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Learning the Truth

"We were five, and we were playing hide and seek, you and I. Upstairs. It was my turn to hide and you had just finished counting in the corner…"

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The spot I'd picked was perfect. I knew you'd never be able to find me. I was on the top shelf in Mother's closet, at the back corner. I'd piled some of her clothes on top of me. No one would've been able to see me unless I came down or they were eight feet tall. You were in the hallway, looking behind doors and curtains. I remember hearing you giggle.

Then there was a crash, and a scream. Voices were yelling. Dad was thundering at someone to get out. Mom was screaming. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the aurors. Dad was under suspicion of being a Death Eater and they'd come to bring him in to question him. He wasn't, though. He wasn't a Death Eater. Zabinis always stay neutral in wartimes. I think they'd petrified Mom, and that's why she didn't come upstairs to make sure we were okay. You were still searching for me, talking to yourself as you went. I didn't move from my spot. That's when I heard you scream. Someone had come upstairs and grabbed you. They didn't want us to grow up into Death Eaters, I guess, so they were taking custody of us. No one found me, though. They looked but I was hidden too well

A few hours later, the house was quiet again. Mom came running upstairs, searching for us. I came down for her, and told her what I'd heard. She burst into tears when she realized you'd been taken. We went to the Ministry, but they said they had no records of any raid on our house. They told us it must have been some group who'd decided to take action against families who were suspected to be dark. They told us you were dead. We found Dad a few days later, in an abandoned warehouse. He'd been tortured for information, and then slaughtered.

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"…And that's that. Mom hasn't been the same since. She's always in the market for a new husband, and when she gets sick of them they vanish. I think the Ministry's afraid to convict her because of what happened with Dad."

"Do you know who did it?" Hermione asked, "Who killed your father, I mean?"

"Mom has named five people: The Prewett brothers, Frank Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt… and Arthur Weasley."

"No!" Hermione cried. "Mr. Weasley couldn't have! I know him to be the sweetest, kindest man. He couldn't have done such a despicable thing. Kingsley, either! They just couldn't have!"

"It's true. I've heard their voices since that night, and every time I do it makes me shudder. Weasley helped kill our father. That's why I hate them. It hasn't got anything to do with the war or prejudices. It's because they got off without even a slap on the wrist while I lost my family."

Hermione began to sob once more.

"So really, you don't have to say anything to Potter and Weasley, since it's for Potter that Father was captured and Weasley's father was the one who did it. You don't owe them any sort of explanation. As for your 'parents', I'm sure they were in on the whole thing, so they've betrayed you as well. Just think, you've been denied the lifestyle you deserve. You were born pure and raised muggle. You could've gone through school with people worshipping you. Never would you have been looked down upon. You wouldn't have been looked at and scorned for being less, because you would've been more. You are more."

Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She needed time to be alone. She had to rest. She needed to think. Everything could be explained, she was sure, she just had to think through it logically. How could Mr. Weasley do such a thing? How could he subject a family to such pain? How could he have done it?

What a selfish bastard. He destroyed a family's happiness, and then no doubt ran back to his own perfect life. He who used to sympathize with her for getting called such filthy names was the reason she was called them in the first place. It was his fault she'd grown up in a home where she didn't feel she fit, his fault she didn't feel at home anywhere she went. It was his fault for everything.

The beginnings of hate and anger were stirring up in her stomach. The tears that streamed down her face were of anger now, not of sadness. Her intuition had told her that everything Blaise had told her was the truth. Plus, she always had a mild truth spell on her wand that would have alerted her to any lies.

"Hermione? Are you going to be okay?" Blaise asked, breaking the dark haired girl out of her thoughts.

"My name isn't Hermione anymore. It's Quinn. I need to be alone for a while. I need time to absorb everything. Please," she whispered.

Blaise nodded, smiling gently, "Of course. I'll have a servant bring up your meals until you feel you're ready to come out, okay?"

"Not a house elf!"

"Not a house elf, we don't own any. We employ squibs. They give much better service. I'll see you later," he said, closing the door behind him.

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Hermione didn't leave her room for six straight days. She hadn't talked to anyone except Gilda, who brought her meals. All she did was sit on her bed and think. She thought about everything, because that's what she always did. That's who she was. It didn't matter what her name was or what her face looked like. She would always be the same on the inside.

So, when Gilda brought breakfast on the morning of the seventh day, Hermione asked her to help her get ready. Gilda happily agreed and soon Hermione was squeaky clean. Her dark brown curls were piled atop her head and her makeup had been applied subtly in a way that made her eyes stand out. She was dressed in a silk, scarlet wrap-around day robe.

Gilda gave the girl directions to the dining room and disappeared down one of the servants' corridors.

Then Quinn Zabini stepped into the world as herself for the first time since she was five. No longer would she be known as Hermione Granger, the muggle born friend of Potter and Weasley. No.

Slowly, and somewhat nervously, Quinn began her trek to the dining room. Portraits smiled at her as she passed and she smiled back. She felt as if she were in the right place for once. As if she belonged. It was nice. She decided she could get used to it easily. Quinn got lost only once on her way but a portrait kindly directed her back on track. When she entered the dining room, Blaise was seated by himself at the table reading the paper.

"Good morning," she grinned.

Blaise jumped so high he nearly fell out of his chair. Quinn giggled and he shot her a playful glare. "Good morning. You scared the wits out of me, Quinn."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"I know I'm not. Where's mother?"

"Out. Shopping, most likely. How're you feeling?"

"Better. I've thought everything through and I'm dealing with it. Thank you for leaving me alone," she smiled softly.

"My pleasure. Are you hungry?" he asked, folding up his paper and placing it to the side. "Gilda told me you haven't been eating much."

"I'm starving, actually."

"The kitchen is just through that door," he said, pointing. "Just go in there and tell Bridget what you want. She's the cook."

Quinn nodded and did as she was told. After a few minutes of chatting with Bridget and the rest of the cooking staff, she waltzed back into the dining room her breakfast in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. She almost dropped it, however, when she saw who was sitting across from Blaise.

"What is Malfoy doing here?" she asked through gritted teeth, fingers tightening around her glass.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? He's staying here for the summer," Blaise told her nonchalantly before turning to the blond. "Draco, this is my sister Quinn. You'd remember her better as Granger."

Malfoy choked.

Quinn glared.

Blaise smirked. "Come and join us at the table, Quinn."

"I'd rather eat in my room, thanks. It's a death eater free zone."

"Shut up, you stupid mud-"

"Op, bop, bop, can't use that word anymore, Ferret. My blood is just as pure as yours."

"At least I was raised properly. You grew up with filthy muggles."

"At least I haven't tried to murder anyone, you cowardly piece of death eater scum."

"Fuck you."

"Original."

"Are you two finished?" Blaise cut in. Both continued to glare at each other. "Quinn, sit."

She moved to the chair next to her brother and slid into it.

"Good, now Draco, roll up your sleeves."

He pushed the sleeves of his robes above his elbows and held out his pale, unmarked forearms for Quinn to see.

"Very good. So. Quinn, formerly Hermione, is pureblooded. Draco, you now have no reason to hate her. And Draco is obviously not a death eater. He no longer hates you and will stop tormenting you, and therefore, Quinn; you no longer have a reason to hate him. Okay?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Good."