Chapter 10: The Dark and their LordSummary:
Hermione does her own research into the Dark and draws some interesting conclusions
Chapter Text
Hermione had a hard time containing her joy the next day. She had not only become an Animagus--a complicated and difficult endeavor for anyone--but she had done so using an ancient rite that had been recorded by someone unfamiliar with it. Apparently the ritual had a high rate of success, though there were occasionally part-beasts among those who had attempted the ritual too early. Nearly all of those went insane and had to be killed. Their remains were then burned, dedicated both to the spirit that had been and the divines that were.
Hermione felt queasy about killing all of the part-beasts, and especially about more or less sacrificing them to the divines. That felt wrong, magic so dark it felt like tar. The ritual she had used was supposedly dark magic as well, though it certainly didn't feel it. She had used some nonliving ingredients, a common potions ingredient, and her own blood, given willingly. It hadn't harmed anyone and had given her quite a bit of power.
Truth be told, the definitions of dark magic she had found made little sense to her. All dark magic was banned, except with special permission from the Minister of Magic. She could understand banning the newer spells, like the Unforgivable Curses. The Killing Curse was useless for all other things, it was meant only to kill and always did. While death by the Severing Charm may be messier and more painful, it existed for a variety of reasons. The Killing Curse existed only to kill, the Cruciatus Curse only to torture, and the Imperius Curse only to make others slaves. Those she understood banning. The others, not so much.
Most of Dark Magic required sacrifices, either human or magical creatures. Hermione didn't want anyone to use them, but the unnecessary killing of humans and unlicensed killing of magical creatures was already prohibited. Hermione didn't understand why they had needed a new law, nor why they had lumped in the rituals that used no blood, some of your own blood, or the sacrifice of an animal. Wizards and witches ate chickens, pigs, cows, rabbits, squirrels, and many other animals every damn day, fully legally. Doing so sustained them for perhaps a third of the day. Hermione didn't really get why that was fine, but it was wrong to kill a chicken for a sacred ritual. There were, in fact, a number of rituals she had found that required the sacrifice of a boar, a bull, or a cow. She had read over the translations (and the commentary by several wizards, mostly in 8th century Arabia and 14th century Italy) and was fairly sure she could get away with using domesticated animals. They were, after all, still the same species, even if muggles had added domesticated pigs as a separate subspecies. Every ritual she had found thus far was banned, all of it under the label of "Dark Magic."
She was, however, hesitant to try her hand at them. For starters, if she did it at Hogwarts she'd need to sneak a live animal into the castle. If she did it elsewhere, the Trace would display a spike of "Dark Magic." Another problem would be capturing the animal in the first place, and making sure it didn't ruin the lines of runes she would have to write around it. No, those rituals would have to wait for a much later date. Besides, Hermione hardly had the time to go about another ritual. The last one had taken nearly two months, all told, and had little in the way of preparatory work.
Besides, the homework was picking back up, and though Hermione had already memorize the names of Jupiter and Saturn's moons, writing a sixteen-inch essay on their relative orbits--including handwritten and attached notes regarding the calculations used--still took time. Every class and been giving homework like that recently, and Hermione was not an experienced essayist. She had only gone to muggle schools before, and even then only in bits and pieces of time. Most of her writing had been with previous clients or balancing books, not discussing the Theory of Universal Energy and how it applied to the bloody Fire-Making Spell. Although Hermione knew what to write, thanks to her long past of reading, she was still rough on the how, taking nearly as long as her classmates though she had to do none of their research to find the answers.
Fortunately, the professors seemed to care more for the quality of the work than the speed with which it was written. And it probably helped her avoid attention that she was far from the first person to turn in a test or in-class essay. She remembered that no one liked the smart kid, especially not one who showed off. That lesson had been drilled into her head the first three schools she'd gone to. It had stopped being as much of a problem after that. Having rocks thrown at you really drove in the message.
Though it was far from the most peculiar class (that was likely potions, which was both a science and not) Defense Against the Dark Arts had by far the most peculiar teacher. Professor Quirrell was a stuttering mess wrapped in a turban who disliked vampires and hated the Dark Arts. That was the official story anyways. But sometimes, mostly in private conversations, his stutter would cease altogether. When he talked about the 'evils' of the Dark Arts, he often mentioned how they could be practiced and performed, supposedly as further evidence of their ills. When it came to the actual curriculum, he returned to his stuttering mess, giving very little information and became almost unable to cast spells as his stutter grew.
He wasn't a Death Eater. Hermione had looked up him up. Quirinus Quirrell IV, son of Quirinus Quirrell III and Lily Tiffany. Despite being of age during the Wizarding War, he had steadfastly avoided taking part in it, even after his uncle was killed by a Death Eater and his sister died in a failed raid by the Order of the Phoenix. Professor Snape had been a Death Eater, interestingly enough, though he became a spy partway through the war. Or so he and Dumbledore claimed, at the least. Whatever the truth, the headmaster's testimony had kept him from Azkaban.
Hermione had been somewhat surprised at the frequency of humanitarian violations and war crimes during the war, but the acts themselves happened in nearly every war. What was more surprising was the aftermath, something that Hermione was horrified by. The legal processes of a traditional wizarding court had been thrown out. None of the Death Eaters were allowed private counsel, and were instead forced to use Ministry lawyers who were not covered by client confidentiality. The trials were incredibly short, to the point that the accused's testimony was cut off in some cases. The demoralization amongst those who had not cut a deal became staggering, to the point that some refused council. One witch, Alecto Carrow, had told the court it had, "All the moral authority of an imperiused shrew." She, like those before her, had been given multiple life sentences at Azkaban.
Azkaban was, from what Hermione could tell, the only high-security wizarding prison. It was also a breach of international law, given the horrific conditions. Prisoners lived in small cages on a rocky island, surrounded by creatures that leech away happiness. There were no walls, enchantments, or blankets to protect them from the elements. There were fed poorly and never let out of their cages. The Ministry barred anyone from studying the prison, meaning that rates of prisoner suicide and auror abuse went unreported. When someone died, their body was not returned to the family, but instead chucked into a shallow grave on the island. The conditions were so horrific that several people serving limited sentences died while there. One man had died three months into a six month sentence.
Even without the prison's conditions, Hermione would have expected many to try and cut a deal. With them, it was shocking that many had not. Those who had, such as Lucius Malfoy, had coincidentally made large contributions to a variety of charities Mr. Crouch, the head of Magical Law Enforcement at the time, ran, as well as to St. Mungo's and the then-Minister's reelection campaign. Some of those who had refused simply didn't have the money needed to bribe the Ministry into accepting an obviously false Imperius Defense. Some had ready heirs, and would rather go to a horrific prison than see much of their family fortune in the Ministry's hands. A few seemed to have done it simply to spite the Minister after being approached.
Hermione could admire the spunk it took to spit in the Ministry's face. Still, she would have chosen to avoid Azkaban, if she had the means.
The cause of the war confused Hermione. The way it was written about in some books, such as The War to End All Wars: Failures and Triumphs of the Great Wizarding War , portrayed the war as an effort by the dying pureblood class to reassert their social status. Yet the evidence seemed at least partly counter to this; while the election of two muggle-born Ministers was a large step, the protests demanding rights for squibs or to eliminate the Gringotts and Estate exemptions from the inheritance tax remained far out of the mainstream. The Wizengamot was still largely unelected, instead based in the same set of rules as the early Roman Senate: one tribe, one vote. Of the fifty members, only ten were democratically elected. The Minister of Magic got an automatic seat, as did the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and a British Youth Representative. The remaining thirty-eight seats were based on the ancient houses. Each of those seats belonged to a specific house. The Head of House would choose the person to fill the seat, but the Wizengamot could reject that choice, which was fairly rare expect in cases of "blood-traitor families," such as the Weasleys, and more recently to the Potters, Prewetts, and Abbotts. In those cases the unelected seats of the Wizengamot often rejected every potential member sent them in an effort to maintain their anti-muggle majority.
Of the thirty-eight inherited seats, thirty-five went to houses based in England, three in Wales, two in Ireland, and one in Scotland. Six more seats, either appointed or filled by position, were nearly always English. Of the elected seats, two were English, two Irish, and one each were Scottish and Welsh.
According to The Dark Lord?: A Look at the Proposed Agenda of the Death Eaters , many welsh and irish wizards had backed Lord Voldemort in the war after he promised them fair representation in the Wizengamot and a small degree of home rule. The scottish wizards had been split, as some feared loosing their spot as the most powerful Celtic region while others saw an opportunity to gain power, both through seats and through home rule of the land Hogwarts was in.
Hermione wasn't sure what she thought. She found the whole enterprise intriguing, but had few hard and fast opinions on politics. The only devout belief she held in that arena was that ideals and principles are nice on paper and useless in the real world. She didn't like the idea of murder, but was not shy or afraid of its practice. After all, she'd killed a client with a pair of scissors when he'd tried to kidnap her. Sometimes murder was necessary.
Torture, however, she was against in theory and practice. Every study showed it got worthless results, ones that oftentimes caused more harm to the cause than anything else. It was a waste of time and energy done solely to hurt someone else. Unless they'd done something deeply personal, Hermione didn't get the appeal. Torture had been used by both sides in the war, though far more extensively by the Death Eaters. It was no wonder they lost if they were constantly torturing people in a basement instead of planning and fighting. Not to mention that the intensity of their torture and the degree to which they flaunted it had scared away many of their early supporters as the war drew on.
Hermione sighed and closed the book she was reading. Exiting the Room of Requirement she headed back to her dorm to finish some homework before dinner. She had another essay, this one for potions. It was due in a few days, but Hermione liked to get things out of the way. Especially since it took her longer than most.
Hermione sighed again as she sat down and began writing her essay, slowly sinking into the slow effort of forcing her thoughts onto parchment.
Chapter 11: A Momentous MeetingSummary:
Snape's concerns drag Hermione into an important meeting
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Snape was beginning to worry about Hermione. Not too much, just the inklings of a suspicion that could possibly, maybe, grow. She was doing well--better even--on her classwork, which had already been phenomenal. Not that he was particularly surprised, ones work does tend to improve after dropping a drug habit and having constant rumors about you die off.
No, he was worried about something else entirely. She still went to their weekly private lessons and did well, extraordinarily so. A few weeks ago she had managed a perfectly-brewed wit-sharpening potion. What concerned him was that instead of seeming impressed or ecstatic, she seemed. . . neutral? Here she was, on a path to become the youngest ever potions master, and she seemed rather apathetic about it.
It was during times like those that he reminded himself what she'd wished for. Presented the universe, she had asked for nearly the bare minimum. And even he had to admit, brewing a wit-sharpening potion was not particularly useful when it came to desperate self-defense.
That was what bothered him too, however. Even when learning defensive magic, she rarely seemed excited, only determined. She mastered the work quickly (it took him nearly ten minutes to break through her occlumency shields these days) but never smiled. Or seemed excited in any way. Not that he did either, but he was a dour professor. It was practically in his job description not to smile.
What bothered him the most, however, was not what failed to get a reaction from her. It was what got the reaction: offensive magic. Whenever they dueled or she learned a new, complex, dangerous spell her eyes seemed to glow with both joy and fire. It scared him more than a little, and reminded him of people he would rather not think of.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione spent Spring Break at Hogwarts, largely staying within the Room of Requirement. She continued her lessons with Professor Snape, but those studies were no longer as interesting to her. They were still useful and she enjoyed learning them, but it was little compared to the rush of the Dark Arts, or at least what was classified as such.
Hermione had experimented with minor bits of blood magic in the Room of Requirement and short rituals. A drop of blood, properly drawn runes, symbols, and shapes, and a name showed her exactly where something was hidden. She had yet to try it with someone else's blood. It was gross, but it would show her where the person was, where they were staying, and where they (or their family) lived. She both wanted to try it and to avoid it.
Increasingly, Hermione was reading books written in Latin, or Ancient Greek. Neither were easy languages to learn, and she was definitively less than half-proficient. It took long stretches of time to translate and transcribe before reading, but otherwise she wouldn't truly understand what she was reading. It took days working for hours at a time to translate even a single book. Once she had though, she could understand it from the instant she read it.
The geometry involved in the rituals and spells described in those books was fascinating. The theory, specific word choice, and tonal indicators all meant it was tricky magic. She learned more about maths than she had ever known, all thanks to her dalliance with magic. There was trigonometry involved in the way wand movements worked, calculus was at the core of many ritualistic shapes, algebra was everywhere in the wizarding world, and geometry even more so.
Fortunately, Hermione was getting better at writing. Her letters were no longer scrawled when written faster than painstakingly slow and her instinctive spacing and size of letters had drastically improved. It greatly helped with her homework. It also gave her another hour or so each week for her. . . "side projects."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione trailed behind Professor Snape as they walked towards his office. It was mid-May and everyone was studying for exams. Hermione hadn't done anything with her side projects--or Professor Snape's lessons--since the month began. Those who weren't studying were celebrating: Slytherin was far in the lead for the House Cup after a few Gryffindors managed to lose 150 points in a single night. Hermione didn't really get the whole point of the points. It was nice, she guessed, to be rewarded for doing something well. And it was a solid punishment system, letting the public shame of losing points do all the work for you. Very manipulative. Very Slytherin, truly. But what did the House Cup get you? From what she could tell, nothing, other than acknowledgement spread amongst more than a hundred people.
Still, Hermione hadn't lost any points. She preferred to stay out of people's way and out of the spotlight while still remaining in their good(ish) graces. Mostly she wanted to appear as a bland, decently liked background figure. It was the safest position, and one that had been blown to hell between the troll, the coma, and the rumors.
Nonetheless Hermione had no idea why Professor Snape had wanted to speak with her, nor who this other person he had mentioned was. "Come with me," he had said. "There's someone I want you to meet, and the three of us should talk." Hermione didn't have any idea what he wanted to discuss either, nor why he wanted to discuss it with her. She was afraid, truth be told. She kept her right hand close, fingers drumming against her wand. Spells and worried plans mixed in her mind as Hermione prayed she would have to use neither.
Professor Snape opened his office door and stepped to the side, allowing Hermione to enter first. She did so reluctantly, her fingers tightening around her wand. Upon entering the room she saw a woman with platinum blonde hair in a demure blouse and skirt. It was a combination Hermione had seen before, at a few of the fancy parties she'd been to, though not one she had ever worn. Clients were too eager to leer at her, even if she was supposedly play-acting their daughter.
"Miss Hermione," Professor Snape said, interrupting her internal musings. "Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy. Lady Malfoy, Miss Hermione." The woman smiled gently, almost motherly at Hermione, which only added to the alarm bells going off in her head.
"Lady Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice remaining calm thanks to years of experience in lies and hiding. "Delightful to make your acquaintance."
"As it is yours," Lady Malfoy responded. Hermione thought there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Why would Hermione's manners bring something like that to the fore?
"Miss Hermione," Lady Malfoy said gently. "Your head of house is an old friend of my husband and me. It came up that you do not have a set place to stay this summer, is that correct?"
Hermione paused for a moment, brows furrowing as she tried to puzzle out just why this strange woman--a strange woman with a noble title no less--was asking about this.
"It is true that no definitive plans have been made," Hermione cautiously replied. Until she knew the other witch's intentions, it was best to keep information limited. Severely limited.
"My husband and I have only a single child, our son," Lady Malfoy said. "And a rather large house. We were wondering if you might, perhaps, wish to spend the summer with us." When she finished there was nothing. No movement, no noise beyond the ambient sounds of a Hogwarts hallway, no flickering of the eyes, no magic nor aura, simply silence, in every way possible.
Unlike the outside world at that moment, Hermione's brain was far from silent. Instead it screamed with a million thoughts and a thousand paranoid conspiracies, each feeding on each other to grow stronger and take up residence in the fore of her mind. She ignored them all to ask a question, a single question, one she wanted answered badly. One she needed answered, needed to know. One whose answer would determine not only her answer, but whether or not she could trust her head of house.
"Why?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet. It was almost rasping with the emotion that poured into it. Hermione tried to keep emotion from her words, from her face and her phrases, but she knew it would be pointless to try and stop it in this scenario. Instead she let it flow, the tidal wave of feeling so powerful it nearly drowned out her voice.
"Because we can," the Lady Malfoy responded.
Notes:
This is where the time skips happens! Next chapter will take place at the start of 4th year, sorry fans of ickle firstie Hermione~
The Hermione you see next will also be different in certain aspects from the one you've come to know and love
Chapter 12: A new Day, a new DawnSummary:
Time skip! 4th year Diagon Alley trip!
Notes:
Sorry it's been so long since I posted. Anyways, here's a chapter. If you like Random Dark Comments!Hermione, you'll love this. A reminder, there's a bit of a time skip
Chapter Text
Hermione was looking forward to her fourth year. From what Lord Malfoy had said, the was going to be a large tournament this year, called the Triwizard Tournament. It was being held despite the deaths caused by earlier versions, and apparently was nearly as dangerous. Hermione was looking forward to watching the competition. She was especially interested in how the Durmstrang champion would preform, since the school actually taught the Dark Arts. Although Hermione had been doing rather well on her own (especially after gaining actual professors for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes) she had no doubt that with a teacher she would be further along than she was. Probably. Or, at the very least, it would have been less dangerous. She'd nearly died the year before thanks to an improper conversion between the Talmudic cubit and the bu of Qin-era China, accidentally using the Han-era measurement. Luckily, she had gotten away with a scar, but if the circle had been slightly more wrong she would have died. Hence why she had spent the summer studying up on numerology. Celtic numerology, Hermione had decided, would fit her designs much better than the standard Latin. It was quite a pain to relearn arithmancy with the new numbers though.
Her experiences in the Dark Arts (both the Dark Arts and the 'Dark Arts') were not something she had shared with the Malfoys. Even though she'd gotten--well, used to fit more than comfortable--with Lord Malfoy and viewed Madame Malfoy (who she often called Aunt Cissa, as per her request) as a semi-maternal presence, she still held many secrets. Shockingly, years of childhood trauma didn't make particularly good dinner conversation. Neither did centuries-old blood rituals written in partially-forgotten languages.
Currently Draco was off trying on new clothes. Since she couldn't really sneak off to Knockturn Ally (and since the Room of Requirement provided all the books she wanted) Hermione had meandered into the pet store.
The Magical Menagerie was a rather interesting store. Hermione had visited once each year before school. She had yet to buy anything (even though both the goblins and Malfoys had offered), but always found the different creatures fascinating. Even if she found Hagrid a rather bumbling, incompetant, and dangerously cavelier professor, she did love the subject matter. The hippogriffs had been majestic, even if Hagrid's lesson was rather lacking in instructions and safety guides (as seemed to be his default).
Though it was more than slightly hypocritical, given her criticisms on his safety, Hermione hoped they would see a chimaera at some point. She wondered if she could communicate with them in human form, or if she had to shift first.
" Is now a good time? " a slippery voice asked, interrupting her thoughts. Hermione frowned, turning towards the sound.
" No! Absolutely not! " came the response from a hissing voice. Hermione looked around, her brows furrowed. " There's a human here and the mistress is present! " Hermione turned again, looking at two snakes staring at each other. Well, one snake. The other was a serpent of some kind, but with plumage and wings.
" Hello there, " Hermione said by way of introduction.
" What? " one of them asked.
" She can hear? "
" I'm standing right here, " Hermione said with a glare. " If you have a question, bloody well ask me. " The snakes froze.
" Speaker, " the one with wings said. Its mouth opened slightly. Hermione would have sworn it was smiling.
" What's that? " the one resting against the cage asked.
" Speaker, " the winged one repeated. " She can talk to uss. Understand us, our language and-- " The word the serpent said next Hermione could not quite put into words. Instead, she knew it somehow, though she was sure she'd never heard it before. It meant a sort of collective essence, a shared sense of being. Taken aback as she was by it, the snake seemed just as surprised.
" What does this mean? " Hermione asked after a moment's pause. She had never found an answer to that question, and, after a few months of study, gave upon on learning one from a book. Maybe a magical serpent would know. To her great disappointment, the serpent's wings shrugged.
"No one knows," the serpent interrupted. " Speakers are nice though. Most humans just step on us. Speakers can keep us warm when winter comes and the sun fades. "
" Is that what you want of me? " Hermione asked. Somewhere in the back of her head she heard the faint jingle of the doorbell as someone entered the Magical Menagerie. " A warm friend? "
" Yes! " the serpent hissed excitedly. Its teal scales seemed to glow for a moment as its plumage fluffed and the wings expanded. " Food and warmth! Friends! I can help you on--things. "
" What things? " For a moment the serpent seemed taken aback, giving out a short stuttering hiss that turned into a smirk.
" Take me with you and we'll find out. " Hermione gave a slight scoff-chuckle and a small smile. Picking up the serpent's cage, she turned towards the register (back through the row of cages, a right near the doorway, then over the obstacle course of kitten playthings) only to see a pale-faced (even more so than usual) Narcissa staring at her.
"Aunt Cissa?" Hermione asked, pausing. "Are you okay?"
" What's wrong with her? "
" I don't know, " Hermione responded, walking closer. She seemed to have underestimated just how surprising this revelation was. "Aunt Cissa? Should I get your husband?" Narcissa Malfoy blinked twice, then looked back towards her young ward.
"No, I'm fine darling," she said, proper as ever. "Tell me, do you know what you just did?"
"I talked to a snake?" Hermione replied.
" Serpent! I am a noble Occamy, not some foul garden beast. No offense, Toryk."
"None taken, Lasya ."
" Your name is Lasya? " Hermione asked.
" Yes."
"It's beautiful."
"That's why it fits, " Lasya said with more than a hint of haughtiness. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, instead looking back up.
"Sorry Aunt Cissa," Hermione said. "Lasya didn't like being called a snake."
"Lasya?" the blonde asked, raising an arched eyebrow.
"Her," Hermione said gesturing towards the cage. "She said she's an Occamy." Narcissa nodded slowly.
"Hermione," she began again. "Do you understand the implications of what this means?" The only response she recieved was a furrowed brow, causing her to sigh. "Little one, very few people can do what you did. It's called being a parselmouth."
"Oh, right," Hermione said, deciding to go with obfuscation. "Sorry, I forgot. Two years ago everyone decided Harry Potter was killing people because he talked to a snake."
"Right," Narcissa said. "Fortunately, you're in Slytherin, so hopefully your classmates know better."
"Or not," Hermione said with a cheerful grin. "A little intimidation is always fun. So, can I get her?" Narcissa sighed, but nodded all the same, her hand creeping up to massage her aching forehead. It was one that Hermione alone could cause. Oh, Draco could cause his fair number of headaches, as could children and life in general, but there was a special one reserved for Hermione those past three years. There was another that arose when she said something that was too right, too meek and subservient and out of character, when Narcissa knew Hermione had been scared into hiding behind a mask yet again.
This, however, was a different headache, one that harkened to older sisters and family dinners after her parents had died. None had missed the abusive and drunken dark witch and wizard, save perhaps the Dark Lord, deprived of their investment skills. They had mourned for a month (for two in public) before dropping the facade and enjoying the newfound freedom and happiness.
"So," Hermione said, walking back with a smile, the Occamy draped around her neck and cuddling into her warmth. "Where to next?" Narcissa gave her young ward a small smile as she forced thoughts of the past from her head. Rather than answering she took the young girl's hand and led her out the door. Her daughter--for that is what she was to Narcissa, though she knew the girl was unlikely to ever accept a mother--had grown into her looks since the start of last year. She was starting to look like a woman A healthy young woman, Narcissa noted with pride and joy. She would need a new set of clothes for the coming year. With that in mind, Narcissa steered the three of them towards Twilfitt and Tattings.
Chapter 13: Ready for a Wild RideSummary:
Hermione takes the train back to Hogwarts, preparing herself for the year to come and reminiscing over the previous years. OR
Hermione's inner monologue allows the author to give an overview of the years she'd rather not write
Chapter Text
Good goddesses, Hermione thought as she squeezed her way through the crowd. There were more parents and relatives than ever at the Hogwarts Express. If it was just for security, she could understand, somewhat. The reappearance of the Dark Mark would scare many. Hell, it had scared the Malfoys. Lucius being scared was not particularly surprising--it was obvious from his smug affectation that he had numerous insecurities--but Aunt Cissa had been scared as well. That had been. . . well, unnerving seemed to be insufficient. Much more so than the event itself. That had simply been too many egotistical wizards getting drunk near each other. The Dark Mark had meant nothing to her--not because she did not know what it was, as Draco had assumed, but because she was not particularly scared of him. She smirked, pettily refusing him capitalization in her mind.
That incident, however, was not the only reason that so many parents had shown up at the Platform 9 ¾. Nor, it seemed, was it even the main reason. Instead that place went to the Triwizard Tournament, an event that would not be happening for nearly three months.
Hermione wandered the train, looking for her friends. Though the rest of the Slytherins tolerated her now (a marked improvement from first year) only Blaise, Daphne, and Bridget went out of their way to spend time with her. It meant a lot to her as someone who had oft been abandoned, all the more for knowing that Blaise and Daphne could have easily been members of the ruling Malfoy-Parkinson court, but decided to be with her instead.
The three of them had been a huge help in keeping her sanity. It was easy to lose in a place so full of magic and knowledge as Hogwarts. Easier still for once practicing darker magic. Hermione hadn't told them everything, but she'd been slowly including them in some of the lighter rituals she was experimenting with. Daphne had been a huge help when Hermione was experimenting with runic branding and tattoos. The two of them had gotten identical brands (though it had taken Hermione a year to convince her), both on their ribcage to the side of their breasts. The brands were three runes long. One summoned fiendfyre into their hands, the second controlled it, and the third kept them from getting burned.
Blaise and Bridget had planned to get those brands as well, but were scared off by how much it hurt. Hermione had screamed like a banshee and Daphne had passed out. They had, however, gone in on some of the lesser brandings. The pain correlated to the amount of power the rune gave. The runes to slow falling or summon a wand, or example, while still painful, were far less so than the rune granting partial immunity to stunning spells. Even Hermione had passed out from that one.
The tattooing had been harder. That was largely due to what Hermione wanted to use as the ink. At the end of second year, after hearing the Boy-Who-Got-Famous-For-Breathing mention hearing a voice through the walls, Hermione thought back and realized she had heard it as well. She waited until the next year to try opening the Chamber. Much to her surprise, it had not only worked, but the Basilisk's body was still there, fully preserved. She had wanted to use the basilisk's blood to power the sacred tattoos. Her friends had been less keen on the idea. It had taken all of first term to come to an agreement--they would do hers in the potion she created using basilisk blood, the others would get an ink base. The first month of term had been spent talking them into the idea of tattooing themselves at all. It wasn't until Hermione proved that Daphne's ancestors (and the House of Black, before they left Scotland) had done it for hundreds of years with no ill affects that everyone agreed to try it. The sensation of sheer power when each tattoo was completed had been overwhelming as it flowed over them, though Hermione imagined her basilisk-blood potion was stronger than the others'. Most were simple patterns, like the Warrior's mark the all had, a woven band around the upper arm that symbolized companionship. They hadn't done anything with Celtic runes since it was both permanent and highly illegal (divines alone knew why).
Hermione had designed it herself. Their warrior's mark was made of three strands in a circle (thereby neverending) around their upper arm. The patterns were tattooed not once but thrice, invoking the sacred celtic number again. The mark was a band of power on their skin, one they could draw upon at will (though doing so hurt if one drew too much). It also made their reactions far quicker. It was also illegal, thanks to a law passed in 1746.
There were more things Hermione was planning on telling them, on showing them. She thought she could convince them to sacrifice something this year. Maybe a plant, or a rat. But it would be years before she could show them the other powers of basilisk blood. Truth be told, she wasn't sure they'd ever be ready for that.
"Hello," a smirking voice called, bringing Hermione out of her thoughts.
"Miss Greengrass," Hermione replied, amusement creeping into her voice. She turned towards her friend, who was in a green business dress, her blonde hair falling down her back. "A pleasure to see you as well." Daphne looked into Hermione's eyes for a moment, then chuckled and waved her into the carriage. She raised an eyebrow as Lasya slithered out from behind Hermione's back.
"A new familiar?" Daphne asked
" Tell her I am Lasya, Devourer of Worlds, " Lasya whispered into Hermione's ear. Hermione rolled her eyes as she replied.
"Her name is Lasya," she said, entering the carriage and placing her trunk on the metal rack. "She was plotting an escape when we found each other." Daphne rolled her eyes.
"So you're letting people know this year?
"Might as well," Hermione said. "My friends already know and anyone who'd hex me will be too scared."
"Or already is," Daphne replied with a wry grin. After a moment of silence she continued. "What do you think of the tournament?" she asked instead.
"It's a good thing they've got an age requirement."
"No dreams of glory?" Daphne asked with false innocence.
"Glorious death is still death," Hermione replied dryly. "There's a reason we're not in Gryffindor." As her friend laughed Hermione retreated into her mind, a small but real smile on her lips. She did not fancy the idea of getting involved in all the danger that was on its way this year. Doubtless there would be some problem with Hogwarts, and between Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and the Triwizard Cup there was more than enough danger to go around. Hopefully it would remain focused on the Gryffindors. There was little to do but hope for the best. Though simply letting something happen sat poorly with her, Hermione knew it was the best idea, and so took out one of her books on goblin forging methods.
Chapter 14: A Moody ProfessorSummary:
First week of classes!
Chapter Text
Good divines those things were ugly. And dangerous. And he didn't know anything about them! You think the stingers draw blood? Could you be any less cautious, Professor Hagrid?! It was a miracle someone's hand hadn't gotten blown off, and one student had already come close. If the damned things survived they'd be a danger to, well, everyone in the class. Not everyone's a half-giant, damnit! Hermione thought as she threw some lettuce at the beast. We can't just shrug off explosions like you .
Still, the lesson was less strange than Professor Moody's behavior had been. He'd been bouncing Draco around as a ferret (which, she had to admit, was funny) but nearly dropped his wand when she'd walked over. He'd continued to stare at her as she reversed the spell, glared at him, and walked off to class.
He had stared at her again, although briefly this time, when the Slytherins had their first day of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Although Hermione rarely agreed with anything they learned in the class and already knew the spells they were being taught, it was a useful and entertaining class for her. She learned how the 'light' approached the Dark Arts and practiced both spells and acting, as she would sometimes pretend to struggle with a new spell in class.
This time, this class, this teacher, however, seemed different. Not just because of his scarred nature, his hip flask, his false eye, his trenchcoat, and his yelling. When he spoke of dark magic, it was like a muggle easter-egg. There were hints and clues as to how to use dark magic, techniques and emotions that helped or hindered thrown out in little bits amongst the rambling.
The Unforgivable Curses excited Hermione. They were one of the few spells she had not yet dared to cast, lest someone get a hold of her wand. She watched in fascination as the spider twitched, danced, and died. The full life cycle of a puppet, she thought. She shook the thought from her head as she looked around the room. Daphne was green, Blaise seemed terrified as Moody went over the next part of the lesson. Even Bridget, so interested in powerful magic, seemed unnerved.
Things only got worse when he started with the Imperius Curse resistance training. Theodore Nott was forced to jump on the table, then throw himself off it. That was fine by Hermione, she didn't care for the boy, since he had been one of those spreading rumors about her. The same was true for Pansy Parkinson, who ran around the room until it seemed her heart would stop. Hermione may not have liked them, but it was a bad sign. A professor, a former auror of all people, was torturing students. She felt her lip begin to curl upwards with disgust.
Draco was the case the broke the camel's back. Moody had him banging his head on the wall with increasing speed. Hermione bit back a snarl. If she wanted to stop him, she had to do it without being noticed. A Slytherin casting a spell at a Gryffindor former-auror Professor would not go over well.
Her wand slid down her arm, then through her fingers until she grabbed it at the base. Glaring at their professor, Hermione flicked her wand ever so slightly, then pulled it back up her sleeve.
For a moment nothing happened. Then smoke began to rise, and Moody dropped his spell, turning in shock to find his coat on fire. There were gasps and shocked expressions (which Hermione tried to imitate) as the students watched their professor use a quick aguamenti . He then turned towards the class with a glare.
"Who did that?" he asked, his eyes glaring across the crowd. The room remained silent. Moody snarled but said nothing, instead turning towards Hermione. "Right then, Miss Slytherin," he said. Most of the teachers called her that these days. It was more appropriate than "Miss Hermione" and gave her a last name, allowing her to be placed in alphabetical order. "Your turn."
Hermione stood and walked towards him, trying to suppress a grin. She'd been wanting to check on her mental defenses for years, ever since she delved deep into Occlumency. Her nerves helped keep the smile from forming. If she failed to throw off the spell, it would be less than pleasant. Especially if he somehow discovered she was an animagus. The Imperius Curse didn't allow one to see into another's brain, but if he ordered her to shift shapes out of dumb luck. . .
Well, it was best not to think of that. Instead Hermione forced her mind to go blank, her walls building as she stared her professor in the eyes.
" Imperio, " the scar-covered man said. Instantly Hermione felt thrown back, trapped somewhere within her own mind, as if floating on a cloud. She fought it, diving back into her brain, straining to see through her own eyes again.
Jump, she heard a voice saying inside her head. Jump onto the table. Obedience is rewarded. Jump. It would be so easy to follow the voice, Hermione realized. So easy, it was so intoxicating--
Realizing the trap she was falling into Hermione threw off the shroud covering her. Her knees were bent already. An attempt to stand would only help the parts of her brain listening to the intrusive voice. Instead she moved to sit, something the voice did not like at all. There was a struggle, until Hermione sat comfortable on the floor and looked up, into her professor's eyes.
" Legilimens, " she whispered. She barely had time to notice his widening eyes before she dove into his brain, paddling through his thought.
Could it be? She heard his voice ask. Oh, my lord will be most pleased at this, even if it gets Malfoy off the hook. His daughter-- Suddenly the voice cut off, replaced by one much deeper and in command.
All will be revealed in time, child , it said, trying to force her from the thoughts she'd been listening to. She let it push her, but rather the leaving his brain she dove in deeper, searching for the area where his Imperius Curse linked his brain to hers. She found it, hidden behind layers of mental shields. To her surprise there was more than one string. Hers read The Daughter . The other simply said, Father. Ripping hers out from his brain, Hermione failed to notice the walls closing in on her, throwing her out completely.
Fully conscious in the living world, Hermione slowly stood. Her head ached, a dull burning pain that would no doubt remain for quite some time. Her professor--who was most definitely not the famous auror Alastor Moody--was gritting his teeth. It gave her great satisfaction to have pained such a wizard strong enough to successfully impersonate such a famed and powerful wizard.
"Very good, Miss Slytherin. Forty points to Slytherin for fully resisting the Imperius." The entire class was staring at them, open-mouthed. Fake Moody looked at the clock, then nodded. "Class dismissed."
As they exited class Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and Bridget all hounded after her.
"How?" Draco asked, his eyes wide. "It was so strong, how did--"
"Did you use the same thing you saved Malfoy with?" Blaise asked, his eyes glittering.
"No, she couldn't have," Bridget added. "There were no spells, so--"
"That's not entirely accurate," Hermione said, smirking at her close friend. "I did use legimens."
"What?" Draco exclaimed. "Has mum been teaching you before me? She promised--"
"Hush Draco," Daphne interjected. "I'm sure that if anyone could learn Legilimency on their own by fourth year, it would be dear Hermione." Hermione ducked her head and blushed heavily as they continued walking down the hall, leading Blaise to laugh and elbow her in the ribs.
"Honestly," the snarky, swarthy boy said. "The way you react when someone compliments you, you'd think the minister appeared with an Order of Merlin for you."
"Daphne's praise means more to me," Hermione said with a pompous air. "Minister isn't competent enough to know who should get those things. It wouldn't surprise me if he awards Crabbe and Goyle with awards for scholastic genius."
"He may not be competent," Draco said with a devious grin. "But he is rather easy to bribe." Rolling her eyes, Hermione joined her fellows in their laughter.
Chapter 15: RevelationsSummary:
Hermione meets up with 'Moody' and learns something dangerous
Chapter Text
Hermione entered Professor 'Moody's' office the week after her birthday, just as dinner was starting. It was an odd time to choose a meeting, especially since no reason had been given for it. It would have made her wary if she had not seen inside the man's mind. Instead she was rather convinced he would either try to kill her, persuade her, or obliviate her. Personally, she was hoping for the second option. If he chose the third or the first, well, she could kill him. Probably. Maybe. She hoped.
The foreign schools would be arriving in a few days. They wanted everyone to get somewhat settled in before the Drawing of the Names. It made sense to Hermione. Without time to adjust, some would likely have been more nervous than normal, and declined to participate. Not that she believed those people were likely to get chosen, but who knew how the goblet worked? Its maker had been dead for several centuries.
Her mind refocused, the tip of her wand held up in her sleeve by her index finger, ready to fall out, battle-ready, at the first sign of trouble. She took a deep breath as the paused outside his doorway, then knocked. There was silence for a brief while, during which Hermione wondered if he might simply curse her through the door. He could probably see her through it--he did have a magical prosthetic after all (thank the divines pedophilic Lockhart hadn't had one of those)--and an explosive curse would likely send enough splinters that she'd be badly wounded and easy to kill.
Instead, however, the man impersonating Alastor Moody opened the door, looked around, and spoke a single word in a sandpaper voice: "In." Hermione slipped through the narrow opening in the doorway and moved into the open classroom. Secure as she might have felt with something against her back, maneuverability mattered more should he decide to duel her. Her arm twitched when he drew his wand, her own sliding down her arm. But instead of cursing her he turned to the door and invoked a complex combination of wards. Only those particularly strong of mind would manage to break through the avoidance spell, and even then they would have to disable to wards to open the door or hear what was said. There were more than a dozen layers in it, but unlike conventional warding the layers mixed in with each other rather than being placed atop the others. It made the casting them far more difficult, and designing them even more so (Hermione's winced when she pondered the Arthimanic and Numerologic equations that would have been required) but it meant anyone seeking to disable them would have to untangle a web of spells more intertwined than a hundred-foot long string of Christmas tree lights left in the garage for fifty years.
When 'Moody' turned towards her he paused for a brief second at seeing the wand in her hand.
"I'm not going t' kill you," he said in a near growl. Hermione raised an eyebrow and did not put away her wand. The impersonator sighed. "How much did you see?"
"Little," Hermione replied. The man let out a huff of something caught between annoyance and amusement.
"Anything more you'd care to add?"
"You have your father under the Imperius," Hermione said with a shrug. "And you're certainly not Alastor Moody, though the way you kept dropping hints on casting dark magic gave that away beforehand."
"Anything else?"
"I'll tell you if you tell me."
"Fine," the man said, sitting down. "Might as well, you won't rat me out." Hermione raised an eyebrow. The man let out a bark of laughter. "Come now girl, no one light would use Legilimency on a damned professor!"
"Potter might," she responded. "He hates Snape more than the Dark Lord."
"No one light calls Him that either," he pointed out. "And I've been around enough dark magic to recognize what the unnatural color in your eyes means." Hermione bit back a snarl, instead readying her wand subtly, simply angling the tip upwards to point at the man's chest.
"Put it away," the man said wit ha smirk. "We're on the same side, or close enough. I was sent here by the Dark Lord." Hermione felt her eyes widen and she blinked twice before lowering her wand slightly. There was a moment of silence as she tried to figure out the puzzle. There were too many missing pieces. If the Dark Lord was alive, why not inform someone? No one in the media or the Light, obviously, but some followers perhaps? But nothing different had happened to or with the Malfoys. The Dark Mark had appeared at the World Cup, but it had scared the drunken wizards rather than inspiring them. Why--
If there was one think a Dark Lord could not do, it was show weakness. After Grindewald's defeat no one had tried to rescue him, nor to unbind his magic. Instead they had left him for dead in permanent solitary confinement, regardless of the fact that he had come close to conquering the Continent before being defeated by Dumbledore. The previous Dark Lord had lost a battle--not too badly, mind you--and had been personally injured. Though his wound could have been treated his followers had been so terrified by the sight of their lord's mortality that they had fled, leaving only him and eight die-hard followers to fend off an international coalition of magical law inforcement.
And that was a Dark Lord who never claimed immortality.
So, He was weak. That's why He hadn't shown Himself to anyone. But what could make Him so weak? He had been powerful--insane, mind you, but insane and powerful--when he suddenly vanished. There hadn't been anything left of him. Harry Potter had still be there, as were his parents' corpses. The roof had been blown off, but there wasn't a trace of the Dark Lord--no ash, no body, no fragments, not even his wand. It was as if his body was completely destroyed. And yet he was not. The chaos around Hogwarts, including the attempted theft by Professor Quirrel, had proven that.
Alive without a body. So he needed a host. One that had not soul, memory, nor thought. A golem which he could inhabit. Or a homunculus, perhaps, until the ingredients for a full body could be gathered.
But that still begged the question of why he would send someone to Hogwarts. The ingredients for the creation of bodies were rare and expensive in both gold and blood, but they could be found elsewhere. Places that were more discrete, more secure than Hogwarts, where the Dark Lord's longest enemy lived and ruled. It was utterly inane for Him to try and gather anything other than information from Hogwarts--and there were many other ways He could have done that.
Unless. . .
No, but that would be ridiculous. The bodies made by that ritual were always deformed. The descriptions of some of them were horrifying, even to someone who'd stabbed a man in the eye with scissors before they turned eleven.
"He--" she started, looking up but not quite meeting fake-Moody's eyes. "He's not doing the Triarch's Ritual, is he?" The man in front of her nodded once. "Is he INSANE?" Hermione said, her voice growing to a yell. "That ritual has not produced a normal body once and that's the one he chose to use?! I would expect this level of incompetence from the ministry, not from a godesses-be-damned Dark Lord! That ritual fucks up your magic, it gives you a body that is, at best, extraordinarily ugly, and he wants to use it because--wait," she said, her voice calming down as she looked up, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Why does he want to use it?"
"He can't touch Potter," the false professor explained. "If he has Potter's blood, he can." Hermione desperately fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"There are other rituals that can incorporate an enemy's blood," she said. "Simon's Secondary includes it as a recommended but optional ingredient, as does Zepheria's Rebuilding Ritual." The man before her looked down at her in confusion, then shook his head.
"You really are their child," he said. "Rage, followed by half a library's worth of information."
"What did you say?" Hermione asked, her tone suddenly cold as ice. Her wand, which had been held loosely in her hand, was now in a proper grip, ready to throw a spell at the drop of a hat. The man in front of her blinked.
"I--"
"I don't know who you are," Hermione said, her frigid tone cutting him off. "I don't know who my parents were, and I don't care. They abandoned me--"
"They didn't," the man said softly. The tone sounded weird coming from the body of the grizzled auror.
"Wh-what?" Hermione asked, rocking back a little on her feet. "Then--but--how?"
"I last saw your mother nearly thirteen years ago," the man said. He grimaced as a hand began to change, reverting from a large, scarred paw into something finer. He took a swing from his hip flask and the change reversed itself. "Sorry," he said. Hermione simply shook her head. She--her parents--there was too much confusion for her to voice any of the thoughts bouncing around in her head.
"It was the day we were supposed to be on trial," the man said, emotion creeping into his voice. "Ministry decided we didn't need one. I--your mother, she was. . . dedicated would be putting it mildly. Stoic would not fully describe how she faced pain. I never saw her cry until then, when she was told you were being taken away from her. I saw her cry only once more, when someone visited her and told her you were dead." Hermione blinked. She felt water welling in her eyes. Her shoulder were starting to shake.
"Why?" Hermione asked, her voice small.
"They were afraid of you," the man said. "Your existence was supposed to be a secret. Only the inner circle and your mother family knew. They found out, skipped over her trial, and took you away." Hermione was shaking, her hands clenched, one in a fist, the other around her wand.
" Who? " she asked, not realizing for a moment that in her confusion and anger she had spoken in parseltongue. "Who?" she repeated.
"Your parents," the man said. "Are Bellatrix Black and the Dark Lord. As for who took you from her, I think you can answer that yourself."
Chapter 16: Of Mates and MothersSummary:
Hermione panics about her heritage as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive
Notes:
Hi! Sorry, this is a really short chapter, but it really needed to end when it does.
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
A week ago Hermione had been looking forward to the visiting schools' arrivals. A week ago, she had been hoping to engage one of the Durmstrang students in a conversation that would lead, eventually, to exactly how much they learned about the Dark Arts.
Then again, she thought, a week ago she hadn't known her parents were two of the wizarding world's most famous murderers. It was causing her quite a bit of mental tumult. And really, she thought, why should it? She'd killed people too ( in self-defense , her brain would always remind her) and the erasure of wizarding culture was important (though the line on blood-purity was utterly ridiculous, considering how serious the long-term impacts of incest were--also, what the hell was up with Lucius Malfoy and his anti-creature stance? Didn't they like more magical blood?).
But the real problem was not with their politics. That she could reason her way around, discuss, and she was already close to their stances on some issues. Nor was it their tactics--though she did have several suggestions and plans of her own. No, the main problem was that the story she had told herself--the one that allowed her to kill dreams of what might have been and focus on surviving--was a lie. One that she had lived with for ten years, one that had, in all likelihood, saved her life. The idea that her mother (as her father's stance was rather unknown) had wanted her was. . . strange. The word didn't seem enough, and yet Hermione couldn't think of another that fit better in its place. The revelations had shaken her to the point she felt the earth was rumbling beneath her feet. She had even given in and sent a vial of blood to Count Rigoll along with a request for the standard Gringotts testing. Something Aunt Cissa had offered to do when she began caring for her--basically adopting her--and many times since.
Her hands were shaking, even as she stood with the rest of the school, next to Daphne, Blaise, and Bridget. Even her occlumency training and the presence of her friends failed to calm her. Both helped in that the shaking was limited to her hands instead of spread across her entire body, but she was more nervous than she'd been since she woke up in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing first year.
The Beauxbatons carriage was magnificent, she realized dully in some small corner of her brain. Cobalt blue with gold trim, pulled by pale grey--almost silver, truth be told--horses with golden wings. The students were no less beautiful, but Hermione could not find it within her to appreciate them. She had only recently begun seeing aesthetic beauty in people, and was a long way from being able to see anyone as sexually attractive without freaking out. The last time it had happened with a boy, after passing by some upperclassmen at the World Cup, she had thrown up for half an hour. It was better with women, but she was still prone to feeling disgust at herself. The magical therapy she'd been getting (thanks to Aunt Cissa's recommendation) had been massively helpful, but she still had a ways to go.
Hermione was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice the latest student exiting the carriage, even as more than half the school turned to swoon at her. It wasn't until she came close that Hermione noticed anything. It was as if a sudden calm had swept over her. The tension in her neck and shoulder, which never truly went away, suddenly eased, the muscles relaxing instantly. Her chest, which had moments before felt tight, constraining, and constricted, loosened, her breath becoming easier. The knots in her back unfurled, drawing Hermione up another inch as her spine straightened, no longer bent around the balls of tensed muscle.
As soon as it came the feeling departed. The fuck was that? Hermione thought, looking around for the source of that calm. She watched as a tall, attractive blonde looked out at the crowd before turning and walking into Hogwarts.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fleur had not known exactly what to expect upon arrival at Hogwarts. The drab grey sky was disappointing but not surprising, as was the cold weather. Still, she would endure that and more to enter (and hopefully win) the Triwizard Tournament.
Something she had not expected in the least was to find a mate. Not as the english often think of the word, not a friend, but a mate, a true partner where the two did not complete each other but assisted one another, becoming far greater together than they would be apart. At least, that's how grand-mère had explained it. The presence--her presence, Fleur was sure--had felt like confidence itself. She felt as though power had surged into her, felt her magic and that of her mate's hum within her. Fleur had a healthy amount of self-esteem, but like any girl (especially one with a rather unfortunate aura) she had plenty of insecurities. All of them had vanished, replaced by a sense of power, confidence, and self-knowledge while she was in her mate's aura.
The fall off had been stark. It had appeared in a moment and left just as quickly. She had looked back at the crowd, scanning it briefly, hoping to find someone. She had seen someone doing the same, a girl with dark eyes and bushy black hair. Fleur would have to look for her later at the welcoming feast.
Chapter 17: Meeting of the MatesSummary:
Hermione and Fleur have an open, heart-to-heart discussion
Notes:
Another short chapter, sorry about that.
At this point, we're slightly past half of what I've written. I'm currently working on finishing a few other works that are near completion and getting started on the second part of my Bellamione fic, but I'll try to keep the updates regular. At the very least I should be able to guarantee it for the next couple months.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione sat down at the Slytherin table in her usual spot: next to Daphne, who sat close to Blaise and Bridget. She wasn't much for conversation that evening, preoccupied with thought of who that girl was and what the sudden and unusual calmness meant.
As she ate her meal, brow furrowed, Hermione felt the presence again. Her shoulder lowered, her back straightened from its hunched position, and Hermione found herself looking up at a pair of dark blue eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at the beautiful creature before her. Something like fire danced through her veins, her magic calling her towards this woman.
"Can I sit 'ere?" the girl in question asked in a heavy french accent, gesturing towards the seat across from Hermione. Hermione swallowed, then nodded.
"What is this?" Hermione asked once the girl had sat. Her voice was small, a whisper of a whisper, yet she knew the girl would hear her all the same.
"You," the girl responded with more than a little cheek. Hermione glared. "Do you know something about veela mates?"
"I thought that was only with other magical creatures," Hermione said in a low whisper, her brows furrowed. The girl gave a short, subtle nod.
"Fleur Delacour," she said, extending a hand. Hermione took it in hers, suppressing a moan as a wave of electricity rode through them both.
"Hermione," she said simply.
"No 'ouse name? 'Ow do your professors call you?"
"They just use Slytherin," Hermione responded with a shrug. She muttered afterwards, "might be anyways." Fleur blinked and looked at Hermione questioningly. The look reminded Hermione of an owl, and she forced down an immature giggle, instead looking back up at the french girl.
"Not here," Hermione said, and stood up before walking out of the Great Hall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fleur followed the younger girl out of the hall, her curly black hair swaying side-to-side like some sort of guiding pendulum. Fuck , Fleur thought. If she was coming up with similes like that she was already too far gone. Oh well, such was the life of a Veela.
The girl she thought to be her mate-- Hermione , she reminded herself, the name washing over her like a cool breeze in Marseilles during summer--led her through the stone hallways, up several flights of stairs and down others, through winding corridors and straight ones, before reaching a room where she paced thrice, then opened a door. Fleur was really hoping this went well. There was no way she could find her way out of the castle without help. A lot of help. Divines, she hoped there weren't any mazes in the tournament.
Hermione closed the door behind them with a loud click.
"Why do I feel this?" she asked, her voice far softer than anything Fleur could have expected. The quarter-veela blinked twice and Hermione continued before she could respond. "I feel. . . calm, I guess, with you here. Or out there. Or at dinner. It's not--I. . . What is this? It's not something I've felt."
"What does it feel like, mon coeur?" Fleur asked, moving a half-step closer, her brows furrowed with concern.
"Like. . . It feels like floating," Hermione said, the answer coming out in a rush of air. "It feels like how a house should be, like there's no need or cause to worry, like there's no one around the corner waiting to hurt me, like I don't need to think about--" Hermione stopped suddenly, her eyes wide.
"About what?" Fleur asked with another half-step. Hermione stepped back, shaking her head. Her hands, her lips, her whole body was trembling as the girl retreated into the wall and slowly sunk down it, her hands wrapping around her legs. Fleur moved, almost instinctively, gently seating herself next to her mate.
"You don' 'ave to tell me," she said after a minute had gone by. From the corner of her vision Fleur saw Hermione take in a shaky breath and let one out.
"You should find another mate," Hermione said, her voice so small it could have come from a mouse. The words quivered in the air. "I--I can't---"
"Shh, mon coeur," Fleur said, turning towards Hermione with a soft smile that reached up to her eyes. "I 'ave no demands of you." Hermione looked at Fleur with a blank expression. The younger girl blinked repeatedly. She opened her mouth, only to close it, realizing she had no idea what she would say, simply that she thought she should say something .
"I would like children," Fleur said with a wry smile. "But zat would not be for many a year. We 'ave time, and zere is always adoption." Hermione gave a soft chuckle and leaned over, her head resting upon Fleur's shoulder.
"You--you don't mind that I can't have sex?" Hermione asked quietly.
"No," Fleur replied. Truly, she didn't. It seemed her grand-mère was right, veelas are romantic beings more than sexual ones. "I mind ze men who 'urt you, not ze scars they left be'ind." Tears falling slowly from her eyes, Hermione wrapped her arms around Fleur, burying her head into the taller girl's upper chest. Smiling softly, Fleur gently kissed the crown of Hermione's head, wrapping one arm around her mate whilst the other ran through her hair.
Notes:
My idea about mates, as I've said before, is that they are meant to perfectly compliment each other. I might be projecting some of my personal feelings here, but to me that means feeling entirely safe around each other (when in the right environment). From personal experience I can say that when people with a lot of secrets feel truly safe with someone, they start being far more honest than anyone normally is.
Chapter 18: The LetterSummary:
Hermione looks into her possible ancestry and recieves an important letter
Notes:
Parts of this inspired by the Athena Chronicals, an amazing series on here that has, regrettably, been abandoned (I think)
Chapter Text
The past few weeks had gone exceedingly well for Hermione. She had been spending more and more time with Fleur (and her little sister, who was quite frankly adorable) as they got to know each other, and she had been reading up on the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. They had started in the Scottish Highlands, based in the castle of Clogaid Cruaidh, or Hard Helm. The family had remained there until after the Jacobite Rising of 1745. Clan Black, as it had been known then, had joined forces with the other Highlanders (including Clan McGonagall, she noted with interest) to restore the Stuart line. The Wizengamot, heavily weighted towards England, had banned several Gaelic rituals. In return for their support, Bonnie Prince Charlie's wizarding advisors had promised to lift those bans if they won the war.
Unfortunately for them and for the Clans, the Jacobites had been crushed. As punishment, only Noble Houses (as opposed to Lairds and Clans) could sit in the Wizengamot and tartan was banned. Noble Houses were required to own a townhouse in London and an estate in England. The Blacks had abandoned the Highlands, moving entirely to England. The few others who once sat upon the Wizengamot lacked the funds or the willingness to move.
That had irritated Hermione to no end. Even worse was what else the Wizengamot had done. Using the Jacobites as an excuse, they continued to ban ritual magic. They began with truly horrific magic to create a track record of legitimacy, then expanded into the broader category of the "Dark Arts," before edging towards the grey rituals, such as those around Yule and Samhain. Calling them "dark," and "evil," while enforcing increased Christianity within the wizarding community, by Grindewald's War nearly all ritual magic was banned. Tartan, though legal in muggle society by the 19th century, was still banned in the Wizarding World, as were any spells using celtic wording or numerology. When Hermione finished reading the bans on magic it had taken a concerted effort to force down her anger and the Fiendfyre back into the runes down her ribs.
Fleur had been rather impressed by her runes. Hermione had been slowly getting more and more comfortable with the girl. Her mate. It still felt incredibly odd to think that way. She had a mate. A destined, chosen, soul-bond type deal mate. Maybe that was why she hadn't felt gross when Fleur kissed down the lines of runes on her ribs, or the chain of celtic knots tattooed along her neck, normally under a glamour. Hermione shivered at the memory. She had shivered at the memories before, after her clients left her, but this. . . this was a different shiver. She didn't feel used or broken when Fleur kissed her, or when they lay next to each other, burrowing into the other's skin. She didn't feel disgusted at herself and the world in the aftermath, or whenever she recalled what happened. It was strange to her in a way she quite enjoyed.
Of course, having several good weeks should have warned her that something bad would happen. Or at least something that would grab people's attention, which was almost always bad in Hermione's books. She preferred to be quiet and unnoticed until she decided otherwise. Unfortunately, the world did not take her preferences into account.
It started when a rather regal looking mottled owl descended upon the Slytherin table directly in front of Hermione, bearing a large envelope bearing the Gringotts seal. Hermione bit her lip when she looked at Fleur. She had mentioned only a few days before that she had requested a bloodline test be done. Fleur had been rather excited for it. Hermione hadn't mentioned the Death Eater in the school, or his suspicions as to her parentage.
Hermione sighed, drawing some comfort from the arm rubbing her back. She slowly opened the letter.
Miss Hermione,
Enclosed are the results of the blood test you requested. Should you seek to act upon any of your inheritances or claim any vaults and/or ranks bestowed upon you, our offices are available to give assistance.
Yours truly,
Count Rigoll, Head of Gringotts London Branch
With a deep breath Hermione turned the page, her mind no longer present enough to keep her hands from shaking. She hoped Fleur would be okay with this if the Death Eater had been right. Or even if he hadn't.
Birth Name: Gwendolen Morgana Athena Slytherin Black
Aliases: Hermione; Hermione Slytherin
Mother: Bellatrix Alexa Violetta Black, formerly Bellatrix Alexa Violetta Lestrange; imprisoned for multiple counts of torture, murder, mayhem, and using forbidden magic
Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle; known as Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who, amongst others; wanted for multiple counts of torture, murder, mayhem, fraud, tax evasion, and using forbidden magic
Other Living Relatives:
Narcissa Cassiopeia Dorea Malfoy, born Narcissa Cassiopeia Dorea Black; maternal aunt
Draconis Abraxis Armand Malfoy; cousin
Andromeda Phoebe Hesper Tonks, born Andromeda Phoebe Hesper Black, maternal aunt
Nymphadora Iola Credella Tonks, alias Tonks. . .
Hermione's eyes were blurred. Her hands shook as her mind spiraled. Why now? she asked. Why wait until there's something it could take away? Hermione hadn't loved anyone for a long time. She learned not to, after the girl she thought of as a sister OD'ed. She would protect Draco (mostly from himself) and Narcissa, but she didn't love them. Maybe she should have. Maybe she could have. But she didn't, she wouldn't let herself love anyone. Until her mate with her divines-forsaken calming presence appeared, lowering Hermione's walls enough that she began to love someone.
Then there was the idea that she had been loved. Other than Narcissa and the sister of her heart, no one had loved Hermione, not that she could remember. Now, she--she had parents? Hermione couldn't wrap her mind around it. The idea that someone had wanted her. That she had been stolen from a loving mother. A mother who loved her enough to name her after their ancestors and a goddess. Gwendolen Morgana Athena, she thought to herself. It was a mouthful, but she found herself loving it more and more.
"Zat is a lot of lordships," she heard Fleur say. She blinked, drawn from her reverie and confusion, turning towards her mate.
"What?" she asked, her voice sounding faint and blurred in her own ears.
"Look," Fleur said, pointing further down the parchment.
Lordships, Hermione read, and her mind spun faster with each name. House of Black, House of Gaunt, House of Peverell, House of Rosier, House of Ravenclaw, House of Slytherin. Hermione looked up, then looked down. Her brows furrowed deeper when she re-read the section, noting " Ravenclaw (Named as Heir). " She looked up to Fleur and opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing she had no idea what she should say. She tried to blink away the confusion and utterly failed at it, instead silently watching her mate gently fold the papers and put them in a pocket. She let Fleur take her hand and lead her gently out of the Great Hall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione, or is it Gwendolen? the quarter-veela wondered, followed Fleur in a daze. Not that Fleur could blame her. Spirits alone knew how she would react to news of that sort. Voldemort wasn't particularly famous outside of England (after all, Europe had suffered far more from Grindelwald) but most everyone knew he was a dangerous and probably insane wizard. Fleur took a moment to thank the Fates that her parents were alive, caring, sane, and present in her life.
She led her mate (as Fleur decided to call her until she decided on a name) up several flights of stairs. It took far longer than the times when her mate had led the way, but Fleur was familiar enough with the journey to not make too many mistakes. She let go of her mate's hand only to pace thrice outside the tapestry, immediately grabbing her hand afterwards. Fleur led the two of them into a comfy reading room. A fireplace blazed gently, large padded leather armchairs sat in a ring around a small coffee table with a couch connecting the two ends of the horseshoe. Fleur led her mate to the couch and plopped down on the end. Her mate sunk slowly into the couch, head in Fleur's lap, legs curled up on the couch.
Fleur gently moved her hands through her mate's silky black hair. It was so different from Fleur's. Fleur's was flat. She could say straight, but in English parlance that could never accurately describe a veela. Her mate seemed to be taking this news hard. Her mate being quiet was not unusual. Her mate being silent and staring out at nothing instead of reading was unusual. The drops of saltwater dripping out onto Fleur's skirt was even more strange. She had never seen her mate cry, and from what she had heard from the other Slytherins, neither had anyone else. Fleur sighed gently. She wanted to tell her mate that it didn't matter who her parents were, Fleur would always love her. Fleur loved the rituals and Old Magic her mate had showed her. The Old Ways were not common in France, though they were not banned as in Britain. Fleur had learned the Old Ways of the Veela, rituals and traditions that excited and fascinated her. She had never thought to learn the Old Ways of wizards until she met her mate. Another thing she owed her.
Fleur had always been self-aware. She knew she was smart, talented in magic, powerful, adept at flying on a horse or in her Veela form, and skilled with fire. But there was always something undercutting it. All the men at Beauxbatons, save for the few not even remotely curious in women, had lusted after her. It was impossible to form a friendship with them, nor with the many girls with suppressed sapphic tendencies who channeled lust into hate. Nor with those who were openly sapphic and lustful, or for those who were angry and jealous for all the attention she got. It was easy to get what she wanted from those who lusted for her, but it always left a doubt in the back of Fleur's mind, even when she didn't use her thrall--even when she subdued it! Had she really earned first place in the Abraxan dressage show, or had the judges simply wanted her in their beds? Was her wandwork any more elegant than her classmate's or were her teachers so distracted they failed to notice her errors?
Being with her mate erased those doubts. They made Fleur feel confident, made her feel safe in the realization that she really was that good, that skilled, that elegant. Being with her mate took away the worry that had been nagging her since she turned twelve. Fleur could only hope she did the same. Her mate had told her of the feeling of safety Fleur's presence gave her. The question was whether it made her mate feel safe enough.
Whatever the answer, Fleur would be there. She would wait with her mate, patiently sit by her side-- or under 'er, Fleur thought with a smile. She would remain until her mate was ready to talk, and for as long as her mate wished after. That's what mates were for, after all. The one person you could trust, no matter what, no matter the circumstances.
Taking out Hermione's papers, Fleur looked over them again. It really was a lot of lordships and titles. Then again, if anyone deserved them, it was Hermione. Her mate. The thought made Fleur smile. Looking back down, she glanced over the last line of the page and felt a chill run over her. Species: Erinyes.
Chapter 19: The Tournament, Part OneSummary:
Champions are chosen, tasks are prepared, and Hermione mostly ignores it in favor of esoteric rituals and her girlfriend
Chapter Text
To no one's surprise, the displeasure of some, and Hermione's delight, Fleur had been named champion of Beauxbatons. Viktor Krum was the champion for Durmstrang, which was also unsurprising. Cedric Diggory was neither surprising nor entirely expected. Hermione--who had decided to keep the name she had grown up under (for now, at least)--would support him, though she would have preferred a Slytherin as their champion. The Triwizard Tournament was infamous for being cutthroat.
Then Harry Potter had been chosen as the champion for a fourth, unnamed school. Because of course he had. Had she not known of the Death Eater pretending to be Alastor Moody, Hermione could have believed Potter had entered of his own will. He really was that arrogant. As it stood, however, it seemed unlikely. Although arrogant and vaguely competent, he was hardly strong enough to force the Goblet of Fire into accepting a fourth school and far too lazy to think of it. No, it was almost certainly the Death Eater. Her father's servant. She only hoped her father had decided to change rituals. If the tales regarding his sanity had any truth to them, the Triarch's Ritual would destroy what little he had left. If that happened---
Hermione mentally shook her head and gave a small scoff. If that happened she would use her father to free her mother, help her aunt, and then kill him. She wasn't going to allow her mother to be abused, even if the tales around her sanity were accurate as well.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"'Ermione?" The girl in question turned, her dark brown eyes meeting the deep blue of her mate's.
"Fleur," Hermione replied with a smile. Bridget, standing nearby, rolled her eyes and bid the couple farewell, having seen more than enough of their affection, thank you very much. The idea that the girl who had two years prior sent two fifth-years to Madame Pomfrey following a disagreement was now openly snuggled into the side of a tall, blonde French veela gave many in Slytherin house whiplash. The rest of the school wondered why the veela had chosen the snooty former junkie and parselmouth when she could have had them .
"Meet me tonight? I. . ." Fleur paused, looked around, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. "I may 'ave found something." Hermione looked at her mate and held the gaze for a long moment before nodding.
"Usual space." Fleur gave Hermione a smile, or at least attempted to. In truth she was too nervous for it, and so it came across as more of a grimace, prompting Hermione to hold her tall french girl closer and kiss her cheek affectionately before continuing on to class, leaving a slightly flushed veela in her wake.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Daingaed!" Hermione growled as she silently cast an erasure charm. Her parchment once again clear, Hermione dipped her quill back into the ink. She took a deep breath before touching the quill to the parchment, drawing a long line into a circle, then another circle within the first. Working carefully, she began scratching marks onto the outer circle along the five aicmes. She worked at a painstaking pace, not willing to risk another casual accident after finally figuring out the outer circle.
Hermione failed to notice the door that suddenly appeared. She did not notice said door opening, nor when it closed, leaving a blonde woman leaning against the frame, staring at her with a smile.
She did notice the latter eventually.
"Fleur!" Hermione exclaimed when she finally looked up. She stood, the drying parchment falling off her lap. She caught it quickly, hurriedly looking over to make sure nothing had smudged. Relieved, she gently placed the parchment on the table to dry before returning to her mate.
"How long have you been standing there?" the shorter woman asked, once more facing the blonde.
"Not too long," Fleur replied. "You were a pretty sight, I did not mind ze wait." Hermione blushed at Fleur's words as the blonde walked across the room, joining Hermione on the sofa, leaning against her, head just above Hermione's. "What is zat?"
"Nothing," Hermione said in a quick tone. "Just something--"
""Ermione," Fleur said, her tone dropping as she moved from her mate, eyes staring into her mate's. "Do not lie to me." Hermione glanced in another direction, teeth chewing on her lip. She pulled in a shaky breath and wasn't sure how to let it out.
""Ermione?" Fleur asked, her brow furrowed with concern. Her mate was shaking, eyes boring a hole into the far wall, staring guiltily into nothing. The veela's voice couldn't penetrate into the deep fog of thoughts that blurred through Hermione's mind, even as she tried to sort through them, instead getting lost amongst the clutter. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She closed it and opened again, trying to say something. Instead of an explanation of what was happening, of why, of what she had written the only sound that left her lips was a soft whimper. It was high in pitch, even as it broke into short bursts from the hyperventilation. The sound tugged on Fleur's heart, ripping it apart. Her arms swept around Hermione, pulling her in close, Hermione's head resting on Fleur's chest as the french veela did all she could to comfort her mate.
"'Ermione," Fleur said softly. "I--I am sorry for zat. Ze veela is a. . . jealous being. But you are my mate. I will always 'ave your back, no matter what ze consequences will be." She titled Hermione's face up by the chin until their eyes met, deep blue staring into dark brown. "I will never betray your trust. Zat is why it 'urts to be lied to. It is impossible for a veela to betray or intentionally 'urt zeir mate. Just as it is impossible for you to do ze same."
"Ah," Hermione said, her voice so soft and quiet it was nearly lost to the crackling fire. "That's why it hurt."
"Why what 'urt?"
"When I lied. It--it felt like someone was constricting my chest. Like--"
"Like zere was something unnatural 'appening," Fleur finished. "I know, zat is how it felt to me as well."
"Oh," Hermione said. She recoiled, her hands leaping up to her mouth. "Oh gods, Fleur, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just--"
Hermione's rant of apology was cut off by Fleur's lips claiming her own, Fleur's hands wrapped around her own to move them away. Hermione was quite content to have all thoughts driven from her head as Fleur deepened the kiss, hands wrapping around Hermione's back. Hermione, leaning back, wrapped her arms around Fleur's neck, happily pressing her mouth up and into that of her mate. It was quite some time before either remembered what they were supposed to be discussing.
"It's--" Hermione began, reaching for the parchment. "It's a transportation ritual. Something that will cut through wards, get you in and out." Fleur's eyes widened. "It's not finished," Hermione added hastily.
"Ow is zat possible?" Fleur asked incredulously. "Cutting through powerful wards is--"
"Anything is possible," Hermione said quietly. "With a ritual, anything is possible, so long as you get the math and runes perfect and sacrifice enough. As for why it's easy to cut through powerful wards--this is a celtic ritual. Most wards are based off of Roman numerology, meaning its almost impossible for latinate rituals to break through, but easier for celtic, or say, Chinese." Fleur was silent for a moment, looking down at the parchment that rested in her hands.
"Is this to where I think it is?" she asked quietly. Hermione could only nod, her body tense and voice constricted. She relaxed only when she felt Fleur's strong, comforting arms wrap around her, pulling her into a more peaceful state.
"Be careful, mon coeur," Fleur said. "Be careful."
"And you as well," Hermione said. "You're the one in the tournament with a death rate. Gods alone know what the first task will be, besides insane."
"Dragons," Fleur said quietly. Her attempt to mix alarming news with a calm tone utterly failed.
"Dragons?!" Hermione exclaimed, leaping from Fleur's arms. "Dragons?! How the--why would--do they fucking want people to die?!"
"We only need to steal something," Fleur interjected. "Though zey are nesting mothers. I was wondering if you 'ad any ideas. I was planning on 'aving it fall asleep."
"Fuck," Hermione said. She began pacing the room, muttering to herself, then entered the stacks, emerging with a large pile of books.
"The sleep charm should work," Hermione said. "Except that it won't last long enough, not unless you alter it."
"We," Fleur replied. "We will alter it." Instantly Hermione face broke apart, split open by a wide and sappy grin.
"We will," she whispered in agreement.