Long-hidden Skies

Prologue

There'll be falling into view
Much to rearrange;
And there'll be a time for you
To marvel at the change.
They that have the least to fear
Question hardest what is here;
When long-hidden skies are clear,
The stars look strange.
-- Excerpt of "Bokardo," by E.A.R

The Familiar Scent of Cinnamon

The air was shifting. Draco could feel the dark malice envelop him as he stood at the edge of the cliff, the silver strands of his hair whipping in the salty wind, stinging his face. The end was coming soon, or at least it was threatening to, pawing at the door like a rabid wolf. There was hardly any doubt in his mind that disaster would be the only result, having little faith in the ever-weakening Order. But when the time came, of course, he would play his part. After all, he thought, lips curved in a wry smile, that's all he ever did anymore.

Draco glanced over at the tall wizard standing beside him on the precipice, the former Headmaster's skin as pale and wrinkled as his white hair, his beard straggling in kinks down the length of his lean torso, stark against his worn black robes. His back was straight; hands clasped behind him in the confident and easy manner that had faltered enemies and inspired respect and loyalty and, most of all, love in numerous others. Dumbledore was the sole reason he bothered to help the Order at all, having saved Draco's life some ten years before. It was a wizard's debt, and nothing more, that kept him in the game.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed behind his half-moon glasses as he looked out into the warring tides. Behind them, the small, heavily warded shantytown of the Order lay morose and quiet. "They are both important," he said, finally breaking the silence. "They must be protected at all cost, or we have no hope of defeating the Dark Lord," he shifted his gaze to Draco, fierce blue that bellied a strange vulnerability, "or saving Harry." Dumbledore sighed. "The Order needs you to get Miss Weasley out of the compound."

Rescue a Weasley. "They know she's had contact with Granger before. She'll be under the highest guard and," Draco clenched his jaw in irritation, "I doubt I'd have clearance."

Dumbledore seemed amused. "A Malfoy denied access?"

"The world just doesn't make sense anymore, does it?" Draco quipped, trying to make light of something that was rapidly turning him bitter. During the struggle for Avignon, a well-aimed curse had left Lucius quite insane, and the incident considerably lowered the Malfoy family stock. "McNair's dumb as a yeti, though," Draco acknowledged, referring to the head of the New Ministry. "I'll see what I can do."

"It's imperative, Mr. Malfoy." He cleared his throat and continued, "Her brother will be your contact on the outside."

"Which one?" Draco asked on a groan.

"Ron," Dumbledore said, his mouth twitching slightly, a hint of the old twinkle in his eyes.

Draco cursed softly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why the hell couldn't you have given me George? I can at least have a civil conversation with that one."

"Busy with a new baby, I'm afraid," Dumbledore chortled. "Molly's fifth grandchild."

"They breed like rabbits," Draco muttered. "What about Granger?"

"The Tribe is sending an emissary to find her."

Draco snorted. "Sniff her out, more like." The Tribe, a band of rogue Animagi who had gone to ground when Potter's powers were rent in two, had been rumored to barely maintain any human forms at all. "Will they even be able to reverse the Memory Charm?"

Dumbledore arched a thick brow. "I have every faith that they have kept up their magic practices over the years."

"Do you?" Draco asked, doubtful.

"Minerva McGonagall is, first and foremost, a professor of magic," he said firmly.

Draco shook his head. "They've gone wild, Dumbledore."

"Wild," Dumbledore murmured, breathing in the crisp sea air, "and more powerful for it. They just may be our only hope."

******

The old woman stared into the fire; her palms, fingers spread wide, reached out to nearly touch it. She didn't flinch from the flames, nor did she give any indication that the heat was burning through her fingertips, making them glow a painful red. "She has been found," she said, her voice hoarse from disuse. It was the first time in over a year that she had settled in her human skin.

A low growl came from the other side of the circle. The big cat's yellow eyes glowed through the fire, fastened intently on the woman.

"I have summoned you, spirit guide to the great cat Cublha, loyal tribesman, who protects the innocent from harm and gives his strength and speed to our warriors." The woman, once a professor of the precise intricacies of transfiguration, but now a powerful spirit seeker of the Tribe, lifted her crimson hands to the night sky. "Let the Tribe's wishes be known, that you will guide and protect her as you would your own."

The cat roared, his cry louder than any natural leopard, light glinting off his bone-white fangs.

"Cublha," the matriarch said, nodding her head towards the panther, addressing the Animagus by his tribal name, "let the Tribe's wishes be done, that you will lead her and protect her as one of us."

The leopard roared again and rose slowly, making its way around the fire towards the woman.

Minerva McGonagall lowered her arms, the ceremony finished, the blaze now gone from her weathered hands. She chuckled softly as the black cat, years past from being her student, rubbed his large head into her palm. It was an oddly unconventional protection spell she had performed, but the Tribe had little use for structured magic.

She looked up at the bright stars. "It has been blessed." The cat rumbled deep in his chest. "Yes, you must go now."

The leopard snuffed once, and then lifted its gaze to the narrow strip of sky, visible only by the bareness of the black forest trees. The air was still and cold. They sat there together for a moment, the fire lower now but still strong, then the cat rose and padded softly into the darkness, slipping into the dense brush surrounding the clearing.

******

Tessa jerked awake with a gasp, her fingers curled tight around the pale sheets. Her hair clung to her cheeks in damp ringlets, fluttering lightly from her breath as she fought to slow her heart. She calmed herself by focusing on the familiar objects in her room. Cloaked in half shadows, the curves of her giant armoire seemed solid and reassuring. Her cluster of antique, gilt-framed mirrors reflected a pale haze of moonlight. She had placed them just so... to catch the late night full moon as it drifted down towards dawn. Esmee, her feline form stretched long across the low cherry vanity, wheezed a delicate snore; her nose no doubt tickled by a floating dust bunny.

She had dreamed of Ginny again.

It was surprise, really, that had torn her breathless from her sleep. She hadn't dreamed of the tall, flame-haired woman in so long. It felt like, and probably had been, years since their nightly adventures had faded, pushed back by Tessa's blind determination. If she'd felt the echoes of Ginny's desolation for weeks on end afterwards, imagined the sadness in her wide-set, chocolate eyes, she ignored it as best she could, convincing herself that sane, normal people didn't dream of mischievous witches night after night.

Sinking back down onto the bed, she pulled the covers up to her chin. The dream had been sharper and more defined than any she'd had before. Or perhaps it had just seemed so, since so much time had passed and her subconscious ached for details.

Ginny had gotten older. Her hair was a shade more auburn; her face slimmer, cheekbones more pronounced. Her dark eyes seemed shadowed, and a crease of worry furrowed her brow, but her squared chin had that same stubborn tilt to it, her mouth still a wide, curving slash of red.

Tessa shivered, tightening the blankets around her as she stared at the moonlight spilling across her bedroom floor. An odd sort of yearning had settled in the pit of her belly.

******

Though the cell was dank and cold, the lumpy mattress and threadbare blanket scant protection against the changing seasons, the familiar scent of cinnamon brought a small, relieved smile to Ginny's lips and she murmured contentedly in her sleep.

Hermione was back.

***

Chapter One

My Name is Tessa Greenwich

Tessa spent the morning dodging her editor's phone calls and staring forlornly at a blank piece of thick textured paper. The problem, of course, was that the paper was not for sketching out her third book proposal - A Study of Form and Architectural Themes in Fifteenth Century Nunneries - but for what her therapist had called 'a creative outlet to relieve stress.'

Sighing resignedly, she dipped her fine-tipped brush into a cup of water, then onto a block of black watercolor paint. Watercolors. She'd been reduced to watercolors. It was utterly ridiculous, but her doctor had warned her that if she didn't start relaxing, she'd most likely end up developing an ulcer, or worse. Really, she suspected it was having the opposite effect.

As her brush touched the paper, though, it swept easily in a deep black arc. The arc became a wave, a scarf curving in the wind, and then the wave became the elegant line of a back. It was a simple, fluid painting of a horse.

She grinned at the few dark lines on the paper; it was messy and childlike, with the diluted paint spreading in faded blotches. The neck was a little too arched, the head and ears a bit too long. Abstract, she told herself, and chuckled softly. She picked up a medium point pen and added the landscape; an indomitable stone castle in the distance... a line of trees... a clouded sun; then covered the stark lines in vivid hues with her brush.

She worked on the horse more, using thin colored markers to add fanciful wings and elongate the thin, bony legs. The smooth underbelly somehow became more roughly hewn, more concave, and she realized the horse was rapidly becoming something that was not a horse at all - more angular than curved, more skeletal and wild-eyed, the wings almost bat-like.

Still, she rather liked it. Ginny would like it, too, she acknowledged, and felt more relaxed than she had in months, knowing that the release of strain was due as much to the reappearance of the red-haired witch as the childlike abandonment of free-form watercolors. Perhaps more so, since the keen-minded Tessa had never had much of an artistic bent.

Stretching her arms high above her head, Tessa shifted her gaze to the window. An hour, maybe, had gone by. She yawned and pushed her stool back from the easel, leaving the painting to dry. Her editor would no doubt expect her to phone her back immediately, since she'd left three urgent messages and it was barely mid-morning, but Tessa had no desire to chat about deadlines. She could feel her body tensing up again at the mere thought. Instead, she leaned over and pressed the erase button on her answering machine, deciding to run some errands and enjoy the brisk fall morning.

She left the house with a smile at her lips and a grocery list in her purse, only to return with more food than any single woman could ever eat. She popped the boot, reached in to grab a bag, and shook her head at the five other paper sacks packed into the back of the small car, making a mental note never to go food shopping again on an empty stomach. Bag in hand, Tessa palmed her keys, automatically punching the button to lock the car doors, and made her way up the front walk and into the house. The early afternoon sun was warm, despite the slight brisk breeze, and she shrugged off her coat before starting back to the car.

She stopped in the middle of the path, reveling in the crisp air, the faint scratches from the brown and orange leaves skittering across the gray slate, and turned slightly to look up at her three-story red brick home. Tessa was proud of the neat and narrow building - bought soon after her second book, Continuing the Downward Spiral: A History of Asylums in the Infancy of the Americas, became a requirement for first level medical studies all over the continent - but there seemed to be something off about it now, something out of place. She frowned in thought, her eyes roving over the house and surrounding immaculate lawn, and for a split second the air seemed to shimmer around her. Tessa blinked as the colors in front of her flickered gray and back again, and she shook her head as the world righted, determining that she must've been hungrier than she'd thought.

Sighing, she moved down the walk to the car, shivering slightly as a breeze cut through her long-sleeved knit shirt. She plucked two more bags from the boot and, hands full, turned towards the house.

Her breath caught as she looked at the open front door.

The powerful black body of a very large leopard poised itself on the edge of her front stoop. Tessa stood frozen against the side of her car, the two grocery bags gripped tight in her arms. The door. She'd left the door open. But the huge cat didn't turn to slip inside her house. No, the leopard, eyes intent on her own, dropped one paw slowly onto the next step below.

For a moment, the sleek muscular form, so much larger, but inherently the same as Esmee's, mesmerized Tessa, but as both of its front feet touched the flagstone path she fought a rising panic. She dropped one of the bags and groped frantically behind her at the door handle, her eyes never leaving the animal, but the car was locked. There was nowhere to go.

The panther, now nearly within twenty feet of her, rumbled a thick, menacing growl deep in his throat. Tessa could feel her chest rise and fall in ragged breaths as she watched him place his paws one in front of the other, methodically gliding over the slabs of stone. Her eyes felt tight with unshed tears and her throat closed up painfully in fright. Don't move, she told herself. Maybe he'll stop and turn away; maybe he won't pounce and rip out my innards and gnaw on my bones for dessert.

But his round golden eyes remained locked with hers, clear and oddly spellbinding in their intensity. She blinked rapidly, her vision blurring with stinging tears, and then found herself blinking again in disbelief. Continuing its slow journey towards her, the leopard had morphed into a man.

A very sleek, very dark - her eyes widened as they skimmed over his muscled chest - very naked man. Oh God.

A lock of black hair fell in front of his eyes and he reached up to push it back. She watched his arm muscles bunch and then relax as it dropped back to his side. That's it, she thought, concentrate on his arm. Whatever you do, don't look down.

She looked down.

Her cheeks flamed and her mind grew fuzzy with confusion as he stalked towards her. "What...? Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter at the moment," he told her, taking hold of her free arm and tugging her closer to him. "We need to get inside. Now." He shifted his eyes to the cornfields in the distance, unsure if he had been correct in his assumption that someone had been following him, but willing to err on the side of caution.

He glanced back down at her, taking in the dilated pupils and pale skin. The other grocery bag slipped through her arm and he cursed softly as her eyelids fluttered closed. His hand slipped deftly around her back and he lifted her into his arms.

Her eyes immediately flew back open. "Put me down," she demanded, sounding much stronger than her bloodless face suggested.

"You fainted," he said matter-of-factly, turning around and walking up the path towards the house.

"I didn't," she said, only half protesting. "I've never fainted in my life."

"Well, you have now," he said, ignoring her hands as she tried to shove off against his chest. "It wouldn't do you any good if you did manage to push yourself away from me, you know, since you'd just drop on the stone and crack your head."

She instantly stilled and looked up at him warily, flags of color staining the tops of her cheeks. "What are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He carried her inside and set her down, swiftly turning to shut the door. Pushing one of the curtains away from a side window, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the empty front yard. Maybe he'd been overreacting. When he turned back to face her, she blushed scarlet, and he gave her a smug grin. "Do you have something I could put on?" he asked, grinning wider at her obvious discomfort.

She took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists. "I'm not moving... we're not moving, until you tell me what's going on." Tessa wasn't completely against believing the mystical. After all, she had Ginny, didn't she? But this strange man-leopard was, well, impossible. And if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes she probably wouldn't believe it. However, since she had seen it, she had to either take it at face value or accept the fact that she was mad. Clinically insane.

She had to hand it to herself, though; he was at least a very temptingly handsome hallucination. If her mind had to go, this was the way to do it. She reached out and pinched his arm.

"Hey," he growled, rubbing his bare skin. "What was that for?"

"Just wanted to see if this was real," she said, frowning down at her hand and slowly smoothing her forefinger and thumb together.

"I'm not part of your imagination," he said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"Right..." she closed her eyes and raised her hands to her temples. "I'm going 'round the bend," she muttered.

She felt his fingers clasp her wrist and Tessa opened her eyes, glancing cautiously up at him. Caught in his gaze, she found herself momentarily lost; his face tanned and hard, his eyes so dark a brown they seemed black. His stare felt so strangely familiar and yet completely foreign at the same time.

His other hand came up to gently cup her chin. "You're not crazy," he said, then narrowed his eyes briefly. "At least I don't think so. I haven't seen you for quite some time, though, and for all I know you could be mad." He paused, giving her a slightly predatory grin. "I'm Blaise Zabini; I was chosen to bring you back."

"Bring me back where?" she asked absently. He had the most fascinating lines around his eyes.

"Your name is Hermione Granger," he said bluntly, "and you're a Muggle-born witch. You've been summoned back to the Order."

He was doing something to her. He must be. Why else was she frozen to the spot, staring up at him, listening to all the oddness he was spouting? She closed her eyes and wrenched her chin out of his grasp. "My name is Tessa Greenwich."

His hand was still wrapped around her wrist and she could feel his thumb softly rubbing back and forth across her skin. "It's time," was all he said. Then he released her and stepped away.

******

Clad in a pair of faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt that featured six multicolored fishing lures, Blaise settled himself on a wooden stool next to the breakfast bar. He watched her fix a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, pleased that her hands were only slightly shaky. She reached up into a cabinet for two tall glasses and her oversized shirt lifted to reveal a trim waist, her baggy trousers cinched tight under her navel. Same old Granger, he thought with a small smirk.

In a way, he found it oddly reassuring. So much had shifted; had gone backwards and upside down and uncertain and just blatantly wrong. But Granger still pursed her lips like a disapproving prude and crossed her arms uncomfortably across her large breasts when she caught him staring. She had the same bushy hair that he remembered, the same rounded, apple cheeks; but laugh lines cornered her mouth and a single, solitary crease was half-formed between her brows.

He gave her a cheeky grin as she brought over the plates of sandwiches and drinks, and she did her best to ignore his amusement at her expense. Placing her elbows on the counter, she cradled her face in her hands, pretending that her cheeks weren't flaming red in embarrassment.

"I don't understand who you think I am," she said finally, almost haltingly.

"You," Blaise began, "are a witch."

He opened his hand palm up in the center of the counter. Years before, the Tribe had tapped into the earth magic of the Forbidden Forest and learned, out of necessity, the art of performing wandless spells. A wand was quite useless to a wild animal, but magic was part of their essential makeup and always would be.

He snapped his fingers smartly, murmuring "Accio fork," and a drawer in the kitchen flew open, spitting a four-pronged utensil across the room, skidding it over the countertop to come to a rest near Blaise's hand.

Stunned incredulity and brief fear crossed her face. "What the...? How did you do that?"

"Magic."

She shook her head. "I don't--" she started, but was interrupted by a scratch and whine at her sliding glass door. Turning, she spotted a small, brown and white terrier through the pane, its tail wagging at a furious pace. It let out a short yip and bounced on its haunches.

Blaise cursed under his breath and pushed back from the table, striding over to unlock and open the door. The little dog scampered inside and whirled happily, not in the least bothered by Blaise's scowl. "What do you think you're doing, Creevey?" he snapped, widening his stance and placing his hands on his hips.

The terrier barked once, then stilled, its belly low to the ground. Tessa watched in open-mouthed silence as the furry form blurred and stretched and grew into a slight, mousy-haired man.

"Hullo to you, too, Zabini," the man said, smiling broadly. If possible, his smile stretched even further when he caught sight of Tessa. "Hermione!" he cried, and, in a perfect imitation of the small dog he'd been, launched himself excitedly across the kitchen and caught her up in a fierce hug, obviously completely oblivious to the fact that he was buck-naked. "Merlin, I've missed you."

Tessa held herself rigidly in his arms. "My name," she said firmly, "is Tessa Greenwich."

"You're starting to sound like a parrot, Granger," Blaise smirked.

"I don't know why you keep insisting I'm this other person. I've never seen either of you before in my life," she huffed.

The man released her and stepped back, hurt flashing in his watery brown eyes. "You don't know me? Colin? Colin Creevey? What luck I have! The first Gryffindor besides McGonagall I've seen in years, and you have no idea who I am. You don't know how it's been," he said, shaking his head, "surrounded by Hufflepuffs and Slytherins... not a brave Gryffindor among them, you know--"

Blaise smacked him on the back of the head, effectively cutting off his tirade. "She doesn't have her memory back yet, you stupid git. Now, would you mind telling me why the devil you followed me?"

"Tribal orders," said Colin, suddenly serious.

"Tribal orders?" Blaise growled. "McGonagall sent me, and me alone." His voice was low and dangerous. "You're jeopardizing the mission."

Colin shook his head. "She was overruled by the Council, Zabini. I was ordered to follow you and keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

With a long-suffering sigh, Blaise sank down into a kitchen chair. McGonagall may have been the matriarch and most powerful Animagus of the Tribe, but the Council always had the final word. "Couldn't they have sent Rita, at least? Or John?"

Colin shifted uncomfortably under Blaise's harsh scrutiny. "Rita's part of the Council now, she'd never send herself. And, well, John's still a bit ruffled that you tried to eat him."

Blaise gave a brief, satisfied grin at the memory of the squawking, overweight barn owl unsteadily trying to glide out of his reach. "I was only playing." He shrugged. "Parkinson knows better than to fall asleep on my limb."

"Still, he refused," Colin said.

"Well, did you see anything, then?"

"No," he replied, mock saluting the slightly older man before giving him a relieved grin. "All's clear."

"Fine," Blaise said shortly. "We'll leave in the morning, then." He turned to the bushy-haired woman who was bouncing her confused gaze back and forth between the two men. "Granger--"

"For the last time," she shouted hoarsely. "My name is Tessa!"

Blaise rolled his eyes and then glanced down at the fluffy gray tabby that sat regally at its food dish, watching them with a curious air. "Well, Crookshanks here, for one, will be glad when everything is back to normal."

"Crookshanks?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

"Your cat."

"That," she said through her teeth, pointing to her cat, "is Esmee."

"Kind of a frou-frou name for a guy, isn't it?" Blaise asked, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

"She is a girl and why am I even arguing about this? What I really should do," she murmured to herself, "is notify the police that I have two crazy people in my home."

Blaise chuckled and stretched out his right hand, spreading his fingers wide. The cat flicked its ears absently as light poured out of the man's fingertips, slipping across the floor to bathe the tabby in a warm yellow glow. With a long, soft meow, the tone almost one of relief, the cat grew two times larger, its green eyes lightening to a mellow gold, its gray coat shortening into a choppy mess of orange.

"First cross-dressing cat I've ever seen," Blaise said, clenching his hand into a fist to end the spell. The tom started to purr loudly and wandered over to wind himself around Blaise's legs.

"What have you done to my cat?" she cried.

"Relax, Granger."

"Crookshanks is your cat, Hermione," Colin explained. "He was in disguise so he could keep an eye on you." He nodded over to the large ginger feline. "He's not exactly inconspicuous."

Tessa rubbed her fingers over her temples, pressing her eyes closed. "I'm getting a headache," she muttered.

"Let's do this now," Blaise said. "I'm getting sick of Granger's whining."

"How long d'you reckon it'll take?" Colin asked.

Blaise shrugged. "Never done it before. Come on over here, Granger," he beckoned for her to sit across from him at the kitchen table.

"Oh, no," she said, backing slowly out of the room.

"Do you have to make everything so difficult?" Blaise sighed and flicked his hand carelessly in her direction, muttering a few low words.

Her body immediately seized up, and with a barely audible squeak Tessa dropped to the floor.

"Stunner," Blaise explained, walking over and hefting her into his arms. "Extremely useful little spell." Setting her at the table, he maneuvered her hands behind her back, quickly securing her to the seat. "There, that's better. Ennervate."

Tessa glared at him mutinously.

"Now," he said, cracking his knuckles, "I'm going to have to do this backwards, I think."

"Huh?" Colin cocked his head quizzically.

"It'd take too long to try and break the Memory Charm head on; from Dumbledore's owls I gather it's pretty strong. To last this long I suppose it'd have to be." He leaned back in his chair and studied her face, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he continued explaining the spell to Colin. "Instead, I'm going to share my memories, focusing specifically on our years at Hogwarts, and hope that they not only jar her own memory, but that the backwards flux will crack the charm from the inside out."

Tessa's chair rocked back and forth as she struggled against her bonds. Whatever Blaise was planning did not sound good.

Blaise placed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead, resting his thumb at the base of his cheek. Closing his eyes, he murmured low and soft, gradually chanting louder until a blue fire sparked to life against his skin.

Tessa watched, filled with trepidation as Blaise's eyes popped open, lit from the inside with an unnatural glow, the pupils now fine, cat-like slits. As he drew his fingers away from his face, sparks fizzing from the tips, Tessa pressed as far back against the chair as she could, shrinking from his wide palm.

He caught her chin easily with his left hand, steadying her head as he pressed his palm across her hairline. Tessa froze, transfixed by the images and flashes of sound pouring into her mind...

Where shall I put you? You'd make a steady Hufflepuff, you know...
No, no, not Hufflepuff, you stupid hat. Who wants to be in Hufflepuff?
Right, then. Pity...

Malfoy's face is going to freeze like that one day, but it might be worth it. Weasley practically blends in with his robes...
I can't get the swish and flick quite right, damn stupid wand...
I'm beginning to hate pumpkin juice. It's particularly unpleasant in the morning, right after brushing my teeth...

Granger was pale as death there on the floor; I almost tripped over her. Should've looked up her skirt while I could...
We're all laughing over the little Weasley. Chicken blood. I still wish it'd been Mrs. Norris...
McGonagall's fierce about training, but at least she approves...

Black's loose, but it all seems rather odd to me. What's all the fuss about?
Hippogriff? Ugly creature, that. I'd pay to see it bite Malfoy again...
I can't believe Hufflepuff won. Bloody useless buggers...

The squid waved at me today, I swear. Always wanted to nip in there in the fall...
I've almost got the body down. It's the tail that throws me, though. How can I transfigure what isn't there?
What the devil is a Triwizard Tournament?

They can all get killed for all I care...
Krum has got to be the most annoying git ever; I don't understand how all that lumbering weight can fly...
It was worth it just to see Weasley's face burn...

I'm getting better; McGonagall says it's only a matter of time...
Granger's gone barking mad. She can't possibly need to study more...
No longer the golden boy, I heard...

Malfoy's got a stick up his arse; needs to be taken down a peg or two...
Maybe I should have been in Hufflepuff...
Umbridge must die a slow and painful death; preferably by my hands and in a situation where I'd never get caught...

Maybe not...
Reggie passed last week, stupid old owl. Mum wasn't even going to tell me till end of term...
It's different... greener, sharper, more pungent even; McGonagall never mentioned that bit...

An Organizational List from Granger? What, is it my birthday?
Potter almost smiled today. It was half-hearted and at Malfoy's expense, which makes it even sweeter, I suppose...
They didn't even ask me. Not that I'd have the time with Animagus training, but still...

I doubt they asked any of the Slytherins...
One more year. I hear Parkinson's out of it. Popped into an owl and disappeared...
I suspect Granger knows what I'm doing...

Potter and Weasley trapped me down by the pitch; saved by Hagrid! I could have kissed the oaf...
I don't particularly care one way or the other anymore, but Creevey's got a point...
If he yips in my ear one more time, I'm going for his throat...

Potter's got almost nothing left, they say...
McGonagall and Creevey are blind; it isn't for the greater good. It's purely selfish...
Purely for survival...

Hermione's breath came out in short pants, tears stinging her eyes, her head so full of pressure she feared it would burst. And then something gave way, something cracked, and she bit her lip clear through.

The past decade stood out in oddly sharp relief, her early years an amalgam of her real life and her re-written memories. A Muggle. She'd lived ten years as a Muggle. Ten years without Harry and Ron and all the people she'd loved so dearly. Ten years without magic.

Blaise and Colin gazed at her intently, expectantly, and she clenched her eyes shut, unable to line up her thoughts properly. The battle of Avignon. Ginny. Finally, in a stunned whisper, she said, simply, "Harry."

Then she lifted her eyes to the men across the table from her, wiped the blood from her chin, and said, "For Merlin's sake, Colin, put some clothes on."