Hermione awoke disoriented, unsure of her surroundings. Somewhere between dreamland and consciousness, she had either been exhausted enough or preoccupied enough that her mind had decided to let go of the details of her location. It took her a few moments of paranoid sweeping glances of the room for her to remember she was in Blaise's bedroom, the black silk sheets just as ridiculous as she had pointed out the night before, the dark wood and silver accents not quite so understated that she could forget that he was privy to astronomical wealth.

She allowed herself another moment of relishing the sinfully soft bed, an amenity she had done without for far too long, before she decided to put her mind to work. Blaise was gone, though she thought she could hear some sound in another part of the flat. Surely he wouldn't have just left her there.

"Good, you're awake," Blaise leaned against the door jamb, his face impassive. "You and I have a meeting with the Minister for Magic in an hour, so perhaps you'd like to get dressed."

Hermione stifled a sigh, disappointed to be getting back to reality so soon, and reached for her clothes, strewn across the floor of the bedroom. But…they were gone.

"I disposed of your Muggle clothes," Blaise explained to her lingering hand, searching for her now distant pants. "I sent my valet out to get you a pair of robes."

"You had no right to get rid of my clothes," Hermione snapped, sitting upright indignantly, pulling the sheet with her.

Blaise shrugged and pulled his teacup up to his lips. "I figured you would want to make a statement to the press and to your father by walking into the Ministry in your Muggle clothes, but trust me when I say that is not a statement you want to make, nor is it a statement you can take back."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "This has nothing to do with a bloody statement, those were my clothes!"

"And now you will have robes befitting your new blood status," Blaise intoned. "There's tea in the kitchen, and if you're…shy," he allowed a smirk to take over his face for just a moment, "there's a robe in that armoire."

"Bloody prat," she muttered, slipping the robe over her shoulders.

There was indeed tea in the kitchen, as well as a spread of fruit and croissants. It was so aesthetically pleasing that Hermione, for a moment, could not shake the mental picture of Blaise meticulously arranging it while she slept. Truthfully, it was probably the nameless valet that had done it, but she preferred the idea of Blaise.

"If I may ask –" in the time it had taken her to slip on a robe and plod her way down the hallway, Blaise had changed into a pair of dark green dress robes with a rich, golden tie, just barely visible under the fastening of the robe, "how do you plan to justify your sudden appearance to your father?"

Hermione shrugged, pushing a grape into her mouth. "I think I'll just tell him the truth," she said.

"Are you prepared to answer questions about your mother?" Blaise asked, sliding a tray of sugar cubes over the marble counter and into her reach. "About her location?"

"I –"

"Minister Rosier fathered you out of wedlock," Blaise continued. "In pureblood society, if you have sex with someone and you get them pregnant, not only are you a complete imbecile, but you are bound by a life. The pressure to marry after an instance like that is insurmountable. But instead of marrying Rosier, your mother ran. Surely she had a reason."

Hermione had already thought about this too much to want to think about it again. "She never told it to me."

"And you never asked?" Blaise pressed. "You, the woman with the most questions I've ever known –"

"It was a bit of a shock, alright?" she snapped. "I wasn't even sure she was telling the truth."

"So why are you really here, then?" he asked.

Hermione paused, her hand just barely touching the next grape she planned to eat. "Not sure that's something you want me to reveal to you," she said carefully. "You're going to think I'm lying."

"Truthfully, Granger –," he faltered at the scowl on her face, "Hermione, most of the time I imagine you're far too intelligent to even consider deception."

"I would be stupid to never consider deception, Zabini," she said easily. "Despite the – disgust – I feel for the current regime, Rosier is my father. I've been living in Sweden for almost six years. Have you ever been to Sweden?"

"I have never had the pleasure."

"It's miserable," she said firmly. "There is no magical community there, no city like Wizarding London. We are hiding there as much as we would be hiding here. I spent my entire life separated from my heritage, and now I know why, and it wasn't because I didn't have any. If there is a place for me in this new place, in this new world, then I want to be in it. No matter what I have to sacrifice, or how many times I have to hold my tongue."

Blaise stared at her for a long time, searching her face systematically for a lie. Finally, the deep chime of his front door shook him from his reverie and he retreated, leaving Hermione to her tea so he could answer the door.

He returned a few moments later, carrying a wooden hanger and a set of deep blue dress robes.

"You should get dressed," he said softly, passing them over to her. "We have that meeting."

She took the hanger, still surveying the clothes. "Do you think they'll ever let me bring my friends back here?" she asked, and suddenly, Blaise was looking down at the girl he knew from Hogwarts, defiant but terrified, strong but unsure.

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

So much had changed while she was gone, Hermione reflected as Blaise ushered her through the crowd in the Atrium. The huge fountain the middle of the marble floor seemed larger than before, the faces of the squashed Muggles, goblins, and house elves even more grotesque than she remembered. She recognized several faces as she moved through the crowd, trying to keep her head down, but what astounded her more was how…unbothered people seemed to be.

Didn't they know they were complicit in thousands of deaths? Didn't they know they had given up?

But how was she any different now, walking into the lion's den with her soft neck bared, waiting to see if it would be ripped out or spared? Was she just as bad?

She wondered, as Blaise crowded her into the lift, if Harry and Ron would believe her if she managed to get an owl to them. Would they understand why she left in the middle of the night without even a note? Would they hate her forever? Ron probably would, he could never control his temper. Harry might understand, if she worded it the right way. One day, maybe, if she managed to find a place for herself in this new Wizarding age, they could all be together again.

"Hermione," Blaise's voice was just insistent enough that she knew immediately that he had called her more than once before. "Stay focused."

"I am focused," she muttered stiffly.

The lift clattered to a stop, and Blaise pushed her out, past the witch with bright pink robes, past the wizard with galoshes inexplicably attached to his feet, and into the quiet, sterile corridor that led to the Minister's office.

"Just so we are absolutely clear," Blaise hissed out of the corner of his mouth, "you are absolutely certain this is what you want to do?"

She glanced back up at him, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. "What's the matter, Zabini? Afraid for me?"

"Afraid for me, more like," he admitted. "I know you can handle this yourself."

"Zabini, what a pleasant surprise to see you up on this floor," his voice was as unwelcome as it was familiar, and Hermione considered, for a wild moment, ducking behind Blaise's back to avoid being spotted. "Granger? What the –"

"Careful, Draco, we have a meeting for which we are about to be tardy," Blaise said, almost dismissively. "I would be happy to fill you in when we are finished."

"I thought you were in Stockholm," Draco directed to Hermione, his voice cool but not as harsh as she expected. She chanced a glance at him, unsurprised to see him largely unchanged. His figure was still wiry, thin, and too pale to be healthy, but he was looking down at her with curiosity more than disgust.

"Apparently I am in Stockholm no longer," she replied evenly.

"I always knew one of you would come over to our side eventually," Draco tilted his head in what could almost be a gentlemanly bow. "I certainly never thought it would be you. Curious."

"We really must be going –" Blaise was motioning forward, toward the Minister's office, and Draco's eyes were following his trajectory.

"You know He will want to hear about this," Draco jutted his chin at Hermione. "Do not keep it a secret for long, or He will fear you have something to hide."

"I am a transparent window," Blaise said obliquely. "My flat in two hours," he muttered over his shoulder as Draco passed. Draco didn't even pause in his exit to acknowledge the message, and Hermione was left wondering exactly how much Blaise would reveal to his childhood friend in two hours, if they were both even alive in two hours.

"The Minister will see you," Astoria Greengrass, as pale, as upright and delicately beautiful as ever, as already standing when they reached her, her hand extended toward a black door with a gilded handle, already ajar. Blaise gave her a nod of acknowledgement and stepped through the door first.

"Mr. Minister, if I may present Miss Hermione Granger," he was suddenly the paragon of pureblood society, and Hermione stepped through the door, aware that she felt almost immediately several degrees colder, and wondered just how unmanageable the mire of pureblood politics would be.

Evan Rosier had her nose, she noticed as she took in his face for the first time. He stood far taller than she, almost head and shoulders above her, his back straight, his lips pursed into almost a smile, though predatory or purely polite, she could not discern.

"Miss Granger, have a seat," he was all business, just firm enough that Hermione never thought to disobey him. Unabashedly, she examined his face, the planes of his cheekbones that she could see a hint of in her own visage, his short cropped hair that looked to be completely different from her own. His hands, long, thin fingers, were similarly shaped to her own hands, clenched tightly in her lap. He was studying her as well, though far more intensely than she hoped. Perhaps she had made a mistake coming here.

"Perhaps you can tell me how this came to be," Rosier directed at Blaise, still standing.

"Mr. Minister, if I may –" Hermione interrupted. Rosier turned to her, his eyes narrowed and critical. She faltered for just a moment, unsure if he would let her interrupt, pureblood propriety and all. "I came to Wizarding London with the intent to speak with you, and I was found and captured by Mr. Zabini, who, after hearing my story, treated me with great respect."

"Did he now?" Rosier let his eyes flicker over to Blaise just once, enough to force his shoulders to wither just a bit. "So you have shared your story with him?"

"Only a few details," Hermione skirted, avoiding the loaded question. "Just enough to entice him to bring me to you."

Rosier's face hardened. "You let a war criminal into the Ministry with no blindfold, no enchantments, no precautions, while she was still in possession of her wand?" Rosier asked, finally turning his gaze more completely to Blaise. "Perhaps these years of peace have made you soft. I'm sure we can fix that."

"Mr. Zabini never took my wand or harmed me because he knew my intent was to join you," Hermione said quickly, averting her eyes from Blaise's blanched face. Rosier turned his gaze to her, his eyes still full of the fury he had just unleashed on Blaise. It withered a bit as curiosity took over.

"To join me?" Rosier repeated. "Perhaps you have me confused with the Dark Lord, Miss Granger, I am not the one to whom you swear allegiance." He was flattered by the word choice, she could hear it in the softened edges of his voice. Good.

"Unless I am confused about pureblood traditions, I am meant to swear allegiance and obedience to you, Minister, as my father," she blurted it out in a rush. She wanted to curse herself; she had been so collected just a moment before, her plan unfolding just as she wanted it to. She could not let nerves overtake her now. The silence stretched so long she wondered if he could even decipher her blathering.

It seemed he did understand her. He turned his gaze up to Blaise, his hand reaching for his wand, just to the left of his hand. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Does the name Penelope Parkinson mean anything to you?" Hermione asked.

"Interrupt me again and I will open that brilliant mind of yours instead of allowing you to speak," Rosier snapped, and even though he didn't so much as rise from his seat, she felt herself and Blaise shift, trying not to cower, not to show weakness. "How do you know the name Penelope Parkinson?"

"She is my mother," Hermione said, making sure to keep her tone measured, despite the way her wand hand twitched to protect herself, to protect Blaise. "She went into hiding when she learned she was pregnant, and married a Muggle to hide her shame. I only learned of my real parentage a few days ago."

"And instead of staying by your mother, you decided to come extort your supposed father?" Rosier asked. "Seems a little poorly planned for the brightest witch of her age."

"My mother lied to me," Hermione replied coolly. "My father, the man who pretended to be my father, lied to me my entire life. They let me face persecution, bullying, and torture for being a Muggleborn even though they knew I wasn't one. They let me fight a war against my own family."

"So you've forsaken your mother, is that it?" Rosier asked, leaning forward at his desk just enough that Hermione felt his presence loom ever closer, ever more threatening.

"I came to learn about who I am," she replied simply.

Rosier seemed marginally satisfied with that response. "And what about your…little friends? Potter? Weasley?"

"I left in the middle of the night, and left no note," she said truthfully. "By now, they probably think I've been captured, or murdered."

"But not fled?"

"Harry and Ron will never understand," she said, aware that she sounded like she was pleading. "They have always known who they were. They have always felt at home with each other, with the families they've had and created. I have never had that," she glanced back at Blaise, just enough to make sure he was still there. "But I never told them that I felt lost, that I couldn't understand parts of myself. And now, I do."

"After one meeting?" Rosier asked, incredulity clouding his features. "That's a little much, don't you think?"

"Take no offense, Minister, but meeting you wasn't an epiphany," Hermione leaned back in her seat, allowing her tone to relax, her shoulders to drop. She knew how to play him now; all she had to do was follow through. "It was knowing that the power I felt, the magic in my blood, was not a fluke, but my birthright."

"Well, Miss…Granger," Rosier nodded up at Blaise, who stepped forward immediately. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but I cannot take your words at face value. I must confirm what you have said myself."

She had expected as much. "Of course," she said, inclining her head the way she had just seen Malfoy do out in the hall.

"You will stay with Mr. Zabini tonight, and tomorrow, I will send for you," he was dismissing them, Blaise's extended hand to help her up from her seat was an unnecessary cue. "Make sure she knows what is expected of her," he directed to Blaise, who nodded.

"It was nice to meet you, Miss Granger," Rosier said as they slipped through the door. "It's nice to finally put a name to the reputation."

She wasn't sure what that meant, but Blaise's hand tightened around her own, and suddenly the door was closed and she could breathe a little easier.