She couldn't feel her legs. But she couldn't breathe either, so the legs didn't seem to matter so much.

She coughed. It tasted like blood. Did coughing always taste like that? She would have to ask Harry if he had any theories. He was there when she turned her head, looking remarkably calm, all things considered.

"I'll fix this," he was saying. "I made a mistake, but I can fix this."

What was he talking about? Her legs were asleep. She must have been sitting in the library for too long. Her mouth tasted funny. She needed to brush her teeth. "Not your fault," she tried to say, but it came out wrong. She couldn't move her mouth right. Why couldn't she move her mouth right?

"Not your fault," she said. This time she said it right. Then everything went black, and it didn't seem to matter any more.

She couldn't feel her legs. She pushed and pushed until a black cat jumped off the end of the bed with a hiss.

"Oh…Crookshanks," she gasped, sweating under the heavy blanket. Wait…who was Crookshanks? Since when did she own a cat? It must belong to one of the other Ravenclaw girls. She'd…ask Harry to find out whose it was.

Hermione checked the time. An hour early to wake, but there was nothing wrong with that. Harry had given her some more books this week. He seemed very excited about one in particular, something about a painter, a composer and a mathematician. It sounded like a bad joke. An hour ought to be enough to read it front to back.

Hermione rummaged around inside her trunk. Her books weren't where she remembered putting them. They didn't feel they way she remembered them.

Hermione pulled out her wand. "Lumos."

She stared.

No Advanced Spellcrafting. No The Logic of Quidditch. No The Double Helix or Pale Blue Dot or Man: The Moral Animal—Harry had given her that one after their…talk in the library.

Instead she had The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. Magical Drafts and Potions. Test-Taking Tips and Tricks for Young Witches.

Hermione grabbed that one and held it up, disbelieving. She didn't need test-taking tips! Step one was memorize everything, and step two was write it down! Who needed tips? What was this doing in her trunk? Where were her real books?

Stop. Breathe. It's only b—it's only b-b-books. She made herself say it three times. Harry had played a prank on her, that's all. Probably he was trying to take her mind off things. She'd get him back at breakfast.

Harry wasn't there at breakfast. She looked up and down the Ravenclaw table, but Harry wasn't there. Who would she eat with now? The thought terrified her. All the Ravenclaw students were looking at her as if she didn't belong, as if it took temerity for her to be trying to sit at their table. Part of her wanted to set her tray down right in the middle of them as loudly as she could. A bigger part of her wanted to drop the tray and run out of the room as fast as she could.

She turned around, unable to stop herself, and she saw him sitting next to Ron Weasley. Laughing. At the Gryffindor table.

That did it. Hermione marched over and slapped her tray down on the table in front of him. Gryffindor first-years cleared out of her way as she glared at the Boy Who Lived. They could see in her eyes that she was ready to turn his title into a misnomer.

"Hey, Hermione," he smiled nervously. "I was wondering what you were doing over by the Ravenclaw table—"

"The real question, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, is what you are doing at the Gryffindor table. Also, my books. Give them back. Now."

He blinked. "There are like five different things in that sentence I didn't understand."

"Do not waste my time, Mr. Potter-Evans-Verres, or I will hex you."

"Hermione, sit down," Ron said around a mouthful of crisps."Relax, it's breakfast. Don't start being crazy until classes, okay?"

She glared at him. "Right, I forgot you're talking to me again now that you think I—I—why do you have crisps? Are there even wizard crisps?"

Ron glanced at Harry. "There, uh, aren't, actually. My dad gets them. He sent me a box." He held out the bag. "Funyun?"

"No. Harry, what is going on?"

"I don't know," he said, giving her an odd look. "What is going on?"

Someone rapped on the table. "Hermione's being crazy again."

"Hermione's being crazy again." The call went up and down the table.

"Just sit down," Harry started to say, but she pushed the tray away and ran out of the hall.

It had been more than an hour reading in the library before Hermione realized she was waiting for Harry to find her. That was silly. Besides, she was missing class…not that she hadn't memorized the textbooks months ago.

What had Harry been thinking? Sitting with Ron at the Gryffindor table? Acting like she was the one being weird? Messing with her books? Was it all some sick attempt to distract her from…she was still waiting for him to come find her. Seriously, it made her want to reestablish SPHEW just to pull herself out of this chair and away from this book and go do something.

And she was still waiting here! What was wrong with her? She forced her feet to move—it was like pulling a heavy log through treacle, honestly—and went in search of Harry Potter.

She didn't find him. Instead, she found Draco Malfoy.

She pressed herself against the wall, breathing heavily. Something about that sneer stretched across his face didn't quite seem like him.

She peeked around the corner again. It was hard to tell if it was Draco through the haze. She couldn't quite seem to see clearly, maybe because she needed to vomit. Trembling, she picked herself up off the floor and dashed to the nearest restroom.

She banged on the first stall, but it was locked. She threw open the second one and fell to her knees in front of the toilet. Convulsions wracked her, and on the third heave a breakfast she hadn't eaten came out in a painful retch.

The vomit Vanished immediately. Hermione held on to the toilet seat and waited for the ground to stabilize.

She didn't react as the stall next to her opened. There was no flushing, of course, as everything was Vanished immediately. It was one of six hundred and forty-five facts Hermione remembered from 1000 Facts Every Muggleborn Should Know. The title had been a lie.

"What's the matter, firstie? Trying to get out of an exam? First time on a broomstick?" The voice didn't sound sympathetic.

Hermione spat. It tasted acidic and foul.

"Smells awful," the girl said. "Afeteus. Much better. Try to keep in all in the toilet so that it Vanishes properly. Wouldn't want the house-elves to bake your puke into tomorrow's breakfast, would we?"

The girl left. Hermione spat again.

Hermione knew exactly when she realized she was in Bizarro Hogwarts. It wasn't the fact that everyone seemed to have forgotten about the armies or the way everyone acted like Neville being sorted into Gryffindor made perfect sense. It was when she walked into Professor Quirrell's Battle Magic class that it finally clicked.

It was odd, thinking of Professor Quirrell as a bedrock of sanity, her last hope to cling to when all else had failed her. But there it was: no matter what Harry had done, no matter how weird the other students or Hogwarts itself was, Professor Quirrell could be relied upon to be precise, direct, and utterly fatalistic. There was no more chance of Professor Quirrell being involved in Harry's over-the-top prank than there was of him gluing students to the ceiling. She had been looking forward to Battle Magic all week. That was probably why it hurt the most to see what had happened to it.

No longer was Professor Quirrell's classroom a giant assemble of all the first-years, but only the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws together. Professor Quirrell came in, trembling and smelling of garlic. The whole room smelled of garlic, and mirrors and holy signs covered the walls. It made for a garish sight, but it wasn't as bad as Quirrell's awful turban that stank of death even over the thick nauseating garlic.

"P-P-Please open your b-b-books to p-p-page 113," Quirrell stuttered, looking terrified that the first-year students were mostly listening to him. "Let's s-s-see what the M-M-Ministry has to say about d-d-defense against wereb-b-bunnies."

Hermione's mouth dropped. It was happening so much she was starting to worry some kind of locking mechanism in her jaw had broken.

Lavender Brown raised her hand. "Pick up, stick in cage until transformation wears off," she read dutifully.

"W-Well done. I h-have here a number of bunnies—not w-w-werebunnies, of c-c-course, just regular b-b-bunnies—and some c-c-cages. A point for every b-b-bunny successfully c-caged."

"Man, I love Defense class," Harry said as he struggled to shove a particularly fat and stubborn bunny into a cage Ron held open.

Hermione levitated three bunnies into separate cages at the same time. "This is rubbish. If he won't teach us real defense anymore, then we'll have to study ourselves in the library."

"No way," Harry said. "Learning is bad enough in school. I would never want to do it on my own, especially not with books."

Hermione stared at him. "What is wrong with you?"

"Same thing that's wrong with everybody, according to you; he's not a huge nerd." Ron held out a bag of candy. "Twizzler?"

Professor Snape was a thin man with sallow skin. His nose was hooked, his hair was black and greasy, and he tended to hover behind students and speak in his low, frightening voice just as they had made an irreversible mistake. He was the terror of non-Slytherins everywhere, and thanks to Harry, had been extremely unpleasant but not outright abusive for most of the school year.

Apparently that had changed. Professor Snape fixed Harry in his sharp glare the instant class started.

"Mr. Potter," he said. He didn't shout. Professor Snape never shouted, not even when a cauldron bubbled over and was about to explode. Instead he spoke quietly, an undercurrent of danger running through his voice, forcing you to lean forward and listen to him eviscerate you. "Why are your Billywig legs not set north to south? A point from Gryffindor."

"They were like that when I got here, Professor," Harry bit out. "I didn't know it mattered."

"Another point from Gryffindor," Professor Snape said. "Even the famous Harry Potter is not excused from following the guidelines in his textbook."

"It's only two points," Ron whispered as Professor Snape began to explain the potion they were making. "Better than last week, eh?"

"A point from Gryffindor for talking out of turn, Mr. Weasely," Professor Snape drawled. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, if you were listening, how many turns clockwise and how many turns counter-clockwise to properly stir an Aging Potion?"

"I don't know, Professor," Harry said. "You were telling us about a Dizziness Draught."

"A point for backchat. If you were listening and had read your textbook, you would know that they belong to the same theoretical class. The correct answer is five turns clockwise, three turns counter-clockwise. Another point."

Hermione blinked. Even she didn't know that—nor did she see how Professor Snape could have expected anyone to figure it out from the brief instructions he had given—but more surprising was the way Harry just sat there and took it. Had Professor Snape forgotten his promise? Had Harry?

Class continued, and Professor Snape continued to disregard the line between being scary and abusive to no reaction from Harry. It wasn't until Neville was on the verge of tears over his runny, grey mess of a potion while Professor Snape berated him that Hermione stood up.

"Professor Snape, if you let me help him I can—"

"Quiet, Granger. I did not ask for your usual insufferable know-it-all stunts. A point from Gryffindor."

It took Hermione a moment to register the fact that the points were subtracted from Gryffindor, not Ravenclaw as the Slytherin side of the room erupted in laughter. She could hear Draco's voice above the rest. She steeled herself.

"Professor Snape, if it is in fact your intention to teach Potions despite all appearances, I suggest you let me help Neville and anyone else whom you consider worthy only of your scorn."

The room went deathly silent. Harry and Ron were looking at her like she was Jesus Christ telling the Roman centurions to come back with a bigger cross and rustier nails. She didn't see Draco.

Professor Snape turned toward her, his lip curling up. "Twenty points from Gryffindor. Detention, Granger, and I will hear no from you."

"Fortunately for me, sir, listening to you has never been a critical component of learning Potions.

"Twenty more points and detention until the end of the semester."

"No."

"No?" Professor Snape looked her in the eye. "You will find—what? No!" He staggered back, nearly falling onto his desk. Several of the students stood, as did Hermione, looking confused and frightened.

"You seem oddly reluctant to look me in the eyes, Potter!"

Harry's eyes widened. "So it was you the Sorting Hat was warning me about!"

Legilimency, Hermione realized too late. But what had he seen?

Professor Snape staggered to his feet, sweeping his cloak about himself as if to ward himself from a phantom. "You—Granger—be silent!"

Hermione sat down. There didn't seem any point continuing the fight. She supposed she could blackmail him like Harry had done, but the point had been made. He wouldn't attack Neville for the rest of the period.

Besides, she had hurt enough people trying to protect her own ego. Harry was afraid of what he might do if he got angry enough, but she had already done it.

The class ended. The students rushed out, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike eager to escape the dungeons especially after Professor Snape's strange behavior.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as the cool air of the hall greeted her. She needed to calm herself down before something bad happened to someone else.

At least Professor Snape is definitely strong enough to beat me in a duel.

"Granger!" a voice called. "What was that display in there? Couldn't resist showing off even when you're not the teacher's pet for once?"

She ran.

"I'm talking to you, mudblood!" the voice shouted. "What are you running away for? Heard about what my father's going to have done to you, have you?"

"Shut up, Malfoy, or you'll find out what I'm going to do to you," said another voice. Harry.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Protect me!"

"Not a word from either of you," Ron said, "Or you'll never hear about what my twin brothers are going to have done to you. You'll never hear about it, see, because they won't be nice enough to warn you, not being enough of rich snobby gits to think of it."

Hermione kept moving, ignoring the shouts to wait up. Harry and Ron finally caught up to her.

"Relax, Hermione, he's all talk." Harry put his hand on her shoulder, trying to slow her down. "He's nothing when he's not backed up by his money and his friends."

"Slimy friends they are," Ron said. "Did you see how they whimpered when I mentioned Fred and George?"

Hermione knocked his hand away. "Harry, stop it!" she yelled. "It's enough! Turn it back now!"

The Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years stopped moving through the halls, turning toward the source of the commotion. Professor Snape himself exited the Potions classroom, watching her with unreadable black eyes.

"I don't know how you did this," said Hermione, breathing hard, "You called in some favors and threatened some pranks, got all the armies too play along, you snapped your fingers and made Hogwarts something other than what it is."

She wanted to slap the bewildered look right off his face. "I understand what you're trying to do. You want to distract me, reset things. Maybe it was even your plan to have me take down Professor Snape in your defense. But you of all people should understand that it isn't real!

"How long can you keep the entire school like this? The houses switched up? I don't even know how you got Neville to act so well or D—D—never mind! But even if you could keep things as they are for seven years, it would be wrong, Harry, because none of this is real.

"What would your parents say? They're lovely people, Harry, I met them and they love you very much but what would your father think? Using lies to get what you want, even if it's for your friend, but I thought you never lied. I thought your father had raised you better than that…."

Hermione's voice trailed off. Something was wrong. Ron stepped away from her. The students in the halls watching her looked shocked. Professor Snape's mouth hung open, like she had crossed a line even he hadn't dared to trespass.

"Why is it," Harry said, his voice trembling, "That you can remember anything you read in a book, but you can't remember that my parents are dead? Even after Ron and I rescued you from the troll, you won't stop."

She did remember being trapped in the toilet stall, her toe ring useless, the troll seeing right through her invisibility cloak, regarding her in a impassive sort of way like how a dog might regard a piece of kibble just out of reach, and the powerful relief that flooded through her when Harry and Ron burst into the bathroom, relief followed by concern for their safety and frank shock that they would dare enter a girl's lavatory, imminent danger or no. Ron had dropped its own club on it, which was stupid, a troll's hide was much too thick and strong for a wooden club dropped even at terminal velocity to do much damage. She and Harry had done calculations like that "since we can't cast Abracadabra or Apparate yet. You never know when a bit of knowledge like this could save your life."

But it had worked, sort of. The troll fell forward, and she was too paralyzed to do anything but stumble backwards. Its immense body crushed her legs, pulverized them into tiny fragments of bone and skin and muscle. Her hot blood pumped out weakly, and the irony was not altogether lost on her as she breathed her last breaths….

No! None of that had happened, some or all of it but not now or then or quite like that and none of it made any sense but for one realization.

I can't trust my memory.

You're a cruel one, Harry Potter. All this because I beat you so long ago? If I apologize…?

But Harry's eyes were cold. "You should leave."

"Harry, I—"

"Now," Ron said.

So she ran, pushing through the crowds of students that had gathered to watch, stumbling over a leg that might have been stuck out on purpose or maybe not, it didn't matter. She righted herself and kept running out of the dungeons and through the corridors into the Great Hall and outside.

A tree root snagged her foot; she fell. She could feel the wet grass staining her hands and clothes. Mother would be so upset.

Hermione laughed, though a cramp in her side made her regret it. Stains meant nothing to a witch with a wand and a standard book of spells. She had her nonstandard arsenal too, thanks to the real Professor Quirrell.

She got to her feet slowly. Where could she go now? The castle behind her wasn't Hogwarts. Home didn't seem an option either. Her parents might have changed too.

That left only one option. Hermione gathered her breath, clutched her wand resolutely, and marched to the edge of the field, past the lake and beyond the borders of Hogwarts.