Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to Jo!

Author's Note: This story takes its M rating seriously. You have been warned...

Prologue

Pain. Pain beyond imagining. Pain beyond anything she had dreamed or feared. Pain no one could have prepared her for, no one could have warned her about. Pain she could never have learned from school or her books, pain that only could be believed first-hand. All encompassing, all knowing. Pain that left no room for light or sound or reason or love. There was nothing but the pain. Again and again and again…

And then she was beside herself, watching the torture and feeling nothing. She breathed deeply, relief filling the space the pain had occupied. She was free! But another girl was still taking the curse and she too had brown bushy hair and brown eyes that would never see anything but the evil witch before her and never hear anything but the deep breathing of the filthy man waiting for his turn. And she knew that if the werewolf got that other girl, she would suffer a fate worse than pain, worse than death, worse, even, than turning into a wolf herself. She could not let that happen. She had to help that girl, even if that would mean feeling the pain again. Could she do it? Was it fair to ask that girl to suffer in her place? No. She was Hermione Jean Granger, best friend to Harry Potter, chosen for Gryffindor, and she could take it. She was brave enough, she was strong enough. She had to do it; she tried to reach out to the suffering girl, to ease them back together, but she came short, and she couldn't reach her. She couldn't help her.

And the girl getting tortured turned to her twin and silently begged her to help, to divide the suffering, but the other girl could not. Or was it that she would not? All rational thought was gone, and suddenly she knew it was not a question of could. The other girl would not help her. Why did that girl hate her, why must she suffer in her place? She listened to the other girl speak, as her own tongue could do nothing but scream. She heard the girl choke out lies about fake swords and she bristled, knowing that she wasn't hurt, she wasn't damaged. That other Hermione could still think, could still feel. But for her, there was nothing but pain.

And when it was over, the other girl didn't need her anymore. That girl slipped back in control, as if her sacrifice had meant nothing. As if she was nothing. But she was still there, still in pain, and waiting for release. She was trapped inside that girl, trapped in the dark, where the only sounds were her own screams, and that word – crucio. But even in the dark she could see that other girl. She watched her always, eager for the chance to sneak out, to switch places so that she may know what pain felt like. It wouldn't do to come out too soon, during the madness and confusion. What did she want with a ruined life? Oh no, she could wait until things were good, things were happy, things were safe. She would bide her time, and when the moment was right… Jean would have her turn.

X X X X

It was a pretty day, nothing special, really, but pretty just the same. Mild weather, few clouds. A perfectly nice, normal day. Just like any other day. Hermione and Ron spent the morning shopping with Harry and Ginny in Diagon Ally. The friends were just strolling around, nowhere to be, nothing to do. Six years after the Battle of Hogwarts the foursome still drew stares, even in places they frequented, but they were used to it by now. They chatted, made plans, joked and laughed. Ron now ran Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes with his brother George, and although he had Saturdays off, he couldn't resist a quick trip to check the merchandise and to trade quips with his brother. It was how Ron and Hermione spent most Saturday mornings: surrounded by laughter, friends and family. Perfectly nice, perfectly normal. A typical Weasley/Potter outing.

And if Hermione was a little quieter than usual, no one noticed amongst the jokes and carrying on. She felt a bit off, but nothing too out of the ordinary. She had awoken that morning feeling completely happy and content and had smiled at her reflection in the mirror, pleased to be Mrs. Ron Weasley, pleased to be in her new job of Magical Law Enforcement, pleased just to be. Her life was perfect. No children yet, but that could come soon enough. For now, she was young, happy, in love and the world was a safe and wonderful place. She knew she was being sappy – borderline ridiculous, really, but she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so satisfied. She fluffed out her already frizzy hair and made a few un-Hermione-like faces in the mirror, just goofing off and grinning. And then mirror had – shifted, it seemed. For just a moment, she thought she had seen another face looking back at her, one that tugged at a memory she preferred not to access. But then it had been gone, and it didn't come back. She knew she was being silly – that face didn't exist – but although she tried to shake her unease it left her feeling slightly…off.

Oh well. She'd feel better later.

Finally, after all this time, she had her chance. Inside her jailor, Jean smiled for the first time in her miserable life. It felt like it would split her face in half, and it wasn't a happy smile, but it was full of terrible glee. That girl was happy. Content. Satisfied with her life. She couldn't have that, now could she? It just wouldn't be fair. Not for her, who suffered without end, who was trapped inside a mind that refused to recognize her. It was her time now. She was forming a hold on the girl; she would be in control soon, and Hermione's (that girl's) life would come tumbling down. Finally.

XXXX

When Jean woke the next morning, she stretched luxuriously, free from pain for the first time in longer than she could remember. She ran a hand through her sleep tousled hair, tugging lightly at the curls. It was shorter than she remembered, but still wild and frizzy, the way Jean liked it. That girl might think her hair was a curse, but Jean knew it made her special. People remembered her hair, in all its thick, unruly glory. It was the girl's (MINE!) best feature. Her body was slim and free from blemishes; it was hard to believe that great amount of pain and suffering left no marks. That's because they're all on the inside. She looked fondly at the sleeping figure beside her, a figure that had given her comfort inside her pain-filled prison. He had cared when she was hurt – she remembered the way his screams echoed hers every time that evil witch cast her curse. True, he thought she was the other girl, but that didn't matter. He had still wept for her, screamed for her, ached for her. She didn't know how she could hurt the girl without hurting him, but every war had its casualties. She'd simply do her best, and if he fell along the way, so much the worse for the girl.

She rose without waking him and strode to the mirror, trying out arms and legs that were finally not hobbled in pain. Just as she'd suspected, she saw the girl looking back at her, eyes filled with agony and a terrible recognition. She thought she saw regret in those eyes, too, and guilt, but it was far too late for that. The girl had made her bed, and that was that. She stuck her tongue out at the reflection and raised her eyebrows in challenge: What are you going to do about it?

She took a long hot shower, relishing the feel of the water on her skin and thanking God that the girl's husband was such a heavy sleeper. She wanted to leave the house before he woke up, wanted a little time to herself. She was owed some peace and quiet, wasn't she? She dressed quickly in muggle clothing, tying her hair in a pony tail and grabbing the girl's (it's mine, not hers!) wand from the dresser. She scrawled a quick note in the kitchen: Back later. Love you - Hermione. She gagged a little as she signed the girl's name, but she knew she had to be careful not to arouse suspicion this early into her plan. She knew the girl well, and was confident she would have no trouble slipping into her shoes. Wasn't she just reclaiming her own life anyway?

Jean knew she would have to take her time, to set her traps slowly and not rush headlong into the destruction she wanted to cause. She was a patient girl. She'd waited six long, pain-filled years to get her revenge. She could wait a little longer.