"The diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact. And there's a sixth that was either Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's," Harry said.

"Are you sure there's only six?" she asked.

"Dumbledore was sure. Said he made six, with his own soul as the seventh piece."

Her mind whipped around, and she found herself standing next to Ron in a sea of students, watching Harry and Draco duel in their second year. She flinched when Draco produced a snake from his wand, her stomach roiling as Harry hissed at it. She felt her world slow, and then almost rewind.

Voldemort stood over her as she helplessly watched Harry spit Parseltongue at the snake again. There was a pause as Voldemort examined the memory for a third time.

Hermione felt her mind screaming. She needed to get him out, to slam these books shut. But she hadn't been prepared.

There was a slippery sensation inside of her consciousness. Something far gentler in her mind. Instead of sharp blades, it was like a table knife slipping through butter.

A jerk in her mind, and the knives cut through other spines, looking, searching.

She stood over Harry's sleeping form. In the tent. Just months ago.

Hermione watched with shallow breaths as he thrashed in his sleep, snarling words from dreams that clearly weren't his.

"Stand aside, you silly girl. . . stand aside now. This is my last warning—"

Hermione reached down to wake him, fingers shaking. "Avada Kedavra!" he hissed. She stumbled back, mouth open in silent horror. But the green light never came.

She stared down at his shaggy hair, sticking to his forehead with cold sweat. She held the chain of the locket in one hand, having severed it from his chest earlier. She felt Voldemort hovering over Harry, and she tried to move—tried to shield Harry from his vicious eyes.

But the other presence in her mind, calmer and less violent, stood behind her. Almost as if he was a passenger, just flitting through wherever Voldemort took him.

The pounding in her head was rocking her, the vision of Harry starting to blur with black spots.

Still, Voldemort slithered over him on the bunk, watching as he thrashed and hissed in Parseltongue. She felt the panic in her lungs, seizing her ribs. She couldn't breathe any longer.

And then she was alone. Her body collapsed to the stones on the drawing room floor, her head lolling to the side as she panted. A blur of images, focusing and refocusing.

Draco's shoes still next to her. Unmoving.

Her vision refocused, and she saw Voldemort looming above her, red eyes narrowed down at her in thought. Behind him, Lucius took a sip from his glass. Smooth movements. Like a knife through butter.

There was no cackle of victory. No savage revenge for her knowledge about his most precious secret.

Just a sizzling silence.

Darkness.

She blinked, re-waking, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When she focused, Draco's shoes were still there. Lucius hadn't moved. But Voldemort was walking to the windows, looking out over the gardens.