His Mistress

-- CHAPTER TEN --

Business and a Family Conversation

"We have a long-established tradition when it comes to observing Christmas. Every year, a festive gathering - attended by all supporters of the Dark Lord and their families - takes place at the manor. Your presence is expected at this event, Hermione."

"But that would mean revealing my identity to everyone! The Dark Lord said I am not to compromise my position -"

"The Dark Lord never told you explicitly to hide from trustworthy members of the community - and believe me, the selected company I invite to the manor is nothing less of trustworthy. It is up to you if you wish to take the risk ... however, since the traitor has been unmasked and dealt with, I truly do not see why you would not reveal yourself to them. Many are already aware of your identity, having met you at raids ... I would strongly appreciate it if you were to attend this formal event, Hermione."

Hermione looked into her lover's grey eyes. How could she refuse? She would do anything for him. She would do anything to please the man she loved. And he knew what was best for her, anyway. She had trust in his judgement.

Hermione nodded. Lucius expected nothing less. He continued:

"A social event such as this one requires formal wear. Buy yourself a dress - I would recommend Madam Malkin's shop - choose something appropriate for the occasion. Bear in mind that all guests present will be clothed their best, and they will judge you by your attire - so I do not wish you to arrive in an off-the-peg set of dress robes."

"But I would never be able to afford -"

"Good Lord, Hermione, what did I say about not being 'able to afford' items? My mistress will not be deficient in gold like some flea-bitten Weasley!" Lucius said aggressively. "Tell them to take the money from Gringotts vault number sixty-nine."

Hermione was shocked. Had he just ... given her the number of the Malfoy vault? This was like giving someone the number of your credit card in the Muggle world. Wizards could buy anything, to an unlimited amount of money, and pay just by giving the number of their vault to the salesperson ... Hermione could not believe this.

"But -"

"Be quiet, Hermione," he said coldly. "When will you understand that with your - ah - status, money is never a problem? Now, I expect you to wear nothing less than the finest dress you can buy, regardless of its cost. Do not argue with me!"

Lucius had never failed to scare her when he was angry. In her second year, Hermione had been deeply impressed and frightened by the fury she saw in his eyes when Mr Weasley had lunged at him in the bookshop. His grey eyes had been almost glowing with a powerful, majestic wrath ... it had been like seeing an enraged king, and Hermione had shivered at the mere thought of being the object of that anger. Hermione's parents had been shaking in fright - and Hermione herself, although possessing more self-control, hadn't been far from trembling. That had been her first glimpse of Lucius Malfoy's violent temperament, and as she had known he considered her and her kind lowly and inferior, she had feared had him deeply from that day on.

And she still did, occasionally. Especially when he acted like this.

"Of course," Hermione said meekly, cowed by his sudden display of irritation. "Of course ... my Lord."

She chose to refer to him by his aristocratic title, in an attempt to calm him down. He seemed to have taken her disagreement personally; he thought she was defying him - but that had not been her intention. No, Hermione was just - er, astounded by his generosity. She had to reassure him that she was not defying him, and to do so, she had to acknowledge her inferiority openly.

It worked, apparently - he looked pleasantly surprised by the honorific, just like the time she had called him 'Lord Wiltshire' in the gardens. He smirked. "Obsequiousness will not succeed in this instance, Hermione."

"Not obsequiousness, my Lord, but respect. It was foolish of me to argue with you in the first place, especially on such a trivial subject. Do forgive me."

In a gently imperious gesture, Lucius had tilted Hermione's head so that it rested against his shoulder. He smiled into her eyes:

"Ah, you truly know how to placate me, Hermione." He kissed her chestnut-coloured hair. "Narcissa would have started shouting by now ... she never does get the lesson ... in fact, any other woman would have been affronted - but not you. I have always known you were different ..."

And Hermione smiled as well, answering:

"Narcissa does not understand you, Lucius. Furthermore, she is a Black, and you know what they are like - look at Bellatrix. She spent thirteen years in Azkaban for a foolish mistake - staying at the scene of the crime to gloat - and she still does the same thing. She fails to learn not to wait for the Aurors to arrive. The Blacks are quite reputed for their foolhardiness, are they not?"

When had Hermione started judging and condemning those around her? Since when did she shamelessly express contempt towards others? Since when had she started acting like a Malfoy?

*

Just as Hermione expected, Fudge proclaimed his junior assistant Percy Weasley as the temporary replacement of Madam Bones. Percy had always had an interest - and a talent - for law, and Hermione had no doubt he would do well as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But Fudge had insisted that it was only a temporary replacement, until the Minister found a more suitable candidate. Preferably, someone who worked in the department.

Percy still hadn't 'rejoined' his family. Whenever he met his father in the corridors of the Ministry, they would acknowledge each other with a nod, but they never talked. Percy's family had been a disappointment to him; he had always been in the shadow of his brothers, and now that he had the chance to be independent and act as he wished without being limited by his family's expectations, he preferred to keep his distance from them. You see, Percy's family had never understood his ambition - just like Hermione's friends had never understood hers.

When Percy had turned against his family, in Hermione's fifth year, she had stayed silent when the others raged about him. Hermione had understood him. The things he had said to his father, no matter how hurtful they must have sounded to Mr Weasley, especially when coming from his own son, were true. It was Arthur's obsession with Muggles that had prevented him from advancement at the Ministry.

Percy had always looked up to his father, and he had worked so hard because he wanted to earn some money for the family. Percy had grown up in poverty, but he didn't want to stay poor all his life. He had wanted to get a good job so that he could bring the Weasley name back into esteem. Everyone knew Arthur Weasley was paid so little because his somewhat - extreme - liking for Muggles wasn't appreciated at the Ministry. And Hermione could understand that, too. Sure, it wasn't Arthur's fault that he was a bit mad about Muggle contraptions, but she could imagine how annoying his co-workers must find it.

And Percy had tried to climb the social ladder - but he had found his father's reputation following him everywhere. Everyone would look at his red hair, hear the name Weasley, and their opinion of him was already made. Their whispers followed him everywhere he went: no money; son of that disgraceful Muggle-lover ... there was nothing worse than to be judged on who your parents are and not who you are - Hermione, a Muggle-born, knew that all too well.

When he finally got a decent job with sizeable wage, his family's reaction had been a huge disappointment for Percy. Instead of the praise and support Percy strived for, his father had given him a lecture on how bad it was that he had gotten promoted, because Fudge was trying to use him to spy on his family, because his family was part of some secret society led by Dumbledore, and Percy had never been told about it.

Percy had realised his family did not trust him. And he had told them the truth. The fact that they were so poor was because his father couldn't control his Muggle obsession at work. Percy had not thought up those things to hurt them - no, he had been objective, and he had said the entire truth. Then his father had shouted at him that he was a disappointment to the family and that he should apologize - for what? For saying the truth? Out of sheer defiance and courage, Percy had refused.

Hermione knew all that because she had always gotten along quite well with Percy - except when she had been defending house-elf rights too adamantly - and at the Ministry, they talked occasionally during the coffee break. And Hermione knew what it was like to have disappointing parents.

When Hermione had first told her parents about her intention to become an Auror - and explained as much as she could what an Auror was - her parents had not been too happy, nor had they expressed strong opposition. They didn't fully understand what Aurors were, although Hermione had told them they were the wizarding version of Muggle police, tracking and hunting down criminals, only with a lot more prestige to the job.

Andrew Granger and Gladys Puckle had both been top of the class at the prestigious University of Manchester School of Dentistry, which was rated as the finest dental teaching establishment in the UK. Hermione's father had come to the so-called Knowledge Capital to study dentistry and then come back to his native London to establish his own practice. That was where he had met Hermione's mother, who had been born in Manchester, and by the time they graduated, they had decided to get married, move to London and found a joint practice. And that was what they had done.

Naturally, Hermione had been expected to follow her parents' example by becoming a dentist or a doctor. They would accept nothing less of their daughter. But as their daughter turned out to be a witch ... they had even asked her to return to the Muggle world and attend Muggle university once she was out of Hogwarts, but Hermione knew she could never be happy in a world that was not her own. She was a witch and her world was the wizarding community, not the world where her parents came from.

And she had told them so, in a heated argument about her career plans. They had conceded by telling her to become a Healer - if that was what wizard doctors were called. But Hermione had never fancied medicine. Even before she had received her Hogwarts letter, she had never wanted to work in the same field as her parents. Of course, out of fear of disappointing them, she had never said so. That was why she had always studied so hard: because her parents would be disappointed if she, the daughter of two top-of-the-class students, had less than perfect marks.

But Hermione had already chosen her future career, and for once, she was ready to pull it through even if her parents did not agree with her decision. In the end, once Hermione had described the glory and respect the Aurors received, once they had understood that in her world, the Aurors were the elite of the society, her parents had grudgingly told her they were 'glad' and 'hadn't expected any less' of her.

Resentment filled Hermione every time she thought of her parents. Mum and Dad had always had such high expectations for her ... and they never understood. They had never understood it when she was tired and wanted to rest instead of studying; to them, time that wasn't spent studying or working was wasted time.

It had been at least six months since Hermione had last seen her parents, and a few months since she had last owled them. Should I pay them a visit? she wondered. As a Death Eater, she was not supposed to socialize with Muggles. And she didn't really want to, either. But it would not be a bad idea to talk to them just this once. After today, she would not contact them anymore. She was a witch; they were Muggles - and the two weren't meant to be friends, no matter what Arthur Weasley believed on the subject.

She would visit them ... for the last time. She had to learn not to care about what they thought anymore. And she would do just that. She wanted to see how they would react to their daughter becoming one of 'those foul, evil murderers'. And this would be the last time she fraternized with Muggles. She was a Death Eater, and she would cut all her ties with commoners, even if those commoners were related to her by blood.

*

That evening, Hermione went into Diagon Alley directly after work. Even without her Auror robes in sight - they were mostly hidden by the silvery fur coat she was wearing - Hermione had no difficulty standing out in the crowd. She was well known in the wizarding world; her reputation as one of the best Aurors of the times extended even beyond the British coast, and her picture appeared in the Daily Prophet regularly (and she was just as popular in Witch Weekly, judging by all the rumours they thought up about her being the girlfriend of either Harry, Ron, Neville, or, even more far-fetched, Zacharias Smith, who was also an Auror and one of the most paranoid and ruthless in the department).

Many people gave her friendly, grateful looks. Hermione supposed they felt safer doing their Christmas shopping, with the knowledge that they were in the proximity of an Auror who would defend them if Death Eaters were to appear on the street like last time. If only they knew what she truly was ... a Death Eater in an Auror's clothes.

Hermione walked past Gringotts Bank and the intersection with Knockturn Alley; she passed Flourish & Blott's to arrive in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Just as Hermione was about to reach for the doorknob, the door opened and a distraught-looking witch dressed in a sumptuous coat of white fur stepped out quickly - and collided with Hermione.

"Oh, pardon!" they both said at almost the same time.

"My fault, neglected to look where I was going -" Hermione's automatic apology halted abruptly as she stared at the woman, who was also, in turn, staring at her. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she recognised the woman she had seen briefly at the Quidditch World Cup, some eight years previously. The woman who possessed an imposing kind of beauty, her carefully styled hair shining like gold.

Meanwhile, the blonde woman was staring at the brunette of a tantalizing beauty, wearing a silvery fur coat of a splendour that rivalled Narcissa's own white one. She looked vaguely familiar ...

"Well, well, well ... Narcissa Malfoy," drawled the witch in an uncanny approximation of Lucius.

Narcissa did a double take. Yes, this witch looked familiar ... the profuse tresses of dark hair, the graceful silhouette ...

And then she figured this was the same woman she had caught a glimpse of in the garden, when she had peered through the window late one night ...

"You!" Narcissa hissed, her pale blue eyes flaring with hatred, "you!"

The two witches glared at each other with equal loathing, though in Hermione's case, the hatred was nuanced with smugness.

"Ah, I see you know me somehow - though I have not the faintest idea how, nor do I care. So tell me, Madam, how have you been these days?"

The woman glowered at Hermione, who was scrutinizing her carefully. As she clenched her teeth and did not answer, Hermione continued:

"True, you do look a bit unhealthy ... you display the symptoms of a severe lack of sleep," she remarked with a feigned concern that did not fool the older woman.

Hermione could not resist taunting her rival, knowing how infuriated the woman was and how hard it must be for her to maintain her collected, disdainful attitude. Her pale eyes were flashing furiously, and her upper lip was twitching. It appeared that Hermione had hit home with her 'lack of sleep' comment.

Hermione saw the woman reach for her wand. "Going to kill me, Madam? In plain daylight, might I add? In that case, perhaps I need to remind you that I am an Auror and a very skilled duellist ..."

"Pardon?" the woman said sharply, her sky-blue eyes widening in disbelief, "Did you say an Auror?"

"Indeed, I am part of the Ministry's Advance Defence Force," Hermione said casually. That was the formal appellation of the Aurors working for the British Ministry of Magic.

The blond woman was muttering something under her breath, and Hermione caught snatches that sounded suspiciously like, "An Auror ... cannot believe this ... ridiculous ... insane ..."

"I am in somewhat of a hurry, Madam, but worry not - you will see me at the Christmas Ball."

"What?" Narcissa said, incredulous. How did this Auror even know of the Christmas Ball? Was she going to set the Ministry on them?

"Really, Madam," said Hermione, lowering her voice, "I thought you were aware that all followers of the Dark Lord have knowledge of the event?"

"Followers of the Dark Lord?" repeated Narcissa, looking at Hermione even more disbelievingly. Hermione knew what must have been going on in her head: Is she an Auror or a Death Eater? What is this supposed to mean?

Then something snapped in the blue eyes; Narcissa's face suddenly gained a resolute expression. Throwing one last glare full of loathing at Hermione, the woman turned around and hurried into Knockturn Alley.

"Good luck, Madam," Hermione called after her, smirking.

Narcissa did not turn around, but she did hear the words, and she thought malevolently, good luck to you - you're going to need it.

*

A bell chimed as Hermione pushed the door open and walked into the shop. A short but solidly built witch dressed in mauve robes hurried over to her, smiling kindly. "Miss Granger, how nice to see you again!" The woman glanced at Hermione's fur coat, and her smile widened. "You look dazzling, my dear! Are you looking for a new uniform? Or maybe dress robes?" the shopkeeper asked quickly, excitedly. She was probably hoping to talk Hermione into buying a lot of useless stuff just so that she would get more money; all salespeople were like that.

"Dress robes it is, Madam Malkin. Show me the best your shop carries."

"Over here," the shopkeeper said, motioning Hermione to a variety of bright-coloured dress robes to the side of the shop. Hermione looked at the dresses; she ran a finger across some of the fabrics. This was where she had bought the periwinkle-blue dress she had worn to the Yule Ball, yet she was sure none of the dresses on display would fit Lucius's expectations of 'the finest dress you can buy'. She surely had to order a custom-made one.

"Excuse me, Madam Malkin, but you do not seem to have understood my query. I want a personalized dress of the finest kind, not a run of the mill, low-priced one."

The shopkeeper seemed to understand instantly; in fact, it looked like she had been waiting for Hermione to admit she was ready to pay a substantial amount of money. "Oh, of course, just a moment," Malkin said, disappearing into the back of her shop.

The woman came back with an assortment of decidedly more extravagant garments. "Here," the witch said respectfully as she laid out a dozen dresses on the counter before Hermione, "these are the best in stock. Choose one you like and we'll tailor it for you."

Hermione looked at the dresses. One, made of red satin, caught her eye. There was another of gold brocade, and a third one was pure white velvet. Hermione stood there, thinking quickly. No, as appealing as these colours may look, they were too flashy, and she doubted that was the style Dark witches would wear to a party reserved to supporters of the Dark Lord. Nor would it be a good idea to stand out by being dressed in the colours symbolic of Gryffindor House. Besides, these colours were so bright that Hermione herself would fade behind them, and she would have preferred a classical, more reserved sort.

The experienced shop owner noticed Hermione's uncertainty. "Can't choose, dear? Let me help you. In this one -" she gestured to the red satin, "you will appear slimmer - not that you need it. The golden one harmonizes with your hair very nicely -"

How was Hermione supposed to tell shopkeeper that she wanted a dress appropriate not for a Ministry event or a party at the Weasleys', but for a Death Eaters' Ball?

"Well, it's just ... these are not really the type - I mean ... that is to say -" Stop. Lucius Malfoy trusts you enough to give you the number of his vault, and here you are acting like some awkward girl who can't even tell a shopkeeper what she wants to buy! Hermione, THINK! How would Lucius have acted in this situation?

Hermione's pause lasted less than a second. True, she had always been a quick thinker ...

Hermione smiled faintly at the attentive shopkeeper, but it was not an embarrassed smile. It was a smile of confidence and smugness. "Pardon me, but do you have anything more ... traditional? It is not exactly a Ministry party I will be attending, and such - ah, flamboyant colours might be ... less than appreciated in those particular circles of society."

Merlin, she really was turning into him. She was fully aware of the effect such speech produced on people: it made them feel inferior. And she had to admit it was fun - as long as she was the one mocking them, not the other way around. Yes, Hermione found it enjoyable to intimidate people.

Madam Malkin looked surprised. There was something different about Miss Granger, she was starting to notice it ... in fact, the polite girl who had come to her shop regularly to buy Hogwarts robes had never shown open boredom, or impatience, before. There was an air around her that was almost intimidating. And what could she possibly mean by 'those particular circles of society'? The shopkeeper realised this client spoke somewhat like her previous customer. Madam Malkin often had customer who were obviously Dark wizards and witches, and this was the kind of thing they asked for. But Granger was an Auror and friends with the Weasleys, so why would she suddenly want a darker style?

There was definitely something dodgy going on. But as shopkeeper, it was not her job to ponder that. She did not want to lose a customer, especially one who was prepared to spend a substantial amount of money. Therefore she said, "Of course, if that is what you mean ... this might take longer than expected, but don't worry, we'll find something suitable for you."

And she collected the dressed from the counter and disappeared into the stockroom behind the shop again. She returned carrying a handful of darker, more classical dresses, in navy blue, dark green and black. "Here ... blue contrasts well with your eyes ..."

But it was a forest-green dress that caught Hermione's eye. It was floor-length, sleeveless, and made entirely of velvet. The perceptive shopkeeper, noticing Hermione's admiring gaze, clapped her hands. "Excellent choice, Miss Granger, excellent choice! Green compliments your hair and eyes beautifully, and the dark fabric will make your skin tone stand out nicely ... you have very good taste, Miss Granger."

"Alright, if you are going to fit it for me ..."

Madam Malkin took out a measuring ribbon from her pocket. The thing was obviously magical, as it nearly attacked Hermione as soon as it came in contact with her. It wound itself around her shoulders, then her chest, her waist, her hips, and most unpleasantly, her neck. But the ordeal was over fairly quickly, and in a few minutes, the shopkeeper had noted all Hermione's measurements on her clipboard.

"The custom-made dress will be delivered to you on Friday. That will be eight hundred twenty-five galleons and six sickles."

Oh dear. Eight hundred galleons? That dress probably cost more than the entire Weasley house. Judging by the fact that Hermione had bought her fairly decent house in London for 2,000 galleons ... this dress cost a fortune. But then, Lucius wouldn't be able to accuse her of buying something cheap ...

The shopkeeper was probably expecting Hermione to pay in cash, but alas, she was in for a surprise. Or more like a nasty shock.

Hermione leaned over the counter. "Take the money from Gringotts vault sixty-nine," she said in a low voice.

The shopkeeper's eyes went wide. Her previous customer had said the same thing ... the same number. And Madam Malkin had heard that phrase too many times not to remember to which family vault sixty-nine belonged. The shopkeeper was startled out of her musings when her customer asked in a slightly annoyed voice,

"Is there a problem?"

"N - No, no, Miss Granger, o - of course not," said the sturdy woman, still looking shocked. "You'll need to sign this form to ... to finalize the purchase."

Hermione took the quill the shopkeeper was offering her. She hesitated for a single second before bending down and scribbling Hermione A. Granger in her usual neat script on the bottom of the transaction record.

*

Hermione rang the doorbell of the Grangers' London home. Once. Twice. Nothing. No light, no sound. They must be out, she thought. Well, in any case, she wasn't going to wait outside in the cold until they arrived. She glanced around to check that no one was looking, then pulled out her wand. "Alohomora," she whispered.

The door opened with a loud click. Hermione walked inside, shutting the door behind her. Here she was, breaking like a burglar into her parents' house.

Hermione turned to the moving, talking, magical portrait of herself hanging on a wall in her parents' sitting room. The picture had been taken shortly after her seventh year at Hogwarts. "Where are they?" she asked her younger self, not bothering to keep the now customary coldness out of her voice.

The magical picture spoke in Hermione's voice - or at least, what used to be her voice, tiny and uncertain. "Mum and Dad are at the clinic. They've ... sort of ... been having an overload of work for the two past weeks -"

Hermione was bored with her former self's chitchat. She had no interest in some Muggles' life, even if those Muggles were her parents. "Ah, and when will they arrive?" she cut in.

"Um... not before eight, I think. You ... you look different," remarked the portrait, looking at her carefully.

Meaning, in an hour. Oh, well. Hermione, while waiting for her parents to arrive, decided to have a bit of fun.

"Who are you?" she asked her younger self.

The teenage Hermione in the picture stared uncomprehendingly. "I am you, don't you know that?"

"Really, you think you are me? Well, we'll see if you are." Hermione laughed cruelly. "Once again, who are you?"

Still looking puzzled, the portrait answered: "Hermione Granger, Muggle-born witch, Gryffindor, future Auror ..." Then, finally catching up with the game, she added, "And who are you?"

Hermione glanced mockingly at the naive girl she used to be. She answered in an emotionless voice: "Hermione Granger, Death Eater." To reinforce her point, Hermione pulled up her sleeve and raised her left arm, showing the glittering crimson mark to the portrait, thoroughly amused by the horrified look in the eyes of her former self.

Her image gasped.

"Now, do you still believe you are me?"

The girl in the picture was too shocked to respond. "B - but w - why?" she asked, genuinely baffled.

"You cannot fathom why I joined the Death Eaters ... and yet, you have been me. No, it is the truth, do not deny it ... I see that spark of mystery in your eyes ... a spark I had first noticed in the mirror late one evening, when I had ran off to hide in the prefects' bathroom ... do you remember?"

After the disastrous escapade to Hogsmeade at the end of their seventh year and the Death Eaters' failed attempt to kidnap Harry, the Golden Trio had made their way back to Hogwarts accompanied by a dozen witches and wizards from the Order. After a visit to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey had insisted that Ron say for the night, Harry and Hermione had been told to go to their dormitories and not leave the school for the whole weekend by Professor McGonagall, who had somehow been alerted to the whole situation.

But instead of going to the girl dorms where she would have had to face Lavender and Parvati, Hermione had snuck out of the Gryffindor common room. She had wanted to be alone. As Head Girl, she had been allowed to patrol the school at night, so the usual curfew did not apply to her. She had locked herself in the prefects' bathroom, where she had spent most of the night, thinking. But catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she had been taken aback by her reflection. Never had her eyes appeared so large, so dark, or so deep. Something subtle had transformed her.

And from that day on, that indecipherable mist, that look of mystery had never left her eyes. Even - or especially - today, Hermione thought as she re-emerged from her memories - and by the expression on her younger self's face, she wasn't the only one reminiscing.

"Have you ever known love?" Hermione suddenly asked the portrait. Seeing her younger self about to nod, knowing exactly what she was thinking, Hermione elaborated, "No, do not mention Lockhart or Viktor. I do not mean some fleeting teenage infatuation, but true love ... love that would make you give your life for him ... love for which you would gladly betray all you ever knew, even your own blood, because he desires that you do so ... love that does not fade with time ..."

A fervent light flared in the present-day Hermione's eyes, which puzzled the portrait, but she knew it wouldn't take too long for it to grasp the meaning. Hermione had always been clever. "Now tell me, have you known such love? Have you?"

"I ... I don't think so, no. But what does this have to do with -"

"You think not. But you hesitate, do you not?" She started piercingly into her younger self's innocent brown eyes - or perhaps not so innocent. "Deep down, you know the truth. You refuse to admit it to yourself ... it is unacceptable; it is unthinkable ... come on! Why did you refuse Ernie's proposal?"

Ernie Macmillan, the pompous Hufflepuff prefect, had been named Head Boy in the same year as Hermione was Head Girl, and he had asked her out. They had been dating through seventh year, and after the Leaving Feast, Ernie had told Hermione how much he loved her and asked her if she would marry him. Hermione had refused, not quite knowing why.

She saw her portrait's eyes cloud over in reminiscence again. She remembered too. Hermione had never forgotten that conversation.

"Hermione, I was so worried when I heard you were attacked ... Hermione, you know how much I love you, right?" Her boyfriend, Ernie Macmillan, had asked.

She had nodded mutely. Attacked, huh? That wasn't exactly the word she would have used to refer to that incident, but then again, she had preferred to let Ernie think whatever he wanted. Never, ever had she told a soul about what had truly happened that night.

"Hermione, will you marry me?"

She had been taken aback, to say the least. She had no intention of making a commitment so early in her life. If Ernie had at least waited until she finished her education, until she got a job ... perhaps -

But at that precise moment, Hermione had known, somehow, that she would never accept. Not now, not ever. Her entire being had been strangely revolted at the very idea of becoming Ernie's - or anyone else's, for that matter - wife. Repeatedly, mercilessly, a firm, strict no had resounded in her head. The very idea - it had felt so very, inexplicably wrong. It had felt like going against destiny, as though by merely considering Ernie's proposal, Hermione had opposed fate. It was a most weird thought, since Hermione had never believed in fate. Well, at least not until she had found out about the prophecy and Harry's tragic destiny.

Hermione had always refused to admit the existence of a thing like fate - that was why she held no great esteem for the likes of Sybill Trelawney and Parvati Patil. There was no fate; everyone had choices in life - at least, everyone except the prophesised ones. The prophesised ones, like Harry, had a destiny, and it was something Hermione would never wish upon anyone. To have your life planned out for you before you were even born, to have no freedom, no choice as to what you wanted to do with your life, to be the tool destiny had chosen to use to accomplish its means - it was a horrible life, and she often wondered how Harry put up with it. But Hermione, as far as she knew, was not under a prophecy - she had the choices everyone else did; her actions weren't dictated by some Seer's words. Therefore, the idea of fate was a very, very odd thought to Hermione.

"I'm sorry, Ernie," she had answered, "but I don't want to become a housewife. I have my career to think about, I want to become an Auror ..."

"But Hermione, I won't stop you! You'll work if you want to, I've got nothing against that!"

She had stood there, thoughtful, for a few minutes. She had wondered what was stopping her. She liked Ernie, didn't she? Didn't she? And Hermione had been surprised at the answer to that question, the answer that came unbidden, without a hint of disappointment nor regret. No. No, she did not love Ernie. Not anymore.

"I thought you loved me, Hermione," Ernie had said, his pride offended by her lack of answer. He had known she was hesitating; he had guessed her answer would be negative - why else would she have been dilly-dallying for so long?

Yes, she had loved Ernie. Loved. Past tense.

Back in the present, Hermione looked at the portrait of herself, painted when she had been barely out of Hogwarts. "Well? Why did you say no?"

"Because ... because I realised I didn't really love him. Ernie deserved a girl who loved him ... and who could give him an heir. By the way, what's become of him today?"

"He married Hannah Abbot shortly after Hogwarts, and he still looks at me with wounded eyes sometimes, when I see him at Order meetings. Now, again, you - I - refused to marry Ernie Macmillan because ..."

"Because I didn't love him, not really."

"And why didn't you? You did like him when he first asked you out, so what had changed by the end of the year?"

The young Hermione looked taken aback by the question. She paled slightly. "I - I don't know," she whispered.

"It appears more like you fear to think about it ..." The portrait was shaking her head quickly, exceedingly quickly. But of course, it was useless to argue with yourself, and even more so with an older, more experienced version of yourself.

Hermione looked at her younger self in condescension. "Really, do you think I do not know? But I am you, child dear ..." In reality, she wasn't so much older - only five years separated them - but Hermione had changed a lot during those few years. And she had changed even more in the past couple of months. "You cannot hide your secret from me. You hid it from your friends, your parents, the entire world ... but you cannot hide it from me. I know why you - that is, I - declined Ernie's proposal. Because it felt wrong ... because your heart belonged to someone else. Because another man had claimed you, and you were his. In your dark, secret dreams, you imagined things ... you feared him, you hated everything he stood for, yet you admired him, because he was everything you could never be: pure-blood, rich, respected ... and you loved him."

"No!" the young Hermione, her face very pale, protested vehemently. It sounded somewhat like she was trying to convince herself - which was the case.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it? You loved him ... I still do. It is so wrong, is it not? Yet at the same time, so right ... that glint of mystery in your eyes, it wasn't there before a certain - ah - incident in seventh year ... are you still convinced you haven't known love?"

The eighteen-year-old Hermione blushed. Her older counterpart did not. "One thing time has taught me is to accept what I cannot change. To accept ... and over the past few months, I have learnt to be proud. Proud, not ashamed.

"Now, do you still wonder why I joined the Death Eaters?"

The Hermione in the picture breathed a tiny "Oh!" of realisation. "But how could you ... betray Harry and Ron?"

Hermione's face twisted in a grimace of hatred. "They got what was coming to them all along, the ungrateful prats!"

"But - but what about Mum and Dad? Doesn't that mean you've betrayed them too, if you're going around killing Muggles?"

"Firstly, I have not killed anyone yet. No one aside from the spiders I practiced on during Auror training. And secondly, did I not tell you I have betrayed my own blood? I have no regrets. About the only thing my parents ever understood about Hogwarts was the notion of prefects, which is hardly enough to maintain a conversation. They are Muggles; they have no concept of our world, they cannot understand us."

The portrait stared at its original. "I think your ... erm, associates have influenced you a lot."

"Of course - ah, here they come."

The front door opened, and two thin, brown-haired people wearing coats walked in.

With the grace and haughtiness that now came naturally to her, Hermione casually left the sitting room and walked into the hall, appearing in their sight for the first time.

Mrs Granger let out a shriek. "Hermione!" she exclaimed, rushing over to her grown-up daughter and hugging her. Hermione stood still, letting her mother kiss her on the cheek, but not hugging back. If her associates could see her now ... hugging a Muggle! Hell no. Death Eaters did no such things. Besides, Hermione felt no great affection towards this Muggle. They had grown apart with time, she supposed.

When her mother's hand came in contact with the soft, silvery fur around Hermione's shoulders, she let out a surprised exclamation. Her eyes gleamed with something that looked like ... envy? "Where did you get this, sweetie?"

"It looks so ... expensive!" Hermione's father added.

Hermione spoke for the first time. "Why, it was just a gift."

Mr and Mrs Granger looked slightly taken-aback at the lazy response, so unlike their daughter. "What happened, sweetie? Oh, let's go into the lounge, I'll make you some tea. Or better yet, let's have dinner. We're starving."

-

Hermione, her mother and her father were seated around a round table, eating. Hermione had been very hungry - the last time she had eaten was lunch at the Ministry, after which she had gone shopping for the dress and after, she had Apparated directly to her parents' house, without dropping by at home to eat.

"Look, sweetie," her father started. "You turned twenty-four years old in September. Isn't it time for you to settle down? Get a family, maybe?"

Hermione's mother nodded enthusiastically. "I'm sure that boy - Ron, is it? - would be absolutely delighted to have you as a wife. From what you've told us about him, it looks like he's completely in love with you."

Hermione had to urge to throw up. Marry Ron? Yes, she knew Ron had had a crush on her for years. But really, it wasn't like she liked him back!

She no longer cared what they would think of her. So when she answered, it was frankly. For once, she said exactly what she thought.

"Mother, you must be mad. Like I would ever marry Ron! He is so disgustingly poor! Never in a thousand years would I become part of that family. Besides, my values have always been ambition and career; I have never truly cared for relatives ..."

Hermione's mother looked scandalised. "But Hermione, don't you want a family?"

"You mean kids?" said Hermione, and an unknown emotion flickered momentarily in her eyes. "Have you forgotten that I am unable to have children? Have you forgotten the terrible surgery to remove my appendix, when I was nine? Have you forgotten what the doctor said about post-surgical complications?"

Hermione's parents suddenly looked crestfallen. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry ... I should have remembered -" her mother started, but Hermione cut her off with cold indifference.

"Not that it is a problem. I frankly find children meddlesome and just plain annoying, and it is just as well that I will not contaminate his blood with my tainted one."

"How can you say that, Hermione?" asked Mrs Granger, outraged.

"Whose blood?" demanded Hermione's father sharply.

Mr and Mrs Granger were smart, quick people. After all, Hermione had gotten that cleverness from somewhere, and she had fully expected them to catch on to her insinuation.

"Ah, you see ... I am presently in a relationship. But before I tell you that, you ought to know ..." And Hermione pulled up her sleeve, showing them the Mark.

Her parents gasped when they saw the image imprinted in scarlet on their daughter's skin. "What is that?" they asked together, horrified.

"Do you remember what I told you about a powerful Dark wizard who leads a group called the Death Eaters?"

"You mean this ... this Voldemort?" Hermione's father guessed.

Hermione's parents glanced at each other when their daughter visibly flinched at the name.

"Yes, that is him. The Dark Lord. And this -" she gestured to the symbol on her forearm, then let her sleeve fall back down to cover it, "- is his sign. The Dark Mark. So, yes, that means I have joined them. I am one of them now."

"But they're evil! They're murderers!" Mrs Granger exclaimed in disbelief. Her husband was also gazing at their daughter in shock.

"You are mistaken," Hermione said calmly. "See us as an army, fighting to improve our world ..."

"Hermione," her father said loudly, "Stop acting so ... so posh all of a sudden!"

Hermione bristled. If they thought they could insult her ... no, she would not stand for it. "Awfully sorry, father, but I will not be ordered around by a mere Muggle, not when I am the mistress of one of the most powerful Dark wizards in all of Britain!"

"Mistress?" Hermione's mother whispered, "What do you mean the mistress?"

Hermione glanced at her mother, who was staring at her in some kind of indignant disbelief, then at her visibly furious father. It was then that Hermione realised, finally, that although these people were tied to her by blood, they weren't her family. No Muggle could be a witch's family, because Muggles just never understood. No, the Grangers weren't Hermione's true family.

The Death Eaters were her true family.

And a cruel desire to elaborate, to show them just how much she had changed, seized Hermione all of a sudden. These two people had always told her knowledge was power, but they would know knowledge could also cause pain.

"Oh, you know what I mean," said Hermione, "I am the mistress of the wealthiest wizard in the United Kingdom ... a Dark wizard too ... and a follower of the Dark Lord."

"Have we met him?" her mother asked cautiously, glaring warningly at her husband (who looked like he could barely keep his temper in check).

Hermione smirked. "Indeed you have," and as I remember, she continued in her head, he scared you quite a bit. Enough that you have never set foot in the wizarding world again. "But he doesn't associate with your kind, you see, no honourable witch or wizard does. It is called wizard pride, you know, we are not supposed to mingle with those lacking the gift of magic."

"But what about Mr Weasley? He was so nice to us -"

Oh, yes. Hermione remembered that encounter, and she had never met a family with such a blatant lack of society manners as the Weasleys. To start a fight in public ... well, only a Weasley would do such a thing. Even Molly, who grew up in a respectable old family (the Prewetts), agreed with her on that point.

"Weasley, an honourable wizard?" Hermione let out a sharp laugh. "He worships everything Muggle as though ... as though it were better than our world ... what a shame, a disgrace ..."

"You sound like ... like that horrid man in the bookshop ..."

Ah, mother dearest, if only you knew ...

Hermione met the brown eyes of her portrait and winked. "I do, do I not?"

Hermione's parents noticed her glance at the picture on the wall, who looked pale, but there was an odd glint in her eyes. "This picture is amazing," Hermione's mother remarked suddenly, "she talks just like you ... she is you ... it's like you're here with us all the time ... oh, the things your kind has invented ..."

Hermione remembered Arthur Weasley reacting similarly to Muggle appliances, and she thought, yes, Muggles should be in awe of magic, not the other way around. Like in times of Merlin, when wizards were admired and looked upon as particularly gifted heroes.

Two pairs of brown eyes glanced at each other. Not so different, after all ... all that set them apart was experience. Deep down they were the same, but one of them had been changed by life far more than the other.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Andrew Granger asked, bewildered by the interaction between his daughter and her younger version. It looked almost like they were conspiring. But when he turned to look at the spot where his daughter had been, she was gone.

Hermione had Disapparated right from under their noses.

The portrait on the wall looked thoughtful. "How could I turn out that way?" she whispered to herself.