AN: So, I'm pretty damn happy about this act, seeing as I had awesome betas help me. Here's to you svelterose, and Nicky! Alice, you're pretty damn great. XD.

I also want to address the people who commented on the Cygnus/Hermione relationship. Hermione may not be a tomboy, but she gets along better with males than females. Her friendships with Harry and Ron and getting along with most of the Weasley family being an example of this fact. I think I may have exaggerated the friendship between her and Cygnus into something more, which I duly hope I may able to fix. Actually, I know I'll fix the misconception. XD. Maybe not in this chapter, but later on.

As I don't have a lot of time to sit and chat due to leaving in a few minutes, I thank ALL the amazing people who reviewed. You are the greatest.

This chapter is dedicated to svelterose. My first fangirl.

xx Jess

Disclaimer: I own a lot of empty Diet Pepsi cans, likewise empty Marlboro Menthol cartons, and exactly 82 dollars. Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter.

"What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?"

T.S. Eliot.

Harry stood at the end of the walk. The gates stood in front of him.

Neither moved.

It wasn't so much the fact that he had to leave the Hogwarts grounds that had him hesitating over pushing the great gate open and Apparating to the Burrow, it was more of the reason why he had to leave the ruin of the castle in the first place.

To talk to his best-friend.

To talk sense into his best-friend.

After he told him Hermione was a Slytherin and a Death Eater. Or would be. Was. Would become. Had been.

He huffed and ran a hand through his messy black hair. Time travel was hell on the English language. He had learned that when saving Sirius from the Dementor's Kiss in third year. But with Hermione's more extensive and more dangerous time traveling this time, it was infinitely worse. He didn't know how he would tell Ron without stuttering and hesitating and acting a loon.

Hermione was most likely having no difficulty at all. Bother.

He was still surprised — if not a little shocked — that she had become a Slytherin. Had the Sorting Hat considered her one the first time as he and Ron watched on? Had it dithered over Slytherin and Gryffindor? Had she made the same choice he had and chose to go into Gryffindor?

Or had her experiences during Hogwarts and the war and being his best-friend changed her so much from the buck-toothed girl from first year who cried in the girls' bathroom and told him so fervently it had to be true that books and cleverness didn't make a wizard great?

Had she changed her mind?

Harry had always known Hermione was sneaky and cunning when she chose. Taking Umbridge to the centaurs, hiding clothes to free House Elves, using Lockhart's ego to get a note for entrance into the Restricted Section. That was only the tip of the iceberg. He just hadn't realized the traits that made her Hermione made her more suited to Slytherin than Gryffindor.

Maybe that was why she had started spending so much time with Malfoy.

He pondered the thought for a moment before pushing it away. No, he knew that had been out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to all the downtrodden, just like Dobby and Crookshanks and Kreacher. It had nothing to do with him being a Slytherin.

No. Of course not.

But he couldn't get over the glaring truth that had been beaten into him like a Bludger. He had failed Hermione by not seeing that she had changed so much during the years. He could have helped her, made her happier, given her the benefit of the doubt and stopped her from being forced into the situation she was now in. Or had been. He and Ron could have treated her better and not used her as a walking brain.

Had that been what led her to be put in Slytherin? Hatred of their treatment of her?

Harry Potter sighed, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He didn't know, he didn't have answers, and Hermione was a Death Eater.

Not to mention he still had to tell Ron.

Buggeration.

For the first time in the months since the Final Battle, Hermione woke up well-rested and with a slight smile on her face. She basked in the emptiness of her brain as she stretched, yawning and mussing up her hair as she left her bed to get dressed for the school day ahead. No screams echoed in her mind as she brushed her hair. No green light flashed as she buttoned her shirt on. No smell of rotting meat burnt in her nose as she laced up her shoes, and she saw no memory of a blinding flash of sunlight obscuring two figures battling for power in the middle of the Great Hall.

She had not dreamt of Greyback's bark of a laugh, or the way his breath smelled as he breathed on her neck, sniffing her and whispering about the marks he would give her.

She had not dreamt of Bellatrix, eyes wild with a calculating madness as she tortured her for information, or the cold enchanted silver drawing a drop of blood from her neck.

She had spent too many months being restless and sleepy and too awake, staring at the red velvet of the four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower or the pallid grey of the tent she had lived in for a year. Now it seemed like her time in the past would be a vacation from the lifeless eyes that haunted her, always waiting in the wings to torment her when she was unsuspecting. She reveled in the feeling of a morning where she wasn't being haunted by ghosts she could do nothing about, and went to the Slytherin common room feeling invincible for the first time in almost a year.

Her invincibility and good mood ground to a screeching halt when she saw Tom Riddle look up from a piece of parchment, Randall Wilkes standing beside him at the fireplace.

Their shark-like smiles at each other were not reassuring.

Announcing her entrance with barely a sound — she would never cough loudly like some people, Ron and Harry namely — she walked into the Slytherin common room with a tight smile at the two wizards, wishing she was still in her dreamless sleep.

Randall Wilkes: trusted Death Eater.

It worried her that not only had he taken an interest in her and Cygnus's conversation the day before, but that he seemed to be holding a grudge on her for something. Probably for being a Dumbledore. Now he was having private chats with the Dark Lord.

She felt safer already.

"Good morning, you two," she said airily, hoping her worries would be whisked away by just her voice alone. "Is Cygnus up yet?"

"I believe he's still sleeping," Riddle said, glancing at Wilkes significantly, who shrugged in a beguiling gesture she tried not to dwell on. He smiled at her — a flash of white in the gloom of the green-tinted common room. "But I was just on my way to breakfast if you would like to join me."

Hermione struggled inwardly with herself, knowing she really had no choice in the matter if she was to continue her charade as the Slytherin pureblood who was most certainly not an enemy time traveler that had helped kill him.

But she really didn't want to spend too much time around him. It was enough that she was in his House and he had been there to see the Ministry's disapproval of her being there at all.

On that matter, why had he tried to speak in her defense?

She was sure she would never get the answer.

"Sure."

She hoped neither boy saw the way her face twisted — like she had been sucking on a particularly sour lemon — as she turned and, without waiting, walked out of the stone wall exit.

She didn't care if the Dark Lord got angry. She was hungry, damn it, and she wasn't going to waste her good morning catering to his holier-than-thou ego.

"We have some work cut out for us, I see," Wilkes said, looking after the sliding stone wall the curly-haired witch had just left through.

Tom waved it away, slinging his book bag on his shoulder. "Nonsense. She is just a witch — one who, might I add, lives in logic and reason. She will see the sense of our goals, no matter her 'illustrious' family."

"Of course, my Lord," Wilkes murmured, thinking the exact opposite.

"The Ministry normally takes days or even weeks to appear at Hogwarts when we need them," Tom remarked casually as he poured milk into first Hermione's then his goblet. He remembered from the day before that she didn't drink pumpkin juice in the morning. "I was surprised, and a little confused, at why they deemed you such a high priority to come on the first day."

To his surprise, the witch did not take the bait so casually offered. It surprised him because he had always been aware that witches loved to talk about themselves and it had been the perfect opening for her to start prattling on about how perfect and pureblood she was like most girls in Slytherin would.

He should have suspected it wouldn't be the same with Dumbledore's niece. Blast.

Hermione just shrugged, eyes hooded and closed off from him. "The Ministry wastes time as if it is a spare commodity. It's not that unexpected that they considered me a threat when they think thestrals are rampaging beasts."

Tom cocked his head, grateful that it was only them and a few Hufflepuffs in the Great Hall with no one close enough to listen in on them.

"Can you see them?" he asked curiously.

"Yes." He understood by her sharp tone it was all she would say on the subject.

For now.

"You and Cygnus seemed to have become close," he commented, disinterest tingeing the dark note in his voice. "Do you like him?"

Hermione turned her head to look him fully in the face, and he remarked inwardly how having the full force of that gaze on him was slightly unnerving. Unconsciously stiffening, he stared right back.

Her lips quirked. "Riddle the Matchmaker? I'm shocked."

Tom forced out a chuckle, smiling as he buttered a roll. "You're not getting out of my question that easily, Miss Dumbledore."

She sighed from beside him. "I know. I'm horrible at changing subjects." He raised an eyebrow at her continued silence and she grinned halfheartedly, shrugging. "Cygnus is nice, but I believe his attentions are elsewhere and not on floundering new Slytherins like myself. I think he just likes to goad Malfoy."

"Maybe," he replied, thinking that wasn't the reason at all. He had taken an unhealthy interest in her the moment she had been introduced and it bothered him slightly. Cygnus had never had a witch as a friend, having called all of them vapid and uninteresting. But it had been different for Hermione. As soon as he had seen her his gaze had sharpened immediately. It couldn't be just friendship behind his motives for always being around her.

He would have to ask Cygnus since Hermione wasn't giving him the answer he wanted.

"What about you, Riddle?" she asked, wiping her mouth daintily with her napkin. When he merely raised a brow, she elaborated. "Which one of the fawning harem of witches surrounding you is yours?"

"None actually," he responded tersely. "I've told you, call me Tom."

She hummed serenely as she demolished a piece of toast over her plate. "But you're not a Tom. You're a Riddle; all happy and charming with a dark underside. Tom is just too… nice of a name, I suppose." She smiled up at him, eyes dark and mischievous. "Not that I'm saying you're mean. But you are a riddle, this puzzle that everyone wants to figure out. A Head Boy who every teacher adores but they don't know you at all, do they? They pretend, just like the Slytherins pretend to know you. I bet the only person who knows you is you."

Tom stared at the girl who was studiously tearing her toast into strips, acting as if she wasn't describing him a little too close to the truth for his comfort. His tone was light with amusement when he responded. "Are you saying I don't have any friends, Hermione? That's not very nice of you."

She smiled at his teasing, looking at her plate rather than him as she gave her all-too serious answer. "Only a few great wizards and witches have true, pure friends, Riddle, and they are most always beneath them in ability and intelligence."

The force with which he bit his tongue would leave a mark, but it was worth it to stop the retort, You're intelligent, to come out of his mouth. It was a silly retort to her rather presumptuous remark, and he was thankful he had saved himself the embarrassment, if not the confusion, that came with the words, unspoken or not.

He frowned to himself, grateful for reprieve in the form of Cygnus coming through the wooden doors into the Great Hall. Suspicions rising, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the witch beside him waved him over, that radiant smile of hers covering her face.

Maybe the witch had Seer in her blood…

He shook the thought out of his mind, instead focusing on what he had been about to say instead of the rising anger at Cygnus. He didn't know why he would say something like that, much less think it. It made him sound like he wanted her to be his friend, his equal.

He didn't. He didn't have need of them — any of the pompous purebloods he had to surround himself with. As soon as they had fulfilled his need, they would be cast off immediately.

Hermione first.

Think of what she could do for us even after the Ministry is taken.

Abraxas' words came into his head, also unbidden, and his scowl grew darker — though years of training meant it was only a small downward tilt of his lips. Abraxas… he wanted the girl, the niece of the champion of Mudbloods and filth. Why should he, as Lord Voldemort and Salazar Slytherin's heir, give the arrogant pureblood the only witch who didn't want him?

Why couldn't he keep her to himself?

With that thought in mind, his pleasant masked slipped back into place and he passed the basket of rolls to Cygnus.

A bright yellow flash interrupted the dull monotony of the inky blackness of the inside of a small beaded purse. It was looking to be an interesting day indeed.

Finding nothing, Hermione almost growled as she slammed the third biography of Rowena Ravenclaw closed. It was pitiful how wizards got by with only the minimum work. A Clever Tale by Krevork Trellis was supposed to be the leading resource for the Founder's life from childhood to death, and yet he had missed what any talented researcher could find — that her daughter had died in a forest in Albania by her mother's choice of suitor's hand. It was just the same with the other biographies she had found in the extensive Hogwarts library, all authored by wizards.

How could she trust any biographer if they missed that key part of Rowena Ravenclaw's life?

She sighed and laid her head in her hands. A week and a half of spending every spare moment in the library wasn't helping in the least to find information on the Founders that could narrow down time they had made the book. There wasn't even mention of a book between the four, though their separate works were listed in the pertinent places.

Not to mention her spare moments were few and far between. With studying for N.E.W.T.s with Minerva, homework with Cygnus and trying to avoid anything to do with Riddle, her free time was scarce. She was beginning to think there was a conspiracy against her because when she could pull herself away from the Slytherins during free periods and after dinner, Dumbledore would show up asking for a chat over tea.

It was enough to make her believe in Nargles.

Her hand slid from her face to the back of her neck, massaging the tensed muscles that had tightened painfully during her all day search in the library.

"What's this?"

She looked up from the table at Minerva's voice. The Head Girl had a pile of books clutched to her chest but it didn't stop her from tilting her head to look at the books spread out over the table in a dark alcove near the Restricted Section they frequently occupied.

"Extracurricular," she said wearily, hastily pushing A Clever Tale away from her. She nodded to the book in her friend's arm. "What are those, then?"

Minerva smiled, too eager to share to realize she had just been distracted. "Animagi. Professor Dumbledore said I showed an aptitude that might allow me to become one."

Just as it was strange thinking of this Minerva as Professor, it had been strange to learn she could easily call Minerva a friend. They had immediately gotten along just as they had when she was no longer a student but a comrade in arms and they had started having luncheons whenever they had no duties to attend to in the restoration of the castle.

It was cruelly ironic that just a few days before she was rudely transported into the past, Professor McGonagall had told her she had the same aptitude and, with lessons, she could become an Animagus.

"Congratulations," she said softly, genuinely happy for her friend but feeling sad that another thing had been taken away from her. She had been jumping-up-and-down excited when Professor McGonagall had told her. It had been a chance to spend time with her favorite mentor and a chance to do magic only a gifted few could do.

She strategically ignored Skeeter and Pettigrew as one of those gifted few.

Apparently Minerva had heard the sadness in her voice because her eager, excited face transformed into concern. "Are you okay, Hermione?" she asked, casting her eyes around at her stack of messy notes and ink stains on her hands and flecks of ink on her face. Her frown deepened. "You shouldn't be wearing yourself out like this. Maybe we should cut back on N.E.W.T —"

"I'm fine, Minerva," Hermione sighed, a smile forming. Her concern reminded her of the brilliant professor the witch in front of her would become and she couldn't help but be delighted that she would be included in such an extraordinary time in her favorite professor's life.

Minerva hummed noncommittally, still looking at her table with a critical gleam in her sharp eyes. "What kind of extracurricular is this? You have enough notes to write your own biography on the Founders."

Hermione flushed in embarrassment. The numerous feet of carefully printed notes were useless in helping her trace the Founders book.

"Just a small personal research project."

Minerva raised her brows. "Small?"

Damn. She was obviously inheriting some of Ron's more ugly habits. She really needed to start thinking before she spoke.

"Well, not so small," she agreed with a sheepish smile. "It's not going so well, actually."

Minerva sat her books down, completely forgetting her excitement as she started pulling the biographies toward her, always willing to help a friend in need. After going through all of them with a quick but assessing eye, she snorted and pushed them away with the same disgust that Hermione had.

"It's because these are shite," she said decisively. Hermione wasn't surprised with her cursing. She had been disillusioned with her Professor's prim and proper self during the Final Battle when she revealed her talent of swearing with the skill of the Queen's Navy.

Hermione had to admit that she was faintly jealous.

The thing that did surprise her, however, were her next words.

"My Da has an extensive collection of volumes on the Founders. I'm sure if I ask he'll lend them to you."

"Your mother doesn't happen to be alive, does she?"

Minerva stared at her, not expecting that question so abruptly. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

Hermione looked at her nails nonchalantly, only realizing it was a trait she had seen Cygnus do after she had already done it. "Pity," she said. "I would marry him for those books."

A loud snort of amusement alerted the librarian — a Mr. Hester that was just as obsessive over the library as Madam Pince had been — and they were promptly thrown out.

Draco had always thought Malfoy Manor was cold, uninviting, and only conducive to throwing boring parties for Purebloods and Ministry officials for his father to bribe and schmooze and for his mother to throw elaborate — but still boring — tea parties for the Pureblood wives and women.

Draco had never thought it would become the Dark Lord's hideout and base camp for the Death Eaters. He never thought he would have to bring prisoners up from the cool dankness of the dungeons, where Mother had kept her expensive wines and his father hid away his expensive Muggle bourbon.

He never thought he would see the Dark Lord sit at the head of his dining room table or see that hair-raising pet snake of his slithering along it to eat a recently deceased professor at Hogwarts.

He didn't know what he had expected when joining the Death Eaters but it had never been the things going on in his home.

Couldn't they have plotted to take over the world somewhere other than his ancestral home? Because, really, that ghastly snake scared every peacock on their land terribly.

He was much too fond of those little buggers, and had been slightly affronted when he saw them shedding their plumage in face of the giant snake's presence at Malfoy Manor.

"Let's go, ferret. We don't have all day."

"Ron!" hissed the oaf's sister, knuckles white against Potter's arm. Draco shrugged at the apology-filled look she sent him, and looked back to his house.

"So how do you like having all your family's assets seized?" he went on as Draco led them through the large stately front door. "And your parents in jail? Nice fuzzy feelings, idn't ferret?"

"Ron, shut up," growled the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die. Draco's fists were clenched tight beside him, his hand itching for a wand that couldn't do the curses he wanted to send Weasley's way. He hated this — being indebted to Weasley of all people. Potter, he could stand. He was famous and the defeater of the Dark Lord. The redhead oaf was another story altogether.

"What?" Weasley cried, outraged. "He deserves it! Probably did some spell on Hermione, making her —"

"A Slytherin?" Draco said, sneering even though they couldn't see. "If only I could have Sorted you where you belong. Oh, wait! They don't have a House for squibs."

"Now, look here, ferret —"

"Mister Weasley, if you cannot hold your tongue, I will have to ask you to leave," came the clipped tone of Headmistress McGonagall. "You too, Mister Malfoy. We appreciate you bringing us to your home, but I will not tolerate the two of you squabbling like five year olds."

"Ron, Malfoy's wand is limited to only the minimum amount of magic," came Ginny from the other side of Potter. "Kingsley himself put it on, remember?"

It seemed now that Hermione had vacated the spot of logic and reason for the always righteous Golden Trio, the Weaselette had stepped into the role admirably.

The appreciation they showed her, compared to what they had done to Hermione after the Final Battle made his sharp tongue all the worse. Or better, depending on how one looked at it.

He was saved from Weasley's response to his sister as he opened the doors to his father's study. Feet cushioned by thick red carpet, Draco ignored the ceiling high bookshelves filled with titles from across the world and the large, gleaming teak desk on the far side of the room. He had eyes for only two things.

The portraits of Abraxas Malfoy and Cygnus Black.

Side by side, they were a stark contrast to one another. One light, with pale blond hair and the fairest of skin that shone even in pigment, adorned with a sneer that never went away. The other, dark and bold, with black hair and an open, almost-honest face. Draco stood in front of them, wondering for almost the thousandth time how his mother had made father put the portrait of Cygnus Black into his study. His father supposedly hated the man. Respected him, but hated him more.

And it seemed Cygnus Black hated Abraxas Malfoy with equal fervor, if not more.

"Our grandson, Abraxas," he said, looking Draco up and down. "Come to tear us down, boy? Now that Abraxas' progeny" — he sneered the word with all the venom of a cobra — "is finally put in Azkaban where he belongs?"

Draco, understandably, was taken aback.

It was no wonder Father hated his own study, having to deal with a portrait who hated him and was never polite enough to hold his painted tongue.

He wondered how he could stand being in it. Then he noticed the curtain drawn to the side of Cygnus.

"Do shut up, you twat," drawled the sneering portrait from beside his frame. "Or I'll jump out of my frame."

"Please. You say that everyday. I wish you would just do it already."

"Mister Malfoy, if you will," said McGonagall from behind him. He could hear Weasley sniggering over his grandfathers' bickering and shot him a look of pure loathing — just for the sake of it — as he stepped back so the Headmistress of Hogwarts could take his place in front of the portraits.

"Who might you be?" said Abraxas Malfoy. He appraised McGonagall and her tightly coiled bun and ironed robes with a gleam in his painted blue eyes.

"The esteemed Minerva McGonagall, Abraxas," said Cygnus Black, eyes just as appraising. "It seems time was not fair to you, Minerva."

"Yet I am here and you, Cygnus, are there," McGonagall returned dryly.

A faint smile curled his lips. "Indeed."

"Come to bore us with the tale of Dumbledore's death?" drawled Abraxas Malfoy. Draco flinched at his tactless comment — he obviously didn't know he had been the one ordered to kill him. "Too late, old girl. We already heard."

McGonagall raised her hand sharply, as if she expected Potter or one of the Weasleys to retort angrily, and indeed, he could see Potter's mouth closing on the words he had been about to say.

"Tom Riddle, actually." He had never heard his Transfiguration professor's voice so full of vindictive glee. "Killed a few months ago by Mister Potter here."

She moved to the side, the better for the portraits to see Potter. His grandfathers' expressions were so different in that moment that Draco almost sputtered in shock. While Abraxas was sneering, Cygnus was almost… grinning.

"I see."

"I'm sure you do, Abraxas," McGonagall said, a corner of her lip quirking though she tried to keep them straight. "But Mister Potter also had help. From Mister Weasley" — she indicated him with her hand then moved forward to bring in the death blow — "and a young woman named… Hermione. I believe you two know her."

"I assure you, McGonagall, we have been dead for quite some time now. We know of no Hermione who could have helped defeat Tom Riddle," said Abraxas, rubbing his nails on the collar of his stiff green robes.

But Cygnus was not so nonchalant. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously at the Headmistress and he seemed to be sizing up the threat held in her words. "I only know of one Hermione, and if she were among the living she would not have been classified as a young woman."

"But she knows that, Cy," Abraxas said, glancing at him with an unpremeditated air that stunk of calculation. "They were — what's the term? — bosom buddies." He appraised McGonagall again, but the glint in his eyes was stranger, darker, and reminded Draco uncomfortably of his father. "So either Minerva is losing her memory in old age or —"

"— she is trying to play us for fools. Tell us, Minerva, what you are dying to reveal."

McGonagall deliberated, and Draco could tell that she was hesitating over telling his ancestors anything. He was just about to interrupt — for some reason, he didn't want the information about Hermione to get around — when she finally spoke, quelling his urge to speak with her famous reprimanding glare.

"Last week, I learned something very unsettling." She pursed her lips, eyes faraway. "Hermione Dumbledore was not a Dumbledore at all. She is a Muggleborn witch, one of my students, who was transported through time to our seventh year."

"Muggleborn?"

Cygnus spared a brief glare through his frame at Abraxas before his dark eyes returned to McGonagall probingly. "She wore the Dumbledore ring."

Abraxas, who had been near to hyperventilating in his portrait, calmed just as quickly. He smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in his robes, superior smirk back in place. "Ah, yes. So even if she was a Muggleborn, which I sincerely doubt" — McGonagall and Cygnus rolled their eyes in tandem — "then the ring proves she was a Dumbledore. And a Pureblood." He added with a tip of his head.

Was he that obnoxious? Draco wondered, eyeing the portrait with well-hidden distaste. He'd have to ask Hermione when she came back. She'd tell him the truth.

If she came back.

The thought brought him round to why they were in his Auror monitored home talking to two bickering portraits in the first place. Cygnus and Abraxas were two of the three who had last seen Hermione before she disappeared — and since one of the three was dead for good this time and had no portrait that they knew of they were left with his grandfathers.

His Slytherin grandfathers, who had defined the words conniving, sneaky, and superior in life and now death, and lived and breathed the words information is power.

It might be harder than McGonagall thought to get the information they wanted from them if the looks on their faces were anything to go by.

"Her blood status does not matter —"

Potter cut through McGonagall's words. "What ring are you talking about? Hermione doesn't wear jewelry."

Draco was the only one who saw the reproachful look little Weaselette sent him.

So Potty's girlfriend was jealous.

The thought satisfied him immensely.

"She did in our time," said Cygnus, lip curling at the boy. "Like any worthy Pureblood witch, she wore the finest of jewels, some given as gifts" — here, he cast his eyes to the other portrait studiously avoiding anyone's eye, living and dead — "and carried herself as the epitome of a Slytherin witch." Looking at Draco, he raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why you were not betrothed to the girl? If she is who Minerva says she is?"

Face going distinctly pink in the face of his grandfather's cool wrath, Draco tried desperately to get past his humiliation of the question so he could answer.

And further humiliated himself.

"Now, Cygnus," said McGonagall, and even though he was thankful for the reprieve of humiliating himself, he didn't especially like the teasing note in his professor's voice. Didn't she say earlier that Cygnus Black didn't want Hermione being friends with her? "You didn't answer the boy's question. Hermione was wearing the Dumbledore ring?"

Abraxas smirked haughtily. "It figures a witch of your… caliber wouldn't recognize a unus pactus ring."

Draco's jaw dropped so quickly he was amazed it didn't hit the floor with a thud.

"She — Hermione —" He shook his head disbelievingly, the words not registering in his brain. "Hermione?"

McGonagall was similarly dumbstruck, hand clasping at her neck in shock. "But Albus said it was a signet ring. He did not say it was the Dumbledore unus pactus ring."

"For some of the older families it is one in the same, Minerva," said Cygnus, his expression almost pitying as he looked at the stunned witch. "It is not surprising that the signet ring was an unus pactus ring since the Dumbledore family are known to have only a few witches in their line."

Ignoring Potter and Weasley's significant looks at one another, Draco closed his eyes as a horde of Bludgers used his chest as target practice. He didn't care if these people saw him at his worst. He knew even Lucius Malfoy would probably faint at the implications of what he had just heard. He used his father's desk as a stabilizer, hair in disarray from combing his hand through it. Somehow, he was unbelieving and yet insanely hopeful as he looked up at the portraits. "Did it take to her? The ring?"

"It was on her finger at the Sorting," Cygnus said with a nod at him. He felt a part of himself deflate at the words while the other half had already started planning to use the information to his advantage. He didn't know which was worse.

Potter looked over at him, exasperation clear in his eyes. "What is an unus pactus ring? I know my Latin is a little weak, but it sounds like a betrothal ring."

Abraxas nodded at him. "It was originally a betrothal ring for unwed witches of Pureblood families. It signified the witch was unmarried and looking for suitors. It was an old tradition that was outdated even in the 40's, and usually only used for witches who had troubles finding a suitor — which was why it was so strange to see Hermione wearing one." He finished on an odd note, eyes distant, as if old memories were being remembered.

Cygnus rolled his eyes at the long pause and continued for the ones who didn't know the significance the ring held. "However, as with all things Old Magic, the rings developed over time, taking on power from the many witches who wore it. The power varied with the power of the witch and the family she belonged to. Therefore, if a Pureblood family with little to no magical power had a ring, it would not be much use to the witch who inherited it unless she had powerful magic herself. Likewise, a witch with much power and with a strong family background wore the ring —"

"It would enhance her magic to an extreme degree," Abraxas said solemnly.

"Yes. And with Hermione's considerable power combined with the Dumbledore unus pactus ring —"

"It elevated her to the likes of Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Cygnus glared at Abraxas for interrupting him the second time and his tone was sharp when he continued. "When she used it, that is. Some witches were able to control the power that the unus pactus ring output and it would only have a minimum impact on her magic. On others it was a constant enhancer that made their magic uncontrollable. One minute she would be able to cast the hardest of magic, and the next she could barely cast a Lumos. It was one of the reasons they were so outdated within Pureblood families, even the weakest. They did not want their witches almost as weak as squibs, only able to do the simplest magic. Hermione, however —"

"Was magnificent."

"But she's still a Muggleborn," Ginny said with a frown on her freckled face. "Not a Dumbledore."

Cygnus, distracted from berating Abraxas for interrupting a third time, wrinkled his nose at the witch's tone before looking at her like the ignorant girl she was. "The ring was made with Old Magic," he said, condescension coating every word. Ron bristled indignantly. "It would accept any worthy witch regardless of blood-status according to the family's code. If she had put on, say, the Malfoy family unus pactus ring, it most likely would not have accepted her, but since the Dumbledore ring accepted her and her magic, it made her into a Pureblood."

"It would be as if she had been born into the family," McGonagall elaborated when Ron Weasley still looked confused. Probably didn't understand half of what his ancestors had said.

The thought almost pulled him out of the shock he was in. Almost.

Because there was one thing about the unus pactus ring that his ancestors had left out.

"The ring also attracts wizards worthy of the witch wearing it," he said quietly when the silence extended and neither of his grandfathers continued with the most terrifying bit. At least, terrifying for him. For Hermione.

For the world.

Potter narrowed his eyes at him as the shocked air of the room turned into horror for the still-alive people inside his father's study who were still getting over the war they just won.

"What do you mean?"

Abraxas huffed impatiently. "It means, young man, that the ring attracts worthy wizards to her."

"Yes, I got that, thanks," Potter sneered at the portrait. "But what kind of worthy —" He stopped, his eyes going wide as he finally comprehended why McGonagall's lips were pressed so tightly together and Draco was having a hard time breathing.

"Magical strength, intelligence, blood purity." Abraxas counted off with his fingers, unaware or in ignorance of the terror permeating the room. "Sometimes gold, depending on the family. The ring attracts the wizards most likely to help bear strong heirs."

"Heirs?"

Ron Weasley fell to the floor in a dead faint.

Cygnus stared as the truth penetrated his brain. "You're attracted to her, aren't you?"

Tom started, then scoffed at the audacious wizard. "No. Of course not."

"Tom," started Cygnus seriously, frowning at him, "in all seven years of knowing you, you've never asked me about a witch. The one time you have asked me about one, she was already dead. So, what is it? What has her twisting your knickers so much that you'll threaten me?"

He narrowed his eyes, the shadows of the torch-lit hallway obscuring half his face in shadows. "You presume too much, Cygnus. I suggest you stop before your little secret becomes public knowledge."

Glaring, the wizard crossed his arms. "She's my friend, Tom. I like her as a friend, nothing more."

"Good," he said, the word clipped and coated with resentment and something deeper, indefinable, and all-together too dark for the other wizard's taste. "Make sure it stays that way, will you?"

Cygnus watched as the black robes of the Head Boy disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone in a dark and secluded corridor with his warring thoughts.