pin on him, and she could destroy him.

His open palm swung, and Hermione was too slow to avoid it. Her head and torso turned to the side, the left side of her face heated and stung. Her heart was staccato, allegro, adagio. She hadn't believed he would really strike her.

"Do you feel better now, Mr Travers?" she asked, and she was calm. Genuinely calm. "It can be difficult to challenge your worldview. Happens to the best of us."

This time it was his fist, but Hermione was prepared for it. She ducked just enough that the blow glanced off her cheek.

"I wonder what it is about physical violence that convinces one that it will help. You don't feel better at all, do you? Hitting things won't stop you from wondering if I'm right."

"Shut up," Travers hissed, teeth bared and face red. "I could kill you! Don't you understand, you crazy bitch?"

"Why would you do that?" Hermione said. "The cons far outweigh the pros. Even if I am a blood traitor like you claim, I'm not some Mudblood no one would miss. All of Britain knows who I am. My absence would be immediately noticed. Besides that, you cornered me here because of the things you think I know. Already, that was a pretty stupid decision. Do you even know how to use an Obliviate, Travers? How will you cover your tracks?"

By now, Travers's face was so red she thought he might burst. Both of his fists were clenched- both! He'd dropped his wand when he slapped her! So even as Travers grabbed her by her hair and punched her square in the nose, Hermione could smile. He didn't know it, but he'd already lost.

"What does pain mean to me?" she asked him aloud, her words necessarily slurred. Blood ran into her open mouth, coating her tongue with a wash of warm pitch copper. "What is your aim? You know it won't help you."

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP OR BY MERLIN I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Aww," said Hermione. "How cute." Her arms, which he hadn't trapped since since she hadn't struggled at all, came up and she dug her thumbs deep into his bulging eyes.

He let go of her immediately to clutch at his face, falling to his knees. Hermione stood, stepped around him, and picked up his wand. It was a pretty little thing, well-maintained. She considered it for a moment before snapping it over her knee.

She should help him. He had no wand, no sight, no companion- it was pretty likely he would die out there if no one brought him back.

She could have helped him. She chose not to.

It took five days for anyone to notice that he was missing. He'd been studying for his NEWTs, and he constantly complained that classes were useless, so for a while everyone assumed he was holed up somewhere. But when no one even saw him by Wednesday, the professors got worried. Albus ran a scan for his magical signature, and when it came up negative Slughorn organized a search.

Hagrid was the one to find him. What was left of him, anyway. By then he was hardly more than bones. That's what Hermione heard, anyway, and she couldn't know just how exaggerated the claim was.

Hermione didn't feel guilty. She should have, but she didn't. A good deed was one that prevented harm from coming to others, right? Perhaps Marlene McKinnon and her family would agree that she'd done the world a favour.

To her delight, no one suspected that she'd had anything to do with it, and she passed her exams again unmolested.

The days before their scheduled return to their homes for the summer were pleasant. (Few actually mourned Travers, and it was decided that he'd just wandered out too far into the Forbidden Forest and gotten lost. It was the Forbidden Forest for a reason, after all.) Even the Ravenclaws came out of hiding and basked in the sun, enjoying this brief respite from responsibility.

Sometimes Hermione forgot that they were just kids. She'd known them as adults, as warriors, as fallen heroes, as traitors. It was hard to keep those images apart. Severus, especially, often bled into her old Professor.

As peaceful as those weeks were, Hermione only felt uneasy. The end was nearing.

She started keeping her Arithmancy notes with her at all times. That year's effort was the most precious thing she possessed, and she wouldn't be able to handle it if she had to leave it behind.

June dawned as chilly and bright as ever, and Hermione spent it writing letters. She would take care of this timeline as much as she could.

The first letter was to Albus, detailing every Horcrux and its location, as well as known Death Eaters and those who could possibly be changed. Protect Lily and James Potter, she wrote, but above all protect their son.

The second letter was to Aberforth, telling him much the same as she'd told Albus.

The third and fourth letters were to Severus and Regulus, and they were the hardest to write. She was placing a lot of responsibility on them both, and especially on Severus. Would it be worth it for him to someday be able to look back and say that he'd done his best? Would that be enough, or would he always look back with regret on his failures?

And Regulus. She just wanted him to live. Take care of Sirius, have children if Sirius didn't, make the right choices. Regulus... what would his life look like if he survived past eighteen? He truly had the potential to be a good man. She believed in him, because otherwise she might cry.

On June 13th, Hermione slept in. She didn't have to worry about missing the Express, or being discovered in a dorm, for the Room of Requirement hid her effectively. The sun was approaching its apex when she called Vici. Together they packed her things, and Hermione took the house elf's arm with a fond little smile. Vici Disapparated them both, and-

Chapter Twenty- Year III- Variegated Vectors

For several weeks after that informal vow, Vici accompanied her everywhere. At Hermione's request, Vici maintained her own low-level Notice-Me-Not, and the pair of them essentially did as they pleased. During classes, Hermione kept up a running commentary explaining everything and teaching Vici how to read. It was the most useful Hermione had felt in a long time.

As a happy result of Vici's magic, Hermione was never subjected to the same treatment that Luna had endured during her time at Hogwarts, even though Hermione was at this point every bit as odd as Luna had been, if not more so.

("Perhaps talking about your friends will help you get better," Vici suggested. Hermione could see the logic in that. Indeed, it no longer hurt her just to think their names.)

The Notice-Me-Not, while sparing Hermione from most of the attention of students and staff alike, was not infallible. Dumbledore, with his irritating ability to see magic, was nigh on immune, and the fact that Hermione- and Vici, now- bothered with a Notice-Me-Not at all drew his focus. Not that he approached her with any questions, not so soon, but Hermione knew beyond a doubt that he was watching her.

She could live with that, for the time being.

Vici, while a lovely companion, could only slow the spread of loneliness. She hated seeing Sirius and Lily every day, perfectly happy without her there. She wouldn't have wanted anyone else from Gryffindor or Ravenclaw to notice her, anyway, and she couldn't even look at the Hufflepuffs without wanting to cry. That left only one House: Slytherin.

Of course, she'd halfheartedly tried to become friendly with a few, select Slytherins during her first year. Regulus had made it clear that he didn't trust her, being a Gryffindor Mudblood who was friends with the brother who hated him. Hermione could understand that, but now she was none of those things. That didn't guarantee that he would accept her attempts to befriend him, but it did increase the chances.

And Severus Snape. Still hurting from losing Lily, well on his way to becoming a Death Eater. She'd given up on him before, as much as she didn't like admitting it to herself. She'd left the Severus of that timeline to his fate, having unwittingly accelerated Voldemort's rise to power. Hermione could change that. She could. She was no better than he'd ever been, much less this teenage version of him.

If she was no better than Severus, who was to say he and Regulus were the only ones worth saving? What about the low-level Death Eaters? Gods, they were all so young. Who was she to say that any of them were beyond hope?

Few of them would respond to straight kindness, and she didn't know if she was capable of giving that, anyway. Ultimately, most became Death Eaters for their own sake or their families'. Just being nice could hardly change that. What she had to do was convince them that Voldemort would lead them to the deaths of their family lines. It wouldn't be a lie. The Malfoys and the Blacks, for example, were completely extinct in her time. The Princes, naturally. The Flints, the Carrows, the Lestranges, not to mention the neutral or Light houses. Voldemort would bring the demise of the Wizarding world, purity and all.

It would be easy enough to convince them- if she could get them to believe that she was a Seer. She did have... intimate knowledge of the future. But what could she say? "Oh, Sev, you die on May 2nd, 1998, of a snake bite after one of your masters believes that since you killed your other master, the fabled Elder Wand belonged to you. He was wrong, by the way, so it was kind of pointless." Even if telling them how and when they would die would be sure to make them believe her, her goal wasn't to scar them for life.

There was little point in being subtle.

While she may not have had direct access to Regulus, she did have several classes with Severus. Ravenclaws and Slytherins were often paired in classes, just as Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were. Even though the Seelie and Unseelie courts were long disbanded in the West, inter-House tensions were passed down through blood. It was the easy answer for why Gryffindors and Slytherins especially hated one another, but not the entirely correct one.

"Severus Snape," said Hermione, turning to face the boy. His hair hung in a greasy sheet around his face, blocking her view. At the sound of his name she saw him twitch, but did not acknowledge her. She went on. "Son of Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape. Self-styled 'the Halfblood Prince'. Childhood friend of Lily Ev-"

"That's enough," said Snape, gripping his quill so hard it snapped.

"Childhood friend of Lily Evans. Particular enemy of James Potter and Sirius Black. Future follower of the Dark Lord. Future spy for Albus Dumbledore. The man responsible for the murders of James and Lily Potter."

"You're lying." He revealed his face, finally, glaring up at her.

"All I speak of is true, but it doesn't have to be."

"You're saying I can change it," Severus sneered.

"I am. The solution is easy: do not follow the Dark Lord. He leads you, your allies, and your godson to an early death." For Draco, a very early death.

He must have seen the sorrow that she hadn't quite managed to hide, and his eyebrows bunched together. The expression made him look fierce, but Hermione knew better. "How early?"

Hermione shook her head. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"No," said Severus, and that admission made her respect him just a bit more. It took maturity to think ahead and realize that he might not be strong enough to go forth to his death.

"I will say only that without the Dark Lord, you would likely live to be as old as Dumbledore."

"Are you a Seer?"

"Yes, after a fashion," Hermione said, the corner of her mouth twitching. Subtlety was, indeed, pointless.

He didn't look entirely convinced, but that was fine. He would watch her now, and listen to what she said, even if he wouldn't admit it for a while.

*|II8II|*

Even with the help of Vici's alterations to Hermione's bed, it didn't take very long before sleeping once again became impossible. Once again she padded down to the seventh floor and trapped herself within the Room of Requirement. She needed a cot, like the one she'd slept on in Azkaban. Beds were beginning to feel too comfortable, decadent, even. A cot, and a blanket, in a room only big enough to admit one person.

It would be her hiding place, even from herself. It was what she needed.

She wished that Echo was there, but until she came of her own volition Hermione wouldn't force the issue. She did miss her.

She'd been visiting the Shop on her good days. Keane ignored her most of the time, and Echo pretended to follow his example. Hermione sometimes caught Echo creeping around, and then she would have to leave so she could cry.

Still, things had been worse. When Minerva died, for example.

At the mere thought of her name, Hermione burst into tears, and the Room rocked her to sleep. There was still progress to be made on that front.

In the morning, Hermione woke up an hour too early for breakfast. She used the extra time to come up with a plan- or, rather, a non-plan.

Upon entering the Great Hall, Hermione made a beeline for the Slytherin table, sliding in directly across from Severus. "Good morning," she said, channeling her inner Trelawney.

"Morning," said Severus. At least, she thought that was what he said. He clutched a steaming mug of tea between pale spider-leg fingers, and dark circles pressed like bruises under his eyes. He didn't look up at her.

"What a lovely day to just focus on being children, yes?" She glanced up and down the table, but nothing appealed to her. She served herself some porridge anyway.

Severus mumbled something that could have been "Sure" and could have been "Bugger off".

"I've been wondering about superiority complexes," Hermione said, trying to find levity and failing, "and their inevitability. An undisciplined mind will naturally divide the world into insiders and outsiders, and most will then furthermore decide that the outsiders are somehow of lesser value than the insiders."

He still didn't look up, and Hermione suspected he was hearing very little of her monologue. She went on anyway.

"With a bit of work and discipline, those prejudices can be tucked down where they belong." Hermione paused. "I would say that the whole problem may be solved by blurring that line, but I'm quite certain that people like James Potter wouldn't even want to understand why, say, Lucius Malfoy does what he does. The world is yet simple to him and people like him."

At the sound of James's name Severus finally looked alive, and his face twisted for just a moment before he controlled himself.

"It's hard to tell for certain whether the reverse would work, either. Ultimately, there's no foolproof way to force someone to understand something when they don't want to." The porridge tasted like sludge in her mouth. She added cinnamon.

"Why are you telling me this? You have to be aware that everyone within earshot is listening to you," Severus said, sipping his tea.

Hermione smiled. "Of course I am," she said, deciding not to tell him about the Notice-Me-Not. "It's a message for anyone who will hear it. I can't have respect for those unwilling to improve themselves. You're- we're young yet. There's still time. Not much, in some of our cases, but I hope to change that."

"You're mad," Severus said, less of an accusation and more of an amused observation.

"If I am, I have reason to be," Hermione said cheerfully.

"That's not very reassuring," Severus said.

"On the contrary!" Hermione said. "It's far more comforting to know that it's the things I've seen that drove me loopy instead of some early onset chemical imbalance."

"Is it your intention to announce to the world what you are?"

"Hm, not exactly. I wouldn't be pleased to find out that the very people I'm trying to save have gone and reported me to their master. I'm entirely capable of disappearing, you know. It's not my loss if the future doesn't change. Did you know that in little more than twenty years from now the pureblood population will have been cut down by over half? He doesn't actually care about blood purity, it's just a ready-made launch for his career."

Severus was beginning to look uneasy. "You could get killed for saying these things," he said.

"I could, yes," Hermione agreed. "It's time to get to class. Would you care to escort me?"

"Do I have a choice?" he grumbled, standing and sliding his bag onto his shoulder.

"Not really," Hermione chuckled. As far as he knew, this was a political choice only further complicated by the fact that she was a Pureblood lady. There was no right answer. She couldn't bring herself to feel guilty for it, since the choice was an illusion. No one noticed their conversation or that they were even leaving, save perhaps Albus.

"You find this amusing," said Severus, glowering. "You do know that there will be social repercussions, yes?"

"Of course I do. Come, it's time for Herbology. And no, before you ask, I don't know what possessed them to schedule that so early in the day." She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, refusing to allow him to distance himself from her.

He more than made up for it with his stony expression. "I hadn't planned on asking you anything." The implication that she was both stupid and insane didn't escape Hermione, but she allowed it. After all, the boy was under some stress.

Herbology was both chilly and boring, for there was little practical application and Hermione already knew everything she could possibly find out about the flora that Pomona- Professor Sprout- meant to introduce to the class. Malefic Spores- what a joke.

Every class was becoming boring, as much as Hermione tried to ignore it. Even Arithmancy was becoming redundant, though she still took pleasure from discussing it with Professor Regent.

It was possible, by now, that Hermione knew enough about Arithmancy to apply it to her situation. A time-consuming, complicated project it would be, but could hardly do anything but ultimately assist her. And if she had so much free time, so little of her brain engaged-

Yes, that was it. She would throw herself into studying Arithmancy, for probability would be her strongest ally. Hadn't she already been wishing she could map out the consequences of her actions? She'd never read into such an encompassing project as this, but surely there would be documentation.

Had Albus taken advantage of this resource during the Second War? Surely he couldn't have, if things had gone so horribly wrong. Even taking hindsight bias into account, he couldn't have possibly thought that the probability of the Light winning was strong. Every examination proved that it was a coin toss at the very best.

A coin toss. There were timelines out there where the Light had won. Where Harry and Ron lived. Perhaps where everyone had lived. It was a comforting thought, to know that perhaps not so much rode on her success. The fate of a few timelines, yes, but in the grand scheme of things?

No, she couldn't think like that. It would be too easy to convince herself then that nothing mattered. That none of Voldemort's depravity mattered, that none of Harry's tragedies mattered, just because there were other timelines where they didn't exist. Hermione had to work for the well-being of every timeline she touched, she had to.

Harry would grow up in a happier future, because she loved him most of everyone. He deserved it.

Professor Regent was a valuable resource, as it turned out. She could recommend books, even books which the Library at Hogwarts didn't carry, and Hermione would go to the Shop and read them there. This new goal gave her the will to focus less on the emotional pain of her estrangement from Echo, and from Sirius and Lily. It helped.

It started with determining her own path, including her past and ignoring (for now) the future. It took no little effort not only to work out the equations, but to accurately plot them to create her path. Sure, there were spells which could plot it independently of her influence, but she was unwilling to rely on such things. She had to understand what was going on, as thoroughly as possible, before using anything automatic.

Her line was, fittingly, a charcoal grey. How glamorous.

The next line was Voldemort, and his line was jet black. She had to rely on every bit of information she remember, as even small details drastically changed his line direction.

The Horcruxes were far easier to plot, being based on a pre-existing line and having little autonomy. With every Horcrux she added, Voldemort's main line became more and more diluted until it was thin, barely even visible. That just wouldn't do. It was Voldemort himself, not his Diary, who was a true threat. Short of manipulating the line itself, which Hermione could be sure wouldn't go well, she could only attempt to make it more distinct. It would make more sense to work in three dimensions, anyway, and as a key player a bit of luminescence wouldn't go amiss.

After accounting for herself and Voldemort, Hermione was at a loss as to the next step. Harry was important, yes, but he wouldn't even exist during the year Hermione was confined to. He could have no influence. Hell, the prophecy hadn't been spoken yet. James and Lily hadn't defied Voldemort even once yet, much less thrice.

His birth was important, she acknowledged, but she would calculate that as an event, not a path.

That answered her question. James, Remus, Sirius, Peter, and Lily were all hopelessly tangled this conflict. She knew the most about them, anyway, and the paths would be more accurate knowing their past choices. These five lines took weeks to calculate and plot and revise and calculate again.

Every line was assigned a variable and a numerical value. With those in place Hermione had to re-work the previous equations.

Fine, perhaps she wouldn't do the whole project manually. Just the main players, and then the minor players and events could be automatically plotted and their variables worked into the other equations. Of course, she would have to calculate everything herself, as every Arithmancer had to do.

It took yet another week to compile and learn these spells, but the end result was worth it.

Seven lines, so far: Sirius was a deep maroon, James was a dark gold, Peter was a sickly sort of green, Remus was a navy blue, and Lily was a pastel blue, in addition to Hermione's grey and Voldemort's black. The lines twisted into one another and pulled away, sometimes passing through an un-plotted event and changing direction. In the three-dimensional work space there was so much empty space, and as of yet no purpose.

Albus and Aberforth came next, and Albus was a pale yellow to Aberforth's dark yellow.

The next few weeks saw the inclusion of Severus (brilliant violet), Regulus (mahogany), Minerva (red-orange), Bellatrix (dark green), Narcissa (sea green), and Lucius (pale orange). These complete, Hermione began working on event. They were polygons of varying size, depending on how many paths were affected.

By the beginning of December, she had a rough diagram of the entire situation, but she didn't just sit back and theorize for months. It was obvious from the beginning that her influence was necessary- especially when it came to the Slytherins.

She would have to take his army from him. With his followers would go his power.

The way to do that had been apparent even at the beginning of the cycle- appeal to their sense of preservation. Preservation of self, of family, of ideals, all of the things that Voldemort used against them to spur them into action. She would take those with some doubt already and convert them, and they would help her spread her ideas. She would allow them to believe that she was a Seer.

As was her habit, she made a list, cataloging each Slytherin by future importance, current influence, personal conviction, and pliability.

Hermione was already working on Severus, as his future importance was nearly unparalleled. The next step, however, was to convert someone who was close to Severus, had reason to doubt Voldemort's cause, and would be willing to listen to her. The answer was easy: Regulus Black. Ally of Severus, brother of Sirius Black, and not socially assertive.

"You're worried about your brother," Hermione said, bending over and resting her elbows on the table across from him. He sat alone, A Potioneer's Companion open before him.

He said nothing, only staring up at her with an expression battling between bemusement, suspicion, curiosity, and irritation.

"It's a sensitive spot for you. It's easiest to get your attention that way," Hermione explained. When no response came, she continued, "You help bring down the Dark Lord, a day that comes too soon. Ultimately you only end up making actually destroying him more difficult for those who might actually succeed. You mean well, naturally, but in the end you die in vain."

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Regulus asked, some measure of discomfort evident in his body language.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, sinking down so that her chin rested on her hands. "It isn't funny. Ironic, yes, but not funny."

"How could you know this? And why would you tell me? How do I know that it's true, anyway?"

"Regulus Black, why do you think my family was targeted this summer?" With that, Hermione smiled and stood, walking away.

He would need less of a hands-on approach than Severus, for he was by nature less cynical than his older friend. She only had to provide him with clues and he would come to his own conclusions. He was a clever boy.

She allowed several days before approaching him again. "You've spoken to Severus," she said.

"I have," said Regulus, closing his textbook but bookmarking it with his ring finger. It was An Understanding of Mind-Altering Potions this time.

Hermione smiled. "I'd hoped you would. I believe you both could help one another... marinate these ideas. What are your thoughts?"

"Snape thinks that you're a Seer," he said. "By his account, you've mentioned some things to him that you should have no way of knowing." The look on his face told her that he didn't know what these "things" were, and he was struggling not to let his curiosity eat him alive.

Hermione hadn't stopped plying Severus with her words and company. She'd spoken at him at length, citing his childhood abuse as a factor of his present and future behavior. He'd, predictably, been furious. He clearly wasn't comfortable with anyone knowing his secrets, and perhaps especially not her.

"I asked for your thoughts, Regulus Black," Hermione said. She traced the grain of the wooden table with her fingernail, peering into Regulus's eyes. They were exactly the same shade as Sirius's, and she didn't want to explore her feelings about that.

Regulus met her gaze unflinchingly, though the slight crease of his brow spoke the truth. "I agree with him, for now," he said. "He tells me that you've claimed the future to be changeable."

"I'm glad he mentioned that," said Hermione. "You don't have to die the way you do. In fact, I fully plan on preventing that."

"Why?" It was a word which said so many things, one of those things being a plain inability to understand what her motive was, why she would care if he died. It was a word which spoke of the deaths he'd witnessed, his understanding that he would die nameless in the end. He wouldn't believe altruism of her. Perhaps he wouldn't believe it of anyone.

"As good as your intentions will be, you do end up being a nuisance. Your actions are a roadblock to my ultimate goal, and my job is to clear the way as much as possible. It just so happens that you live longer as a result."

"You didn't lie to me," Regulus remarked, clearly surprised.

She laughed at that. "I have no need nor desire to spare your feelings. Candor is the most efficient option. If you would be more easily swayed by a lie, I would tell you one."

"Another honest answer," said Regulus, smiling himself.

Chapter Nineteen- Year III- Bonded Ally

Ravenclaw Tower was, in a word, breathtaking. As pretty as the windows and furniture were, Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the books, not that she would ever want to.

"There's almost as many books in here as in the main Library," the Head Girl said, addressing the starstruck first years.

How had she missed this gold mine? How had she not heard about this from anyone? Knowing the Ravenclaws from her time, they wouldn't have wasted a single moment bragging about their own private library.

Hermione followed the Head Girl to the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. Even the steps were blue and bronze. That was the last conscious thought she had before waking up in an unfamiliar bed in the morning to a crack of thunder outside her window. The other girls slept through it with barely a twitch among them, and Hermione grimaced.

The dorm in Ravenclaw Tower felt wrong, in a subtle but inarguable way. It was dark, but Hermione could still feel how off it was. She slipped to the floor, accepting the cool shock of the stone against her bare feet, and left without a backwards glance.

Her reasoning from the beginning of the year before was still valid, and certainly even more so now. She couldn't survive the year sleeping in the same room as four other girls, not with her nightmares and her frequent departures. It was insupportable. Her own safety was a priority, yes, but even more so was the safety of the students here. She was protecting them, wasn't she? It would defeat the purpose entirely if she were to hurt someone while having an episode.

Only faint candlelight excused Hermione's sight, allowing her at least to avoid suits of armour and the like. She was unsure just where she was going. Down, sure, but not to Hogsmeade. The kitchens, perhaps. She was remarkably hungry, having eaten only sparingly at the Welcoming Feast the night before. Still, that didn't sound like the right answer. The Room of Requirement, perhaps. Sure, it was the logical choice. Safe within the confines of her semi-secret haven, she would have the freedom to do as she pleased, whether that was to cry or to sleep or to read.

The Room of Requirement, she decided, noting with no surprise that she stood in front of the Fat Lady.

"Not tonight," she said aloud. "There's no reason to go inside."

Maybe that wasn't quite true. More likely she had her own, personal reasons. As tempting as they were, Hermione could not- would not- concede to those urges. It would be the satisfying choice, but not the right one.

The Room of Requirement was a poor substitute for the companionship of the friends she'd once had, but it would have to do.

This time she carried her feet rather than the other way around. To the seventh floor, past the tapestry, three paces in the hall, and to the door. A bed confronted her upon her entry. It looked disappointed in her. She would not lay in it.

A blink later the bed was gone, replaced by a single stool. It wasn't any better; it was painted with pink flowers, and if Hermione squinted she could make out kittens.

"Are you mocking me?" she asked, sitting on the floor and beginning to cry.

Upon opening her eyes, the room had changed again. This time, rather than judgmental furniture, a confused and groggy Sirius Black lay sprawled across the floor.

What had she done? "I need him gone," she said, but he did not disappear.

"Selwyn? 'S that you?"

Hermione wished she didn't love him. She wished the sound of his voice didn't fill her with such tenderness. But both of those things were true, and Hermione would have to live with the choice she'd unwittingly made.

"Yes, Sirius Black. It's me." There she was, whispering for fear that her voice would break this spell and send him away again. "Tell me, Sirius Black- is love a choice?"

"If you don't mind," Sirius said, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the floor, "I'd rather know just where I am. And why I'm here. And why you're here."

"Of course you would," Hermione murmured. She would not lie to him. She'd lied to him enough. "I know why I'm here. I chose to come here. But the Room summoned you. I know not why."

"'I know not why'? Are you on dust or something?" Sirius didn't seem afraid of her, which was good. Very good, even. Still, he looked concerned and even a little disgusted. Perhaps that was all right. Less personal than fear, after all.

She really should keep her distance, but instead she asked again, "Is love a choice?"

"No," he said. "Why would it be?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's a choice to become angry, or sad, or happy, right?"

"No?" said Sirius, leaning away in what was likely a subconscious gesture of discomfort. Why shouldn't he be uncomfortable? Hermione certainly was.

"Of course it is," said Hermione, frowning. "Of course, there's an urge one way or the other, but ultimately you make the choice to feel emotion. Ignore the urge and it goes away."

"Is that how feelings work for you? Because I don't think that's normal."

Maybe he was trying to be cruel. It was unlike Sirius to be so willfully tactless. "I could choose to be upset by your insinuation, but I've chosen not to," Hermione said. And it was true; she wasn't upset in the slightest. "That is the way emotions work. Could it be that you simply give in to your impulses, no matter what? It would suit your character."

"What do you know about 'my character'?" Sirius scoffed. "You don't know me."

Oh, that's right. She wasn't supposed to know him at all. She could not lie and agree with him, but nor could she correct him. Instead she ignored it altogether. "Love is a choice. It's attraction that is not. Your mind molds to your wishes, not the other way around."

"Whatever," said Sirius, perhaps wisely quitting while he was ahead. "You think what you want."

"Mm," Hermione agreed, smiling. The Room had been right; Sirius was exactly what she needed. She did love him, after all, and that meant that his mere presence made her heart slow and her mind clear. She felt in control of herself when he was around.

"Why did you bring me here?" Sirius asked again.

"I didn't mean to, necessarily. Magic will be what it is, though, and needs will trump wants as far as it's concerned."

"That makes... no sense whatsoever. None."

"I didn't want it to." There were tears on her face still, she realized. She wiped them away. A wave of disgust washed over her at how soft her hand felt against her cheek. "This room is dangerous, though it doesn't seem that way at first. It obeys the needs of the person inside of it. But need doesn't necessarily follow the definition of the word. It obeys strong emotions. Whether or not logic decides that it's a bad idea, as the person who activated this particular room, it will give me what I require."

"What- really?" said Sirius. "That's awfully handy."

"It can be," Hermione agreed.

"But then why am I here?" he asked, suspicion clouding his face again.

"I did say that the room is dangerous. It is especially so for people like me."

"Like you?"

"The brain... the mind is altered by trauma. It often requires things that aren't good for it, perhaps because the well-being of the mind becomes somehow less important."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It was as close as I'm willing to tell you. I will not lie to you, but that doesn't mean I must say everything."

Sirius scowled, but said nothing more.

Hermione couldn't stop looking at him. He didn't know her. He didn't care about her. He didn't know what she'd done, what he'd done. As far as he was concerned, they'd never met.

She was nothing to him.

"I need you to leave," she said, softly. "I need you to know me like I know you, but that can't happen, so please just go." Hermione obeyed the ice in her gut and turned away. She would sleep on the floor.

A pile of pillows and blankets appeared in the corner, and without looking she knew that Sirius was gone.

*|II8II|*

Only the threat of detention forced Hermione to attend class that first week. Hermione had always needed a challenge. It was as vital to her as the need for basic companionship and love- even surpassing those at times. History of Magic couldn't possibly challenge her, not when it was taught by a ghost who recycled his material verbatim every year.

So when Saturday came, wet and bleak as it had been every cycle before, Hermione took herself down to Hogsmeade before she could talk herself out of it.

Keane greeted her as if she hadn't been missing for over a year. That was fine; he had little concept of time. "She's been waiting for you," he said, and Hermione nodded.

"Will you come with me?" Hermione asked the fledgling phoenix who refused to look at her. "You don't have to; of course you don't. I'm not very good company these days. But I love you, and I'd be happy if you did."

The silence stretched, but Hermione waited. She knew Echo could feel exactly what was going on inside her head, why she hadn't come to get her before now. Echo was the only being who'd ever loved her unconditionally, the purest creature she knew, and after Azkaban Hermione couldn't be sure that she could provide a good environment for Echo. They were bonded, for Merlin's sake. At least within the Shop Hermione knew that Echo would be safe, both from the outside world and from Hermione.

Hermione didn't need a two-way empathic bond to know that Echo wasn't happy with her decisions. It was a good thing Echo was so easy to read, because the bond indeed only went one way.

"I'm not exactly... logical... these last few months," she said, aware that she was pleading now- not for Echo to come with her again, but to forgive her. To love her.

Echo finally met her gaze and cooed, but she looked wary still. She did not come forward, and Hermione understood that Echo would not follow her.

Hermione wanted to cry, but that wouldn't be fair to Echo. She knew her companion well enough to know that she was making a difficult choice, and Hermione refused to manipulate her into changing her mind. "I will not abandon you," she whispered. "I'll come here like I did before. If you don't want to see me, you can stay in another room. But if you do... If you do, I'm here."

But for now, Hermione couldn't stay and pretend nothing was wrong. She wouldn't be able to concentrate on research when her friend, her child, did not forgive her.

Keane let her go and said nothing.

As apparently Hermione was on a masochistic mission to "reunite" with old friends, her next stop was the Hog's Head.

The walk was inclement and unpleasant. The rain became intimate with the threads of her robes, and Hermione was powerless to stop it. It took mere moments for her hair to hang like chained prisoners down her back and cling desperately to her face and neck. She couldn't help but pity herself, and her saltwater tears hid between raindrops. Witches and wizards passed her, sneering at her soaked person. They assumed, correctly, that she hadn't enough magic to protect herself from the weather.

The Hog's Head, compared to the streets outside, was cozy, even though Hermione knew that it would be nearly intolerable without the contrast. Hermione took a seat in a two-person booth in the corner. She removed her cloak and folded over her forearms, cradling it to her chest. She missed Echo.

If Aberforth weren't distracted up at the counter, Hermione knew he would come over and demand that she either buy something or get out. She had no intention of that being his "first" impression of her.

How pathetic was she? There she was, a solitary figure in the grimy pub that was once her home, pining after relationships that were gone, forgotten by everyone but her. Why was she chasing after things she couldn't have? Was she really such a martyr? Even if she could create relationships anew, it would never be the same. She could never have it again. She wasn't even the same person as before! What could she offer, really? She wasn't even sane anymore, dammit! She needed to get better, not worse, and trying to resuscitate the past would only drive her further over the edge.

Now crying in earnest, Hermione got up and slunk out of the pub.

Where could she go? Where could she call home? "Vici?" she choked out. "Vici, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Missy," said the house elf. "Is Missy all right?"

"Please take me home," she sobbed.

Vici took her hand with a greater tenderness than ever before, cooing reassurances over the noisy assault of the rain, and they disappeared together.

Hermione could feel without looking that she was now in her bedroom in the Selwyn Estate. Her robes were dry and warm, her hair once again a frizzy mess around her face, but her misery didn't subside. "Please help me," she whispered, unsure even as she asked how anyone could help her. "Please, please help me."

Later Hermione wondered whether Vici had ever dealt with hysterical persons before, as without hesitation she guided Hermione to the bed and made her sit. "It is all right, Missy," she soothed, holding her hands and stroking them with tiny thumbs. "If Missy need talking, Vici listen."

"Promise you'll tell no one? Not even Rhea?" Hermione begged.

"Vici promises."

"I'm alone here," Hermione said, hardly aware of what she was saying. All she knew was that she had to say something. "I'm alone and insane and I don't know what I'm doing and there's not enough time and too much to mess up and no one to help me and I just want to lay down and sleep forever but I can't do that and my magic is gone and I'm an awful person now because I manipulate everyone and it would be so much easier if I didn't know anyone but I do!"

"Missy has a home here," insisted Vici, somehow understanding Hermione's jumble of words and emotions. "Vici will protect Missy. Always, no matter what."

Even knowing that Vici believed a lie, Hermione swept up the tiny house elf and hugged her to her chest like she used to do with Echo. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Vici held Hermione until her breathing stabilized. Hermione was exhausted but no longer hysterical, and she told Vici so.

"Would Missy like cocoa?" Vici asked.

"Yes, please," Hermione croaked. "But please, please, don't leave me alone."

The house elf took her by the hand again and Apparated them both to the kitchen. Other house elves bustled around, hardly even noticing Hermione's arrival. Vici snapped her fingers and a stool came into existence besides one of the stoves. "Missy may sit there," she said, and Hermione took her suggestion.

Vici snapped her fingers again, Summoning a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate, a bottle of milk, and a saucepan. Hermione watched, fascinated, as Vici set the pan down on the stove (which had apparently been lit while she wasn't looking) and broke apart the bar of chocolate into bite-sized pieces. A wave of her hand lowered the pieces into the pan, and another wave made the flames turn blue and the chocolate melted rapidly. The chocolate should have burned, but it did not, and soon the saucepan had a rich layer of melted chocolate at the bottom.

While Hermione had been watching the chocolate, Vici had apparently Summoned nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, and chili powder. She shook careful amounts into the now-swirling chocolate.

"Chili powder?" Hermione asked.

"It brings out the other flavours, gives them a contrast," Vici explained.

Once all of the spices were thoroughly assimilated into the heavenly concoction, Vici tipped in the milk. Instead of sticking to the sides of the saucepan, it blended with the mixture cleanly. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Vici poured the cocoa into a mug with a mossy exterior and set three marshmallows onto the surface. She pressed the warm mug into Hermione's hands and Hermione took a moment to feel the tangible comfort against her skin. The mug was like a soft blanket, something that could never have been accomplished without magic. She sipped the cocoa with something approaching reverence, and it washed over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted like home. It tasted like love.

"Why does Missy cry again?" Vici asked, wiping at Hermione's face.

"This is happiness," said Hermione, smiling.

Vici's face crinkled in her own smile, and they stayed like that for several moments. "Is Missy feeling better?" she asked.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, thank you."

"Missy is welcome."

Hermione stayed at Selwyn Estate until Monday, when she conceded that if she stayed away any longer she would have to answer some uncomfortable questions. Vici took her back to her dormitory and spelled her bed to be Silenced and to repel the attentions of anyone who wasn't Hermione. At Hermione's request, she even set a low-level Notice-Me-Not on Hermione herself. She left Hermione there with gentle assurances that Hermione could handle it, and for at least that moment Hermione believed it.

She went down to the Great Hall with a new serenity. For once she was completely ignored, and the knot in Hermione's gut unraveled just a bit.

The whole day went like that. No one asked where she'd been. No one asked her anything at all, actually, which suited Hermione just fine. Over the course of the day Hermione felt herself relax more and more, until she felt comfortable enough to read out in the Common Room after dinner. She was entirely unmolested and it was even moderately quiet. For the first time Hermione felt that she could possibly belong there.

After dinner on Wednesday Hermione kept her promise to Echo and made an appearance at the Shop. The whole way there Hermione prepared herself for disappointment, but she quickly found that her efforts were useless. Echo studiously ignored her, and Keane wasn't any more eager to talk to her. She sequestered herself in the room full of books about magical bonds, trying unsuccessfully to convince herself that she could manage just fine.

It became a routine to have Vici take her home for the weekend. Hermione wasn't sure just when or why the Selwyn Estate became her home; perhaps it was because she didn't have any memories from before to associate with it.

Vici had already been "assigned" to Hermione's care, so it took hardly any effort at all to convince Rhea and Morfan not only to make Vici her personal elf, but to forfeit ownership of her altogether. Vici took it surprisingly well, without none of the theatrics that Hermione was expecting.

"Pleasure to serve you, Mistress," Vici said, curtsying.

"Call me Hermione," she said, curtsying back. "You are my equal now, and my friend, as much as you're comfortable being." It didn't even cross her mind that Vici had never known Hermione by her true name, but Vici took it in stride.

"As Mistress... Her-my-uh-knee... wishes."

"Where do you want to stay? At Selwyn Estate or... or with me?" She was genuinely offering Vici a choice, the first of many.

"With Herm- Hermy-"

"'You'," said Hermione gently. "'With you.'"

"With you," Vici said nervously. Her ears twitched back and forth.

Hermione smiled. "I'll never punish you, Vici," she swore. "Never, for anything. I'm not lying when I say that you're my equal now. I know it'll take some getting used to, but this is the closest I can get to setting you free without hurting you."

Unlike other house elves she'd met, Vici took her words in the spirit in which they were meant. "Thank you, Hermy. Would you like Vici to call you Veva in company?"

"Oh!" Hermione cried, smacking her forehead. "Yes, thank you, I'd completely forgotten. I'd planned on telling you the truth anyway."

"The truth, Hermy?"

"It goes without saying that you must never mention anything about this to anyone except for me. Can you promise me that?"

"Of course."

Hermione thought for a moment, trying to organize her story in the least emotional way possible. "Well, I'm from the future. A Dark Lord managed to take over, and somehow I was sent here. My mission now is to stop him from rising to power, but I have exactly a year to do so. At the end of the year I'm sent back to the beginning again, and no one has any memory of me or what I've done. I've done this twice so far. The first time I accidentally started a battle at Hogwarts, and the second time I got myself thrown in Azkaban. I'm still trying to regain my sanity from that. My real name is Hermione Granger."

Without a word, Vici slipped her hand into Hermione's, squeezed it, and smiled. She understood. She truly understood.

Hermione smiled back, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Can you help keep me safe from myself?" she whispered, realizing that that was the question she'd wanted to ask this whole time.