Chapter 1: I Only Made the One Wand
Chapter Text
May 16th, 1980, somewhere in London.
It began, as these things tend to, in the dead of night.
Britain is known for its rain, but not its storms, and the monsoon that shook the hot summer’s night in 1980 would be spoken about for years to come. Gale forces winds howled and screeched, ripping down power lines and downing trees. Rain, whipped up to a frenzy by the force of a storm, scoured bared flesh with the kiss of a whip. Peals of thunder wracked the air, drowning out the world in their enormity.
It was the sort of night where good folk stayed safe in their beds, huddling together for companionship and praying that the power didn’t fail and the basement didn’t flood. You’d have to be mad to go out in such a storm.
But when a flash of lightning illuminated the blackness on a quiet street in North London, it momentarily revealed two figures, hooded and cloaked. Anyone looking outside might have seen them, and perhaps remarked on what in the world the two strangers were doing outside. Perhaps they’d have called the police to report potential burglars wandering about under cover of the storm, or the NHS to report on two escaped psychiatric patients. Who else would be walking through a hurricane in the middle of London?
In any event, no one looked, and so no one told. The two figures passed unnoticed as they continued their journey down the street, puddling rainwater sloshing against their leather boots. Close examination might have revealed that that the rain never quite seemed to touch their traveling cloaks and veered off at the last second instead, as if the very clear idea each drop had possessed of where it ought to fall suddenly seemed like a rather poor one indeed. A second look would have made it quite obvious that the travelers’ cloaks never shifted in the wind, nor shook as they moved. A very enterprising— and very nosy— observer could have seen that the smaller of the two carried a bundle in her arms that looked quite like a sleeping baby.
Everything else yet seen could have been chalked up to well-fitted, water-repellent clothing, but the baby was another thing entirely. Very few babies are fond of sleeping at the best of times, and the percentage of even those infants who’ll sleep through a thunderstorm in the comfort of a house is vanishingly slim. No child on earth could have slept through such an infernal storm as she was being carried through it.
But the travelers were not ordinary people, and their child was somehow less ordinary than they were. They were witches, of two ancient and powerful bloodlines, and the child they carried with them was born with power beyond even their potent capabilities. Each of them had enough magic in their pinky finger to level the street and cast everyone in it deep into the bowels of the earth, but they’d come with a different purpose. They walked through the storm with grim purpose, searching for a house they’d hoped never to call upon, on a night they’d long dreaded. Rain and wind wouldn’t bar their passage, nor disturb the angelic slumber of the child they’d risk anything for.
Much has been made of the power inherent in a witch’s heritage, often to serve distinctly repulsive ends. Just as in the noble families of ancient Europe, success of one’s glorious ancestors is misconstrued to bless their descendant with a preordained right to rule and conquer. Newer families and bright children from strange sources were often cast down and belittled, loathed for fear that their emergence would somehow take away from the grandeur of the old and the powerful.
The two witches knew this well, having long benefitted from the better half of that exchange themselves, and yet they trekked through the rain to place their only daughter on the other side of the imbalance. It was a profoundly strange thing to do, and the shorter woman made it clear, as she had many times before.
“There has to be another way, Massentia,” she whispered, knowing she’d be heard despite the din around her. “We can’t leave her with these people.”
Her counterpart sighed, cradling her daughter closer as she held her for what would be the last time. “They’ll never stop hunting her, Gwen. Our ties of blood mean nothing to my cousin, and the old man is little better. So long as she lives, she’ll have a target on her back.”
The shorter witch persisted, desperation leeching into her voice as they turned down a cross-street towards their destination. “Please, don’t do this. We’ll find a way to protect her, somehow. Don’t force me to abandon her.” She had the affect of a woman who was used to getting her way, when she asked for it, and there was nothing she’d ever asked for in her life that she wanted more than this.
“We’re out of time, my beloved,” the taller witch responded gently, reaching a gloved hand over to squeeze her wife on the shoulder. “We need to let her go, to give her a chance at a future.”
“A future without us,” came the answering wail. Drops of water trickled down cheeks that had been sheltered from the rain. “A future without her parents.”
“She’ll have parents.” Her words were like lead in her throat, but the taller witch persisted in her strides. One foot after the other, over puddles and through them, each step carrying her closer to the end of the line. “They’re good Muggles, Gwen. They’ll raise her as if she was their own.”
They’d spent months choosing the young couple whose house they walked towards for their grand scheme, back when planning it had felt more like a rational attempt at creating a contingency and less like writing out their last will and testament. The two Muggles were bright, kind, and successful, with well-paying jobs in an esoteric type of tooth healing. Unable to conceive on their own, they’d come to see the baby on their doorstep as a blessing from the heavens, an answer to prayers they’d never believed anyone listened to. Their daughter would thrive under their love and care, blossoming into a fine young woman in time for her to seize her destiny.
The shorter witch sobbed openly at her wife’s words, dragging her feet as they continued down the rain-soaked road. No parent should ever have to lose their child, and giving her away seemed almost worse. They’d have to go about the rest of their lives, however long they might be, with the knowledge that their child was out there somewhere in the world, forever lost to them. It was enough to drive the calmest soul to despair, and the shorter witch had always been a delicate sort. The moment of her daughter’s birth had shifted her world on its axis, and now she was casting the anchor of her being aside. The loss would kill her, if it took a week or a hundred years.
Her companion sighed mournfully, wishing there was something she could do to soothe her wife’s pain. The path they’d set on was the only way forward, for their daughter if not for them. The same forces that had conspired to bring her parents together now sought to drive them apart, and the world had grown strange and wild as the years had gone by. Once, it would have been safe for them to raise their child, no matter what she carried. Now, such a thing was perilously dangerous.
There was a war on, and wars had a habit of making good people do awful things. Rules that once seemed chiseled in marble revealed themselves to be far flimsier, and promises made in times of bounty were cast aside and forgotten. Ravening beasts stalked the countryside, and folk were found by their neighbors in their beds, cold and dead. People spoke of the future with the dejected air of the condemned, each counting down the days until they too would join the lists of names that appeared in the weekly paper.
The two witches had never sought power for its own sake, but the unrest of years past had forced them to make allies wherever they could find them. They’d offered their wands in exchange for protection, first for themselves, then for their daughter-to-be. The bonds they’d forged had been meant to protect them when things grew dire, as everyone knew they would. Those bonds had all fallen to tatters.
Hence, their plan, unthinkable though it once had been. By leaving their daughter in the care of Muggles, they’d spare her from the assassins who lurked around every corner, giving her a chance to grow up safe and happy. In all likelihood the two witches wouldn’t last a year, and with any luck, their enemies would assume that their daughter had died with them. She’d learn the truth one day when she was ready, and the perils of her blood wouldn’t fall on her shoulders until she was well-prepared for them. No parent could ever hope to do more for their child.
They came at last to the house with the green door, pulling their hoods tight over their faces to avoid prying eyes. No one was likely to be watching them, but they’d come to wear shadows like armor in the course of recent days. Giving her wife’s hand one final squeeze of comfort, Massentia held up the bundle in her arms.
Their little Hermione was still sleeping soundly, tiny mouth hanging open awkwardly as she drooled on the soft blankets that swaddled her. She had Gwendolyn’s chestnut curls, and Massentia’s hazel eyes, with a button nose that reminded Massentia of her great aunt’s. Hermione had always been rather small for her age, and they note they’d written out for the Muggles to find with her listed her as being a few months younger than she was. The leg up in age would help her when it came time to send her off to school.
“My perfect star,” Massentia whispered, reaching down to stroke her daughter’s cheek. She knew nothing of war, nor pain, nor the dark deeds so many had committed in their crusade for a better world. What Massentia wouldn’t give for a fraction of that same innocence. “You’ll be good, won’t you? You’ll make us so proud.”
Gwendolyn held out a hand to brush a curl away from the baby’s eyes, suppressing a sob as Hermione fidgeted quietly under at her mother’s touch. She’d always known she’d wanted children, and Hermione had been more than she’d ever hoped for. “Goodbye, darling. May your dreams be full of soft things, and your days full of laughter. Know that no matter what happens, we will always, always love you.”
“She’ll know, Gwen,” Massentia said quietly, placing a kiss on her wife’s hair. “She might not know our names nor our faces, but she’ll know.”
Gwendolyn nodded, searching her heart for bravery she didn’t believe she possessed. “We should go. If we stay any longer, I won’t be able to leave her.”
Massentia gave a brief murmur of assent. Leaning down, she placed the bundle on the doorstep, giving her daughter one last kiss on the cheek. It would have to be enough, for both of them. “Goodnight, Hermione. Dream big dreams.”
Standing, she knocked on the door sharply, careful not to disturb her daughter’s slumber. The Muggles inside were having dinner in the kitchen when they’d arrived, and the muffled scrape of chairs against a floor let her know that they’d come to answer the door quickly. The note tied around Hermione’s wrist would tell them all they needed to know, and the enchantments she’d placed on it would help ease the transition into their new lives as parents.
She forced herself to turn away, wading back out into the rain to join her wife at the end of the front walk. The storm would obscure their as they walked away.
When she reached the front gate, she turned back towards the house just in time to see two Muggles answer the door, confusion evident on their bespectacled faces. A moment later, the woman saw the bundle on the doorstep and let out a startled shriek, falling into her husband’s arms as she babbled about the baby in the rainstorm. The man comforted her as best he could, quickly reaching down to lift the sleeping infant into his arms. The look of utter devotion in his eyes let Massentia know that she’d done well. They’d chosen a good pair of parents. Hermione would be warm, and safe, and loved.
What parent could ever ask for more?
August 14th, 1991, on a quiet street in the Haringey Borough of north London. A very, very excited eleven year old has been bouncing up and down for the past three weeks. It’s all a bit grating, but you can’t really blame her. You’d be over the fucking moon, in her position.
Hermione had been counting down the days to Saturday for three weeks. Ever since the day that a tall woman with a pointed hat and a brisk Scottish brogue named Minerva McGonagall had walked into the Granger household and introduced herself as a witch, a real witch, Hermione hadn’t been able to sit still. It was like something out a children’s book, a magical moment where she learned that the mundane world she lived in wasn’t all that there was. She wasn’t a short, bushy-haired know-it-all who didn’t make friends easily, she was a witch, and she was about to learn to wield power that most people could only dream of. Rebecca Watkins could eat her hear out. Who was a stuffy little bookworm now?
McGonagall had promised to pick her and her mother Jean up at 10 AM sharp for a trip to a placed called Diagon Alley, which was meant to be a bit like Harrod’s for witches and wizards. Hermione had received a letter a few days before— carried by an owl, of all things— with a laundry list of items that she’d need for her stay in the far-off Wizarding boarding school that she’d soon be attending. She’d need stacks of books, a wand, a potions cauldron, perhaps an owl of her own. It was all so boundlessly thrilling.
To their immense credit, her parents were just as excited to learn that their little girl was about to embark on a life-defining adventure. Jean and Daniel Granger had nearly given up on having children when she learned she was pregnant with Hermione, and the months surrounding her birth had been so stressful that they’d blurred together to a stressful kind of soup. She’d struggled to make friends in school and fit in with her peers, and the chance of a fresh start seemed like just the sort of thing she needed to truly blossom. No decent parent would ever be happy to see their daughter go off to boarding school for seven years, after which she’d be part of a world that they’d never understand, but they’d vowed to love and support her no matter what life held for her.
“What time is it, Mum?” Hermione asked brightly, wriggling in place on the sofa as she brushed her hair for the tenth time that morning. When you met a community of witches and wizards for the first time, proper hair care was crucial.
“Five minutes to ten, dear,” Jean Granger responded, checking her purse for her ID and her bank card. The nice professor of Hermione’s had promised to show her how to exchange her ‘Muggle currency’ for something called Galleons. She hoped that things weren’t too expensive: paying for things with gold seemed like a quick way to go bankrupt, even for dentists. “Have you finished your oatmeal?”
Hermione scoffed; as if she could eat on a day like today. What if wizards had some sort of delicious, utterly filling street food that she’d miss out on?
“Eat your oatmeal,” Jean scolded, furrowing her dark eyebrows. “Witch or not, you’re a growing girl, and you need your vitamins.
“But Mum…”
“No buts, Ms. Granger. I’m sure your Professor won’t like it if you faint from hunger during your time with her today.”
A horrified look crossed Hermione’s face, and she rapidly began shoveling lukewarm oatmeal into her mouth. Jean smiled tiredly. Nothing like a gentle push to get her hyperactive little girl to slow down a little bit.
“Are you excited, Mum?” Hermione mumbled between mouthfuls of oatmeal, fixing her mother with an inquisitive stare.
“Of course, my little robin! I couldn’t be happier,” Jean replied. It was almost true.
“Good,” Hermione said firmly, nodding in agreement. “I’ll be sure to write twice a week when I’m off at Hogwarts, and Professor McGonagall says she’ll show you and Dad how to write back by owl.”
“Only twice a week?”
Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically. Mums just didn’t understand how uncool they were; anything more than twice a week might earn her the dreaded label of ‘homesick’, and she couldn’t have that. Professor McGonagall had mentioned that first-years with Muggle parents often struggled to adjust to Hogwarts and the magical world they lived in, and Hermione wanted to hit the ground running. It wouldn’t do to burn bridges at school before she got there.
She’d never had many friends, and she was sure that all the children from Wizarding families had known each other for years. They’d probably gone on playdates together and seen each other at social gatherings hosted by their parents dozens of times, making connections that would carry on when they went off to Hogwarts. She’d need to muscle her way into established social groups or make friends with the other Muggle-born students, and neither possibility would come easily.
A knock at the door startled her momentarily, but a moment later she burst from her seat and rushed to meet their visitor. She tripped over her feet as she dashed over the Oriental rug that her parents had picked up from a shop on a visit to Paris, and nearly crashed into the hat tree as she made it to the doormat, but nothing in the world was going to stop her from throwing open the door and greeting her Professor.
It paid to be a teacher’s pet.
Minerva McGonagall had chosen a set of forest green robes and a pointed hat for her trip to Diagon with the Grangers, and she looked to Hermione like she imagined an ancient goddess of wisdom might. Prim and proper, with a pointed nose and a pair of half-moon spectacles, she exuded an almost feline grace.
“Good morning Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said brightly.
The witch smiled down at her. “Good morning, Miss Granger. Are we ready to depart?”
“We’re ready,” her mother said, walking over to stand beside Hermione. “Shall I drive?”
McGonagall chuckled softly as she shook her head. “I have a slightly faster method of transportation, if you don’t mind. Grab onto my arms, if you could. You might feel a slight pulling sensation.”
Hermione quickly grabbed onto McGonagall’s arm, eager to get going. Jean Granger was rather more reluctant, but she followed suit a few moments later. McGonagall gave them each a smile before schooling her features. “Keep a firm grip, and close your eyes until we reach our destination.”
Before either of them could say anything more, the world gave way, casting them down a vast tunnel into the bowels of the earth. Hermione felt her stomach wrench and twist as she was pulled apart and put back together again, her body buzzing as it protested the awful surge of energy that Apparition brought. Magic was exhilarating, she thought to herself, but she hoped that it wouldn’t always feel quite this stomach-churning.
A few moments later she opened her eyes again to find herself someplace wonderful. They’d appeared on a busy cobbled-street, surrounded by what must have been dozens of witches and wizards. Pointed hats were everywhere, along with robes in every color of the rainbow and a few beyond it. Owls hooted from gilded bronze cages, wands sparked and crackled as they filled the air with light and sound, and everywhere she looked there were children just like her. Each of them tugged on their parents’ arms incessantly, babbling about Hogwarts and houses and wands.
Shops lined each side of the street, offering every kind of magical good you could wish for with animated signs and flashing advertisements. There were bookstores, pet stores, robe shops, potions apothecaries, and even a shop selling gear for something called ‘Quidditch’. Judging by all the excited eleven year olds crowding around the glass and pressing their faces in to view them, it must be the sort of thing that wizards thought was cool.
“Well, isn’t this something,” Jean said, struggling to regain her bearings after the thoroughly uncomfortable experience of apparition.
“It’s brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed, eyes darting every which way. She had no idea where she was meant to go first, nor how to go about buying anything, but she couldn’t wait to find out.
McGonagall chuckled, emerald eyes sparkling whimsically. “It is indeed, Miss Granger. Diagon Alley is the largest center of Wizarding commerce in Britain. Anything you need— now and in the future— can be purchased here, if you know where to look.”
“Where are we going first?” The possibilities were endless, and tantalizing.
“We’ll stop by Flourish and Blott’s first for your books, then Alphard’s Apothecary for your cauldron.” McGonagall replied. “Will you be wanting a familiar?”
Hermione shook her head sadly. “I don’t really get along with most pets, I’m afraid.”
“It’s the strangest thing,” her mother added, “they’re just not fond of her, for whatever reason.”
“Perhaps you just haven’t found the right one yet,” McGonagall said mysteriously. “Nevertheless, we’ll skip Magical Menagerie this visit. I trust you’re excited to get your wand?”
Hermione wasn’t able to form a verbal response, so she settled with vibrating in excitement. McGonagall smiled at the display, thinking fondly of her own first time in Diagon Alley decades before. As a Halfblood, she’d grown up with knowledge of the magical world, but nothing quite compared to the feeling of holding her wand in her hand for the first time. It was no surprise that many witches and wizards— particularly Muggleborns— focused on the experience at Ollivander’s when attempting to cast the Patronus Charm.
McGonagall led her two companions through the crowds, making casual conversation with a few acquaintances and taking care to steer clear of a few of the more openly prejudiced Pureblood families as she went. Hermione would have to learn about the ugly prejudices of the Wizarding World soon enough, but she deserved at least one day of undiluted joy before that reality came crashing in.
She spied a few of You-Know-Who’s prominent suspected supporters as she walked, though none of them had ever gone to Azkaban. The Averys were well-known Pureblood supremacists, and their family head Stephen was known to speak openly about his disdain for Muggleborns in the Wizengamot. Lucius Malfoy was another well-heeled, well-connected loather of Muggleborns and all they stood for. He’d come with his son, Draco, and his wife Narcissa, all of them sporting radiant blonde hair.
And where Narcissa was, her sisters weren’t far away. Bellatrix and Andromeda Black had utterly fearsome reputations during their time at Hogwarts, borne of their fondness for hexing anyone who so much as thought of disrespecting them and their sister. While the family was less vituperative in their dislike of Muggles than their fellow Purebloods, there was still a degree of disdain in their interactions with them, and even with Halfbloods. The sisters had come to respect McGonagall for her skill as a duelist and Transfiguration professor, but this courtesy didn’t extend to other Halfbloods without her abilities. They’d been rumored to have fallen in with the Dark Lord early, though they’d never been connected to any murders, bar the mysterious disappearance of their parents.
To her great surprise, she noticed the pair of them staring at her and the Grangers when they left Flourish & Blott’s, whispering amongst themselves and casting furtive glances over towards their sister. McGonagall’s hackles immediately raised at the sight: the Black sisters represented the most powerful house in Britain, and their attention was rarely a good thing.
“Shall we go to Ollivander’s for your wand?” She asked Hermione, eyes narrowing in suspicion as Andromeda Black made eye contact with her. “I don’t think there’s a line, at the moment.”
Hermione squealed with glee, bounding out down the street towards the wandmaker’s shop with her mother and McGonagall in tow. A few curious witches and wizards murmured amongst themselves as the girl scurried past them, but few gave her much notice. Eleven year olds were often excitable, and something as grand as a day at Diagon Alley inspired unbridled in them as a rule. That the girl was obviously Muggleborn— no self-respecting witch would bring their child out to their Hogwarts shopping in jeans— only made her less remarkable.
Which made it all the more unnerving when they reached the door to Ollivander’s and McGonagall turned to see all three Black sisters staring at them in mute interest. McGonagall couldn’t deny that Hermione Granger was an interesting case: she possessed an intensely defined, distinctive magical core, and the wild magic her parents had noted was staggering in its power. Whichever House Hermione found herself sorted into would be lucky indeed.
The Black family as a whole was known for producing remarkable witches and wizards, all but one of whom had been sorted into Slytherin. Andromeda was known to be a master of Charms and Enchantments, Narcissa was one of the three greatest Potions students of the last half-century, and Bellatrix held the school record for most O’s on her NEWTs with nine. Their cousins Sirius and Regulus were somewhat less accomplished, as were the younger members of the extended Black family tree. Draco Malfoy was said to be a bright young man, if a little spoiled, while Nymphadora Black had spent her last five years at Hogwarts focusing more on chasing girls and showing off in Quidditch games than academics.
If they were at all interested in Hermione, Purebloods as they were, McGonagall shuddered to think of why. There were ancient rites of blood magic and binding known only to the eldest houses, ties of vassalage and fealty that would make a French aristocrat before the Revolution blush. Perhaps it truly was for the best that Muggleborns and Purebloods didn’t often interact.
Thinking quickly on her feet, the Professor made a snap decision. “Hermione,” she said stiffly, “why don’t you go inside to meet Mr. Ollivander while your mother and I wait here? The choosing of a wand is a very personal process, and it’s best done privately.”
Hermione frowned momentarily. She’d hoped her Mum would come into the shop with her, out of a sense of her own achievement more than shyness. It was important to her to bring her parents as far into her new world as she could.
But her enthusiasm quickly trumped her misgivings, and with a quick kiss on the cheek she slipped into Ollivander’s, leaving the adults behind.
The interior of the wandmaker’s shop was stunning. Walls climbed towards twenty-foot high ceilings, with enchanted ladders leading to every shelf and nook alongside them. A crystal chandelier cast the room in soft white light, and the floorboards and desk were done up in dark mahogany. A threadbare rug laid across the ground of the entrance, no doubt bearing the scars of countless wizarding children as they stood where Hermione did.
And the wands. God, there had to be thousands of them, packed into every spare scrap of space in the shop. Boxes in blue, red, and green laid in neat stacks in some place and messy ones in others. Some appeared to be awaiting repair or inspection, as indicated by their placement on a long worktable against the far wall. Others were pristine, having never been opened nor touched by human hands.
The magic in the room was utterly scintillating. Hermione felt it reach out and touch her in a way she couldn’t explain, as each wand’s energy flickered out to mesh with her own. Some wands were soft and gentle, offering no assertion as they sat at the each of her awareness, waiting for her to grasp out at them. Others were far more aggressive, pushing into her magic inquisitively and demanding that she make a match with them. Was this what they meant when they said that the wand chose the wizard?
One wand in particular called out to her, hidden in a shadowed alcove behind the front desk. From its place in a dark navy box, it seemed to wake slowly, as it if were a dragon roused from a thousand-year slumber. Hermione felt its magic pulse ominously as it roused itself, singing to her like a black hole sings to the stars about to slip into its event horizon. It neither entered her awareness nor waited patiently outside it, rather insisting that Hermione come to pay it homage. Instinctively, she reached out for it, answering the call as so many others had refused to before her. The wand wanted her, she need only have the strength to take it.
A kindly voice interrupted her: “Good morning, child, welcome to Ollivander’s. How can I help you today?”
Hermione shook herself as she looked up at a grandfatherly old man with trimmed sideburns and a mop of curly white hair. He was wearing a plum velvet suit with a vest and a tie, matching the sparkling blues of his eyes, and Hermione thought he looked a bit like a whimsical professor in a Muggle children’s story. Wrinkles around his eyes belied his advanced age, but he moved with an inimitable bounce in his step that spoke to a vibrant lust for life. A wandmaker, in affect and dignity.
Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she defaulted to the chattering intensity of youth. “Good morning, Mr. Ollivander. My name is Hermione Granger, and I’m going to start at Hogwarts this year. Professor McGonagall says I need a wand, and that you’re the best wandmaker there is.”
Ollivander chuckled warmly, lips curling up in a smile. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your first wand, then? Something exciting to show your Mum and Dad before you go off to Hogwarts?”
The bushy-haired girl nodded vigorously and Ollivander smiled even wider, coming around the end of his desk to take a better look at her. A pair of spectacles flew from the corner to perch primly on his nose. “You’ve got quite a potent magical core, Miss Granger. Tell me, have I worked with anyone in your family before?”
“No sir, my parents are both Muggles,” Hermione replied. The admission was embarrassing in a way she couldn’t quite place.
“Really? Could’ve sworn…” The old man said softly, brow momentarily furrowing as he thought. “Well, no matter. I’ve helped witches of all heritages and upbringings since before you were alive find their wands, and I’ll be happy to help you as well.”
“Now, what do you know about wands?” He asked brightly.
Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to recall everything she’d read in the pamphlet for Muggbleborn students at Hogwarts that McGonagall had gifted her. “Wands are composed of a wood and a magical core, and are unique to each witch. The most common core types in Britain are dragon heartstring and unicorn tail hair, though other types are used in different countries.”
“Excellent, excellent. Now, I’m rarely right on my first guess, but why don’t we start with unicorn tail hair?” He perused the shelves along the wall before grabbing a nondescript blue. Opening it carefully, he passed the wand within to Hermione. “Unicorn tail hair, willow, 10 ½ inches, pliant. Give it a twirl.”
Hermione grabbed the wand reverently and held it up to the light, reveling in the sense of power she felt as she held it. This must be the intoxicating taste of magic that McGonagall had told her about, she thought. It was even better than she could have imagined.
But the wand felt wrong in her hands, almost as it was quivering under her touch, and when she went to twirl it the tip produced only fitful blue sparks that dribbled down to the floor.
“Not a good fit, I see. You’ll need something more rigid, I think.” Ollivander gave her a pat on the shoulder as he took the wand back, then went searching for another option. Delicate fingers fluttered as he traced the lines of shelving until he found a red box with silver trim. Turning, he offered it to Hermione, eyes a little surer than before. “Here we are. This one is dragon heartstring from a Swedish Short-Snout, 11 ¼ inches, oak, unyielding. It might suit you better.”
Once again Hermione took up the wand, and once again she felt the power that it unleashed within her. Like the first wand, this one didn’t feel right, but it wasn’t quite the same timidity she’d felt with the willow wand. This wand was wild and impetuous, and overly fond of bombastic action. She knew before she waved it that they wouldn’t get along.
When she waved the wand tentatively, it unleashed a howling gale of force, smashing into the far wall of the shop and scattering the boxes onto the floor. She dropped it back into the box as if it’d burned her, suddenly frantic about Ollivander getting cross with her. He was the wandmaker in all of Britain: what would she do if she offended him? Buy one second-hand?
Sensing her unease, the wandmaker quickly grabbed the box back from her. “It’s alright, child,” he said soothingly, “happens all the time. You just need something that matches you a little better.”
Stroking his chin in thought as he casually ordered the wands back to their places on the shelves, the old man thought aloud. “Something powerful, but not rigid and unbending. Perhaps a phoenix feather piece?” His eyes flickered as he remembered the wand he’d sold a few days before, and the burden it’d placed on that poor young man. “Or something from further afield?”
He turned to Hermione once more, curiosity piqued. “You have quite a strong feeling for your magic for one so young. Tell me, Miss Granger, do any of these wands call to you? It could be something faint and indecipherable, perhaps a bit like meeting an old friend who you haven’t seen in a while.”
Hermione pursed her lips, rocking back and forth on her ankles. She didn’t want to be a bother, and there was surely a reason that the wands behind Ollivander’s desk were away from the main display. But the wand in the navy blue box called for her, demanding that she ask for it now that she had the chance. “There is one wand, Mister Ollivander.”
“Just one? Tell me, child, which wand might that be?”
Hermione pointed to the shelves behind his desk, straining onto her tiptoes to see over the top of the piece of furniture. “It’s that one there, in the dark blue box.”
The wandmaker walked behind his desk, pausing as he pulled the requested wand from the alcove in which it sat. He used the space as a repository for notable wands and experimental projects he’d worked on over the years, and many of them were powerful enough to match well with the girl who stood in his shop. None of them were without controversy, but there was potential for greatness in each of them.
Coming to a decision, he offered the box to Hermione. “I worked on this years ago with a college of mine from Canada, when we each worked with each other’s chosen ingredients. It’s made of chestnut, with a Horned Serpent horn core, 11 inches, slightly springy.”
Hermione took the wand carefully, shivering slightly as she felt it testing her. The wand probed at her magic, searching for weaknesses in her core. When she felt it pulse in satisfaction at the results, she gave it a twirl. Iridescent green bubbles fluttered from the tip, and Hermione felt herself laugh at the absolute ecstasy it brought out in her. This was her wand, just as she was its witch, and it would take heaven and earth to separate them.
“Remarkable,” Ollivander said brightly. “I was beginning to think this one would never find her match.”
“What are Horned Serpent horn wands like, sir?” Hermione asked, reveling as her wand gave off beams of sunlight as she twisted it.
“They’re meant to be noble animals, and fiercely intelligent,” the wandmaker explained. “One of the North American schools of magic, Ilvermorny, uses them as the sigil for one of their houses. I believe it’s a bit like the Ravenclaw we have here, and from the feel of your magic you’d be a good match for them.”
Hermione blushed at the compliment to her intelligence, and he continued apace. “Horned Serpent wands are exceptionally powerful and highly temperamental, refusing to serve anyone but their owners. There’s rumors of affinities to Parselmouths in the wands themselves, but it’s never been proven as I’m aware. Not every serpent is Salazar Slytherin come again, and Horned Serpents most certainly aren’t basilisks.” He chuckled darkly, not particularly liking his own joke.
She nodded at his words as she held her wand up to the light once more, wondering at the intricate patterns that had been carved on its smooth surface. The red chestnut wood caught the light in a pleasing way, and the grip felt natural in her hand as she held it, soft and reassuring. The magic pulses from the wand didn’t ebb away completely, but she found them strangely comforting. She was a witch, and a wand had chosen her. A powerful wand, too. With it, she would perform miracles.
Chapter 2: Enter The Viper's Den
Summary:
Hermione sets off on her grand adventure, hoping to make friends and find a home away from home. She finds the former, but maybe not the latter.
Notes:
Hi lovelies!
Feeling jazzed about this work and the wonderful responses to it (tysm for comments and kudos) so I've got another chapter for you! Introducing our resident force of chaos in Nymphadora Black, and the first of many dynamic duos in Bones & Jones / Jones & Bones. Next chapter we'll get some Daphne, some Pansy, some Draco, and a healthy serving of Harry Potter. I'm interested to see how y'all think she'll fit in with Harry, Ron, Neville, and the Snakes.
Expect another chapter sometime next week, and have a wonderful day!
xoxo
Chapter Text
Somewhere in North London, September 1st, 1991. A big day for a gaggle of precocious eleven-year olds, not least young Hermione Granger. Granger, is it Granger? It definitely started with a G.
The first day of the rest of her life began like any other. She rocketed out a bed, wolfed down her oatmeal with a sprinkle of sugar, than brushed and flossed like any good dentist’s child ought to. Her pants went on one leg at a time, and she brushed out her absolutely unruly chestnut hair with as much success as Hercules fighting the Lernean Hydra. None of her schoolbooks contained any Wizarding spells for taming feral curls, but she supposed that textbooks wouldn’t contain such information. It wasn’t like her Muggle Maths textbooks had notes about proper skincare routines.
Her parents were both accompanying her to King’s Cross Station to see their little girl off on the Hogwarts Express, and Hermione couldn’t be any more thrilled. Daniel Granger was driving them in their new Fiat, and Jean was trying every very hard not to break down sobbing with every passing minute. Their little robin was flying the coop, and she wasn’t nearly prepared for it.
“Tell me again about the Houses, sweetheart,” Daniel Granger called from the front seat as he wove through traffic on their way to King’s Cross Station. It was madness to drive through central London, even during the off-hours on Sunday morning, but taking Hermione’s school trunk on the tube would’ve been even worse. The damned thing weighed almost as much as she did.
“There are four houses, each named after one of the Four Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Hermione recited from memory. “Each Founder created a House to represent what they most valued in their students. Godric Gryffindor gave his house the symbol of a roaring lion, and decreed that only the brave of heart should enter. Rowena Ravenclaw took the raven from her personal sigil and used it for her House’s, prizing the bird’s sharp intellect above all else. Helga Hufflepuff believed that loyalty and faithfulness would serve students best in the world, and picked the badger with his well-maintained burrow to epitomize her House’s virtues. Last was Salazar Slytherin, who believed that all those who followed him should be cunning and ambitious His house’s crest carries a silver serpent, which are known for their trickery and craftiness.”
“Impressive,” he said with a grin. She certainly hadn’t inherited her encyclopedic knowledge of history from him. “Which house do you think you’ll be placed in? Ravenclaw, I’d expect?”
Hermione smiled. She’d always been a bit of a swot, after all. “There’s a hat that chooses for you, with magic and everything. Whatever it picks for me, I’m sure I’ll be happy there.”
“Of course you will, dear,” her mother agreed. “They’ll all love you, I’m sure of it.”
Before she knew it, they were pulling up to King’s Cross Station. Her Dad muscled her school trunk out of the car with prodigious effort, trying his best not to seem nearly forty and out of shape. Hermione giggled at him as he managed to haul it onto a luggage cart, delighting in the absolute lack of care that the commuters showed to his struggles.
Of course, that wasn’t the most notable oddity about their little band as they trekked through King’s Cross. Hermione was wearing a black robe and tie and twirling a wooden stick between her fingers like a lunatic, and Mum was dutifully holding a heavy book with the title ‘The Standard Book of Spells: Year One’ that Hermione had wanted to read on the train. They were a rather peculiar sort indeed as they walked along the well-kept linoleum floors towards the platform, but not an unusual one. There’d been strangely dressed folk in and about the station all day, and observers chalked it up to some sort of Renaissance festival or magic summer camp. Muggles, Hermione had come to learn, were shockingly unobservant.
The directions to the platform she’d be taking the train from were meticulous, and the Grangers soon found themselves standing on the stone walkway between Platform 9 and Platform 10, gazing worriedly at a solid mass of brickwork that was meant to take them to Platform 9 ¾. The guide McGonagall left them had instructed them to run full-speed at the pillar while making sure to keep a firm grasp on their destination in their mind, which was singularly unhelpful for a pair of anxious parents. Who on earth would willingly throw themselves against a wall?
Hermione seized the initiative, pushing the luggage cart forward with her admittedly limited strength as she raced towards the pillar. Her parents quickly decided that they’d rather crash with her than be stuck on the other side without her and followed suit, grabbing on to their daughter’s shoulders as they rushed towards the wall. Daniel braced for impact, shutting his eyes against the incoming pain.
Only to open them again on the other side, blinking in the sunlight as they stepped out onto a platform that was absolutely packed with witches and wizards. Luggage carts and chests took up every inch of available space as parents bid children tearful farewells and older students looked around to meet their friends. A train whistle pierced the air now and then as a beautiful red locomotive billowed steam into the warm late-summer air. Magic flickered in the air like a love song, and Hermione was home for the first time in her life. She loved her parents, she loved her upbringing, but this was where she was always meant to be.
“Remarkable,” Daniel breathed as he gazed out at the train in wonder, then back to the once-again solid wall behind them. “Simply extraordinary.”
“It’s magic, Dad,” Hermione teased, “it’s meant to be extraordinary.”
Remembering her maternal instincts, Jean bent down to adjust Hermione’s tie and fix her hair, staring straight into her daughter’s hazel eyes. “You’ll be good when you’re away, won’t you my little robin? Write whenever you need us, tell us all about what a good time you’re having. Make friends, eat silly foods, bring us back a mountain of stories come Christmas.”
“Yes, Mum,” Hermione replied, wriggling away when her mother pressed a few kisses to the top of her head. “I’ll be sure to write you as often as I can.”
Tears came to the corners of her eyes without her realizing it, and suddenly she was afraid. “What if I don’t make friends? What if the kids laugh at me for my hair or my teeth? What if they don’t like me?”
“Just tell them your teeth are perfect, sweetheart,” Dad said jovially. “We would know.”
“You’ll make so many friends Hermione,” Mum added. “Soon everybody will be talking about what a brilliant little witch you are, just you wait.”
Brilliant witch? Hermione liked the sound of that. She liked the sound of that quite a lot, thank you very much.
They had a few minutes still until the train was ready to board, and Hermione looked around for someone who looked like they could use a new friend. Granted, she wasn’t exactly an expert on the whole ‘making friends’ business, but she figured she’d know a friend when she saw one. Or when one ran into her trolley with their own.
There was a great clatter as they bumped into each other, threatening to spill Hermione’s trunk and the other person’s litany of luggage onto the platform. Hermione was knocked backwards onto her bum, wincing as she thumped against the hard floor of the station.
“Wotcher, you alright?” A deep feminine voice called out to her; a twinge of anxiety colored the question. A moment later, a pink haired, blue eyed face appeared next to her, looking at her with concern. She was at least a few years older than Hermione and well over a foot taller, and she exuded a strange sort of nervousness that Hermione had never run across before. “Sorry about that, I never did learn to look where I was going.”
“It’s alright,” Hermione said, standing up and brushing off her robes.
Remembering her manners, the other girl stuck out a hand. “Name’s Nymphadora Black, but most of my mates just call me Dora.”
She accepted the offered hand, then tried her best not to be shaken off her feet when Dora shook hands enthusiastically. “Hermione Granger.” The older teenager was disarming in an endearing sort of way.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Granger. You’re a first year, I take it?”
“Yeah, I’m here with my parents,” Hermione replied, eyes searching around the platform for them. When she finally found them, they were deep in a conversation with an elegant looking blonde woman who Hermione almost thought she recognized from somewhere.
“Brilliant!” Dora exclaimed. “You never forget your first ride on this old girl, not even when you’re as ancient and decrepit as I am.”
Hermione giggled as some of the tension left her shoulders. “What year are you, Dora?”
The older girl puffed out her chest proudly, and her hair changed. Where once it had been short and pink, it instead shifted and flowed into long, dark curls. Her eyes darkened to near black, and her face took on a haughtier, more angular quality. “I’m a sixth year, and captain of the House Quidditch team. Folks say I make a hell of a beater.”
“I wish I understood more about Quidditch,” Hermione said wistfully. “The kids in Diagon Alley seemed mad for it, but I’ve never been good with sports.”
“Muggle sports have nothing on Quidditch, Hermione,” Dora snorted. “Think of it as three dimensional chess played at dozens of miles an hour, complete with rocketing balls that’ll knock you off your broom and a little mite that’s more difficult to catch than an O in Snape’s class. You’ll go mad for it as soon as you’re Sorted, just you wait.”
“Which House were you sorted into?” Hermione asked politely. She still hadn’t made a determination on which house she was hoping for, but Dora seemed nice enough, and it’d be good to get the inside scoop on things.
Dora’s hair flashed back to pink. “Me? I’m a Slytherin through and through, just like all the Blacks. I may be nicer than most of the mopers and muppets in emerald and silver, but where would our House be without a smidge of positive perception?”
Now that was interesting. McGonagall had seemed guarded when she’d discussed Slytherin House, almost hostile. Hermione had chalked it up to her bias as the Head of House for their rivals in Gryffindor, but now she wasn’t so sure. Did Slytherin have a bad reputation she should know about?
Sensing her trepidation, Dora gave her an easy smile. “Don’t worry about the houses too much. The Sorting Hat is never wrong, and you’ll do well wherever you end up. Even if you have to watch your new mates lose the House Cup to Slytherin every year.” She winked at Hermione, just to let her know it was true.
The train whistle’s harsh call broke through the myriad conversations that were occurring on the platform, and Dora gave her a reassuring look. “Gotta go, but it was nice to meet you Hermione! Hope you have a great time on the train!”
Hermione barely got a ‘goodbye’ in before the older girl was gone, weaving between luggage carts with incredible agility as she raced for the front of the train. She didn’t so much as scrape anything else, much less clatter into them. What an odd sort of witch.
Her parents came to see her off, kissing her on the head and making her promise to tell them everything about her adventures. Her Mum was fully in tears, sobbing about her baby being all grown up and going off to do such wonderful things. Dad wasn’t much better, eyes twinkling as he told her about how proud he was about the life she was going to make for herself. Hermione cried with them, not caring who saw, huddling on the platform with her parents. After she stepped foot on the train, things would change for good. They’d still love each other deeply, but there’d be things that Hermione did that her parents could only dream of.
Her eyes were still damp as she made her way onto the train, ducking into a free compartment as soon as she could. She knew they were waiting for her on the platform still, perhaps hoping that she’d get cold feet and run back home with them. Part of her wanted nothing more.
It wouldn’t be a grand adventure without a bit of heartbreak.
She didn’t fully settle into her cabin until the red locomotive left the station, puffing out magical steam as it pulled out into the countryside. Hogwarts was meant to be a few hundred kilometers away in Scotland, and the ride would take the better part of the day. For a few moments she watched the clouds go by, little puffs of white in a clear blue sky. There were sheep grazing in the fields, and cars parked besides houses in sleepy little hamlets. All very mundane, all very ordinary. For the moment, it was just another train, albeit one with comfortable upholstered seats and trunks sticking out of every which way.
A knock on the compartment door interrupted her musing, and Hermione turned to see a blonde head stick through the newly opened sliding door. “Hi, do you mind if we sit with you?”
Hermione blinked momentarily before shaking her head. “Not at all.”
“Grand,” the blonde girl said. She threw open the door of the compartment and threw her trunk next to Hermione’s in the luggage rack. Two others followed her, a timid looking boy holding a frog and a brunette girl with pigtails and enough freckles to start a conversation. They too wrangled in their trunks and settled in opposite Hermione and the blonde girl.
The blonde stuck out her hand, flashing a crooked smile beneath kind, energetic brown eyes. “How do you do? I’m Susan, Susan Bones.”
“Hermione Granger,” she said as she returned the gesture. “Are you first-years too?”
“Sure are!” Susan said enthusiastically. There was a wonderful lightness to her being. “That’s Neville Longbottom,” the shy boy smiled softly at her, still clutching his familiar, and gave her an awkward wave. Susan pointed to the next girl. “And Megan Jones.” The other girl smiled nervously at Hermione, clearly less suited to all of this conversation business than Susan was.
“So, are you a Muggleborn too?” Megan asked softly.
“Muggleborn?” Hermione asked in slight confusion.
“Are your parents Muggles?” Susan clarified. “Don’t worry, we won’t judge you for it. I’m a Halfblood, and Neville there’s a Pureblood. Heir to the Noble House of Longbottom.”
Right, now it made sense. Professor McGonagall had gone over the different parentages of magical children briefly with her and Mum— her parents’ lack of magical ability had been the reason the Professor had accompanied them on Hermione’s trip to Diagon Alley— but Hermione hadn’t really understood that there was any real weight behind the distinction. It was nearly the twenty-first century, and such prejudices seemed like a call back to difficult times.
“My parents are Muggles,” Hermione replied, after she centered her thinking. “Is that a problem sometimes?”
Susan looked at her with mixed emotions on her face, comfort warring with sadness. “Not for us, but some people will judge you for it. Blood purity’s a big thing for Purebloods, and my aunt Amelia says it was a big part of how He Who Must Not Be Named rose to power.”
“My grandmum says the same thing,” Neville added, overcoming some of his nerves. “She said that he wanted to keep Muggleborns away from magic, and that a lot of wizards followed him. If not for Harry Potter, he would’ve won.”
Hermione had heard tidbits about Harry Potter, the ‘Boy Who Lived’ everywhere she went. It seemed impossible for a baby to defeat the most powerful Dark wizard ever known, but he’d managed to do it while surviving a supposedly unstoppable Killing Curse. She had half a mind to seek him out, he was meant to be in their year after all.
“Don’t worry too much about it,” Susan said quickly, trying to lighten the mood. “Most people won’t care unless they’re Slytherins, and Slytherins are all gits anyway.”
“I met a nice sixth-year from Slytherin back at King’s Cross.” Whatever else she’d been, Nymphadora seemed nice. “Maybe they’re not all bad?”
Megan snorted loudly. “One of them said I was a thief on the platform. He said I stole magic from Purebloods, and that I’d never be a real witch.”
“Like I said, he was a git.” Susan offered Megan a warm smile. “I’m sure you’ll be ace at magic, Megan. You and me, we’re Bones and Jones. We’re in this together.”
“Jones and Bones, more like. You’d never get anywhere without my amazing brain,” the freckled girl teased.
The two of them jawed at each other amiably for a while, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to see at least one Muggleborn fall into an easy friendship with another witch. For a brief moment, she’d worried that she’d be an outcast because of who were parents were.
“Who was the sixth-year you talked to, Hermione?” Neville asked. “Grandmum made me memorize all the Pureblood houses before I came to school. She said it was my duty as a future head of house.”
Hermione shrugged. “She said her name was Nymphadora Black.”
Neville’s eyes bulged. “Black? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why?” Hermione replied nervously.
“The Blacks are one of the richest families in Britain, and they were big supporters of You-Know-Who.” Neville was frowning deeply, as if he was reliving a bad memory. “Grandmum says that they should all be in Azkaban, but only Sirius Black ended up there. He was the one that betrayed the Potters the night He came for them, and the only one they ever caught.”
Susan suddenly took notice of their conversation, brow knit deeply. “My aunt works for the Wizengamot— that’s like the High Court, but for wizards— and she told me that they never had any evidence on the others. She says they definitely worked for You-Know-Who, though. Properly dark, that family.”
Hermione felt an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why would an heir of such a powerful Pureblood house deign to talk to her? If what Megan said was true, she’d been lucky that Nymphadora didn’t say something awful to her before she even stepped foot on the train.
“Did she want anything from you?” Megan asked curiously.
Hermione shook her head. “She bumped into my trolley, then decided to introduce herself to me. She’s the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and told me I’d enjoy it once I watched it. I was worried at first, but she was really nice to me. Maybe she didn’t realize I was a Muggleborn?”
“No offense, Hermione, but you do look like a Muggleborn. You’ve got the same doe-eyed, bewildered look that Megan had when I met her in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago. It’s a dead giveaway.” Susan seemed confident, and Hermione didn’t know enough to disagree with her. “But enough about those nasty Slytherins; what House do you reckon you’ll be Sorted into?”
“Erm, probably Ravenclaw? I’ve always been fairly clever,” Hermione replied, hoping she didn’t sound like a swot. That label was hard to kick.
“Good for you! I reckon Megan and I will be in the same House, wherever we are. Probably Hufflepuff, since we’re so friendly.” Susan smiled, and Megan struggled to suppress a blush.
“I’ll probably end up there too,” Neville agreed. “I’m not brave enough for Gryffindor nor smart enough for Ravenclaw, and I can’t stand snakes.”
“Oh they’re not so bad,” Hermione cut in, holding up her wand. “I’ve got part of a snake in here.”
“Really? Mine’s just unicorn tail hair,” Susan said.
“Yeah, ours too,” Megan and Neville agreed.
“Ollivander said he only made one of them, it’s Horned Serpent Horn,” Hermione gave her wand a flick to send color-changing bubbles spiraling from its tip.
“Blimey, Hermione, that’s wicked,” Neville said excitedly. “I haven’t managed to do anything like that, and grandmum’s had me practicing for years.”
“You just need a good teacher, Nev,” Susan cheerfully replied. “You can hardly expect to learn when you’re terrified all the time.”
They settled into an easy conversation as the train went on, talking about their lives and dreams as the rolling green hills of southern England gradually grew rough and craggy. Susan wanted to work at the Ministry, maybe as an Auror, which was a kind of magical police officer. Megan wanted to work at the Ministry too, though her interest was more in taking care of Magical Creatures. She’d read in their schoolbooks about unicorns, selkies, and mermaids and decided there was nothing more she’d rather do. Neville had no idea about what his future held. The poor boy was ludicrously short of confidence in his own abilities, and seemed to think he’d end up working as a janitor somewhere if he was lucky.
As for her, Hermione hadn’t quite decided on what she might want to do. The idea of working in the Ministry held some appeal: there hadn’t been a Muggleborn Minister of Magic yet, and she could be the first. She also quite liked the idea of being some sort of researcher, working on new spells and studying strange magics. Regardless, she had a few years to figure it out, whatever she ended up deciding on.
Before she knew it, the Hogwarts Express was steaming into Hogsmeade Station. Night had fallen, and she followed her new friends out to the platform in giddy anticipation as they prepared to step foot within Hogwarts’ hallowed halls for the very first time. A very large, very friendly man named Hagrid called for them all to follow him towards the castle, promising that their luggage would be waiting for them when they arrived. It was all so terribly exciting.
The four of them sat together in an enchanted boat at they set out across a large lake towards the grand expanse of the castle. Hermione and her friends gaped in wonder at the hundreds of twinkling lanterns that lit their passage, suspended a few feet above the lake’s surface with unseen magic. Neville nearly fell in as he gaped at the majesty of Hogwarts itself, but Hermione and Susan managed to haul him back into the boat before he could get wet. She wouldn’t want to sit through the Sorting in wet clothes, after all.
Hermione could barely comprehend the castle itself as they stepped out of the boats. It was enormous, putting Buckingham Palace to shame. Towers spindled high into the night sky, and greenhouses studded the walls where herbs and plants could be grown year-round. Great glass windows covered the castle’s façade, along with carved stone statues and gargoyles of every description. The gaggle of first-years oohed and ahhed as they were ushered in through gigantic wooden doors, finding themselves in a grand entrance hall.
As was fitting when one was embarking on the greatest adventure of their lives, a schoolyard fight broke out. A blonde boy with slicked back hair and a freckled ginger boy started to insult one another, playing out some of their parents’ animosities before they’d even been sorted into a house.
“Nice clothes, Weasley,” the blonde boy said with a smirk. His tie was green rather than the black they’d been told to wear, and Hermione could only guess which House he expected to be Sorted into.
“Shove it, Malfoy,” the ginger replied. “One day they’ll open up a shop where you can buy good taste.”
“I’m sure you’d be the first in line,” came the response. The blonde turned to a short, skinny boy standing next to Weasley. “Hang on, you’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
Hermione blinked. This was Harry Potter? This scrawny little thing with broken glasses and shaggy brown hair. How in the world had he managed to defeat You-Know-Who?
“Yeah,” the boy said, to excited whispers from the assembled first years. “I am.”
The blonde boy— Draco Malfoy, Hermione came to learn— offered Harry a place in his entourage, obliquely insulting Weasley’s heritage as he did. Susan explained in a hushed whisper that Malfoy’s parents were insanely rich and powerful— his mother was a Black, after all— and that the Weasleys, while Pureblood themselves, were desperately poor. Hermione bristled at the obvious elitism on display, and thankfully Harry agreed with her assessment. He scorned Malfoy’s offer of friendship, preferring to stick with the pouting ginger next to him.
Hermione hoped she wouldn’t have to see much of the Malfoy boy or the two large, ogre-looking boys who stood behind him like his hired muscle. The three of them were apparently destined for Slytherin, and there was little chance of a Muggleborn ending up there. According to Susan, it had never happened in Hogwarts’ thousand-year history.
Professor McGonagall came to collect them, escorting them into the Great Hall to raucous cheers from the assembled older students. They sat at four long tables, one for each house, and there were shouts of encouragement and exhortations to join each house as they were led up the center aisle towards the Sorting Hat. Hermione had read a little about the ceremony and what it involved, but even she was surprised when the ragged cloth cap perked up and began to sing in a deep, warbling voice.
“Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!”
By the time it finished the room had quieted, leaving the first-years in tense silence as the now fully animate hat prepared to lead each of them on to their destiny. Hermione had assumed it was some sort of gimmick— an enchanted hat that announced whichever House the student had been assigned to by the professors— but it seemed to have a life of its own. It smiled when it saw them, assuring them not to be afraid, and chuckling when it told them not to shoot the messenger. It had never been wrong, by its own reckoning, and it had been doing the business of Sorting for a very, very long time.
The first to be called was a tall blonde girl named Hannah Abbott, who walked fearfully over to the chair and took her place there, shaking like a leaf. Professor McGonagall rested the hat on her head with a gentle flourish, and a few seconds the later it called out her house: “HUFFLEPUFF!”
Hannah went down to join her fellow Puffs, blushing awkwardly as they cheered riotously for their new housemate. She seemed glad to be done with the whole thing, and Hermione couldn’t blame her. The process looked endlessly frightening.
A moment later, McGonagall called out her next name in her refined accent: “Susan Bones.”
Susan gave her friends a quick smile before she strutted up towards the center dais, popping onto the chair with easy confidence. Hermione thought she had more than a scoop of Gryffindor bravery, but the hat had other ideas. No sooner had it sat upon her head than it pronounced its verdict, the same as it had before: “HUFFLEPUFF!”
There were even louder cheers from the yellow-clad table as Susan gave her new house a cheerful wave, and she took a seat next to Hannah as her fellow badgers congratulated her for joining the ‘best house at Hogwarts’. There were groans from a few of the other tables: apparently Susan was known to a few of the other witches and wizards, and they’d been hoping to have her in their house instead.
The process continued on apace, each student taking their turn to walk up to McGonagall and be Sorted into their new home away from home. A few students sat under the hat for longer than Hannah and Susan. A pink-cheeked girl named Lavender Brown waited fifteen seconds for the hat to call “GRYFFINDOR,” and a tall boy named Justin Finch-Fletchley took a similar amount of time to end up in Hufflepuff. The hat seemed to take their input into account, if Lavender’s quiet whispering while it sat on her head was any indication. Hermione wondered what she’d say to it when the time came.
By the time it came round to her, there’d been twenty students sorted already. Six had gone to Hufflepuff, five each to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, and four to Slytherin. The last boy before Hermione had been one of Draco Malfoy’s goons, a squat, chubby boy with a rude face named Gregory Goyle. The Hat had barely touched his head before it sent him to Slytherin, to the immediate delight of his fellow housemates. Hermione remembered what Susan and Neville had said about the children of the Purebloods who’d followed You-Know-Who, and resolved to give him a wide berth.
“Hermione Granger,” came McGonagall’s sharp voice.
Gulping, Hermione walked up the stone towards the Sorting Hat, trying to settle her heartbeat as she felt hundreds of pairs of eyes on her. The short walk felt like a small eternity as her shoes clicked softly against the flagstones, and she perched onto the chair with approbation.
“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll do fine,” McGonagall said reassuringly. Hermione offered her a brief smile as the tattered hat was lowered onto her head.
Almost immediately, she heard it speaking to her softly, almost gently. “Well then, what have we here? It’s been a long while since I’ve seen one of you around. Must be near fifty years, if I’m counting right.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione whispered. “I’m a Muggleborn, surely you’ve seen a few of us by now.”
“Oh I’ve seen plenty of Muggleborns,” the hat said with a chuckle, “and many good witches and wizards among them. Plenty of brave Gryffindors and clever Ravenclaws, and more than their share of loyal Hufflepuffs. You’d do well in any of them.”
“I think I’d do best in Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff with my friends,” Hermione said.
“You would, would you? I’m sure you’d excel in either House. You’ve got a raven’s cunning and a badger’s loyalty, and more of a lion’s bravery than either, if I judge you well. Wherever I put you, you’ll go far.”
Hermione could hear whispers from around the room as the hat spoke to her. It hadn’t taken near this long to sort any of the others so far, and people were beginning to wonder just what was special about the bushy-haired Muggleborn.
“I’d love to put you in Gryffindor, just to see the look on their faces, but he’d have me in rags if I put you anywhere but...”
The hat drew in a long breath, and Hermione somehow knew what it was about to yell before it did. “SLYTHERIN!”
A stunned silence followed the hat’s announcement. There were no claps and cheers, no whistles and congratulations. Everyone, from the students to the professors to the ghosts who flitted about the room, looked at her in sheer bafflement. A Muggleborn had never been placed in Slytherin before, not once.
Until now.
McGonagall took the hat from Hermione’s head and directed her to sit with her House, some of the previous warmth vanishing from her voice. Hermione fought the urge to cry as she forced herself to stand, walking slowly over to her new table as the whispers began in earnest. What was the Hat thinking, sending a Muggleborn into the den of snakes? Who was the little bushy-haired girl, and why had it taken the hat so long to sort her?
Hermione felt like a condemned woman as she walked slowly down the aisle, keeping her eyes cast down as she faced the hostility of her fellow students. God, why couldn’t she have had it easy? She’d been so excited to come to a new place and get a fresh start, and now she found that she was even more of pariah as she’d been at Muggle school.
She was about halfway down the table when someone reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Squeaking in surprise, she looked over to see the imposing form of Nymphadora Black staring at her with piercing silver eyes. The sixth-year patted her gently on the shoulder as she stood up, instantly commanding the attention of her House as her hair flared to a fiery red.
“Oi, listen up, all of you. I know some of you are probably thinking of giving Hermione here a hard time for who her parents are and where she was raised, and I’m giving you one warning to shut your bloody mouths before I hex you into next week. Whatever else she is, the Hat says she’s one of us, and what do you we do when we have problems with our own?”
“Keep it in house,” a group of the older Slytherins replied in unison.
“Good. I don’t wanna hear from her or anyone else that we let some of those bloody Gryffindors go after one of ours, you hear me? Keep it in house, keep it together, and if you have a problem, come see me. Am I clear?”
“Clear,” came the response. It was obvious that no one wanted to get on Nymphadora’s bad side.
She turned towards the assembled first years, who looked at Hermione with both interest and disgust. “Am I clear?”
“Clear,” they quickly replied. Goyle and Crabbe, Malfoy’s two goons, were less eager to reply than the two girls, Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis, but they’d done so nonetheless. At least in Slytherin House, Nymphadora’s word was law.
“Brilliant. Now let’s cheer on our new snakes as they come, yeah?” At the murmurs of agreement, Nymphadora turned to Hermione, giving her a broad smile as her hair quieted back to pink. “Welcome to Slytherin, Granger. Hope you brought a few mice for us to eat.”
Chapter 3: Badgers, Snakes, and Friendly Lions
Summary:
Hermione settles into Hogwarts, and she's only mostly miserable. New friends appear to support her, each with motives of their own. In Castle Black, a family meeting.
Notes:
Hi sugarbeans!
New chapter for y'all, covering Hermione's first few weeks at Hogwarts. I wanted to introduce most of our important players (minus a few more big ones who'll appear as we go on) and give a little insight into (most) of the family Black. We'll get more time with each of them in turn as time does on, but here's a taste of them. Fans of Regulus Black, rejoice!
New chapters soon to come! We're going to wrap up year one by chapter five :)
xoxo
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, October 17th, 1991. As it happens, asking a group of impressionable children who’ve grown up with Pureblooded fascists for parents to stop taunting the Mudblood is like asking water to flow uphill. It can happen, but only if there’s a hell of a push behind it. And as of now, Hermione can’t manage much more than a gentle nudge.
Hermione still didn’t know much about the brave new world she’d stepped out into when Professor McGonagall first Apparated them into Diagon Alley. Once she sifted through her wonder at the very existence of magic and her euphoria at learning to manipulate it herself, the sharp edges of that new reality seeped into her mind. She knew nothing of the history and social customs of the Wizarding World, beyond what she gleaned from Hogwarts: A History.
The Purebloods and Halfbloods of Hogwarts had been subsumed from birth in the strange traditions and self-evident cliques formed in their childhoods. Weasleys were poor, redheaded Gryffindors, and overly fond of those with lesser blood. Abbotts and Longbottoms were rigid traditionalists, serving as Aurors and solicitors before the Wizengamot. Malfoys were vain and self-important, and very fond of their own voices. Blacks were proud and ambitious, with a deeply held belief in their own magical superiority. Notts were greedy, Rosiers were cunning, Selwyns were contemplative, Lestranges were cruel.
And Hermione? Hermione was a Mudblood. She’d come to learn that term quite well during her first few months at Hogwarts.
While she didn’t understand all of the politics behind it, it had quickly become clear to her that Susan’s impression of Wizarding society’s fascination with blood status was far rosier than reality. As someone with Muggle parents, Hermione was regarded with suspicion and mockery by many students of higher blood. Some believed that she was simply an inferior magical mind, lacking the power and deftness to execute complex magics. Others thought the opposite, muttering about how Muggleborns were thieves who stole magic from ‘real’ wizards. Her fellow Slytherins were the worst of the lot— ostracizing and belittling her at every opportunity— but the other Houses had their own share of self-righteous Halfbloods and prejudiced Purebloods. Despite Nymphadora Black’s speech in the Great Hall on the night of her Sorting, Hermione felt utterly alone.
And alone she was, whenever the sharks came circling. She spent most of her free time in the library, preferring the comfort of books to the whispers and taunts of the Dungeons. The girls she shared her dorm with— Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Tracey Davis— weren’t nearly as bad as Draco Malfoy and his goons, but all of them bar Tracey were from Sacred Twenty-Eight houses. As far as Hermione could tell, they were aristocrats, or near enough. She gave them a wide berth, just as they did for her.
She was coming back from the library one afternoon, lost in thought as she pondered the Charms text she’d been reading, when a voice like curdled milk caught her ears: “Hey, Mudblood!”
There was no doubting the voice’s origin, haughty and proud as it was. Draco Malfoy had taken it upon himself to act as the self-appointed leader of the Slytherin first-years after he’d run a compelling campaign of ‘Mudbloods don’t belong in Slytherin’. Hermione had been the target of insults and faked hexes from the blonde boy since her first night in the dorms, and things had only gotten worse as things went on.
Sighing, she turned to face her oppressor. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
The Pureblood smirked at her haughtily as he walked toward her down the corridor, flanked as always by his two gorillas, Crabbe and Goyle. His blue eyes were barbed and piercing, his blonde hair slicked back like he was in a Muggle gangster movie. Hermione was fairly sure he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.
“What I want, Granger, is for you not to be in my House. A thousand years of Slytherin purity, and you ruined it all in a single night.” He shook his head dramatically. “You shouldn’t be here at all, much less in Slytherin.”
Hermione fought back the urge to cry, as she often did in the face of Draco’s taunts. Crying would only make it worse, she recited to herself, forcing her upper lip to remain still. He thrived on weakness.
“I don’t want to be in Slytherin either, but I don’t have much of a choice now, do I? The Hat placed me where it thought I’d belong.” She scrunched up her nose when she remembered the night of her Sorting, and how her exhortations for Ravenclaw fell on deaf ears. “You’re stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you. Can’t we just try to stay out of each other’s way?”
Draco smiled darkly, and fear Hermione cut through Hermione’s gut. “You could leave, Mudblood. Run back to your Muggle parents, and leave magic to the real wizards. No one would miss you.”
He was right, and it hurt all the worse for it. She didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts, just as she’d always worried would be the case. If she left tomorrow, no one would miss her, with the possible exception of Nymphadora, and even she seemed to think of Hermione as more of an amusement than a person.
No weakness, no weakness, no weakness. He could sense her fear.
Scoffing, she shook her head. “I’m not leaving, Malfoy. I’m better than you in all of our classes but Potions, and that’s just because Snape likes you. I belong here, and I’m not going to let you run me out of town because you don’t like my parents.”
She turned to leave, satisfied with how she’d ended things with Malfoy. So long as she didn’t give him power, he couldn’t hurt her. There were rules to this sort of thing, after all.
A moment later she heard a yelled spell— Locomotor Mortis— and felt something hit her solidly in the small of her back. In an instant her knees snapped together painfully, sending her toppling to the hard floor with a clatter. Her books spewed out of her bag onto the stone of the corridor, leaving her in a pile of parchment as Draco and his goons howled with laughter. Tears threatened to flow in her eyes again as she struggled against the Curse’s effects, trying desperately to remember the counterspell. Feelings of helplessness surged through her, tempered with an undercurrent of deep, simmering anger. How dare they curse here when her back was turned? How dare they touch her?
“Oi!” Came another voice from the other end of the corridor. Hermione pushed herself up to a sitting position to see Susan Bones striding towards her, trailing Megan Jones and a determined-looking Harry Potter. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?”
“Mind your own business, Halfblood!” Draco sneered. “This is Slytherin business.”
“Walk away now or I’ll show you the business end of my wand,” Harry shouted, raising his up towards Malfoy. Hermione couldn’t quite imagine why Bones & Jones were there to rescue her, nor why Harry had joined them, but she wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. Remembering the countercurse, she hastily freed herself, standing up awkwardly to glare at Malfoy.
Outnumbered, the Malfoy heir gave them a final death glare. “This isn’t over, Mudblood. You won’t always have your little friends around to protect you.” With a nod to Crabbe and Goyle he set off down the corridor, crowing with his cronies about how he’d put the Mudblood in her place.
“Are you alright, Hermione?” Megan asked, soft brown eyes scrunched up in concern. “We heard shouting in the corridor and came to see what all the commotion was about.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, dusting herself off and stuffing her books back into her bag. “Malfoy’s a git, but there’s nothing I can do about it. His family’s rich and powerful, and his Dad’s on the Board of Governors.”
“It’s not fair,” Harry said darkly, frowning angrily. “Malfoy shouldn’t be allowed to treat you like that.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Hermione replied, a hint of sadness coloring her tone. “I’m a Muggleborn, he’s a Pureblood. This is just what he does.”
“Well he shouldn’t. I was raised by Muggles, why should I be treated any better?” The Boy-Who-Lived replied, full of righteous indignation.
Susan Bones snorted, rolling her eyes. “You’re a Potter, Potter. Your dad’s family was as Pure as they come and richer than sin, even if your mum was Muggleborn.”
Harry blushed at the revelation of his family’s wealth. It was clearly a recent development, and not one that he’d entirely wrapped his head around. Hermione could empathize: she’d realized in primary school that not everyone’s parents were successful dentists, and worried that her parents’ success would make her seem out of place with her peers.
Suddenly remembering that they hadn’t been properly introduced, Hermione offered Potter her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”
The green-eyed boy grinned as he took her hand and shook it firmly. “Harry Potter. I’ve heard a lot about the first Muggleborn in Slytherin.”
“And I’ve heard a lot about the Boy-Who-Lived,” she shot back playfully.
“Well I’ve heard that you’re top of our year so far,” Susan interjected. “Is it true that you managed the hedgehog to pincushion transfiguration on your first try?”
Hermione blushed at the compliment. “It was the second try, really. I left a snout on the first one.”
“Wicked,” Megan said excitedly. “It took Bones and me ten tries, and my pincushion still had whiskers by the end.”
“Flitwick said you were a prodigy the other day,” Harry added, not taking his eyes off Hermione. “The best student he’s had since Andromeda Black, besides my Mum.” A flicker of sadness crossed the boy’s face, and Hermione realized that he’d never gotten to know his parents at all. He’d been so young when they died that they’d never be more than shadows to him, hidden in other people’s memories.
Hermione couldn’t imagine what it would be like to group up without knowing your parents. How would you understand who you were if you didn’t know where you came from?
Plowing on ahead, Susan seized the reins of the conversation once more. “How would you feel about studying with us sometime, Hermione? Harry’s got Gryffindor friends too, but Jones and I haven’t been able to find other ‘Puffs who aren’t hopeless.”
“I guess I could,” Hermione replied as casually as she could manage, not daring to hope that this meant they wanted to be her friends. “None of the other Slytherins will study with me.”
“Perfect! You in, Potter?” Susan asked.
Harry shrugged, but Hermione could see a smile on his face. “I’ll give it a go. Ron and Lavender aren’t the best study partners.”
They hashed out a schedule as they walked down towards the Great Hall, chatting about their classes and griping about Snape’s Potions lessons. The others seemed shocked to learn that Hermione had managed more than an ‘Acceptable’ on her first brew, but they all agreed it was just the Potionsmaster’s blatant Slytherin favoritism. Megan was the best in Hufflepuff, but she hadn’t gotten a single kind word out of Snape since they began.
By the time they came in for dinner, Hermione found herself smiling and laughing, all thoughts of Draco long forgotten. Bones and Jones made her promise to spend time with them as she walked off to sit alone at the Slytherin table, and she ate her dinner with a grin for the first time in weeks.
Hermione was buzzing as she walked to Charms class a few days later, counting down the hours until she could spend time with her new friends again. She’d liked Bones and Jones from the first time she’d met them on the Hogwarts Express, and Harry Potter seemed like a far better sort than she would’ve expected from the hype around him. He was funny in a brash sort of way, and obviously loyal to those he considered to be his friends. Hermione didn’t like the two Gryffindors he hung around with— Ron was an oaf and Lavender was infuriatingly vain— but Harry himself was a decent kid.
She didn’t quite know how to explain it, but she felt drawn to him in some way, as if there was a connection between them twisting on the edges of her magic. McGonagall had explained to her that witches and wizards possessed magical cores, just like their wands did, and that connections between them could form in the same way that wands chose their masters. The Transfiguration professor had refused to explain further when Hermione pressed her on the matter, handwaving it away with the excuse that it was too complex for a first year to understand.
So Hermione had done a little digging.
A few kind words to Madame Pince earned her a point in the right direction in the library. The normally severe librarian had warmed up to her considerably after seeing Hermione reading amongst the stacks every day after her classes, and she was all too happy to show Hermione anything she wanted outside of the Restricted Section. Bonding magic wasn’t taboo in and of itself, though some aspects of it were often considered to be, but it was far more complex than anything Hermione had worked with so far. Many of the concepts were tied to predictions, either using arithmantic equations that she couldn’t wrap her head around or divination-derived prophecies that she’d never heard of, and she couldn’t make much ground in understanding their mechanics.
What she did learn after fighting with the texts for a few hours was relatively high-level: magical bonds formed primarily for three reasons, or ‘ties’. The most common were Ties of Birth. Formed between family members and descendants of the same Houses, they created magical connections that strengthened kinship and enhanced the family’s magic, while creating safeguards against intra-family violence. Feuding House members were expected to settle their differences nonviolently, and slaying one’s kin was among the most grievous sins in the Wizarding World. The bonds also explained the insular nature of the Purebloods, particularly the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Every one of them was related to everyone else, and the ties of blood, however distant, made fights between them ill-advised.
Hermione was fairly certain that she wasn’t related to Harry, which left two other potential options: Ties of Blood and Ties that Bound. Ties of Blood were formed in the crucible of violence and strife. Duelists who fought on the same battlefields and comrades-in-arms who served together could find themselves spontaneously linked together in kinship. Their bonds would strengthen their prowess in combat and foster unity in the ranks if they served as soldiers. That didn’t really fit her feeling towards Harry either, unless you considered shouting at Draco Malfoy to be a battle.
Ties that Bound were the rarest of bonds, and Hermione got the sense that most of the information about them was considered unsuitable for younger eyes. On rare occasions, magical children would be born with preformed connections between their souls and those of others. Oftentimes accompanied by prophecy made well before the child’s birth, these bonds seemed to have connections to love and marriage. Those bonded were something close to soulmates in the Muggle world. They would inevitably be drawn together, united in body and soul with a number of words that Hermione didn’t quite understand. She recognized the word ‘sex’ from health class, but the rest of it was written in incomprehensible language.
Was she meant to fall in love with Harry Potter? She supposed he was rather handsome, in a roguish sort of way, but eleven felt like it was far too young an age to feel such a connection. Besides, she wasn’t even sure she knew what fancying someone felt like yet. She hadn’t had any crushes when she was in Muggle school, and her connection with Harry felt more fraternal than romantic. Maybe that came later?
She was still considering the matter when she found her way to Flitwick’s classroom, taking her usual seat in the front row absentmindedly as she went over her notes. They had Charms with the Gryffindors, and she wondered if Harry’s magic would ever interact with her own in a less distant way as they learned more advanced spells. There wasn’t much room for red and green sparks and bubbles to synchronize in interesting ways, after all.
The other Slytherins sat behind her in the terraced seats, trying not to associate themselves with the black sheep of their house. Harry was with Ron and Lavender on the Gryffindor side of room, smiling at a joke the redhead made. She’d have liked to sit with him, but she understood that his commitment to his friends superseded their loose academic relationship. It wouldn’t be right to try to pull him away from his house for her sake.
Filius Flitwick cleared his throat to get their attention, standing on his podium at the front of the class. The diminutive professor was a renowned wizard in his own right, and he commanded the respect of all students despite whispers of his Goblin heritage: magical creatures weren’t looked on well in the Wizarding World.
“Good afternoon, everyone. How are we all doing today?” He waited for the chorus of ‘well, Professors’ before continuing, a bright smile on his face. “You’ll be happy to learn that we’ll be learning a new spell today, the Levitation Charm. Who can tell me the incantation we’ll use?”
Hermione’s hand shot up, sinking her ever further into the mantle of ‘bookish know-it-all.
“Yes, Miss Granger.” Flitwick said kindly. Hermione was his favorite student by far, and he made no secret of his approval.
“It’s Wingardium Leviosa, Professor. It can be used to lift objects at variable speeds, though the difficulty increases the larger the object is.” She replied quickly, trying to ignore the mutters behind her.
Flitwick nodded eagerly, large ears flapping as he did. “Excellent, Miss Granger, five points to Slytherin. Now, can you show me the wand movement for this charm?”
Producing her wand, Hermione looked around the classroom for something to cast the charm on. Their coursebook recommended starting with feathers, but she’d tried it in the library on said coursebook without any issues. Perhaps she could find something that would impress him.
Seized with sudden inspiration, she pointed at Flitwick’s podium, concentrating on her movements as she swished and flicked her wand and intoned the spell: “Wingardium Leviosa.”
With a slight jerk the podium began to levitate off the ground, following the path of her wand as she lifted both it and her Professor into the air. She felt a minor tug of strain as her classmates oohed and aahed behind her, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Focusing on the feel of her magic, she held the podium up a few inches in the air, keeping it steady as Flitwick looked at her with astonishment.
“Remarkable, Miss Granger, simply remarkable! Twenty points to Slytherin for lifting me, and twenty more if you can set me down again without dropping me!” Hermione giggled as she lowered him back down, sighing in fulfillment as the wonderful wholeness of being of her magic filled her. Draco and his cronies could yap at her however they liked: she was an excellent witch, and she belonged at Hogwarts.
As she set the podium back down, Flitwick sprang off of it, flicking his wand to send feathers over to his students. “We were meant to be practicing with these feathers, but it seems Miss Granger has stolen a bit of my thunder. Now, focus on your wandwork as you recite the spell, and mind the pronunciation on the Leviosa.” Turning to Hermione, he beamed at her. “Miss Granger, a word, if you would?”
Hermione nodded, hopping out of her seat to follow the Professor into the corner of the classroom while her fellow first-years attempted the incantation. She could tell without looking that none of them were picking it up quickly. Their intonation was sloppy, and none of them had learned to loosen up on their wand while they cast gentler charms yet.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Professor?” Hermione asked, slightly worried about the fact that she’d ‘stolen his thunder’. Flitwick didn’t seem the vindictive sort, but you never knew.
“Don’t worry, Miss Granger, you’re not in trouble. I merely wanted to congratulate you on your feat without embarrassing you in front of the class. Who taught you to use the spell?” Flitwick’s voice was soft and kind, and Hermione’s smaller stature meant that they were of nearly equal heights.
Hermione’s shoulders sagged in relief. “No one, sir. I was trying to reach a book in the library the other day and I thought the spell might help me, so I taught myself.”
“Really? How magnificent! I know I’ve said it before, Miss Granger, but you have a remarkable aptitude for Charms. In all my years of teaching, I’ve only known three students to have displayed such mastery of the spell in their first session.” Flitwick was inordinately cheery, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile back.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Professor, who were they?” Hermione had been curious ever since Susan mentioned Flitwick comparing her to his best. “A friend of mine mentioned Andromeda Black?”
“Of course, the Lady Black was and is remarkably talented when it came to Charms. I’ve tried to get her to accept a guest lecturing position here, but I’ve never had any success. Her daughter Nymphadora’s good too, but she’s not quite at her mother’s level.”
Hermione nodded. Dora was an excellent witch when she wanted to be, but she seemed more focused on Quidditch and the Dueling Club than schoolwork.
“The other two have unfortunately passed on,” he said sadly. “Harry Potter’s mother, Lily, was just like you. Muggleborn and whip-smart, and unafraid to show off what she knew. Such a shame it was to lose her, such a shame. I’d hoped Harry would show the same aptitude, but it seems he takes more after his father.” Flitwick stared off into the middle distance, lost in some unhappy memory.
“Who was the third, Professor?” Hermione prompted gently.
The old wizard startled slightly at her words. “Eh? Oh, yes, the last was Gwendolyn Selwyn, a bit before Andromeda’s time. Brilliant witch, she was, if a little Dark in her inclinations. Dumbledore was still teaching Transfiguration then, and we used to take bets about what she’d do after she graduated. She took her Charms NEWT in her fifth-year here. Earned an Outstanding, of course.”
“What happened to her?” Hermione asked cautiously.
Flitwick frowned. “She was lost during the War, I’m afraid. Ran afoul of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and vanished off the face of the earth. Just like Lily, and not long before her either.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a shame.”
Flitwick directed her back to her seat, and before she knew it the class was over. Shoving her books back into her bag, she decided to head towards the library to do some more reading. Hermione made a mental note to look into the three other Charms prodigies Flitwick had taught. Perhaps she’d find something in their biographies to give her an edge in class.
She wasn’t more than ten feet out the door when someone tapped her on the shoulder, shocking her out of her internal conversation. Smiling, she turned towards them, expecting to see Harry or one of her other friends. To her utter surprise, it was Daphne Greengrass, one of the Purebloods from her dorm.
Blonde haired and green eyed, Daphne had a heart-shaped face that seemed made to wear a shit-eating grin, and a button nose that fit perfectly in the center. Daphne was conventionally attractive, if the crude jokes the Slytherin boys made were any indication, and she used her looks to get what she wanted without expending effort. She was fond of gossiping and spilling secrets with the other Slytherins, and Hermione had come to recognize the sound of her laughter as a sign that Millicent and Tracey were going to be too distracted bully her that night.
The Greengrass family were members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, though they were less prominent than the Blacks, Notts, Malfoys, Rosiers, and Averies who occupied the highest rungs on the social ladder. Daphne seemed to have evolved to fit this niche perfectly, ingratiating herself with the other Purebloods without ever offending anybody or showing herself to be a threat. It was admirable, in a perverse sort of way.
“Hey, Granger,” Daphne began hesitantly, offering her fellow Slytherin a crooked smile. “I wanted to talk with you about your classwork.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, used to immediate teasing from her housemates. Her guard went up in half an instant. “What’s there to talk about, Greengrass?”
Daphne raised her hands in a mollifying gesture. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to mock you for it. I thought it was bloody brilliant, your charm. I couldn’t manage that if you gave me a week, and you made it look easy.”
Interesting, but Hermione knew better than to take the compliment at face value. “What do you want?”
Daphne’s mouth crumpled into an adorable, flabbergasted expression, and Pansy Parkinson walked up to berate her. The Slytherin’s voice was sharp and acerbic, as always. “Oh, quit kissing her arse and tell her, Daph.”
Pansy Parkinson was alike to Daphne in some ways and vastly different in others. Stocky where Daphne was slender and angular where Daphne was smooth, and often impossibly blunt in her mannerisms. She had an upturned nose that mean-spirited onlookers might compare to a pug’s, and her long, sleek dark hair fell in perfectly straight curtains down to her shoulders. Hermione didn’t quite understand the politics behind it, but Pansy and Draco had some sort of potential future betrothal worked out between their families, a fact which seemed to bother them both to no end.
More than anything else, Pansy was ambitious. Hermione didn’t know her well, but she asked almost as many questions in class as Hermione did, and seemed more interested in learning Hermione’s secrets than insulting her for her dirty blood. It was a welcome respite given the rest of Slytherin, even if Pansy had never given any indications that she liked Hermione in the slightest. As a Parkinson, she had other priorities.
“Tell me what?” Hermione asked, more confused than anything. She hadn’t had a civil conversation with either of them before, and now they were talking to her out in the corridor, where any of the other Slytherins could see.
Daphne stammered out a response. “What Pansy means to say, I mean what we mean to say is—”
“You’re good, Granger. Very good.” Pansy cut in with her trademark bluntness. “We want to know how you do it.”
Now Hermione found herself on the back foot. “How do I learn the spells? I’m not sure, I just work through them in the library, then use the right kind of magic for the spell I’m casting.”
“The right kind of magic?” Pansy inquired, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Hermione tried to find the right words to explain exactly what she meant. Her method of spellcasting had been somewhat organic, stemming from a few of the foundational texts she’d read in the library during her first week or so at school. “Well certain spells are more about enforcing your will on the world, and others are about asking the world politely to act in a certain way. Jinxes and hexes are about emotions, forcing a thing to happen to another person. Transfiguration is more tailored towards understanding the object you’re transfiguring and its relationship to the wider world. Wingardium Leviosa is about moving something, so you have to push your magic in a certain direction in order to work with the spell, instead of against it. Does that make sense?”
Daphne nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never thought of it like that. My parents gave me a practice wand when I was eight, but none of their lessons were helpful. I hadn’t managed to levitate anything before today.”
“Me neither,” Pansy agreed.
Turning back to Hermione to study the shorter girl’s face, Pansy asked a question that would come to define the rest of their lives, though she didn’t know it at the time. When Hermione looked back at her life with the benefit of hindsight, she’d dwell on it as the moment she became a Slytherin, in spirit as well as name. Without Daphne and Pansy, she’d have been an outcast, forced by necessity to gravitate entirely towards the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors for safety and companionship. No amount of cheery words from Dora nor exhortations from others would’ve bridge the chasm that existed between her and the other Slytherins in her year. Perhaps she would’ve ended up fighting for the Light and the Order of the Phoenix, rather than traveling down the path fate laid out for her.
“Can you teach us?”
Hermione blinked in surprise. Pansy and Daphne hadn’t been anywhere near as cruel to her as Tracey and Millicent nor the boys in their year, but they hadn’t exactly been friendly before. She knew enough of how blood purity worked now to mistrust any offer that came from a Pureblood, especially when it seemed too good to be true.
“Why? I’m a Muggleborn, you’re not meant to associate with me.” She asked softly, hiding the flash of shame she felt at the admission.
“We’re not,” Pansy agreed, “you’re below us, socially, as our housemates love to tell you. But they’re missing something important: you’re good. It’s been two months and you’re already doing more complex magic than the Purebloods who’ve been practicing for years, and that couldn’t happen if you didn’t have real skill. If we work with you we’ll improve, and what self-respecting Slytherin would turn down a chance at power because they didn’t like its source?”
“We’ll be nice to you too,” Daphne added quickly. “You’re friends with the Puffs and Potter, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to have friends in your own house?”
“It would,” Hermione admitted begrudgingly. “But how do I know this isn’t just some cruel joke?”
“You don’t,” Pansy said bluntly. “But what’s the harm in trying? Let’s work together and see how it goes. Best case, we’re all bloody best friends at the top of our year. Worst, we go our separate ways and you loaf about out with the Puffs again.”
Hermione couldn’t help but appreciate her candor. Pansy had dubious morals and ravenous ambition, but she didn’t beat around the bush. She saw Hermione as a means to an end, and was willing to break with the expectations of her social position to do so.
Could she trust Pansy? Merlin, no. The Slytherin was ruthless and cunning, and Hermione had no doubt that Pansy would drop her if she lost her usefulness. Hermione would find herself alone once more, with the added insult of two false friends running around whispering about her secrets and benefitting from her magic.
Did that mean she should spurn the offer? By no means. Pansy and Daphne were offering her a lift up the social ladder, bringing her off the bottom of the hierarchy and into a more comfortable existence. Draco wouldn’t leave her alone just because they were friends with her, but Tracey and Millicent might lay off a bit, and the Purebloods in the other Houses wouldn’t dare cross her.
It wasn’t much of a decision, in the end.
“Fine,” Hermione declared. “But I don’t want to hear either of you calling me a Mudblood, and I’ll hex you if you deserve it.”
“Done,” Pansy agreed, giving Hermione the first real smile she’d ever seen from the brown eyed girl. “I knew you were smart enough to take us up on it. Daph here kept moaning about how we needed to spend a few weeks singing your praises before you’d hear us out.”
“Oh go choke on a pixie, Pans,” Daphne replied, pouting like a puppy who wanted another scoop of food. She pushed a wavy lock behind her ear and straightened her emerald tie. “You need a nickname too, Granger. Hermione’s too bloody long to say all the time.”
“You can tell me as we walk, Greengrass,” Hermione said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “We’ve got Defense next.”
“Please, call me Daph. Let’s at least pretend we’re friends, yeah?” Daphne stroked her chin as the three of them fell into lockstep, heading for the stairs to get to Quirrell’s classroom on the fifth floor. “How do you feel about Mione?”
“Ugh, no,” Pansy said from Hermione’s left side, wrinkling her nose. “It sounds a bit like ‘whiny’ and it’s barely shorter than Hermione.”
“Guess that’s Minny out then too,” Daphne intoned dramatically. “Hmm, how’s Remy?”
“That doesn’t even sound like my name.” Hermione protested, feeling the first hints of a grin at the corners of her mouth.
“Hermy?”
“I meant it when I promised I’d hex you.”
Castle Black, November 3rd, 1991. The lair of the beast, and one of the more powerful locuses of mystical power in the British Isles. Hewn into the granite of a seacliff on the Channel Coast so the family could see their ancestral homeland in Normandy on clear days, the Castle stands a grey vigil over the cresting waves below.
They were late. Again.
Narcissa Black sipped tea from a silver-inlaid cup as she sat in the family library, surrounded by the combined literary treasures of dozens of generations of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. The armchair she’d chosen for herself was the comfiest one in the room, and Bella was sure to fight her for it whenever she returned from whatever errand took precedence over a scheduled family meeting. Narcissa had no intention of giving it up. The chair was hers by right, and you wouldn’t survive long in the family if you relinquished anything that was yours without a fight.
Bella had called the meeting a few days before, owling the disparate members of the family Black to discuss the important matters that now faced them. They were all expected to attend: excepting Siri, who was still rotting away in Azkaban, and Draco, who had yet to prove himself to be Black more than a Malfoy. Narcissa held out hope that he’d come around, but she wasn’t holding her breath. He refused to leave the girl alone despite Nym’s exhortations, and to be a Black was to be loyal to the family. No exceptions.
The fireplace flashed green and Andy stepped through the flames, looking resplendent in silver and red. Her middle sister had long been considered to be overly rebellious and outspoken by other Purebloods, most notably their father, and unfit to bear the mantle of a noble house. In her youth there’d been rumblings of her fondness for Muggleborns, and it’d even been suggested that Andy would run away from her duty to her House. Andy had proved them all wrong, growing into a strong, powerful witch who commanded respect from all who saw her. Burying Cygnus in the back garden had done wonders for her self-esteem.
“Afternoon, Cissa,” Andy called, brushing the dust off of her robes and summoning a flute of sparkling wine. “How’s life in Malfoy Manor?”
“Fuck off, Andy,” Narcissa shot back. “He’s not the man I married, and I made a mistake in agreeing to it in the first place. There’s no need to rub it in.”
“I meant no offense,” Andy said with a raised hand. It was perhaps the least convincing gesture Narcissa had ever seen. “Where are the others?”
“Later than you, if you can believe it. Nym’s a chip off the old block when it comes to punctuality.” Her niece was notoriously lax when it came to deadlines and timetables, holding to a misguided notion that adhering to any schedule would conflict with her ‘bad girl’ image. If she’d been Narcissa’s daughter, she would’ve shipped her off to Durmstrang to learn the value of self-discipline.
“Probably shagging some Ravenclaw,” Andy replied nonchalantly, looking as if she didn’t care in the slightest where her daughter was. “She’ll be here.”
The Floo flashed again, revealing the regal form of Regulus Black. Reg’s dark brown curls were in a near-perpetual state of carefully-managed disarray, and he often looked a bit like a lost puppy upon first glance. Tall and slender as Blacks tended to be, he fit the figure of a melancholic poet or a doomed lover to a T. He often spoke softly, preferring to listen and learn before he made his opinions known, which had served him exceedingly well over the years. Narcissa had lost count of the number of people who’d underestimated her cousin during the War, to their great peril.
“Cissa, Andy, good to see you.” He summoned a flute of the sparkling wine Andy was drinking, taking a long pull from the crystal glass. “I’ve had a whale of a day in the DMLE; there’s enough paperwork these days to suffocate a bloody dragon. Can you believe Barty Crouch is still the Head after all the shit he’s pulled?”
“Have you seen the family’s campaign contributions?” Andy asked with a raised eyebrow. “Old Barty’s paying for Fudge to holiday on the coast of France every weekend. It’s a wonder that he couldn’t buy his son out of Azkaban.”
“He could’ve if he’d wanted to,” Reg said confidently. “Just like we could buy Siri out if we so chose.”
Narcissa shook her head. Sirius’ continuing incarceration wasn’t entirely in the family’s control, though in truth they’d never tried to lever him out of the mess he found himself in. “We’d have to grease more palms than Barty does, given our family’s reputation, and it’s not like Siri would take our help if we offered it. He went down for the Dark Lord, we didn’t. He’d probably try to hex us is we visited him.”
Reg nodded sadly, still missing the brother he’d once worshipped. The entire family had followed the Dark Lord in his damned crusade, hoping that he was the one the prophecy spoke of. Siri alone had stood on the side of the ‘Light’, working with his friends and lovers amongst the misfit Gryffindors and Blood Traitors of the Order of the Phoenix. None of their pleas and entreaties had swayed him from his path, even when the simmering resentment boiled over and blood began to flow in the gutters and under the eaves.
When it became clear that the Dark Lord wasn’t the one that was mentioned in their prophecy, the family Black had jumped ship. Doing a degree of lip-service devotion to the Dark Lord, they’d funneled information to the Ministry and begun their quiet search for the one destined to bring about the zenith of their family’s power and influence. The Dark Lord didn’t suffer threats to his power, and if he wasn’t the prophesied heir of Slytherin, he’d assuredly come into conflict to whoever was.
Unfortunately, Siri hadn’t gotten their owl. He’d flipped on the Order at the worst possible time, murdering Muggles in broad daylight after the Dark Lord had been defeated and earning a one way trip to Azkaban. There was no world where they could spring their wayward cousin out of prison through means legitimate or otherwise if they didn’t know where his loyalties lay.
“How’s Nym?” Reg asked Andy as she refilled her glass of wine. “First Quidditch match of the season is coming up soon, no?”
“Doing well, sleeping around, earning me owls from half her professors over her homework,” Andy replied. “Thank god the Ministry only cares about NEWTs.” Nymphadora had earned six OWLs the year before, including Os in Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Potions. If her NEWTs went similarly she’d walk into any job she wanted.
“Good, good. I’ve been meaning to have her shadow me sometime in the DMLE, assuming she still wants to go the Auror route.”
“You’ll have to ask her,” Andy replied cheerily as the Floo lit up once more. Nym stepped out in a garish silver jumpsuit made of some sort of reflective fabric, hair shining a similar color in a nausea inducing display. Not for the first time, Narcissa contemplated dragging her niece to a boutique by her color-changing hair.
“Wotcher, aunts, uncles, and mums,” Nym said with a grin. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing, Dora,” came a voice from the hallway. The shadowy form of Bellatrix Black appeared in the doorframe, fell and beautiful. Her dark hair fell about the harsh lines of her face in curtains of curls, black eyes roaring with secret fire. Her ubiquitous black corset on black petticoat never wavered, not even at home, and Narcissa couldn’t deny the air of radiating power it gave the ruling Lady of the House of Black. Bella moved with a dancer’s grace, savagery rippling just beneath the surface, and it was hard not to tremble when you stared her in the eyes. She’d never hurt a member of her family— not now that their father was worm food— but Narcissa still felt a shiver run up her spine. There was no one in the world who wasn’t at least a little bit scared of Bella.
“Now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business,” Bella ordered. She must’ve been waiting for them all to arrive before she appeared, preferring to dispense with small talk. Narcissa couldn’t blame her. Bella felt the weight of the prophecy’s effects in ways that she could only imagine. “Dora, what do you have for us?”
Nym’s face quickly took on a stern affect as she assumed the bearing of a full member of their House. Tall and proud, she looked even more like Andy than Bella did. “The girl’s starting to acclimate to Slytherin, no thanks to Draco. He seems to have made it his personal mission to make her miserable, no matter what I tell him.”
“You haven’t mentioned her potential parentage, have you?” Narcissa asked worriedly. She loved her son, but he couldn’t be trusted not to pass any secrets he was given on to Lucius or the two gorillas he’d befriended.
“Of course not, Auntie Cissa,” Nym said with a smirk. “I know better than to trust Draco with anything important.”
“Do you think it’s her, Dora?” Bella inquired, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand.
The sixth-year shrugged. “Could be. She’s top of her year so far, and meant to be brilliant in Charms. Flitwick says she’s the best she’s seen since—”
“Since Lily,” Narcissa whispered, wishing that the simple act of saying her name didn’t make her ache. The redhead Mudblood had been the first potential heir they’d investigated after Bella decided that the Dark Lord wasn’t the one they were searching for. Narcissa had grown fond of the girl during the searching, more than fond, even, and for her to die the way she had…
Siri had a lot to answer for.
“Since Lily,” Nym agreed, “but Mum too, and Gwendolyn Selwyn.”
“Fascinating,” Andy murmured, her interest clearly piqued. “Is anyone in her year speaking to her yet?”
“Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass have befriended her, Purebloods though they are. She’s also close with a few Hufflepuffs, and Harry Potter.” Nym answered.
“We’ll have to keep an eye on Potter,” Bella said imperiously. “If and when the Dark Lord returns he’ll want to know how the Boy managed to kill him the first time, and we can turn it to our advantage. If the girl is who we think she is, her friendship with him can only help us.”
“What shall we do?” Reg asked, speaking for the first time in a while. “If she is the heir, it’ll be a few years before she can act without the trace on her, and if and when the Dark Lord returns she’ll have a target on her back the moment her parentage is revealed. Can we even risk a lineage test at this point?”
Bella shook her mess of curls. “You’re right, Reg, it’s too dangerous to overplay our hand. She’s prophesized, not invincible, and either side of the War could choose to come after her for who she is and what she represents. We’ll play it slow, go digging up what we can on her Muggle family, and try to work on Greengrass and Parkinson. Any objections?”
“None, Bella,” Andy replied. Standing, she scrunched her face in contemplation. “I’ll see if Filius needs any help teaching Charms over the next year or two. He was always overly fond of me.”
“I’ll try to get through to Draco as best I can,” Narcissa said. “There has to be some part of him that’s not infected with Lucius’ bile.”
“There are quiet rumblings that they’re going to force Crouch out of the Department and put him on Magical Cooperation,” Reg offered. “And louder ones that they’re bringing back the Triwizard Tournament in a few years. I’ll keep an eye of it— it could be an opportunity to reconnect with our French cousins.”
“That leaves me at Hogwarts. I’ll watch over her as best I can, since she seems to trust me already. Might even try for Auror to stick around the school after I graduate.” Nym winked at Reg, who shot her a grin. Bella was roughly twelve years older than Reg, who was around that same number older than Nym, and the two youngest Blacks were fairly close now that Siri was gone. Reg was the cool uncle, and Nym was the niece who thought he was a damn sight cooler than the rest of her family. When it came time for the holiday party they’d drink each other under the table.
“Good. You all know what’s at stake, and where you’ll be if we win. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always fancied lording over the other Pureblood houses. Fuck the Notts, fuck the Averies, fuck the Lestranges, fuck the Crouchs, fuck the Malfoys.” She turned to give her sister an apologetic look. “No offense, Cissa.”
“None taken.”
Bella nodded primly. “Alright, as you were, then. I’m going to go have a drink and burn something down. A bank, I think.”
“Ooh, I’ll join you,” Andy said eagerly. “Been a while since we burned anything down together.”
“Fine. You in, Cissa?”
Narcissa looked down at the dregs of tea in her cup. Lucius would be expecting her soon, and she had a masquerade to prepare for over the Yule holiday. There were orders to write and supplies to order, to say nothing of the guest list she had yet to finalize. It really wouldn’t be prudent to…
“Fuck it, why not,” she replied. Nym and Reg faux-cheered as she walked over to join her sisters, pulling her wand from its holster. Family bonding was important, even when it meant committing random acts of property destruction in Muggle cities. Bella needed to get her calisthenics in somehow until the War started up again, and at least they weren’t killing anyone to do it. Clasping hands, they Apparated to the Midlands, while the words of their prophecy lingered in Narcissa’s mind.
“Snake in a rainstorm,
Shadow and bone,
Death in three colors,
House in the home.
Falcon and Raven,
Primrose and Vine,
Son in the moonlight,
Waiting to die.
Red House in tatters,
Black still to rise,
Crown in the nighttime,
Two souls entwined.”
Chapter 4: Trolls and Scrolls and Wicked Things
Summary:
Hermione fights with monsters and begins to wonder about monstrous knowledge of her own. In a place she shouldn't be, Hermione meets a thing that shouldn't exist.
Notes:
New chapter soon (second year hype :D)! We're ~10 chapters from book four, and ~12 chapters from smut. Not with Bella, that will be a while longer.
Thanks for the comments and kudos!
xoxo
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, January 23rd, 1992. Hermione’s doing great. Brilliant, even. She’s top of her year in four classes— Potions and Herbology being the only exceptions— and she’s even made friends! Of course, they don’t do anything with her outside of study time, but that still counts, no?
The winter wind blew cold and long, but it was warm and cozy within the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Christmas decorations had been taken down after the holiday period ended, but the school retained a festive cheer, and the Great Hall was positively merry. Dinner— served family style, as always— was a thick beef stew with perfectly tender winter vegetables, and the school kitchens had brought out great loaves of steaming bread to dunk in the broth. The students laughed and joked with each other as they celebrated the advent of another Friday, free from the stresses of their classes. It was a Hogsmeade weekend for the older students, and trips to the sleepy little village always brought out people’s good moods.
As for her, Hermione was in high spirits. Her first-term exams had gone better than she could have hoped for, and she’d taken the train back to London with perfect marks to show her parents. Mum and Dad had been thrilled with the news of her success, though they’d long since learned to expect such things from their little braniac, and they’d insisted on getting her ice cream every day she was home over the holiday break.
If they’d been happy to hear about her scholarly endeavors, they’d been even more excited to learn that she was making new friends. She’d only mentioned Susan and Megan in her letters, reasoning that Harry Potter’s story deserved better than to be scrawled on the back of a letters. Pansy and Daphne seemed similarly difficult to talk about long distance; it wasn’t like she could write that she’d tentatively befriended two aristocratic, prejudiced schemers who spent time with her out of naked self-interest. That just sounded silly.
Hermione wasn’t quite sure where she stood with her two Slytherin study partners. Pansy wasn’t much of a talker, preferring to focus on their work as much as possible. Hermione had caught snippets of conversations in the dorms about the Parkinson family, and they sounded neither kind towards their daughter nor tolerant of Mudbloods. Working with a Muggleborn was a dangerous risk for Pansy, and keeping Hermione at an arm’s length was probably meant to provide her with a modicum of protection if her parents asked about it.
Daphne on the other hand, seemed to want nothing more than to ingratiate herself with Hermione. The blonde spent the idle moments during their studying sessions asking Hermione about her childhood and what it was like to live with Muggles. In contrast to her high status, she seemed fascinated by the outlandish ways Muggles interacted with the world around them, shaking her head in astonishment on a weekly basis. The revelation that Hermione’s parents were ‘teeth-healers’ was a source of particular amusement. All it took was a simple spell to clean your teeth, and changing them was easy for any trained mediwitch. As someone who’d often struggled with the size of her teeth, Hermione made a mental note to follow up on that.
But neither Pansy’s businesslike demeanor nor Daphne’s overt fondness extended to mealtimes. They’d sit together in classes and compare notes in the libraries, but the Purebloods seemed to have decided that being seen breaking bread with a Mudblood was too much for their delicate sensibilities.
So it was that Hermione found herself enjoying her beef stew alone at the far end of the Slytherin table, trying very hard not to stain the copy of Concealing Charms and How Not to Be Seen that she’d borrowed from the library. Vicious Purebloods and nasty hexes were one thing, but an angry Madame Pince was quite another.
Right on cue, she heard the shuffling to her right that marked Draco Malfoy beginning his daily rounds of tormenting her. The stuck-up Pureblood heir hadn’t relented in his pressure campaign to push Hermione out of the snake’s nest. The break had only made his constant stream of insults worse, if anything. Someone in his family must have clued him in on how best to psychologically torture a shy Muggleborn, and he’d taken full advantage of his newfound power.
“Mudblood,” came the cold voice from over her right shoulder. “I’d have thought you’d be eating with the servants in the kitchens by now.”
Hermione sighed tiredly, closing her book as she turned to look at the grinning face of the self-styled Prince of Slytherin. Crabbe and Goyle looked on from a few meters down the table, not wanting to draw attention to their leader from the professors who sat at the high table. Plausible deniability, in its basest form.
“Can’t we just stop with this?” Hermione asked him wearily. “We do this almost every day, doesn’t it get tiring? I’m a Mudblood, you’re a Pureblood, you want me out of Slytherin, and I’m not leaving Hogwarts. What else is there to say?”
Draco’s grin only widened. “Oh, there’s plenty more to say, Mudblood. Especially now that your friends have seen the light.”
Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Granger, you might be a thief but you’re not stupid. Did you really think you could trust two Purebloods? Greengrass and Parkinson were at the family Manor over the Yule Holiday, and the Sacred Twenty-Eight stick together, after all.”
Hermione’s lip quivered as she looked over towards the other Slytherin first-years, who were absorbed in their own conversation. Daphne and Pansy were chatting amicably with Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini, and Hermione’s heart fell. Had they really dumped her so easily, without so much as a word? Hermione had worked with them two days before, and Daphne had carried on chatting with her like nothing had happened. Godric, Hermione had told her about how few friends she had in the Muggle world. She’d been so bloody stupid.
“It’s not true,” she said weakly, voice quavering. “We’re not real friends, but they’d never just throw me away.”
“Why not?” Draco sneered. “You’re nothing more than a game to them. A way to steal back some of your Charms skill before they kick you to the curb. Why don’t you stay away from the witches who deserve to be here and go mingle with the other Mudbloods? It’s not like their filth will rub off on you.”
“Shut up, Malfoy.” Her bark was harsh, but there were tears forming in the corners of her eyes. All her life she’d worried that people didn’t like her, that they only tolerated her because of what she could do for them. Pansy and Daphne hadn’t promised anything different, but the rapidity of their betrayal stung far worse than she could’ve expected. Were they really talking to Malfoy behind her back the entire time they’d spent together? Did Daphne just wait for an opportune revelation to twist the knife in her back?
Malfoy smirked like the Cheshire cat, eyes shining with cruelty. “For someone with Muggle teeth-healers for parents, yours really are bloody revolting. Did Mummy and Daddy not care enough about you to fix them? Or were they just as disgusted by the freak you are as we are?”
A switch flipped in Hermione, and she was out of her seat in a flash, wand pressed up against Malfoy’s chin. “Don’t you ever talk about my parents, you worthless, sniveling twat!”
Her shout rang through the Great Hall, sending a hush over the room. Hermione felt their eyes on her as tears streamed down her face, wishing she could just disappear. Her breathing came in quick gasps as her hands shook, desperately gripping her wand. Draco trembled before her, eyes full of panic as Hermione’s wand dug into his chin. A part of her wanted to hex him to pay him back for everything he’d done to her. He deserved it, after all. It would be so easy to make him suffer, and it would feel so good to claim some of the power he held over her back for herself. She need only cast the spell.
No, not like this. Not in front of everyone. She could be expelled.
With a jerk, she drew her wand from Draco’s chin and fled from the room, without daring to look back and see the hundreds of mocking eyes that surely followed her. She needed to be alone, just like she’d always really been. No one got to see her cry.
Walking on instinct, she found herself wandering aimlessly through the halls, looking for a safe space to weep. The Dungeons were right out— her ‘friends’ would find her there, as would Draco and the rest. She could go to the library, but they’d find her there too. The last thing she wanted was for someone to walk in on her suffering, or god forbid try to comfort her. Harry and her Puffs might be silly enough to stick up for her, when all she wanted to do was disappear.
She found her perfect spot: the fourth floor girl’s bathroom. It was isolated enough in the East Wing to make it unlikely that anyone would walk in on her, and far enough from the Common Rooms to avoid her friends. The stalls weren’t the most comfortable place to cry her eyes out, but they’d do just fine. As soon as the pale green door closed behind her she let herself go, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed piteously.
There was something intensely cathartic about crying in public, even if there was nobody there to see it. Her tears fell like raindrops against the cold black tiles of the floor as she let her emotions free from the tight hold she kept on them. Her shoulders heaved as she shook uncontrollably, wishing for more control over the world she lived in. Her nose ran as she sniffled and huffed, wallowing in a much-needed moment of self-affirming despair.
The Wizarding World was vicious, she thought, as she propped herself up with her elbows on her knees. People like Draco Malfoy and his friends could do anything they wanted, while the authorities turned a blind eye to their victims. Hermione was just a child, and a particularly vulnerable one at that. Small and inquisitive, with bushy hair and bigger teeth than she’d like, she’d been a prime target for bullying even before her Muggle-heritage gave her tormentors another reason. Her academic excellence made her peers jealous, and her shyness kept her from making friends easily. Any reasonable school would’ve cherished and supported her, keeping the bullies away from her while she grew and flourished.
Instead, Dumbledore and the other professors barely even looked her way while Draco belittled and harassed her. The kindly, grandfatherly Headmaster had never so much as talked to her, and even McGonagall and Flitwick didn’t do anything to help her outside of their classes. Snape was worse than useless as her Head of House, refusing to chastise his favorite pupil to aid the little Muggleborn swot who’d found her way into Slytherin. Hermione hated them for their inaction; if she wanted to free herself from Draco and the rest, she’d need to take matters into her own hands.
There was a thump against the bathroom door as she began to think about new methods of self-defense, startling her out of her stewing. Someone must have followed her up to the bathroom, she realized, and had decided to prank her by throwing themselves into the door. Quieting her sniffles so they wouldn’t hear her, Hermione pushed herself back atop the toilet, waiting for them to walk away.
Loud footsteps thundered in the bathroom as someone walked in, shaking the thin walls of the stall with every step. It must be an older student, then, Hermione reasoned. First-years wouldn’t know the Loudening Charms they’d need to amplify the sound of their steps.
The idea of a fifth-year coming to tease her further filled Hermione with righteous anger. What sort of teenager thought it was funny to tease a crying twelve year-old? With every intention of giving them a piece of her mind, Hermione wiped her tears on the sleeve of her robe and threw open the stall door.
The figure that greeted her on the other side wasn’t a Slytherin fifth-year, there to bully her further, nor a teacher come to bring her in for threatening Malfoy with her wand. It was a massive, hideous creature, near nine-feet tall with a rotund gut that stuck out nearly a meter from its center. The stink that met her nose when she smelled the creature made her gag, and the anger radiating off its form made her gulp. She didn’t know exactly what it was, nor what it was doing here, but it wasn’t fond of her.
The creature growled menacingly, hefting a club as big as she was. Fuck.
With an ear-piercing scream, Hermione slammed the stall door shut, desperate to put some sort of barrier between herself and the creature before her. It roared mightily as she scrambled for her wand, wracking her brain for a spell that would help her. Nothing came to mind.
The creature swung its club at the line of stalls, sending wood splintering through the air as the walls shattered like spun sugar at the force of its blow. Hermione threw herself to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees as she tried to escape the creature’s ire. Her hands bled as she clambered over the wooden shrapnel on the bathroom tiles, but she barely felt it. If she didn’t move, she was going to die.
The club smashed into the ground a few feet in front of her, pulverizing a toilet before her eyes. The creature was uncoordinated and crude but unmistakably vicious. The next swing could take her head off.
Hermione fumbled with her wand, throwing up a desperate spell at the creature’s eyes: “Lumos Maxima!”
It bellowed in agony, clutching its eyes as it stumbled backwards towards the door. Hermione took the opportunity to clamber over to the sinks, hoping that the creature would momentarily forget where she was. It was a reckless, silly kind of hope, but what else did she have.
Her breath came in quick gasps as she clutched her wand tight to her chest. Dust and debris covered her face, and she was bleeding from cuts along her hands where she’d cut herself on the fallen shards of wood. She’d never been in a fight before, but she wasn’t going to go down easily. When the creature’s pig eyes cleared, she stared it down, wand raised in defiance.
The door of the bathroom burst open. The creature turned its squat head to meet the interruption, fangs bared.
“Shit,” came Daphne’s voice from the doorway. “It’s the bloody troll.”
The creature— the troll, it seemed— growled at the intruder, raising his club in a high arc.
“Oh no you don’t!” Pansy shouted. “Diffindo!” A jet of blue light leapt from her wand, hitting the troll square in the head.
The troll roared in pain and staggered backwards, clutching its face where the Severing Charm had opened up a deep gash above its eyes. Seizing the opportunity, Hermione pointed her wand at the heavy club clutched in the troll’s hands. Magic flowed through her as she cast her own charm: “Wingardium Leviosa.”
The club flew from the troll’s hands with a jerk, floating into the air at the movement of Hermione’s wand. In the eyes of the powers that be, the Levitation Charm was a benign spell, fit to be taught to first-year students. It couldn’t be used for anything other than lifting an object. To Hermione’s eye, it was brimming with potential, so long as she angled her magic perfectly.
With a whistle, the club flew neatly through the air, rising up the level of the troll’s head. She flicked her wand towards the mirrors, smacking the club against the side of the troll’s head with a satisfying thump. The creature swayed on its feet, letting out a guttural grunt as what passed for consciousness fled from its tiny head.
Hermione’s euphoria at her feat turned to terror as it began to lurch backwards towards her, threatening to fall on top of her and crush her entirely. What a way to go, defeating a troll only to find herself flattened in the attempt.
“Flipendo!” Daphne cried. A flash of amber light knocked the falling troll towards the wall, clattering into the wreck of the toilets with a resounding boom. Dust kicked up in choking clouds as the beast settled on the floor, and the three first-years coughed lowly as they tried to find their breathing once more. Hearts beat wildly as they stood there under the bathroom’s pale light, each searching for words.
Daphne broke the silence, giggling madly as she brushed her blonde hair from her face. She looked an utter state— hair askew and covered in dust— and Hermione must’ve looked just as wild, drenched where the burst plumbing that showered her with water and covered in woodchips and blood. She quickly found herself laughing too, reveling in the absurdity of the situation. They’d fought a troll and won, without more than a few scratches. In their first year!
Pansy joined them after a few moments, and Hermione walked over to her fellow Slytherins, anguish at their betrayal forgotten at the utter absurdity of their situation. She hadn’t expected to run into a troll when she’d fled from the Great Hall in tears, despairing at her friends’ betrayal and without them she would’ve died.
“You’re absolutely mad, Mia,” Daphne said with a bright grin, wrinkling her nose in distaste when she caught sight of her bedraggled appearance in a mirror. “Why’d you go running off in the first place?”
Hermione’s smile faded as she remembered the humiliation at dinner. “Draco told me you two were at his Manor over the holiday, laughing at me.” She sniffled, averting her eyes to hide her shame at the admission. “And he said some nasty things about my parents.”
Pansy scoffed, green eyes flashing. “And you believed him? Salazar, Hermione, you’re meant to be smart. We’re bloody Purebloods; there’s a fancy dress ball every day over the Yule Holiday. Daph and I went to the Malfoy’s, the Avery’s, the Bulstrode’s, the Black’s, the Rosier’s, the Abbott’s, and the Nott’s twice over the break. It doesn’t mean we went over to play footsie with Draco and spill all your secrets.”
“We’d never do that to you, Mia,” Daph added earnestly. “We promised that if we were to go our separate ways we’d tell it to you honestly first, and we meant it. Not that there’s much chance of that, now. We took down a bloody troll together!”
“I guess that makes us comrades-in-arms now huh?” Hermione said, wiping some of the grime from her cheeks. After the emotional turmoil she’d felt in the Great Hall, the dizzying potential of keeping them as friends was overwhelming.
“Comrades-in-arms, friends, confidantes, whatever you want to call it,” Pansy declared, walking over to give Hermione an awkward embrace. She didn’t really ‘do’ sentimentality. “We’re in your corner, and sod anyone who cares about it.”
Daphne looked at Pansy apprehensively. “Are you sure, Pans? What about your family?”
“My family can do one. Father’s a cruel man and a shit wizard, and soon I’ll be ten times the witch he is.” Pansy put on a brave face, but Hermione could tell how much the declaration meant to her. Standing up to your parents couldn’t be easy.
“You can always visit my family if you need to,” Hermione offered shyly. “So long as you don’t mind living like a Muggle.”
Pansy wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Don’t push it, Mia. Just because you’re my friend doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up my Cleansing Charms and house-elves.”
“Speak for yourself, Pans,” Daphne said, voice bright and cheery. “I think it’d be grand to see how Mia’s family get on. We could visit over the summer and tell your family you’re staying with mine.”
Hermione grinned broadly. “My parents are always pestering me about meeting some of my friends, and it’s probably not a great idea for Harry to be the first wizard they really meet.”
“Morgana forbid,” Pansy muttered. “He’d have them thinking all wizards are overly noble, scruffy-haired prats.”
“It’s not his fault he’s like that,” Hermione protested as they walked towards the door together. “You try being told you’re the savior of the Wizarding World by everyone you meet and see how you turn out.”
“At the very least we’ve got better table manners,” Daphne said with a sniff. “Have you seen the way he and Ron Weasley eat? It’s like they haven’t seen food in months.”
No sooner had they made it out of the bathroom than they saw a group of their professors racing down the corridor towards them. Professor McGonagall led them, concern painted on her sharp features, while Snape, Flitwick, and Madame Pomfrey followed her.
“Godric, what happened here?” She demanded in her severe Scottish brogue. “You had strict orders to return to your dormitory, and you flagrantly disobeyed them.”
“Hermione didn’t know, Professor,” Pansy replied curtly, crossing her arms in front of her chest in a defiant gesture. “She left before Quirrell told us about the troll, and we came to warn her.”
“Be that as it may, you put yourselves in grave danger,” McGonagall declared. “You could’ve died.”
Hermione bristled at the insult to her friends, and found herself piping up in response. “Please, Professor, I would never have made it if not for them. They saved my life.”
McGonagall fixed Hermione with an appraising stare, tension ebbing from her shoulders when she saw that she was unharmed. “I have no doubt of it, Miss Granger, but that doesn’t change the fact that they disobeyed direct instructions given for their own safety. Ten points from Slytherin each for your flagrant disregard for the rules.”
“And twenty points to Slytherin each for defeating a full-grown mountain troll,” Professor Snape intoned dramatically. His dark eyes found each of his House member’s in turn, glinting with a spark of pride. “Not many first-years could have managed such a thing, even with exceptional luck.” He left an emphasis on the last word that lasted far longer than it should have.
“How did you do it?” Flitwick asked breathlessly as he finally made it to them, huffing and puffing from the run.
“Hermione blinded the troll first with a Lumos Maxima, letting us know where she was, then Pansy distracted it with a Severing Charm to buy us some time. Hermione levitated its club and whacked it over the head, then I used Flipendo to knock it out of the way.” Daphne explained it all eagerly, as if she was recounting a scene from a book rather than something that had just happened.
“Marvelous, simply marvelous!” Flitwick clapped his hands in excitement. “I’d expect nothing less from the three of you.”
“Are any of you hurt?” Madame Pomfrey asked, brushing the other professors aside.
“Just a few scrapes and cuts,” Hermione replied.
The Mediwitch took hold of her hands, studying them with a frown. “You’ll all have to come up to the Hospital Wing for me to triage you properly, then I’ll send you back to your dorms.”
They followed the matronly woman as she led them away from the destroyed lavatory, whispering to each other about their plans for their next study session. Pansy had been itching to show them a few of the dueling spells she’d seen in one of her books, and Hermione wondered if Dora would be keen to teach them. The sixth-year was one of the top participants in the Dueling Club, and she’d offered to give Hermione a demonstration if she asked. It would be nice to have a few more ways to protect herself than Wingardium Leviosa and Flipendo.
Perhaps she could even use a few of them on Draco.
Hogwarts, April 23rd, 1992. It’s amazing how quickly a desire to bully someone can evaporate when they grow big, sharp teeth. It’s a wonder that it takes the threat of physical retaliation for a twelve-year old to be safe from hateful insults. Honestly, who runs this school?
Hermione was sweating like she’d spent all day in the sun, perspiration trickling down her brow as she stared across the room at Dora’s smug visage. The older girl had taken to her role of teacher like a duck to water, and Hermione now found herself panting from exertion and achingly sore as she returned to the Dungeons after their sessions. Dora didn’t believe in pulling her punches, and she’d quickly disabused her three pupils of any notions that training with her would be easy.
“Come on now,” Dora shouted, twirling her wand between her fingers with dizzying speed. “Give me your best shot.”
Headstrong as ever, Daphne struck first. Pointing her wand at the sixth-year she shouted out her spell: “Stupefy!”
The jet of red light that flew from her wand was far more potent than it had been when they’d first managed to cast a Stunner, but it was no match for Dora’s shield. Dora’s hair stayed a bright, nonchalant pink as she wordlessly batted the spell away. It fizzed into the wall of the empty classroom they were practicing in before dissipating with a loud hiss.
“Better, Greengrass, better. Remember your footwork: you never want to rest on the balls of your feet.” Dora always had constructive pointers for them when they trained together; it was little wonder that they’d improved by leaps and bounds over the past few months.
Pansy went next, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath as she stared intensely at Dora. She carried a squall of unpleasant emotions with her wherever she went, and offensive spells let her channel those feelings productively. Pansy didn’t like to talk about herself, but Hermione knew that her parents were to blame.
“Stupefy!” She yelled. Her spell was marginally better than Daphne’s, howling through the air with vigor. Dora blocked it just the same, redirecting it towards the vaulted stone ceiling with a casual flick of her wrist. Pansy scowled at her failure.
“Not bad. You’ve got to let some of the tension out of your shoulders, Parkinson. Anger’s a great emotion to work into your dueling, but not if it’s misplaced. Focus your emotions. You control them, not the other way around.” Dora’s exhortations were firm but kind, and Pansy gave a little nod as she made way for Hermione.
Brandishing her wand, Hermione stared deep into Dora’s eyes. They were a pale grey this time, matching her quiescent mood. Metamorphagi were poorly documented, just as Seers and Parselmouths were, but Dora’s features were tied directly to her state of mind. Hermione had come to recognize the tells that lay hidden in the older girl’s affect.
For example, pale greys and blues indicated easygoing acceptance of her current situation. Greens were associated with scheming or secrecy, reds with viciousness and anger. She wore browns during classes, and jet black during her Quidditch games. Her family’s eyes tended towards dark hues, she’d explained, except her Aunt Cissa’s. When representing Slytherin, she was representing the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.
Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to make of the family Black. Dora’s tutoring had inspired some discussion between the three of them about the House and their members, and Hermione had found it to be oddly compelling. There were five elder members of the House, a pair of brothers and three sisters who were each other’s cousins. Regulus worked for the Ministry in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, despite soft connections with You-Know-Who during the First War. According to Daphne, he was a soft-spoken, kind man who was far more pleasant to be around at holiday parties than most Purebloods. His brother Sirius had served the Dark Lord more directly, betraying Harry’s parents and earning himself a lifelong stint in Azkaban.
She knew of Dora’s mother Andromeda from Professor Flitwick, who described the Dark witch as one of the most brilliant people he’d ever taught. Dora’s father’s identity was a complete mystery, though a lineage test had shown her to be of pristine blood. Whoever it was, Andromeda refused to say.
Draco’s mother was the youngest of the sisters, and married to Lucius Malfoy. The man had an awful reputation as a braggart and a churl, but Narcissa Black was generally regarded to be polite and proper in her interactions. She was cold, utterly so, but never overtly cruel.
Last came Bellatrix Black, the Head of House and an utter enigma to the world. She made appearances at the Black and Malfoy holiday parties every Yule and showed interest in her niece and nephew’s lives, but was otherwise very difficult to pin down. Those who knew her described her as an utterly brilliant witch: she held the joint record on NEWTs with eight Outstandings, after all. At the same time, she was intimately connected with the Dark and the transgressive. Rumors placed her exceptionally close to the Dark Lord during the first war, and Hermione had a strong impression of the kind of person it took to remain at his side. The Lady Black was probably rabidly prejudiced against Muggles and fond of violence and bloodshed. If she ever saw Hermione, she’d eat her alive.
“I don’t have all day, Granger,” Dora taunted, wiggling her eyebrows.
Scrunching up her nose, Hermione prepared her spell, remembering her training as she did: bounce on your feet, square your shoulders, direct your magic like flowing water, use your emotions to harness the power in your magical core. The Stunning Spell wasn’t an overly complex piece of magic, but it needed some intent behind it. Finding it in herself, Hermione threw it forth: “Stupefy!”
The bolt of red light whizzed from her wand. Dora’s eyes widened a fraction as she cast a shield in front of herself, and the spell thumped into her Protego with greater force than the previous ones had. There was no ricochet or deflection of her light, a mark of the greater impetus behind the spell itself.
Dora grinned broadly at Hermione. “Well done, Granger. Good form, nice follow-through, and you kept your mind focused on the task at hand. We’ll make a great duelist of you yet.”
“Don’t go boosting her ego, she’s full of herself enough as it is,” Daphne teased. Hermione punched her playfully on the shoulder in retribution.
“When will we be done with Stunners?” Pansy asked, wiping a bead of sweat from her dark eyebrow. “You’ve said it yourself— we’re good for our age. Surely we can manage something more exciting.”
Over the past few months the three of them had gotten to talking about the farther edges of acceptable magic, always being careful to make sure no one overheard. While neither House Greengrass nor Parkinson were regarded as being among the truly Dark families, there was an ancestral connection to dangerous, tainted magic in the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. They’d pored over the few books on Dark wizards they had access to in the library, reading in wonder about the power they wielded and the respect they’d earned for themselves. Each of them craved that knowledge for their own purposes: Daphne wanted to break away from the soft, bland perception of her House, Pansy wanted freedom from the indignities of her parents, and Hermione wanted to be seen as something more than a Muggleborn. Together they’d decided that Dora was the most logical option for inquiring further about dangerous, transgressive magics, and their best hope for leaping above their station.
The Quidditch captain gave her a smirk, eyes twinkling knowingly. “I don’t know, Parkinson. You lot are still first-years, and goody two-shoes at that. I’d get in ever so much trouble if I taught you anything more dangerous than a Stunner.”
“But you know more powerful spells, right?” Hermione asked eagerly. She’d dove into the books since she’d first come to Hogwarts, searching for new and exciting magic, and her study sessions with Harry, Bones, and Jones had only exacerbated the itch rather than fully scratching it. Daph and Pans were more sympathetic to her wishes, but even they didn’t know much about the really intriguing stuff. The Hogwarts Restricted Section had begun to call to her as she went to bed each night in the dorm, singing a siren song of forbidden, wondrous knowledge.
Dora chuckled brightly, staring at her three charges with renewed interest. After a moment of contemplation, she pointed her wand at the door, casting a few complicated spells that Hermione didn’t recognize and a Muffliato for good measure. When she was satisfied with her work, she flicked her wand around to set a few chairs together and took a seat on one of them. “Now that we have some privacy,” she said with a grin, “what would you like to know?”
Ever the impulsive one, Daphne blurted out the first thing on her mind. “Do you know anything about blood magic? All the other Pureblood families teach it to their kids, but my parents think it’s too dangerous.”
“I know a fair bit,” Dora said nonchalantly. “But we’ll need a more private space if you want me to show you anything. Perhaps over the summer we can work something out?”
“I’d like to know more about the darker dueling spells, and how to counter them,” Pansy offered. Her eyelids fluttered minutely. “Like the Cruciatus Curse, eventually.”
Dora’s hair flashed a dangerous sort of red, and her voice grew soft and deadly. “Is someone hurting you, Parkinson?”
Pansy stiffened. “Not yet, but they might. There are expectations…”
“Expectations,” Dora scoffed. “No offense, Pansy, but your parents couldn’t hex themselves out of a tool shed. Let me know if they ever try to bother you and I’ll sort them out.”
“You will?” The dark-haired girl asked, unable to conceal the hope in her voice.
“Of course. We’re Slytherins, after all, and what do Snakes do about our problems?”
“Keep them in house,” all three of them replied in unison. Of course, Pansy’s parents were Slytherins too, but Dora seemed to have as low an opinion of them as Pansy did. And she wouldn’t be working with Hermione if she wasn’t more liberal in her attitudes towards Muggleborns than the Parkinson dynasts.
“Exactly. We’re bound by old magics, so long as we’re here, and I’ve got your best interests at heart. Never doubt it.” Her eyes lingered for a moment on Hermione as she finished her thoughts, and her hair slowly faded back to its cheery bubblegum pink. “What about you, Granger? Surely something must have tickled your fancy by now, what with all the books you read.”
“There is one spell…” Hermione began, wondering over whether she should speak her interest into existence. Daphne’s blood magic was to fill gaps in her knowledge that other students possessed, Pansy’s focus on fighting spells was born out of her desire to be safe from her family, but no such explanation could sanitize Hermione’s interest in the Imperius Curse. Since she’d first read about it in one of the older Charms books, the concept of the control it brought had fascinated her. The mind was by far her greatest weapon, and the prospect of matching her wit and will against others was enticing. Dangerously so. It wasn’t for nothing that the Imperius Curse was one of the three Unforgivables, and using it on another human being would earn you a one-way ticket to Azkaban.
Dora smiled like a cat who’d caught the canary. “Don’t be shy, Granger. Parkinson wants to know how to Crucio her worm of a father, and Daphne’s going to bind some poor useless Pureblood as a thrall. Whatever you want, it can’t possibly be too much. Whatever you desire, you can have it if you’re willing to work for it. You’re a brilliant witch, and you should seize the opportunities life gives you.”
Galvanized by Dora’s words, Hermione looked her dead in the face. “I want to learn more about the Imperius Curse, and mind magic in general. Everyone hates that I’m a Muggleborn, but I could make them forget, couldn’t I? Or at least make them treat me better.”
“An Unforgivable Curse to throw off a bully,” Dora crowed, cackling like a madwoman. “Now I’ve seen everything. Very well, Granger, I’ll point you in the right direction. Not just yet, mind, none of you have the skill to be working with Unforgivables yet, and I’d be a bloody awful role-model if I encouraged you to use them on humans. But we can work with more interesting magic and build our way towards them, alright? Maybe by your fourth or fifth year, you’ll be in a good place to learn.”
The three of them groaned at the thought of wasting three years learning simple spells and mundane hexes in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but no one complained. They’d spent months huddling in the library and whispering about what Dark magic was and why it was banned, and none of them had any illusions that they were ready for it yet. Dark magic was the legacy of Slytherin House, and most of the wizards who’d graduated in emerald and silver had dabbled with it in their time. As far as they were concerned, they were only taking a step towards their future.
Hogwarts, June 28th, 1992. Hermione likes her friends, butterbeer, new magic, and walks in the warm spring air. Hermione doesn’t like Ron Weasley and Lavender Brown. How in the world does Harry?
“I still don’t think we should have brought her along,” Ron muttered darkly, giving Hermione a nasty glare.
“She has a name, Weasley,” Hermione shot back. “And if not for me, that Devil’s Snare would’ve strangled you all.”
“Trust a snake to now about slithering things,” Lavender sniffed.
Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing. It was utterly mad of them to be here in the first place— Harry’s completely unfounded hunch about Snape trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone had gotten them into this mess— and Hermione had no intention of making it worse by hexing the two obnoxious Gryffindors. She was friends with Harry, she reminded herself, and Muggle-raised children needed to look out for each other. No one else would.
“Got it!” Harry called triumphantly, snagging a flying key. He expertly directed his broom back to the ground and hopping off of it with a Seeker’s grace. “How are you all holding up?”
“We don’t trust her, Harry,” Ron began, “what if she betrays us?”
Harry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Hermione’s my friend, Ron, and we need her if we’re going to catch Snape.”
Ron looked as if he was about to protest, but held his tongue. Instead, he decided to stew while they proceeded on from the room full of flying keys and into a chamber with a life size Wizard’s Chess board in its center. He stewed as he directed them onto the pieces, and he stewed as he began to play the game with his companions on the pieces. He relegated Hermione to the white king— so she couldn’t move against them, he explained in his utterly daft form of surety— and set about playing chess for their lives. He stewed as he built his pawn structure, and he stewed as he made moves and countermoves. Hermione wasn’t much for chess, but she knew enough to spot an obvious flaw in Weasley’s plan. If he so mistrusted her, he should’ve made her a pawn to be sacrificed. Instead, he gave her the only position on the board with utter safety so long as the game progressed. She grinned internally. Daphne had described the Weasley clan as being ‘the closest thing Purebloods have to rabbits’ on account of their fondness for farm life and popping out kids, and Hermione wasn’t surprised that Ron’s intelligence seemed to be at harelike levels.
With a clatter of stone and a flash of metal, the game went on, continuing until their side stood victorious and Ron lay unconscious on the ground under his broken knight. The door opened before them, but they paused before continuing on. Well, Lavender paused. “We can’t just leave him!” She yelled hysterically, cradling his ginger head. “He’s hurt!”
“We don’t have a choice, Lav!” Harry yelled back. “Snape’s probably at the stone by now!”
“But Harry!”
“Let’s go, Harry,” Hermione interjected, feeling a migraine developing. “Lavender can stay with Ron.”
“You can’t go with him alone,” the Gryffindor snapped back. “You’ll probably hex him as soon as his back is turned.”
Hermione merely laughed. “I wouldn’t need to wait until his back was turned.” Glancing at Harry, she strode for the door. “Come on, Harry. We’ve got a Potions professor to apprehend.”
In truth, Hermione wasn’t sure what she was meant to do if they reached the Stone’s hiding place and found Snape there. She’d earned the dour man’s respect after her encounter with the troll, and he was her Head of House besides. Harry said he was in league with You-Know-Who, but Hermione hadn’t seen any sign of the overt prejudice towards Muggleborns that other Dark wizards displayed proudly. If he was in league with Voldemort he was awfully clandestine about it.
Their last challenge took the form of a Potions riddle. Seven goblets of nigh-identical potions stood atop a low table, along with a riddle describing their natures. One sent you forward, one sent you back, two brought death, two confusion, one turned you into a newt, etcetera, etcetera. While Harry read the riddle out loud again and again, Hermione studied the Potions themselves. Daphne’s influence had helped her improve by leaps and bounds in potionmaking, and she reasoned that the correct potion would have a magical flavor of transportation and an ingredient for sending something forth. Sea-oak oil, maybe, or perhaps…
“It’s this one,” she declared, grabbing a nondescript crystal goblet.
“How can you tell?” Harry looked dumbfounded, and she hated to admit that it suited him.
“It smells of griffin feather and feels like forward,” she replied. Eying the potion in the cup, she looked at Harry. “How are we doing this?”
Harry looked at her resolutely. “We’ll drink it together. There’s no sense handling Snape alone.”
Nodding, Hermione pocketed the return potion, then gave Harry a smile. “If we die, it’s been fun, Harry. You’re not so bad, for a Gryffindor.”
Harry shook his head. “We’re not going to die, Hermione. And you’re the best Slytherin by miles. Whatever Ron and Lav think, I’m glad you’re here.”
Hermione’s heart warmed at his words, and she offered him the goblet with a smile. “Well then, bottoms-up, buttercup.”
They drank, and the world shifted, and they moved.
Hermione blinked as they landed on a hard stone floor, coughing and spluttering. Snape’s potion hadn’t been particularly pleasant, if sudden teleportation could ever really be pleasant at all. Her limbs hurt as if someone had run sharp claws down their sides and her head felt floaty and abstract as she tried to center herself. Humans weren’t meant to move so quickly, she decided. Even magic had its limitations.
“Well, well, well,” came a voice from the far side of the room, high-pitched and familiar. “Aren’t you two just about the last people I expected to see.”
Recognition dawned as Hermione’s eyes came back into focus. Professor Quirrell was standing next to a tall mirror, eyes burning like liquid malice as he scowled at them. Hermione hadn’t had much of an opinion on Quirrell before, but the man who stared at her now was terrifying. His frown was sharp and deadly, and his wand was clutched in his hand with sinister intent. He would hurt them, she realized. He’d hurt them if he needed to, and perhaps if she didn’t.
Yet there was something strange about Quirrell’s magic when Hermione felt it reach out to her own. There’d been nothing of note in his aura before when Hermione had Defense classes with him, but now it felt somehow familiar. It was if someone had pared off a slice of Hermione’s own magic, then run it through a Muggle washing machine until it was stretched and distorted. It was still identifiable hers, but hers as if she’d looked through a mirror into the shadowed edge of the universe. As she stared at the turban-clad man in front of her, the same deep-seated part of herself that reached out to Harry’s magic reached out to him, compelling her to… trust him? No, this man couldn’t be trusted, peculiar connection or not. But listen to him, at least. They owed each other that much.
A raspy voice echoed from Quirrell, though it didn’t emanate from his lips. It was angry. Terribly angry. Angrier than she could believe. It was curious, too, in a malicious sort of way, as if the speaker couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “You?”
A shiver went down Hermione’s spine, but she forced herself to look Quirrell in the eye as she got to her feet. Don’t show weakness, she whispered to herself, he’ll kill you if you show weakness. Whoever the figure was, she somehow knew that he’d killed before. His magic tasted off, somehow: incomplete, stale. “Me.”
The voice chuckled harshly and Quirrell groaned in obvious agony, mouth contorting in a silent wail as sound issued from him of its own accord. “After all this time, how fitting that we should return to this place together.” Riddles upon riddles. Whatever spoke through Quirrell but not with him, it was wicked and all-deceiving.
“Who are you?” Harry asked, walking up to stand next to Hermione. His wand was raised in defiance, but Hermione already knew that the gesture was useless. This man, this thing could kill them with a word, if he deigned to.
“Something less, something more.” The voice whispered. Quirrell jerked like a puppet whose strings had been pulled, arms moving up without their master’s command, mouth contorted in a silent scream. His hands fumbled with the cloth of his turban, unwrapping the cloth from his head as his blue eyes flashed with paralytic fear. Slowly, ever so slowly the turban fell away, revealing a face on the back of the professor’s head. It was macabre, detestable to gaze upon and with only the slightest hint of humanity in its features. Red eyes glowed out above a flat, serpentine nose whose ridged ran up in tiny spikes alone its center. Slit pupils peered out at them, while a forked tongue flashed out from between needlelike teeth. This was a man who’d lost everything in search of a serpent god, and found himself broken for his heresy.
The man gestured to the mirror to his right, head cocking to the side with an inhuman jerk as he stared hungrily at them. “Look into the mirror. Tell me what you see.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but found herself unable to speak. Her limbs moved of their own accord as she and Harry shuffled over to the tall, ornate mirror, dancing to a silent tune. The loss of control was horrifying, but something in the primordial part of her skull urged her onwards. If she resisted now, he’d kill her.
She stared unwillingly into the mirror next to Harry, searching for answers in its depths. For a moment, it was only the two of them standing in the flickering orange light of the room, looking terrified beyond measure. She had little doubt that the mirror was magical in some way, but perhaps it was broken. Maybe it needed a willing participant to reveal its secrets.
And then it changed.
Hermione saw herself, standing tall and proud in a hall cut from black marble. Flickering white light shone on the polished floors, reflecting off the sleek walls. She was older, though not so much as to look truly old, and her bushy chestnut hair had been tamed till it fell down her back in soft curls. Her soft brown eyes were still wickedly intelligent, but there was an element of strength to them which she didn’t recognize. A thin smile crossed her features too, compounding the impression that this Hermione had secrets which others could only dream of. The mirror version of her bared her teeth slightly, and a soft pink tongue raced out to run across them like a predator’s. The black robes she wore were richly patterned with emerald and silver, and a large ring sat on her right hand, set with a jet black stone.
Pansy walked up out of the shadows to stand next to her, taller than Hermione by half a head and as dour as ever. A band of blue light cast deep shadows on her face, revealing the silver curve of a wicked scar that ran from her left eyebrow down to her chin. She regarded Hermione with respect and admiration, though the blunt sharpness of their current interactions hadn’t left her features, if Hermione judged it right. They’d clearly stuck together through thick and thin, and Hermione wondered which of her other friends would walk through the grey mists to stand near her.
Daphne came next, smiling like she’d won the greatest prize in the world. Hermione wondered what had brightened her day: her Daph was charming and optimistic, but the woman in the mirror was positively ecstatic. Had she broken free of the limited prospects her name offered? Had they all reached great heights in the world that played out before her? Belatedly, Hermione noticed a scar on Daphne as well, a neat ‘v’ shape that poked out of the neckline of her stunning silver robe. It looked almost like someone had pressed a set of pruning shears into the flesh there, if pruning shears left wounds that shone like the winter sun.
Another figure walked out from the shadows, but this one Hermione didn’t recognize. She would’ve definitely remember the woman in front of her if she’d ever seen her, for she was nothing less than the most beautiful creature that Hermione had ever seen. Her blonde hair ran like beaten gold, and her eyes were like two pools that were fed from the very first spring, crystal blue and achingly inviting. The woman’s walk was a come hither, the sway of her hips were insistent, and Hermione wanted to fall down on her knees at whatever altar the goddess before her would accept her sacrament from. When the woman looked over to give the three who stood in front of her a proud smile, Hermione’s heart melted with pride. Whoever she was, she was close to Hermione and her friends, and Hermione couldn’t wait to meet her.
And then she walked in.
If the woman who’d strode forth before was an angel, radiant and divine, this woman was cast from the very darkness herself. Black was her dress, and black was her hair, and her eyes glowed like coalfires that had yet to roar to life. Her features were sharp and angular, impeccably formed and impossibly proud. High cheekbones defined her face, complementing a gently curving jaw and a well-defined nose. Her lips were full without being overbearing, her chin pointed without being pronounced. Thick curls fell about her face as if each had been placed with clear intention, framing her features perfectly as she gazed out at Hermione with unrestrained interest: as if nothing else in the world could ever possibly matter more than the girl she looked upon. Coal caught fire, and her eyes burned like opals, roaring with a need to take and to hold and to possess. Hermione had never seen anything more beautiful; she knew, deep in her heart, that no one and nothing else could ever compare. This woman would burn the world for her, and make her an offering of whatever remained. Hermione wanted nothing more than to take the beating heart she was being offered and sink razor’s teeth into the pulsing flesh.
Her hand reached out towards the mirror of its own accord, longing for something it…
“What do you see?” The snake-man hissed, staring at Hermione with withering intensity. He was looking for something, and perhaps expecting either her or Harry to get it for him. “The stone, do you see the stone?”
Don’t tell him anything, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of her mind. He can’t know. Not yet.
“I saw my parents holding me close, on the day I graduated from Hogwarts,” she replied, forcing herself not to meet the creature’s gaze. “I saw myself safe and happy, and I felt like nothing could ever stand in my way.” Her words were as ash in her mouth, and she knew as she spoke that they would never convince him.
A sharp, ear-splitting cackle filled the room, and Hermione saw a wand rise, clutched in a violently contorted hand. “For a snake,” the creature whispered, “you’re a terrible liar.”
Then the wand flashed, and Hermione was thrown against the wall with a hideous force. Her eyes flickered shut as darkness took her, and in the last moments of her consciousness she saw Harry and the creature before him, magic grasping in a warm embrace. She wondered if she would remember any of it when she woke up. Later, later.
Chapter 5: Sister, Sister, All Who Slither
Summary:
Hermione's second year begins with a slither and a hiss. Something is moving in the walls of Hogwarts. The first meeting of the Dueling Club for second years goes badly wrong.
Notes:
Hi lovelies!
Parseltongue and Lockhart bashing, what could be better! Of course, the whispers in the walls are a concern...
It's probably nothing.
xoxo
Chapter Text
Diagon Alley, August 3rd, 1992. Daniel and Jean Granger are modern, enlightened, progressive folks. They support their local food banks and attend protest marches, and never, ever vote Tory. They’re good people, accepting people. But dealing with Pureblood witches and their ideas is another matter entirely.
Hermione was buzzing when she wove her way through the Leaky Cauldron, trailing her two gawking parents as they marveled at anything and everything there was to see. Her Mum had been to Diagon with her and McGonagall the year before, but that was something of a controlled environment where she spent three hours walking and talking with one of Hermione’s professors. This time she and Daniel were left to their own devices, with only an excited twelve year-old to direct them around the shopping district. They smiled and gawped as Hermione pulled them through the disappearing brick wall into the bustle of the main thoroughfare, whistling at the dazzling enchanted signs and the animated display models in the shop windows.
“Mia!” Came the call from down the street. Hermione turned to see Daphne waving at her excitedly, dressed in soft blue silk. The taller figure next to her with her hood down could only be Pansy, going incognito to avoid being seen with Hermione’s Muggle parents. Hermione didn’t overly mind. Things were difficult at home for Pansy, and Hermione appreciated her effort to befriend a Muggleborn as it was.
“Daph!” Hermione replied, hurrying over to her friends and wrapping Greengrass in a hug. She smiled giddily as she looked over at Pansy, who’d applied a few minor glamor charms to herself to obscure her from prying eyes. Hermione made a note to ask about them some other time.
“Looks like you did all the growing for the three of us, Pans,” Hermione teased.
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Salazar, I must have grown three inches over the summer. My shins are bloody aching.” Pansy replied, giving her leg a rub for good measure.
“At least you’re growing. Mia and I are doomed never to reach five feet; we’ll be short as all hell, but it’ll help us blend in with the goblins,” Daphne exclaimed happily. Turning her eye towards Hermione’s parents, she threw on a bright smile. “Ah, you must be Mr and Mrs Granger! Hermione’s told me so much about you.”
“Nothing but good things, I hope,” her Mum replied. “Are you Daphne, or Pansy?”
“Oh, where are my manners. I have the pleasure to be Daphne, of the Noble House of Greengrass.” Daphne curtsied, inclining her head. “And my pouting companion is Pansy, of the Noble House of Parkinson. It’s a privilege to make your acquaintance.” Pansy aimed a kick at her, but Daphne was ready for her and dodged away gracefully.
The Grangers looked utterly perplexed, but Daniel made an effort to be polite. “Erm, it’s nice to meet you too, Daphne. Miss Greengrass?”
“Just Daphne is fine, Mister Granger,” Daphne said breezily. “We’re Mia’s best friends, so it’s only proper that we’re on a first name basis.”
“Where are we heading first?” Hermione asked to draw their attention back to the matters at hand. “Flourish & Blotts?”
“Works for me,” Daphne replied cheerfully. Suddenly remembering something, she turned to Hermione. “Just to let you know, the Weasels are here, and I think Harry’s with them.”
“Weasels?” Jean inquired, eyebrow raised.
“There’s a family called the Weasleys, and we can’t stand the buggers,” Daphne explained. Hermione groaned: Daphne had an inhuman sense of tact and decorum, and she only acted as erratically as she was now when she knew she could get away with it. As far as Hermione’s parents knew, Daphne was acting perfectly normally, and they wouldn’t ask about her antic for fear of causing offence. She truly was a little shit when she put her mind to it.
They walked to Flourish and Blotts in a confused little gaggle. Daphne made staggeringly incorrect assertions about Muggle culture and technology while Daniel and Jean gently tried to correct her, and Pansy brooded along like a condemned woman. Hermione fell into step with her, enjoying the silence as she digested the idea of seeing Harry and Ron again.
Her first year at Hogwarts had ended with a bang. Harry had dragged her off with two of Hermione’s least favorite people at Hogwarts to stop a nebulous plot by Snape to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, and Hermione had gone with him like the brave, foolish friend she was. They’d made it through several traps and obstacles— mostly thanks to Hermione’s cleverness, mind you— only to find themselves face to face with not Snape, but Quirrell. They’d arrived in a great chamber, there’d been a mirror, Quirrell was speaking to them angrily, and then… Darkness.
Hermione had scraps and shadows of a rasping voice and burning black eyes hidden somewhere in her memory, but little more than that. According to Harry, she’d been thrown into a wall by a spell and fallen unconscious, leaving him to deal with Voldemort.
Voldemort. Hermione had only heard the dancing edges of his story during her time in the Wizarding World, and what she knew was uniformly terrible. He was meant to be a Dark Lord of tremendous power, a man who snuffed out lives without care or compassion, a grinning skull with sharpened teeth. Snakes were said to crawl at his feet like prostrate apostles, and his Death Eaters slaughtered any who opposed him with impunity. Harry had managed to stop him, somehow, but if he was able to inhabit Quirrell’s body it was clear that it hadn’t taken. He was out there somewhere, desperately seeking a way to return to the world.
She didn’t remember anything of the conversation she’d had with him, though Harry had assured her in the hospital wing that the two of them had spoken. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what they’d said to each other, and Snape’s attempts at drawing the finer points of the memory from his mind had left them muddled and indistinct. In all likelihood Voldemort had taunted her for being a Muggleborn and demanded that she leave Slytherin, lest she taunt it with her impure blood. If there was anyone at Hogwarts he resembled, it would surely be Draco Malfoy.
Speak of the devil. No sooner had they arrived in Flourish and Blotts than they walked into a confrontation between the blonde rodent’s father and the extended Weasley clan. Draco stood behind his father, smirking as if he’d done anything to earn his silver-embroidered robes. Lucius stood like a perfumed peacock, glowering at the redheaded family opposite him. Of the Weasleys, Hermione only recognized Ron and his twin brothers, Fred and George, though Harry also stood among them with a determined expression on his face. It almost looked like there was going to be a fight.
Hermione couldn’t tell what had been said before she walked in, but she and her friends quickly split off to avoid attracting attention to themselves. Pansy couldn’t be seen with Muggles, and if Draco knew more about her parents it’d put a target on their backs in Diagon. Daphne solved the issue by ushering the Grangers towards the store, loudly whispering about what kinds of books Muggles read and whether it was true that Muggles still soaked their parchment in urine in order to make it pliable. Hermione suppressed a giggle at the mortified expression on her Dad’s face, and her Mum seemed to be similarly struggling to keep her composure as miniature chuckles shook her body.
She tucked herself into the wall behind a shelf, trying to listen in to the argument that was unfolding without being observed. Apparently the Weasleys were poor, and ‘blood traitors’ which was a term so vague she couldn’t possibly define it. Blood traitors were Purebloods who married Muggleborns, or befriended Muggleborns, or argued for Muggleborn rights. Daphne was a blood traitor, depending on the metric one used, as was Pansy if you squinted. Assuming Voldemort ever got around to properly returning, their friendship with her put them at risk.
On the other side of the verbal sparring match, the Weasleys were lobbing insults of their own. Apparently the Malfoys were incestuous, with a history of cousin marrying beyond what even a Pureblood family would think proper. Narcissa Black was a rarity in the Malfoy line as a parent of the direct Malfoy line who wasn’t born with the family name, and the Weasleys heckled the Malfoys relentlessly over their obsession with blonde hair and blue eyes. Hermione smirked: they certainly deserved to be brought down a few pegs.
Just as it was getting good and the wands were about to come out, Hermione pumped into a cage on the ground that she hadn’t noticed before. It was small, no bigger than a large fishbowl, and clad in black and silver as if it was an object to be placed on a desk rather than a home for a living creature. Hermione felt a stab of pity run through her chest.
A moment after she bumped the cage, a soft, hissing voice ushered out of the little cage: “Watch it. I’m trying to sleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” Hermione replied on instinct. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You can understand me?” The voice was incredulous, borderline hopeful. A moment later a sinuous brown body pushed against the front of the cage, scales sending the light skittering like pebbles across a frozen bond. The snake was beautiful, Hermione thought to herself. Their head was flat and well-proportioned, with bumps and ridges to protect sensitive nostrils and searching yellow eyes. A forked tongue poked out between the bars, tasting the air as it looked at Hermione in awe. “You have a pleasant smell, sister.”
“Thank you,” Hermione understood the intent behind the compliment, even if the delivery was rather odd. “Do you have a name?”
“Of course,” the snake tittered, scales rubbing up against each other to create the impression of laughter. “My brothers and sisters called me Esscadri.”
“Esscadri.” Hermione tried, feeling the word dance across her tongue like it didn’t quite belong in a human’s mouth. “I’m Hermione. Hermione Granger. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, sister. It has been too long since anyone from my hatching ground spoke to a sister who walks on two-legs. Even the eldest of us can barely remember this.” The snake seemed sad at that, as if there was an unfathomable loss in the lack of knowing. Hermione would be sad too if she lost sisters of her own, holding on to them only through scraps of memory.
Seeking to provide comfort for her scaled sibling, Hermione offered a kind word: “Well I’m here, now, so you can take stories of me to your hatching ground, when you return. You won’t just have memories anymore.”
The snake shook its knobby head. “My cage carries me off to your human school, sister, not the hollow where I was born. Perhaps someday I will return, after my master dies.”
Hermione thought that was terribly unfair, and she was about to say so when the snake’s owner appeared, all hair product and scowls. Draco looked at her suspiciously as she stood next to Esscadri’s cage, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here, Mudblood? Skulking around looking for magic to steal?”
“Go to hell, Malfoy, or I’ll hex you there myself,” Hermione shot back.
“As if you could,” Malfoy sneered. “Now move away from Serpens. I don’t want a Mudblood like you around my familiar.”
Hermione was about to correct him, to tell him that Esscadri had a name of their own and deserved far better than to be called ‘Serpens’ as if it wasn’t just bastardized Latin, when she caught the snake’s yellow eyes. Esscadri gave a subtle shake of the head, and Hermione read more meaning in the simple gesture than she would’ve believed possible. Draco was an owner, but not a confidante or a friend, and he didn’t deserve the knowledge of his ‘familiar’s’ true name. Let him believe whatever he wanted to believe about his pedigree and his heritage: in the end, snakes bowed to no one but their brothers and sisters.
“We’ll see,” Hermione found herself saying with a grin as she began to walk away from Draco. “I’ve got some hexes under my belt, now. Fun ones, too.”
“Count your days, Mudblood,” Draco scoffed as Hermione went to rejoin her friends. “Count your days.”
Oh she’d count her days alright. She’d count them every morning from now until she was off to Hogwarts on the train, and then count them some more until Dueling Club started again. Draco would get what was coming to him and more.
Hogwarts, October 27th, 1992. Why is it that whenever a terrifying revelation is written in blood on the walls people rush to blame the Slytherins?
Hermione braced herself for the question to come, scribbling down notes for their Transfiguration essay on animating objects as Harry, Bones, and Jones silently decided which of them was going to ask her the million dollar question. Their weekly study sessions had fallen slightly to the back of Hermione’s mind since her grudging acceptance by the Snakes at the end of the prior year, but she still considered them to be her friends. She didn’t mind the question, but she dearly wished they’d just ask it and let her get back to work.
“So, Hermione,” Susan began, trying to act casual and failing miserably. “Do you happen to know who—”
“No, I don’t,” Hermione cut her off briskly. “I don’t know who petrified Mrs. Norris, I don’t know who painted the walls with her blood, and I don’t know who’s running around calling themselves the Heir of Slytherin. As strange as it may seem, we Slytherins aren’t always plotting death and destruction, certain Purebloods excepted. I hadn’t even heard of the Chamber of Secrets before last week, and I’ve read Hogwarts: A History five times.”
Harry, bless his soul, latched on to the wrong part of her speech. “So you think it might’ve been Malfoy, then?” He’d never liked the blond git, dating back well before he’d hexed Hermione, and he was always looking for an opportunity to cut his rival down to size.
“Could be,” Hermione said with a shrug. “Slytherin was said to be fond of snakes, and Malfoy’s got one of his own.”
“Figures,” Megan said with a snort. “He’s slimy enough for it.”
Hermione wanted to correct Megan and clarify that actually, snakes weren’t slimy at all, and were actually rather pleasant to the touch if they let you approach them, but thought better of it. Slytherins were natural subjects of suspicion in the current environment, and revealing herself to be a Parselmouth without cause would be foolish. Of course, her status as a Muggleborn precluded her from any real suspicion. Slytherin’s descendants would never stoop to sullying themselves with impure blood.
“D’you know anything about the last time it was opened, Hermione?” Susan asked. “I’ve heard it only happened once before, and the Chamber was thought to be a legend for most of the past thousand years.”
“It was opened once, fifty years ago or so,” Hermione replied. There’d been frustratingly little in the school archives about those terrible events, beyond vague whispers in the Prophet about attacks and potentially closing the school.
“There was a death, too,” Harry said abruptly. “A Muggleborn girl died, and they never learned how it happened.
A lead weight dropped in Hermione’s stomach, and a look across the table at Megan revealed a similar reaction write large on her face. To be a Muggleborn in the Wizarding World was to be othered, but to be killed? That was something Voldemort might’ve done, not something that could or should happen within the walls of Hogwarts.
“Don’t worry, you two,” Susan put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and another on Megan’s. “The staff has things well in hand this time, and they’d tell us if there was any real danger. Harry going after the stone was a fluke, after all. Students aren’t usually in danger here.”
“You’re right,” Hermione said firmly. “There’s no real risk, it’s all in our heads. Besides, Megan and I can kick Draco’s saggy Pureblood ass if he tries anything.”
“That’s the spirit,” Susan grinned. “Now, how about some help with this essay? I swear McGonagall grades them more harshly every time.”
They dove back into their work, trading barbs about Hufflepuff’s atrocious Quidditch team and their plans for the weekend. Susan and Megan were thinking of trying to sneak out to Hogsmeade with the older students, while Harry was going to play an Exploding Snap tournament with the Gryffindors. Hermione had plans with Daph, Pans, and Dora to work on some complicated spell forms in preparation for learning ‘the fun stuff’ in a few years.
Not for the first time, Hermione struggled with the dichotomy of her friendships. Harry and the Puffs, as they’d agreed to call themselves, were all kind to her, and they spent easy hours studying together and talking about the little things. If she’d been sorted into either of their houses she’d have happily followed wherever they led her.
The Slytherins, on the other hand, were cunning and ambitious. When Hermione hung out with Daph and Pans they talked about Dark spells and the futures they wanted to build, wicked parents and the rougher edges of the Wizarding world. It was terrifying and exhilarating, especially when they put their growing skills into practice while training with Dora.
Hermione still felt the strange tug at the corners of her magic towards Harry that she had before, but they had never grown in strength like her research implied bonds were meant to. Instead his presence was like a tap on the shoulder, a whisper of partial kinship rather than a tie of blood or battle. Pansy and Daphne’s bonds with Hermione had begun much more hesitantly, but they grew all the while as the three of them fought and strove together. The battle with the troll had solidified a link between them, and Hermione knew in the farthest reaches of her heart’s wide arc that she would never leave them behind.
The question became, she thought uncomfortably as she walked back from the library that night, what she would do if her friendships ever came into conflict with each other. Harry and the Puffs were good and kind and innocent, and she could never think of harming them, but neither could she turn her back on her friends.
She was still dwelling on the matter when she heard it out of the corner of her ear, halfway down the Horse Armor Corridor on the third floor. It began as little more than a whisper, at a thrumming timbre so low that she could barely pick up the register.
“Hunger, I hunger, rats in the trap. Walk in on two legs, leave on your back.”
Hermione’s blood ran cold as she moved towards the Dungeons, trying to track the voice as it moved. And moving it was. Even as she hurried she didn’t keep pace with whoever was speaking. At least it was moving in the same direction that she was, down towards the underbelly of the Castle.
“Blood in the basin, blood on the stone. Blood for my master, who called me from home.”
Blood, blood, what blood. Pureblood? Mudblood? Was she chasing some sort of revenant or malicious specter, ravening through the halls in search of fluttering arteries and crimson founts?
She ran down the stairs, past idling students and groups of others who were chatting amiably as they made their way around the castle. A few of them looked at her in confusion, wondering if the top of the second-year class had finally lost her marbles from all the studying. Didn’t they hear it, she wanted to shout. Didn’t they want to know what was slinking around rambling about blood?
Had she been cursed, she wondered? It was possible to send an apparition or a malevolent ghost after another person with blood magic, as Daphne had once excitedly informed her. Had Draco or one of his cronies paid something to cast the spell on her, hoping that she’d die horribly and untraceably?
“He speaks through a shadow, she whispers in fear. Look under the altar, there’s nobody here.”
Hermione raced forward as the voice faded, throwing open the door to the Dungeons with only the vaguest hint at the password. The last whispers of the voice were fading as she ran for her dorm, throwing her bag down in front of a bewildered Tracey Davis as she scrambled to make out the last of what the creature whispered. There had to be a clue in its words, some hidden meaning that she wasn’t seeing.
“Son of perdition, cloaked in grey sin. Blood stained with refuse, but I let you in.”
After that, there was nothing more. Even when she pressed her ear against the wall, there was silence in the castle, but for the dripping of the drainpipes and the whistle of the autumn wind.
Hogwarts, November 26th, 1992. Have you ever had that professor?
Hermione had never really had a chance to formulate an opinion on Albus Dumbledore for herself. It was hard to when the person in question was regarded as a grand old sage and one of the brightest wizards the world had ever seen, even before his work against Voldemort during the War was taken into account. Dumbledore had taught most of the witches and wizards in Britain, either as a professor or a headmaster, and had earned an unparalleled level of respect from his former pupils. Dumbledore was Santa Claus, the Supreme Justice, and the Minister for Education for the entire country. He was simply larger than life.
At the same time, Hermione couldn’t shake the faults she saw in him. He kept Severus Snape around despite the Potionsmaster’s former work for Voldemort— a fact that Hermione appreciated, given the relatively amicable relationship she’d formed with the man— and that seemed to be a serious error in judgment. His favoritism for Gryffindor bordered on the extreme as well.
Hermione had been in the Hospital Wing at the time, but apparently he’d tried to snatch the House Cup from Slytherin in favor of the Lions in recognition of their attempt to snatch the Philosopher’s Stone. Seeing the green and silver banners switch to red and gold had been infuriating for the ten seconds it took before Snape stood up and announced that if Ron and Lavender had each earned fifty points for their houses, than surely Hermione had earned the same amount too. Her housemates had cheered as the Great Hall was once again clad in green and silver, clapping Hermione on the shoulders and sending jets of green sparks into the air. Snape had even given her a knowing wink as she proved her worth to the Slytherins for all to see.
Hermione hadn’t been sure what to think about Dumbledore, but the first three months of classes had settled one thing in her mind: the man was the single worst judge of professorial aptitude she’d ever seen. Gilderoy Lockhart was an arrogant, vain, self-important blowhard who spent their classes reading excerpts from the collection of his books he’d had them by and flirting with underage girls. Okay, maybe flirting was an overstatement, but the man was clearly high on his own supply and addicted to the sound of his own voice. When he’d released pixies in the classroom he’d practically pissed himself in fright. Pixies.
And now he was proctoring the Dueling Club, strutting about like one of those dog breeds who’d lost all semblance of rational thought thirty incestuous pairings ago. He’d chosen a garish purple velvet overcoat to go over a tailored silk shirt, and his breeches were some kind of dragon leather judging by the way the shone. Hermione and her friends could barely restrain their laughter as the Defense professor worked the crowd of second-years who’d arrived for the first lesson of the year, crowing as if he knew anything at all about dueling. Dora couldn’t hide her utter disregard for him: every time his back was turned she metamorphed into an exact copy of Lockhart and performed an admirable imitation of his ‘winning smile’. Snape was trying not to chuckle at the scene. Snape.
“Now, my young friends,” Lockhart said with a simpering smile. “The art of dueling is one of the paramount exercises of wizardkind. You must be in tune with not just your own magic, but that of your foe. Dueling is a dance, a masquerade, a test of strength and skill and wit, and it is only with the years of study that you might one day learn to call yourselves even adequate duelists. In my book, A Sojourn With Sirens, I…”
“Salazar’s beard,” Pansy whispered, “does he ever shut up?”
“Not so long as I’ve known him,” Hermione replied. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
“Not bloody likely,” Daphne added. “He talks more than me. Than me. The cheek of him.”
Hermione snickered as she tuned back into Lockhart, who bloviated on without a care in the world. “And so, my noble pupils, shall we embark on this great endeavor together? Do not let a faint heart turn you away from the dueling ground, for there is only sport here, at least for today. The glory you win will live on after we adjourn, as will all of you, you have my word. Though,” he turned to Snape, twirling his wand dramatically. “I may leave your Potions professor here with a few well-earned welts for his trouble.”
“It is possible, Lockhart,” Snape responded dryly. His disdain for the professor shone even brighter than Dora’s did, in its own way. “Shall we perform our demonstration?”
Lockhart startled, before quickly returning to his trademark grin. “Of course, my good fellow, of course. Let us begin, and may good luck go with you, for you shall need it thusly.”
They bowed to each other in the middle of the long platform, Lockhart with a flourish and Snape with a short incline of his chest. Hermione could tell by the way he held himself as he walked that her Head of House was no stranger to duels, and in rather different circumstances than he found himself in now. Death Eaters fought and killed on a regular basis, and that sort of knowledge didn’t just go away. Morgana, if Harry ever found out about Snape’s true history he’d throw a bloody fit.
Their steps rang out through the hall as they counted out their steps, anticipation building with every footfall. The crowd hooted and cheered as they prepared for the main event, waiting on bated breath for the spells to start flying. Black robes fluttered opposite purple ones, and the air was alight with battle-to-be.
“Five sickles says Snape beats him with three spells or less,” Daphne whispered.
“No bet,” Hermione replied softly, keeping her eyes on Snape. “He’ll do it in one.”
The count of ten sounded, and no sooner had the word left their mouths than Snape was whirling, movements economical as he thrust his wand towards a beaming Lockhart. The blue jet of his Expelliarmus took the Defense professor totally by surprise, warping his features to utter confusion as his wand went clattering to the ground at Snape’s feet.
Rumbled giggles began to work their way through the audience, and Lockhart spoke hastily to regain his stature. “Well done, Severus, well done. Though I must say, I wasn’t quite ready for you to attack so soon. In my time on the dueling ground, we wait till our opponent has had time to raise his wand.”
“In my time on the dueling ground, I was more interested in victory than etiquette,” Snape responded, voice flat and almost bored.
“Very well, very well, now how about a demonstration from our students?” Lockhart exclaimed, searching the crowd with an exaggerated swagger. “Let’s set a little friendly inter-House competition, shall we? With, say, twenty house points on the line?”
The offer of a reward shocked the audience into attention, and a chorus of clamorous ‘pick mes’ and ‘I’ll go’ filled the room. Hermione and her friends made no attempt to join them from their place amongst the Slytherins: using their skills in duels with members of other Houses would tip their hand unnecessarily, and there was nobody she wanted to curse outside of her own house and Ron Weasley, whose crude comments in the hallway were rapidly wearing on her last nerve.
“Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy, come to the front, if you please,” Lockhart decided, selecting the two most prominent young men in the year. He knew how to build hype, if nothing else.
With claps on the back and yells of encouragement the two boys climbed onto the dais, walking up to stare at each other nastily from a few feet away. There was little love lost between the two of them, and Hermione momentarily worried that one of them would be stupid enough to try a spell they didn’t properly understand. Nonsense, she reassured herself. Neither of them was stupid enough to do that for twenty points, surely.
“On my mark, take ten paces and begin your duel. Remember, Expelliarmus only,” Lockhart explained, walking around them like a ringmaster. “And… begin!”
Harry and Draco turned and walked apart, calling out each step as they moved. The crowd quieted as they parted, eager to hear everything in full detail as the two rivals prepared to throw forth their spells. Even the students outside of Gryffindor and Slytherin knew about the bad blood between the two boys, and there was a tension in the air that hadn’t been present during Lockhart and Snape’s duel. Snape was the superior wizard, but he knew enough not to hurt Lockhart. Harry and Draco had no such knowledge.
“This could get nasty,” Daphne said as Draco walked by them, robes swaying as his shoes treaded the thin blue carpet on the platform. “Does Harry know any real spells?”
“One or two,” Hermione whispered back. “But I don’t think he’s used them in a real fight before.”
“Good luck to him. Draco won’t pull his punches.” Pansy stated fact rather than opinion, and they all knew it. If he was able to send Harry to the Hospital Wing without real punishment, he would.
The count of ten came before Hermione was ready for it, and in the next instant both boys whirled to face each other. Harry’s prowess as a Seeker made him quicker on the draw, and his first spell was out before Draco’s: “Flipendo!”
The bolt of light struck Draco in the ribs, sending him flying a few feet down the platform and knocking onto his ass. A roar went up from the Gryffindors, and the Hufflepuffs, and the Ravenclaws as Harry’s spell struck home: Draco had made his fair share of enemies.
“Expelliarmus only, gentlemen,” Lockhart said, raising a hand. Draco was already moving as he spoke, thrusting his own wand up at Harry. “Rictumsempra!”
A burst of giggles fled from Harry’s mouth as the spell hit him, and he quickly doubled over as he tried to catch his breath. It was the Slytherins— minus Hermione and her friends’— turn to roar as Draco smirked like a thundercloud, brandishing his wand to strike again.
But Harry was down, not out. He barely got his spell out between hacking laughs, but his Stupefy flew just as Hermione had taught him. Draco’s eyes widened as the red light battered him, no doubt bruising his ribs rather fiercely even if it didn’t stun him entirely. The low groan that issued from his mouth brought the other houses roaring back as Harry shook off the effects of the Tickling Curse, wand raised once more.
Harry hadn’t been beaten that easily, and neither was Draco, but unlike Harry Potter, Draco knew some spells with real danger behind them. The blond boy’s blue eyes squinted with hatred as he flicked his wand and yelled out a conjuration Hermione had never heard before: “Serpensortia.”
A black adder flew from his wand, landing on the dais with a heap and hissing out a warning that Hermione couldn’t make sense of. The hall went utterly quiet as it twisted and stretched, eyes flickering out at the rows of students around it, searching the crowds for a potential target. An adder’s bite was lethal if left untreated, and Draco clearly had no idea how to control his creation as it slithered menacingly towards the Hufflepuffs.
Lockhart and Snape seemed frozen with shock as the four-foot long serpent wound its way down the carpeted dais, black eyes hungrier than Hermione had ever seen in a living creature. It must be hard, she realized, to be summoned into the world without ever having eaten. The poor thing’s instincts were probably fried.
A familiar sound met her ears, and Hermione stared in horror to see Harry staring at the snake in a trance, mouth contorting as the harsh tones of Parseltongue flowed out from him. “You… snake… no… come…”
He was clearly trying to bring the snake to him and away from the frightened Hufflepuff it had locked its eyes on, fangs bared as it moved towards potential prey. But his speech was broken and twisted, as if he knew Parseltongue as a second language, or even a third. He was inciting the snake, rather than calling it off.
“No… snake… I… master… stay… no… hurt.”
The room was silent but for panicked half-sobs from the Hufflepuff and whimpers from his fellow students. Harry was about to sic a venomous snake on a child without meaning to, and no one would ever believe his denials. Parselmouths weren’t to be trusted, and one who was involved on an attack on a human would never be free of the stain on his character, if he avoided Azkaban. Either way, his crime would follow him the rest of his life.
It was both worry for the boy and care for her friend that spurred Hermione to action, damn the consequences. She knew enough not to reveal one’s nature if at all possible, but there was no alternative. Raising herself up and fixing her eyes on the adder, she whispered out Parseltongue of her own, voice high and clear: “Come to me, sister, come to me.”
In an instant the adder’s head snapped back towards Hermione, black eyes fixing on her own. Doubt grew in her belly as she worried that conjured snakes wouldn’t take to her like natural ones, but she shoved it down and persisted. “That’s it, my darling. Leave the boy alone. Come to me.”
After a moment’s pause, the adder almost imperceptibly nodded its head. Slowly, it began to slither towards Hermione, whispering out little phrases as it moved. “Scared. Hungry. Cold. Where am I?”
Hermione’s heart broke, and she extended her arm towards the beautiful creature, pushing out her magic towards its form. Her instincts surged to comfort her fellow, even if she knew that she would disappear as soon as the spell ran its course. “It will be alright, sister. Come to me, and be warm. Come to me, and rest.”
The room was utterly silent as the snake crawled towards Hermione, accepting the offered arm and curling around it gently as she searched for warmth. Hermione whispered soothingly to her as she nestled against Hermione, tension leaving her sinuous form as she settled on Hermione’s shoulders.
“Thank you, for warmth.” The snake hissed out, closing its black eyes as it found a comfortable place to rest. “It hurts. Hungry. Scared.”
The poor sweet girl had never been meant to exist, and this place of shapes and sounds would never provide solace to her. In seconds or minutes or hours the spell would fade and she would disappear, pulled back to the place she came. Hermione could no more change that than she could stop the tide from rising under the moon’s eyes, or push the grass back into the soft soil.
“I know, dear one, I know. Thank you for trusting me, even while you’re hurting. Can I send you off to whatever awaits you?” A tear formed in her eye as she spoke, wand rising to tap gently against the snake’s body.
“Not him. Better you.” The snake replied, pushing its head into Hermione’s elbow and slackening its body entirely. Conjured animals were never meant to last forever, and the harsh laws of existence punished them for being born into a world they had no control over. Better to cease to be when you were warm and safe, held by someone who loved you, than to die cold and alone and afraid. “No more.”
Hermione’s hands trembled as she raised her wand, but her voice stayed clear as she intoned her spell: “Finite Incantatem.” With a flicker of light and a wave of dust on the wind, the adder disappeared, carried off to whatever hillock or hollow she rested in in the place beyond. Hermione hoped it was warm there, and that there was plenty of rich food to eat. She deserved no less.
All eyes were on her as she finished her spell, as she knew they would be. One couldn’t just speak Parseltongue so blatantly without attracting every eye in the room, and she knew that she’d gambled dangerously in drawing attention to herself. Still, she regretted nothing as she appraised the people around her, glancing at Daphne’s bewilderment and Pansy’s tentative approval. Her friends wouldn’t abandon her for this, and that was all that mattered.
Feeling rejuvenated by her feat, Hermione fixed Malfoy with a glare, brown eyes burning with contempt. The little Pureblood prince didn’t look so high and mighty now with his quivering lip and wavering brow. Someone hadn’t thought about consequences before he summoned a deadly creature into existence. Her tongue was acerbic as she lashed out at him, pouring all her anger over what her poor, doomed sister had experience in her brief time in the world into just a few words: “Mind your spells, Malfoy. Someone might get hurt.”
Turning to Harry, she gave her glare a scoop of compassion and stirred it in. He’d been rash, but he’d tried his best to do the right thing as the snake advanced on the Hufflepuff boy. Still, he needed correction, lest he try the same thing again. “And read a dictionary, Harry! With intonation that bad, you’d be lucky to get a snake to stop attacking a mouse, much less a badger.”
She turned on her heel without waiting for a response from either of them, letting the room explode into yells and murmurs behind her as she stalked off towards the door. There was no sense trying to explain her own Parseltongue now when tempers were high. Perhaps in a few days people would calm down enough to hear her out.
To her surprise, two sets of footsteps soon joined her own, and by the time she reached the door of the rhapsodic dueling hall Pansy and Daphne had joined her. Pansy put a hand on her shoulder, Daphne place her own on Hermione’s back, and together they walked out of the cacophony and onwards into the world.
Chapter 6: Eyes in the Dark
Summary:
The fallout from Hermione's decision to speak Parseltongue begins to unspool. The Blacks break bread, and Hermione meets her Eldest sister.
Notes:
Short chapter! Next one ends Year 2, and we're most of the way to our reveal of Hermione's parentage.
Chapter Text
Castle Black, November 29th, 1992. Time for another family meeting, minus all members who are currently incarcerated for dodecatuple-murder or have proven themselves to be utter nuisances.
Dora was buzzing. Buzzing, capital B, dot the eye with a heart, add a few exclamation points buzzing. After years of watching her mother and her aunts conducting their family search for the girl in their prophecy, she’d finally been brought into the loop the summer before, and now she had something big. Hermione Granger was their best lead on the Heir since Lily Evans had met an unfortunate end twelve years prior, and Dora had proof that she was the one. Salazar’s saggy tits, it was like Yule and Samhain rolled into one. Dora felt like she could fuck the world for seventy-two hours, if she wanted to.
They were meeting in the library again, and for once Dora was on time for one of their little gatherings. No, not on time, early. She’d been so excited to see the look on their faces that she’d turned Alesia Slughorn down on her offer of a quick shag in the Head Girl’s room, and she’d never even thought of doing that before. Alesia was a fickle, spiteful creature, and Dora knew she’d earned a few hexes for daring to refuse her. Oh well. She could deal with a few hexes, if it meant getting her family’s approval.
Aunt Cissa walked in first, looking like she’d seen a ghost and decided to kill it with an icy stare. The statuesque blonde was boundlessly intimidating to anyone outside of the family, and even Dora found herself shrinking back under the awful glare of her aunt’s Legilimency. Aunt Cissa was usually good about not reading anyone’s thoughts at their meetings, but surface level thoughts slipped through of their own accord. Dora never wanted to repeat the experience of listening to her polite, refined Aunt give her tips on pleasuring a woman. That’d always felt like Aunt Bella’s sort of thing, and Dora didn’t need advice from her either. She’d done perfectly well for herself without them, thank you very much. Her bedpost in the Slytherin dorm was so notched it looked like a bloody meterstick.
“Evening, Dora,” Aunt Cissa said flatly. “Nice of you to be on time for once.”
“First time for everything, Auntie,” Dora shot back with a grin. “Couldn’t leave you waiting long.”
“Indeed.” Aunt Cissa replied. “I assume you have good news for us?”
Dora nodded knowingly. “Oh, do I ever. I’ll save it for when we’re all here.”
There were a few minutes of semi-comfortable silence before the fireplace lit up and Reg stepped out, dusting himself off and giving little waves to the other occupants of the room. He looked like he’d just come from the Ministry, but his gleaming dress robes were somewhat rumpled and tousled. “Evening, all. Any chance we could move these things back an hour? I’m starving, and I could do with a nice fry-up.”
Cissa’s nose wrinkled at Reg’s choice of food. Her opinions on ‘common dishes’ were well known in the household, and the dinners she decided on were all multi-course affairs served by the family elves on silver platters. Dora and Reg liked fry-ups, Mum was partial to stews and roasts, and Bella liked steak, because of course she did.
“It’s nearly seven thirty, Reg,” Cissa hectored, “why haven’t you eaten anything?”
Reg chuckled. “You try finding time to grab a bite when you work with Barty Crouch and Alastor bloody Moody. Merlin, one of these days he’s going to have me joining Siri in Azkaban.”
“Wait a few years if you could Uncle,” Dora replied. “I still need your help getting my foot in the door at the DMLE.”
“As if you need it,” Reg scoffed. “You’re a Black and you’re head of the Dueling Club, as long as your NEWTs are decent you’ll be fine.”
“They’ll be better than fine,” her Mum declared as she swept into the room, trailing Aunt Bella behind her. Andromeda Black always looked like she was ready to take on the world, and the raw power that emanated from her when she stood next to her elder sister was a sight to behold. “Five NEWTs, at the minimum.”
“I’m aiming for six, as long as Potions goes well.” Snape was a prick, and Dora had never done particularly well in his class.
“And I’ve no doubt you’ll make us proud, dear niece,” Bella declared, immediately drawing the attention of the room onto herself. Her voice had a natural air of authority, and she wielded it expertly. “Speaking of, you mentioned you had something for us, and I for one would love to hear it.”
“Right, of course,” Dora said, standing up to take a position near the fireplace where she could be seen by all. Reg and her Mum took seats on the couches, while Bella poured out five snifters of firewhiskey at the bar. The pressure didn’t get to her— family was family after all— but she still felt a hint of nerves as she sorted out her first words.
“It’s, erm, it’s about her. Hermione Granger.” She managed.
“We figured,” Cissa responded dryly. “It was either that or you announcing that you’d gotten a girl pregnant.”
“Cissa!” Her Mum shouted in aplomb while Bella and Reg stifled cackles. The youngest Black sister was funny in her own sort of way, though she rarely let people know it. Better to taunt them with biting comments and withering stares.
Dora cleared her throat, blushing as she noticed that her hair had turned a bright shade of red. A moment’s effort saw it return to the dark brown she favored when it was time for work. “Right, Hermione Granger. She’s the Heir, the one we’ve been looking for. I’m sure of it.”
“And what are you basing that on?” Her Mum asked. “Proficiency in Charms could be chance, and the Hat’s done odder things than Sorting a Muggleborn into Slytherin.”
“She’s a Parselmouth,” Dora replied simply. “The whole school’s talking about it, and I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Really?” Bella questioned excitedly, turning to stare directly into her niece’s soul. “You’re sure it wasn’t some parlor trick or control spell.”
“You weren’t there, Auntie. Draco summoned a snake in a duel with Potter, and the boy started speaking Parseltongue to it. His eyes were glazed over and he seemed to be inciting it to attack one of the Hufflepuffs, a Muggleborn I think. The whole business with the writing on the wall in blood about the Chamber of Secrets has everyone on edge, and there the Boy-Who-Lived was, about to sic a snake on a Muggleborn.” Dora shook her head. “He might’ve done it too, but Hermione stepped in and started speaking Parseltongue herself. Salazar, you should have seen the way it responded to her. She bloody wrapped the snake around herself like a cloak, then dispelled Draco’s conjuration after it settled into her.”
The room was silent for a moment as her words sank in, then all three Black sisters began firing questions at her at a rapid rate. What was the snake doing when she spoke to it? How did the other students react to her calling it to her? How did Draco react to it all? Is she the one who’s writing on the wall in blood? What are the professors doing? Does Dumbledore know?
The unending flow of queries only ended when Reg interjected, raising his voice enough to cut through his cousins’ speech. “Enough. Let Dora speak, or we’ll never hear anything more out of her.”
“Thanks, Reg,” Dora muttered. Getting through to the Black Sisters could be like herding cats, sometimes. “In some order of response, Draco’s a git, but he looked like he was going to piss himself when Hermione told him off for using a spell he didn’t understand. She seemed to be emotionally connected to the snake somehow from what I saw, and she gave both him and Draco a tongue lashing about it all. The other students are still deciding how they feel about things. The Hufflepuffs have decided that she’s some sort of ‘good Slytherin’ for saving one of their own, the Ravenclaws are thirsty for any scraps of knowledge about her like the parasites they are, and the Gryffindors are presenting a united front accusing her of being the Heir of Slytherin. Snape’s been shielding her from the worst of it, and half the Slytherins worship the bloody ground she walks on, but it’s still a tense situation. I don’t know if Dumbledore knows, but I’m sure he suspects something.”
“He doesn’t have the prophecy, at least,” Bella sighed, running her hands through her curls. “But I don’t trust him, nor his pet Death Eater. We need one of our own in the school to protect her once Dora graduates. It won’t be long before the Order and the Dark Lord come after her.”
“I’ve had productive conversations with Flitwick,” Mum added. “He seems to be open to the idea of me leading extra lessons on a rotating basis next year.”
“We’ll need more than that. Reg, see what you can dig up on Flitwick. Cissa, we’ll need you to use Legilimency on Granger’s parents. They’re either squibs or they adopted her.” Bella used her imperial decree voice, and the others quickly nodded their assent. “Dora, how have her sessions with you been going?”
Dora grinned broadly. “Brilliantly. She’s a natural, and her two friends aren’t slouches either. The three of them are practically joined at the hip, and they’re pushing into darker magic than I’d have expected for a bunch of second-years.”
“Pansy could be the Falcon in the Prophecy,” Cissa murmured. “Her grandmother was a Shafiq, and their house symbol is a bird of prey. And there’s an old poem about the greenest grass blooming under the moonlight, which would fit with Daphne.”
Bella nodded in consideration. “We’ll have to do some more digging, but it’s a good start. The clock has started on winning control of the Heir, and we can’t afford to be left behind.”
“What’s the plan if the Dark Lord returns before she’s out of Hogwarts?” Dora asked. “With the Trace on her she’ll be a lamb for the slaughter.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll invite her to the Manor, but I’d rather we wait as long as possible on revealing her identity to her. She’s too young to mastery Occlumency, and Dumbledore and Snape will snuff things out in an instant if her thoughts aren’t guarded.” With a flick of her wand, Bella sent the glasses of firewhiskey floating through the air towards her family members. “A toast. To the Heir, and the House of Black. Long may we reign.”
Hogwarts, December 7th, 1992. There are whispers in the walls, and the pale moon rises.
Hermione had expected more of a reaction. She’d spoken in Parseltongue in front of her entire year, outing herself as the dangerous sort of snake-friend that most witches and wizards feared. Surely that merited an investigation, especially with a would-be heir of Slytherin running around painting the walls with blood. Honestly, she’d expected to be hauled before Dumbledore and perhaps the Ministry before the day was out.
But things had been… quiet? Dumbledore hadn’t requested to see her, and there hadn’t been any sort of formal investigation over her potential ties to the threats around the school. It was all very disconcerting.
Her continued freedom seemed to be due entirely to her Muggleborn status. It was utterly laughable to think that a Muggleborn girl could be connected to the notoriously prejudiced Salazar Slytherin, especially so when she’d openly defended a Muggleborn Hufflepuff from an attack. Suspicion of complicity in the ‘Chamber writings’ as they were being called had instead fallen squarely on the two other participants in the snake-speaking incident: Harry and Draco. Harry was suspected for speaking Parseltongue in a clear attempt to incite the snake to attack Justin— one of the Heir’s natural enemies— whereas Draco was distrusted for summoning a snake in the first place. Many believed that only a second-year with real connection to the House of Slytherin could’ve managed such a feat.
The school had divided itself into four camps in the aftermath of it all. There were Hermione’s supporters among the nicer Slytherins and the Hufflepuffs, who held her up as a true snake and a defender of ‘Puffs respectively. Dora was one of her most ardent promoters, using her considerable sway in Slytherin to rally behind Hermione as a perfect example of a Slytherin. On the Hufflepuff side, Bones and Jones were instrumental in pushing the narrative that Hermione was a wonderful friend and someone who they’d all be better off defending. The joint Slytherin-Hufflepuff Transfiguration classes had evolved into a Hermione Granger fanclub.
Then there were the other, unreformed Slytherins amongst the old Pureblood houses. They railed against Hermione with Draco as a figurehead, claiming that she must have stolen her magic from quite a Pureblood if she could speak Parseltongue. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, Avery, Rosier, and the other usual suspects were part of this group, and they sneered at Hermione whenever they crossed paths.
The Gryffindors had taken a path that was completely detached from reality. They seemed to simultaneously believe that Harry had been framed for inciting the snake to attack Justin and that Harry was being unwillingly influenced by whoever was claiming to be the Heir. Their wands came out whenever they saw Hermione, Draco, or any number of other Purebloods who they remotely suspected of being connected to the awful writing on the walls.
Notably, Harry wasn’t among that group. Instead he fell in with the Ravenclaws, who had no idea what in the bloody world what was going on and were rather hoping that it sorted itself out. Harry had taken to meeting with Hermione, Bones, and Jones underneath an invisibility cloak in order to escape from his self-appointed bodyguards amongst the Gryffindors and the dark looks he got from the other Houses. The poor boy was boundlessly grateful to Hermione for stopping the snake from attacking Justin, while holding a healthy degree of confusion as to how she’d learned to speak Parseltongue like that in the first place.
“I just don’t understand,” he said for what must have been the twentieth time, shaking his shaggy head beneath the cloak. “I’ve had the knack for speaking to snakes since I was in primary school, but you made it look like I was an infant.”
Hermione sympathized with him. It was all very confusing for her, too. “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry. I just knew as soon as I heard you that you weren’t being articulate enough. There was too much dead time in your speech, when snakes speak in continuous flows.” She cleared her throat, then took a quick look around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “You have to do it all in one breath.” A pause. “Breaking up the words makes it sound distorted.”
“I… understand… you…” came the stilted, stunted reply. “Me… no… my… mouth… bad...”
She shook her head affectionately. However he’d come by the ability to speak Parseltongue, he didn’t have the knack for it.
“Speaking of Parseltongue, have you heard the whispers in the walls?” Harry asked quietly. “I thought I was going insane at first, but I hear things that sound almost like language sometimes.”
Hermione dropped her quill, not caring that she’d spilled ink on her notes. “You’ve heard it too? It’s Parseltongue?” Her voice was a breathless whisper.
“Yeah, by the second floor bathrooms,” Harry replied, shifting in his seat. “And at least I think it’s speaking Parseltongue. I’ve heard it say ‘Heir’ I think, and it sounds like it’s slithering in the walls. Ron and Lav looked at me like I was crazy when I mentioned it to them, but they’ve been doing that a lot these days.”
Hermione slipped her books into her bags hurriedly, heart pounding in her chest. She’d thought that the Heir was trying to drive the Muggleborns out of Hogwarts through fear alone with the writing on the walls. What if they had control over something else entirely, a monster that they’d used against an innocent Muggleborn fifty years beforehand? She wasn’t safe if that was the case, and neither was anyone else. Something had to be done, and her heart told her that it was all in her hands.
“Hermione?” Harry said curiously. “What are you doing? It’s nearly curfew.”
“I’m going to go find the snake,” she replied breathlessly. “If you’re right, it might be connected to whoever’s writing on the walls.”
“You think Draco’s controlling it?” Harry replied worriedly. “If that’s true, then it’s not safe to go looking for whatever it is. He’ll set it on you without a second thought.”
“If it’s a snake it won’t touch me,” Hermione declared confidently as she stowed the last of her things away. “Draco doesn’t speak Parseltongue, so he can’t possibly command anything like I can. He can’t even master his own familiar.”
“Hermione,” Harry hissed, but she was already off, hurrying out of the library and making for the stairs. She liked Harry, she really did, but this wasn’t something she needed him for. The trials around the Philosopher’s Stone had proven that they worked well enough together, but she had no inclination of being sucked into his orbit like Weasley and Lavender Brown. She needed to make her own way. Besides, Harry burned like a star wherever he went, and seeing the two known Parselmouths in the school in the same place was asking for trouble.
If Harry had heard whispers, she thought giddily, maybe she’d hear more. The voice in the walls had been reciting a poem or a riddle when she’d last heard it, and that seemed to indicate some kind of intelligence. All the snakes she’d met were intelligent in their own way, but the voice in the walls had been ancient, and effortlessly powerful. Hermione’s bones shook when she recalled the feelings that had bloomed in her when she heard it. There had been terror, of course, exquisite terror, but there’d been a sense of belonging there too. A shared hunger that stretched out for long centuries, finding a home in two bodies once again.
The halls were deserted as she moved, and she cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on herself to avoid any Prefect’s attention just like Dora had shown her. The seventh-year had waggled her eyebrows as she’d taught the three of them how best to conceal themselves, then lectured them on the best ways to avoid unwanted eyes as they moved through the castle. It was exceedingly odd to have such a prominent student— Heir apparent to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, Quidditch Captain, President of the Dueling Club— tutoring them specifically, but Hermione wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when she was learning such excellent magic from her.
Something had changed when she’d spoken Parseltongue in front of her peers. While she hadn’t been ostracized as she’d initially worried she would be, the eyes of the school were on her now. Watching, waiting. Once, she would’ve crumpled in the spotlight, fretting until she could disappear once more. Now, she found herself wanting to raise up her head, meeting their attention head on. Let them look. She was waiting for them.
She’d just gotten down to the second floor when she first heard the voice, rattling through the walls like a canary wailing against the walls of its cage.
“Led by a blind man, with ink spilt like blood. A wind in the stormpipes, portending a flood.”
Hermione’s pulse quickened as she rushed for the bathrooms. The voice was louder now than she’d heard it before, and the increased proximity made it easily identifiable as Parseltongue. She wanted to reach out and call to whatever was speaking, but she feared announcing her presence too soon. Booted feet stole along the rugs in the floors of the corridors, bringing her ever closer.
“Snake in rat’s clothing, she wonders aloud. ‘Will big sister hurt me, or drag me to drown?’”
Her steps stuttered as she heard the verse. Was it speaking about her? Did it know she was here? Suddenly the idea of confronting the creature out of some Parseltongue induced bravado seemed rather foolish indeed.
She halted, standing unsure as the corridor as she debated turning back towards where she came. The corridor was empty, and torches flickered along the walls, casting everything in an orange glow. Staring into the far distance, it seemed to go on forever, as if she was in a dream. A thousand steps in a sunlit place would leave her back where she started, rattling doorknobs that refused to open. And all the while, the beast would come slouching towards her, running her wicked tongue along teeth cut for rending flesh.
“Oh how they frighten, oh how they run. Bones bleach no color, so far from the sun.”
Hermione made up her mind to run, to flee back from whence she came, when there was a howl of wind down the length of the passage. She staggered back as it buffeted her, steadying herself so as not to fall from the ground as it rushed past her ears in a baleful lament. With a hiss and a whoosh, the torches all guttered out as one, leaving her alone in the darkness. Alone, but for a pair of luminous yellow eyes at the far end of the corridor. Watching. Waiting.
Her heart beat like a storm drum as the eyes regarded her, tilting to and fro as they took the measure of her. Belatedly Hermione realized that they hovered almost at ceiling level. Whatever creature they were attached to was enormous.
She’d prepared herself for the end, cursing her foolhardy act of suicidal bravery, when the creature chuckled. A deep, rumbling basso filled the air of the corridor as the eyes slowly moved towards her, bobbing from side to side without ever leaving hers. As they neared, she recognized slit pupils in the expanse of yellow. A Snake, then. The realization brought her far more comfort than it should have.
“Who are you?” She hissed into the darkness, trying not to let her fear slip into her voice. “I heard you in the walls.”
“Who am I?” The voice answered back, slinking towards her with every syllable. “I am the Eldest of my kind, the first among all who breathe in creation. This castle has been home to me for a thousand years, and it will continue to hold me for a thousand more.”
“You’re Slytherin’s creature, aren’t you? The beast in the Chamber of Secrets?” Hermione asked, curiosity carrying her forth. If she was going to die, she’d do it with her boots on.
“I am, and I am not,” the voice replied, rumbling in the darkness. “Salazar was my brother, but I know no master. He gave commands, but I chose to obey.”
Hermione nodded in recognition. “So there is an Heir, then? One of the students opened the Chamber, and they’re asking you to roam the halls?”
A warbling, hissing laugh filled the corridor, and the unseen serpent began to circle Hermione, yellow eyes spinning around her head. “There is an Heir, yes. And closer than you’d think. Two of them, in fact, an elder brother and a younger sister, though they wear different guises now.”
She frowned at the riddle. Draco didn’t have any siblings, of that she was certain, and neither did most of the Slytherin Purebloods who’d been suspected of being related to Slytherin himself. Avery might fit— he had a younger sister a year below them— or Crabbe, but neither of them seemed like Heir material. Shouldn’t the Heir of Slytherin hold immense power?
Another chuckle. “I can hear the wheels turning in your head, little one. Rowena was always the clever one, but her children never see the things that lie right in front of them, do they? They blunder in the dark and call it seeking truth, instead of reaching to light the lamp.”
“I’m smarter than any Ravenclaw,” Hermione shot back, suddenly feeling herself grow bolder. The snake could keep its riddles, but she wouldn’t be played for a fool. “And I’m top of my year in every class.”
“He’d be proud to hear it,” the Snake replied, in that self-certain way that the oldest and wisest of creatures wear without effort. “You are far more like him than your younger sister, and of clearer blood besides.”
Younger sister? Clearer blood? There had to be a mistake. Hermione was an only child, and a Muggleborn besides. Hermione told the Snake so: “I have no sister, and my blood doesn’t run pure.”
“So you say,” the Snake replied with an amused hiss, unwinding itself to stare down at Hermione once again. “The Fates have a strange sense of humor, sending you to me. The younger sister wore a pretty man’s face, and muddled blood ran through veins he’d painted with spun gold. Now comes the elder brother in the guise of a little girl, heritage cloaked in dust and grime. Strange, strange.”
A bubble of dread formed in Hermione’s stomach, and she shook her head vigorously. She wasn’t anyone special, and she certainly didn’t have pure blood. Even if her parents were squibs, as was known to happen, she’d met their parents, and they were as Muggle as they came. The Snake was wrong, or speaking in half-truths. “My name is Hermione Granger, and my parents are Muggles. Won’t you tell me your name?”
“I’ll tell you my true name when you tell me yours, little sister. For now, you may call me Nys. Half of mine, since you insist on giving me half of yours.”
“My ‘true name’ is Hermione Granger,” she replied in frustration.
“Is it?” Nys replied, blinking her yellow eyes. “Consider this, child who strides on two legs. If your blood was as muddied as you claim, wouldn’t I have eaten you by now? If your eyes were as clouded as ones such as yours might be, wouldn’t you have died at the sight of mine? If you held no kinship with me in the depths of your being, how would you ever have heard me at all?”
Hermione had no answer. Nys knew it, and she hissed out a laugh once more. “I shall leave you now, elder brother and little sister. We will meet again, when the time comes for you to face the inkblot sister who roams these halls.”
The eyes began to turn back down the corridor from whence they came, and Hermione found her voice once more. “Wait!” She called desperately. “When will I know how to find you again?”
Nys continued to turn, and the gentle whistle of scales along the floor marked her passage. When she spoke again, she was already in the wall. “Find the long way down, in this very hall. And bring me something to eat, when you do. It has been so very long.”
And then she left, and Hermione was alone. Alone, and very, very cold.
Chapter 7: Child of the Ancient Books
Summary:
Hermione faces off against her rivals. In a darkened chamber, Hermione takes a step towards her destiny.
Notes:
Hi darlings!
Ending Year 2 here! Hope this is a satisfying conclusion to a few arcs, though we'll definitely be seeing more of many of these characters again.
As for the next chapter, I think I'm going to cut Year 3 down to 1-2 chapters so we can get to Year 4 quicker. There are a few key plot points to cover (Time turner, Animagi, Hermione's parents, Sirius, and a new Charms professor) but I think y'all would like it more if we shot forward to our Fleur introduction and got Hermione to an age where Bella and Hermione can interact without things being strange as hell.
xoxo
Akhenani
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, March 4th, 1993. In all the world I’d never see, a Weasley lovely as can be. Indeed, unless the Weasley fall, I’ll never see my love at all.
It took longer than she’d expected, and the setting wasn’t quite what she would’ve chosen for a surprise attack, but she couldn’t fault the Gryffindors for trying. Times were trying in Hogwarts Castle, and everyone was looking for someone to blame. When the strange goings on had been limited to writing on the walls and injured cats it’d been possible to duck your head and ignore the paranoia that swept through the school like a riptide. When students started turning up petrified in the halls, things got out of hand quickly.
The Gryffindors had taken it upon themselves to be brave— if organizing a mob for vigilante reprisals could be considered brave. And what was a mob without a monster to hunt, to seek and destroy to protect their crops and their homes and their women?
Hermione faced down her pursuers on the sixth floor, not far from the Defense classroom, wand clutched tight under her sleeve. She’d be a fool not to prepare for the worst when facing down four opponents, but she knew better than to show her own wand first. Dora’s voice filtered through her ears, calm and deadly sure: “Don’t show fear, don’t antagonize your enemy. Focus on your footwork and the feel of your magic. Let it comfort you, and draw strength from your own power. When it comes time to strike, strike first, and don’t let them get up once you’ve put them down.”
“Evening, gentlemen, and lady,” Hermione called out to the gaggle of second-years who’d come to accost her as she returned to her dorm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
They shifted uncomfortably at her words, clearly not expecting to be greeted like this was an ordinary social call. Ron Weasley led them with a scowl on his face and his crooked wand in his hand, and Lavender Brown seemed to have some of the same zeal, but the others were far less animated than they were. Seamus Finnegan was rash, but never violent. Dean Thomas was a Muggleborn, and they’d worked together on occasion. As for Neville, well, they hadn’t stayed close after Hermione was sorted into Slytherin like she had with Bones and Jones, but he wasn’t a fighter. If it came to it she’d have him on his ass before he could think twice.
“Shut up, Granger,” Ron finally managed, sensing that he was losing control of his flock. “We know what you did, and we’re here to get payback.”
“What did I do?” Hermione asked, making a show of feigning ignorance. It was a stupid question. They blamed her for Colin Creevey showing up petrified the week before, still holding his Muggle camera in his rigid fingers. Hermione had nothing to do with it, of course— she wasn’t in the business of attacking her fellow Muggleborns— but there was no sense telling them that when they’d already made up their minds. Mentioning Creevey would be as good as an admission of guilt.
“You cursed Colin!” Lavender Brown shouted, frowning deeply. “You knew he was onto your dirty Heir tricks and you cursed him for it!”
There were a few things wrong with her statement. For one, Colin Creevey couldn’t investigate his way into solving the ‘Mystery of the Missing Crisps’ if Ron was licking his fingers right in front of him. The boy was wildly overenthusiastic and fonder of taking pictures than studying actual magic. Hermione could’ve hexed him to his face and he’d have been none the wiser unless he caught it on film. Secondly, Hermione didn’t know of any curse that could petrify a human indefinitely, much less perform one herself. Dora praised her for the advanced skill she showed in their dueling lessons, but Hermione had a hunch that whatever stunned Creevey was ridiculously magically potent. Besides, if she had casted such a curse, then surely the professors would’ve known the countercurse and set him right rather than leaving him in the Hospital Wing. She was good, but she wasn’t that good. Not yet, at least.
Lastly, and most importantly, Hermione had no reason to attack a fellow Muggleborn. She was friends with other Muggleborns, had experienced vicious bullying on account of her blood status, and had protected Justin Finch-Fletchley in front of her entire year when it mattered. Speaking Parseltongue and being in Slytherin did not a hidden Heir make, no matter what they said.
Of course, that mattered not one fig to the Gryffindors, who preferred to live in an alternate reality where Harry was the noble champion of all things good and Hermione was cast in the role of wicked sorceress. Honestly, the nerve of them.
“I didn’t curse Colin,” Hermione replied wearily, clutching her wand tighter below her sleeve. “And I hope he gets better soon. The attacks on Muggleborns affect me more than any of you but Dean.”
Dean nodded at that, and Neville looked sheepish at not realizing that beforehand. Unfortunately, the only Pureblood present wasn’t quite so convinced. With a face as red as his hair, Ron raised his wand threateningly. “You’ll have plenty of time to apologize to him in the Hospital Wing, Slytherin.”
Hermione saw his spell coming from a mile away, but she waited until the Expelliarmus was in the air to cast her Protego. Ron’s shout was still echoing through the halls when her shield came up quick as lightning, deflecting the jet of red light back towards the Gryffindor just like Dora had shown her. With a hiss and a thump, Weasley went staggering backwards, wand clattering uselessly on the ground.
“Anyone else want some?” Hermione asked, flourishing her wand. It was unnecessarily cocky, but she couldn’t help herself.
“See? I told you she was bad!” Ron yelled, clutching his arm and his sullied pride.
Lavender, Dean, and Seamus stepped up to defend Ron’s honor, throwing their own Expelliarmus and Stupefy spells at her. She deflected them with her Protego once more, but the combined tempo of the three of them left her with little room to recover. If they’d all attacked as one, they might’ve broken through her shield.
Jets of light and arcs of ethereal vapor cut through the air as the corridor rang with the sounds of their fight, and Hermione found herself being driven backwards as the three Gryffindors advanced on her. They were smirking as they fired their spells, confident of teaching her some kind of lesson. ‘Thus always to Slytherins’, perhaps. She had no time for it.
Ducking behind a statue of armor, Hermione turned away from them and shut her eyes tightly as she threw back a spell of her own: “Lumos Helia!”
A flash of sunlight engulfed the corridor, sending the three Gryffindors scrambling as the light momentarily blinded them in its sheer radiance. Hermione ducked out from behind the armor as soon as the light faded, weaving spells at each of her three attackers.
“Stupefy!” Seamus went down in a heap, head lolling as he sagged against the wall.
“Flippendo!” Dean went flying back towards Ron, crashing into him with a sizable ‘oof’ as they rolled along the floor.
“Confundo!” Lavender turned on her heel and walked back down the hall towards her friends, forgetting all about Hermione and the fight they were having. Hermione grinned victoriously, holding her wand close to her chest as she took stock of her assailants. They were all in disarray, groaning and wincing as they struggled to rise up again. The temptation to finish it, to send them all to the Hospital Wing with a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget, raged within her. She need only raise her wand and cast the Bludgeoning Curse like Dora had shown her to break a few bones…
Whether or not she would have quickly became a moot point as Professor McGonagall appeared in the corridor, with Harry Potter hot on her heels. The imperious Transfiguration Professor regarded the scene before her with unvarnished disdain, nose crinkling as she addressed them all in a severe tone: “What is the meaning of this?”
“She attacked us, Professor!” Lavender shouted, having recovered from the effects of the Confundus. “We were walking back from class and she came charging at us, claiming that we were messing with all of her plans!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, glowering at Hermione. “She was going on about being the Heir of Slytherin, and threatening to hurt Dean because he’s a Mudblood.” Hermione bared her teeth at the slur, and she couldn’t help but notice Dean recoiling in hurt at Ron’s choice of words.
“I see,” Professor McGonagall pronounced, turning her gaze briefly to Hermione before looking at her charges once more. “And I assume her sinister plans involved revealing my secret to the school?”
“Your secret, Professor?” Seamus inquired, confusion writ large on his face.
“The secret that I was born yesterday, Mister Finnegan,” McGongall declared, blue eyes shining beneath furrowed brows. “For there can surely be no other explanation for a lie of such sheer ineptitude. Do you honestly expect me to believe that Miss Granger— a student with no history of starting violent confrontations— elected to attack the five of you, at night, in a place you had no reason to be walking? Really, I know you’re not Ravenclaws, but there’s no reason to insult all of our intelligences. Ten points from Gryffindor each, for assaulting a fellow student, and it’d be more if you’d tried any nasty spells. Mr. Potter, twenty points to you for informing me of your housemates’ plot, and for proving to be the only Gryffindor with a lick of bravery or sense.”
“But she hexed us!” Ron wheedled, pouting like a child. “She hexed all of us!”
“I’m sure she did, Mister Weasley,” McGonagall agreed, “and you’re lucky that’s all she did. Professor Flitwick told me that Hermione showed a mastery of the Shrinking Charm, and I don’t suppose any of you want to know what it’s like to be six inches tall. Now you’re all dismissed while I have a talk with Miss Granger. Go on, be off with you.”
Six Gryffindors grumbled off down the hall, with the four who’d fought Hermione shooting Harry dirty looks as they walked. Hermione rolled her eyes. If Harry hadn’t brought McGonagall to stop the fight, they’d all be in far worse shape. Slytherins didn’t leave people standing if they were going to stab them in the back, and Dora had shown her just how to fracture the bones in a wand hand without causing permanent damage.
“Are you hurt, Miss Granger?” McGonagall asked, not unkindly.
“No Professor,” Hermione quickly replied. “I was only using a Shield Charm at first, but then three of them came at me at once and I had to improvise.”
McGonagall snorted, shaking her head. “‘Only using a Shield Charm.’ ‘Three of them came at me at once.’ My word, it’s always the brilliant ones who don’t know how remarkable they are. Thank you for not damaging anyone permanently and turning this into a larger ordeal than it has to be— don’t bother to deny it, I know the kinds of spells that go ‘round the Slytherin dorms. Might I ask why they decided to attack you in the first place?”
“They think I’m the Heir of Slytherin,” Hermione said, frowning at the mere idea. “They think I was behind the attack on Colin Creevey.”
“I’m sure they do. Forgive my House, Miss Granger, bravery is a kingly virtue, but untampered it often finds itself misdirected. Mister Creevey is being taken care of, and we’ll soon have a remedy for him and the other paralyzed creatures. Don’t worry: Muggleborns will always have a place at this school, vile acts be damned.” McGonagall had real fire in her voice, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to know that the Professor was still the witch she’d met in her parents’ house a year and a half ago, despite all that had gone on.
“Do you know who the Heir is, Professor? The Chamber’s only been opened once before, I read.”
“I’m afraid not, but we will soon enough,” McGonagall asserted. “We’ll have antidotes in two months’ time, and then our paralysis victims can lead us to the culprit. Rest assured, this will soon be resolved.”
Hermione nodded happily, even if she wasn’t sure if she entirely believed it. If the staff didn’t know who was behind it now, how had they stopped the attacks fifty years ago?
Hogwarts, April 23rd, 1993. Guess who’s coming over for dinner?
Hermione was counting down the days. She loved Hogwarts— really, she did— but the past six months had been an ordeal in more ways than one. The writing on the wall had utterly terrified her and every other Muggleborn, and the revelation of her Parselmouth nature had brought down more suspicion and scorn on her. It’d been weeks since she’d walked down a corridor without worrying that she was going to be hexed in the back.
Pans and Daph had been her rocks, as usual. The two of them had insisted on accompanying her nearly everywhere since the incident with the Gryffindors in March, and Hermione was eternally grateful for her friendship with them. Her fight had only added to the legendary air that was building around Hermione within Slytherin, and even the older students regarded her with reverent appreciation. Pansy had taken it upon herself to act as something between an enforcer and a major-domo for Hermione, turning away sycophantic Slytherins and Ravenclaws who wanted to ingratiate themselves with her and threatening to hex any Gryffindors who were skulking about. It became uncommon to see any of them apart from each other.
It made for some rather awkward study sessions with Bones, Jones, and Harry. The two Hufflepuffs were firmly in her corner, as was Harry in his own way, but they were rather less sure about the two Slytherins. Daph had made her share of dismissive comments about Megan’s hair and Susan’s clothes, and Pans’ disdain for Harry was well known. Nevertheless, they managed to work together without killing each other long enough to make good progress on their exams. Susan even managed to get a smile out of Pans with a well-timed joke, which was a miracle in and of itself.
Her classes had gone fairly well, considering. She was still top of Charms, Defense, Transfiguration, even if Daphne had her beat in Potions and Neville Longbottom in Herbology. There was confidence that she’d go on to do great things from everyone but Draco and the Gryffindors, and Dora proudly announced that she was a natural duelist. If not for the matter of the escalating attacks on Muggleborns, it would’ve been the perfect year.
But Muggleborns were being attacked, and the staff were no closer to finding a solution than they had been a few weeks beforehand. Colin Creevey had been the first, but Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw followed him soon after, and Danica Smith after him. The hardest blow had come a few days before, when an inconsolable Susan Bones had been found sobbing over Megan Jones’ prone form near the Hufflepuff dorms. The creature in the Chamber of Secrets had struck four times already, and it was only a matter of time before someone died.
Hermione resolved that it wouldn’t be her. She went everywhere with her Pureblood friends, keeping to the light and not staying out in the library after dark. If the creature wanted her, it’d have to come and get them too.
An uncomfortable thought arose in the back of her mind whenever she considered the idea, a whisper on the wind. You aren’t in danger, it seemed to say, the snake in the dark told you in as many words. Nys hadn’t been clear in anything she’d said, but she seemed to know something about the Heir, and if she’d wanted Hermione dead she would’ve done it when they’d first met. No, there was something deeper going on. Something that she knew in her gut would break her, if she let it.
Elder brother, younger sister, inkblot and blood. Riddles in the dark. Glowing eyes, glistening fangs.
A man, tall and proud, black of hair and fair of face. His nose dipped down above a frown near a sneer, and his eyes blazed like a midnight sun. Daughter of mine, she who I hold most dear, he whispered to the east win. Come to me, and be reborn. Come to me, and become who you were born to be.
It had become harder to shake off the thoughts. She knew who she was: Hermione Granger, daughter of Daniel and Jean who lived in the Borough of Haringey in North London, Muggleborn witch and proud Slytherin. Friend of Daphne and Pansy, Megan and Susan, Dora and Harry. There was no room in her worldview for anything more, much less anything that involved some greater destiny. She’d seen how that had worked out for Harry, and she wanted no part of it.
But when Harry came up to her in the Great Hall one Saturday afternoon, wild-eyed and frantic, she knew she wouldn’t turn him down. Whatever grand, stupid adventure he was planning, she wouldn’t let him walk his path alone. The boy had a savior complex a mile long and twice as wide.
“Hermione, you’ve got to help me,” he whisper shouted to her, panting with exertion. His clothes were disheleved, and his hair stuck up like he’d been through a windstorm. “She’s gone. She’s gone down to the Chamber.”
Hermione stiffened in alarm, and let a frown cross her face. “Calm down, Harry, what’s going on?”
“It’s her Hermione. It’s Ginny. She’s the one who’s been writing all the things on the wall, and now she’s gone down into the Chamber.” Harry’s voice was erratic, and she couldn’t quite make heads or tails of it.
“What do you mean, gone down into the Chamber? Ginny Weasley? Her family’s Gryffindor through and through, there’s no way she’s the Heir.” Hermione replied, standing up and thanking her lucky stars that she’d left her bag in her dorm.
“No time, I’ll explain on the way,” Harry said breathlessly. “We’ve got to get Lockhart. He’s the Defense professor, so he’ll know what to do.”
Hermione should’ve protested, she should’ve said that, no, Lockhart was the last possible person they needed if there was anything important on the line. The man couldn’t hex a pixie, much less conduct a rescue mission. But she followed Harry nonetheless, dread mounting in her stomach as Harry recounted the events of the past several months. Apparently he’d found a diary that spoke to him in the second floor bathroom, a diary that claimed to be a record of the events that transpired when the Chamber was first opened fifty years prior. The diary’s owner— Tom Riddle, by name— regaled Harry with the story of the Chamber, and the monster within.
“And he showed me Hermione,” Harry whispered as the hurried up towards Lockhart’s office. “He showed me the monster, and the Chamber’s suspected location. It was a spider, an acromantula.” He paled. “And now Ginny’s down there with it.”
“But why?” Hermione hissed. “Why her? Why now? Ginny’s not the Heir, or else six of her brothers would’ve fallen on the same task. It only the Heir of Slytherin can open the Chamber itself, then surely she can’t be doing it alone.” And what self-respecting Slytherin would stoop to command a mere insect, the voice in her mind hissed. She silenced it with great effort.
“I don’t know, but that’s where she’s gone,” Harry said desperately. “She left me a note in the Common Room, and you were the first person I came to. We can’t let her die, Hermione. She’s only a first year.”
On that much, they were agreed. “Lead on,” she intoned wearily. It wasn’t far to Lockhart’s office. And who knew, perhaps she’d be wrong in her assumptions about the pompous old fart, and he’d rise nobly to the occasion.
Gilderoy Vandelay Lockhart was no more capable of rising to the occasion than he was capable of performing great feats of his own merits. The man was egotistical, vain, and wildly narcissistic, despite an utter lack of qualifications outside of his housewitch-targeted adventure books. He’d been a middling Ravenclaw without any real academic credit to his name beyond a minor expertise in memory-modification spells, and few professors had minded when they’d seen the back of him. Why Dumbledore had ever asked him to teach at Hogwarts, Hermione didn’t know, and she wasn’t sure that she’d like the answer if she knew.
So it was of little surprise that they came to Lockhart’s office, panting and huffing, only to find him in a suspiciously bare room. His trunks were neatly organized by the door, and the only thing left on the broad oak desk that Quirrell had used before him was a neat stack of parchment. Hermione’s wand jumped into her hand beneath her sleeve of its own accord. The pinprick hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
Lockhart was disheveled, given his usual standards. He wore only a mustard yellow peacoat above his skintight leather slacks, and his auburn hair was sloppily coiffed. The smile he gave them when they burst into office had none of his usual infuriating foppishness. Instead he looked nervous, desperate even, as if he was preparing for something unpleasant.
“Ah, Mister Potter, Miss Granger! My young friends! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He proclaimed it as if he was addressing a graduating class.
“Thank Merlin you’re here Professor,” Harry exclaimed breathlessly. “Something terrible has happened, and we need your help.”
Lockhart smiled further, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh goodness gracious me. What do you mean, dear boy? Have you contacted the Headmaster?”
“He’s away with the Board of Governors, and there’s no time to wait for him. Ginny Weasley’s gone down to the Chamber of Secrets, and we’ve got to rescue her.” Harry was full of vim and vigor, and Hermione was glad that she was there to keep a cool head. Nothing about Lockhart’s affect screamed helpful.
“My word, that’s terrible! I wish that I could be of assistance,” Lockhart replied, shaking his head in sympathy, “but I’m off on a voyage of my own. Urgent business in Ireland, working with dangerous dragons. Can’t you ask McGonagall to help you?”
“There’s no time,” Hermione declared firmly, keeping an eye on Lockhart’s hands. “Ginny’s in danger, and this is a matter for the Defense professor. Don’t you want to add another page to your legend? Gilderoy Lockart, the man who saved Hogwarts and discovered the secret of the Chamber of Secrets.”
Unadulterated greed flashed in his bright eyes, and for a moment Hermione thought she had him. He’d even opened his mouth to speak when Harry blundered directly into her conversational gambit.
“Hey,” the Gryffindor said suspiciously, eying the trunks and the empty desk. “Why are all your things packed?”
Hermione swore under her breath as Lockhart’s affect changed in a split second. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Mister Potter. I’m sorry to hear about Miss Weasley’s predicament, but I simply can’t help you now.”
“There aren’t any dragons in Ireland,” Harry realized with a frown. “Ron’s brother Charlie works with them in Romania— they don’t live on the British Isles.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at?”
Lockhart chuckled darkly. “Ah, I knew I’d miss something somewhere. To tell you the truth, Mister Potter, I’m going away for a while, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I have no intention of risking my hide to save the Weasley girl— surely the family can afford to miss one, with how many children they pump out.”
Harry’s eyes went wide. “But your books! Your adventures!”
“All lies, Harry,” Hermione said softly, eyes fixed on Lockhart as she waited for an opportunity. “He’s a fraud— you heard him mention Memory Modification charms. He’s been stealing the work of better witches and wizards all his life.”
“Ah, Miss Granger, always so insufferably clever. What tipped you off, hmm? One of my rivals? A jilted ex-lover? Are the other professors talking about me behind my back?” He shook his head. “No matter. You two know, and soon you won’t. I’ve come too far to let two little brats steal my legacy for me.” He drew his wand dramatically, preparing to Obliviate his problems away.
“Confundo!” Hermione shouted at him, whipping her wand from its hiding place quick as lightning. The spell struck Lockhart square in the chest, and his eyes unfocused as it took a hold of him. Thinking quickly, Hermione took advantage of his addled state. “Give me your wand,” she ordered. “Now.”
Lockhart complied, handing over his wand mechanically as Harry gaped at Hermione in utter amazement. A moment passed before cognition slipped back over his dewy brows, and his face contorted in anger. “What do you think you’re doing, you little Mudblood?” He hissed, eyes alight with fury. “You’ve attacked a professor! I’ll see you expelled for this.”
The slur passed over her like a wave, but she didn’t waver. Hermione only clenched her wand with greater intensity. “No, Lockart, you listen to me. We’re going to go down into the Chamber— together— and you’re going to use the knowledge you’ve stolen from better witches to help us rescue Ginny Weasley. If and when we do, you can run off and cry to McGonagall about how a second-year disarmed you for threatening to Obliviate her. See how that goes for you.”
“Very well,” Lockhart said through gritted teeth. “Seeing as I have no choice, lead on, and prepare yourself for a lawsuit as soon as we return.”
If we return, Hermione thought grimly, though she kept it to herself as they frogmarched Lockhart out of his office and towards the entrance to the Chamber. Harry was busy swearing at Lockhart for his deceptions like the honorable little Gryffindor he was, and she was too busy keeping a wand on the Defense professor to let herself get distracted. Whatever they found in the Chamber, they’d have to deal with it themselves.
A hop a skip, and a jump found them in the second-floor girls’ bathroom, staring at the sinks. According to Harry, Ginny had left a note saying she’d gone down into the Chamber through them somehow, though it wasn’t clear how. Hermione had him set his wand on Lockhart as she considered the matter.
It only took a moment for inspiration to hit her like a ton of bricks. Nys had appeared in the same hallway, whispering about wandering in the walls. If she’d come through the pipes, that meant the entrance was sealed below them through the plumbing somehow. She only needed to find a way to open it.
“Open,” she whispered into the still air of the bathroom. “Render unto me.”
With a crack and a hiss, the sink parted as the tap ran clear, scraping along the stone until a narrow passage was revealed. The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets: Salazar Slytherin’s parting gift.
Lockhart’s eyes bulged, crocodile tears forming at the corners. “Well done, well done. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll go get help, and you can—” A scream cut his words off as Harry shoved him unceremoniously down the drain, grinning at Hermione.
“Call me when you land!” Harry shouted, then down he went.
Sparing a thought for the girl of an hour before who’d hoped for a lazy Saturday evening, Hermione held her nose and jumped in after them. It wouldn’t do to leave them down there alone.
The chute was narrow at first, but it soon widened as she slid down a cleaner tunnel than she’d expected when she dropped into the darkness. An eerie light filtered through grates in the stone as she catapulted into the unknown, trying desperately not to lose her supper. It wouldn’t do to confront Ginny Weasley with sick running down her shirt, even if the girl was merely a tool. She flew from the chute in a heap, groaning as she impacted the far wall. Her wand was still held tight in her hand, but when she looked up, Harry wasn’t there to greet her.
Lockhart was.
The Defense professor brandished Harry’s wand, smiling wickedly over the Gryffindor’s prone form, manic glee in his eyes. As soon as Hermione met his gaze, he pointed his stolen wand at her. “Not so fast, Miss Granger. I’m afraid your little escapade is at an end. Pity we weren’t here in time to save Miss Weasley, and pity that the two of you lost your minds at the sight of her fallen form. Such a shame, to lose two bright young wizards, and one of them of such high birth.”
Hermione stiffened, slowly untangling her wand from her sleeve. If she could just keep him talking… “What did you do to Harry?” She asked, trying to play the part of a frightened schoolgirl.
“Oh nothing, just a simple Memory Modification charm. It can be undone, but I’m afraid I’ll have to put a more permanent one on him after I’ve dealt with you. Minds are such fickle things, you see, and I can’t risk the two of you torpedoing my life’s work.” Lockhart monologue. “There’s such a burden that comes with my fame, and the knowledge that so many people out there look to me for guidance and inspiration. I have no wish to harm you, but sacrifices must be made to the greater good, hmm?”
Hermione’s wand was almost free, just a little more and she’d have it. “So it was all fake then? I said it to get a rise out of you, but I only vaguely suspected it.”
Lockhart snickered shaking his head and smiling in a simpering, self-satisfactory way. “Well you earn credit for your intuition, then, if not your observational skills. They’ll serve you well in Saint Mungo’s.” He raised Harry’s wand, brow furrowing as he shouted out his spell.
“Obliviate!”
“Protego!”
There was a flash of blue light and a crackle of ozone, and the room shone as bright as if there was a full sunburst in the cramped tunnel. Hermione shut her eyes tightly against the brightness, not daring to open them. Her Protego had barely served to protect her, and if Lockhart got another go at her, she was finished. All she could hear was her own heavy breathing, and the pounding of her heartbeat as it rushed in her ears.
“Hello?” Came an airy, confused sounding voice. “What’s going on?” Her eyes cracked open to reveal Gilderoy Lockhart, staring at her without a flicker of higher thought in his eyes. He smiled when he noticed that he had her attention. “Ah, you must be the help. Can you tell me who I am, and who I got here?”
Cold anger surged in her as she regarded the man. This was the creature who’d have had her as good as dead, eyes vacant as she wasted away in a hospital bed. He deserved death and worse for what he’d done to Harry, and what he would’ve done to her.
Bones crunched beneath her feet as she walked up to him, prising Harry’s wand from his fingers as he made a little noise of protest. She couldn’t trust him alone with Harry, and she couldn’t trust him with a wand, even without intact memories. A plan bloomed in her consciousness, and she offered him a smile. “Well hello, Mr. Lockhart. You asked me to accompany you on an expedition down into the tunnels here. Will you follow me to our destination?”
His brow crinkled in distaste. “You have a common way of speaking, girl, which House are you from? Ah, a Half-blood, perhaps? Tssk. So hard to get good help these days. Very well, lead on to wherever I directed us. I’m sure seeing things will jog my memory.”
I’m sure it won’t, Hermione thought, as she gave him a nod. The tunnels were wide and damp, angling down towards a central point. Wherever they led, so they’d find Ginny. They’d have to leave Harry behind, but Hermione couldn’t do anything for him now. She’d come back for him as soon as she could. “Come along, Mr. Lockhart. Your destiny awaits us.”
Without waiting for his response she began to walk down one of the tunnels, following a feeling in her gut that pulled her onward. There was something oddly familiar about the sloping stone chutes, and something comforting about the soft hiss of the water as it trickled down the curved channels in the rock. The sewers were ancient— as old as the Castle itself— and she was probably one of the first to enter them in a very, very long time. How Ginny had found her way down here she didn’t know, and how Harry had known to look for her here she knew even less. This wasn’t Ginny’s place, nor was it Harry’s. It was ancient, hallowed even. Hermione belonged here, not them.
Her shoes tramped against the stone and crunched the bones of uncounted tiny animals as she moved. Something lived down here, eating rats and refuse for who knew how long. Hermione had an inkling as to who and what it was, and she relished the chance to get to confront her again. Down, down, into the cold and the dark.
They came to a long, open room with great, arching ceilings and water running in two long trenches down the sides of the space. There were carvings along the walls, motifs of serpents and blood, shadow and flame. The style was unlike Hermione had ever seen and she got the distinct sense that a researcher could have made a career out of studying them if they got the chance. A flicker in her stomach rebelled against the very idea. This wasn’t their place to see, nor understand. This was his. This was hers.
Ginny lay on the floor at the far end of the grand chamber, pale and motionless. The life was leaving her slowly, trickling out through her nose and ebbing from her chest. Above her stood a tall, handsome boy with curly brown hair and fiercely intelligent eyes. The look he gave her when he saw her was one of utter bafflement, quickly replaced with one of unadulterated disgust. He’d been expecting someone else, whoever he was.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The boy asked, frown set on his face.
“I could ask you the same,” Hermione shot back, eyes narrowed. “What have you done to Ginny?”
“The girl?” He chuckled, shaking his head darkly. “Nothing more than she did herself. I asked for her heart and soul, and she gave them to me freely. Only death can pay for life.”
Hermione scowled, grasping her wand. “Her life isn’t yours to take. She’s just a girl.”
“And who are you to say so?” The boy countered. “You’re nothing but a Mudblood. I can tell from the way you walk, from the way you speak, the way you think. You have no right to be in this sacred Chamber, in the holy place of Salazar Slytherin himself.”
“You’re a Mudblood?” Lockhart asked, expression distasteful. “Godric, what’s the world coming to?”
“Oh piss off, both of you,” Hermione growled. “I’ve more right to be here than either of you. I’m a student, and a Slytherin besides.”
“Is that so?” The boy asked, flickering in the air as his mouth twisted in a rictus grin. “This place is my birthright, and the monster here is mine to command. That alone gives me far more claim to this place than you.”
“Monster?” Hermione scoffed, shaking her head. “You know nothing, phantom. There are no monsters here, beyond whatever it is that you are. Now, I’ll ask again, who are you?”
The boy raised a hand and closed his eyes, calling the wind to him like a twisting tree in a gale. His hair fluttered and his robes billowed as his face shone in an unearthly green light, casting his features in sharp relief. Magic twisted around him like he was born to it, and Hermione’s magic entwined with his, throwing iridescent rays of light against the walls of the Chamber.
When he spoke, his voice was deeper, darker, and impossibly powerful. “Who am I? I am the thing that you see out of the corner of your eye as the light gutters out. I am the shadow that stalks the quiet places of the world, the darkness that will subsume everything that is bright and beautiful. The Knight of True Blood, the Last Champion of the Old Ways, the Dark Lord of All That Is. My name was Tom Marvolo Riddle, but most know me now as Lord Voldemort. I am Salazar Slytherin’s Heir, and this place shall see me rise from the fetters of Death itself.”
Hermione should’ve been surprised. Here was the enemy of all Wizardkind, the slaughterer of countless Muggleborns and their supporters, the greatest terror that the Wizarding World had ever known. He could kill her with a flick of his wrist, if he returned to the world. Instead, she felt only a strange, twisting kinship with the boy, a deep emotional connection that transcended the space between them. It terrified and exhilarated her, and she found herself smiling wickedly.
“Why can I feel your magic, Tom Riddle?” She stepped towards him, wand clutched in her hand. “Why does it clutch at mine, desperate for a handhold? Why does it call to a Mudblood, if you’re Slytherin’s Heir? Surely the Heir of Slytherin would’ve been of purer blood than any other.”
The boy’s face contorted in shame and anger, and he lashed out at her the only way he knew how. “I’ll kill you for that, Mudblood. You’re nothing but a worm, and even if this body has yet to fully form, the power at my command can still finish you.” Turning to the great carved snake at the far end of the Chamber, he began to speak in the twisting staccato of Parseltongue. “Serve me, oh Serpent of Slytherin. Smite the unworthy, that I might rise once more.”
An infernal groaning issued forth from the great stone mouth as the Chamber’s Inner Sanctum fell open. Slowly, sinuously slithered a great silver serpent, yellow eyes burning as she came forth into the world once more. Lockhart gave a gasping cry as he met the snake’s gaze in the reflective waters of the room and toppled over onto the stone, but Hermione met the serpent’s gaze head on, forcing herself to stay proud and upright as she did. Nys was a creature of immense power and prestige, and she deserved far more respect than Tom was giving her.
Inclining her head, she offered the massive serpent a greeting. “Nys. I am honored to make your acquaintance once more. Your scales shine beautifully in the light, dear sister.”
A hissing, winding chuckle filled the air as Nys regarded her with amusement. “We meet again, little sister. Eldest and oldest and inkblot phantasm, together once more. Tell me, have you brought me any rats to eat, as I asked?”
Hermione would question the next words out of her mouth for years afterwards. She’d never truly believed in the idea of right and wrong as a binary spectrum, a tug-of-war between good and evil, but she’d always considered herself to be morally good. Hexing her enemies in self-defense and learning dubious magics for her own protection could be explained away without great effort, even if the paragons of virtue didn’t understand her motives. That moral surety vanished in the wind as she spoke. Everything she did after the Chamber could be justified only through the lens of her own experiences.
“Yes, Elder sister. You want blood, and I promised to give it to you. I’ve brought you a rather large rat, one who walks on two legs. The world would be better off forgetting him.” Hermione hissed back in response.
Nys grinned at her, as much as a serpent could be said to grin. “The man you brought with you? I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, little sister, but I accept your offering gladly. Let it not be said that we don’t give each other gifts to our dear ones.”
Riddle stared at Hermione with raw fury, before turning his eyes back to Nys. “What’s the meaning of this, Serpent? I am Slytherin’s Heir. I command you to destroy the vermin.”
“Do you so command, creature of ink and paper? And on what grounds do you dare to order me around, little brother? Son of the youngest, blood of ill-favor, bastard of a wretched man and a desperate girl. What do you offer me in exchange for my leal service?” Nys asked, voice deadly calm.
“I need offer you nothing. I am Slytherin’s Heir. You will obey me.” Riddle roared, eyes burning. He had only ever learned to dominate by force of will, to rule by fear and terror. There were some things in the wider world that could not fear.
Nys shook her great head, nudging a tattered leather-bound diary that lay near Ginny’s ice-cold fingers. “The crown passes to the eldest, in both the realm of those who slither and those who walk. Your bloodline is secondary, even if the taint of imprisonment did not stain your making.” She turned to Hermione, yellow eyes burning into clouded hazel ones. “Tell me, little sister, what is your name? Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Hermione’s heart caught in her throat as she met the gaze, letting her magic wrap around the serpent’s long, winding body. She didn’t know what her name was, anymore. Hermione Granger would’ve died at the serpent’s gaze or Riddle’s command. Hermione Granger would never have been able to enter the Chamber, much less talk to the Serpent of Slytherin. Whoever she was and wherever she came from, her blood was far brighter than she’d once believed. She need only speak it into existence.
Finding her voice once more, she spoke in the firmest tone she could manage. “I don’t know my name, sister of mine, but I am Hermione, student of the House of Slytherin, and Heir to His legacy.”
A bellowing hiss filled the air as Nus threw her head back, cackling like a demon. When she brought it back down, her fangs had extended till they were longer than Hermione’s arm, and their wicked edge caught the pale light perfectly. “Then at last, little sister, we understand one another. You are always welcome in my Hall, whenever you need to know more of who you are.”
“What?” Riddle yelled, shaking his head frantically. “She’s a Mudblood! A beast. I am the Heir of Slytherin, I command you.”
“You are a creature of deceit, Tom Riddle. And you have earned a liar’s end.”
In a flash of movement and color, Nys bit down on the diary on the floor, fang rending through the paper with a rush of dark smoke. Riddle screamed as he began to tear violently out of existence, black ink spraying from the pages like blood spurting from a fountaining artery. Hermione watched him fade with euphoria, relief washing over her as his familiar magic flickered and died in the air. His face twisted and cracked as her passed into nothingness, clawing desperately at the world’s edges. Whoever he was to her, Riddle was a monster and a murderer, and he deserved his fate.
When it was done, Nys turned to her once more, slithering over the floor to grasp Lockhart’s prone form in her jaws. Her voice was soft and soothing, wrapping around Hermione like a blanket. “Go now with my blessing, little sister. Take the girl and the half-speaking boy from my Chamber, and earn your hero’s welcome. I will be waiting for you here, when you are ready to take your next steps.”
Hermione bowed to her, power surging through her veins. “I’ll try to visit as often as I can, and to find a way of bringing you food that people won’t ask questions of. Do you like chicken?”
“Anything beats rat after a thousand years,” Nys replied. “Farewell, Hermione.” A moment later she was gone, vanishing back into the great carved sculpture on the far wall with her prize. Hermione was left alone with her thoughts and an unconscious Ginny Weasley, listening to the water whistle sweetly through the drainpipes.
Hermione had won a Basilisk’s allegiance in a contest of wills with Lord Voldemort himself, and declared herself to be Slytherin’s Heir in the place it mattered most in the world. She’d offered a person— detestable though he was— up as a sacrifice to a creature of great power. There was no walking back from the path she’d set out on, even if following it took her far from Harry and her friends, even if it cast her away from the only parents she’d ever known. The future spanned out in front of her in a clouded whorl, offering her everything, if only she had the strength to seize it. Hermione wouldn’t let it fade away.
Chapter 8: Two Paws and a Wingtip
Summary:
The Silver Trio begin their third year with family troubles and new beginnings. A new Professor offers helping hands, a ritual is performed under moonlight, and a loon crests under the moonlight.
Notes:
Hi lovely people!
New chapter for y'all! After briefing flirting with covering Year 3 in one chapter, I decided against it. There's too much to cover to setup our story's real punch 'Year 4' :eyes: and I couldn't fit everything in just one. Next chapter will wrap up Year 3 and introduce a few more important players.
Important note, this is now a Bellamione story, with the other ships taking important side roles but no additional Hermione romances planned. Daph and Pans both have their future partner (or partners?) planned in this chapter, though there are hints for them as far back as Year 1 if you look. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the comments as to who you think everyone's going to end up with!
xoxo
Chapter Text
Various locations in England, at various times in August, 1993. Really can’t get any more specific than that.
There were good parents and there were bad parents. Then there was fifty feet of cowshit, followed by a thin, impermeable membrane, to keep the cowshit from mingling with Garridan and Lobedia Parkinson.
Pansy wouldn’t have minded cruel parents, like Milicent Bulstrode had, nor stupid ones, like Mr. and Mrs. Goyle. It was the combination that was particularly bothersome. They hovered and harried like indignant birds, without any of the tact that she might hope for from a Lucius Malfoy or Vincent Bulstrode, sniping at Pansy’s friends and making rude comments about her ‘dimple little pug nose, such a shame’. For nearly fourteen years she’d tolerated their tasteless jibes and smiled through their endless put-downs, but her fuse burned down with every passing day. It was only a matter of time before she snapped.
It was Tuesday when it happened. Her mother was sitting at the breakfast table after haranguing their poor, put upon house-elves, and she just had to open her stupid fucking mouth. With upturned nose and a cruel smirk, she shook her head theatrically and said: “My, my, a Mudblood in Slytherin. What’s the world coming to, that mongrels like that can enter into our most sacred places?”
Pansy slammed her glass down on the table, eyes narrowing instantly as she spat an answer back like a barbed arrow. “Don’t talk about Hermione that way. She’s top of her year, and everyone knows Slytherin himself favors her.”
Lobedia sneered at her daughter looking every bit the coddled Pureblood lady that she was. “Cavorting with a Mudblood, Pansy?”
“I am,” Pansy replied. “She’s a better witch than you.”
“Don’t you dare speak to your mother that way, Pansy,” her father roared, eyes blazing as he brandished his wand. “Ministry decree or not, so long as you live in my house I’ll discipline you as I see fit.”
“Guess I’ll just have to leave your house then, huh?” Pansy declared, making up her mind in a matter of nanoseconds. She kept a chest full of her school things at Daphne’s as a precaution. Hermione called it a ‘bug-out bag’, because Muggle names were all utterly ridiculous. Keeping her wand ready in its holster, she walked backwards towards the door, meaning to make for the Floo.
“If you leave, you’re never welcome here again,” her mother proclaimed, lips twisting in a rictus smirk. That surely must have seemed like an ace in the hole, given the way she said it, but Pansy was far past caring about what her mother thought of the world. Better to make it on her own with Daphne and Hermione’s help than live another day with two of the sorriest excuses for parents she’d ever seen.
“Don’t come looking for me,” Pansy declared, relief washing over her as she put her decision into words. “When the time is right, I’ll come looking for you.”
“Is that a threat, girl?”
Her last words came like a parting shot as she moved down the hall towards the Floo. “It’s not a threat, dear father. It’s a promise.”
-
They insisted that they were her birth parents. Hermione wished that she could believe them.
Daniel and Jean had been confused when she’d asked her first tentative questions about her heritage, but they hadn’t reacted negatively, as she’d briefly feared they would. Instead they’d sat down with her and discussed their history of issues with conception and the sleepless nights they’d shared during the early years of their marriage. Then the awful years where they’d sunk into the realization that no matter how many fertility treatments and experimental procedures they’d tried, they would never have a child. They teared up as they fondly recalled their utter jubilation when they learned that Jean was pregnant with Hermione, and the sense of fullness of being that had come when they first held her in their arms. They spoke from a place of deep emotional connection, and Hermione didn’t think she could bear shattering their world by casting doubt on their feelings’ validity.
She’d initially hoped that her parents were squibs, magical also-rans whose genes had combined to birth a full-strength witch. That would explain her connection to Slytherin’s bloodline, perhaps if they were descended from an unlikely combination of Pureblood squibs who met and fell in love. But her admittedly limited detection spells hadn’t revealed a single iota of magical potential within her parents, and she’d been forced to discard the theory.
Left with the uncomfortable truth that the Grangers were two Muggles who’d been magically duped into believing she was their miracle child, Hermione stood on the precipice of a truly unbearable decision. To tell her parents would crush them, to do nothing would betray her heritage. Any information she searched for at the Ministry wouldn’t go unnoticed, and she was quite certain that there were people lurking around who’d look at her true identity with fear or greed. Trapped in a quandary of someone else’s making, she did the only thing she could.
She loved them.
Whoever else they were, Daniel and Jean Granger were her parents, the people who’d raised her since she was just an infant, her Mum and Dad. They’d dried her tears when she cried and praised her when she excelled. Where other parents might have shied away from their daughter when she grew inquisitive and shy, they nurtured her intellectual curiosity and made sure to support her interests however they could. Even when they learned Hermione was a witch, they’d stuck by her.
They may not have understood the vast adventure that their little girl was embarking on, but they knew they loved her, and nothing else could ever matter in the face of that love. So what if their daughter carried a wand and brewed foul-smelling concoctions in the garden shed? She was doing something remarkable. She ought to be celebrated, not put down.
So she smiled at her mother’s cooking and laughed at her father’s terrible jokes, and promised herself that she would never stop being their girl. Whoever else she was destined to be, she would always be their little girl.
-
Daphne wasn’t sure when the itch had started, but by the time her second year at Hogwarts drew to a close, she was quite sure of one thing: she wanted to be an Animagus.
Perhaps it’d been seeing McGonagall spy on a gabbing classroom of students from her perch on a cat tower, or reading stories of Mebble Bimblewick and his use of his wren form to investigate dark places and learn hidden secrets of the past. Perhaps the idea of taking flight just appealed to a deep, unimpeachable part of her soul. She didn’t know, and frankly she didn’t care. All she knew for certain was that she was going to become an Animagus— and a cool one at that, none of those rat transformations— or her name wasn’t Daphne Greengrass.
Her parents, Benedict and Cassandra, were fine people. As Sacred Twenty-Eight members went their house was remarkably progress, and neither Daphne nor Astoria had felt the same pressure to conform to toxic social standards that other Pureblood girls seemed to struggle with. But they weren’t… challenging, per se. They never pushed Daphne to top her class in Potions nor work at her dueling like she had at Hogwarts, and as far as they were concerned whatever Daphne ended up doing with her life was all above board with them, provided she married a nice Pureblood boy. Benedict’s brother Archibald was technically the head of the family, and his unpleasant son Peter was next in line to inherit the family lordship, but there were still some expectations for her to meet. No Pureblood family was truly progressive, after all.
Which was a problem in and of itself, because Daphne was quite certain the life path she was charting for herself didn’t include a boy of any sort. While none of the girls at Hogwarts had caught her eye— besides Mia and Pans, in a sisterly sort of way— she’d known from a young age that she was going to end up with a witch. Perhaps a dashing, clean-cut brunette who loved haute cuisine and took her out dancing on the weekends, or a chiseled Quidditch player with an undercut and abs that could make even the most chaste witches drool in desire. They might even be blonde, like she was. Can you imagine?
Whoever her special someone was, Daphne hoped they wouldn’t have a problem with her deep friendships with her two girls. Pans might’ve hated the Muggle films that Mia made them watch, but the phrase ‘ride or die’ had stuck to her brain from the first time she’d heard it and refused to leave. Daphne was ‘ride or die’. Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson were her ‘brothers from another mother’. If any potential lover thought she could separate the three of them they were ‘straight tripping’, because she believed in ‘bros before hos.’
Was she using that correctly? Surely not, but that was half the fun of it, right?
Hogwarts, September 1st, 1993. Common sense skips a generation in the family Black. If Nymphadora’s your counterexample, I need only remind you of the abomination that was her hair on her first day in the Auror Office. Pink stripes on slightly darker pink? The audacity!
After the utter trial of the previous year, Hermione was dearly hoping for lighter fare in their third year at school. The question of her ancestry loomed over her head like a Sword of Damocles, and Pansy’s home situation had gone from bad to worse over the prior summer. Her friend was staying at Daphne’s indefinitely, and while Hermione relished the chance to see her more often in the future, she hated that it had come at the cost of her inheritance and her family name. Hearing that it had all come about because Pansy had stood up for her filled her with deep admiration, and she resolved to return the favor in whatever limited way she could. Pansy deserved nothing less than her best, so it was without hesitation nor fear of punishment that she responded ruthlessly when Draco Malfoy decided to run his mouth at the Welcoming Feast.
“Hey Parkinson,” the Malfoy heir called out from across the table, wearing a smile fit only for the consumption of feces. “I heard that your parents disowned you. If you ask me, it’s about time, someone should’ve told you not to hhhhkkkhhh—”
His vicious mockery was cut off when his tongue swelled up in his mouth, ballooning in a matter of seconds to fill the entirety of the available space. The blonde prat’s face went red as he furtively tried to speak, finding himself quite unable to make any sound more distinct than a wheezing hiss as his face contorted in shame. The Slytherins around the table burst out laughing as Malfoy stood up, wagging his finger in outrage at the three of them as members of the other houses looked on in jubilation at the boy’s predicament.
Hermione and her friends laughed with them, relishing the chance to see the overstuffed taxidermied peacock get a taste of his own medicine. It was a nifty little charm she’d used, an older variant of the far nastier Mouth-Melting Curse that some Purebloods used as a punishment for children who talked back to their parents. She’d seen its potential the moment she laid eyes on it in an old Charms book, especially given the way the swelling tongue mimicked an allergic reaction to the untrained eye. No one had seen or heard her spell, so there was no way tracing it back to her either. The perfect crime, she thought to herself.
She was far too busy gloating to pay attention to her surroundings, and it seemed that Daphne and Pansy weren’t much better. None of them noticed when a tall figure wearing pristine red robes walked up behind them. Not until she cleared her throat at least.
“Ahem,” came a strong, firm voice, “what’s going on here?”
Draco’s eyebrows shot up as he saw the figure, and Hermione turned to see a brunette witch staring back at her, curved eyebrow raised in question. She had the refined features of a lady, all sharp cheekbones and aquiline noise, with a set to her broad shoulders that screamed confidence. Hermione would’ve have called her pretty— she was— but it missed the mark of what made her alluring. She exuded an assured, aggressive kind of beauty, as if the gravity of the room altered to center entirely on her.
The red robes she wore made her stand out even further. Her sleeves flared at the wrists and the heels, adding a touch of a lovingly retro style to her look, and though her modest bun seemed somewhat at odds with the rest of her, the clear intention behind each style decision somehow managed to make it all work in harmony. On her chest, a crest had been worked with silver thread in the shape of a raven in flight, set with a blazing ruby in place of its eye.
The woman’s full lips parted once more as she stared Hermione down. “Well? I’m waiting.”
“It’s just an allergic reaction, ma’am,” Daphne cut in, giving the woman a winning smile. “Must’ve been something he ate.”
“Something he ate. Really.” The woman shook her head, turning her gaze first to Daphne, then to Draco. “You should be more careful.”
She produced her wand from her sleeve with a dainty movement, then wordlessly cast a spell in the blonde boy’s direction. The swelling receded, leaving him gasping and stammering in outrage as he rounded on Hermione and her friends. “You impudent little Mudblood! Just wait till my father hears of this, he’ll have you expelled before you have time to unpack your things. I’ve been waiting for something to come along to show that you—”
“That will be enough, Draco,” the woman said coolly. “I’ll see to it that Miss Granger and her friends receive the proper discipline for their actions, and perhaps you’ll learn to listen to your elders once in a while.”
“But, auntie,” Draco hissed in frustration.
“Don’t auntie me, young man. Enjoy the feast with your lesser lights.” She wrinkled her nose in Crabbe and Goyle’s direction, who gave no sign of having understood the slight, before turning back to the others. “You three, come with me.”
Her tone brooked no argument, and Hermione and her friends found two hundred pairs of eyes on them as they followed the woman— Draco’s aunt— out of the Great Hall. Students leaving the halls early during the opening banquet didn’t happen often, and anxious whispers echoed behind them as they slipped past the long tables and entered the silent corridors of the school.
The red-clad woman didn’t spare them as a glance as she led them with intention, heels clicking against the stone floors as she walked up a path of stairs and took a right to head towards Flitwick’s classroom. Pansy shot her friends a glance as they moved, expression laden with a silent question. Daphne grimaced and Hermione gave a subtle shake of her head. Whoever this woman was, she could perform complex magic wordlessly, and they didn’t want to get on her bad side.
It was only once they’d entered the terraced Charms classroom and shut the door behind them that the woman rounded on them once more, lips curling in a smile. There was something close to pride on her face, paired with a twinkle to her brown eyes that Hermione could’ve sworn she’d seen somewhere before.
“That was a neat piece of magic,” she declared, breaking the stony silence. “If I hadn’t been watching the Slytherin table I doubt anyone would’ve caught it.”
“You have no proof of anything,” Pansy replied haughtily. “And why were you looking at us in the first place? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Can’t I look after my own House?” The woman parried. Her expression softened as she shook her head. “Oh, where are my manors. I have the honor to be Andromeda, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. I believe you worked with my Nymphadora your first two years here?”
“You’re Dora’s mum?” Daphne asked incredulously. The woman didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
Hermione focused on the more important part of the introduction. “You’re Andromeda Black? One of the best Charms students in a century, and renowned spell inventor Andromeda Black?”
Andromeda chuckled, leaning back against a desk. “Among other things, yes. I regret that our first meeting was colored by that business with Draco, but I couldn’t risk him running off to prattle to Lucius or Severus. He couldn’t have gotten you expelled, but its attention you don’t need.”
“Why do you care if we draw attention to ourselves?” Pansy questioned. She’d let some of the hostility fall out of her tone, but she still eyed Andromeda warily. Among the three of them she had taken on a kind of enforcer role in their interactions with others, providing cover for Daphne’s bubbly geniality and Hermione’s incisive wit. They worked well together for a number of reasons, and the natural ‘good cop’ ‘bad cop ‘brainy cop’ dynamic they fell into always seemed to overwhelm others.
But Andromeda was no wilting wallflower, and she played off Pansy’s demand with aplomb. “Can’t I be concerned about the three best students in Slytherin? If my daughter’s to be believed, you three were working with fourth-year magic last year.” Her eyes flashed with something unreadable, yet desperately intent. “Don’t you want to continue along your path to excellence?”
“Are you offering to teach us?” Hermione asked excitedly. Andromeda was legendary, and there was no telling how much she could learn from the older witch.
“Well I should certainly hope so. I am your new Charms professor, after all,” Andromeda replied with a broad smile.
“What happened to Flitwick?”
“Dragon pox,” Professor Black said sadly. “Must’ve caught it on his holiday in the Baltics. They think he’ll recover, but in the interim I’ve stepped in to teach in his place.”
Hermione liked Flitwick. In fact, he was probably the best professor she’d had at Hogwarts, with the possible exception of McGonagall. But the chance to work with a witch of Andromeda’s skill was enticing, especially given her daughter’s willingness to teach them magic that Hogwarts never dared to.
Sensing the questions before they came, Andromeda threw up her fingers in a wandless, wordless spell, summoning a wooden box from the office that abutted the classroom. They’d worked on the Summoning Charm with Dora the year before, but the Professor made it look like child’s play. “That brings me to why I’d hoped to speak with you privately before the beginning of term. My fool of a nephew’s well-deserved jinxing aside, I’ve decided that it’s only proper that someone continues your training that my daughter began. I’ve stayed well-informed on the sorts of spells you’ve worked with, and I’m quite certain the powers-that-be wouldn’t approve of you learning them on your own. Of course, I can’t be seen teaching you any of the most interesting magics.” Her eyes burned with glee, and she chuckled. “But I can help you learn them on your own time, so to speak.”
Daphne caught on first, her jaw dropping as she looked at the gold inlay on the little maple box the Professor had summoned. The blonde looked utterly giddy as she clapped her friends on the shoulders. “No, no way. The Ministry doesn’t let them out to underage students!”
Professor Black nodded. “They don’t. I do.”
“What is it Daph?” Hermione asked, unable to tear her eyes off the box. The magic within called to her, promising her power beyond her wildest imaginings. Or at least, the beginnings of power. There were no shortcuts when it came to mastering magic, but there were opportunities to move forward if you worked for them.
“It’s a bloody Time-Turner,” Daphne whispered in amazement. “We can use it to double our studying time if we want to, maybe even treble it.”
“Are you serious?” Pansy asked, staring at the elder witch in appraisal. “This is quite a gift.”
“Not a gift, a loan, Miss Parkinson,” Professor Black said firmly. “I trust that you’ll use this wisely to advance your studies, and clear all your lessons with me in advance. Too many great witches have blown themselves up attempting Fiendfyre or something similarly stupid without proper training. You all have potential: consider this a trial run of sorts, to prove your fitness to work with the House of Black.”
They nodded in unison, sobered by the incredible opportunity they were being offered. The Blacks were arguably the most eminent, powerful House in all of Britain. When they’d worked with Dora it’d been easy to pass off what they did as the passing fancy of an under-challenged older student, helping the younger generation on a whim. This was something else entirely, and cast their time with Dora in a different light altogether. Their capabilities had been tested without their knowledge, and it seemed that they’d passed with flying colors.
“Before I give this to you, a word of warning,” Professor Black intoned, shoulders poised and rigid. “Under no circumstances should you use this in a combat situation, or to rewrite past events. I don’t care if one of you breaks a leg, the Whomping Willow catches fire, or cousin Siri shows up here baying for blood. This is meant to give you more time, not second chances. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Hermione replied. “But why would ‘cousin Siri’ show up here, and why should we not worry about it?”
“She means Sirius Black, Mia,” Daphne whispered in her ear. “Meant to be one of the Dark Lord’s most devoted, killed a whole load of Muggles, and just broke out of Azkaban. He’s the first to ever do it.”
“Why would that impact us?” Hermione asked, still not understanding.
Professor Black sighed, scratching at her chin as she internally debated on how much to say. When she did end up speaking, she focused her attention entirely on Hermione. “My dear, insane cousin has an obsession with Mister Potter, and I have reason to believe he’ll try to infiltrate the school grounds. The Ministry are incompetent fools who’d prefer to solve the issue with a hammer than a scalpel, hence the dementors circling us like bloody mosquitos. Suffice to say— and don’t go spreading this around— it’s only a matter of time till he gets inside the grounds, and he’ll surely attempt to make contact with Potter or his… other associates. Be smart, be safe, and don’t get involved. If anything comes up with my cousin, let me know. Better that a member of our House brings him in, lest he get the kiss.”
Sufficiently sobered by the conversation, Hermione and her friends murmured in agreement. It would be raving mad to try to go after an adult wizard who’d worked for Voldemort alone, especially when doing so would involve tampering with the fabric of the timeline. Morgana, who’d be stupid enough to do a thing like that?
Hogsmeade, November 5th, 1993. A rare friendly outing between members of two star-crossed Houses, with a couple badgers in tow. Who knows, perhaps by the end of the day there’ll be more badgers to contend with?
It was, Daphne discovered, exceedingly difficult to speak properly with a mandrake leaf in her mouth. All of the guides she’d found on becoming an Animagus had mentioned the experience as being singularly unpleasant, but she hadn’t quite believed them. The Ministry had a vested interest in portraying the practice as dangerous and unsafe, in order to tamp down the sorts of magic that they had a harder time controlling, and Daphne had learned not to trust a single thing that issued forth from their mouthpieces.
There were good Ministry employees, she was sure. Dora had met them in Hogsmeade a few weeks before during their first visit to the sleepy town, proudly displaying her trainee-Auror Badge on her chest. The older witch was delighted to learn that they were keeping up with their advanced study, and promised to show them around the Ministry as soon as they passed their OWLS. Hermione and Pansy seemed interested in a career there after school closed, and apparently the Black family had connections in the highest echelons of government. It was those connections that had allowed Professor Black to politely but firmly offer to officially register their imminent Animagus forms with the Ministry through an archaic backchannel, to prevent them going to Azkaban as unregistered Animagi. There were perks to working with the House of Black. Serious perks.
They were only a few hours from the full moon, and Daphne was bouncing on her bloody feet to finish the ritual and inhabit her Animagus form for the first time. Pansy and Hermione had taken some convincing, but they’d eventually agreed that they’d undertake it all together, to better understand each other’s worlds. Pansy was hoping for a snake, to steal Hermione’s Parseltongue thunder, and Hermione was sure that she was going to end up as some kind of serpent as well. A Horned-Serpent, perhaps, or even a lesser Basilisk. Her friend was somewhat cagey about the nature of her connection to snakes, but she’d trusted them with the secret that she was connected to the House of Slytherin in a manner that she didn’t yet understand. Pansy had crowed about how her useless parents had missed the opportunity to associate with such a prestigious title, and Daphne had done her bit to assure Hermione that they were in her corner no matter how things shook out. They were ‘ride or die’, and that meant something, though Daphne still wasn’t entirely clear on what it was.
It was the need to stand as one that led the two other Slytherins to grit their teeth and extend their tentative acquaintanceship to Hermione’s three other friends: the brash Susan Bones, sarcastic Megan Jones, and the Boy-Who-Couldn’t-Be-Bothered-To-Fix-His-Hair. Honestly, it took ten seconds to run a comb through the damned thing. It looked like a bloody rat’s nest.
“I’m coming for your Potions crown, Greengrass,” Megan said to her over their butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks. “And Herbology, too.”
Daphne scoffed. “You wish, Jones. Even if I slipped up in Potions, my Head of House is the Professor, and you know how much he favors us Slytherins. Why Sprout hasn’t thumbed the scales for you in Herbology I’ll never understand.”
Megan scrunched her nose up at the idea. “Sprout thinks that I’ll do best if she pushes me harder than the other students. ‘Competition is good for you,’” she said in a passable imitation of the jolly Herbologist. “‘If I marked you like everyone else, you’d be top of the class, but I want you to be the best you can be.’”
“Well that’s bloody stupid. What’s a Head of House for, if not helping you earn a few accolades? Merlin knows neither of us are taking the top spot from Little Miss Brilliant over there.”
“Hey!” Hermione exclaimed playfully. “I’ll have you know that I’m Little Miss Bloody Brilliant, thank you very much.”
“Sure you are, Mia,” Daphne shot back. “So long as you don’t take my title as Little Miss Bloody Gorgeous.” Her friend rolled her eyes, then went back to her conversation with Susan, Pansy, and an invisible Harry. The boy wasn’t technically allowed in Hogsmeade, but a combination of an Invisibility Cloak and a cracking magical map let him sneak out to spend time with them.
“You know you’re more than that, right Greengrass?” Megan said softly, drawing her attention once more. “Gorgeous, I mean. For as much grief as you give me, you’re smart, and you’re way nicer than the other Slytherins. I was nervous when Hermione asked us to meet you last year, because I’m a Muggleborn, but you’ve never made a comment about my blood status. I know that’s a low bar, but you and Pansy are the only Slytherins to clear it.”
Daphne was about to respond with a dry comment, but a look over at Megan stilled her tongue. There was the hint of mist in the Hufflepuff’s eyes, and she intuitively understood that the other girl was speaking from the heart. She was reaching out to Daphne for comfort, and despite her frequent joking, Daphne had a heart underneath her layers of performance.
“You’re a brilliant witch, Megan, and I’d be an awful friend if I accepted Hermione’s blood status and insulted you for your own. Rest assured that I don’t have a problem with you, and neither does Pans, even if she’s a git.”
Megan laughed lightly, then took a long sip of her butterbeer. It left a foamy mustache on her lip as she finished, and Daphne resisted the urge to tease her for it. Not everyone was born as pretty as she was, after all, and it looked awful if she insulted other people for their appearance. She might have been the patron goddess of vanity, but that was a poor excuse to be a prat.
“So,” Megan said, “what have you been working on in the library over the past few months? I feel like I always see you in there.”
“Oh, this and that,” Daphne casually replied. She wasn’t about to admit to their Animagus explorations. “New spells, mostly. Mia’s crazy for them.”
“I’ll be she is. Anything you can share with us plebs?”
Daphne grinned, delighting in the way that the mandrake leaf felt on her tongue. “That depends. Are you into transfiguration?”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Are you working with Polyjuice?”
“Something like that.”
Their conversations petered out over the next half hour or so, and she and her friends said their goodbyes as the Puffs and an invisible Harry made their way back to the castle. They’d planned for their little excursion to Hogsmeade to draw cover for themselves as their Time-Turned past incarnations snuck into the Shrieking Shack to await the full moon that night. Professor Black had secured the space for them, entrusting Dora to ward it with advanced concealment charms to hide the sounds of their transformations, and switching patrol schedules so that she could meet them at the front gate when they’d finished. A stormy midnight was the only time the ritual could be performed, and tonight was their first real crack at it since they’d begun holding the blasted leaves in their mouths. Daphne couldn’t wait.
“Right,” Pansy said as she watched the other three walk off. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Pans?” Daphne wheedled. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. We’ll tell our kids about this someday.”
“If we even have kids,” Pansy shot back. “Fair chance one of our spells will make us all infertile one day.”
“Quiet, you two,” Hermione interjected, a note of exasperation in her voice. She slipped the Time-Turner out of her pocket as they snuck into an unused classroom, running her fingers over the burnished gold. “I’m excited for whatever snake magic gives me, but I’m not itching to lay eggs anytime soon.”
“You’re awfully sure you’re getting a snake, Mia,” Daphne teased. Poking the bear was a hobby of hers, and she was the only one who could get away with it. “You haven’t had a dream about your form, so there’s no way of properly knowing.”
“Easy for you to say, Daph. Not every perfect Pureblood princess sees the swan they’re apparently destined to become.” Pansy’s tongue was dryer than usual, with a touch of jealousy to it that Daphne utterly savored. Around their enemies they always presented a united front, but when they were alone they went at each other like wildcats.
Her Animagus dream had come a few nights before, during a particularly satisfying slumber after they’d spent the day throwing Bombardas at dummies until they could pulverize them consistently. In her vision, she’d woken up in her bed in the Slytherin dorms the day after their spring exams, content in the knowledge that she’d done well. Hermione and Pansy had still been asleep, so she’d resolved to go for a walk outside and enjoy the lovely weather while she had the chance. It wasn’t often that she got the chance to spend time by herself, and she walked happily to the corner of the Black Lake, relishing the feel of the warm sun on her back.
Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary until she’d reached the lakeshore and stared down into the choppy waters below. Rather than her own face, black eyes perched over a tapered orange beak stared back at her in the water. It was her Animagus form, she’d realized giddily after a moment of confusion. A perfect reflection of her inner self, made manifest in the form of an animal. Her swan was everything she was: tall, elegant, slender-necked. Her wings beat with sublime grace, and her feathers gleamed silver in the afternoon sunlight. A beautiful bird, and a symbol of grace and intelligence the world over. She couldn’t have imagined a better match for her.
Hermione ignored Pansy’s jibe and turned up her nose at Daphne’s teasing. “I’m the Heir of Slytherin, Miss Greengrass, or haven’t you heard? There’s no way I’d fit with anything other than a snake.”
“We’ll see. Magic has a sense of humor, and I bet it’d like nothing better than to see you with egg on your face.” She ducked down to dodge the Stinging Hex that Hermione fired at her for the insult, grinning all the while.
A short turn of the Time Turner later and they were back in Hogwarts, watching their past selves walk out the door of the castle with their other friends. Daphne managed their Concealment Charms as they snuck out behind them, making for the Shrieking Shack among the mass of students headed towards the little village. They had a rock solid alibi now, and as long as a teacher didn’t catch them they were free to spend the day in the Shack without anyone being the wiser. Professor Black had offered to watch over their transformations herself— her sister was an Animagus, and she had a good handle on what the change involved— but she hadn’t pressed when they’d declined the offer. She’d quickly proven to be a remarkable teacher, providing them with books from her family library to suit their respective interests and encouraging their passions. There’d even been a hint of an offer to visit one of the family properties during the summer if everything went well with their learning.
They spent the next few hours idly chatting, each of them harboring their own internal worries about was to come. Daphne was probably the least anxious of them, due to both her foreknowledge of her animal form and her generally easygoing manner. Pansy was outwardly stoic but internally roiling with the same well of difficult emotions that had plagued her since she’d been forced out of her family home. As for Mia, new magic always made her overly excitable. She’d read too many books on negative reactions to spells and misfiring magic to trust that nothing would go wrong.
As the moon climbed towards its zenith, they each retired to a separate room in the shack. The first moments of the transformation were said to be the hardest, as your human mind struggled to cope with the reality of their new form. Predatory animals had a habit of lashing out upon first entering the world, and Daphne’s swan wouldn’t last long with an adder’s fangs in her throat. It was better to split up than risk anything drastic happening.
Her heartbeat quickened as hours became minutes, then minutes became seconds. She’d wanted this for as long as she could remember, and only ever dreamed that it could happen for her. Greengrasses didn’t do anything notable. In her family’s long and not-particularly-storied history, they’d never produced a Minister of Magic nor a Headmaster of Hogwarts, nor a Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Head Auror, or national Quidditch team captain. The most famous Greengrass was Elphaba, her great-great-great-great-great-great aunt, who was well regarded as a magical botanist for her work on desert plants in North Africa. Daphne was determined to better her, and to do far more besides. She’d be somebody, just like Pansy and Hermione would. Together, they’d move mountains.
A chirping Muggle alarm clock rang out from Hermione’s room, signifying that the moment of truth was upon them. Wasting no time, Daphne placed her wand over her heart and recited the incantation: “Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus.” The words rippled in the air as she spoke them, laced with power. As soon as she finished, she dropped her wand and downed her potion, coughing as the bitter liquid ran down her throat. A small price to pay for a lifetime of possibility.
The change took her immediately, and far less painfully than she’d have expected it to. Her body twisted and stretched as her neck lengthened and her legs receded, though she didn’t shrink to the size of a normal swan. Her vision improved markedly as she blinked her black eyes, staring at the world in new detail. She could see grains of dust shifting in shafts of moonlight, and smell wood and must from the broken down furniture in the other rooms. There was an unmistakable musk in the air as well, an overly rich, prickly scent that had her shaking her head in disgust. Pansy must’ve shifted into a gorilla like Daphne had teased her about.
With a satisfied honk, she shifted back into her human form, flushed with victory and eager to share it with her friends. She walked out into the living room, grinning ear to ear. “I’ve only gone and bloody done it! Are you two alright?”
“Better than,” Pansy replied as she emerged from her room. A moment later she shifted, and in her place was a large, silky-coated snow leopard. She bared her fangs at Daphne in a toothy smile, swishing her tail back and forth as she padded about on soft feet. Daphne had to admit that she was impressed: an adult snow leopard could kill a human easily if it set its mind to it, and Pansy’s form would offer her inordinate advantages in duels and battles. A forty-foot horizontal leap was far more than most wizards were prepared for.
“Not bad at all,” Daphne admitted with an appraising nod. “Promise you won’t eat me if I steal your Defense essay?”
“Never,” Pansy responded cheekily as she shifted back into her human form. Frowning, she looked around. “Where’s Mia?”
“This is bullshit,” came a sulky voice from Hermione’s room. “I’m Slytherin’s Heir. I can talk to snakes. I should’ve been a bloody snake.”
“Come on out, Mia,” Daphne called. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
Grumbling followed her words, followed by a scrabbling sound as Hermione shifted back into her new form. Daphne braced herself for something remarkable as a creature skittered over the wooden floorboards of the Shack, walking over to Pansy to enlist her help in keeping a straight face. Hermione needed their support, whatever her new form was, and there was no way in hell that Daphne was going to let her put herself down.
That noble goal lasted all of half a second as Hermione appeared in the doorway. A two-foot tall brown otter gazed back at them, pouting adorably as she waddled out into the open area. Tiny black whiskers scrunched down above her dark eyes where eyebrows would’ve been, and clawed hands gesticulated wildly as the little otter ranted about the injustice of it all. At least, Daphne was fairly sure she was ranting. All that issued forth from Hermione’s mouth were a series of chirps and squeaks, accompanied by the occasional foul scent as the otter subconsciously released an odiferous liquid in its annoyance.
The sight of the inimitable Hermione Granger grumbling in otter form was too much to bear, and Daphne and Pansy both burst out laughing. There was something absurd about it all, made all the more humorous when the otter cross her little arms and honest to god huffed in their general direction. Daphne wanted to walk over and pinch her furry cheeks; if Hermione hadn’t seemed like she was in a biting mood, she would’ve done exactly that.
“Oh aren’t you just adorable,” she cooed, smiling even wider when the otter harrumphed in annoyance. “You’ll be the belle of the ball whenever you transform.”
“She’s right, Mia,” Pansy chimed in. “You’re almost too cute, if you can believe it.”
The otter’s nose wrinkled, but that godawful scent dissipated, and a moment later Hermione was standing in front of them once more. She was scowling up a storm, and the first words out of her mouth weren’t surprising in the least. “Really, an otter? I’m the Heir of Slytherin, for Morgana’s sake. Half the snakes I meet will want to eat me in my Animagus form!”
“Maybe your otter can speak Parseltongue,” Daphne teased. She didn’t quite dodge the Stinging Hex the second time, and winced as she rubbed the welt on her jaw. It was worth it to hear Pansy’s snicker, and to see the indignant pout on Hermione’s face.
Hogwarts, November 12th, 1997. Many meetings, but which is stranger? The Princess Black, or the flighty stranger?
Bloody Gryffindors. Bloody Lupin. Bloody school rules stopping her for hexing Gryffindors in Lupin’s class.
Pansy walked back from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom under a proverbial stormcloud, muttering under her breath about the injustice of it all. If the damned lions were going to insult her to her face, it was only fair that she get the chance to defend herself. Instead, they’d hid behind Professor Lupin’s skirts, clamoring for him to punish big, mean Pansy Parkinson for threatening to hex them for their impudence. To her eternal frustration, their professor had taken their side, lecturing Pansy about ‘threatening fellow students outside of the dueling ground’. The nerve of him.
She tried not to let them get to her, she really did. Years growing up under the roof of the ancestral Parkinson manor had given her a thick skin and a stiff upper lip, but she wasn’t made of stone. She knew she could be harsh and abrasive towards new people, and she knew that her affect often came across as ‘bitchy’, whatever that meant. She knew she had a pug nose and a strong brow— a bulldog’s face, according to the worst descriptions— and that she had a better chance of landing a Deputy Minister of Magic position than a boyfriend. She knew that her parents were wicked, nasty people who didn’t love her, and that she could never go home again.
Pansy knew all these things, believed all these things, and yet they never ceased to hurt her. The world had been cruel to her from the outset, and she’d long since resolved not to let it hurt her. It hurt her anyway, and she was drowning in an endless sea. Daphne and Hermione were her lifelines, her only real friends, her found family as she flailed amidst the waves. Without them she would surely drown, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she pushed them away. She was so very good at pushing people away.
Wandering about the castle, she decided to head in the general direction of Professor Black’s classroom. The Charms professor was utterly brilliant and refreshingly wicked, and sometimes it almost seemed like she thought Pansy was something more than an afterthought. Andromeda Black had praise in spades for all three of her pupils, but Hermione was so brilliant that she didn’t need affirmation and Daphne was already too vain to overly care for it. For Pansy, it was more than she’d ever had before, and all she’d ever wanted.
Thoughts swirled so tightly around her eyes that it took her a few moments to realize that she’d stopped walking. Glancing up from the floor, she locked eyes with someone she only vaguely recalled seeing before. The girl was shorter than her by a few inches, with a dreamy look to her round face that was accentuated by a subtle fluttering of her eyelashes. Pools of clouded spring water peered out from skin so pale as to be nearly translucent, and silver blonde hair shrouded her face in an untidy curtain, hiding whispered secrets. She wore light blue robes and a bafflingly eccentric shawl was draped over her shoulders, glittering with metal and precious stones of all kinds. When she met Pansy’s eyes, she smiled dreamily.
“You’re taller than I expected,” the girl said matter-of-factly, her voice rising in an infuriating lilt. “Older too, and getting older all the time.”
Right, Pansy thought, that clarified absolutely nothing. She didn’t know the girl from any of her classes, but there was something familiar about her, something that felt deeply important in the hollows of her bones. Pansy’s magic flickered around the girl’s hesitatingly, unsure of itself in a way that she’d never experienced before.
“Excuse me, have we met?” Pansy asked, in a far kinder ton than she’d meant to.
The girl shook her head softly. “Not yet, but we’re meeting now, aren’t we? Time has no beginning and no end, but everything has to start somewhere. It does for us humans, at least. Other creatures might deal better with the eternal and the cyclical.”
Pansy blinked in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” the girl admitted, smiling that blissful smile. “But I will, one day. The nargles will tell the truth to me, when I catch them by their tails. Such a feat deserves a gift, does it not?”
“I guess so,” Pansy replied, feeling unmoored from the conversation and the world. Salazar, the girl was like nothing and no one she’d ever seen before, and she spoke nothing but nonsense, but her magic beat in tempo with Pansy’s own. A shared heartbeat of fizzing energy, flickering just out of the visible spectrum, dancing to an unheard tune.
The girl seemed pleased by Pansy’s reply, and clapped her fingers lightly together as she nodded vigorously. “How good of you to say so. Most people would’ve called me crazy by now, or tried to push me down. I don’t like it when they try to push me, but we all have to fall sometimes.”
“Do we?”
Another nod. “We do. For example, I could tell you to watch the second step after you meet the sister stars, but it wouldn’t do any good. Some things are meant to happen, even if they’re sad.”
Pansy should’ve responded acerbically, firing back a witty retort or a scintillating put-down, but none came to mind. She wished, more than anything else in the world, that there was a point to all her suffering. It would be easier to bear the harsh words, if they were all building towards a higher purpose. She was good, she was strong, she was worthy of love.
Before she could reply, the girl was gone, dancing off down the corridor and humming a tune to herself. Pansy was alone in the corridor, gaping like a catfish as the dreamer vanished down a side passage. She was utterly overwhelmed by the brief interaction, but for once in her life, she didn’t overly mind. There was something in the air that brought a spring to her step and a smile to her face as she walked on to see Professor Black, in hopes of steering herself towards a better future. And for what it was worth, she made sure to avoid the second step as she took the stairs towards her office. No sense ignoring prophecy when it came so readily to her ears.
Chapter 9: In the Pale Moonlight
Summary:
Hermione grows closer to the family Black. Daphne is having strange dreams. Pansy finds herself drawn to a Ravenclaw. A Boy makes a bad decision, and it ends in blood.
Notes:
Hi folks!
Ending Year 3! I wrote this chapter in close to one go while blasted off my ass and watching Breaking Dawn Part One, and it was a ton of fun. We get more Andromeda and Silver Trio development, and a few pieces are laid for the years to come.
Loved people's thoughts on future ships in last chapter's comments! Pansy / Luna (maybe / other?) has been added, with Daphne soon to join them. For those of you who've read my other works, Pans and Loon is a favorite of mine, and I'm hopeful that the Daph pairing is equally fun.
Next chapter we'll properly introduce Fleur and the family Black, after which we'll delve straight into a Triwizard Tournament, with champions to be chosen. Thanks again for your kudos and comments, they keep my little engine chugging along as I fight the urge to cut my bangs and burn all my work. Till next week!
xoxo
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, January 26th, 1998. They really don’t pay the Professors enough at this goddamned school. Seriously, Snape had to provide an emergency antidote to that absolute full of a Weasley the other day, and Quidditch practices routinely end in broken bones.
Andromeda Black loved her sisters, she really did. Bella wasn’t called the Brightest Witch of her Age for nothing, and Cissa was an absolutely remarkable potioneer in her own right. The three of them had done wonderful things together, both in service of the Dark Lord and on their own, and the future was theirs to shape if they played their cards right. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black would ascend to its rightful place at the apex of Wizarding society once more, and she’d stand at the right hand of the Lady Slytherin. It was ordained in the stars.
That didn’t mean her relationship with her sisters was always easy. Bella was stubborn to a fault, haughty when she should be conciliatory, and capable of incredible acts of violence when she felt like she was slighted. Dealing with her sister was like walking along a tightrope at times, trying not to make a mistake that would send her plummeting to her death.
Cissa was little better. She’d always had a tendency to shut herself away from the world, even when they were children, and things had only gotten worse since Lily Evans died. The Mudblood Gryffindor had been Hermione before Hermione, a brilliant witch with natural ability that rivaled Andromeda’s own. Cissa had been chosen to investigate the girl further in order to determine whether she was the child of prophecy. It had all come to naught in the end: Lily’s blood had been as muddy as it had first appeared to be, and the Dark Lord had killed her in his last act in his original body. Alas, Cissa had already fallen hopelessly in love with the girl, and she hadn’t been the same after her death. Though they’d always assumed that Bella would be the Heir’s soulmate, Cissa had come to believe that Lily was hers, and that together they’d fulfill the prophecy. The loss had nearly broken her.
That left Andromeda herself to corral two extremely powerful, erratic sisters and deal with an escaped murderer of a cousin without turning him into the soul-sucking demons that the Ministry used as prison guards, all while trying to keep a firm hold on the Heir and her two friends.
The Silver Trio, as they were becoming known to contrast with Gryffindor’s Golden Trio, were an absolute handful. Dora had informed her about Hermione’s magical potential well in advance, but seeing the power that the three of them wielded in concert was daunting. They’d advanced far past what was expected of third-years, and the Time Turner’s additional practice was pushing them well beyond their peers in both prowess and age. Time magic was an extremely advanced science, but by her rough estimation they’d all age an additional year before they returned the Time Turner in May. With any luck, they’d lose their Traces before they began their fifth year. Things were going according to plan, they just needed to bide their time.
So it was that Andromeda found herself sipping tea in her office and trying very, very hard to keep Bella from doing something foolish.
The raven-haired sister set her jaw and pouted over her teacup, staring daggers at Andromeda. When she wasn’t happy, she made sure you knew about it. “I don’t see the harm in talking to them, Andy. They already know that our House has interest in them, and it’ll just move things along further.”
Andy sighed and shook her head. “And what will you say when the girl feels your soul-bond? She’s already aware of the Ties of Blood that bind her to Greengrass and Parkinson, and potentially the Ties of Birth that connect her with the Dark Lord. If she’s in your presence, your magic will react, and how in Salazar’s name will we explain that?”
Bella waved her hand dismissively. “She’ll have plenty of time to digest it herself. I may be a killer, but I’m not a cradle robber. I won’t rush our bond before she’s ready.”
It was a difficult problem. Ties that Bound were vanishingly rare, and they couldn’t be felt until both of those bonded were of legal age, but Hermione wasn’t an ordinary witch. They weren’t sure of her age even before the Time Turner induced aging that they’d decided on, and the last thing anyone wanted was the questions that would arise should Bella experience an inescapable pull to a fifth-year, no matter what her age was. Things might be different if Hermione’s true identity was publically revealed, but if that happened they’d have bigger problems.
“I’m not accusing you of doing anything despicable Bella, but you’ve got to consider her perspective. She’s already curious about why our House is working with an assumed Mudblood, even if she knows better of her heritage now. If she meets you and feels the connection, she’ll wonder how much we know and how long we’ve known it.” Andromeda’s voice was soft and warning. Knowing Hermione, she’d do something entirely unpredictable and set off on her own path with her two friends, spurning their help.
“It’ll be fine, Andy. Prophecies are never wrong, and she’s far stronger than you give her credit for.” Bella replied, stretching out in the plush armchair opposite Andy’s desk like a cat in repose.
Seeking to change the subject, Andy brought up the only topic of conversation that was more fraught than the matter of the Heir. “How’s the hunt for Siri going?”
Bella’s expression darkened, and she shook her head softly. “We haven’t found anything so far, but Reg and Dora have their ears to the ground in the Ministry. They suspect that he’s somewhere around the school, looking for Potter.”
Andromeda nodded. Siri was many things: a rebel, a free spirit, a lover, a fighter, and a convicted murderer. His casting aside of their family hadn’t been unexpected— he’d been placed in Gryffindor, after all— but his subsequent turning traitor against the Potters and their Order of the Phoenix had shocked them all. Siri was always proud and prickly, but he’d been loyal to his friends to a fault, even that cretin Peter Pettigrew. She’d never have believed him capable of it.
“Do you think he’ll try anything stupid?” She asked.
Bella snorted. “Siri? Do something stupid?”
“Fair enough. How’s Reg taking it?”
“Not well, but he’s soldiering on. Siri is still his brother, no matter what else he is.” Bella replied.
Andy nodded. “We’ll take him alive. The Ties of Birth won’t let us do anything else.”
“If he goes after Hermione, I might be forced to interfere,” Bella said coolly. “You know how Siri gets when he’s angry.”
She did. She wished she didn’t.
--
Hermione hadn’t planned on stopping by Professor Black’s office when she woke up that morning. She’d made plans with Daphne and Pansy to work on casting Patronus Charms— the first Charms work she’d ever truly struggled with— and they’d expected to spend most of their free afternoon working on casting a corporeal version of the spell. The Charm had a well-earned nasty reputation, and even the Time-Turner couldn’t make up for the sheer volume of practice they required to get it right.
But Daphne had a nasty headache, as she often did nowadays, and Pansy was busy poring over works on prophecies and seers. The Puffs were off making googly eyes at each other, dancing around the question of what exactly fourteen year olds did with each other. Harry was spending time with his Gryffindor friends, and there was no way in hell that she was crashing that party. That left Hermione without a plan for the day for the first time in weeks.
She could’ve gone to the library to study alone, or work on things in the Common Room, but she didn’t want the scrutiny that either would bring. After the events of the year before, the other students had developed an unwelcome fascination with her. The whispers about her being a Parselmouth had intensified rather than abating as time went on: every student with a magical parent had talked about the Muggleborn Parselmouth over the summer, and their parents had fueled their interest in the oddity that was Hermione Granger. To top things off, no one had missed the fact that it was both Harry Potter and Hermione Granger who’d been involved in the rescue of Ginny Weasley from whatever fate she’d fallen into, even if Potter got all the credit from Dumbledore and the Prophet.
As such, Hermione found herself gravitating towards Professor Black in her friends’ absence, in the same way that she’d gravitated towards Dora in years prior. The woman was an absurdly talented witch, particularly when it came to charms, and she’d quickly settled into a mentoring role that Hermione had been missing in her first two years at Hogwarts. She loved her parents dearly, but neither of them had any idea how to help her when it came to magic. When she went home for the holidays they danced around the subject, but they all knew that there was a gulf of experience between them that could never be crossed. Love kept them together, but life seemed bent on driving them apart.
Hermione tried to settle her emotions as she went off to talk to Professor Black, throwing a quick Thumping Charm at the door in lieu of knocking as she entered the Charms classroom. She never needed an appointment, and her Professor would’ve locked the door if she hadn’t wanted guests.
There was a flurry of activity inside the office as Hermione walked past the desks towards the inner sanctum, accompanied by whispered words and the scraping of a chair. Hermione tensed as she felt magic frizzle across her skin, nearly knocking her backwards at its intensity. She’d never experienced the feeling before: it was almost as if someone had found the underside of her magical core and tapped it twice to change its composition, unsettling it like an improperly set flan that needed more time in the oven. Her magic didn’t fail entirely, but it was still unsteady as she hurried towards the door. Had something happened to her Professor? A spell gone wrong, or an enchantment that had snapped loose from its bindings? Worry piqued in Hermione’s gut as she took the last few steps, and as her hand closed around the doorknob she feared the worst.
But when she opened the door, it was as if nothing had happened at all. Professor Black sat behind her desk, looking up idly when Hermione entered and giving her a welcoming smile. The air was still and the room was tidy, without any signs of distress or struggle. Scrolls of parchment sat awaiting Black’s terrifying red ink corrections, and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Everything was as it should be, bar the raven that sat perched on a bust of Hebredine Vilmar, a wildly talented scholar from the 18th century.
The bird looked at her with interest as she walked in, beady black eyes fixing on her own. Its stare was unnervingly potent, stripping away all the layers of obfuscation and uncertainty that clouded around her to hone in on the very core of her being. Hermione found herself returning the gaze in equal measure, daring the creature to challenge her. She was a witch of prodigal talent, and she wasn’t about to be forced to look away by a bird, no matter how clever it seemed to be. They cocked their heads to the side at the same time, searching for an advantage as they silently dueled and waiting for their moment to seize the initiative.
“That’s quite enough, you two,” Professor Black declared, tut-tutting as she shook her head. “I have fifth-year pre-OWL essays to grade, and there’s more than enough work here to sate my quill for days.”
Both Hermione and the raven turned to look at her, each looking sheepish in their own way. “Sorry, Professor,” Hermione said quickly. “I just—”
Professor Black interrupted her with a raised hand. “You just got caught up in a staring contest with her. Don’t worry about it: she tends to have that effect on people, though not many try to match her for as long as you did.”
“She?” Hermione inquired.
“She. My family still uses ravens instead of owls, on occasion. They’re far smarter birds, despite owls’ reputation for cleverness, and they live longer, too.” Professor Black said, shooting the bird a contemplative look. “This one has been in my family longer than I have.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. She didn’t know how old Andromeda Black was, but she must’ve been pushing forty since Dora was already eighteen. Could ravens really get that old?
“But enough about my family,” Professor Black said grandly, turning her eyes back to Hermione. “To what to I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Granger”
“Oh, I was just looking for your advice on Patronus Charms,” Hermione replied, trying not to think about the weight of the raven’s gaze as she spoke. She felt the bird’s black eyes on the side of her head, studying her insistently. “I’ve never struggled with a Charm before.”
Her professor nodded. “Patronuses can be tricky. It took Dora till her seventh year to cast a corporeal one consistently, and many witches never manage it at all. Have you tried altering the memory you used to cast the spell?”
Hermione shook her head. The happy memory she always focused on was the first moment she’d met McGonagall and learned that she was a witch: surely there weren’t any better moments in her life than learning the incredible fate that lie in store for her.
“I’d start there, then. I like to use a few of the best moments in my life, on a rotating basis: graduating Hogwarts, earning my Charms mastery, and when my Dora was born. Sometimes one of them works better than others, depending on my mood.” She produced her wand and steeled her eyes, then snapped her wrist forward with surety and intoned her spell: “Expecto Patronum.”
A silvery-white panther bloomed from her wand, padding on ethereal feet as it sniffed the air. Hermione giggled when it pushed its head into her side, purring softly as it did. Patronuses could mirror the emotions of their owners, and the feline’s fondness for Hermione was a clear sign of Professor Black’s regard for her. The older witch nodded sagely as the panther walked back around the desk to sit next to her, milky eyes flickering to the raven on her perch.
Professor Black smiled at her. “Try again, Hermione. Think of another memory, one that you haven’t tried before. Moments of intense stress work best for some people, as the heightened emotions there are easier to access.”
Hermione produced her own wand, racking her brain for a proper memory to hone in on. Her ride on the Hogwarts Express? It was a wonderful memory, but it was colored by the anxiety she’d felt before she met Neville and the Puffs. Receiving her wand from Ollivander? It was a pleasant memory, a beautiful one, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming now that she spoke to snakes on a regular basis. A Horned-Serpent wand should’ve been a clue as to where her destiny lay, but now she was living that destiny.
The answer hit her like a ton of bricks, and she raised her wand. Holding the memory of that night in the girl’s bathroom in her first year in her mind, she thought about the moment she’d realized that Daphne and Pansy weren’t going to abandon her. The relief she’d felt at their presence filled her heart, and the overwhelming feeling of belonging that came when she realized they were true friends, not fairweather acquaintances buoyed her arm. The spell flew out of her like a solemn proclamation: “Expecto Patronum.”
A slender, undulating otter burst forth from her wand, chirruping and barking as it swam through the air before her. Hermione let out a surprised cheer as she watched it wriggle around, playing with her hair and nosing at her robes at it marveled in the joy of being alive. Even the raven’s bemused cackle didn’t break her stride as she beamed at Professor Black, who gave her a pleased grin in return.
“You’re a natural, Hermione. Filius wasn’t lying when he said you were one of the best students he’d ever seen.” Professor Black said approvingly. “You’re giving me a run for my money, that’s for certain.”
“Oh I couldn’t dream of bettering you, Professor,” Hermione humbly replied, “but I’ll beat the others. Harry’s mum couldn’t have been that good, could she?”
The raven quorked again in amusement, and her professor shook her head, brunette curls swaying. “Lily Evans was an excellent witch, but I think you have her beat. Gwendolyn Selwyn, on the other hand...” She shook her head. “There may never be another witch like her again. She was a revelation, the sort of person who understood charm magic on such an instinctual level that she could construct new forms of magic on the fly. In my lifetime, the only other wizard who’s come close to her skill with magic was the Dark Lord.”
Hermione stiffened at the casual use of the feared wizard’s sobriquet, and the raven seemed to feel similarly, cawing imperiously at the witch behind the desk. Professor Black scowled at the bird. “Oh, don’t you start. I’ve always been the best practitioner of charms in the family, and I know talent when I see it.”
Wanting to keep their conversation on firmer ground, Hermione asked a question she’d been meaning to ask more about for a long while. “What was she like, Gwendolyn Selwyn? Professor Flitwick used to talk about her, and I found some records of her accomplishments in the library, but it seems like she vanished a long time ago.”
Professor Black studied her for a moment, dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. When she spoke, it was in a softer, sadder register. “I didn’t know her as much as I would’ve liked to; she was a few years older than me, and she and her wife withdrew from society during the bleaker period of the War. I know she was kind, far kinder than you’d expect a Slytherin to be, and that she liked to make children laugh. Fate was cruel in the role it cast for her, and it wasn’t a surprise when she was lost in the war. I don’t know what happened to her in the end, but it couldn’t have been good.”
Hermione nodded, deciding not to inquire further. Though she’d never admit it to her professor, she wanted to achieve the same heights that Selwyn had, even if it took her entire life. She was born for great things, and with the start she had, nothing but the absolute pinnacle of success would satisfy her. Especially when there was still darkness in the world, and whispers of dead things in the nighttime.
Hogwarts, April 18th, 1994. Troubling dreams bring storms over the southern horizon.
Daphne woke in a cold sweat, thrashing herself from her slumber as she struggled to re0center herself in the waking world once more. Hermione and Pansy had stirred themselves from sleep upon hearing her harried cries, looks of worry painted on their faces as they got up from their beds to soothe her. Tracey and Millicent were still sound asleep, courtesy of the Deafening Charms that Hermione had placed over their bunks, and Daphne was exceedingly grateful for the privacy.
“Same dream?” Pansy asked, dark brows knitted in concern.
Daphne nodded. She’d had the same dream at least twice a week for the past few months, and it never failed to unsettle her. It always began with her sitting in the Great Hall, enjoying dinner with her friends. They were only shadows, pale, soft things, but she took comfort in their whispered words and laughed along with their jokes. Hot food steamed on the table, redolent with spices and flavors of all kinds, and she found her mouth watering, desperate for sustenance. There was a moment of hesitation as she surveyed her options, trying to make a decision and finding herself unable to settle on anything for sure.
Then everything faded away, flickering to their very edges of her vision as a great thundering broke through the easy conversations in the room. The doors of the Great Hall burst open and an unearthly light flooded the room, blinding the students as they stared directly into its source. Mouths hung agape as the inhabitants of the castle were struck dumb, unable to turn away from whatever had snatched their attention. Daphne wanted to scream, to pull them away, hexing them if she needed to. They couldn’t look. They wouldn’t look. She would kill them all if she had to, fighting and howling till pooling blood lapped at her ankles. Her wand flashed into her hand as she raised it up to strike, wicked curses dancing on her lips.
And then she’d wake up, breath heaving as the violence of it all lingered in her mind. She was seconds from doing something unforgivable, perhaps literally so. They hadn’t learned any of those most terrible curses yet, but Daphne knew in her heart that the version of her that existed in her dream could manage an Avada Kedavra without issue. She’d even be proud of it, offering up hearts ripped from her friends’ chests like mete offerings to her dark god, her deity of pale perfection.
Hermione sat down next to her in bed, holding Daphne’s hand and running her fingers in soothing circles across the top. “It’ll be alright, Daph. Whatever happens in the future, Pans and I will be there with you every step of the way. We won’t let you do anything you’ll regret.”
“Promise?” Daphne whispered back, cursing her voice for being so small. She’d fought trolls and dueled with exceptional witches; a dream shouldn’t scare her so easily.
“Promise.”
Daphne nodded, giving her friend a weak smile. She didn’t entirely believe that things would be alright, but she trusted her friends enough to know that they’d fight for her, no matter what happened. Whatever dark possession had taken hold of her in her dreams, Hermione and Pansy would find a way to fight it.
“Do you still want to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow?” Pansy asked softly, standing awkwardly at the foot of her bed. The outwardly stoic girl often struggled to express her emotions properly, and the sight of her friend in distress was difficult for her to bear.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine in the morning,” Daphne said softly. “It’s just a bad dream.”
Her friends nodded, exchanging silent glances. They all knew full well that nothing was simple in their world. Dreams were rife with symbolism and prophetic meaning, and some witches were even able to access other’s minds while they dreamt. Dismissing her dreams was foolish to the point of insanity, and she knew they were only entertaining the idea of pushing them to the side out of concern for her feelings. Sooner or later she’d need to discuss them with an expert, lest they swallow her whole, as they had so many others.
Pansy’s new friend— Salazar, that felt weird to say— Luna had offered her a few cryptic, unsolicited pieces of advice when they’d run into each other. Daphne shouldn’t worry about her visions, the blonde witch said, because she’d ‘find what she was meant to when the time was right’. The airy Ravenclaw had nodded sagely after her pronouncement, smiling as if she’d just solved everything in one fell swoop. Daphne couldn’t understand what Pansy saw in the girl, but she knew better than to question it further.
Sighing, Daphne slipped back under the covers, closing her eyes and willing for dreamless sleep to take her. Sooner or later, her wish might come true.
-
Pansy rubbed the weariness from her eyes, cursing Daphne for having woken her and cursing herself for agreeing to go along to Hogsmeade at all. It might have been the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term and the year, but she would much rather have been in bed than traipsing through the quaint little town, searching for new books with Hermione and calming chamomile teas with Daphne. It would’ve been far simpler to roll over and go back to bed when the time came around to get ready and leave the castle, but she wasn’t about to let her friends go off alone. They got themselves into trouble whenever she wasn’t around.
So it was that she found herself waiting in the aisles of the quaint little bookstore that lay off the beaten path on a hill, waiting for Hermione to make her selections. The irascible witch had never met a tome that she didn’t want to read, and it made shopping trips with her an utter nightmare.
They’d been there for the better part of an hour when Pansy felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled to face the interruption, only to find Luna smiling up at her. The little Ravenclaw had a way of remaining unnoticed while she flitted around in plain sight that Pansy had yet to understand.
“Luna.”
“Pansy.”
“You know, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Pansy managed, scowling lightly.
Luna frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just in the area, and I felt your magic stagnating here. The nargles are having a field day with your negative aura.”
“I’m just tired is all,” Pansy replied, running a hand through her raven hair. “I haven’t been sleeping well recently.”
“It’s about Daphne Greengrass’ dreams, isn’t it?” Luna asked softly, then carried on without waiting for an answer. “She’ll be alright, in the end. Some of the best things in our lives are scary at first.”
Pansy nodded, thinking of her first interactions with Hermione, and the day she left her parents’ home forever. Her life would look vastly different if she hadn’t overcome her initial worries.
Luna’s face clouded, and a shadow passed through her deep blue eyes. The blonde girl’s mouth tapered down into a frown. “It’s difficult for me to see things clearly sometimes. I’m not a true Seer, only half of one, so I can’t fortell things with the same clarity that my grandmother could. Sometimes I worry if I should say anything all, or if I’ll just muddy the waters.”
“Don’t worry about it, Luna,” Pansy said gently, reaching down to pat her friend’s shoulder. She often found herself unnerved at the speed by which she’d grown comfortable with the petite Ravenclaw, but she knew better than to question it. Luna needed her support, and that was all that mattered. “I always appreciate what you have to say.”
“You’re the only one. The other Ravenclaws say I’m a Loony, and they whisper nasty things about me behind my back.” There was a matter-of-factness to her admission that set rage burning in Pansy’s heart. How dare someone hurt such an utterly harmless creature?
“I’ll hex the lot of them,” Pansy promised darkly. “They should know better than to cross you.”
Luna smiled brightly at her. “I believe you. If any of them go too far, I’ll be sure to let you know. As for you, be careful tonight. The moon is full, and the skies are stormy.”
Pansy nodded, knowing better than to ask for clarification. “I’ll do my best to stay in tonight. I feel like I could sleep for an age.”
With a final smile, Luna went on her way, gliding out of the bookshop on fairy’s wings. Pansy hated to watch her go. It felt a little bit like dying every time.
She didn’t have long to dwell on her affection for the other girl. Before she knew it Hermione was done with her interminable book browsing and they were off to Madame Puddifoot’s for tea. Daphne had brightened after the terror of the night before, and she led them through the crowds of students with the easy confidence that she wore like a winding shroud. Despite Hermione’s status in hearsay as the spiritual successor to the House of Slytherin, Daphne often took the lead in their interactions with others. Funny, polite, and endlessly charming, she managed professors and shopkeepers with alacrity.
It was much the same at Madame Puddifoot’s, where a few pleasantries saw them sitting at a table in the otherwise utterly packed establishment, sipping tea and nibbling at biscuits. Pansy closed her eyes as she sipped at her oolong, willing the caffeine to bring her fraying synapses back to full functionality. They’d been practicing like madwomen since September, and she was looking forward to a few months of downtime in the summer. She’d probably end up staying with the Greengrasses unless something else came along. They’d work on their spells and bring Hermione in through the Floo they’d managed to gain access to in a Potions shop a few minutes away from the Granger residence in London. There’d be ice cream and laughter and Muggle movies. Life would be simple, for a change.
“Ow,” Hermione hissed suddenly, rubbing at her arm and scowling at empty air next to her. “What in Merlin’s name was that for?”
Before Pansy had a chance to ask what on Earth she was talking about, Harry Potter’s voice filtered in from the space next to her friend. “I’m going after Sirius Black tonight. Thought you’d want to know.”
“What?” Hermione whispered incredulously, brows knit in concern. “Are you insane, Harry? He’s a mass murderer, and a Dark wizard besides. He’ll kill you.”
“Not if I kill him first,” the Invisible Boy whispered back. “I overheard Professor Lupin talking to someone in his office last night: he said that Black waits in the Shrieking Shack every full moon. I’m going after him, and no one’s going to stop me.”
“You’re out of your bloody gourd, Potter,” Pansy murmured, marveling at the boy’s suicidal bravado. “What chance do you have against Black?”
“I have a plan. If I don’t come back tonight, you can tell the professors where I went,” Harry shot back. “He killed my parents. He has to die.”
“Don’t throw your life away, Harry,” Hermione pleaded. “Why was Lupin even talking about Black in the first place? Tell Dumbledore or McGonagall, and they’ll be able to help.”
She waited for a response, but none came. After a moment, Pansy reached over and swept her hand through the air next to Hermione and met nothing but empty space. They sat for a moment in uneasy silence, unsure as to what exactly they’d just heard and what to do about it.
“Well, this tea wasn’t very calming after all,” Daphne said regretfully, nursing the last of the dregs in her mug.
“Bloody idiot,” Hermione said morosely, shaking her head in astonishment. “He’s going to go and get himself killed.”
“Isn’t he always?” Pansy replied dryly. “He’s a magnet for trouble, that one.”
“What are we going to do?” Daphne asked, staring longingly at the rest of Pansy’s tea. She slid it across to the blonde without a word.
“We’ve got to tell someone. Snakes and riddles are one thing, Sirius Black’s quite another,” Hermione declared authoritatively. “Besides, we promised Professor Black that we wouldn’t go after him.”
“Looks like we don’t have much of a choice. Potter’s going either way, and as much as I don’t like him I don’t want him dead.” Pansy was flabbergasted at being in a place where she advocated risking their necks to save Harry Potter, but there had been stranger bedfellows. “Let’s tell Professor Black, then go anyway.”
Daphne grinned broadly. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
-
Hermione shivered under the hood of her cloak, eyes fixed on the horizon. It was unseasonably cold on the Scottish moor, and the moon had yet to peek up over the eastern horizon. An ill omen, she thought to herself. Just what they needed.
Students weren’t meant to be out of bed past nightfall, but all rules faded away when you could talk your way out of the dorms despite the strongest protection enchantments known to man having been cast to keep you in. Hermione spoke softly to the ornate stone doors of the dungeon, hissing and crooning to the serpentine gargoyles and demanding that they yield to her. The doors had swung open at her command, giving the Silver Trio access to the grounds past curfew, and they were off.
Professor Black had firmly instructed them to return to their dorms while she handled things with Harry and Sirius, but she’d neglected to tell them to remain there. Hermione, Daphne, and Pansy were technically in full compliance with all of her orders: they’d gone to bed when they’d been ordered to, and they were looking for Harry, not Sirius. It was the kind of legalese bullshit that Hermione and Pansy detested and Daphne swam in like water, and it wouldn’t serve them well if their professor caught them, but a paper shield was better than none at all.
“I don’t see him,” Pansy muttered, casting her eyes across the curving path around the lake towards Hogsmeade.
“He’s probably under that damned cloak,” Hermione replied, keeping her own eyes firmly on the far curve of the earth. She’d harbored ill feelings about the full moon since Pansy had first mentioned Luna’s cryptic prophecies, and something in her gut told her that tonight’s moonrise was important.
Daphne cut in, perfectly warm under her fashionable ermine fur stole. “I still think we should’ve nicked it. It would’ve come in handy.”
“He’d have wanted it back.”
“So? You could eat him alive, Pans.” The dark-haired girl gave a little snort of amusement.
“We should make a plan. Assuming Harry’s in there with Sirius, we’ve got to act fast.” Hermione said softly as they trudged towards the quiet streets of Hogsmeade. They still had no inkling as to why a convicted murderer was hiding in the Shrieking Shack, or how Lupin knew of him, but there hadn’t been time to look farther into things. Hermione had sworn twice not to follow Harry into the quagmires he gleefully rushed into, only to find herself following him once more. It had to stop somewhere. She hoped it wasn’t here.
“How can we plan? We don’t even know what they’re doing in there, and it’s not like we can slink in unnoticed, like black cats in the twilight.” Pansy exclaimed. She stiffened suddenly as she realized what she’d said. “Oh, fuck me.”
It was difficult to secure both an otter and a swan on a snow leopard’s back, but a few moments later they were off, racing across the grounds far faster than they could have on foot. Pansy growled bitterly at the indignity of it all, meowing harshly whenever Hermione raised a tiny hand to bat at the back of her head. They hadn’t practiced this before, and anyone who saw them would’ve been struck by the utter absurdity of the situation. Things were markedly improved when Daphne took flight, flapping her wings as she soared a few meters above the other two, but the image of a river otter clinging to a snow leopard’s back in the middle of Scotland would’ve given a weak-hearted observer a heart attack.
Hermione chirruped out a battle cry as they ranged over the grass, matched with a growl from Pansy as they covered the distance in a matter of minutes. There was still no sign of Harry, nor anyone else for that matter, but there were plenty of places among the hillocks and dells to hide. He could be anywhere. So could Sirius Black.
Pansy stopped abruptly along the path that lead up to the Shack, dropping to a crouch with her ears flattened against her head. Daphne sailed down to land next to her, transforming back to her human form as soon as her feet met the ground. Pansy and Hermione followed her a second later, and the three of them crouched together a few meters from the dilapidated structure.
“What’s up, Pans?” Hermione asked.
Pansy panted, catching her breath for a few moments after her run. “They’re already here, in the house. Two of them.”
“Harry?” Daphne whispered.
Pansy shook her head. “No, not him. Two older men, with deeper voices.”
“Black, then. With one of his allies, no doubt.” Hermione muttered under her breath.
“One of the Death Eaters who never went to Azkaban?” Daphne asked. “Could be Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe Sr., Selwyn, Goyle, Avery.” She trailed off. “Salazar, there are more than I thought.”
“We can’t deal with two. One Dark wizard was a stretch, and we’re just kids.”
“Hey! I’m fourteen. “
Hermione sighed. “Focus, please. Where’s Harry, if he isn’t in there?”
“Maybe he’s in there already, under his cloak?”
“Then we’ve only got to wait a minute and he’ll reveal himself.” Pansy said dryly. “At least it’ll be easy to carry what’s left of him home.”
“Oh hush. Concealment Charms.” Hermione ordered. Wands flashed out of their robes and a moment later they crept towards the Shack, tensing with every step as they crossed the last distance up the walk. The door open noiselessly with the help of a Silencing Charm, and they stole into the Shack. Their breaths caught in their throats as they walked in, listening for the strands of a conversation. As they approached the stairs to the second floor, they heard the edges of one.
“Have you brought him, Remus?” A deep voice said, edge with a tinge of near frantic anxiety.
“I have. It took a while to track him down, but he made the mistake of returning to the Gryffindor Common Room every night.” The Trio tensed, hoping against hope that he wasn’t talking about Harry. “You’d think after fourteen years he’d have learned to vary his routine.”
Hermione gulped, exchanging glances with her friends. Professor Lupin was in cahoots with Black, and he’d managed to kidnap Harry somehow. The conversation the Gryffindor had overheard in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom must have been part of a carefully constructed plan to lure Harry into a trap.
“Well out with him then. We’ll make him change back— I him to look me in the eyes before he dies.” The first voice said again, practically vibrating in its intensity. “Finally, they’ll be avenged.”
Another voice came over their shoulders, cold and confident. “I thought I told you three to stay in the Dungeons.”
They turned to see the wrathful visage of Andromeda Black, eyes black with fury. The flamboyant robes and garish colors that she wore at school had given away to a sleek black combat jumpsuit that fit her body like a second skin. She looked down at her tree charges with disdain, shaking her head mournfully. “How can you expect to make anything of yourselves if you won’t follow clear instructions?”
“We followed them to the letter, Professor,” Daphne whispered back. “But we couldn’t just let him go off alone.”
“You should have. Some things are more important than the Boy-Who-Lived.” The reply was still cold, though it wasn’t quite as frigid as it had been before. “Follow me and stay quiet. I have unfinished business with my cousin.”
A shout came from above. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
Andromeda Black took the stairs two at a time, throwing the door open and brandishing her wand. “Cousin! I’m hurt that you went to all the trouble to break out of Azakaban and never thought to write home. Poor Reg has been worried sick about you.”
“Leave Reg out of this. It’s your fault that he’s working for the Dark Lord.”
The second man’s voice— Professor Lupin, they remembered— pierced the air. “Andromeda, how good to see you again. How’s Alecto?”
Professor Black cackled dryly. “Haven’t talked to her in a while. How’s Fenrir?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not likely. Glad to see you’re working with this traitor.” The Trio crept closer, close enough to see the inside of the bedroom the three were speaking in. Professor Lupin stood with his wand raised, glaring at Andromeda as if she’d stabbed him in the gut. Next to him was a gaunt, bedraggled figure, ragged of hair and wild of feature, grinning through yellowed teeth. By reputation Sirius Black was a handsome man, dashing even, but there was little left of the heartthrob of his youth in his current form. Only his eyes hinted at something higher than the husk he’d become, burning with the same intelligence that Andromeda’s did. Those damned raven-black eyes, Hermione thought. They had a habit of transfixing you.
“Give it up, Sirius. Let the boy go. Let the dead rest.” Andromeda entreated him without lowering her wand. “The Potters are dead, and their son is just a boy. Your Lord is gone.”
“My Lord?” Sirius Black scoffed bitterly. “He was yours, once, but never mine. I was loyal to the end.”
“Not to your family,” Andromeda hissed. She gestured toward Lupin, who glowered at her. “He’s not your family. We are. You abandoned us.”
“I chose my own family,” Sirius spat. “Remus and James and Lily and Marlene were my family, and I promised them I’d stay forever…” He pointed to a rat in Remus’ off-hand, who wriggled like mad, trying to escape. “Till he took it all away.”
Lupin muttered a spell and the rat began to shiver violently, twisting and stretching as it slowly ballooned from a rodent into a human man, who writhed and hissed as he took, form once more. Panicked and near-feral, he wore the aspect of a rat like he was born to it, eyes darting out below shaggy brown hair, teeth poking out from between his lips.
“Sirius, Remus, please,” he whined. “I didn’t mean to— he forced me, I never wanted to.”
“Scabbers?” Shouted an empty space at the corner of the room. Moments later the Invisibility Cloak was thrown off, revealing the Gryffindor Golden Trio, wands in hand.
“Harry?” Lupin asked, dumbfounded.
Lavender Brown’s eyes quickly seized on the frequent object of her ire, standing in the doorway. “Granger.”
Pansy pointed her wand in the girl’s direction aggressively. “Brown.”
“Parkinson.”
“Weasley.”
“I’m Daphne, if anyone was wondering. Daphne Greengrass, but my friends just call me Daph.”
“What in the bloody fuck are you all doing here?” Harry shouted to no one in particular.
“Saving you.” “Bringing my cousin home for a little chat.” “Settling an old score.” The responses came in an utter deluge, and it was only Sirius manic cry that he was ‘killing Peter Pettigrew for what he did to Lily and James’ that broke the cacophony. The rat man squealed out a plea for mercy, but Sirius raised his wand menacingly anyway.
The room hung on the spell that was sure to come.
A sliver of light broke through the window.
The telltale crack of snapping bone followed it, mingling with strange, high-pitched growling.
Andromeda lowered her wand, face pale. “Everyone, run.”
-
There was no getting out of a conversation with Dumbledore this time. They were brought up to the Headmaster’s Office separately, once the dust cleared. All of them who were present and ambulatory were, at least. Peter Pettigrew and Sirius had escaped without a trace, and Lavender Brown was in the Hospital Wing, convulsing in agony as the lycanthropic curse took hold of her tender flesh. Lupin was probably horrified with himself, but Hermione couldn’t bring himself to care. She didn’t like Lavender, but the Gryffindor didn’t deserve to be condemned to a life under the curse’s thrall. No one did.
Albus Dumbledore was a singularly mercurial man. Hermione knew all about his exploits in his youth— fighting Grindelwald and serving as Head of Transfiguration for decades— but books couldn’t do justice to the man himself. Tall and thin, with an elegantly tapering beard and a soft, warm voice, he played the role of kindly grandfather well. His students adored him, and he had friends among nearly magical family in Britain. The power he wielded both within the school and in the Ministry was handled with a careful, benevolent touch. His persona was effective and pervasive, and Hermione had to admit a begrudging respect for the success of his façade. If you didn’t look closely, you’d never see anything more than there appeared to be.
It was his eyes. It always was. The bright sparkle within them flickered and twisted like a fire waiting to catch on dry kindling, and they probed at the edges of her mind whenever Hermione met his gaze. Wickedly intelligent and utterly devoted to his own paradigm of righteousness, they carried the aura of a chessmaster rather than a nurturer. Albus was a conquering warlord on the open field, moving men and fire about in a neverending dance, all in the name of stopping the Great Enemy. If he believed it just and necessary, he’d chew her up and spit her out without a second thought. Men like him never dealt in such fleeting currencies as remorse.
“So, Miss Granger,” he began, maintaining his veneer of sincere concern, “can you tell me what happened tonight?”
Hermione forced a smile. “I can try, sir. It’s all a bit confusing.”
“Do your best, and I’m sure you’ll manage.” His grin made her shiver.
“My friends and I— Daphne and Pansy— had heard some unnerving things earlier in the day from Harry, and since we were already planning to be outside to practice a few rituals under Professor Black’s tutelage, we decided to check in on him.” The lies were all close enough to the truth to have a hope of passing under scrutiny.
“I see. And on hearing these ‘unnerving things’ why didn’t you decide to inform a member of the staff? If not me, than your Head of House?”
Hermione shook her head. “We informed Professor Black, sir, and she promised to deal with it. We just wanted to see things for ourselves.”
“Mhm.” He looked contemplative, turning to stare at an empty birdcage that sat near his desk. Morgana, the man was batty. “One might ask how you got out of the castle at all. We have wards to prevent nocturnal wandering out of dorms.”
She kept her face a placid mask. “Our doors were open. The magic we’ve been studying requires odd hours sometimes.”
“I see,” he replied, clearly skeptical. “And what happened once you reached the Shrieking Shack?”
Hermione schooled her features once more, trying to wear the air of a confused, frightened teenager. “It was all so confusing, sir. There was a great deal of shouting and recriminating, and then the rat changed back into a man named Peter. Wands were all out, and I worried that there was going to be a fight before Lupin…”
“Before he transformed, yes,” Dumbledore finished for her, sounding far too calm for a man whose Defense Against the Dark Arts hire just permanently mangled a child. “Tell me, did Mister Black say anything of note? Anything about his work with the Dark Lord?”
Obsession was a feeling that she knew well, and it rolled off Dumbledore in waves. He’d spent the past few decades of his life fighting the forces of Lord Voldemort, and it had consumed every aspect of his thoughts for far longer than was good or healthy. It was instantly clear to her that the Dark wizard’s apparent defeat thirteen years prior hadn’t quelled the ravening desire in his mind, instead it had stoked it further. Hermione was sure that he had a list of battle plans drawn up for the spectre’s ‘inevitable’ return from the grave: he was searching for any tidbits of meat on the soup bones, lips sucking desperately for any hint of information to further his cause. If not for her Occlumency shields he’d have stripped her mind bare and mined her interaction with the phantom Tom Riddle the year before for every hint of his future plans.
Realizing the depths of danger she was in, Hermione turned up the gauge of her performance. Tears beaded at the corners of her eyes as she shook her head vigorously. “I— I don’t know, sir. He ranted that he never worked for the Dark Lord, but he said that Andromeda did once, and that Peter Pettigrew betrayed his friends. It was all terribly confusing, even before the werewolf…”
“Lupin.”
“Even before Lupin transformed,” Hermione corrected. “I had no idea what was going on, and the people they mentioned weren’t names I was familiar with. Perhaps Lupin can tell you more.”
“I’m sure he will,” Dumbledore intoned, face momentarily flickering towards annoyance before it returned to blithe kindness. Her audience before the throne was at an end. “Well, Miss Granger, thank you for your time. I’ll let you know if we discover anything more about what happened. You’re dismissed.”
No you won’t, she thought to herself, you’ll hoard every crumb of knowledge like an avaricious frost wyrm. She managed a quivering half-smile. “Thank you, sir. I’m going to go check on my friends.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and fled from the Headmaster, deeply unnerved by their conversation. It was already clear to her that Dumbledore was willing to go to great lengths to preserve his idea of the perfect world to come. If he ever learned of her heritage, or the serpent in the walls that she’d befriended, there was no telling what he’d do.
Chapter 10: Goddesses of Dawn and Dusk
Summary:
Our Trio heads to the Quidditch World Cup, then makes the acquaintance of a familiar face.
Notes:
Bellatrix! Fleur! Goblet!
xoxo Akhenani
Chapter Text
Greengrass Manor, August 18th, 1994. A manor in name only, the Greengrass estate is more affectionately thought of by its inhabitants as a ‘chateau with attached botanical garden’. Herbologists, am I right?
Hermione didn’t much care for Quidditch. Despite the assurances from McGonagall and her friends that she’d eventually come around to the sport, the addition of flying brooms and enchanted balls hadn’t changed her fundamental attitude towards organized sports in general. To risk a cliché, Hermione was bookish and scholarly, and she’d never had much time for physical games.
That wasn’t to say that she didn’t like exercise. For all her moaning about Harry Potter getting her involved in dangerous activities, she’d found that she quite liked danger and thinking fast on her feet. Putting her spells and theories into practice was singularly thrilling, and the duels she staged with Daph and Pans were always the highlight of her week. If Quidditch involved complicated hexes, clever charms, and the thrill of triumph over your enemies, she’d have been all for them. Morgana, she really was a Slytherin, wasn’t she?
Unfortunately for her sensibilities, an invitation to watch the Quidditch World Cup in the Minister of Magic’s private box wasn’t an opportunity she could pass up. Not when it was delivered by a raven and came embossed with the seal of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Daphne and Pansy had received similar invitations, which Daphne quickly inferred to mean that Professor Black was still pleased with their work despite their hijinks in the Shrieking Shack. Hermione dearly hoped she was right— the entire affair had been an utter mess, even if it wasn’t entirely of their own making.
“How do I look?” Daphne asked for what must’ve been the fiftieth time. She stepped out of her closest in an eye-catching silver gown, over which she wore an elegant set of red dress robes.
“Fine, Daph,” Hermione replied with a roll of her eyes.
“Bloody gorgeous. Can we please Floo over before you try on your entire wardrobe?” Pansy pleaded.
“I’ve only tried on half of it! Besides, I’m worried the red doesn’t look good with my eyes.”
“Then wear green robes. You’ll look a proper Greengrass and Slytherin,” Hermione offered.
Daphne considered it for a moment. “Bit gauche, don’t you think? It’s quite on the nose.”
“Everything you do is on the nose, Daph. It’s why we love you.” Pansy sighed, running her fingers over the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Seeing as she was essentially disowned by her family, her wardrobe was significantly less varied than Daphne’s, and she usually wore black anyway.
“C’mon, you two, I’m sixteen, now. I’ve got to make a good impression!” Daphne wheedled. Hermione winced at the reminder of their new ages.
Their usage of the Time-Turner over the year prior had been… excessive, at times. Though they’d only used it for practice and study— except for the incident with Sirius Black— they’d still somehow managed to tack on a little more than a full year to their ages. They’d performed the Tempus Intolucus charm three times before they’d accepted the results: Pansy and Daphne, always old for their year, were newly minted sixteen year olds. Hermione, despite being a few weeks younger than them on paper, was nearly seventeen. If she hadn’t already known that her Muggle parents weren’t her biological ones, it would’ve come as quite a shock to her.
She still didn’t know who her birth parents were, not for lack of trying. Squibs, most likely, Pureblood cast-offs who were quietly dumped in Muggle orphanages after their birth. The Sacred Twenty-Eight were deeply hostile to squib rights as a rule, and having one in the family line was seen as a great shame. It was no wonder that Pureblood numbers were declining, given the amount of late-term pregnancies that suddenly vanished, never to be spoken of again.
“You alright, Mia?” Daphne asked softly, sensing her friend’s unease. She was always more in-tune with her emotions than the rest of them.
“Fine. Just thinking about my birth parents. Wondering what they’d think of me.” Even that much was hard to get out, and Pansy walked over to pat her shoulder in sympathy.
“They’d be so proud of you, Mia. You’re the Brightest Witch of Our Age, after all.” She grinned brightly. “We’re just your sidekicks.”
“Hey! I might be a sidekick, but you’re too broody to play second fiddle.” Daphne teased. Pansy shot her a weak tickling hex in retribution, which Daphne easily parried. The two stuck their tongues out at each other, and Hermione sighed with just a hint of amusement. The three of them were like an old married polycule, at this point.
“Let’s take the Floo, shall we? We wouldn’t want to be late for our date with the Minister.” Hermione said authoritatively.
“But I need to—”
“You look fine, Daph!” Hermione and Pansy shouted in unison. The blonde pouted, but allowed herself to be led to the Floo. For all her swanlike preening over her own appearance, she knew better than to keep either Professor Black or the Minister waiting.
Pansy went through the Floo first, as befit her status as the enforcer of their little band. Daphne followed her, insisting that she needed to go through to make sure her dress didn’t get soot stained. Hermione brought up the rear, throwing her powder into the fireplace as she bid Greengrass Manor goodbye. She’d spent the better part of the summer there under Orchid and Viola Greengrass’ benevolent gaze, and it had become a place of safety for her despite her assumed blood status.
The world flashed green as Hermione was sucked through the Floo network, landing with a cough in a sitting room fireplace. She blinked to get her bearings as she took in the opulent room, all elegant brickwork and black slate in its siding. There were a smattering of couches and armchairs upholstered in red leather that she guessed must’ve been dragonhide, and she wondered just how rich the Blacks really were. If this was just one of their entertaining spaces, she shuddered to think about how nice the grander rooms were.
A collection of well-attired, elegant looking witches and wizards were standing loosely across the room. She recognized Professor Black standing next to Dora, whose hair was a bright green to show her support of the Irish team in the day’s final. The two of them were talking to a sharply dressed man with tousled midnight hair and a suave smile, and Hermione marveled at the resemblance to Sirius Black. This must be Regulus, she thought, the new Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Games & Cooperation. Dora had always spoken highly of him, and Hermione had been looking forward to making his acquaintance.
On the other side of the room stood three blondes, one of whom she recognized. The tall woman had Andromeda’s same sharp features and look of fierce intelligence, though she seemed warier next to the nasty-looking man standing next to her. After a moment, Hermione recognized him as Lucius Malfoy from the bookstore two years before, which made the woman his wife Narcissa. In front of them stood Draco, who fixed Hermione with a withering stare the moment she stepped out of the Floo. There was never any love lost between them, but Hermione’s success in her first three years at Hogwarts had inflamed their mutual dislike into full-blown hatred.
“What’s a Mudblood doing here?” He said with a nasty smirk. The slur stung, though far less than it had before, and Hermione’s face darkened.
Before she could speak in her own defense, Pansy’s wand was out of her sleeve. “Watch your mouth, Malfoy, or I’ll take your tongue and owl it back to you in pieces.”
“You dare threaten my son in our house?” Lucius roared, flicking his wand forth from the cane he carried.
Daphne stepped protectively in front of Hermione, brandishing her own wand. “We’re not going to stand here and let you insult the Heir.”
A flicker of understanding crossed Lucius face as his green eyes fixed on Hermione. She puffed out her chin as she met his gaze, brushing off the tell-tale probe of Legilimency against her mental walls. Standing tall, she smirked as she felt his clumsy probes fail uselessly against her defenses.
Dora quickly came over to defuse things, though her hair had gone bright red as it did when she was enraged. “Calm down, all of you. We don’t draw wands in the house unless we’re using them, and we don’t threaten invited guests.”
Lucius seemed to have taken the hint, though he continued to stare at Hermione as he sheathed his wand. He knew something, she decided, and that unnerved her. Draco, on the other hand, continued his taunting apace. “Does the filth have you wrapped around her finger, cousin? Just because she’s your little project doesn’t mean—”
A dark, thundering voice from the doorway interrupted him, barely below a yell. “What is the meaning of this?” Hermione turned to see the new arrival, and her stomach just about dropped out of her body.
The woman standing in the doorway was at once the most beautiful and most terrifying human being that Hermione had ever seen. She was tall and almost wiry, with the easy confidence that came with physical prowess. Corded muscle shown through the sleeves of her black dress, and a tight leather corset gave her an hourglass figure that seemed somehow predatory. Long fingernails had been sculpted till they looked like talons, to match the harsh, avian beauty that she exuded.
The woman’s eyes met Hermione’s, and she fell into them. Though they were so dark as to be almost jet black, she sensed currents moving through their inky depths. Whispers of storms that were yet to come, perhaps, or memories of battles fought and won. Her gaze was intelligent and more than a little uncomfortable to fall under, but bright red lips quirked up in a smirk when Hermione held the stare anyway. This woman abhorred weakness, she quickly decided, and to turn away from her was to invite her rending claws and wicked teeth.
And her magic. The instant she came into the room Hermione felt her own magic reach out to challenge the woman, probing and cajoling the rumbling beast into matching her. While she’d always thought of her own magic as powerful, the other witch’s magic was both more ancient and wilder than her own. Hermione had resented her Patronus and Animagus for taking the form of an otter, but the little creature fit her well. She was playful with those she trusted, and willing to fight any predators who encroached on those she viewed as hers. Diligent when she needed to be, and inquisitive at all times, Hermione wanted to see and touch and know. This woman was cold, calculating, and difficult to read. She was probably terrifying, if you weren’t one of hers, but Hermione knew instinctively that she had nothing to fear from her. Invisible threads of magic had already begun to bind them together.
Draco’s wheedling voice broke the spell of silence that had fallen over the room. “I’m sorry, auntie, I meant no offense.”
“Don’t auntie me, little dragon,” the woman said firmly. “Do you have an issue with my leadership of this house?”
“No I—”
She silenced him with a raised hand. “You may speak when I’ve finished. If you’d like to disregard the family, you’re welcome to be a Malfoy, and a Malfoy alone.” Dark eyes flashed to Lucius’ suddenly pale face. “And what a singular honor that would be.”
Hermione expected retaliation from the prancing aristocrat at the woman’s blatant disrespect, but he said nothing, preferring to nod sourly. She must frighten him deeply. Good.
The woman turned toward the three of them, eyebrow cocked up in appraisal. “Am I to understand that one of you drew a wand in my home?”
It would’ve been impossible to deny the accusation— Pansy’s wand was still firmly clutched in her hand— but Daphne kept her chin high as she responded. “Two of us.”
“An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us,” Pansy agreed, refusing to back down. “No one insults Hermione while we’re around.”
To Hermione’s utter surprise, the woman cackled in response, grinning broadly. “Do you have any idea who I am, Miss Parkinson?”
Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but Hermione beat her to it. “You’re Bellatrix Black. Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and…” She trailed off, not wanting to make things worse for them. Tensions were high enough as it was.
Those dark eyes flicked to her own once again. “And?”
Something in Hermione refused to back down. “And suspected member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, though that was a long time ago. You’ve got quite a reputation.” The tension in the room sharpened as several sharp intakes of breath followed her words, but no one protested. Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed.
“Most witches would think twice before calling him anything other than ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,’” Bellatrix smirked. It was a test, Hermione realized instantly. One that she was expected to fail.
Feeling inestimably bolder, Hermione drew strength from a place deep within herself. Her voice rose into the high, hissing warble of Parseltongue as she invoked the winding, twisting speech of her favorite Basilisk. “I do not fear the little sister, through all his coiling schemes. His sun dips over the span of the western sky, while mine is in the ascendant. If this is to end in blood, it will be his, not mine.”
A hush fell over the room as she finished speaking, and Hermione felt nine pairs of eyes on her. Pansy and Daphne instinctively shifted closer to her, ready to protect her if needs be, even from the greatest duelist of their age. Hermione took strength from their presence, letting their magic flow over her as she tensely waited for a response.
“Not many witches would call him the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix said softly, “and fewer still would switch to Parseltongue to defy him. ” She nodded towards Dora and her sister. “You were right, they’re worthy.”
“Worthy?” Pansy asked guardedly, wand still in her hand.
“Worthy.” Bellatrix replied firmly. “I’m pleased to offer you all mentorship with the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, should you wish to accept it. You’d be entitled to your own names and titles, of course, but any of your future endeavors would have the support of the family. Whatever you plan for after your time at school could benefit from our considerable connections, and you’d gain access to the knowledge in our family archives. Hence your presence in the Minister’s box tonight, as our official wards.”
The three of them turned to each other, trying to speak without words. They’d briefly discussed what an incredible opportunity working with the House of Black would be, but it had all seemed vague and abstract. Now Bellatrix was offering them a golden opportunity on a silver platter, and it would be mad not to take it.
Daphne spoke for them, as she often did. “We accept your offer, Lady Black. Greengrass isn’t much of a name, Granger’s still looking for a good one, and Pansy’s barely a Parkinson. We’d be honored to work under you.”
Bellatrix nodded. “You should be. Draco and Dora aside, we haven’t taught any wards since…” She turned to look at her sister Narcissa, whose blue eyes burned with murderous intent. “It’s been a while. We’re honored to have the— what did you call them, Dora?”
“The Silver Trio,” Dora replied with a cheeky grin. “To match the lions’ Golden one.”
“Good to see three snakes making a name for themselves,” Bellatrix said with a grin.
“Bellatrix, are you sure this is wise?” Lucius murmured. “The rumors…”
“We’ll discuss this later, Lucius.” Bellatrix replied firmly, flashing him a dark look. “For now, we have a World Cup Final to attend.”
The party set off to the World Cup, Apparating in groups to the Minister’s private entrance to the grounds. Dora took Daphne, Andromeda— who insisted that they were on a first name basis, now that they were working together— brought Pansy, and Hermione found herself with Regulus. He was quite polite once she got him talking, and boundlessly intelligent, but Hermione wished she’d gotten more of a chance to speak with Bellatrix. The regal witch would have fascinated her even without the Ties of magic that wrapped them together, and Hermione knew better than to assume she was ignorant of the pull. She didn’t like being ignored by the older witch, but decided to let the matter rest during the game. There’d be time enough to discuss things later.
It was, on the whole, one of the more enjoyable sporting events Hermione had attended, attack by roving Death Eaters aside. The three of them reached an uneasy truce with Draco when they agreed to lob insults at Ron Weasley, who’d been joined by a deeply scarred Lavender Brown, faintly scarred Harry Potter, and not very scarred Parvati Patil. The Gryffindors made a show of lobbing playground insults about snakes and dark magic at the four of them, as if Hermione cared that she was a ‘snake lover’, whatever that meant.
Minister Fudge was polite, if a little bloviating, and quickly lost interest in the students in the box in favor of talking about his favorite vintages of firewhiskey with Regulus. It was readily apparent that the family had their hooks deep in the obtuse old wizard, and Hermione wondered why a man with such obvious ties to the Minister settled for a job in the backwater of Magical Games & Sports. Regulus had grinned when she’d asked, promising that she’d find out soon enough. She wasn’t sure that she liked the sound of that.
She and Pansy had needed to comfort a quivering Daphne after the Bulgarian team’s mascots— a group of scantily-clad Veela— had performed, assuring her that they weren’t going to try to bewitch her. Neither of them understood why that would be such an issue, nor was Daphne herself of any help. She mumbled a few things about them being of the wrong flock, but otherwise said very little. It was all incredibly odd.
By the time Death Eaters rampaged through the tents of the campgrounds below, throwing up the Dark Mark into the summer’s sky, the three of them were more than ready to head home. Pansy had been stealing odd glances at Andromeda and Dora all night, and Bellatrix seemed to be appraising Hermione after their earlier confrontation. None of it made any sense, and she was looking forward to a long sleep.
When she finally sunk into her bed in one of the Greengrass’ guest bedrooms that night, she dreamed of glittering skulls and wide-eyed snakes. Men in silver masks stomped along in her vision, trailing hair of black and silver, and two pairs of red eyes watched her from the shadows. An outstretched hand offered her a curved knife and a stone bowl, bidding her to use them to take new flesh from a bound boy in front of her. She couldn’t recall his name, but she’d seen his face before, green eyes dancing in the dark.
Hogwarts, October 30th, 1994. Guests arrive for dinner, and they’ve brought a kingly gift.
“Wake up, Daph, we’re going to be late for the feast,” came a muffled voice from the other side of her pillow.
“Five more minutes,” she mumbled back, trying to keep her eyes closed. She’d been having the most delightful dream, the kind that sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and she wasn’t about to leave it behind to eat whatever the elves had cooked up today for dinner. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays were for sleeping as much as you wanted and touching yourself whenever your dormmates were out of the room. Not being punctual and fulfilling your obligations.
A Stinging Hex hit one of her bare feet and she let out a yelp, leaping from the blankets and shooting a death glare at Hermione while Pansy snickered nearby. Hermione was bossy when she wanted to be, and far less hesitant to use force if she deemed it necessary than others. Daphne had liked her better when she was a shy little Muggleborn.
“Up, Daph. Regulus said something important is happening today.” Hermione reminded her.
“Regulus can do one,” Daphne grumbled, wiping the sleep from her eyes. With a last longing look at her bed, she stood up. “Fine. Let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”
It took them a few minutes to get dressed and organized. Thankfully Millicent and Tracey were already out: Daphne didn’t mind changing in front of her friends, but she preferred not to do it in front of the other girls. For all her well-earned reputation for vanity, she wasn’t overly fond of people seeing her in her knickers.
She wasn’t nervous about her body, per se, just… well perhaps she was the tiniest bit nervous. The Blacks were all models of elegance and grace, Hermione carried herself with the fire of the Heir of Slytherin, and Pansy owned her body as she owned everything else about herself. Daphne was pretty and blonde and rather unsure about her still fairly flat chest and her thin frame. It took beauty charms and effort for her to feel slender rather than skinny, and she worried that anyone who got the chance to see her naked would end up disappointed with her. It wasn’t an entirely rational fear, but she’d held it for years now.
The walk to the Great Hall didn’t take them very long, and soon they were in their usual spot at the Slytherin table, chatting amiably as they waited for dinner. Draco had mostly left them alone since their truce at the Quidditch World Cup, though he still snuck in rude jibes at Hermione and Pansy’s expenses whenever he got the chance. It had gotten easier to ignore him now that they knew he didn’t have the support of his mother’s family.
Professor Black shot them a smile from the high table, and Daphne wasn’t surprised to see Regulus sitting next to her. The unpleasant looking man on the other side of him was a man she’d seen before in the Prophet and heard grousing about from her family growing up, the former head of the DMLE, Barty Crouch. He looked utterly miserable to be there, and Daphne surmised that his ‘quiet retirement’ to Magical Games & Sports was more of a forcing out than a voluntary reduction of responsibility. By reputation, he deserved the misfortune.
“Where’s the food?” Goyle grumbled from a few places down the table, pouting angrily. The ogreish boy was never happy until he’d eaten.
“Shut it,” Draco hissed from his place next to him. “The old goat’s about to say something.”
Sure enough, Albus Dumbledore had risen from his seat to stand at the podium he used for addresses, looking every bit the kindly old man that he wasn’t. Just thinking about his sharp-witted, soft-spoken interrogation in the spring turned Daphne’s stomach and sent anger pulsing through her veins.
“My friends,” he began, smiling down at his charges indulgently. “I trust that you are all hungry, and believe me when I say that I am as well. This aging body still needs its dinner now and then, and I have been looking forward to the meal to come for quite some time. It isn’t often that I have the privilege of dining on continental fare, but tonight it only seems appropriate.”
“What’s he talking about?” Pansy whispered curiously.
“No idea. Something to do with the Ministry, though.” Hermione replied.
Dumbledore continued on with his grand, bloviating speech. “I have two announcements to make, one after another. To begin, I regret to inform you all that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup has been cancelled.” A chorus of groans shook the room, including one from the dark-haired girl sitting next to her. Pansy had been thinking about giving Quidditch a go for a few years— to knock the stuffing out of Gryffindors, she said— and this was her first real chance to try out for the team now that Flint and Scanders had graduated. Playing alongside Draco wasn’t exactly a plus, but the girl holding the beater’s bat held all the power.
The headmaster raised a hand to silence them. “I know this comes as an unwelcome surprise to many of you, but I trust the event that will be replacing it will more than make up for the loss of our Quidditch matches. This year, Hogwarts has the singular honor of hosting the revival of the most storied Interscholastic Competition in European Wizarding History, the Triwizard Tournament! Please, all rise to welcome our guests from our two sister schools. First, the proud sons and daughters of Durmstrang Institute!”
The doors of the Great Hall slammed open, and in walked a procession of dour, broody young men and women in greatcoats and fur hats. A few of them threw up the ship and spear sigil of their school in red flame as they walked down the aisles, flashing confident smiles. At their head walked a bear of a man, bearded and scowling, who Daphne could’ve sworn she recognized from somewhere.
The Hogwarts students burst out in exclamations as a few of them noticed Viktor Krum amongst the new arrivals. The star Seeker on the Bulgarian team was darkly handsome and visibly confident, flashing them all a grin as he and his fellows took their seats amongst the Slytherins. An athletic looking brunette with a smirk that could curdle milk made a show of taking a seat next to Daphne. She clearly wanted to make an impression o, judging by the subtle flexing of her muscles— did Durmstrang students proposition random fourth years where they were from? Daphne stiffened at the intrusion, but said nothing as the Durmstrang Headmaster began to speak at the podium.
“We are proud to represent our school and our nation in this most august tournament, and we look forward to bringing the Cup home to Bulgaria in the summer.” He grinned haughtily as his students thumped their fists on the tables, creating an unearthly din as the simpering masses oohed and aahed. You couldn’t catch Daphne lusting after the dashing new arrivals like her fellow students were. Not in a million years.
Polite applause followed, and a few of the Durmstrang students struck up conversations with the locals. To Daphne’s horror, her own hanger on was among them. “I’m Tasha. What’s your name?”
“Daphne,” she gritted out, wanting to be polite. The girl’s gaze made her deeply uncomfortable.
“A pretty name for a pretty English flower,” Tasha husked back. “Maybe you can show me around the grounds after the dinner ends, so I can see the place where all the flowers bloom.”
“Don’t you have manners in Bulgaria?” Pansy questioned, staring angrily at the new arrival.
“I could ask the same of you, snake-girl. Is she yours, or are you interrupting?” Tasha leered.
Pansy’s face darkened in an instant as she went for her wand, and only Dumbledore’s loud baritone stayed her hand. “Second, we welcome the chevaliers of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic!”
Once more the doors of the Great Hall opened, and time slowed down as Daphne’s heart ceased to beat.
The Beauxbatons delegation was elegant and radiant, all crisp blue uniforms and flashing silver daggers, marching in a military lockstep that must’ve been choreographed endlessly or handled by magic. Forty students marched behind their outrageously tall headmaster, who wore the proud smirk of someone who knows they’re doing something endlessly impressive. Appreciative murmurs filled the room as the dashing boys and girls filed in, matching the excitations that Durmstrang’s arrival had brought on. Each of the French visitors was gorgeous in their own right, but the girl standing at their head put them all to shame.
To call her a model would have been a grave insult, to call her a vision would have over-embellished your capacity to dream. The leader of the Beauxbatons delegation was nothing less than Aphrodite herself, who’d travelled through the ceaseless ages of history to take mortal form once more. Seeing her was adoring her, and Daphne found herself falling from the first instant bright blue eyes met her own. She’d never find a solid foothold again. Gravity had utterly betrayed her, freeing her from its grip so that she might orbit the pure being in front of her like a planet orbits the ever shining sun.
Blonde hair framed her face like an inside joke between them, fierce eyes burned amongst flawless skin, two icebergs in the twilight ocean. She wore no makeup, but her lips formed a perfect pink purse anyway, tilting up in glee as she, too, looked at Daphne like there was nothing else in the world. A sculpted eyebrow rose in astonishment as pinprick silver feather poked free from her hairline, shimmering alongside her platinum blonde hair. She was just as surprised to see Daphne as Daphne was to see her. Nothing could have prepared her for the utter euphoria that realization brought forth in her heart.
Reality crashed in a few moments later. She was just a girl, a pretty one, but a girl nonetheless. There was no way that she was worthy of such a perfect creature, not when the glazed eyes and open mouths of her schoolmates showed the extent of the blonde’s popularity. Daphne’s wand found itself in her hand as her blood heated up. How dare they look at her? How dare Daphne look at her? She was a goddess, and mortals weren’t meant to see the divine. They were nothing, she was nothing, she didn’t deserve.
Daphne turned to her plate, hyperventilating as she felt Hermione’s hand gently secure her wrist. She was alright, she was fine. This was fine. Sure, the most beautiful creature in the world had seen fit to alight in front of her, close enough to see but never to hold, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t function normally. Perhaps if she just bashed herself over the head she could lose the ability to process human faces. That ought to work.
“Excuse me.” A soft, lilting voice over her left shoulder broke her free from her spiral. There was the barest hint of an accent in it, and it melted over Daphne’s eardrums like warm honey. “But I believe that you are in my seat.”
Daphne looked up to see her staring down at Tasha, blue eyes growing stormier with each passing second. There was danger there— delicious danger, Daphne thought— and Tasha didn’t quite seem to realize who she was dealing with.
“Fuck off. Your lot are all sitting over at the raven table anyway,” the musclebound brunette replied.
The blonde witch chuckled. “They are. I am sitting here. If you would like to sit down in the next week without excruciating pain, I recommend that you find another place to sit.”
There was no mistaking the danger now, and Tasha seemed to take the hint, scowling as she stood up to cover her ego. “This isn’t over, bitch.”
“Isn’t it?”
Pansy snickered as Tasha skulked off with her tail between her legs, but her face quickly shifted back to concern when the Frenchwoman took Tasha’s seat next to Daphne. For her part, Daphne could barely breathe. The pull she’d felt before was a dozen times worse now, threatening to lift her bodily off the bench and into the stunning newcomer’s lap.
“Hello, my dove. I’ve waited all my life to meet you.” Daphne looked up to see the taller witch staring down at her with undisguised adoration, smiling from ear to ear. “I am Fleur, Heir to the Delacour Flock, and you are the most beautiful thing in all the wandering world.” She reached down to take Daphne’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“D-Daphne,” she managed to squeak out, heart fluttering wildly. “Daphne Greengrass.”
“Enchanté, Daphne. Tell me, have you been dreaming of me, as I have been dreaming of you?” Fleur asked softly.
The dreams, of course. “Yes. For months now.”
“Months? You must be a powerful witch indeed, to have experienced the mate dream for months and standing so strong. My mère had her own dreams for a few weeks, and she said they were difficult to bear. It is a credit to you,” she paused to smile at Pansy and Hermione, “and your friends that you were able to withstand them.”
“Hang on, those dreams were you?” Hermione asked, never one to pass up an opportunity for more knowledge. “Poor Daph couldn’t sleep through the night.”
Fleur nodded sadly. “Not me, consciously, but my magic, yes. I am a Veela, and when our mate reaches a compatible age and position in their life, our magic begins to call to one another through dreams. I have never heard of it lasting so long, and rarely for one so young. You are a fourth-year, are you not? Fourteen or so?”
The three of them exchanged sheepish glances before Pansy spoke. “We’ve, uh, mucked about a bit with a Time-Turner. Daphne and I are sixteen.”
“Ah, well this explains things. You skipped over the age at which you would have felt things normally, and brought the dreams on prematurely. I would call it foolish, but you had no way of knowing, and I cannot deny that I’m happier to be courting someone a bit closer to my age and ability.” Fleur pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles as a teasing expression crossed her face. “It would not do for one such as you to be trapped forever as the trailing partner, no?”
Daphne could only let out a flustered squeak as she blushed, thoughts of what being the ‘trailing partner’ with Fleur entailed. The Veela’s smile grew as she leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Don’t fret, my dove. It is my honor to lead, and my privilege to follow. However we dance together, the music shall be beautiful.”
Her heart melted as Fleur pulled away, finding a place of contentment that she’d felt was missing for the better part of a year. There was something in her magic that told her she could trust the other witch completely, no matter how dangerous or fraught the matter was, and that nothing she could say would ever shake the bond between them. Another, baser part of her squirmed at the idea of completing their bond in a more lasting fashion, but that could wait for the moment. She had too many questions to ask and too many things to learn about her new mate to consider hopping into bed with her.
“I look forward to it,” Daphne replied with a smile, earning a wiggle of the eyebrows from Fleur. Giggling, she motioned to her friends. “I’d like you to meet my friends— sisters, really— Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger. We’re fairly well respected in Slytherin now, even if everyone still thinks Hermione’s Muggleborn.”
“The Silver Trio,” Fleur finished for her. “I’ve done my homework. The first Muggleborn in Slytherin, and she just happens to speak Parseltongue and have people whispering that she’s the Heir? Two Purebloods who’ve taken her as one of their own? A connection with the House of Black— oh don’t look surprised, we have ears in the Ministry. Your reputation precedes you.”
“What’s your verdict, then?” Pansy asked, having relaxed somewhat when Daphne had. “Do we meet your expectations?”
Fleur chuckled. “I’d have to duel you to know for sure, but perhaps that can be arranged. Such a shame that the Tournament this year only takes those who are already seventeen. It would’ve been a delight to match wits with you.”
Daphne glanced over to Hermione, who was looking on with an unreadable expression. Unreadable meant trouble, in Daphne’s experience, but it was usually good trouble where Hermione was concerned. Dumbledore droned on about the Tournament and its history, Fleur regaled them with tales of her life in France and recommended different dishes for them to try, and even Pansy managed to loosen up around the new arrival. Hermione stewed all the while, shooting occasional glances up at the High Table, and the bejeweled goblet on its pedestal.
Chapter 11: The Swan and The Serpent
Summary:
Hermione makes a decision, Pansy seeks guidance, Daphne takes some time to herself.
Champions are chosen, as battle lines begin to form beneath the surface of thawing ice.
Notes:
Hi lovelies!
New chapter! Time is really slowing down here as we move into the meat of the fic (roughly nine days for an entire chapter). Hope y'all are enjoying the way she's developing, as side characters get more time and their relationships start to build. We'll get smut eventually, I promise!
A few of you didn't want Hermione to enter in the Tournament, and I hope this chapter did a good job showing her conflicting motivations. Hermione's definitely hungry to prove herself (esp as she learns who her birth parents are) and to be worthy of the position she's been placed in. Especially given her connection with Bellatrix' she wants to be more. There will be consequences going forward, from both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.
More Fleur and Daphne babbling, Pansy trying to understand Luna, and others to come! Ty again for all the love :)
xoxo Akhenani
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, November 6th, 1994. In the thick of it.
Hermione had made up her mind the instant she’d seen the Goblet.
Then she’d waffled. Then she’d been sure again. Then she’d reconsidered. Then she…
Hermione had thought long and hard about whether or not to put her name in the Goblet, and she’d yet to decide on anything for sure. On the one hand, entering the Tournament would represent the perfect chance to display her magical prowess and compete on the biggest stage. She’d developed a following in Slytherin, and her burgeoning work with the House of Black would only further add to her prestige, but the Tournament would be a chance to gain real recognition. Whether she was Hermione Granger or a Hermione of another sort, she could benefit from more acclaim.
On the other, it was rather louder than she preferred to be. She’d always been prone to moving in the shadows and not overplaying her hand, the incident in her second year dueling class aside. From what Andromeda had told her, there were people in the world who didn’t have her best interests at heart. Revealing herself to them too soon might cause undue issues for all of them. It would be utterly mad to risk her health and safety on an ego trip.
Yet something about the Goblet had called to her, right from the off. The last tournament had been over a hundred years ago, and the chance to see her name in the record books was tempting. The halls of Hogwarts were full of trophies and certificates of distinction from the greatest witches and wizards in British history, and Hermione wanted to see her own name amongst them. She was powerful, and her star was waxing with every passing year. It’d be mad for her not to put her name in the cup.
She sat on the side of the room with Pansy and Daphne, watching the seventh years place their names in the Goblet and strut around like they owned the placed. Dumbledore’s decision not to allow younger students to compete in this year’s tournament had been net with jeers and boos, but she saw the wisdom in it. The history books were full of stories of inexperienced young witches and wizards placing their name in the Goblet and getting killed for their trouble. The last iteration of the tournament had ended in a Hogwarts victory by default, as the thirteen year old Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions had succumbed to their injuries after failing to steal a selkie’s skin.
Hermione didn’t have to worry about the age line that Dumbledore had drawn around the Goblet, nor the rather humorous wards the old goat had placed around it. The Weasley twins had aged fifty years as they were violently expelled from the circle: aging potions weren’t enough to fool it. But the Time Turner had aged her enough to let her cross without incident. If she dropped her name in, no one could prevent her from entering.
“You’re not doing it, Hermione,” Pansy whispered to her, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You’d have to be bloody bad to risk your life for a trophy.”
Daphne nodded, a sappy grin on her face. “Think of your loved ones, Mia. If you die in the Tournament, who’ll make sure Pansy gets her evening walks?” The giggle that slipped forth from her lips was quickly followed by a yelp as Pansy hexed her.
“Fleur’s entering,” Hermione mumbled, eyes fixed on the Goblet as a dashing young Hufflepuff slipped his name in, to a chorus of swoons from his admirers. “And she says I’m a better match than most of her class.”
“In a duel, maybe, but there’s far more than dueling involved in this. There’s complicated magic and physical exertion, and I wouldn’t put it past that dim bulb running the thing to do something stupid for the sake of the spectacle.” Pansy’s voice was firm and rebuking, and Hermione nearly wavered. “Besides, what would Andromeda say?”
Hermione frowned. “She’d understand, I think. I’m meant to be the Heir, aren’t I? When was the last time a snake won the Tournament?”
Daphne shrugged. “1800s?”
“Try 1600s. It’s all bloody Gryffindors, and I’ve no mind to let Oliver Wood or one of his Quidditch players make a fool out of our school.” Hermione shook her head as the room cleared. “If not me, then who. Spinnet? Flint? Diggory? I’m a better witch than any of them.”
Pansy sighed and shook her head. “We’ll support you whatever you do, Mia, just be careful. If it gets out that you’re properly seventeen, then there’ll be real questions about your heritage.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Hermione replied as she stood up. “Then I’d finally know who my birth parents are.”
Standing, she walked over to the Goblet, making sure that there was no one around to see her. Fred and George had drawn a crowd for their attempt to pull the wool over Dumbledore’s eyes. Hermione had no such intention. Taking a deep breath, she stepped to the edge of the line, heart hammering in her chest.
The Goblet was old. Its undulating enchantments felt strange, ancient, wilde. There were old magics swirling within its depths, the sorts that had long since been forgotten by the genteel parts of society. Before the Ministry, there’d been rule by clans, primal, vengeful things. Witches gained their power through blood sacrifices made under the high moonlight, and the nights were full of strange things that crawled and slithered and swam. The advent of Christianity and the shrinking of wizards into the dark of the world had stunted those old rites, but the Goblet remembered. The Goblet was old.
In centuries gone by, it had drunk the blood of those offered up in the Goddess’ name, and been drunk from in turn by an unbroken line of priestesses that stretched back into the far mists of time. They were druids, who’d ruled the Isles with copper sickles and mistletoe wand before the Romans came. Their old ways still lingered in the quiet corners of the world, if you knew where to look. There was a price to be paid for knowledge, but if you were willing to pay it, you could know true wonders.
Hermione took a step forward, reaching out her hand towards the ancient chalice. The magic flickered at the edges, protesting against the interference of a wizard in its operation. Dumbledore, she guessed. He must’ve triggered something in the enchantments when he worked his age line. She frowned. The taint was awfully dark. What was he hiding in that head of his?
Steeling herself before she lost her nerve, she produced the scrap of parchment from her pocket it and threw it into the whispering flames. There was a flash and a wisp of blue smoke, but the Goblet showed no signs of rejecting her. Dumbledore’s spells had no power over her, not when the artifact before her was so far beyond him. Hermione felt her magic caress the bejeweled cup as she stepped away, and shivered when she earned an answering rumble in her magic. It knew her. She was a witch, and it had served her kind for a hundred generations. Wizards could cage it and force it to act like a primitive trophy, but it would outlast them all.
It was all in the blood.
--
Pansy stalked off down the corridor, muttering to herself about cleaning up other peoples’ messes and obscene risks taken without reward. Her black hair was tied up in a messy bun around the top of her head, and her green eyes darted about the corridors, looking for a reason to start a fight. If Weasley or one of his goons wanted to scrap with her, now was just the bloody time.
She wasn’t angry with Hermione. Salazar knew that her friend deserved more credit than she got, given the blatant anti-Slytherin bias of the school and its allies. There wasn’t a word of her accomplishments in the Prophet nor amongst the wizarding public, and her heroics in saving Ginny Weasley two years ago seemed to have been swept under the rug. Instead it was Potter who got the credit, always Potter. Potter had stopped the Dark Lord from stealing the Philosopher’s Stone, Potter had saved the school from the demon that had possessed Ginny Weasley, Potter had foiled an assault by Sirius Black himself. All nonsense, and yet the masses ate it up.
No, she couldn’t be angry with her friend, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried. The Triwizard Tournament had a bad reputation for a reason, and Hermione wasn’t the first great witch to suffer a tragic accident during the proceedings. For all her studying, she jad an infuriating habit of skimming over things that didn’t fit her own narrative about herself. Even putting the proximate dangers of competing aside, revealing her age to the world seemed remarkable foolish. Andromeda had been clear that they weren’t to draw attention to themselves, so why was Hermione being so reckless?
The answer came readily to her mind as she turned on a dime and walked towards the Charms classroom: Hermione was trying to impress someone. Pansy wasn’t the most socially competent person in the world, but she was observant, and the flickers of magic between Hermione and Bellatrix Black were shocking in their intensity. There was a bond of sorts between them, the likes of which Pansy didn’t understand, but Hermione clearly had at least an inkling about. She wanted to prove herself to the Head of the House of Black, and was taking the most foolhardy, flamboyant path towards doing so.
She barely noticed when someone else fell into step behind her, but the subtle ebbing of tension in her shoulders told her who it was without her needing to look. Her favorite witch had a habit of turning up whenever Pansy thought of her. Given her gift of prophecy, it was little wonder that she had impeccable timing.
“Hello, Loon,” Pansy said to the empty air. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“Just passing through, Pans,” Luna replied. Her voice had the intonation Pansy had come to know meant she was smiling. Luna really did have a wonderful smile, all soft and shy and whimsical. It should’ve been adorable to be half as cute as she was. “Where are you going?”
“Professor Black’s office. I need to talk to her about something.”
“Mhm,” Luna said sagely. “Hermione did it then, didn’t she.”
Pansy grinned despite herself. “I should know better than to think I have any secrets from you.”
Luna giggled. It was a high, bright, ethereal sound, the sort that lingered on her eardrums like water cascading down through a mountain stream. “Oh I don’t know about that. You’re full of surprises.”
“Am I?”
“Mhm. You’re a hard one to read, Pansy Parkinson. Just like Professor Black.”
Pansy frowned slightly. “What does she have to do with anything?”
Luna shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just a fourth year, after all, and I haven’t even played around with a Time-Turner. Professor Black is worlds beyond me, just like you are.”
“I’m not beyond you, Loon, I’m just—” Pansy tried to protest.
Luna silenced her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, turning Pansy to meet her eyes. “You don’t need to defend yourself to me. Whatever you and your friends do, I’ll be floating somewhere nearby. Perhaps I’ll find a few cloud dragons there, somewhere in the aether.”
Pansy smiled, knowing it was futile to ask what she meant. Luna was inscrutable, and she seemed to like it that way. Pansy did too, though she didn’t quite know why.
“I’ll let you go talk to Professor Black in peace. Tell Hermione hello for me, I’m sure she’ll do great.” Without another word Luna flickered away, dancing down another corridor as Pansy walked on alone. She was just about the oddest person Pansy had ever met, but she had a good heart, and she’d never failed to make her smile. It was nice not to be the dour, brooding, bulldog every once in a while.
Andromeda’s door was open when she walked in, but Pansy knocked anyway. Certain courtesies had to be observed when you were dealing with a witch and a lady of Andromeda’s station. The older witch smiled as Pansy walked in, gesturing towards her guest chair. She settled into it gratefully, luxuriating in the plush softness of the velvet. Flitwick had been a fan of bright, fancy things, and Andromeda was no different.
“Pansy, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?” Andromeda asked, dark eyes sparkling. She was wearing a stiffly formal black robe, more fit for a Wizengamot hearing than grading papers.
“Well, it’s about Hermione,” Pansy offered, stomach grumbling at the feeling of betraying her friend’s confidence.
Andromeda sighed, raising a hand to rub the bridge of her nose. “She put her name in the Goblet, didn’t she?”
“How did you—”
“Pansy, please, don’t insult my intelligence. Hermione’s a wonderful witch and an asset to our cause, but her need to prove herself hasn’t ebbed in all the time I’ve known her.” She chuckled dryly, as she shook her head. “After the madness in the Shrieking Shack last year, I’d be foolish not to expect her to want to be in the thick of things.”
“That wasn’t her fault,” Pansy argued. “Potter was the one who went looking for your cousin. Hermione was only trying to help.”
“I know, but she went nonetheless. You’re a brilliant witch, Pansy, and a loyal friend, but you have to admit that she’s grown less risk-averse as she’s gotten older. The way Dora tells it, she was a frightened little Muggleborn like any other when she first arrived here. You and Daphne have helped her blossom, but she’s grown almost too impetuous.”
Andromeda sighed once more, running her tongue over her teeth. “I don’t want to stifle her, nor you, but things are rapidly becoming more dangerous. There’s whispers that the Dark Lord’s taken form again, and Bella’s been approached about aiding a Death Eater on the grounds of the school. What’s done is done, but sticking our necks out right now is the last thing we need. Am I clear?”
“Clear,” Pansy said, casting her eyes down in shame. She should’ve done more.
To her surprise, she felt a hand on the bottom of her chin. Andromeda had reached across her desk to lift up Pansy’s head, and steadfastly met her eyes. “None of that, now. You have nothing to apologize for, and nothing to be sorry about. You aren’t responsible for the things your friends— and even your loved ones— do. Merlin knows I’ve made mistakes when it comes to the people I’ve trusted. The important thing is that you keep them as close as you can, and bring them around when you need to.”
Pansy nodded, brightening under Andromeda’s gaze. She’d had been inordinately supportive of the three of them, and they owed her a deep debt of gratitude. “If I may, Professor—”
“Andromeda.”
“Andromeda. If I may, who did you have that you lost like I could lose Hermione?”
Her Professor’s eyes flashed, and for a moment Pansy worried she’d overstepped. The family Black was notoriously tight-lipped about their own affairs, and just because they were working with them didn’t mean they’d earned a right to pry. Her own upbringing had been extremely tense and stilted, though she was quite sure her parents had been quiet supporters of the Dark Lord since well before she was born.
But Andromeda sighed, offering Pansy a sad smile. “I loved someone once. Deeply. We met during our time at Hogwarts, and we stayed close after the war ended. Our family has always had a… complicated relationship with the Dark Lord, but for a while we both worked towards the same goals. I thought that we understood each other, even though we never discussed it, and I let things lie. We had a child together and…” Tears glistened on her cheeks as her voice wavered, and Pansy felt a deep well of sympathy roil up within her.
“And then the war ended,” Pansy finished quietly. “And you were alone.”
Andromeda smiled sadly. “I loved her, once. More than anything. And she gave me my Nymphadora, who I cherish more than life itself. She’s been in Azkaban since the Dark Lord died, and I haven’t talked to her since then.”
Now it was Pansy’s turn to reassure her. Reaching across the desk just as Andromeda had, she squeezed her professor’s shoulder. Dark eyes met her own. “If it’s not my fault, than it’s not yours either. You can’t blame yourself for someone choosing to leave you. My parents chose the Dark Lord over me, in their own sort of way, and I’ve never looked back since I left them. She left you, not the other way around. You deserve better.”
“I do, don’t I?” Andromeda said, managing a chuckle. “And here I am, thinking that it’s my job to reassure you.”
“We can take it in turns,” Pansy replied with a bright smile. It felt nice to be relied on, in a way that she’d never have imagined was possible when her parents sent her off on the Hogwarts Express three years earlier. Hermione and Daphne were like sisters to her, and they’d supported her through thick and thin. Dora had been a confidante to her, and now Andromeda was there to fill something of the same role. With Luna in the mix as well, Pansy almost felt as if she had… friends?
Perish the thought.
--
The world was heavy, sometimes. Often even. Daphne wasn’t so foolish as to believe that she had it harder than everyone else: she had a stable family with two loving parents, a number of wonderful friends, and she was a member of the bloody Sacred Twenty-Eight. She’d maintained her grip on the top of the Potions and Herbology rankings for their year— to Megan Jones’ eternal good natured pouting— and her professional future looked bright with the Black family’s influence. To top it off, she’d somehow managed to land some sort of mystical bond with the closest thing she’d ever seen to a goddess of love. Things were good, great even.
And she still felt bloody awful.
She was scared, more than anything. Scared of the future, scared of not living up to her friend’s expectations, scared of failing the inhumanly beautiful woman who kept smiling at her and saying nice things when she was feeling down. Morgana, she was nothing next to them. Hermione was powerful enough to stand toe to toe with anyone at Hogwarts without backing down with her tail between her legs, Pansy was actively staring down witches of Bellatrix Black’s caliber, and she was… funny? Pretty? An emotional support animal?
It wasn’t as if she could just admit what was bothering her either. Hermione and Pansy counted on her to be there for them, and ‘hey, my life’s brilliant but I feel inadequate about how I look and what I contribute’ wasn’t exactly a winning sob story. Daphne was pretty, smart, and well-liked. Everyone said so, so it had to be true.
Things had gotten to be too much for her back in the castle, and she’d decided to perform the ritual she’d often used to calm down over the past year. Walking outside, she’d transfigured herself into her Animagus form and taken flight, resting on the Black Lake in a quiet part of the grounds. Swans were uncommon in Scotland, particularly this late in the season, but no one had ever looked twice at her, and she loved the stillness that being alone brought to her. The waves lapped over her feathers as she rested her head in the crook of her wings and let her thoughts fall away. Life was complicated, sometimes, and that was okay. Taking time for herself was important.
She let her eyes flutter closed, content to let the gentle rocking of the water lull her towards sleep. There were strange, wild things in the depths of the Black Lake, but the water’s edge was safe enough for a little nap. No one would hurt her, no one would bother her, and no one would need her to be Daphne Greengrass. She could simply be, for a little while.
The sun had reached its zenith and begun to set below the horizon when she felt rather than heard another presence approaching. It wasn’t out of the ordinary: it was a public lake, after all, and people walked around it from time to time. The centaurs came down to wash and play in the chill water, the mermaids swam up to barter for goods from the surface, and the occasional wandering professor made their way to her side of the lake. She settled in to ignore them, wanting a few more minutes to herself before she made her way back to the castle for dinner.
Her visitor had other ideas. A swan’s hearing wasn’t their sharpest sense, nor really any sense bar her excellent vision, and Daphne couldn’t place them as they came trudging along the water’s edge towards her. The realization that she had no idea who or what was approaching her sent fear spiking in her chest, but a moment later the tension ebbed. Magic wrapped around her like a warm hug, and she settled instinctively at the touch. When she looked up, she wasn’t surprised to see Fleur sitting on a rock near the water’s edge, regarding her with an amused expression.
“You have beautiful plumage, Daphne,” she said, smiling gently as the breeze fluttered the tips of her silver hair. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Even if you weren’t my destined, I would never betray a fellow bird. Veela are good cousins, no?”
Daphne didn’t quite know what to say to that, and her limited vocal chords couldn’t manage anything complex, so she let out a gentle quork to let Fleur know she appreciated her efforts. The blonde witch beamed at her, and Daphne’s heart took wing. Something about being in her Animagus form helped her with the butterflies that Fleur’s presence sent flittering through her stomach. The change in perspective let her look the radiant creature named Fleur in the face, even if she couldn’t speak to her.
“Perhaps this is easier for you, mon petit cygne. There’s no shame in needing time to yourself, nor in needing space to process your feelings. Veela bonds are overwhelming, especially if our destined ones are human, and even a witch of your caliber needs a break sometimes. It must be difficult, having all these expectations on your shoulders.”
Daphne cooed in agreement. Things were so heavy up in the sky, even if she had a mountain below her to be thankful for.
Fleur giggled like windchimes, smiling knowingly at her swan. “Given that you have not returned to your human form, perhaps you’d like me to talk, without having to say anything in return.” Daphne honked in chastising manner, and Fleur raised her hands in apology. “Forgive me, for you not to say anything back to me with words. I can feel your magic, dear heart, and your swan song is beautiful. May I talk, in a way where you need not respond?”
An assenting chirp from Daphne brightened her affect, and Fleur began to speak. “Ever since I was little more than a child, I have known I was beautiful. Veela are gorgeous creatures by nature: our appearances are meant to entice and enrapture, and humans fall for us with the barest effort. My mère describes meeting my mother Apolline as being like drowning, in a pleasant sort of way.” Fleur snorted and shook her head. “I have never known drowning to be pleasant, but to each their own. Anyway, I grew up knowing I was beautiful, and even at Beauxbatons, where we are more accustomed to Veela, I stood out amongst my peers. I was the prettiest, the fairest, the most desirable. The fair maiden in need of a dashing knight, the damsel in distress. None of those who courted me meant to harm me, but their affections quickly began to weigh on me. Was I really nothing more than a pretty face? Did my magical abilities mean nothing because of who I was? Was I a person, or a thing to be idolized?” She shook her head sadly. “I was a flower in a glass case, meant to be observed and remarked over, but nothing more.”
Daphne honked angrily, furious at the idea that anyone would dare reduce Fleur to the way she looked. A moment later, she crumpled as she realized that she’d done the same thing. For all her worries about her own appearance and insecurity about how she felt versus how she was perceived, she’d ascribed Fleur to the role of untouchable beauty without a second thought. Mourning, she let out a deflated quack of distress. She was no better than all the others who’d leered after Fleur.
Sensing her distress, Fleur’s voice cut through her malaise, sharp and authoritative. “None of that, dear one. The bond is working to bring us closer together, and it feels much the same to me. I called you the most beautiful the moment I met you, and I don’t regret it. We are meant to exalt in each other, not hide away.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “Though there will be plenty of time for exalting later, after we grow more comfortable together. Perhaps I will take you out to your quaint little village for tea.”
Daphne nodded in agreement, fluffing her feathers unconsciously. “Wonderful, it will be my honor to get to know you better. But I digress. As I grew into my womanhood, I felt inadequate, even as my magical abilities outpaced my peers. Some Veela never find their destined one, and live their lives wondering if anyone who shows interest in them is merely hypnotized by their Thrall. I have been asked on innumerable dates, propositioned countless times, and lusted over by thousands of witches and wizards. Their gaze felt dehumanizing, even though it was meant to be complimentary.”
Fleur fixed Daphne with a firm stare. “Never apologize for who you are, Daphne Greengrass. You don’t exist for those who want you to be something that you aren’t, and they aren’t entitled to you. If you must exist for anyone, exist for your family, both born and found. Exist for yourself, and the witch you want to be.” She smiled softly. “And one day, I hope, you will exist for me, as I will exist for you.”
Daphne’s heart nearly burst in her chest, and before she knew it she was flapping her wings to alight next to Fleur. The French witch chuckled lightly as Daphne transformed back into her human form, staring up at her with pride from her seat on the rock. As soon as Daphne made eye contact with Fleur, she felt her wits deserting her once more, and she scrambled to speak before her words failed her entirely. “Thanks, Fleur, for everything. You’re so kind and so smart and so pretty and I just want to be worthy of you and I don’t know what this means and I’m so scared about the Tournament and—”
Fleur stood, and gently laid a finger on Daphne’s lips to quiet her. Morgana, her skin was so soft, and she smelled so delicately fragrant. To her undeveloped palate, Fleur’s scent was like a winter rose, crisp and sad and effervescent. She hoped that she smelled anything near as good to Fleur.
“You’re rambling, petit cygnet. It is alright, I like knowing how I affect you. In time, it will grow easier, and I cannot wait to watch you bloom.”
There was so much care and compassion in her voice, so much understanding, and Daphne wasn’t surprised when tears began to stream down her cheeks. Before long she was sobbing, letting years of stress and anxiety spill out of her. Fleur held her close and stroked her hair as she shook, whispering something soft and sweet in French. It was a lullaby, Daphne thought dimly, whimpering in need as she focused on the rise and fall of her Veela’s chest. It was hard to let go, harder to trust someone else to catch her, and euphoric to surrender to her feelings. She was afraid, but Fleur was there. Fleur was always be there.
Hogwarts, November 14th, 1994. A day of choosing.
The Great Hall was aflutter as they gathered for dinner. Banners bearing the powder blue and silver of Beauxbatons and the red and black of Durmstrang hung next to those of the four Hogwarts houses, and the visiting students had crowded in amongst their hosts as they awaited the ceremony to come. The Beauxbatons students sat with the Ravenclaws, interspersed amongst the bookish students and getting along famously. Fleur was the life of the party, flanked by her friends Amalie and Genevieve as they held court with the seventh years. Theo Hastwick and Mariah Macdougal were the two potential candidates for Hogwarts champion amongst the Ravenclaws, and both seemed to be enjoying swapping stories with Fleur, who’d already been crowned as the presumptive Beauxbatons champion.
The Durmstrang students were less friendly, keeping mostly to themselves and the more prestigious Pureblood Slytherins, but a few of them made efforts to ingratiate themselves with the masses. As far as Hermione could tell, their main source of entertainment in the dreary citadel that hosted their school was fucking the living daylights out of each other, and there were rumors swirling around that the more attractive students were already working their way through the of-age Hogwarts population. She supposed it made sense: Bulgaria got awfully cold in the winter, especially along the Black Sea coast.
The three of them were sitting together in their usual place, trading nervous glances as they waited for Dumbledore to get on with it. There was no guarantee that Hermione would be chosen to compete, and they weren’t sure what would happen if she was. Dumbledore and Barty Crouch might try to throw her out for being underage, or worse, investigate her age more closely. Suddenly, she realized that she’d been rather foolish about entering at all.
“Are you alright, Mia?” Daphne asked softly, turning her attention to Hermione after spending half an hour mooning over Fleur.
“I’m fine, Daph. Just a little worried is all,” Hermione admitted.
“You’ll be okay,” Pansy said firmly. “Professor Black told me that she’d smooth everything over if you’re chosen.”
Hermione nodded. “I’m glad you told her, even if it hurt at first. I’m not so good at looking after myself sometimes.”
“You aren’t,” Pansy quickly agreed, earning her a pout from Hermione. “But that’s why we have friends, right? We look after each other.”
Daphne nodded happily. “Pans is right. The three of us, we’re in this together, no matter what happens. If that means we’re stuck taking care of you if you’re in a coma at Saint Mungo’s, we’ll visit every day.”
“Though we will say that we told you so,” Pansy added, “maybe in your dream state it’ll get through your stubborn head.”
The two of them laughed as Hermione’s pout deepened, knowing that it was all for show. They were her best friends, her sisters, and they’d be with her through thick and thin. Even if that meant acting as her seconds during a ludicrously dangerous Wizarding competition.
“Looks like he’s starting,” Daphne whispered, pointing up towards the podium. Dumbledore walked gracefully over from the Head Table, quieting the Great Hall with his mere presence as he did so. The Headmaster radiated power and poise despite his odd purple robes and twinkling eyes. Though most of those who’d gathered to hear him speak wouldn’t be able to place it if she’d asked, the man was unnerving to the extreme, and Hermione knew in her bones that it was the whispering magic that he exuded with every breath. Voldemort had a deserved reputation for magical prowess, but Dumbledore was near enough to be his equal. No one reached the heights he did without dabbling in forbidden magics, and yet there he stood, smiling like a kindly grandfather. It sent shivers down her spine.
“Friends,” Dumbledore began, lifting his hands to windlessly dim the candles that lit the vast room. “It is my sublime honor to announce the competitors in this year’s Triwizard Tournament. As you all know, participation in this ancient contest is a high honor, and I trust that our three Champions will hold themselves up as pillars of our community. To those chosen, be the best of us. To those who aren’t, support your Champions, and cheer for them as they face great dangers.”
Polite applause filled the room, followed by excited whispering as the Goblet was unveiled. A blue flame burned inside it as they looked on, flickering and snapping as it is was a living, breathing thing. Hermione lost herself in the flames, letting them dance across her mind from the center of the profaned chalice. Howling magic whipped around the room, tasting the auras of those present, searching for the good and the strong and the worthy. The witches who’d first enchanted the Goblet were long gone, but traces of them remained within the artifact. They called to Hermione, and she had no choice but to answer.
Dumbledore gave no impression of having noticed the Goblet’s power, and he continued on with his speech. “As is traditional, the winners of the last tournament will be the first chosen for the competition. But first, we must have an explanation of the rules and the stakes involved. Mr Crouch, if you please.”
The dour man stood up from his chair, looking out at the student body with wrinkled lip and a sneer of cold command. He’d been great, once, or at least worn the mantle of greatness. During the War he’d been the Assistant Minister and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was the architect of the at times draconian punishments handed down to known and suspected Death Eaters, and his scowling countenance was on the cover of innumerable old issues of the Prophet, looking bland and disinterested as ‘Dark magic sympathizers’ were carted off to Azkaban. His fall from grace in the post-war years was a long time coming: one didn’t reach the heights he had without amassing scores of enemies.
His voice was stiff and businesslike as he read off the rules. “This is a Ministry sanctioned event, but not one that we’ve organized. As such, any competitors should be aware that we assume no liability for any injuries or deaths suffered in the course of the competition, and that we have not directly approved any of the Tasks that the Champions will undergo. The prize pool to be paid out for the winner will be disbursed upon the Tournament’s completion, with deductions for any foul play or penalties that the competitors incur. I hope that you’ve all heard and understood me.”
Without waiting for a response, he stalked back to his seat, leaving a bemused Dumbeldore standing alone at the podium. The Headmaster cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Well, then. Without further ado, we’ll begin the choosing of the Champions. Oh Goblet of Fire, dispense your selections to us!”
The Goblet surged once more, blue fire roaring as the lights dimmed further. Crackling, hissing flames spat forth a piece of parchment, yowling as they released a scrap of power that had once been theirs alone. Dumbledore snatched it from the air with uncommon dexterity for a man of his age. Holding it aloft like a showman, he brought it down in front of his half-moon spectacles as the fire ebbed.
“The Champion for the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Fleur Delacour!”
Cheers erupted from the powder-blue clad Beauxbatons students, who saluted Fleur as she strode up to the stage, bowing gracefully when she reached the top. The woman was a consummate showman, and she worked the crowd expertly as she smiled and waved. Only Daphne earned a blown kiss, though, and Pansy had to catch her as she visibly swooned.
Dumbledore directed Fleur towards a room behind the main table, where Crouch, Regulus Black, and the other Headmasters awaited. Fleur’s selection wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t seem to matter to her classmates, who waved her off with abject adulation. Hermione smiled at the sight: Fleur was good for Daphne, and she was glad that other people were good to Fleur.
The Goblet flared to life once more as Fleur disappeared behind the stage, preparing to dispense the next name on the list. Durmstrang had finished second in the last iteration of the Tournament, and there was similarly little surprise as to who among the greatcoat wearing Bulgarians would earn the position of Champion among them. Once more, the Goblet produced a name, and once more Dumbledore read it aloud:
“The Champion for Durmstrang Institute, Viktor Krum!”
The Seeker rose on a tide of bellows and roars, raising his hands in triumph as his fellow students pounded the tables and supplicated themselves before him. One of them blew out a great gout of flame in the shape of a dragon as Krum passed down the aisles, showering the Hall in sparks as Viktor went up to join Fleur. For all their frowns and harsh manner, the Durmstrang students knew how to celebrate, and how to support their own.
As Viktor vanished into the hidden room, Dumbledore stepped forwards, letting a hush fall over the Great Hall as the Goblet flickered and grew. There’d been anticipation beforehand, but both of the other schools’ Champions were widely suspected by their peers. With Hogwarts, it was anyone’s game, and every House clamored for the school Champion to come from their own ranks. Wood and Spinnet looked on from the Gryffindor table, Hastwick and Macdougal sat tensely amongst the Ravenclaws, Flint and Rosier from Slytherin puffed out their chests in forced bravado. From the Hufflepuffs, Cedric Diggory tried to look nonplussed, surrounded as he was by adoring fans, but he couldn’t keep the giddy grin on his face. He’d be the first Hufflepuff Champion in three centuries, and by the odds he was the likely candidate.
The Goblet’s magic settled over them once more, and an instant later it produced a scrap of parchment. Dumbledore caught it, making a show of adjusting his glasses as they waited with bated breath. Hermione caught a flicker of uncertainty on his face as he read the name, and she knew what it’d be before it ever left his lips.
“The Champion for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione Granger.”
Confused murmurs swept the room as their collective eyes fell on Hermione, who forced herself to keep her head high. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Their eyes, their attention, their adulation. This was why she’d wanted to enter the Tournament. She was impressive, and she needed them to see her for the wonder that she was. The Goblet had chosen her. Magic had chosen her, and she wouldn’t shy away from its call.
A thump sounded next to her, and she looked over to see Pansy standing on the bench next to her, dark eyes glittering in defiance. “Cheer for your Hogwarts Champion, the Princess of Slytherin!”
A moment later Daphne joined her on the bench, casting her wand up in the air and murmuring a spell. A great, silver serpent burst forth from her wand, hissing and snapping as it slithered through the air beneath the banner of her House. The witch spoke clearly and proudly, projecting her voice till it rang from the rafters: “Enemies of the Heir, beware!”
A surge of confidence filled Hermione as she rose calling the weight of her magic to her as she strode up the aisle. Scattered clapping began at the Slytherin table and were soon joined by two enthusiastic faces amongst the Hufflepuffs, and a moment later a scruffy looking, green-eyed Gryffindor. Soon the entire hall was thundering for her, oohing and aahing as Daphne’s illusory serpent coiled in the air around Hermione’s head.
There were some angry looks from the seventh years who hadn’t been chosen, and a prying stare from Dumbledore that Hermione carefully avoided, but in the main the student body quickly decided to rally behind their new Champion. Hermione’s reputation might not have carried beyond Hogwarts’ walls, but everyone recalled the incidents of her second year, and the Parseltongue she spoke so fluently. If the Goblet chose her, she must be talented, doubly so to have beaten Dumbledore’s age line. She was a fitting Champion for the school, and a poster child for all the Muggleborns who looked up to her. There had never been a Muggleborn Champion, and only precious few Halfbloods, and to them, Hermione was a trailblazer. Pity that she wasn’t of Muggle blood, but she’d been raised that way, and she was proud of her Muggle parents. She’d fight for them, just as much as she fought for herself.
Her steps took her past the staff table and into the room behind it, but the moment she stepped through the doorway, a hand grabbed her by the shoulder. Whirling, she turned to see the unsmiling countenance of Regulus Black.
“That was rather foolish, Hermione,” he whispered, careful not to be overheard. “You’re meant not to draw attention to yourself.”
Hermione looked away, chastened by the criticism. “I’m sorry, Mister Black, I just meant—”
“Regulus. Reg, when I’m not angry with you. You’re one of us now, Hermione, and I’ve gone to great lengths to throw Dumbledore and the others off your scent, but you have to be careful. If word gets out that you’re of age, then you’re fair game when you’re off school grounds, do you understand? The Ministry can pick you up and question you under Veritaserum on some trumped-up charge, and we might not be able to pull enough strings to sweep the matter under the rug. Be careful. There are Death Eaters circling, and it’s only a matter of time before He returns. Consider how he’ll feel about you claiming his title before you wear it like a burial shroud.”
He waited for Hermione to nod before he turned his insistent grip into a friendly hand on her shoulder as he walked them both inside to meet the others. Snape and McGonagall looked astonished to see her there, as did everyone else but Fleur, who nodded at her approvingly. The blonde witch had wanted to test her mettle against Hermione after their practice duels, and now she’d get the opportunity.
“What eez this?” Madame Maxime questioned, looking at Regulus intensely. “She cannot compete. She iz a child!”
“The Goblet chose her, so she’s worthy,” Regulus said impassively, adopting his bland, Ministerial politeness. “And I’m afraid according to the magic of the Tournament, she can’t be withdrawn.”
Karkaroff chuckled darkly as he sized her up, seeming to find her wanting. “If the Goblet thinks a child is worthy of competing, so be it. All the better for us.” Viktor said nothing from his position next to him, preferring to appraise Hermione himself. She didn’t know whether to be uncomfortable or flattered as his eyebrow rose approvingly.
Her Head of House walked over to her, searching her eyes as he tried to peer into her mind. She didn’t let him, and he nodded approvingly as he let his probe fall away. Testing her defenses for when Dumbledore appeared, no doubt. The dour Potionsmaster had her best interests at heart, in his own odd sort of way.
“Miss Granger will perform to expectations, and exceed them, when the time comes,” Snape fired at Karkaroff, who shrank under his gaze. “Though you may think of us all as starry-eyed waifs at Hogwarts, we Slytherins are made of sterner stuff.”
“Much sterner,” Regulus agreed, grinning at Karkaroff like a Cheshire cat. “As you well know.”
Before the bearded wizard could reply, the door behind them opened once more, revealing the scowling form of Albus Dumbledore. As he strode into the room, Harry Potter appeared behind them, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. It took Hermione an instant to comprehend what had happened, but dawn quickly broke over marble head.
Hermione’s throat grew dry as her eyes flashed first to Harry, then to Regulus.
A moment later, the assembled wizards erupted.
Someplace cold. November 16th, 1994.
On a cold, dismal night, on a cold, windswept moor, there stood a battered old manor house. Its inhabitants had long since passed away, and continued maintenance of the building fell to some murky, opaque trust, who paid for upkeep and kept out trespassers while the building slowly decayed. The inhabitants of Little Hangleton knew better than to trouble the place. Rumors had spread that it was haunted, and no one could deny that they’d heard screaming under the eaves, on cold, moonless nights long past.
“Is it done?” A thin, raspy voice called out from the shadows. Beneath its withered form, a rocking chair slowly moved across the wooden floor, creaking and sighing.
“It is.” A gaunt young man answered, eyes burning fervently. “Black was all too eager to grant your request.”
“Good,” came the creak of an unoiled door, rocking on its hinges. “I had hoped for more fealty, but not everyone can be as devoted as you, oh first of my servants. They will pay me obeisance in time, when the time grows round for my return.”
The kneeling man nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. It wouldn’t do to meet his master’s gaze: few were worthy, and he hadn’t risked all that he had to tempt fate now.
“What of the girl?” Rage, thick and syrupy, dripping from every syllable. “The Heir.”
“She lives,” a frightened rabbit, playing at being a basilisk. “I saw her, last year.”
“She died. I saw it happen,” fury unbound, breakers smashing against the walls of the lighthouse. “That line is finished.”
“They say they can speak to snakes, master,” the rodent screeched.
“So can the Boy, though he carries no blood of mine. Learn what you can. Bring it to me. When the time comes, I shall build my altar with their crackling bones.”
So he said, and so would it be. One didn’t defy the Dark Lord, not if the wanted to continue their journey round the baleful sun. He brooked no fools, and harbored no traitors.
Such was his right.
Chapter Text
Castle Black, November 21st, 1994. A long awaited meeting.
Apparation always turned Hermione’s stomach. It hadn’t come to her as easily as other forms of magic, and the lessons Andy had given her and her friends had often ended up with her losing her lunch on the floor of the Charms classroom. She’d resolved never to use it unless she needed to, but it seemed like life had other plans. If you could teleport at will between places you’d been to, why on earth would you need any other forms of transportation?
Smoothing out her jumper, she took stock of her surroundings. Castle Black was baffling in its sheer intensity, and it would’ve put all but the gaudiest Muggle estates to shame. Granite and marble rose out of the seacliffs, fusing seamlessly with the bedrock below them as they jutted out into the air. Gargoyles leered down from the gutters and the parapets, towers spiraled high into the sky, and there were even spikes studded around the sides of the front door, on which to hang the heads of ones enemies. The Most Ancient Noble House of Black had their fair share of those.
Hermione was alone this time, walking up to the front door of one of the most feared Dark witches in the world as if it was a normal thing for a Muggleborn fourth year to do. That she wasn’t truly either of those things kept her safe, after a fashion, but she still needed to keep her wits about her. Bellatrix Black had a sinister reputation, and all agreed that she didn’t suffer fools.
As to why she’d called Hermione and the rest to meet her, Hermione could only guess. The mad business with the Goblet had begun to ebb to a simmer until the First Task got underway in a few weeks, and things were going well on the whole. Just as Regulus Black had no doubt foreseen, Harry’s entry in the Tournament alleviated any suspicions that fell on Hermione’s shoulders about fudging her age. Once was a curiosity, twice was a pattern, and all had agreed that Dumbledore must’ve fucked up the age line somehow. Hermione was content to leave them with that notion.
As for the students, they’d taken to her with more gusto than she’d anticipated. While she’d always sought recognition and validation for her achievements, she’d assumed that her status as both a snake and a fourth year would earn her nothing but suspicion. Instead, Hogwarts had rallied behind her. With a few Pureblood exceptions, the Slytherins were more than happy to support their own, and a couple of them had secretly confided in her that she was a better bet than the seventh years who’d put their names forward. Magical proficiency seemed to skip a generation when it came to supporters of the Dark Lord.
Hannah and Susan had brought most of the Puffs over, minus a few who insisted that Hermione had somehow cheated Cedric out of his rightful place as Hogwarts’ champion. Cedric himself wasn’t among them— he was far too gracious— but the naysayers remained. The Ravenclaws admired Hermione’s skill in magic too much to turn her away, which left only the Gryffindors. Fortunately for her, their desire not to support a snake had clashed with a baffling belief that Harry had somehow snuck his name into the Goblet for attention. Sure, Hermione had cheated the age line, but Harry had cheated the three school system too. Why would he go to all the effort, if not to bring more attention onto his shoulders?
Poor Harry was miserable, of course. He spent most of his time hiding under the invisibility cloak and bemoaning his fate, desperately trying to figure out who put his name in the Goblet. Hermione did her best to comfort him where she could. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been forced to compete, though she’d never give up whose fault it was, and she promised to help him however she could as the First Task approached. Even Fleur decided to take pity on him once Hermione told her what had happened, offering to train him in a few spells when she found the time. It still wasn’t fair in the slightest, but there was little else for it. He had to compete or he’d lose his magic.
Hermione shook the worries away. Triwizard difficulties aside, she had more pressing matters to attend to.
Most specifically, she had to puzzle out how to handle her interactions with Bellatrix Black. Her magic sensed a bond with the Dark witch, but as of yet it hadn’t been acknowledged in any way. Of course, she’d only seen her once, just before the Quidditch World Cup, and she’d been busy flaunting her Parseltongue in front of her. That wouldn’t count against her, would it?
She was overthinking, she thought without a touch of irony as she entered the Manor as Andromeda had instructed her. Her parents had instilled a deep, pervading need to overthink and overplan in her, which fit dentists better than witches. It would do her no good to worry about things she couldn’t control, things that might not even happen, but she worried anyway. Hermione Granger: Heir of Slytherin, Triwizard Champion, and born worrier. She preferred the first two titles.
Her feet took her instinctively through the castle’s dimly lit corridors, guiding her towards a destination she couldn’t have consciously named. Andromeda had mentioned that Bellatrix wanted to see the three of them about a few ‘future’ developments that required their attention, but she hadn’t said anything more than that. The relationship between the three sisters was utterly opaque.
Finally, she came to a sitting room near the seaward side of the castle. A fire roared loudly under the mantleplace, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Windows looked out towards the waves that crashed against the white cliffs dozens of feet below. The walls were painted a pale green, the floors were polished wood, and in the center there was a little round table flanked by two chairs. One of them was occupied.
Bellatrix nodded at her as Hermione stopped at the doorway, smiling that wicked smile. Her affect screamed danger, predator, hunter, and Hermione saw how lesser witches and wizards would’ve feared the very sight of her. As for her, she refused to be bowed or frightened, meeting dark eyes without hesitation nor trepidation. Bellatrix seemed to approve, and after a moment her posture relaxed slightly.
“Hermione,” she said simply.
“Not ‘Miss Granger’?”
Bellatrix chuckled softly. “I think we both know you’re rather more than that. If I hear right, you’ve openly declared yourself to be the Heir of Slytherin.”
Hermione’s nose wrinkled. “I can be the Heir of Slytherin and still be a Granger. Maybe my parents were Squibs.”
“No, you can’t.” Bellatrix’ voice was firm, but not without a touch of tenderness. “If your parents were Squibs it’d be a shameful revelation, but one entirely out of your control. No one would think less of you for it, if you had a good pedigree through their blood. But they’re not your parents by blood, and the Pureblood families have no interest in following the avowed child of Muggles. To be the Heir, you’ll have to let them go.”
She was right, damn her, but Hermione couldn’t face it. Her parents were her parents. They’d loved her for the entirety of her conscious existence, and she wasn’t going to turn her back on them for her own gain.
Shaking her head, Hermione changed the subject. “What did you call us for, Bellatrix? I’m quite busy at the moment.”
“Ah yes. You went ahead and stuck your hand directly in the fire,” Bellatrix replied with a grin. “I admire your drive, Hermione, I really do, but what you did was foolish. Albus may be too focused on the Potter boy to think too hard about you, but he’s not utterly blind. If you keep flaunting your power, he’ll take a closer interest in you.”
“And you don’t want that?” Hermione countered, unwilling to give an inch. Bellatrix didn’t want a wilting wallflower, and if she did, Hermione wasn’t going to associate with her, mentorship be damned.
“I don’t,” Bellatrix admitted, “but neither should you. Dumbledore’s got an agenda and an ironclad purpose, and he’ll stop at nothing to push his views forward. If he sees you as an asset, he’ll use you as a pawn. If he thinks you’re a threat to his plans, he’ll find a way to take you out of the picture. And he’s not even the only one you have to worry about in the castle.”
Hermione shuddered. “Who else? Karkaroff and the Durmstang students? They’ve been eying me since I was chosen.”
Bellatrix cackled: it was a mad, wild thing. “Karkaroff? Please. That man couldn’t curse his way out of a shoebox, and he sent half of his comrades to Azkaban after the Dark Lord fell. He’s a big fish in a small pond, and he won’t even be that for much longer.” She shook her head. “No, the ones you have to worry about are the ones who don’t leer at you in the Great Hall. The sorts of Death Eaters who lurk in the shadows, waiting for their opportunity.”
Her blood ran cold. “There’s a Death Eater? In the Castle?”
“More than one, if you count Reg. He’s on our side, but he bears a Mark on his arm just the same. Your Head of House followed the Dark Lord too, though there are whispers that he serves a new master now. Karkaroff was once one, and he’ll die a traitor’s death for it, but the last is…” She trailed off. “Reg won’t let me say. He thinks if he tells you then you or your friends will do something stupid.”
All her dread vanished in an instant, sublimating to blazing anger. “That’s ridiculous. The three of us can be trusted not to run our mouths about something important.”
“Can you” Bellatrix shot back, brow lifting. “You ran off after Potter last year, and this year you placed your name in the Goblet despite direct exhortations to keep your head down. This isn’t a game, Hermione, and if you treat it like one you’ll lose. The Dark Lord is rising again, you’re an open threat to his rule, and you’ve claimed the title he held most dear like it was a passing fancy. Salazar, Hermione, you need to be careful.”
“What do you care?” Hermione interjected, trying to fight the anger that boiled in her blood. “You’ve got all this power and prestige, and you’re speaking to me like some sort of disobedient toddler. I’m seventeen. I’ve defeated the Dark Lord once, and I’ll do it again. Yet all you and the others do is..” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Morgana, you confuse me, Bellatrix. Andromeda says you’re brilliant and fiery, but all you’ve ever been to me is authoritative, like you’re my teacher, not her. I just, I just don’t understand. Why am I here? Why did you pluck us out of the crowd, just to treat us like children?”
Bellatrix was quiet for a moment, studying Hermione’s face with jet black eyes. Magic crackled in the air between them, a tug of war for supremacy, and she worried she’d overstepped. The Dark witch was rumored to have been a member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle for years, even if she never took his Mark, and insulting her was inordinately stupid.
In the end, she merely sighed. “I wish I could tell you everything, Hermione, and someday I will, but for the moment you’re a student. Dumbledore and Snape are probably digging through your Occlumency shields on a daily basis, as are the Dark Lord’s own. The more you know, the more dangerous it is.”
“I get it, but you can’t— just anything would help. I know about magical bonds, I know I feel them for Pansy and Daphne and Harry and you. Magic is binding us together, but you just keep pushing me away.”
Bellatrix smiled wanly. “I knew you felt it the moment I met you over the summer. Your magic is powerful, Hermione, maybe enough to challenge the Dark Lord, one day. I knew you felt the bond, and there’s,” she paused, “there’s a prophecy that might shed more light on things.”
“A prophecy?” Hermione asked, interest overcoming her anger. “Show it to me.”
“Prove yourself, and I will. Finish the tournament without sticking your neck out any further and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” Bellatrix replied firmly.
“Fine.” She didn’t like it, but she knew she wasn’t getting anything more. Not today, at least. “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Bellatrix sighed, then offered her a perplexing stare. “The vaults at Gringotts are sealed with blood magic. If you ask the goblins, they’ll test you for your house connections.”
Hermione’s feet were suddenly frozen to the floor. “What?”
It couldn’t be true. She’d spent months poring over old books, trying to find a way to test her magical core to try to learn her birth parents’ identities. It couldn’t be as easy as strolling into Gringotts, could it?
The Lady of the House of Black shrugged. “Andromeda thought you knew already, and were just waiting till you turned seventeen to go without a chaperone.”
“Can I, can I just walk in?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Wasting no time, Hermione turned without saying goodbye and sprinted through the halls, making for the edge of the Castle’s wards. She didn’t know what she expected to find in Gringotts— for all she knew her parents weren’t accountholders at the London branch of the goblin bank— but she knew she needed to try, just in case. She’d been searching for information about her birth parents since her second year, and she wanted closure. Why had they abandoned her? Why did they have her in the first place if they were just going to go away?
Tears flecked in her eyes by the time she made it out of the front door, but she willed herself to go on. She loved the Grangers, she really did, but every adopted child wanted to know why. Surely she deserved more than this not knowing, this half space between being the person she’d thought she was and the one she was born to be.
She Apparated to Diagon Alley, taking only the briefest care to make sure no one saw her as she hurried along the street towards the looming enormity of Gringotts. Andromeda had arranged things to let her go and visit the family estate without direct supervision, but she wasn’t meant to be off school grounds during school hours. She wasn’t meant to be able to Apparate either, but that was neither here nor there.
Gringotts was all but empty when she walked in, and she strode up to one of the goblins on staff with nervous desperation writ clear on her face. She’d been here once before with McGonagall to arrange for an account using her parents’ Muggle money, but she’d never had to interact with the goblins by herself before. They had a reputation for being overly difficult, and she hadn’t come this far to be dismissed out of hand. It’d be find, she promised herself. It had to be.
Walking up to a desk, she gave the goblin clerk behind the desk her best smile. “Hello, I’m here to access my vault.”
He looked her over, dark eyes flickering in mild disdain. She tried not to take it personally. “Name?”
“Erm, Hermione, but I’ll need a lineage test, if that’s possible. I was told you could perform one.” She replied.
He leaned over the desk slightly, shaking his head. “This isn’t a charity, girl, nor a place for you to play your little pranks. Run along, now.”
His tone irked her more than anything, and she felt her magic ripple in protest. “No. I have a right to be here, and one of these vaults is mine, or at least my family’s. Do the test, or answer to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”
The goblin stiffened, staring at her with new interest and just a hint of fear. “Why would they help you? If you have no name, you’re little more than a Muggle.”
“Do the test and find out,” she replied. “Please.”
He looked her over once more, considering his options. After a few moments, he nodded subtly. “Very well. Follow me, but if there’s no blood relation, you’re to leave immediately.”
“Deal.”
The goblin hopped down from his seat, leading her down the lobby to a small door on the far side of the bank. A few of the bank’s other guests looked at her curiously, but Hermione didn’t see anyone she recognized. Good thing, too.
They walked down a set of stairs, into a darkened corridor beneath the lobby, the clerk leading them on, Hermione trying her best not to be obtrusive as she followed. Now and then they passed other goblins, but for the most part they were alone. It took the better part of ten minutes for them to reach their destination, a small, nondescript red door. The goblin unlocked it with a silver key, then pointed to usher her inside.
The room was dark as they entered, and the clerk stopped briefly to light an oil lamp. At once, the spartan space was lit in a hazy glow. A stone font that looked vaguely like a birthbath stood in the center of the room, but otherwise there was neither other furniture nor decoration of any kind. Magic whispered in the air, ancient and wild in the same way the Goblet’s was, and Hermione felt a shiver of unease. This was blood magic, cold and terrible, and it was not to be trifled with. No wonder the goblin had seemed reluctant to help her.
“Place your hand over the basin,” he ordered, producing a slender silver knife.
As soon as she did so, the blade flashed out nicking her finger. She yelped in surprise drawing her arm back as a few droplets of blood dripped into the basin. The instant they touched the stone, they flashed into steam with a bright, dancing hiss.
The clerk caught one of the tiny clouds of steam in a crystal flask, then dumped in a green liquid that she didn’t recognize. Hermione marveled at the display of runic magic as he carefully dropped the resulting concoction in a pewter spoon, then laid it atop a sheet of parchment. The symbols carved on it were unlikely any she’d seen before, goblin heritage runes, if she had to guess, but the way they glowed soft green and bright yellow would’ve been obvious to her even if she’d never seen runes of any kind. Something was happening. A reaction to her blood.
“Fascinating,” the goblin murmured as the parchment’s ink twisted and changed. “Simply fascinating.”
“What is?” Hermione asked, applying a simple Episkey to her wounded finger.
“You are. We’d thought your House to be extinct, yet here you are in the flesh. Trueborn, too, not some upjumped bastard. The parchment never lies, even if wizards do.” He turned to her, offering her a stiff, formal bow. “My apologies for my brusqueness, Lady Gaunt. It’s our pleasure to assist you with your business here.”
“Lady Gaunt,” she repeated dumbly, unable to fully process it now that it’d arrived.
The clerk nodded. “Yes, Lady Gaunt. You’re the last of your house, ma’am.”
Hermione nodded. She’d been hoping for relatives, but at least her parents hadn’t abandoned her on a whim. That brought some small measure of comfort.
“Would you like to see your vault?”
“I, yes, I would. Can we do that now?”
The goblin nodded. “I’ll grab your key.”
Hermione didn’t speak as she followed him back through the corridors and up the stairs to the lobby to retrieve the key— her key. She’d spent years wanting to know more about her family, and now she did. It felt strangely hollow.
Gods, she should’ve known. Nys greeted her like an old friend in the Chamber of Secrets, calling her a sister, so she’d known that she was related somehow to the extinct House of Slytherin. There’d been various cadet branches and cousins over the centuries, but the Gaunts were the last of them. They’d gone extinct during the Dark Lord’s rise. No doubt at his own hand, Hermione thought bitterly. If Tom Riddle was her blood relative, he must’ve been a Halfblood offshoot of her family tree.
And the Dark Lord wasn’t one to suffer rivals. Bellatrix had warned her about the dangers of challenging him openly, and it wasn’t surprising to think about him killing her parents. He’d tried to kill her at the first opportunity.
Who’d known? Surely some of the teachers at school must’ve taught her parents, whichever Houses they belonged to. Wizards could have children far older than Muggles could, but she couldn’t imagine them being older than McGonagall or Dumbledore. Bellatrix and the other Black sisters might’ve gone to school with one or both of them, too.
Did it matter? Maybe it didn’t. She was here, now, and they were gone. No amount of worrying would bring them back.
Had they loved her? She hoped so. They’d abandoned her with Muggles, but the Grangers had always been kind to her, raising her like their own blood. Had her parents vetted them first, choosing the perfect place to leave their daughter on the doorstep?
Her head was spinning as she boarded a railcar with the clerk, and the ride did her no favors. Down they went, into the great dark pit under the earth where Gringotts kept their vault. The Gaunt family was old and proud, though they’d fallen from grace over the centuries, and Hermione wasn’t surprised when they descended to the deepest levels of the bank. Here, the Sacred Twenty-Eight kept their holdings, jealously hoarding their treasures in a place no stranger’s eyes would ever see.
Hermione wasn’t a stranger, she thought as she stepped out of the railcar, staring at Vault 738. This was her place, and the magic of her family’s vault whispered to her from the great bronze door itself, calling her to claim her birthright. She took the key from the goblin with trembling hands, dropping a pinprick of blood onto the blade to make it her own. It seemed only proper.
The clerk walked away to give her privacy as Hermione set her key into the door, sucking in a breath as the clockwork mechanism within it slowly unfastened itself. Gears ground throatily and squeaked in protest as they moved for the first time in over a decade. Her parents hadn’t been back, then. She was the last of her kind.
The door creaked open, sending tiny clouds of dust spindling into the air.
There, standing alone in the center of the great vault, was a vial. It couldn’t have been more than a few inches tall, and as she approached it she saw that it was full of a silvery grey liquid. There were other things in the vault too— assorted Galleons, books, and artifacts that she’d have to sort through and catalog in her own time— but the vial seemed to call to her. Magic twisted around it, beckoning her forth, willing the last Heir of Gaunt and Slytherin to take her birthright. She wouldn’t refuse it.
Hermione picked up the bottle, holding it up to the magical glow of the circular room’s ceiling to get a better look at its contents. At first, she’d assumed it was a potion, but on closer inspection she realized it was full of something she’d seen described in her research: memories. Someone had left them for her to find, knowing or hoping that she’d come to the vault one day to view them.
Fumbling with the stopper, Hermione drew her wand, levitating the silvery substance out of the vessel. If placed in a pensieve, memories could be stored and viewed indefinitely. If placed in a person’s mind, they’d be lost to the rest of the world forever. She didn’t hesitate to levitate them into her scalp. They were hers, and the world had no claim to them.
The moment they touched her bare skin, her vision faded away to white, and Hermione was transported to another place and time.
She found herself in a brightly lit, cozy little sitting room, standing beside a well-loved leather couch. There was sun streaming in from wide windows along the wall behind her, and lit candles had perfumed the air with notes of jasmine and lavender. She’d never been here before, but she felt as if she knew it well. It was as if the walls of the house could talk, sensing her presence even through the faraway memory she was viewing, and they were opening their arms wide to welcome her home. Hermione smiled at the thought of it, letting herself feel just a little content before whatever memory she was meant to see took place.
The space was clearly prepared in advance. A large mirror had been set up in front of her, giving a full view of the room and its occupant. Hermione was invisible in the mirror, of course— she didn’t technically exist here— but the tall, elegant looking witch sitting on the couch smiled as if she was a living, breathing thing. She’d always intended for the memory to be watched one day, and now she was getting a chance for her words to carry across the unknowable years.
Hermione was struck at once by the resemblance between herself and the witch who sat before her. She was a little taller and a little broader, with hair that was dark brown rather than her chestnut hue, but their curls were the same, as were the shape of their button noses. The witch’s eyes were hazel just like Hermione’s were, and they radiated the same fierce intelligence that Pansy had once called ‘the mark of an excellent witch’. And oh, what an excellent witch she so clearly was. Her wand was laid out on the table in front of her, next to vial that Hermione had held in her hands just moments before. To plan such a thing fifteen years in advance beggared belief, but she had the look of a woman who didn’t shy away from such things, not even when goings grew difficult. Hermione instantly admired her.
As if she’d been waiting for her phantom visitor to make her initial appraisals, the seated woman spoke with a voice like warm cocoa: “Hello, Hermione. My perfect, shining star. I’m sorry it’s took me this long to meet you.”
Her heart broke. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.
The woman seemed similarly affected, blinking back tears of her own as her voice stuttered slightly. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. Your other mother has you now in the next room, and if I listen I can just…” she shook her head, “I can just hear you giggling if I strain for it. You’re here, with us, safe and happy and love, and I just…”
She shook her head, fighting for her composure. “I just wish things could be different. You should grow up here with us. You should spend your days hearing about how wonderful you are, and how much we adore you. I should be fretting about sending you off to Hogwarts in ten years’ time, and dreaming of the day you get your first wand. Morgana, Hermione, I’m— I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything we’ve had to do to keep you safe, and everything that’s yet to come.”
Hermione was sobbing, now, wishing for all the world that she could reach out and touch her mother, to tell her that it was alright, that she was okay. That she’d been raised by people who loved her, and sent off to Hogwarts when she was a little more than eleven. That she’d gotten her wand, that she had friends! Oh, what wonderful friends she had, and how dearly she wanted them to meet her parents.
The woman composed herself, managing a soft sigh. “I hope that you never see this, Hermione. I hope that the War ends without taking us with it, and that I can do all these things and share all these things with you in person. But if things don’t go as I hope, and this is the first time you’re seeing me, let me say this before anything else.”
She leaned towards the mirror, misty eyes brimming with determination not to cry. “I love you, Hermione. I love you, and your other mother loves you, and we are so, so proud of the witch you’ve grown to be. Whatever you do and whoever you are, always remember that we think the world of you, and nothing on heaven or earth could ever change that.”
Hermione placed her hands on the couch, wishing that the solidity of it could give her the stability she was quickly losing. She was loved. She was cared for. They hadn’t… they hadn’t just given her up. They’d never wanted to let her go.
The woman brushed a stray tear from her own eyes, smiling gently in the mirror. “With that said, there are things you ought to know, and not enough time for me to say them. If you’re seeing this, I’m operating on the assumption that you know of your true heritage, but little else.” She cleared her throat, placing her hands on her lap. “I am Massentia, Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt. Heir of Slytherin, though I’ve never flaunted the title openly. You are Hermione, Heir to my House and junior member of your mother Gwendolyn’s, the Most Ancient and Noble House of Selwyn. Yours is a profoundly powerful birthright, my love, and I know it will benefit you greatly in the battles to come.”
Massentia Gaunt and Gwendolyn Selwyn. Her parents. Hermione remembered hearing of Gwendolyn on countless occasions around the study of Charms, both from Professor Flitwick and Andromeda later on. She was meant to be an utterly superlative practitioner of Charms, and her legacy was no doubt where Hermione’s own aptitude for them came from.
As for Massentia, Hermione knew fairly little. She vaguely recalled seeing her name in the school archives, often in association with the Hogwarts House of Slytherin and advanced Arithmancy work. By birth she was the last of the House of Gaunt to bear the name, though some descendants remained amongst the other Houses, and Hermione suspected one without a House at all.
Massentia followed a similar line of thinking. “I’m in this position— we’re in this position— because of our family name, and the power it holds within it. My father, Salazar keep him, was Morfin, son of Marvolo. He died years ago in Azkaban, framed for the murder of three Muggles by a man I hope you do not know, but fear you already do: Tom Riddle. He’s my cousin, though not a legitimate one. His mother, my aunt Merope, tricked a Muggle into falling in love with her, then died of a broken heart when she lifted the enchantment. My cousin Tom grew up in an orphanage, alone and unloved. Perhaps that was what drew him down a dark path, though in our family who can say.”
“I attended Hogwarts a few years after him, and I soon came into contact with the boy who’d become Lord Voldemort. He was smart, brilliant, even, and desperate to feel connected to his mother’s heritage in whatever way he could. His Muggle parent was a shame to him for his blood, and for me for the twisted magic his mother performed on the poor man. My father was a… complicated man, and he thought Tom an abomination. He drove him from his home and told him never to return, insisting that the line of the House of Slytherin remain forever pure. Tom never forgave him, and he paid for it at the Dementor’s hands.”
Hermione sank to the ground, struggling to process everything. Lord Voldemort was her cousin? Nys had called him the little sister, which must’ve been referring to his mother Merope, but she’d followed him in his bid for power from the Chamber once upon a time. Tom had essentially killed her grandfather— his uncle— and from the sound of things, he hadn’t stopped there.
Massentia continued on. “In time, Tom grew powerful, gathering the Knights of Walpurgis around him, soon to be called the Death Eaters. He hid his origins, railing against the Ministry and Muggleborns and promising to restore the old ways by shadow and flame. He took on the mantle of the Heir of Slytherin, styling himself the successor to our noble ancestor, and from there it was only a matter of time.”
Hazel eyes uncannily found Hermione’s own, and her mother’s voice grew strained. “He launched a war, and soon he started sending people after us. At first they offered exhortations to join his cause, then ‘gifts’ to encourage us to leave the country and never speak of our heritage. There could be only one Heir of Slytherin, and he had no intention of sharing that power. Soon, the gifts became threats, threats became curses. We hid ourselves away, hoping that the fighting ended before he saw one of his attempts succeed.”
She straightened in her chair. “We can no longer risk our future on hope alone. The Ties of Blood between us make it difficult for him to strike us directly, but his assassins have no such difficulties, and one of them will sneak through the wards sooner or later. Hopefully we’ll survive until Voldemort falls, but I confess that it seems unlikely. His power has grown far beyond that of an ordinary wizard, and he’d kill us all the moment he got the chance.”
A spate of giggling broke through her speech, and she smiled at something in the doorway. Hermione looked over to see herself, not more than a year old, babbling happily in the arms of a short woman with chestnut curls that matched her own. The sheer delight in her mother’s features filled her with a confusing mix of joy and anguish, made all the more worse when baby Hermione reached up with a tiny hand and yanked on one of Gwendolyn’s curls.
“Ow, you brute,” the woman protested, feigned hurt in her voice. “Your daughter has wounded me.”
“She’s your daughter too,” Massentia replied warmly, moving over to stand next to her wife. She stared down at the baby with affection. “But you’re mine too, Hermione. My perfect star, my little light in the darkness. How I hope to watch you grow.”
Hermione stood to say something, even if it couldn’t be heard in the sandy grains of the memory, but the air was already shimmering as she did. No, Hermione thought desperately, no, it’s not fair. She wanted more time, she deserved more time, she needed more time. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to show her the happy family she’d lost, only to pull it away from her.
But it was, and she was gone. Hermione came to on the floor of the Gaunt family vault, empty vial in hand, tears drying on her cheeks.
Chapter 13: A Task is a Trial
Summary:
Hermione talks with her friends and allies, as she prepares to face her task. Fleur preens. Bellatrix broods.
Notes:
Oh my, oh my, this one really got away from me. Better late than never!
Big heart to everyone who wanted more of this, hope this chapter warms your heart. We've got some basilisk, some task, and some Bellatrix here for you. More to come, whenever the mood strikes.
xoxo Akhenani
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, December 9th, 1994. A task, and a trial.
“Are you sure you’ve got it?” Daphne asked, unable to keep a note of fear out of her voice. The blonde had been pacing their dorm for the better part of an hour, wearing a steady tread in the green carpet.
Hermione nodded, trying to keep her breathing steady. “I’ve got it, Daph. The wandwork’s not that complicated.”
“It’s very complicated, Mia, and I think—”
“Daph,” Pansy interjected firmly. “Let her focus. I know you’re worried, but bothering her won’t make it any better.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Pansy declared. She’d grown up and out over the past few months, standing a full head taller than Daphne, and she had the corded muscle of a Beater. “If you must bother someone, bother me, or Andy. Hermione’s got more important things to worry about.”
Hermione sighed, running her hands through her curls. “Its fine, Pans. I was just finishing up anyway.” Standing up, she walked over to the vanity at the far end of their room, checking her appearance in the mirror. She’d never been one to preen over herself, but she was grown now, and she carried the weight of her mothers’ birthright. It wouldn’t do to look anything less than her best.
“You look good,” Daphne teased. “If I wasn’t a married woman, I’d be all over you.”
“Don’t let Fleur hear you saying that. She’d probably challenge me to a bloody duel.”
“She’d win, too.”
Pansy snorted softly. “Whose side are you own, Daph?”
“My own, of course,” Daphne replied, trying ever so hard not to seem frightened. “And ours. I’m just trying to keep morale up, and all that.”
“Daph, I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m facing my cousin in single combat,” Hermione chided. The man was a shadow, staring at her whenever she closed her eyes, Gaunt blood burning in his veins. If what Bellatrix had told her was true, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
“No, it’s just a bloody dragon.” Fleur had passed the information on the First Task to her mate the week before, and Hermione had been puzzling out her strategy ever since. “You do know what a dragon is, don’t you? Muggles have dragon flags and dragon books and dragon symbols, right?”
Hermione laughed lightly. “Yes, Daph, I know what a dragon is. Circe, listening to you I’d never think I helped you through Care of Magical Creatures for three years. It’s just a creature, no matter how big it is. I can deal with it.”
“I hope you’re not planning on speaking Parseltongue.”
She turned to Pansy, a grin on her face as she slipped into the crooning, whispering tongue. “Never, bound of my blood. The serpent’s tongue is for all who slither, not crawl or walk or fly. Dragonkind are no kin to us.”
Pansy shivered as Hermione’s voice wormed its way into her ears. “I’ll never get used to that, I swear. Parselmouth, Heir of Slytherin, daughter of the House of Gaunt. Life was simpler when you were just Hermione Granger.”
“I am still Hermione Granger,” she replied fiercely. “Daniel and Jean aren’t my blood parents, but they raised me and loved me as their own. I’m not so base as to fear their name and their affection.”
“Are you going to tell them?” Daphne asked.
Hermione shrugged. “After the Tournament, probably. I don’t want to worry them unduly before the year’s done.” Summer meant freedom, independence, and a life of her own in the magical world. Nymphadora had been writing her about finding a flat near hers; with the assistance of the House of Black, she’d more than enough gold for a place of her own. There’d been a Gaunt Manor in the countryside, once, but it’d been sold long before Hermione’s time. Her mother Massentia had rebuilt her own fortunes, and her mother Gwen had brought along a chunk of the Selwyn inheritance, but Hermione wasn’t fabulous wealthy of her own accord.
Muggleborn or Pureblood, she traded on her name alone.
“Right,” she declared, satisfied with the state of her hair. “I’ve got to pop out for an errand, and then I’ll join you in the Great Hall for breakfast. There’s someone I need to talk to, and there’s no time like the present.”
Daphne frowned. “Who’ve you got to talk to, besides us?” Pansy elbowed her in the stomach; the blonde girl yelped. “Bloody hell, it was just a joke.”
Pansy rolled her eyes before turning her attention back to Hermione. “Bring her a chicken for me, will you? I’d like to stay on her good side.”
Hermione laughed, allowing herself a devilish grin. “As long as you’re on my good side, you’re on hers, Pans. Remember that, come Christmastime.”
The journey down was never pleasant, even without the specter of the Dark Lord’s return hanging over her head. The carved stone chute was smooth enough to slide down without incident, but it was dark, and it was cold, and sound echoed through the tunnel like a thunderstorm. It must’ve been intentional, on her ancestors’ part. Salazar Slytherin suffered no fools and tolerated no layabouts.
Once she landed, Hermione trudged through the water at the base of the tunnel, careful not to get the muck on her robes. It wouldn’t do to show up to the First Task smelling of refuse. Her heritage wasn’t yet widely known, but she was a ward of the House of Black, and she stood in their name.
The tunnel gradually widened as she followed it down from the bathroom drain, growing larger and larger until she stood in a vast cavern, lit with ethereal green flame. Reliefs carved into the stone walls depicted the founding of Hogwarts, with long-limbed Salazar Slytherin holding court over the very first students of his House, directing them in powerful magics. The Founders’ falling out was displayed in lurid detail, with duels depicted in startling accuracy in the pale rock.
Hermione took it all in as she walked down the center path of the Chamber, striding more confidently than she ever had before. She was the Heir, the last true member of the House of Gaunt, and this was her place.
“Nys,” she whispered into the still air, voice winding through the hollows of the far wall. “I’ve come to speak with you.”
The room was silent for a moment as her words echoed back into nothingness within the tunnels, but soon it stirred, stone warping and whirring as the monumental snake at the far end of the room opened its cavernous mouth. The ghost of a smile graced her lips as a long, sinuous, beautiful basilisk slithered out from her nest, regarding the little witch in front of her with affection.
“Hermione,” the snake crooned. “You’ve come home. Do you have a name for me?”
“I do,” Hermione hissed. “I am Hermione, of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Gaunt, child of Massentia. Last of my line, eldest of blood, though not of body.”
The basilisk chuckled, a cackling, rasping sound that shook the waters of the room. “Good, good. I have the honor to be Nysandra, who knew your great-grandsire’s great grandsire. It’s my sublime pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.”
“Now,” Nysandra continued, winding into a loose coil around the witch. “Why have you come, Hermione of Gaunt? Your presence is a delight, but the hour is strange.”
Hermione nodded, steeling herself before she spoke. “I opened my mother’s vault. I saw my parents, in a memory. They gave me my name, and my purpose.”
“Did they? And what, pray tell, is that?”
“To kill him,” Hermione replied. Her skin pinpricked with budding obsession, blood calling for blood. “And bring glory to my House once more. I’m to fight a dragon this afternoon, and win fame there, but it won’t stick unless I rise higher than he has. The blood of hundreds is on his hands, my mothers among them.”
The massive snake laughed again, ripples cascading along the waters of her home. “You were a mouse last time I saw you, little sister. How you’ve grown.”
“I was never a mouse,” Hermione protested.
“You were,” Nysandra chided. “A mouse wrapped in snakeskin, waiting to grow. I like you better this way.” She paused for a moment, tongue tasting the air. “There are four of them, out in a castle of wood and canvas. Upstart lizards. Flying rats. Wings of red leather, blue brown and green. A broom and a brute, a snare and a scream.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. A snare? A scream?”
Nysandra stared off into the far distance, careful not to meet her eyes. “A snake and a lion, stumble past stone. Blood of the blooded, and torn father’s bone.”
Before Hermione could ask for anything more, the great snake coiled once more, winding back towards the carved face in the wall. “I shall speak no more, little sister. Return to me, when your tasks are done, and bring him to me. He owes you a debt, and they’ll take his heartblood either way.”
Hermione watched her disappear, feeling buoyed and bewildered. The basilisk was ancient, and her riddles never seemed to find their place until she’d passed them.
The tent stank of camphor and mildew, and the fluttering pendants shone with the same false opulence as the tournament’s organizer. Ludo Bagman was a prince in tatters, a smile without substance. Hermione had detested him from the outset.
“Welcome, champions, welcome,” he proclaimed, rubbing his hands together to fight off the winter’s chill. “Congratulations on this, your very first Task of our Tournament! I trust that each of you will win fame for yourselves and your schools, and give our spectators a spectacle to cheer for.”
Fleur snorted softly, murmuring so that only Hermione could hear her. “This one is more of a snake than you are, non? He talks and talks, but says nothing.”
Hermione tittered under her breath, careful not to catch Bagman’s eye. She needn’t have worried. The man was Narcissus, utterly enamored with his own enormity, and utterly incapable of caring about anything farther than his pocketbook. He’d dressed in a garish set of robes, quartered green and red and blue and black to represent the four competing Houses, and his skin bore the telltale gleam of copious Skin-Smoothing Salves. She could have hexed him, and he wouldn’t have noticed until the slugs left his blubbering lips.
“As you are, no doubt, unaware…” Bagman began, giving them all a knowing wink. “The First Task this year will test your magical mettle, and your nerve, in a contest against four of the most ferocious creatures known to wizardkind. Four dragons have been procured from Romania, and with them, four clutches of eggs.”
He paused for dramatic effect, and Hermione made a polite show of looking surprised. They’d all cheated, but it wouldn’t do to let that on in front of Bagman’s dour partner in crime, Barty Crouch. The stuffy old man looked even less genial than usual, face white, hands trembling at his sides. Regulus was next to him, ever the diligent Undersecretary. He gave Hermione a subtle nod when he met her eyes, lips curling into the barest hint of a smirk. She’d seen that same expression on Nymphadora’s face, and Andromeda’s, and even Draco’s, albeit in a lesser form. The message was painfully simple: don’t fuck it up.
Didn’t need to tell her twice.
“Now,” Bagman continued, eyes greedy, hands grasping. “For the selection of our dragons. We’ll begin with our ladies. Miss Granger?”
Hermione gave him a saccharine smile. “Of course, Mister Bagman.”
Striding forward, she thrust her hand into the leather bag they were using for the choosing. The bristle of diminutive spines against her fingers momentarily shocked her, but only momentarily. At Hogwarts, animated dragon figures were par for the course.
She prised a hissing, snapping dragon from the bag, uncurling her fist to reveal a silvery-blue dragon with shimmering scales. The little creature made a high-pitched screeching sound, breathing forth blue flame.
“Ah, the Swedish Short-snout!” Bagman beamed at her. “Excellent, Miss Granger, excellent. She’ll be a fine match for Hogwarts’ first champion.”
Karkaroff muttered something under his breath at that, but Hermione knew better than to pay him any mind. The Durmstrang headmaster was still bitter over Harry’s selection, claiming that the rules of the contest had been betrayed. Funny, she thought darkly, when he was a traitor himself. If Reg was to be believed, it wouldn’t be long before the Dark Lord’s faithful came for him.
Fleur drew the Chinese Fireball, Krum the Welsh Green, leaving poor Harry with a sickly look on his face and a Hungarian Horntail in his palm. Bagman crowed at the sight, slapping Harry on the back and joking about the ferocity of the beast. Fleur shot him a dirty look and he quieted, ducking out of the tent to take up the mantle of announcer for the cheering crowds.
Fleur went out first, painting on a confident grin and striding out into the sunlight. The Beauxbatons section of the crowd went wild, though Hermione couldn’t see them from her place in the tent. She hoped that somewhere in the Hogwarts section, amongst the Slytherins, Daphne was cheering her beloved on as well. She’d earned a little happiness, after all she’d done for Hermione.
“I’m going to die,” Harry muttered under his breath, drawing Hermione’s attention. “They’ve gone and got me this time.”
“Hey, no,” Hermione said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Green eyes met hers, clouded with uncertainty. “You’re going to be fine, Harry. You’ve got the Accio down, right?”
“Right,” he replied. “But the Horntail’s fast, and I’ve heard they’re more aggressive than the rest. Hagrid says—”
“Hagrid says a lot of things.” Too many things, in Hermione’s opinion. The groundskeeper was a kind man, but he was amongst the least reliable adults Hermione knew of. “You survived a werewolf and a basilisk, you can manage a dragon. Besides, it’ll be chained up. You’ll fly circles around it.”
Harry forced a smile. “You think so?”
“I do. I’ve never steered you wrong, have I?”
“I guess not. Are you sure you were meant to be a Slytherin?”
Hermione chuckled, failing to conceive of a world where she wasn’t a snake. Her mothers would’ve clucked their tongues from beyond the Veil. “I’m sure. What would Daph and Pans do without me?”
Harry nodded knowingly. “They’d be fine, from what I’ve seen. Now, Ron and Lav on the other hand…”
A roar went up from the crowd outside, shaking the walls of their tent. A dragon bellowed, a bird let out a high, piercing cry. Hermione tensed as the cheers turned to gasps, than a scintillation of worried murmurs. Fleur was a capable witch, more than capable. If she was struggling against the Welsh Green, perhaps Harry ought to be worried after all.
“Do you think she’s…” Harry asked faintly.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Hermione replied, willing herself to believe it. Fleur’s tougher than she looks.
“If you say so.”
They waited a few minutes more as Bagman trumpeted out his commentary from outside, interspersed with cheers of ‘Allez’ from the Beauxbatons section. Fleur must’ve managed to grab her dragon’s egg, then. Thank Circe.
Krum went next, offering Hermione a crude smile and a wink before striding out the door. She couldn’t tell if he was awkward or arrogant, prying into her personal life or just wholly unaware of how the masses went about showing interest in each other. As a renowned Seeker, he was surely accustomed to girls throwing themselves at his feet. Hermione wasn’t about to do that, but that only made her more of a challenge.
Tapping out a pattern on her wand, she focused on recalling the spells that she’d practiced for the Task. A dragon was just another creature, at the end of the day. With the right stimuli, they could be managed or distracted, just like they did in the sanctuaries in Romania. She’d pored over faded texts and esoteric treatises in search of dragon-controlling spells, and come up with several likely candidates.
Outside, Krum shouted a spell: his dragon screamed. A wail of fingernails against chalkboard rent the air, a teeth-clenching, ear-splitting cry. The crowd screeched in discontent as Bagman continued on, babbling something unintelligible in a high, insatiable tone. Whatever Krum had done, it’d shocked his fellow students and thrilled Bagman, and Hermione had no desire to know what vile incantation could manage that.
“What’s he done?”
She shook her head. “No idea. Blood-Boiling Hex to the throat, maybe? Mind-Warping Curse? Conjunctvitis?” The possibilities were endless, each more unpleasant than the last. Lizards were snake’s annoying cousins, but Hermione didn’t like hearing them in pain.
Regulus ducked his head in a few moments after the crowd subsided, giving Hermione that hidden smile. “Miss Granger? It’s time.”
She nodded, smiling back at him. “Thank you, Mister Black.” Straightening her robes and taking one last deep breath, she walked over to the edge of the tent. The crowd was baying in anticipation outside, shouting out for their champion. Three Houses had rallied behind her, three and half the Gryffindors. If anyone was going to bring the Triwizard Cup back to Hogwarts, it’d be her.
Time to write her name in school history.
The crowd howled as she stepped out from the cover of the tent, blinking in the winter sun. They’d arranged a vast circular arena for the Task, full of rocks and crags behind which to hide or take cover. Hermione had no intention of using them.
“Witches and wizards, ladies and gentlemen, our third champion!” Bagman called out from the judges’ stand, sweeping his hands over the crowd. “Hermione Granger, of Slyyyyyyyyyytherin!”
The Hogwarts students chanted her name. When she raised her hands in acknowledgment, they went into a frenzy. Granger, Granger, Granger, they chanted. Funny, that they’d learned her name right after she’d cast it aside.
“And her opponent, the vicious viper from the frozen north, our Swedish Shortsnout!”
A roar echoed from the other side of the arena, and Hermione looked over to see a massive expanse of blue scale and leathern wings. The dragon yellow eyes took the measure of her, nose flaring as it tested her smell. She raised her wand in response, dropping into a low bow.
“Ah, showmanship! But she’ll need more than that to secure her egg. Now, champion, begin!”
A bell sounded, and Hermione was off, running along the arena floor and clambering over the rocks. Protective spells washed over her as she shouted out her prepared incantantions: the Fire-Repelling Charm, Scent Masking Spells, and Disillusionments. Her wand waved at dizzying speed as she tried to mask herself as cleanly as possible, hiding everything identifying in her person.
The dragon roared, jaws snapping open as blue flame bloomed in its gullet. Hermione threw up a wall of stone, pulling the earth up to catch the blast of fire in mid-air. Heat licked at her robes as the earth shook and rumbled, crowd gasping in concern as the Shortsnout’s fire ebbed.
The moment the blaze stopped, she was moving again, moving with intention towards the dragon’s nest. The Slytherins cheered her as she ran, wand coming up once more. Time to toss the dice.
The Mirror-Image Charm was an old spell, and a difficult one, suitably only for Charms masters. With the right focus, the caster could split their form into many illusory versions of themselves, confusing and overwhelming their opponents. Risky to the point of near illegality, the slightest misstep would splinch the wielder in the same way Apparation did.
Funny, that.
“Memento Interruptum!”
Hermione winced as her essence split, wand curling in a spiral motion as first one, then two, then three separate Hermiones ran forth over the arena. The phantom Hermiones whipped out their wands, casting puffs of smoke and flashes of light at the dragon. The beast roared, blasting forth fire at one of the duplicates, only for it to vanish into thin air.
“I can’t believe it,” Bagman yelled over the deafening cheers from the Hogwarts students. “A Mirror-Image Charm, from a third-year, no less! What incredible form from Miss Granger!”
Grinning in triumph, Hermione dashed for the dragon’s nest, counting on her illusions to draw the creature away. The Shortsnout lunged for one of the duplicates, massive jaws snapping shut over empty air. The earth rumbled beneath her feet, gold glinted in the near distance. Hermione just needed to make the dash.
A whistling caught her attention, and she only just had the time to throw herself to the ground before a wickedly-spiked tail flashed through the air. Azure scales glinted inches from her face as the dragon’s tail crashed into the ground nearby, sending up a cloud of dust and debris. Her heart hammered in her chest as the dragon bellowed out a challenge, daring her to face it once more.
“Looks like the Shortsnout isn’t quite ready to let her go!” Bagman called. “Let’s see how Granger gets out of this!”
Hermione scrambled to her feet, thinking quickly as she pulled up her wand again. The Mirror Images might still serve, but she couldn’t rely on them to hold the dragon’s attention forever, and turning her back seemed unwise. Raising her wand, she called forth another Conjuration. “Specchius Oculo!”
A circular mirror flashed into existence, ten feet wide and concave, pointed towards the dragon. Some dragons were vulnerable to hypnotization if they saw their own reflections, or displays of territorial…
The Shortsnout roared, shaking the earth with the force of its anger. Blind fury overtook the nesting mother as she challenged the other dragon, puffing out her chest and beating her wings. Blue flame embered as she opened her mouth in a display of strength, seeking to intimidate her rival.
It was all the opening she needed. Hermione sprinted across the last distance towards the dragon’s nest, barely dodging out of the way of a whipping blast of flame. Her mirror bravely withstood the brunt of the blow, glass melting underneath the dragonfire. Just a little bit farther, just a little bit closer. She clambered into the nest, reaching for the golden egg.
Something sharp pierced through the soul of her boot, and Hermione screamed in pain. A jabbing, stabbing pain raced from her foot, and she felt her muscles begin to clench and burn.
“Oh, has she been hit? I didn’t see the fire, but—”
With the last of her strength, Hermione reached forward, snatching the egg and holding it aloft. The Slytherins roared out their approval, joined by the other Hogwarts students, and then they were stamping, cheering, howling. Granger, Granger, Granger.
An icy chill crept up her leg as she teetered atop the nest, and her eyes fought to close. She’d done it, Hermione thought hazily, swaying on her feet. She’d finished the Task, she’d snatched the egg.
She meant to scream. She meant to cry for help. She could only let out a low, rasping wail.
Shaking, blinking in the sunlight, she fell.
Hermione dreamt of castles on fire, and a man whose grin was devoid of lifeblood. A crow with two faces stared at her, blue eyes swiveling to stare into her soul, and two pale corpses climbed up from the soil. Teeth chattered in the dark, chittering in some language that she wasn’t meant to understand. They were laughing at her, though. That much she knew.
Then there was darkness, and warmth, and a voice she’d heard before.
“She’s waking up,” came the relieved tone, calling out to others nearby. “She’s waking up.
No, Hermione thought, she’d been sleeping, and it’d been comfortable. The dreams had been strange, but her dreams often were, and her bed was warm and soft. There was no need to face the wider world.
“Hermione? Mia? Otter?” The voice called out, gentle to the point of anxiety.
“Let her wake up on her own time, Daph.”
“Oh hush, Pans.”
Another voice interrupted the two of them, strict and matronly. “If you’re going to bother my patient, I’ll remove you from the infirmary. You’re here to observe, nothing more.”
The second voice, Pans, spoke again. “If the Lady says we can be here, we ought to be allowed to stay.”
“Miss Parkinson, I hardly think that—”
A last voice spoke, holding all the authority in the room in the palm of her hand. “Enough. She’s awake.”
Hermione blinked her eyes open, squinting against the bright light. She was lying in a soft bed, in the middle of a bright hall. Her combat robes had been engaged for a medical gown, and her right leg was swaddled in layers of gauze. A dull, brittle ache radiated forth from her heel, and Hermione was dimly aware that she must’ve been under a high dosage of pain potions to keep it from overwhelming her.
“Hermione?”
She turned, managing a weak smile as she took in the worried faces of her friends. Daphne and Pansy were waiting at her bedside, with Madame Pomfrey hovering nearby, brows furrowed in annoyance. Behind them all, a tall woman in a dark petticoat gave her a curious stare. Bellatrix, Hermione remembered, Bellatrix Black. But why was she here? What had happened to her?
“Miss Granger,” Madame Pomfrey interrupted, sliding into triage. “What do you remember about how you got here?”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders, trying to sift through the memories. “I was competing in the First Task. There was a dragon, and I was trying to get to its nest before it turned its attention back to me. I remember getting there, and snatching the egg, and pain.” She scrunched up her nose at the memory, shaking her head. “Sharp, stabbing pain, and then cold.”
Madame Pomfrey nodded, shoulders slumping in relief. “It seems that in gathering the dragon eggs for the Tournament, the dragon-handlers didn’t adequately sweep the nest for manticore colonization. Lesser manticores will lay their eggs alongside dragons, to better protect them from predators, and it seems that an errant spine found its way into the nesting material. It pierced your boot, and here you are. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“A manticore?” Hermione asked, frowning. “The poison’s meant to kill in minutes, and the antivenom’s nearly impossible to manufacture, isn’t it? How am I here?”
Pomfrey’s lip raised in distaste. “Luckily for you, Nymphadora Black was one of the Aurors on duty, and she happened to recognize the symptoms by sight. She Apparated to the family Manor, and the Lady Bellatrix was able to locate the antivenom in time in their family’s stores. It was a near thing, but you have them to thank for your survival.”
“It seems I have a lot to thank them for,” Hermione replied softly, meeting Bellatrix’ burning gaze. The dark witch held herself with a simmering tension, as if she’d been disrespected in a base, degrading way. “I’ll have to find some way to repay you.”
Bellatrix snorted, raising a dark eyebrow. “Think nothing of it, pet. You’re a ward of the House of Black, and we take care of our own.” Pet, pet, that was new. Hermione resolved to ask her about it, once they had some privacy.
The Lady of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black loomed over the proceedings, casting a long shadow even when she fell silent once more. Hermione’s little moon was caught in the woman’s gravity, drawn inexorably into dark eyes and scarlet-painted lips. Of the Three Bonds, Ties that Bound often wound the highest. Cord bit into the back of Hermione’s neck, pulling her ever closer.
No. No, if Hermione was to go, she’d go as an equal, not a supplicant. The House of Black was wealthy and powerful beyond measure, but the blood of snakes and ladies ran in her veins. She would not kneel, nor allow herself to be knelt.
Bellatrix’ lips curved into a manic smile; Hermione could’ve sworn she inclined her head, just a fraction.
Daphne’s voice dragged her out of her coalescence, snapping her attention back to the present moment. “Did you hear, Hermione? You came in second in the Task! The judges liked Potter’s little broom demonstration more, but that seemed like pity, since his dragon nearly killed him. I’d have killed him too, if I’m honest. Flying a broom about like an overgrown housefly.”
“Second place?” Hermione replied, wiping the exhaustion from her eyes. “What have I won?”
“This, for one.” Pansy held up the glimmering golden egg she’d snatched from the Shortsnout’s nest. Gingerly, she laid it next to Hermione, careful not to trouble her leg.
In the soft light of the Hospital Wing, Hermione could see a seam in the side of the egg, an invitation to unravel its secrets. She reached towards it, fingers grasping to…
“Don’t.” Pansy said sharply, gritting her teeth. “It’s got some sort of horrid, wretched scream held inside of it, and it’ll wail if you open it.”
Hermione managed a genuine smile. “Let me guess, Daph got antsy and decided to have a quick peek.”
Daphne scoffed, throwing a hand over her heart. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing, Mia. To think, that I’d betray your trust, while you were laid out on death’s door.” She shook her head, wiping a tear from her eye. “I opened Fleur’s egg.”
They descended into a fit of giggles as Daphne regaled them with the tale of how she, the fair maiden, had left Hermione’s bedside only once to give her conquering hero a chaste kiss on the cheek. Fleur, flush with victory that she was, had simply insisted that Daph stay a little longer, though as to what they did Daphne refused to say. Her cheeks went a little pink whenever she talked about the Veela, and she seemed to squirm on her feet, as if she was remembering something that was ever so naughty.
In the course of her time with Fleur, she’d snuck a peek at the egg, only to be met with an utterly ghastly sound. Fleur hadn’t seemed to mind the high-pitched screeching as much, though Daphne was half-convinced it’d just been a show of bravado in front of her. Pansy murmured something about Veela being accustomed to a good screech now and then, to Hermione’s amusement and Daphne’s annoyance.
Regardless, Hermione was invited to a luncheon with the Beauxbatons champion as soon as she recovered enough to leave the Hospital Wing. The Snakes had first claim on her, given that she was first champion, and Dora and Andromeda would surely want a word too, but there was no harm in being well-liked. No harm at all.
An hour later, Madame Pomfrey shooed them out, demanding that Hermione get a chance to rest without interruption. To her surprise, Bellatrix stayed, returning Pomfrey’s imperious glare when the young Slytherins had run off to bed. After a staring match that lasted an eon, Pomfrey shook her head, muttered ‘five minutes, nothing more’, and walked off to her office. Hermione wouldn’t have believed it to be possible.
Bellatrix was quiet for a moment after Pomfrey left, before pulling out her curved wand and casting a series of privacy charms. Hermione recognized most of them, but she needn’t have been an accomplished witch to understand the heavy blanket of stillness that fell over them.
“Good,” the Lady Black pronounced. “Now, we can talk.”
“Can we?” Hermione replied.
Bellatrix frowned. “Don’t be a brat, Granger.”
“I’m not a Granger, and I’ll be whatever I please.” Hermione pushed herself up on her pillows, wishing that she could meet Bellatrix from equal footing. “Lesser manticores summer in Eastern Europe, but they winter in the Mediterranean. Romania’s awfully far north for them, at least at this time of year.”
“It is.”
“Plausible, but not likely.”
“The Ministry will buy it. They can’t afford a scandal at the relaunching of the Tournament.”
Hermione’s brow crinkled. “No, I suppose they couldn’t.” She ran her fingers through her hair, playing absentmindedly with her curls. “I should thank you for the antidote. You saved my life.”
Bellatrix’ answering grin was nearly feral. “I saved us all, pet. You’re too important to lose to such a clumsy attempt on your life.”
Nodding to herself, Hermione quickly ran over the options. “You knew, then? Manticore antivenom’s not something you keep on hand.”
“It is if you’ve been in the trade long enough,” Bellatrix countered. “The Dark Lord was fond of manticore venom, back in the day. The death it brings is meant to be utterly excruciating.”
“And Dora recognized the symptoms instantly in an unconscious person?”
“She’d been taught what to expect.”
Hermione studied Bellatrix, trying to get a read on the dark witch’s face. Porcelain skin was a mask, impenetrable to all but those who knew her best. Somewhere deep in her bones, she craved the ability to see beyond it.
“You aren’t going to tell me what you knew, are you?”
Bellatrix shook her head. “Win the Tournament, pet. Survive the year. When the time comes for you to know, I’ll tell you.”
“My mothers would’ve told me everything,” Hermione shot back, refusing to be cowed. “I’m the Lady Gaunt. The Heir. The Elder Brother. I have a right to know.”
“You do,” Bellatrix agreed. “But with me, you’ll have to earn it.”
Chapter 14: Convalescence
Summary:
Pansy makes a play. Hermione weathers a storm. Narcissa plots. Daphne begins to believe.
Notes:
Hi lovelies!
I'm terribly sorry for neglecting you with updates recently! Election aaaa, fall allergies, and a soul-pervading need not to write a ton of Clexa or Supercorp have delayed my chapters. Hope for more soon :)
Bit of a transitional chapter here, but there are a ton of teases for later plot points. Hope you like it, Yule Ball to come!
xoxo Akhenani
P.S. I went as a Twilight character for Halloween, if you can guess it in the comments I'll write you a one-shot or update a fic of your choice.
Chapter Text
Hogwarts, December 13th, 1994. The boy who has everything wants truly for nothing. A girl who has little loves them dearly indeed.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Pansy, who’d once been a Parkinson, strode down the corridors like a woman possessed. Dark eyebrows set a glower to her face, and her aura was positively malefic in the eyes of all who passed her by. Some of them might’ve teased her on a different day, for her parents’ disownment or her choice of company. As things stood, no one dared. Pansy was a snake through and through, and her fangs were sharper than theirs.
She hadn’t known where she was going when she left the Hospital Wing at Madame Pomfrey’s insistence; the need for justice gnawed at her gut, curdling to red revenge the farther she walked. Someone had tried to kill Hermione, her Hermione, the girl who she’d tied herself to with bonds closer than family. Pansy itched to mete out a fair punishment for them, an eye for an eye, a life for a life.
But she didn’t know who was behind the attempt on her life, nor did she have the faintest idea where to start. The Tournament officials should’ve been responsible for the field’s safety, but none of them seemed likely candidates. Crouch was an old, done man. Regulus was on their side, or close enough to it. Bagman was a possibility, slimy as he was, but murder seemed like a bridge too far for him.
No, she thought, it must’ve been someone else. A jealous student from one of the other schools, seeking revenge for Hermione’s inclusion when they should’ve saved their anger for Potter. An unscrupulous Pureblood, raving at Hermione’s claim of being the Heir.
A servant of the Dark Lord, trying to eliminate his competition.
Pansy whirled on her heel, staring down the hallway behind her. There were shadows in the castle even at midday, and silent places where assassins could come slinking in from the outside. Dumbledore was meant to protect them, and the Minister, but they’d let a snake in through the tunnels. Who knew what else was lurking in the castle?
“Death Eaters,” she whispered under her breath. They’d thrown up the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup, declaring their return after a decade and a half of dormancy. Faceless men in silver masks, men who’d pledged their undying loyalty to Voldemort himself. Her father was among them, though he’d never gone to Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy had been one of them, too, for all his allegiance to his wife’s family. Perhaps he still harbored doubts.
Before she quite knew what she was doing, Pansy turned towards the East Staircase, making for the Charms classrooms. She might not know what was going on, and who she should trust, but she knew someone who did. Someone who trusted her more than Hermione, who might be willing to give her guidance on better protecting the Heir she called sister.
Andromeda would tell her what she needed to know. She’d have to.
There were raised voices in the office as she stepped across the threshold of the lecture hall, and a tension in the air that she could’ve cut with a knife. Even through a closed door, Pansy could make out the finer points of an argument in progress. Professor Black had promised that Pansy could come and go as she liked, especially where Hermione was concerned, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was intruding as she crept towards the office.
“He suspects something,” one voice said.
Another voice came in— Andromeda’s, her brain supplied. “Of course he does. He isn’t stupid, no matter what act he puts on. As long as it’s only a suspicion, this shouldn’t affect anything.”
There was a snort in reply, and Pansy walked closer, wanting to listen further to whatever they were discussing.
“Easy for you to say from the comfort of your office.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” The first voice replied. “I’m being asked to juggle a dozen jobs while his eyes are boring into me.”
“You knew what you were signing up for,” Andromeda chided.
“I did, but—”
“But nothing. If we’re to succeed, you’ve got to be willing to put your neck on the line.”
Pansy took another step, barely daring to breathe. The heavy wooden door of the office did little to dull the sharpness of the discussion happening on the other side. Neck on the line? Andromeda hadn’t sounded quite so serious during their prior discussions, not in the castle, not in Black Manor, not even during the confrontation in the Shrieking Shack the year before.
A weary sigh came from the first speaker, laced with just a touch of bitterness. “They’re going to hate me for it.”
“They will,” Andromeda agreed.
“They’ll call me a traitor.”
She sucked in a breath. Whatever Andromeda was dealing in, Pansy was fairly certain she wasn’t meant to know. From the sound of it, she doubted anyone beyond the two of them did.
“They’ll— there’s someone at the door.”
Pansy swore beneath her breath as magic suffused the air. A moment later, a lidless blue eye appeared in the center of the door’s green face, blinking itself into existence and swiveling its gaze across the room until it fell to Pansy. Recognition glowed in its depths; a moment later, it fluttered closed, and the door swung open.
Andromeda sat behind her desk, imperious and beautiful as ever in her red robes, dark eyes gleaming with interest. Pansy had expected her to be angry, or at least surprised, but she detected an aura of curiosity and nothing more.
Beside her, Regulus was hastily combing his hair into order, giving Pansy an embarrassed grin. A bright carnation was tucked into the breast pocket of his suit, and there was dirt beneath his fingernails. She wouldn’t have taken him for a gardener.
“Miss Parkinson,” he said, voice cracking just a fraction. “My apologies— I didn’t know you were coming ‘round.”
Pansy quirked an eyebrow at him; Andromeda interjected before she could formulate a response. “Pansy’s got an open invitation to my office, Reg. If there aren’t Silencing Charms placed at the door, she’s welcome any time.”
Regulus pouted just a fraction at that, but he didn’t challenge her on it. “Fair enough. I’ll take my leave, then. Nice to see you, Miss Parkinson.”
“And you,” she replied. Regulus was out the door a moment later, hurrying back into the halls without a second glance. She’d never seen him quite so flustered, but then again, she hadn’t overheard him planning something mysterious with Andromeda before.
They were setting him up as a traitor, but a traitor to who, and when? He was already something of a mole in the Ministry, at least as far as she knew, and Pansy was under no illusions that they wouldn’t run afoul of the Minister before things were done. Would he betray Crouch more personally? Bagman? Perhaps Hogwarts, in his guise as one of the Tournament’s overseers? Whatever it was, she couldn’t quite piece it together.
“You’re overthinking.”
Pansy jolted at the sound of Andromeda’s voice. The Lady Black was staring at her with something like affection as she blinked her way out of her daydream; she wondered what she’d done to earn it.
“It’s not every day that your friend wakes up from a coma,” she countered, “and it’s quite another thing find that your allies are conspiring behind your back.”
“Conspiring? Please, Pansy, that was plotting at best.” Andromeda’s eyes twinkled as she spoke, and she gestured to the chair on the other side of her desk. “If it bothers you so, I’m afraid I’ll need to buy you and your friends a mirror.”
Pansy flushed. “We don’t— our plotting isn’t like that. None of us are traitors to anything.”
“Aren’t you? You’re a traitor to your House, Hermione’s a traitor to her blood. Even Daphne’s a traitor to her species, if what I’ve heard about her and her Veela is true.” Before Pansy could protest, Andromeda raised a hand. “Calm down, Pansy. I’m a traitor to my parents, and we’re all going to end up on the wrong side of someone in the wars to come. All we can do is decide who’s important to us, and try to keep the faith with them.”
“Regulus seems important to you, but you’re asking him to betray someone important.”
“Am I?”
“It certainly sounded that way.”
Andromeda grinned. “Looks can be deceiving. For all you know, Reg and I were just discussing how we might rig the betting in the Second Task.”
“That doesn’t seem like your style.”
“Oh? And whyever not?”
“Because,” Pansy replied, staring Andromeda right in the eye. “When you bet on something, you play to win. You’re never satisfied with an almost. Losing eats away at you, until there’s nothing you can think about beyond getting even.”
There was a long, anticipatory pause, and Pansy worried that she’d overstepped. Andromeda’s expression was unreadable, though her fingers seemed to clutch tighter to the arm of her chair, and magic flickered in the air. Pansy didn’t know her, not really; she’d been guessing, more than anything. Projecting.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “And how do you know that?”
Pansy forced herself to maintain an air of dispassionate analysis. “Because I feel the same way.”
“Do you now?”
There was a goading to her tone, and Pansy seized hold of it. “I do. I’ve spent my life looking for something to fight for, and now that I have it, I can’t imagine letting it go.” That she’d spent most of her life cohabitating with people who weren’t worth fighting for went unsaid. “There’s no other option for me, Andromeda. Either I win, or I die. I can’t imagine you— or Reg, for that matter— feel any differently.”
Andromeda’s lips split into a grin. “You’re bold, Pansy. Bolder than the rest of them, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Hermione put her name in the Goblet, and sent us after Sirius.”
“She did,” Andromeda agreed. “But she’s got something to prove, and that’s what drives her. There’s a legacy on her shoulders, and a prophecy calling her home.” She shook her head. “But you? You’re in it for the fight of it all. You were born to hold a wand in your hand, and wield it in defense of what you care for.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because,” Andromeda replied with a victorious grin. “Bella’s not the only one in my family who knows her way around a dueling hall.”
“I remember. If it weren’t for you, Lupin would’ve… well, Lavender might’ve had some company on the full moons.”
Andromeda chuckled. “She would’ve. Not every witch can stand up to a werewolf on full moons.” Pausing for a moment, she gave Pansy an appraising look. “Would you like to learn?”
“Learn what?”
“Learn to duel. Really duel, not the nonsense Lockhart and Snape tried to teach you.”
Pansy frowned. “You’d teach me?”
“I would.”
“When?”
“How’s now?” Andromeda drew her wand and gave it a flutter. “Unless there’s more you wanted to talk about.”
There had been, Pansy thought as she eyed her professor warily. She’d been meaning to ask about Death Eaters in the castle, and the threats to Hermione’s life. Daphne wasn’t likely to figure it out herself, and Pansy didn’t fancy Hermione’s chances of worming it out of the enigma that was Bellatrix Black.
But what good was knowing about potential threats if she couldn’t fight them? If she learned the identities of the Death Eaters she faced, what then? Hermione would run off to challenge them, she and Daphne would go along for the ride, and they’d all end up as dead as they would’ve been if they’d touched the manticore spines.
No, she had to learn. She had to be able to fight, when the situation called for it.
“Let’s duel,” Pansy decided. Rising to her feet, she drew her wand.
“Not duel, train.” Andromeda’s eyes glinted with mirth. “If we were to duel, you’d be dead in half a minute.”
~~
Hermione had fallen ill a Champion, but she’d woken up as some sort of deity.
Oh, the Hogwarts student body had mostly been in her corner before the First Task, given Malfoy’s smear campaign against Harry and the widespread belief that he’d somehow cheated his way into the Tournament. They’d worn badges with her face on them and smiled at her in the halls, exhorting her to bring the Cup back to Scotland. But they hadn’t truly been behind her, Muggle-born that she was, controversial that she was. Not everyone had forgotten about her second-year, or her Parselmouth. They’d held their adoration at arm’s length.
Now? Now she was a walking, talking legend. Her magical prowess was the talk of the school— Harry’s little broom trick aside— and just about everyone wanted to congratulate her when she passed them by. The whispers that had followed her on and off since her first year were softer, almost reverent. The Great Hall shone with bright green lapel pins, marked with a smirking face and a coiling snake.
The Heir, they called her. The Heir, in spirit if not in blood. She was the Heir in blood, too, of course, but they weren’t meant to know that yet. Hermione contented herself with being Granger, at least for a little longer.
Even her professors seemed pleased with her, though they made a show of dispassionate focus so as not to be seen playing favorites. Snape gave her approving nods in Potions classes, darkness lurking beneath his eyes. Andromeda pushed her far into NEWT-level, calling Hermione up to help lead the class. Given the mastery of the Mirror-Image Charm she’d displayed, it wouldn’t have been out of the question for her to take her NEWTs before the Winter Holiday.
Moody seemed to have taken a greater interest in her too, gruff and grumbling though he was. The batty old Auror saw enemies around every corner and Death Eaters in his office, and he’d extended his peculiar interest in Harry onto her shoulders. She hated the feeling of his cold, unfeeling eye on her during their lessons, even if the advice he gave her matched an Auror of his caliber. The man was positively unnerving.
So it was with great discomfort that Hermione heeded his call one day in Defense class a few days after she left the Hospital Wing. He’d asked for her and Harry to stay after class ended, and a quick look in the Gryffindor’s direction told her that he didn’t know what they were in for either.
Hermione had to stifle a growl of annoyance. She liked Harry well enough, but he was even fonder of sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be than she was, and it never failed to get him into trouble. Thrice, she’d bailed him out of a difficult situation at Hogwarts. She didn’t want to make it a fourth, and she wasn’t about to die on an altar for him.
Their classmates filed away as the class period ended, heading for the Great Hall and lunch. Pansy and Daphne shot her concerned looks as they left, but Hermione waved them off with a subtle turn of her hand. Moody was a capable Auror: if he wanted to accost her, he could do it with or without her friends nearby.
Better not to keep them in the line of sight of that eye, for as long as she could avoid it.
Moody ushered them into his office, the same one that Lupin had occupied the year before, and Lockhart before that, and Quirrell… Every one of them had turned on Hermione at some point or another. By Lupin, she’d stopped trusting, and she wasn’t about to give Moody an inch.
The room was packed to the gills with all the refuse and relics of a long, distinguished career fighting Dark witches and wizards. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of spellbooks and treatises on detecting Dark magic, glimmering gold and bronze contraptions whirred on the shelf above the fireplace, flashing signals that were legible only to Moody himself. A Foe Glass sat in the far corner, moaning round with ghastly voices.
Put together, it gave the room a claustrophobic, intimidating feel. This was a predator’s den, Hermione realized as they stepped across the threshold, littered with the bones of his past kills. She wouldn’t have put it past the old bat to have trophies taken from his enemies’ bodies hidden in that trunk of his. Perhaps something worse, given the awful racket inside.
“Potter. Granger. Good of you to join me.” Moody’s voice was a low, rasping growl; he gestured towards the guest chair behind his desk with all the grace of an interrogation. “Dumbledore’s asked me to question the two of you regarding your incidents during the First Task.”
Hermione held her tongue, but she and Harry exchanged a brief, worried glance. “Sorry, Professor, but why isn’t Dumbledore asking us himself? He took Hermione and I aside after the Chamber, and Ron and I after Siri—”
“Because, Potter,” Moody interjected, “Dumbledore’s got more on his plate this year than he did last. You think one Death Eater escaping Azkaban’s a calamity? Try half a dozen, and each of them more seasoned killers than Sirius Black.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Kill a dozen Muggles, and they think you’re a real threat. Pah. I’ve put wizards away that’d make you piss your pants.”
His eye fixed on Hermione as he finished speaking, and a nagging feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. He knew something, she decided, or else he wouldn’t have called her in with Harry. She’d caught his attention, just as Andromeda had warned that she would.
Acting on instinct, Hermione painted on a dry smile. “I’m sure you have, Professor, and I’d like to thank you for keeping Muggles and Muggle-borns safe during your duties. My parents aren’t living in fear, thanks to the efforts of the Auror Corps.”
His good eye brightened at that, though his answering snort was still gruff. “Of course, Granger. It’s my job, after all.” Clasping his hands together, he stared at the two of them, eyes splaying out to look them both in the eye at once. “Now, if you would. What do you remember about your Tasks? Surely you must’ve seen something that would assist in the investigation, no matter how small it might be.”
Harry scratched at his chin. “Erm, not really, Professor. I was on my broom the entire time— if someone tried to sabotage me, it must’ve been done to the chain that was tying the Horntail down.”
“Not many people would’ve had the chance,” Moody agreed, scribbling down some notes with an enchanted quill as they spoke. “The chains were goblin-forged steel, and the strengthening enchantments on them were reapplied that morning. I checked them myself. Perhaps it was just a spot of bad luck.”
“Really?” Harry’s voice was bright and pure and hopeful, even after everything he’d been through, and Hermione’s heart went out to him. The faint echo of the Bond of Blood they shared seemed to whisper between them, pulling her into his orbit and him into hers.
Moody shook his head. “No, Potter. No such thing as coincidence in my line of work, less you want to end up deader than the Dark Lord.” He chuckled darkly to himself, then continued on at a lower register. “We’ve got to assume that someone’s trying to interfere with the Tournament to keep you from winning. Any idea who that might be?”
Harry scrunched up his features. “Erm, Karkaroff, maybe? He seemed pretty angry when the Goblet spat my name out. Snape? He’s— he’s never liked me, and he might’ve had access to the dragon’s chain.”
The professor nodded along as Harry spoke, sealing off his section of the paper with a triple underline. “Very good. Now, Miss Granger.” He turned his full attention to Hermione, trying to worm his way into her mind with blunt force. “What did you see?”
Hermione gritted her teeth as she tried not to let the weight of his mental assault show. “Just like Harry, Professor, I didn’t see anything at all. For all I know, the manticore spines in the dragon’s nest could’ve gotten there by accident.”
“Accident? Accident? There are no accidents, Miss Granger. No accidents, no coincidences, and no oddities that aren’t quite worth giving more scrutiny. You were nearly killed out there; if not for the actions of Auror Black, you wouldn’t be sitting here today.” He said it as if it was self-evident, as if it was his ken to dispense wisdom from on high. She couldn’t manage to hate him for it, given his record, but it still rankled. After all she’d done, he was still treating her like a silly little girl.
“So, Miss Granger, I’ll ask again. What could it have been?”
Thinking quickly, Hermione decided to play into his perception of her as a cocky, book-smart Muggle-born who didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. Frowning, she shook her head. “I don’t know, Professor. It could’ve been one of the other School Heads, like Harry said, trying to get rid of the competition. Maybe one of the handlers bet against me to win the Tournament.”
“Any enemies I should know about?” Moody’s lips twitched into a sanguine smile. “I know they call you the Heir of Slytherin, Granger. Surely that’s ruffled some feathers.”
Hermione made a point of shrugging. “Maybe, Professor, but no one’s ever pushed me on it. They call me the Heir because of my marks and my wandwork, and the Slytherins have come to respect me for it.”
“Not much of a Slytherin, to be a Muggle-born and a friend of Gryffindors,” Moody observed. “I’m told you have Hufflepuff friends too, and your little cronies seem to be making friends with Beauxbatons and Ravenclaw.”
She shook her head as irritation laced through her. “Pans and Daph are their own people, Professor. I don’t control who they associate with, and I’m not their leader, whatever you’re implying. They’re my friends.”
“The disgraced Heir Parkinson, and the eldest child of Greengrass, friends with a Muggle-born.” Moody observed, smile fading from his face. “What’s the world coming to, when a Death Eater’s daughter and a House of snakes will turn their spots so quickly at the first sign of talent.”
“Sir?”
Moody shook himself, narrowing his eyes at the two of them. “Right, I think I’ve got enough to make some initial inquiries here. You two stay out of trouble until the next Task, and let me know if you see anything suspicious.”
“We will, Professor,” Harry agreed.
Rising to his feet, Moody ushered them out of the classroom, staff thumping along the ground as he walked. “Constant vigilance, you two. Constant vigilance. You never know what’s hiding in the shadows.”
~~
The youngest daughter of the House of Black sipped her tea, closing her eyes to let Earl Grey soothe her worried bones and her weary heart. Autumn had turned, and the winds were up, but she still made a habit of taking her tea in the back garden every day. She’d rest, and think, and watch the aspens along the walk shed their golden leaves, just as they’d done for a century. They would outlive her, one day, just as she’d outlived mother and father and the Dark Lord. Just as she’d outlived a girl with hair caught fire, whose name laid brilliant petals down the ache of her throat.
Lily, Lily, who’d been sent down from the heavens. Such a shame that they’d had to call her back up again before her time. Such a shame that Cissa had to watch the aspen leaves shed their trees alone, listening to the chill wind rustling through their boughs. If she closed her eyes, she could almost bring her back again. Flowers bloomed in the garden, laughter rang out in the halls. Tender lips pressed down along the line of her stomach, bringing her comfort.
The hiss of Apparation startled her out of her musing, and she shook herself, schooling her features and throwing up her Occlumency shields once more. Cissa could be Lily’s all she wanted; Narcissa had other parts to play in their grand masquerade. Cissa was for the morning and the evening, and the sun was high in the sky.
“Cissy!” Bella’s voice was sharp and insistent, though tender in a way reserved only for her. Boots tramped along the flagstones of the walk as her sister strode towards her, full of passionate intensity. “Cissy!”
“Bella,” she replied softly, not looking up from her tea. “To what to I owe the pleasure?”
“Your husband.” The response was terse, nearly frantic. Bella liked Lucius even less than Narcissa did, and she’d made little secret of her plans for him once he’d played his role.
Turning to meet her sister’s wild, imperious gaze, Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “What of him? As I’ve reminded you on innumerable occasions, I’m not Lucius’ keeper.”
Bella nearly growled at her, such was her indignation. “Intact manticore spines aren’t cheap, Cissy. Someone’s bankrolling the attacks on my Bonded, and I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if he succeeds.”
Narcissa nodded. “Yes, yes, fall of our House, reign of the Dark Lord, etcetera, etcetera. I’m not stupid, Bella.”
“Then tell me what you know,” Bella implored. “There are others out, now, not just Lucius and Reg. How long before Lucius tells the Dark Lord what we’ve been doing?”
“Ten months,” Narcissa replied confidently.
There was a moment of silence as Bella’s mouth worked wordlessly, gasping for a response. Narcissa beat her to it.
“In ten months, Draco will turn sixteen. Not quite of age, but old enough to bestow him with the trappings of Heir Malfoy. That’ll protect him from the Dark Lord’s retribution, in Lucius’ calculus, and give him enough space to turn on all of us.” She laid out the facts without an ounce of emotion, trusting in Bella to supply it for her in spades.
She wasn’t disappointed. Bella clutched at her wand, fire blazing in her dark eyes. Narcissa knew that look, though it had never been directed at her, thank the gods. The wrath of the Lady Black was terrifying to behold, and none were safe from her rages.
“I’ll kill him, then,” Bella intoned coldly. “I’ll kill him and send him along as an eighteenth birthday gift to the Heir, as proof of our loyalty to her cause.”
“Not now.”
“Not now. He’s still useful to us, and I won’t have his death hurt your darling dragon.” Bella nodded to herself, coming to a decision. “The summer, then. After Draco’s finished his exams, we can dispose of Lucius. He can take July and August to grieve.”
Narcissa smiled. “I’ve got just the thing for it.” A warm, glowing feeling rose in her chest at the thought of a vial kept in a secret place, and a gift she’d managed to coax out of a beast beyond reckoning. “I’ve got just the thing.”
~~
Despite her reputation, happiness had never suited Daphne. To the outside world, she was a girl of easy smiles and twinkling laughter, quick with a joke and open with her compliments. She’d won the favor of parents and professors, peers and potential paramours, spinning a tale of Daphne Greengrass that floated gently upon the waves. Things were easier that way, given all that she was. Blonde and slender, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, her appearance set an impression that was simple enough to feed into. Better to be blonde and vapid and underestimated than to risk baring her soul, only to have it snatched away from her.
But somehow, someway, she’d let her heart be snatched from underneath her nose. Fifteen— sixteen, with the Time Turner— years of easy acquiescence had left her utterly unprepared to be swept off her feet, kissed on her brow, and told that she was good. Daphne had a bag of tricks, good ones, but they were helpless in the face of good, and kind, and beautiful. Helpless in the face of featherlight touches along her shoulders that set her belly aflame. She was well and truly trapped, nestled in the arms of a goddess.
“You’re overthinking, darling,” came Fleur’s gentle, teasing lilt. “Is something troubling you?”
Daphne shook her head, burrowing farther into the lilac-scented warmth of Fleur Delacour. There was strength beneath the Veela’s exterior, corded muscle and firm definition, but Daphne loved the lighter, softer parts of Fleur that only she was meant to touch. Soft, warm, gentle.
They were resting in Fleur’s private room aboard the Beauxbatons carriage, wrapped in a plush blanket atop a wide feather bed. Low candles cast the room in soft, flickering light, and everything smelled of warmth and comfort and indulgence. Daphne could’ve happily drowned in Fleur’s presence, so long as her mate was there to hold her.
“Just thinking about you,” Daphne replied softly, once she had her wits about her. “Thinking about us?”
“Oh?” Fleur’s voice was light, almost teasing. “And what about us, dear one?”
Daphne shrugged, fighting off a wave of embarrassment. “I don’t know, really. It’s just strange not to have to pretend around somebody, you know? I love my family, I love my friends, but…”
“But you have to perform for them.”
She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. “Mhm. Don’t get me wrong— I’m glad that I don’t have to pretend with you, I adore it, even. It’s just confusing, is all.” Daphne caught her tongue before the ramble could get its legs underneath it. “I’m not sure what I’m meant to do, here.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Warm arms wrapped around Daphne, tugging her up onto the Veela’s lap. Fleur’s perfume draped over Daphne’s shoulders, settling her heart. “The bond is frightening for humans at the best of times, and you are no ordinary human, little swan. It is only natural that it weighs more heavily on you.”
“But—”
A finger pressed over her protesting lips, and Daphne was treated to the heavenly sound of Fleur’s laughter. “No buts, my darling. You are my one and only, just as you shall always be. However long it takes you to find your way to what you want, I shall walk with you.”
“And if I want things soon?” Daphne dared to ask, risking a glance into Fleur’s sapphire eyes. They darkened as their gazes met, swirling with thoughts that she could only guess at. “If I wanted to, erm, figure out the bond soon?”
“Then we would,” Fleur replied, just the edge of a husk to her voice. “You are my treasure, and I will walk with you, wherever our paths might lead.”
Before Daphne could ask where those paths could lead, or how Veela preferred their midnight strolls, Fleur’s eyes began to clear. A moment later, she’d been pulled to her feet by a suddenly excited Veela and led towards one of the closets of her room. “Oh, I nearly forgot: I have something to show you.”
She squeaked at the idea, trembling as a confusing swirl of anticipation, nerves, and the dreaded spark of arousal roiled within her chest. Fleur wouldn’t, would she? Sure, Daphne wanted to explore things further, but she’d never, there’d never been a…
“Here!” Fleur said, throwing open her closet door. To Daphne’s surprise, the golden egg from the First Task sat atop a pillow there, glimmering softly beneath the candlelight.
“The screaming egg?” Daphne asked, more than a little confused. “I don’t understand, have you figured out the clue?”
Fleur grinned back at her, blonde eyebrows wiggling. “Oui. The judges should’ve thought about Veela before they designed this clue, and which creatures we’re kin to.”
Realization struck Daphne over the head. “Sirens?”
“Mermaids. They sing beautifully, if you care to hear them,” Fleur explained. “And under the water, even human ears can appreciate their melodies.”
Chapter 15: Wicked Things
Summary:
A Task brings more questions than answers. Plots are hatched. Hermione has a heart to heart.
Chapter Text
On the shores of the Black Lake. December 18th, 1994.
Icy waves nipped at her heels, sending fractal pain shooting up her spine. Hermione, Granger and Gaunt, stood tall, trying to project confidence worthy of an heir. It wouldn’t do to let them see her shiver. It wouldn’t do let them see her quiver. While the horns and cheers echoed from the far-off stands, she focused on her breathing. Slow, deep. In, and out. Inhale, hold the breath, let it linger just long enough to sting. Exhale slowly, through the mouth, tongue plastered to her front teeth.
Come seek us where our voices sound.
Ludo Bagman was riling up the crowd, a prince in bright colors, a jester before an ancient Muggle king. She’d never met a man with less behind his words, nor between his ears. Bright smile, practiced laugh, waving as he called out each of his Pureblood patrons in turn. When the chips were down, which way would Ludo Bagman fall?
We cannot sing above the ground.
She caught sight of Pansy amongst the Hogwarts students, leading the line for those who’d declared for the heir, not the spare. Gryffindor had rallied to Harry’s cause, along with half of Hufflepuff, but she held the snakes, and Ravenclaw. Intelligent? Inquisitive? They knew potential when they saw it, and ravens were fond of shiny things.
And while you’re searching ponder this:
She trailed her eyes along the Hogwarts bleachers, hoping to catch sight of Daphne. When she didn’t find her there, she looked instead to Beauxbatons: it was treachery to support another champion, but there were extenuating circumstances. If not for Fleur’s advice about the golden egg, she’d have gone into the task blind.
We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss.
“I feel her,” Fleur whispered, eyes dark and furious. “I feel her under the water. I smell her fear in the air.”
Sorely miss, indeed.
An hour long you’ll have to look.
“Our champions stand ready,” came Bagman’s booming voice, echoing across the lake. “What perils await them far below, in the muck and the mire? What monstrous creatures lurk, where darkness reigns?”
And to recover what we took.
Who would she find there, down in the midnight waters? She’d have expected Daph or Pans, but if the gamemakers knew about Fleur’s bond with the blonde witch, all bets were off. Could they have taken Bellatrix? Madness, they’d barely even spoken. Nor would Bellatrix allow herself to be taken, thought some savage, wild part of herself. Bellatrix Black was a conqueror, not the conquered.
But after that, the prospect’s black.
Her fingers flexed around her wand as she focused on the feeling of the transformation. Nailbeds cramped as they prepared to give way to claws, while her senses faded for lack of whiskers. She’d cursed her luck the year before when Pansy became a panther, and Daphne a swan. It seemed rather fitting now, with the waters awaiting her. Magic had her ways.
Too late.
“Champions, take your marks!”
It’s gone.
“Champions, make ready!”
It won’t come back.
The howl of a horn interrupted Bagman’s command. Hermione sprang into action, wading out into the surf with her wand in hand. Krum shot off like a cannon, roaring as he transfigured himself a shark head, then slipping beneath the water. Fleur was at his heels, golden locks ensnared in an exemplary Bubble-Head Charm. Harry, poor Harry, seemed to be forcing down a fistful of some sort of aquatic plant, gagging all the while.
With a last breath of air, she called out her spell: “Animago Animagus!”
Fur sprouted from warm skin, a tail appeared in an entirely unladylike fashion, and Hermione felt the world grow larger around her. It took all her mental strength to ignore the wild excitement from the stands and focus on her wand. Her clothes could disappear to wherever the spell might put them. Her wand was a mite more important.
Trilling as the transformation completed, she wriggled in the shallows, wand clenched in a tiny paw. Bagman spouted some nonsense about the difficulty of the Animagus transformation. The Slytherins howled in approval, marveling at the display of magical acumen. As for Hermione, she had a job to do, and a hostage to save. With a tuck of her head, she raced into the water, swimming at a speed that could scarcely be believed.
The surface world died away as she shot through the kelp fields, tail whipping this way and that. The mermaids were meant to live in the center of the lake— not far, as the otter swam, but far enough to be dangerous. An hour wasn’t long at all.
She’d only been swimming for a few minutes before she felt the telltale ick of eyes following her through the reeds. Her keen ears picked up chittering, like the sound of nails being drawn over a blackboard. Grindylows, she thought grimly. Nasty, bloodsucking beasts. They’d drag her down if she wasn’t careful.
A tentacled body sprang out of the reeds in front of her, hissing and snapping. Her paw came up, mumbling out a Stupefy in chirps and whistles. A jet of red light flashed from her wand, striking the beast between its eyes.
Another appeared at the corner of her vision, jetting towards her before it, too tasted her wandwork. Another, and another, and before long Hermione was swimming for her life, scrambling to get out of the kelp before they could catch up to her. Shrieks echoed through the water as they grabbed at her, suckers slipping off her fur. She squeaked as teeth found her back leg, tearing into the flesh.
Fuddling with her wand, she reached for a spell: “Expulso!”
With a flash and a bang, the grindylows scattered into the water, wailing all the while. Hermione took the opportunity to put on a last burst of feed, breaking through the wall of kelp into the open floor of the Lake. The Air-Cycling Charm she’d applied seemed to be holding better than she’d hoped— recycling the thin sheen of air that clung to her coat. An otter’s thick coat trapped sufficient air to keep her going, just as she’d calculated.
Onwards she went, into the cold and the cruel of the lakebed. A distant chorus echoed from the center of the lake, standing the fur around her neck on end. Mermaids, she thought to herself, struggling to shake off their songs’ tranquilizing effects. Mermaids, calling out to them. Goading them. She clutched her wand tighter between her little paws, swimming further on.
There was a city beneath the lake. She swam past grand, spindling towers of coral and seastone, wreathed in gardens of seagrass. Seahorses darted through the gloom, leaving trails of snapping bubbles in their wake. Flashes of brightly-colored fins peeked at the corner of her vision, though she never saw their owners.
They were watching her. Always watching, always plotting. Hermione felt her innate magic reaching out through the waves, pulled to some strange force in the inky black water. It would’ve been so easy to turn away, to follow the clarion call into the depths. Perhaps whatever lurked down there would set her free. Free from bonds, free from want, free from the endless, spiraling madness of the Wizarding World. Perhaps it’d devour her instead.
Another bond tugged at her heartstrings, yanking her forward as she swum as fast as she dared. Stone thoroughfares wove between the towers, sloping down into a grand plaza. Glinting metal and wisps of swirling seafoam flickered in the shadows. And there in the center of it all, stood four high pillars, cedar trunks a hundred feet tall. Magic burned on the back of her tongue as she tried to make sense of them. How had trees found their way into the depths, without any sign of algae or decay? Who’d carved gargoyles into their centers, hanging vigil over the mermaid city?
No, not gargoyles. People. Hostages.
What we took.
Four figures were lashed to the great trees, heads floating limply in the unearthly gloom. Weasley, paler than a ghost, shaggy ginger hair drifting around his face. Harry’s, then. Beside him, a dark-haired Durmstrang swayed in the currents, sleeping features contorted in a deep scowl. Krum’s. That left…
Her heart seized up at the sight of Daphne, blonde hair billowing around her face, delicate lips hanging half open. There were tears at the edges of her robes, as if she’d struggled in the taking. Hermione let out a silent, impotent scream, wand darting out to throw wild hexes into the gloom. Daph was her friend, and anyone who dared to harm her would face the same fate as Lockhart. She was halfway across the grand square when she caught a better look at the fourth figure, bound in a wreath of seaweed.
Pansy. No, not Pansy, not quite, though you could’ve been forgiven for mistaking them. Someone who looked very much like Pansy, if her hair was an inch shorter and a touch wavier, and if that trademark pout of hers had lost its venom. Hermione swam towards the figure cautiously, squinting in the dark as she tried to make sense of her. Daphne was Fleur’s, that much was clear, but if they could get her, why not get the real Pansy? Why settle for less?
A flash of green crossed the corner of her vision, and a jet of boiling water shot just over her arm, but Hermione continued on. Her damsel in distress wasn’t quite Pansy, but something tugged her forward just the same, demanding that she risk life and limb for her. Dark hair shimmered the slightest shade of pink. Dora? And then it curled, in endless waves of midnight black, and Hermione’s heart caught in her throat. Dora, and Pansy, and Bellatrix, wrapped up tight enough to fool the judge’s magic. Heat surged through her blood as she kicked her little feet, determined to save them.
Tridents shot through the darkness towards her, matched with howling mermen with claws unfurled. Her otter’s paws shot out as she worked her shielding spells, buffeting away her attackers and thrashing against bands of kelp that shot out to drag her down. Squeaking, raging, she fired off curses at a breakneck pace, tail propelling her through the chaos of the city.
Fleur was somewhere to her left, grappling with a fiery-haired mermaid. A vicious shark creature shot past her, making for his prize. Harry was somewhere there too, gills sprouted from his neck. None of them mattered, not when she had everything to win and nothing to lose.
Then Dora’s face shifted again, from Bellatrix’s sneer of cold command to something softer and kinder, chestnut hair curled in soft ringlets. Her mother had left her behind, her mother had given her up. But when her blue eyes snapped open, searching for Hermione in the cacophony of the battle, she felt her breath catch in her throat.
“My darling star,” came a whisper through the waves, in a voice that wasn’t Dora’s own. “My little one, my only. Come find me in the deepest dark, beneath gold and earth and magic foul. Bring oak and iron, blood and fire, and seize all that you most desire. For the House of Gaunt. For your mother. For me.”
With a mighty cry, she shot through the water, tearing the bonds from her hostage in an animalistic frenzy. Her mother Gwen’s face rippled as she pulled at the strands of seaweed, till she was staring at Bellatrix again, scarlet lips curving upwards. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. Prove yourself to me.
Breath catching, muscles burning, Hermione snatched Dora around the lapels of her robes, willing her Water-Recycling Charm to burn away its air. They shot upwards on a torrent of bubbles, up out of the dim and darkness, up towards the light, up past Krum and Harry and Fleur. The surface called, her body called, and there was work to do.
“So,” Daphne said, swallowed up a great puffy bathrobe that’d been a gift from Fleur. “What’s it feel like to be first?”
Hermione didn’t bother to look up from her Charms revisions. The Great Hall wasn’t her preferred choice of study spot, but Andromeda had taken it upon herself to fill the gaps in her instruction, and she was holding on by the tips of her fingers. “Not bad, Daph. How does it feel to be a bird’s favorite shiny trinket?”
“Ugh, delightful. She’s taken to bringing me little snacks after my classes. No idea how she’s memorized my schedule, or where how she’s making her own courses, but I’m not about to complain.” Grinning broadly, she wiggled in her seat. “Ever had someone hand feed you grapes at ten in the morning? No? Hmm, shame. You’re missing out.”
“I’d hate to have to live in a nest, though,” Pansy observed. She sipped her pumpkin juice, nodding over to the Ravenclaw table. Fleur held court there amidst a legion of adoring admirers, each desperate to win her favor for the Yule Ball. “Do you think you’ll end up laying eggs?”
Daphne slapped her with a rolled up copy of the Prophet. “Oh you’re one to talk. You’ll end up surrounded by humperdinks and grumpkins, whatever that means.” Sniffing imperiously, she held up her paper, thumb under the cover story. A drenched, bewildered looking Hermione stared back at them, blinking away the Black Lake’s water. “Anyway, as I was saying, apparently you’re ‘Struggling to Cope with the Burdens of Championhood’, whatever that means. They’ve even quoted you, Pans— apparently you visited Professor Black to beg for her help last week.”
“What?” Pansy snatched the paper from her hands, fingers curling white around the edges as she read. “I’ll fucking kill her. She had no right. No right. How did she even find out?”
Hermione looked up from her Charms, brows furrowed in concentration. Skeeter was always where she wasn’t meant to be, sticking her nose in decent people’s business. At first, she’d chalked it up to well-placed sources and well-greased palms. Reporters weren’t exactly a scrupulous lot. But Pansy wasn’t the type to tell, nor Andromeda Black. That left Regulus, the late arrival to their little conspiracy, and the one she trusted least of all. Could he be the wolf in sheep’s clothing they’d been warned of?
But Bellatrix seemed to trust him, and Bellatrix wouldn’t have lied to her about something so important. Then again, she wasn’t very forthcoming when it came to the House of Black’s plans. Perhaps she’d expected Regulus to flip on them, when the Dark Lord rose once more. Perhaps she’d counted on it.
Or perhaps there was something else in play, some twisted scrying magic or hidden Muggle bug that Skeeter was using to snoop on private conversations. The Wizarding World was awash in strange enchanted devices, any one of which could’ve helped her glean the information. Most of them were illegal, of course, but reporters and scruples were like oil and water.
“You should go digging, Pans,” Hermione said, dropping her voice lower in case they were being listened in on. “See if you can dig up anything in the library?”
“Hogwarts or the Manor?” Pansy replied dryly.
“Either. Both. You’ve got a nose for this sort of thing.”
Pansy shrugged, ego suitably ruffled. For all her brooding and growling, she had a heart buried beneath her craggy exterior. Suddenly, she frowned, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice and speaking into her cup. “Careful. Here comes your competition.”
Fleur wasn’t a surprise, Viktor didn’t visit at all, so Hermione wasn’t overly shocked to see Harry Potter walking up towards the Slytherin table with a sheepish look on his face. Sighing, she slipped her Charms work into her bag. For all his mother’s acumen with the subject, you would’ve thought he’d be halfway decent at it.
The Gryffindor champion smiled wearily as he approached, ignoring the hisses from the assembled snakes at their long table. As her star had risen in Slytherin, his had dropped accordingly. Given that she’d become something of an icon in the Dungeons, Harry was lucky not to eat a nasty jinx.
“Er, hello, Hermione,” he opened as he approached. “How are you?”
“Not bad,” she replied, giving him as much of a smile as she could manage. “What brings you to our little corner of the Hall?”
Pansy shot him a withering stare “Lions are that way, last I checked.”
“I know, I know, just,” sighing, he shook his head. “Look, I wanted to thank you again with your help with the Tasks, and to,” he glanced back and forth before leaning in, “you remember what Moody told us? About the spy in the school?”
Hermione’s eyes nearly bugged out of her skull. “Not here.” Rising to her feet, she gestured towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Leaving Pans and Daph behind to hold court amongst the Slytherins, Hermione led them out of the Great Hall, ignoring the whispers from her classmates as she went. The Heir and the Spare, some called them. The princess of Slytherin and Gryffindor’s golden lion were meant to hate each other, surely. What on earth would ever bring them together?
She took them out into the corridors, down the winding staircases, deep into the bowels of the earth. Harry shivered as they passed into the Dungeons, clutching his secondhand robes tighter to his chest as they carried on down low stone hallways. Only Slytherins normally travelled past the Potions classrooms. Only Slytherins didn’t mind the cool air wafting in from down below. Only one Slytherin could open the Chamber, where Salazar’s heirs could tread.
One Slytherin and a peculiarly talented Gryffindor. Harry cocked his head as she whispered out the Parseltongue in front of an ornately carved snake on the wall. Stone creaked against stone as a hidden door slid forth, leading down into the darkness of the tunnels.
Ushering him through, she cracked a Lumos with her wand and crossed her arms, staring at him intently. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“How many of these are there?” Harry whispered in wonderment, tracing his hands over the curved impressions in the stone. “I thought it was just the bathroom.”
“I don’t know,” Hermione replied truthfully. “The tunnels wind too deep for me to survey them alone, even if I wanted to. Which, I’ll admit, I don’t.”
He chuckled softly. “Hermione Granger, refusing knowledge?”
“Some things are best left unknown,” she retorted.
Harry smiled for a moment, though his face soon took on that grave, worried expression. “Fair, fair. Alright, look, promise you’ll hear me out.” Hermione nodded in agreement, and he continued on. “So, I, I may be in contact with my godfather. With, you know, Sirius.”
“Sirius Black?” Hermione exclaimed. “The man who betrayed your parents and tried to kill you, me, and our friends?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Harry said, throwing up his hands. “Sirius didn’t betray them, and Remus didn’t mean to bite Lavender, and it should never have happened like that. Trust me, I was as skeptical as you at first, but he’s got my best interests at heart.”
“Yours, maybe,” she conceded. It made sense, in a mad sort of way. “Not mine. Not his family’s. He’s been stricken from the family tree, if you hadn’t heard.”
“Yes, by your lot. That’s what I’m here to warn you about.” Leaning in, Harry’s green eyes took on a desperate quality. “Sirius says his brother was a Death Eater, deep cover. He played off the Mark, just like Snape did, but he’s still in contact with Voldemort’s faithful. I saw him, Hermione. I had a dream, and he was there with Pettigrew and him, talking about the Tournament. Planning something.”
Hermione shook her head, chewing on her inner lip. “I already knew he was a Death Eater, Harry, but that doesn’t prove anything. Snape was with the Dark Lord, until the very end.”
“But not now,” Harry insisted. “Not when he’s coming back. You call yourself the Heir, right? The Crown Princess of Slytherin? How do you think Riddle’s going to react when he knows what they call you? A Muggleborn in his own House, stealing a fraction of his glory. What’s the first thing he’ll ask his followers to do?”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Hermione ran a hand along the cool stone, feeling the distant vibrations of Nys the Basilisk on the hunt. “He has allies, so do I. As long as I’m a Granger, as long as there’s doubt, I’m not a real threat to him. Not when he’s yet to take corporeal form.”
“It’ll happen. Soon. And when it does, there’ll be two names at the top of his list.” Sighing, Harry shook his head, looking far older than he ought to. “You’ve been good to me, Hermione, even when you had no reason to be. House aside, I think of you as a friend. So please, listen. Don’t trust Regulus, don’t trust anyone who tells you to follow him, and keep your eyes open. Remember the manticore. Remember that someone wants you dead.”
They were quiet for a moment, letting the drops of condensing water splash against their shoes, relics of the bustling castle above. In the cool and the dark, you could almost disappear into the stone.
After a moment, Hermione tapped the stonework, reopening the door. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good,” he replied, stepping back across the threshold. “Like I said, I’m looking out for you, like you’ve looked out for me.”
For once in her life, she didn’t doubt it. Harry was too pure a soul to win whatever tangled game was being played behind their backs, but he was too brave not to root for anyway. There were far worse things in the world than boys who were too earnest, too kind, and too noble at their core. If only the world would be so kind to them.
They separated at the top of the stairs, bidding each other goodbye as they readied themselves for their respective classes. Mondays began with Defense with the Ravenclaws, under Moody’s ever watchful gaze, and it wouldn’t do to be late.
Hermione walked briskly, smiling at the awed first-years and the snakes who grinned at her mere presence. She still wasn’t used to being liked, admired, and respected by her peers. A proper child of the House of Gaunt would’ve been viewed without suspicion in Slytherin, even if the house had fallen on hard times. For all her power, she was still the bushy haired Muggleborn who’d cried herself to sleep every night, wondering when she’d find her place.
She’d was still chewing on the feeling when she reached the fifth floor, putting the madding crowd behind her. The high halls were quieter than those down below. No one dawdled when Mad-Eye could be lurking around any corner. She really ought to have kept her guard up tightly, mental shields at their highest strength, wand held just inside her shirtsleeve. There were Death Eaters in the castle. There was a manticore lurking by the watering hole, waiting for her to lower her head and drink.
A hand shot out of one of the side doors, snatching her around the waist. Before she could scream, another clasped over her mouth, and she was yanked into total, pervading darkness. Hermione grabbed for her wand, clawing and squirming against her attacker’s hold. A murmured Incarcerous and she was bound hand and foot, arms tucked behind her head as her captor chuckled darkly behind her.
“Sloppy, pet.” Bellatrix’s breath was warm against the back of her ear, slender fingers digging into the softness of her stomach. “I thought we’d talked about this. I’d hoped you’d listened.”
Hermione’s wriggling intensified at the barb. Inspiration struck, and she bit down on the hand over her mouth, drawing a pained yelp from the dark witch behind her. “Relashio,” she hissed, throwing herself in the vain direction of wandless magic. “Relashio. Relashio.”
“Almost.” A curved wand traced along her bicep as the Lady whispered in her ear. “Search for the movement in your mind’s eye, the swerve and swell of the magic. Relashio is to push, to expand, to shatter bonds. A short, sharp pulse of energy, and you’ll be free.”
Her anger crystallized into a single, white-hot mote of power, surging forth as she channeled the charm. “Relashio!” The ropes snapped loose at her wrists and ankles, screeching as the fabric tore. She swayed on her feet as her body shuddered and spasmed, drained of energy by the sheer force of her magic.
Bellatrix was there to catch her. They’d never really touched before, not even after Hermione had come of age the summer before, but it was as if they were two halves of a single body. Her magic roamed between them, intertwining with the ravening hunger that was Bellatrix Black. It would consume her, if she let it. Her magic would feed, Bellatrix would devour, until they collapsed into the event horizon, dragging the rest in with them. Part of her longed for nothing more. Part of her yearned to set it all on fire.
“You could’ve asked,” she rasped, eyes shut tight against the darkness. “You’re not meant to be on campus, you’re not meant to accost students, you’re not meant to really know me at all, but no one would’ve batted an eye if you’d sent an owl. I’m a ward of your house.”
“I came for the First Task, didn’t I?” That damned laugh set goosebumps along her neck and lingered like warm honey in her ears. “Why shouldn’t I visit for the Second? Wouldn’t want you to think I only make an appearance when you’re nearly dying.”
Hermione scoffed. “You wouldn’t want me to think anything. Say this. Don’t say that. Don’t stand out, but manage to shine. Compete in the tasks, knowing there’s a Death Eater lurking about. Keep my guard up without digging any deeper. You set the rules of the dance, without ever letting me lead. Honestly, Bellatrix, I’ve half a mind to cut you off.”
The words had barely left her mouth before Bellatrix’s wand hand tightened around her shoulder. Hermione sucked in a breath as long nails pressed into the skin of her collarbone, leaving crescents on her skin. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited? How much I’ve staked on the bare hope of a prophecy and a promise?” She wrenched Hermione’s head around, insistent almost to the point of discomfort. Dark eyes managed to gleam in the shadows, diamonds in the deepest tunnels. “I turned on my parents. I turned on the Ministry. I turned on him. Andy left her behind. Cissy lost the only witch she’ll ever love. Reg turned his back on Siri, Dora’s walking a lonely path, and they will do these things and sacrifice their needs because I demand it of them. Because they believe in the cause, and our victory, and in you.”
Before Hermione could get a word in, Bellatrix shook her head fiercely, grip loosening into a loose embrace. “I know what you’ll say. You’re tired of being kept in the dark. You could be doing more. You’ve earned the right to sit in on all our tangled plots, and know all our bloodiest secrets. Be glad that you don’t. Be glad that you can walk through the halls and let them adore you, be glad that you can sit beneath the sunlight without fear of a knife at your throat. They’ll be gone before you know it.”
“For what?” Hermione asked, breathing heavily beneath the older witch’s appraisal. Her mother Massentia’s voice lingered in her ear, stronger than iron: the House of Gaunt does not bend. “I know what’s coming. Harry’s heard things, seen things.”
“You’re talking to Potter?” Bellatrix growled.
“I’ll talk to anyone who’ll talk to me,” she chirped back. “It’s only a matter of time before Riddle’s back, and then you’ll wish you’d prepared me for what lies ahead. I’m the true Heir. He’s the illegitimate bastard who claims the title. Surely you don’t think I’m so naïve as to forget how that ends.”
Bellatrix inhaled sharply, and for a moment Hermione thought she’d lash out again, grabbing and growling and demanding. But when the hand came up again, it stroked her cheek, tucking a curl behind her ear. “We could keep you in the Manor. Withdraw you from Hogwarts and the Tournament, set the wards to keep all from entering, and tutor you and your friends privately. Elves would bring food, Reg and Dora could bring news, and we’d batten down the hatches and wait for the war to begin again. Cissy thought it best, calculator that she is.”
The idea twisted in her gut. She’d never really considered the possibility of being locked away like a caged bird, a trophy and a figurehead rather than a partner. She’d felt the Manor’s wards, and seen the state of the Black family magic. They could’ve scooped her up and stolen her away the moment she proved herself in the Chamber of Secrets.
“Why, then?” She breathed. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, and she caught sight of imperious scarlet lips and high cheekbones, framing the face of a warrior queen. “If I’m such a liability, why let me roam free?”
The dark witch’s lips quirked up in the hint of a smile, dark eyes swirling with emotion. “Because it would’ve caused complications, with the Ministry and the school. Because the Houses of Greengrass and Parkinson would’ve come after your friends, demanding their release. Because you’d never have bloomed into the witch you could be, trapped in the Manor against your will.” Her voice lowered an octave as she leaned in. “I told my family just the same, back then, and it still wasn’t enough for them. Only Andy agreeing to teach here stayed their hands. I told my family that patience was prudent, when I’ve never waited a day in my life. I told them many things, and all of them were almost true.”
Lips crested against the shell of her ear, and Hermione fought the urge to melt into the witch’s arms as she whispered still more. “Because you’re mine. And no witch worthy of the Houses of Gaunt and Black will cower away in the darkness. Not with a war to win.”
Hermione stared up at her, bond magic swirling in the half-space between them. Part of her longed to rest her head against Bellatrix’s corset and let all her troubles bubble away. Part of her dreamed of hexing her, fighting like a serpent in a wire trap. Still more of her wondered what it would be like to kiss those scarlet lips and never come up for air.
“Just a little more,” she found herself whispering. “I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve kept my guard up and my head down, and tried to steer us in the right path. I just need a little more, to keep me going. Please, Bellatrix.”
To her great surprise, the dark witch smiled down at her, all bright teeth. “There’ll be a New Year’s Ball in the Manor, Miss Gaunt. We’d be honored if you could attend.”
“There’s a Yule Ball here,” Hermione riposted. “For champions. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could—”
“Show up as your date? McGonagall would have my head.” Clucking her tongue, Bellatrix nodded to herself. “I’ll see what I can do, though I make no promises.”
“I wouldn’t expect any.”
She’d turned to leave, hand finding the doorknob unerringly in the dark, when Bellatrix spoke again, voice soft and sure. “Congratulations on your victory, pet. You’ve done your family proud.”
Notes:
Hi lovelies!
Terribly sorry about the wait, this fic got away from me. I hope some of y'all are still excited to see it continue, and I hope to have a Yule Ball and a very exciting Third Task in your inboxes much sooner.
Expect a new oneshot and a new Sirens chapter within a week or so, thank you always for your love.
xoxo
Akhenani
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