Against the Tide

Draco did not have a great summer. He had sent his sister to her friend, Alyson Yoeman's, for the summer. He received and wrote weekly letters with her. She had had the best summer of her life; the Yoemans did fun things together and didn't argue much. It was a much better summer than if she had remained at the Manor, what with Narcissa moping about, crying out about her allowance, and Lucius's death, and her wasted youth. Draco could not stomach it, and he was an adult. There was no way that Sammie could have.

He was slowly working to put the Malfoy fortune to rights. He had invested heavily in the Daily Prophet, silently of course, and it was showing an immediate profit. It also allowed him to advertise Malfoy products- something his father had refused to do- for free; other Malfoy holdings were starting to improve the bottom line.

He was looking towards the Muggle markets. Something called an internet showed excellent potential, and he had invested a bit in a few companies; nothing exceptional, but he knew nothing about these enterprises, except they showed remarkable profits. When he returned to school in September he would have no access to information on these markets, so he kept his investments light.

The main problem with his summer was not the business, nor his mother, nor the absence of his sister. The problem was the lack of absence of Death Eaters. Somehow, over the school year, Narcissa had allowed Lord Voldemort to use the Manor as a stop on the Evilpersons Floo Network, as he dubbed it. All sorts of hideous people, many of them simply repulsive people Draco would not consort with under any circumstances, found their way to the Manor door. Draco couldn't very well tell them to piss off, as he was technically a Death Eater himself.

Lord Voldemort had taken an active interest in him, now that Pansy Parkinson had been expelled from Hogwarts for the death of his father. It didn't surprise Draco that he should be the target; all last year, he had 'ingratiated' himself to Potter, Granger, and to a lesser degree, Weasley. Unfortunately for Voldemort, he had actually become their ally, if not their friend. Voldemort asked him to continue the spying, but to step up the recruitment of lil' Death Eaters. Draco assured him he would do him best; privately, he sneered at the assumption that he would do anything anyone told him. It still chaffed that Weasley had insisted Draco work through him.

It was worse though. The Death Eaters whom he did not shun were constantly teaching him, encouraging him, and tutoring him, in the ways of Dark Magic. It was impossible not to enjoy it. It was impossible not to understand the power he could gain. It was impossible not to give into his own ambition. It was easy, though, to tell himself he wouldn't use the Dark Arts for his own benefit, that he could use the knowledge to help others. He told himself that he was a good person now, he'd made his choice on the battlefield, and it had been for good reasons.

He was going to bring about massive change in the community through democracy and free enterprise. He had already boosted the production of the Malfoy goods, simply by implementing new technologies; cost and time effective technologies that lowered the prices of cauldron, weights and measures, robes and cloaks. He was working hard, not only for the benefit of the Malfoy family, but also for the benefit of the community. And he was only seventeen; why hadn't businesspeople been doing this for years?

But no matter what he told himself, he could feel the Dark Arts insinuating themselves into his soul. Like a snake, the power that they awarded him twined its way through his subconscious, until every thought was consumed by the urged to use it. He was trying as hard as he could, but he couldn't hold out forever. He learned Dark Art after Dark Art; all the while pretending it was just a lark, pretending he found it amusing to learn new things. He had felt his inner Slytherin chipping away at the new Draco, the progressive and liberal Draco. The live and let live Draco was slowly fading.

It wasn't that he was going over to Voldemort. Draco knew that was not going to happen again. Instead, he felt himself want to escape Voldemort and his family. They laughed at his articles and editorials, thinking he was merely currying support from the unwashed mob. Perhaps that was how it had started, but that wasn't how it was any more. They thought it was easy to swing a group on a pendulum, but none of them could do it. They just weren't good enough. Draco had a gift- he could write and make people listen! He promised democracy, and the people wanted democracy- especially the unqualified wizards and witches, the warlocks, and the hags. Draco wasn't sure how he felt about that, though.

The Ministry was already deferring attacks of corruption and ineffectiveness. Critics and rivals claimed an elected government would be better suited to run the nation. Draco knew change couldn't happen fast enough, if he wanted to recoup the family fortune on time. He knew that the Ministry as it was couldn't hope to defeat the Dark Lord- he knew, though, that the Ministry wasn't really spearheading the effort, but another group, one he didn't know (though he could guess who was leading them). And more importantly was the fact that democracy couldn't come soon enough, because it was already too late to save his generation. But it damn well would save his sisters.

And still the Death Eaters laughed at him, at his true goal, thought it a lark to give people hope. Well, of course they did; they had no hope themselves, nothing worthwhile, or they wouldn't be Death Eaters. They wouldn't have sold their souls to the Dark Lord if they had been able to make it on their own, and they laughed at the masses- the unwashed, which had no opportunities like the purebloods did. Draco was glad he wasn't really one of them anymore, because even if he looked it and acted it, he had a higher purpose.

He was going to destroy the Dark Lord, bring a bit of hope to the nation, recoup his family fortunes, and do it smiling.

The movement for democratic change was proceeding quickly- much more rapidly than he had anticipated. In the first week of holidays, he'd been invited to a meeting at the Hogs Head, where a small group of 'progressive' people was meeting to discuss how best to advance the movement. Draco arrived early, dressed in his blackest robes and cloak, with the hood drawn over his face, even though it was a clear evening. He informed the bartender that he was there for a meeting, and the man- rather uppity for a mere barkeep- simply shifted his gaze towards the stairs and whispered, "third door on the right." The patrons in the bar, none of them reputable, watched Draco closely as he climbed the rickety stairs.

Draco pulled down his hood- he didn't want to look an idiot, after all, but really! The Hogs Head?- and knocked on the door. Professor Dumbledore pulled it open.

"Delighted you could come," the old man smiled. "Miss Granger should be here soon, and we will all be accounted for."

Draco cursed himself- he should have realized Hermione would be invited as well. After all, when the term progressive came up, no one came to mind faster than Hermione Granger. Sitting in the corner of the room, hoping to be lost in shadow, Draco steeled himself for her arrival. Unfortunately, people kept coming over to congratulate him on his articles.

"Truly remarkable, young man," some old, old, old man had wheezed.

"Not too many young people want to become involved. So nice to meet you, dearie," a decidedly middle-aged witch said.

When Hermione did show up, she arrived with a young wizard Draco didn't know. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes and a paleness that spoke to many days spent inside and harried. The man, on the other hand, was the picture of health (and good looks, if Draco was honest), and perched himself right beside Hermione, until he got up- without being asked- and retrieved Hermione a glass of juice. Draco was horrified to see more people go up to shake his hand then had bothered to even glance his way.

"Shall we begin, then?" Dumbledore asked. When no one objected, he sat in a conjured chintz armchair, and began to speak. "This meeting has been called to establish a committee, dedicated to the establishment of a democratic government, here in Britain."

"Hear, hear!"

"We'll begin with introductions," Dumbledore continued, inclining his head slightly at the woman who had spoken out.

"Arabella Figg. I'm here because I want to see improvements in our community. I was a member of the now-defunct group, People for Change, in the sixties," the woman said, starting it off.

There were nearly twenty people in the room, but Draco only heard two announcements. Hermione's, who detailed her work with S.P.E.W. and the Hornblower, and the man beside her. His name was Miles Smart, and he was in intelligence gathering- blah blah blah. Worse, though, he was a Mudblood, and his father was a Member of Parliament in the Muggle world, and he had worked as an intern in Parliament when he was a teenager- "although, my only responsibility was to retrieve fresh coffee," he had said with a laugh. A smug laugh. Then he'd smiled right at Draco, and he'd nearly Cursed the obnoxious bastards face off. Especially after a pause, when he'd raised his eyebrows, and Draco realized that was his cue to speak.

"Draco Malfoy," he'd begun, after clearing his throat. "Uh... I wasn't around in the sixties... I write for the Hornblower-" At that, he was cut off by the applause- led by sodding Miles!

"Everyone is quite aware of what you've done, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "Your articles are the reason we're reorganizing."

After that, though, the meeting did not go well for Draco. He'd had no idea what it would take- the sheer amount of organization, communication, and publicity that would be needed blew his mind. And that said nothing for the policy development that would be required, and was already being argued over. Once it became clear that Dumbledore would not end debate over an issue- that he could have done by merely stating what his opinion was- the meeting nearly became a free-for-all. The meeting may have been about seeking reforms, but it seemed no one was prepared to budge from their beliefs.

It was odd for Draco, sitting there. They were arguing over Republics, and Constitutional Governments, and he hardly knew what each was. He could see the amount of research he'd need to do was daunting. Moreover, some claimed the Wizengamot should be reformed and placed under the government, while others argued that it should be reformed and the government be placed under it. Even Hermione, who had been active at the beginning of the debate, had quite speaking, looking more and more confused. Miles didn't though; in fact, he seemed completely comfortable.

"Once there is a Constitution, the Wizengamot and the lower courts should be in charge of upholding it. They aren't elected, so they can be more impartial," the ass said. Open your mouth further, jerk-off, and I'll brain you...

"That's very idealistic, boy, but then you have an unelected body dictating to the elected representatives of the people. That is not our objective," some wonderfully insightful old man said.

"Yes, but-" the ass began, but Dumbledore stood, cutting him off.

"I do apologize, but it is nearing midnight and we must end this soon. I suggest we meet here again next week, same time?" At that, Draco dodged out of the room, refusing to speak to Hermione, even though she called out to him.

Draco returned to Malfoy Manor and, after a few hours of sleep, went to the Muggle Public Library, where he stayed, studying and taking notes, memorizing little snippets, for nearly a week.

He was prepared for the next meeting. He'd wiped the floor with Miles, and had- well, not forced, exactly, but he certainly coerced (with his part-ownership of the Prophet) people to agree with him. By the end of the summer, while he didn't win every argument, he was more than satisfied. The group, still with no name, had agreed on several principles- a constitution, protecting the rights of every citizen; a franchise for voting, which included every qualified witch and wizard, regardless of birth status; a three-part government, with executive, legislative and judicial branches.

Draco was particularly proud of his participation in the debate on the Wizengamot, where he- and those he agreed with- got everything they wanted; the Wizengamot would be appointed for life, with each member also serving as a member of another court (family, contract, criminal, civil). It all seemed fair. It had all been a lot of work. When he returned from meetings, he always thought, finally!, he was ready for the Death Eaters. Finally, they would have no control over him. Finally, he'd stop thinking, dreaming about the Dark Arts.

It never happened, though, because he always crumbled. It never worked, and even if he didn't dream of the Dark Arts and managed to behave himself during the day, he'd just stay up all night, thinking of Hermione. Of Hermione, and how close she was to Miles; by the end of summer, he'd have been an idiot to hope that they weren't together. And by the end of summer, most dreams and thoughts about the Dark Arts centered around hurting Miles.

It just wasn't fair!

It was a miracle he had returned to Hogwarts in one piece and with a full head of hair. The Prefect meeting on the Hogwarts Express had been torture; Hermione and Weasley had been there. Weasley looked normal, like a giant- Draco thought he had grown even taller over the summer, and he looked burlier than ever. Hermione hadn't looked very well; pale and thin, she looked like a shell of vibrancy. But it didn't matter, because she still had a spark about her that drew Draco more than any Art could. All he wanted was to touch her, but that was clearly not allowed.

Later, he had sat with the returning Slytherin's. It amazed Draco that Dumbledore would allow certain of his Housemates, like Crabbe and Goyle or Millicent Bulstrode to return, but he chalked it up to the ever-accepting patron that was Dumbledore. Morag had been quiet, something which was immediately suspect. Rufus Ratstamper, who had also dated Morag, was a glowing tan and chatted incessantly about the girls in Bora Bora, which was a heathen island nation, somewhere in the South Pacific.

Tobias Trubble stood up around three o'clock and ordered Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent and Tracey out of the compartment, claiming he had something he needed to speak about. Usually, if someone had ordered that group around, Draco and/or Pansy would have been included and would have refused. Now, however, they had no choice and left quietly.

"Tobe?" Rufus asked. "What is it, then?"

Tobias cast an anti-eavesdropping Charm on the door and sat down. "Well, I think we should discuss June's attack, and the activities over the summer." The attacks over the summer had been particularly violent; Draco should know, as several of the victims had ended up in his graveyard of dungeons.

"Why'd you order them all out, then?" asked Daphne. The others looked at her questioningly and she became defensive. "Hey! I support the Dark Lord as well!"

"No you don't, Daph," Morag said, softly. She and Blaise placed their heads on Daphne's shoulders. "You just say that to keep Tracey off your back. We all know that. We understand; she's your best friend." Daphne looked close to tears.

"I'm so scared..." she said, squinting her eyes to keep the sob in and ducking into Morag's neck.

"We know. We are too," Tobias said. "That's why we need to talk about it, and decide what we as seventh-year Slytherins, are going to do. We'll exclude the others, they're useless anyways." Everyone nodded; without Draco or Pansy, the extremists could not function. Draco had actually thought that Tobias might chose that side, with the chance to lead, but his father and grandfather had died in an attack that summer.

"Well need to curry support from the sixth- and fifth-years," Morag said

"Is that necessary?" Rufus asked with typical Slytherin disdain of enlisting help from those below him. Those below you were there to be forced to obey. "I mean, their little, and useless. They aren't like us... they don't understand the situation. They all find it a lark to have civil war while they're safe at school."

"Tracey and Millicent aren't completely stupid, though, Rufus," Blaise replied quietly, flushing a bit when everyone looked at her. "They know what we're doing, and if we don't gather popular support, we're screwed. They'll make those fools feel important- 'Bring down Malfoys and Trubbles and Zabinis!'- That's what they'll draw them with. We'll be exterminated."

"So what will we do?" Daphne asked.

"We ensure Voldemort can gather no further support. We know that some Slytherin students are Death Eaters children and sympathizers, but there's no reason why any further supporters should be garnered from a House we can control," Morag said. She seemed to be very serious on this topic. Most of them were. "We have to be sure that Voldemort finds himself cut off from a supply of replacement followers. The older Death Eaters are being rounded up; he'll need new converts, and Slytherin House is the best place to find qualified, ambitious pupils."

"Voldemort isn't going to like us interfering," Daphne said.

"That's got nothing to do with anything," Draco said, finally speaking. "Our only concern is that we succeed."

Immediately after, so as not to arouse suspicion, Draco stormed out of the compartment. His classmates were sitting in the compartment across the row, with the door open. "They're mad!" Draco proclaimed and continued down the train until he found the compartment Harry, Weasley and Hermione were in. They were sharing with Neville and Potter's girlfriend, Ginny.

"Weasley," Draco said, pointing at Ron, "I need to speak to you." Weasley shot a quick glance at Hermione and Harry, both of whom shrugged. Nice. Draco turned from the compartment and found one empty, three down.

"Malfoy?" Weasley asked as Draco placed an anti-eavesdropping Charm on the compartment.

"I've something to tell the Order," Draco said. Weasley sighed.

"We do trust you now, you know? It isn't necessary for you to come through me all the time."

Draco paused before answering. He hated playing this role, hated walking such a fine line. It was difficult; last year had been mildly stressful, while this year promised to be pure hell. "What ever happens, Weasley, don't trust me until I tell you to. I don't trust myself now." Ron looked at him questioningly, but Draco did not expand. "Some seventh-year Slytherins have decided to stop Voldemort from gaining new converts."

Now Weasley looked interested. "Who?"

"Myself, Morag, Rufus, Tobias, Blaise and Daphne," Draco listed.

"Blaise?" Ron demanded. Merlin! Not now, Weasley. "That's really dangerous, Malfoy. Blaise shouldn't be involved."

"Oh, but I can, and Morag can, and Rufus, Tobias and Daphne? Weasley, living at Hogwarts seems to be fairly dangerous, and being a witch or wizard seems fairly dangerous. Blocking the recruitment efforts of a group of deranged killers seems proactive. It's more dangerous not to suppress his support."

"Why shouldn't we trust you?" Ron asked, dodging Draco's statement.

"None of your business. I wanted to tell you what we were doing. You'll inform the proper channels?"

"Malfoy," Weasley sighed, exasperatedly. "The 'proper channels' is Dumbledore. You could do that yourself."

"Well, maybe I just like to see your pretty face, Weasley. Did you think of that?"

"You're leaving first, Malfoy," Weasley replied, pushing him from the compartment.

"Oh, I should've guessed you'd like it rough."

***

It had been a good summer for Hermione. She may not have gained a tan, or gained any extra weight- in fact, she had dropped another bit- but she had contributed to the war effort as no one could have expected. Maybe not exactly a great summer, but not a horrible one, except for how many people died, and all the problems she had, and every other thing that had happened. But other than all that, it had been a brilliant summer.

When she had arrived home with her parents she had gone straight to sleep. She had woken, showered, ate, and then announced to her parents that she would be returning to Headquarters. They had argued, refused, forbade, pleaded- anything to keep her at home.

They missed her; she missed them. They hadn't been together for more than a few days since the summer of her fourth year, and she couldn't believe how odd it had seemed, thinking of her room, and her bed, and her home.

It had seemed as if she were stealing from a different girl- a girl who had no idea of what being a witch today meant, no clue what would be forced from her, asked of her. A girl who had all the answers; a girl she missed desperately and barely recognized.

It was more though. Before the attack, she had decided that she did so much for the cause that she could use her Time-Turner when she needed too. After all, she hadn't hurt anyone; she had only helped the people. The Hogwarts Hornblower, S.P.E.W., translating the scrolls hoping to find a counter to the Killing Curse, tutoring the younger kids in Defense, and patrolling the halls. When schoolwork and studying was added to that, it was quite unmanageable without help.

But then she had killed Lucius Malfoy, with a Dark curse, and she no longer deserved the slavish acclaim of her community. She was a murderer, no matter the pretty cover-up that had been instigated on her behalf. And she was grateful... grateful enough to sacrifice any semblance of familial love to fight for her society- the same society she should be cast away from, since she had destroyed Lucius Malfoy.

She didn't explain any of this to her parents, though, and had left after lunch, having packed her things and caught Muggle transport to Charing Cross Road, where she entered the magical world through the Leaky Cauldron. She needed a new wand.

"Ah, Ms. Granger," Ollivander said as she entered his little shop. "I was told I would see you. Your wand snapped in battle, did it not?" Deciding not to enlighten the kind man, Hermione merely nodded. "That is shocking, elm is very strong. I've never heard of an elm wand snapping without intention." The old man's eyebrows were raised suggestively high, and Hermione began to squirm. However, before she could admit to anything, he turned towards his selection of wands.

"Its very difficult to place a child to a wand, harder still to match an adult to one," he said, pulling boxes of shelves. "But most difficult is matching a young adult- yes, as they always manage to hide who they are, without yet knowing what they are disguising. Makes it very difficult to guess."

Hermione continued to try out every wand in the shop. Indeed, it seemed Ollivander had no idea how to match her. He had begun to ask her questions. "Are you patient, Ms. Granger?"
"I'm beginning to have my doubts," Hermione said, eyeing the ever-growing stack of non-matching wands.

"Indeed?" Ollivander removed a wand from the stack. "Try this... no? How exciting! Are you optimistic?"

Er- I'm not sure," Hermione said. "Do most adults know things like that?"

"Oh, yes. Especially if they are old enough to be introspective," he said. "Usually that happens at eighty, or so."

"Well, I'm only sixteen. I don't know if I am."

"Perhaps not. Try this," Ollivander said, handing her a long, thin wand. "Maple and dragon heartstrings, thirteen inches."

"No," Hermione sighed, almost immediately. "So, how's business?"

"Oh, good. However, I haven't a wand for you, Ms. Granger."

"What? Why not?"

"I simply haven't a wand for you. You'll have to go elsewhere."

"There's somewhere else? I thought you were it, Mr. Ollivander."

"Oh, no, my dear. However, I do have the very best wands," the man said with pride.

"So, I'm to have a shoddy, second-best wand, which'll do me no good?" Hermione said with a hint of panic. "Don't you understand that's not a good idea for me? Do you know who my best friend is? Harry Potter!- without a good wand, I'll be dead before I return to school!"

"My dear, you just go over to my brothers shop. He'll have a wand for you, I'm sure."

"Oh, your brother. That was just a bit of brotherly rivalry?"

"Yes," he said, smiling. "Here are the directions," he continued, handing Hermione a slip of parchment.

"Knockturn Alley? I- no! You must have missed a wand!" When the old man shook his head, Hermione really did begin to panic. "At least lend me one, so as I can bluff those lunatics!" He smiled and handed her the shortest, thickest, most useless looking wand possible.

"Hurry back with that, though," he said. "It hasn't a center yet."

Believing herself mad- she should wait for someone she knew, someone with a working wand- Hermione crawled her way toward Knockturn Alley. She'd never been, but she'd heard stories. And just before she entered the lane, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, salvation!

Running into the twin's store, she ducked her head as something 'popped' very loudly, and very close to her head.

"Hermione!" Fred shouted. "Good to see you. What are you looking for?" he asked, rushing over to Hermione.

"An escort to Knockturn Alley," she said. Quickly, she explained.

"Hmm. Well, yes, you certainly do need an escort. A brave and gallant knight, unswerving in his dedication to beautiful ladies, with the heart of a lion!" Fred spoke each credit more valiantly than before. "Let me go get George, then?"

A minute later, George had appeared to take her to Knockturn Alley. "Fred's gone off the pot, lately. Honestly, he's a kitten, skitting at nothing."

"Maybe Knockturn Alley isn't such an adventure now that you can go any time you like?" Hermione suggested.

"Er- well, to be honest- and I'm a bit embarrassed to admit this-" George rubbed his neck, "We haven't really been to Knockturn Alley." When he saw Hermione's horrified look, he continued. "We've meant to, honest! But there's never been the time, and really, there's never been the need. Dung gets us anything- questionable that we might need."

And Hermione found herself laughing as she entered Knockturn Alley. Ollivander's was easy to find, and quite close to the entrance, nearly as if it tried to remain respectable. Entering, though, there was no bell sounding, and the air was thicker with dust than his brother's shop, and the windows were dirty, causing the interior to be dark.

"Hello..." an older man, probably the other Ollivander's twin, said as he entered the public area and stopped short. "Surely not... Are you a Weasley? In my shop?" The man seemed delighted.

"Er- yeah. I'm with her, though. Her wand snapped at school, and your brother hadn't a replacement," George said, a little embarrassed.

"Oh," the little man said, disappointed. "I thought maybe... never mind. Your name, girl?" he demanded, not that he seemed particularly interested.

"Hermione Granger, sir," she replied, feeling unaccountably cowed by the elderly man.

"Granger? One of the Grangers?" The man seemed absolutely excited to serve a Granger, even more so than when he'd thought George had sought him out.

Hermione nodded.

"Well, of course my brother hadn't a wand for you. Silly man, probably stuck you with a useless wand in the first place."

"Oh, no, it worked quite well," Hermione swore.

"Did it, girl?" the man asked, pressing his face close to hers, across the cabinet. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

"Well, yes. I managed everything with it. Even some of the hardest Charms and Transfigurations imaginable."

"She did," George backed her up. "The wand worked well."

"Oh, yes, I expect it was elm and unicorn hair, was it?"

"Well, yes it was," Hermione admitted, wondering if this Ollivander knew every wand the other Ollivander had sold, as well. Maybe they still lived together, and had lots of cats.

"Well, there you go, girl. Elm and unicorn hair is what you give those you can't place."

George looked at the man oddly, and then turned to Hermione. "Would have expected you to know that, Hermione."

"Shut it, you," Hermione answered, very unhappy. She turned to Ollivander. "I liked that wand very much. It never acted up, always did as it was told, and know your telling me I only came to own it because nothing else would have me?"

"No, nothing my brother made would have you. I, however, make very different wands," the man said in a very quiet, calm and sinister voice. "Now then," he continued, returning to normal as if he hadn't just resembled a lunatic, "I'll just measure you, and ask a few questions..."

The questions were not like the other Ollivander had asked. This Ollivander asked if she'd ever been bitten by a Werewolf or Vampire, breathed on by a Nundu, or stung by a Manticore.

"Er- no, but I did receive a nasty sting from a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Hermione said. It reminded her of Hagrid; how odd that the damn creature should make her long.

"What's that?" Ollivander asked.

"A mix of a Manticore and a Fire Crab," George supplied. "Nasty things."

"Shouldn't make a difference. Try this," he said, handing Hermione a wand. "Rowan and unicorn hair, nice for transfigurations."

"No," Hermione said after brandishing it with minimal effect.

"Oak and phoenix feather, ten and a half inches."

"No."

And on it went, for nearly fifteen minutes. "Mahogany and dragon heartstrings?"

"No."

"Willow and unicorn hair?"

"No."

"Oak and dragon heartstrings?"

"N- wait..." Hermione said, a dreamy feeling encompassing her. She felt wonderful as she grasped the wand in her hand, as if she were meeting her best friend in the world after a very long absence. "Yes, this is it," she cried, without even casting a spell.

"Excellent. That'll be forty-eight Galleons, four sickles."

"Right- wait, what? I haven't that much money!"

Ollivander reached to retrieve the wand, but George smacked a large moneybag onto the cabinet. "Keep the change," he said, as he pushed Hermione out the door. After it shut behind them, he continued to propel Hermione out of Knockturn Alley. "That man is mad," he shouted.

"Yes, well there's always one evil twin, isn't there?" Hermione asked as they entered Diagon Alley.

George looked down at her with a wolfish grin. "Unless there's two," he laughed. "You definitely owe me some ice cream, I think."

George took her to Grimmauld Place, in Whitechapel, after their ice cream, but left her at the turn, promising to see her later. Walking up the ugly old street with its ugly old homes, Hermione thought of turning around and returning to the lovely home her parents had made. But white picket fences with daisies and roses seemed a sin when the world was hanging in limbo and one persons' work was desperately needed.

Tonks had answered the door and had not been surprised. "Heard what really happened. I expected you to come," she said simply.

"Does everyone know I'm a murderer?" Hermione asked, horrified at the mental image of her, not Pansy, in Azkaban. And the idea of Pansy in Azkaban for something she had done was horrifying enough.

"You are not a murderer, Hermione! You're just a kid who was pushed into doing what you did. No one judges what you did. We only judged the circumstances of why you did it."

"I'm a murderer," Hermione pleaded, unsure as to why she needed it repeated. No one would admit it, as if they all walked around on eggshells, lest she kill them too. Everyone told her it wasn't her fault. It was Pansy's, or Lucius's, or Voldemort's. Anyone but good little Hermione.

No one seemed to mind her around though, which was odd. She had assumed they'd shut her off into the attic, with Kreacher, to do her work, but everyone was genuinely happy to see her. Even professors O'Neill and McGonagall, whom she'd seen just the day before, enthusiastically welcomed her. Tea and biscuits were produced, and the older Order members explained what she could do.

For two weeks she translated scrolls (continuing her work on the Killing Curse), sorted and examined intelligence, and ensured that every member was accounted for at every moment. She helped Moody and Dung coordinate the surveillance on Harry; she made sure the Hogwarts letters were sent out to new first years; she produced a fake- but realistic- smile whenever an exhausted member returned to give a report or update. She went to meetings, working for democracy; horrible meetings where she couldn't manage to speak, for fear Draco would notice her and scream that she had killed his father.

She couldn't figure out why, if she needed people to acknowledge what she had done, she was so scared they would.

But, for two weeks, life had actually been good. While she hadn't any time to laze about, she had plenty of sleep and did so much work in the cozy kitchen that she was well fed. She was beginning to feel that while she deserved to be in Azkaban, maybe she could redeem herself outside of the prison.

There was plenty to distract her from such thoughts though; the world really was under attack from the inside out. The Death Eaters had begun an international campaign- nearly 150 people were killed a week. The Auror's College would accept anyone into its 'enlisted' ranks what passed a loyalty test and the entrance exam. All the same, they couldn't replace the ones they lost. The world was in a panic, and the Order was the glue that managed to hold it together.

Then, disaster struck.

She had been in the kitchen with Fred, George and Charlie- who was waiting for Tonks- when Professor Gryffindor had burst into the room. Gryffindor hadn't been to Headquarters since the beginning of summer- O'Neill said she hated the house, having spent five years inside it, learning the Dark Arts from Mistress Black.

"Heyo," she called breezily, with a murderous look on her face. She marched to Kreachers' cupboard and swung out savagely with her foot. "Kreacher! You foul little excuse!" she cried. "Get out here, now!" The demanding tone she produced produced Kreacher post haste. The poor House Elf rushed into the kitchen proper and, catching sight of Gryffindor, assumed a deep bow. "Get up!" Gryffindor screamed, kicking out again.

The blow sent Kreacher straight into Hermione's arms, and she cradled the poor thing. "Professor, really! What are you thinking, treating Kreacher like th- oh! He bit me!" she cried, throwing the Elf back to the ground.

"You'll want that checked, in case any Death Eater gets into your system, Hermione," Gryffindor said quietly. Her voice was in a rage, her cheeks were red, and her belly was protruding from the t-shirt she wore. "You see, Kreacher has been going to Malfoy Manor all year, where several Death Eaters have been staying. It seems that he has, in a round about way, allowed the Death Eaters to discover our location."

Hermione gasped. Fred, George and Charlie gasped as well.

"Well?" Professor Gryffindor said exasperated. "Go pack, Granger. We have to clear this place out."

"Where will we go?" Hermione asked, but Professor Gryffindor was already stalking out of the room with Charlie, speaking in hush tones. Hermione turned to the twins. "Help me?"

And so the easy life at 12 Grimmauld Place had ended. They had retreated to a Liverpool location, but had only remained for a few days before withdrawing for security reasons. After Liverpool it was Oxford for two days and then Penzance for nearly a week. And it continued while Dumbledore tried to find a permanent, secure location to reestablish Headquarters.

Hermione was proclaimed 'summer staff' of the Order of the Phoenix, not a member but nearly. She examined the security risks and benefits of whatever location had been scouted. Once it had been the Orkneys, another time it had been Wales. After a location was chosen, Hermione was in charge of setting up communications. Mrs. Diggory, in charge of housekeeping, and two young men, Jonas Grasshopper, in charge of security, and Miles Smart, in charge of intelligence, also traveled with her.

At the end of July, Dumbledore gave her a few days 'vacation'. She had returned to her parent's home for a day and visited them- she told them nothing, but they were Squibs, after all. There was no need to alarm them. On the 31^st, Harry's birthday, she attended Neville's ceremony and she had cried, thinking of all Neville had accomplished. After they went to a pub in the Muggle world, and after congratulating Neville on his award, she wished Harry a happy birthday.

"Wonderful, Harry! Another year, and your still alive," she said happily. "Not very good when that's a big accomplishment, but-"

"Hermione, have you been drinking?" Harry asked as he gripped her shoulders.

"No!" Hermione answered, horrified. Then she burst out laughing. "Shh! Don't tell Ron, he'll go mental. Morag and Blaise have been buying me drinks all night."

She'd needed the alcohol, too- but who knew drinking was so nice? Draco wouldn't stop staring at her, and the blonde boy seemed to get angrier as the night went on. Hermione assumed that the audience was the only thing keeping him for starting a row with her. The conversation very soon turned to the June attacks. The idea that the Death Eaters had retreated to easily, at a time when they were actually doing very well, was discussed at length and very quietly in the pub into the earlier dawn.

After that night, Hermione spent one more day with her parents. They were upset by everything: how late she'd returned; that she'd been drinking; that she'd been at a seedy pub in Kennington; that she'd been wearing tarty-looking clothing (which wasn't her fault. She hadn't been to shop since she was fourteen, and could hardly wear her robes...). They'd had a huge fight, which ended with Hermione screaming at them.

"I am an adult!" she screamed. "I can make my own decisions. In fact, I do it everyday, and you've never stopped me! I don't need you telling me what I'll do!"

With that, Hermione had left again, not waiting her entire vacation time, but returning straight to Headquarters, found in Leeds just then. She was upset- her parents were unreasonable, horribly outdated, and absolutely not qualified to comment on how she led her life! After all, they were Squibs and she was a witch! They didn't know half of what she'd been through (they'd never even asked, even if her Uncle Octavius always said something), they didn't know what she was capable of, and they didn't know what she had to do to stay alive.

She did not write home for the rest of the summer. Attacks intensified, and the work that the small group, which floated from temporary Headquarter to temporary Headquarter, did intensified with them. Hermione traveled a great deal, finding new sites, and trying to find a suitable location for a new permanent residence. She found a picturesque village in the parish of Stoke Climsland, Cornwall, and named Monks Cross, which she thought perfect. It was quiet, remote, and easily defendable. Jonas disagreed, saying the town was too quiet and too remote; he was from London as well, but absolutely hated small hamlets.

But everything worked all right, and in the end, a permanent location was found in Birmingham that suited. It was actually a beautiful house, warm and clean and belonging to a distant relative of a Muggle-born sympathizer. Even though Hermione enjoyed the location and accepted it as much better than Monks Cross, she knew she'd return to the shabby little village one day.

In the mean time, she had to prepare for school in September. The last year, she had launched the Hogwarts Hornblower, to immediate acclaim; the program she anticipated for the sophomore year was daunting, but she knew the staff could manage. As well, she was continuing all the classes she had in sixth year- every class but Muggle Studies and Divination- and was working ahead already, to give herself some extra time during the first few months.

She had received her Head Girl badge in the middle of August; it surprised her that Dumbledore would want her to hold any position of authority, what with her having killed a man. But she could handle this last year at Hogwarts, and after, she would concentrate further on ending Voldemort's time of terror. Beyond that, she realized she had no real plans; her entire life for years had been concentrated on surviving Voldemort- or her friendship with Harry.

But she still had to survive to return to Hogwarts. It didn't help, she supposed, that the Birmingham house was across the lane from a pub that couldn't care less the age of its patrons. Miles, Jonas and she were constantly 'nipping out' for a pint, which invariable became three or four- and Hermione realized every night, and forgot every night, that her limit was definitely two.

She should have stopped going after she woke with Miles three mornings in a row, but Mrs. Diggory and Jonas never mentioned anything, and Miles wasn't a horrible person- quite kind, really, and also dedicated to democracy- so she saw no reason to stop. She took precautions, though- lots and lots of precautions- thinking of Professor Gryffindor, who was pregnant and fighting.

No one had seen Gryffindor since July, but Miles said a good portion of the intelligence collected was courtesy of her; every few days, a note was express owled to Headquarters, with information on where to find bound-and-unconscious Death Eaters. Gryffindor always signed them, though she never stuck around to see them into custody. She just left for the next target.

By the end of August, when Dumbledore ordered her to the Burrow to spend the last two days of vacation in 'happiness', Hermione was determined to go full out for the rest of her Hogwarts days. She knew that though the end could come any day, she could also live to be one hundred and fifty. While she was willing to live that time out in Azkaban for murder, she wasn't willing to do it without leaving an impression on the world; "Wow, Hermione Granger may be a murderer, but she got more Outstanding NEWTs then anyone. Ever!" Or some such... she hadn't had the time to put much thought into it.

She arrived at the Burrow for lunch, August 30^th. Ron, Ginny, Harry (who'd been at the Burrow for nearly a month), and Luna Lovegood were awaiting her arrival. "Hermione!" Ginny cried happily when she emerged from the hearth. "We thought you'd never get here! The twins waited as long as they could, but the shop is mad this week, what with baby students cramming their trunks full of wheezes."

Hermione was passed from hug to hug until Ron and Harry pulled her up to Ron's room.

"No fair!" Ginny pouted. "Steal Harry from me, Ron, but not Hermione!"

"Hermione, we need to set a schedule for Hornblower publication. I've got a rough draft," Luna said. Hermione had written Luna often over the summer, after asking her to be assistant Editor-in-Chief. "And I've got a great article on Demon sightings in the Shetlands."

"Luna, there are no such things as Demons," Hermione replied by rout.

"Well, Watnot Highbridge claims his home is infested, and I met him on my holidays. It was amazing, and would you believe that the Prophet calls him a liar? Father wants to publish the article, but I told him I write for the Hornblower." The girls face was so sincere, and misty, that Hermione wasn't sure what to say.

"Er- well, I'll look it over, but I was thinking of keeping the Hornblower completely political this year. Hard hitting specials, you understand."

"I understand, but that type of thing gets so dreary after a while," Luna replied with a wispy smile- the one that told Hermione she'd be publishing an article on Demons within three weeks, whether she wanted to or not.

"She's Loonier than ever now as she's back from hols," Ron grumped when he closed the door to his horrifically orange room.

"Ron, can't you redecorate?" Hermione asked, shading her eyes.

"Did, last year."

"Yes, well, Krum scowls at me every time I come in. There is something very good to be said for Muggle photos," she said. Glancing into the mirror and wincing at its verdict, she continued. "And Muggle mirrors."

"The mirror thinks I look great," Ron said, dismissing Hermione's complaint.

"Why'd you two drag me up here?" Hermione asked, a bit uncertain. She hadn't been alone with the two since before the June attack. There'd always been Ginny or Neville or Draco or someone around- they'd never been able to say anything important, for fear of being overheard.

"We wanted to talk to you about what happened last June," Harry said. "McGonagall visited a few days ago, said you still blame yourself for what happened."

Hermione waited a moment. "Who else is there to blame?"

"Well, how about Malfoy himself? Or Voldemort? Or you could blame Gryffindor for teaching you the curse? Draco and I for not properly cursing Pansy? Or Pansy herself for Disarming you before you could take the Curse off Malfoy!" Harry cried, ticking his fingers off as if Ron and he had planned this pep talk for quite a while.

"Yes, and when it all comes down to it, I choose which spells emit from my wand. I chose a Dark Curse- the Curse that Malfoy died of, incidentally. It follows with necessity that I killed Lucius Malfoy!" Hermione screamed. The ghoul in the attic woke and began to smash around. The noise added to the tension in the violently orange, tiny room. Hermione felt completely uncomfortable, standing there staring back at Harry, having yelled her guilt and seeing that he didn't care.

"Don't you understand, Harry, Ron? I- killed- Lucius! I, Hermione Granger, Head Girl of Hogwarts, and a thousand other credits to my name, have ended a man's life. In the heat of battle? Sure! Did he deserve to die? Probably! But I had no right to end a person's life. I'm a murderer," she whispered.

The speech had begun as a scream, but by the end, it was a muffled sob; it had changed because neither Harry nor Ron seemed to listen. Neither would admit, ever, that she murdered Lucius. Neither of them would ever accept that she was on the same level as Voldemort. And as weak as she was, she was so grateful to them- they loved her and would never not defend her. She just wished that fantastic trust wasn't wasted on a murderer.