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Hermione sat in silence at the table in the flat she and Ron had used to share together.
It had seemed so simple, back then. The war was over. They could finally confess their feelings towards each other and carry their ambitions forwards. They would free house-elves and attend a final year at Hogwarts and find fulfilling jobs that would let them reform the injustices of their world.
And then it had all fallen apart.
“Hermione?”
She looked up. Ron was standing hesitantly at the far end of the little corridor that led into the kitchen. Hermione made herself smile and patted the table to indicate he should take the chair across from her.
Ron did it, watching her carefully.
It stung to realize that Ron suspected her of doing something inappropriate or wrong, but Hermione couldn’t blame him, really. She took a deep breath. “It’s about Harry.”
“Again? Hermione, you know that it’s natural for him to shun the kind of attention he started getting after the battle. It’s worse than it ever was when we were in school—”
“Hiding out in Grimmauld Place for weeks at a time? Reading Dark Arts books?”
Ron paused. “He’s been reading Dark Arts books?”
Hermione nodded. She’d known that Ron would take this hard. His paling face made her wish she could reach across the table and take his hand to comfort him the way she would have when they were dating, but that was over, and Ron had made it clear that it was over. “Yes. I went by Grimmauld Place earlier because I really wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t there, but he had books spread out all over the library table. All of them were about—Ron, it was sickening. Books about necromancy and torture spells and the theory of the Unforgivables. And.”
She didn’t go on, the words sticking in her throat. Ron leaned forwards. “Hermione. What is it?”
Hermione forced her eyes open, forced her mouth to move. This wouldn’t get better because they were hiding from it. “Secrets of the Darkest Art.”
“That’s that book about how to create Horcruxes, isn’t it?”
Hermione nodded grimly. “Ron, how would he have found that? I’m pretty sure that the Black library didn’t have a copy, and either Professor Dumbledore or Black would have got rid of it if it was there. And why would he need to study that? Even if he were studying necromancy to bring Sirius back, which is what I thought at first, he wouldn’t need a book on Horcruxes.”
“Right. That would only be if he were going to live forever.”
“Yes. Ron, I told you what I think.”
“But there haven’t been any other signs, Hermione! Voldemort died!”
Hermione felt a flash of anger. Ron was so slow to open his eyes and see things, sometimes. It wasn’t the only reason they’d broken up, but it was one of them. “Ron, don’t you see? There isn’t any other reason that he would be researching Horcruxes. Harry would hate that kind of creation.”
“Creation?”
Ron was looking oddly at her. Hermione waved her hand. “Artifact. Working. Object. Whatever.”
Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah, Harry has reasons to hate them.”
“Unless it’s not Harry in that body anymore.”
Ron sighed very loudly. Hermione felt another flash of anger. Why did everyone have to doubt her lately? “But Hermione, there’s no reason to think that Voldemort managed to possess Harry. There could be another explanation.”
“Like what?”
“He really is looking into resurrecting Sirius, and he thought that Horcruxes would be a possible solution—”
“Do you really think that he’d think that, Ron? Knowing what he knows?”
Ron didn’t answer.
Hermione nodded and stood. She extended her hand to Ron. “You can come with me, or you can stay here. But you ought to know that nothing will stop me from reclaiming our friend. I’m going to put him in a ritual circle and do an exorcism on him before he can blink. And before the spirit of Voldemort in him can warn him.”
“And what if he really isn’t possessed?”
“I think the chance is next to nothing. But if that’s the case, he won’t be harmed.”
Ron started to reach out, then paused. “What’s that on your palm, Hermione?”
Hermione blinked and looked down. There was a scattering of black ash or soot across her palm. She shrugged. “Probably soot from where I came through the fire. I was so upset about those books I probably forgot to spell myself clean.”
Ron nodded slowly. He did take her hand, and Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated. She and Ron had had exceptions in the wards around Grimmauld Place that prevented Apparition into or beside the house, at least for a little while. Time to test if those exceptions still existed.
And purge Harry, once and for all.
Hermione discounted the giddy excitement that moved through her. She would like having her best friend back—Ron no longer really counted as that, since their breakup—but more than that, she would really be doing something. Since the war, she never seemed to be doing anything. Legal barriers rose in her way with every step she took. People sneered at her. People laughed when she told them her best ideas.
But now, she would get to do something.
*
They appeared outside the house, and Ron swore softly. Hermione looked around. “What?”
“Nothing. Just that I hate the feeling of Side-Along Apparition.”
Hermione stifled her flare of impatience. What had she ever seen in this man?
It didn’t matter, though. They would get things settled, and then she would have Harry back, and she could really talk to him about what they needed to do to make things better. Having Harry hide in Grimmauld Place wasn’t helping anyone.
They walked into the house, and Hermione immediately stopped. When she’d been here earlier, there had been flaring lamps everywhere. Now, there was only darkness and silence.
Except for the smallest, most taunting creaking noise, which seemed to be coming from upstairs. Hermione’s wand fell into her hand.
“Hermione?”
She waved an impatient finger at Ron. Right now, she had to concentrate and figure out what was happening. Had Harry decided that she and Ron might return after she’d escaped earlier and set a trap for them?
“What’s that noise?”
At least Ron’s voice was low this time. Hermione still had to shake her head. “I don’t know. But maybe Harry set a trap for us.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t he? If he were possessed by the Dark Lord?’
Ron had no answer for that. Hermione nodded and faced the kitchen. Part of her wanted to charge right up the staircase to investigate the noise, but that was probably what Harry hoped they would do. He thought he was dealing with two clueless teenage Gryffindors—or rather, the Dark Lord inside him did.
Ha.
They walked into the kitchen, and Hermione cast detection charms everywhere she could. There was no sign of anything, no spells and no traps and no wards and no Dark Arts books. She frowned and lit the fire that would open the Floo quickly if they needed to escape. The fire seemed to smolder on the hearth more sullenly than usual.
“Do you think he could have used some of the magic he got from the possessing spirit?” Ron whispered. “To dampen everything?”
Hermione shot him a look she knew was more withering than any she had ever used. “Why would he do that?”
Once again, Ron had no answer. Hermione led him around the kitchen, opening cabinets.
Upstairs, the creaking had stopped.
*
In the end, they found nothing on the ground floor that would point to a trap, or tell them what kind Harry had set. Now they stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Ron kept swallowing nervously.
Hermione had never been less nervous in her life. She was incandescent with rage, simmering with the thought of the spirit that must have possessed her best friend. It took everything she could do to keep from calling Fiendfyre.
Why that particular spell?
She didn’t know, but it felt appropriate.
“Hermione?”
Ron was pressing her closely, too closely. Hermione gave him a little irritated shrug and started up the stairs, her wand at the ready. Ron gave another of those stupid nervous swallows again and kept walking right behind her.
They cleared the library. Hermione saw none of the same books on the table, which made her frown a little. When she had come here, saw them, run, and escaped, there had been so many spread out that they had been half-spilling off the table.
Does Harry think that if he puts them away, he can pretend it never happened?
Hermione shook her head. Maybe that would have worked with someone as stupid as she had sometimes been in sixth year, but it wouldn’t work on her now.
“Hermione?”
She turned around. Ron had his wand lifted and an odd look on his face. A blue spell was glowing on the end of his wand that flickered out even as she watched.
“Yes?” Hermione prompted, a little impatient, when Ron just stood there and acted as if he would keep on standing there until the end of time.
“I cast a Finding Spell.”
“For traps?”
“No.” Ron took a deep breath. “For books. There aren’t—there aren’t any books on necromancy in the library.”
“So he took them and hid them somewhere else? I don’t know what he thought he’d accomplish by doing that, but—”
“No. There aren’t any in the house, Hermione, and haven’t been for at least the last six months. And neither is the book Secrets of the Darkest Art. I looked for that one specifically. It’s not here. Are you sure of what you saw?”
Hermione paused, a flicker of doubt moving through her mind. But the memory was as clear as diamond. She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I wonder if someone else moved them…”
That was a new and unpleasant thought, that someone else might be helping Harry with this conspiracy. But she flicked it away. “It just means that the Dark Lord probably taught him spells to defeat the Finding one. Not that it’ll do any good when I already saw it.”
“Probably.”
Ron almost whispered the words. Hermione held in an impatient sigh. Ron didn’t want to believe the worst of his best friend, even now. That was understandable, but weak.
“Come on.”
Hermione led the way out of the library. They aimed for the bedroom that Ron and Harry had used during the summer before fifth year. Ron cast another Finding spell when they entered, despite Hermione’s sharp whisper, but it didn’t come back with anything. Hermione still carefully searched through it with her own spells before moving on.
They arrived in the bedroom Sirius had stayed in, and—
Ron cried out and slapped his hand over his eyes. Hermione just stood staring.
Harry’s body hung from the ceiling with a rope knotted around his neck. The accidental magic exploding from Ron behind her gripped the body and made it sway.
Creak.
*
“I don’t understand. What happened?”
It was the sixth time Ron had said that since they’d found Harry’s body, and Hermione was getting steadily more irritated.
“He committed suicide,” Hermione said flatly. They were sitting at the table in the kitchen, where the Order had sat so many times. If she looked at the door, Hermione thought, she could imagine it opening and Dumbledore and Black and Lupin and Moody all walking through.
They were dead now, though, and that was the end of it. As was Harry’s end.
She felt a surge of dissatisfaction. She had really thought she would have her best friend back again. She had never thought Harry would be cowardly enough to take his own life just because she’d confronted him and told him that she knew he was possessed by the Dark Lord.
“I don’t think so.”
Hermione blinked, returning to the conversation with an effort. Ron was talking again, of course. It wasn’t the only reason they had broken up, but it was one of them. “What?”
“I don’t think he committed suicide.”
“Don’t be silly. What else could he have done? You know that he was hanged. He didn’t curse himself to death.”
“I think someone did it to him.”
Hermione stared with her mouth a little open. Then she managed to recover. “Do you think that the spirit of—Voldemort whispered into his ear and convinced him to do it once he knew we suspected?”
“No.” Ron’s face was pale, but he was calm. It had been a long time since Hermione had seen him this calm, and it made her a little wary. “I mean that I used one of those spells they teach us in the Aurors, and it said he was dead before he was hanged. Someone killed him and then hung his body for us to find.”
Hermione shook her head. She didn’t want to accept what Ron was saying. She couldn’t. “But who would do that? Someone else who suspected he was possessed and wanted to make sure he was dead before he could start causing a reign of terror like the Dark Lord’s?”
Ron leaned across the table. He still looked pale, but he was also calm. Hermione leaned forwards to match him.
“I think it was you, Hermione.”
She recoiled. Her hands felt heavy, and itched, as if she wanted to reach for her wand. But this was Ron, her only remaining friend. “What? What are you—you’re accusing me of murder, Ron?” Her voice spiraled up, annoying him.
“Yes, Hermione. What were you doing here before you came to get me? Where did those books go? Where did that black mark on your hand come from?”
“It’s soot. I told you.”
Ron moved his wand in a swift spell. Hermione’s wand snapped into her hand, and she raised it to block, but it turned out that Ron was only aiming at her hand with the black mark, not really at her head or chest, and she missed. The mark glowed for a moment, and then turned into an illusion that ran red down the side of her fingers.
“It’s dried blood.” Ron looked at her, and the void in his eyes was terrible. “I don’t know why you did it, Hermione. Maybe because you were convinced from the beginning that he was possessed, and you really did think that this was the best way to save him. But I can’t believe I fell for it.”
“No. No, Ron, that’s ridiculous. I would have—I would have remembered—”
“Would you?”
“Of course! What do you mean—how could I forget—”
“I think you’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately, Hermione.” Ron’s voice was soft and distant, his eyes filled with pity. She hated that. She hated a lot of things about Ron right now, but that was the worst. “I know that you went on that quest to find Voldemort’s wand, and then you came back and never said anything about it. I know that you told me you wanted to get back together, and didn’t appear where we were supposed to have the conversation, and then never said anything about that, either. I don’t know what happened, if you were cursed or possessed yourself or what, but I’m going to get you help.” He swallowed, and his eyes grew stupidly bright. “I only wish I could have done—I could have done something before you—before you—”
His voice broke. Hermione bolted to her feet and backed slowly away from him, her heart hammering hard in her chest.
She should have realized it before now. All the questions, all the ways that Ron had looked at her oddly when she said something perfectly reasonable.
Ron was possessed by the Dark Lord, too.
She didn’t know when it had happened. But she knew for certain it had happened.
Hermione shook her head and forced the words through numb lips. “I won’t let you take me somewhere and subject me to torture, Ron. I refuse.”
His brow wrinkled as though she’d said something incomprehensible. “What in the world are you talking about, Hermione?”
“I know that you would torture me to get my secrets out of me, like what happened with the wand. And I don’t think that’s reasonable.”
“I would never torture you, Hermione.” Ron was using a slippery insinuating little voice, which reminded her of Parseltongue spoken by a human. “Come on. I just—I’ll suffer the loss of Harry forever, and I’ll carry the guilt, too, because I suspected something was wrong with you, but I didn’t act fast enough to save his life. But curse or possession or something else, I know you would never do anything like this. So we’ll get you some Mind-Healing, and we’ll have Bill look at you to see if there’s a curse, and—”
She cast at him. Ron leaned out of the way with a shriek, and Hermione turned and rushed towards the Floo.
Ron was calling out behind her, casting some spell that roared and snapped at her heels, but Hermione didn’t turn around. He was mad. He was mad.
She Flooed out and away as he shouted behind her.
*
Hermione paced back and forth in the little bolthole she had imagined how to reach one day, and been able to reach. She didn’t know what to do now. She’d counted on Ron’s support, and even that was gone.
He must have been so much more bitter about their breakup than she’d imagined, to go and get himself possessed by the Dark Lord, of all people.
Then Hermione’s steps slowed, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. She was remembering the last time she’d been for dinner at the Burrow, when Molly had smiled and chattered about Ron’s career in the Aurors as though it was a perfectly normal and respectable thing to do. Bill and Fleur had been in attendance, and they’d both given her piercing looks a few times.
What if—what if Ron had spread the possession, like a contagion? What if his whole family had been possessed?
It seemed like they had to have been, if they’d seen the way that Ron was acting and also seen nothing wrong with it.
Hermione swallowed noisily. She didn’t want to consider that, or what it would mean for Bill and Fleur’s little children if their parents were both possessed.
But she had to think strategically. It meant Ron had a lot of allies, and ones who knew Hermione and knew her habits. They could turn her into the Aurors, and she would be taken down into a cell against her will and tortured. Maybe even studied by the Department of Mysteries.
Ron went to the Ministry every day, Hermione realized with a slowly dawning sense of horror. What if the entire Ministry was possessed?
Who knew how far it had spread? What if she had carried the contagion herself, when she’d gone to Australia to try and persuade her parents to come home? What if that had been the reason they’d refused and were so angry with her?
Every owl she’d tried to send them since had simply refused to fly. Ron must have put wards around them, since they were filthy Muggles themselves, to prevent the birds from reaching them.
Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled. She would do this. She could do this. She turned and marched through the musty front room of the bolthole to the little cupboard that only she knew the location of, and took out the long yew wand.
It shone in her hand like a bone spear, like a light in the darkness, like a beacon of truth. Hermione nodded, and nodded again as she tried to think through what she should do next. She couldn’t fight the whole world.
But she was the only one left where there had once been three, the only one fighting for justice. She had to act carefully, but also immediately. And if it led to slaughter…
Well, she would be slaughtering people who wanted house-elves to remain enslaved and prevent her from changing the world. Did that really matter, if they died?
Images of blood chased through her mind, blood under the Australian sun and blood in the upper floors of Grimmauld Place. But it no longer frightened her. She knew what she had to do.
She turned to face the Floo, and he called out “The Burrow!” as he picked up the Floo powder, and smiled.
The End.