Chapter 29: The Second TaskSummary:
Hermione gains an ally and Fleur completes the Second Task
Chapter Text
Hermione read the Daily Prophet as she ate breakfast, trying not to be distracted by Fleur's arm around her waist. The main article today--which she was sure Fleur hadn't seen, since her . . . girlfriend? was rather relaxed--was yet another reminder that creatures were not welcome in wizarding society. Hermione didn't think there was anything wrong with a half-giant being around children. Gods knew Madame Maxine was better at running a school than Dumbledore, and while she wouldn't pick Hagrid to run a class, he wasn't a danger to students. The creatures he brought in, yes, but not him.
"What iz zat?" Fleur spat. Oh great, Hermione thought. She spotted it. Fleur's accent while still distinct, had become far lighter over the last few months. When she became angry, however, it was a different story.
"Secret parent. . . dangerous to student. . . liability. . . zat utter bitch! I ought to kill 'er for zis!"
"Fleur," Hermione said warningly.
"What iz zo wrong with a little extra talent?!"
"Fleur--"
"Iz not like she iz a manticore or actually dangerous--"
"Fleur!"
"Hmm?"
"Fleur," Hermione said, gently this time. "You can't say things like this in the Great Hall. You never know who might be listening." Fleur sighed and slumped down, leaning on Hermione.
"How did she even find out?" Fleur asked. "Zere is no way zat conversation was had anywhere close to public."
"Hmm," Hermione said, her left hand gliding through Fleur's hair. "That's a good question. How would you spy on someone?"
"Fly above them?"
"Maybe, but that's easily spotted, and there have been no trespassing complaints regarding Rita Skeeter."
"Invisibility cloak?"
"Possibly, but that's rather expensive for a Daily Prophet reporter, isn't it?" Fleur shrugged.
"Disillusionment charm could do it," Hermione mused.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"They prefer girls," Professor Grubby-Plank was saying. "The younger ones, whose coats are still gold, can tolerate boys." Hermione followed along, only partially paying attention. Unicorns had once graced the crest of the House of Black, before her ancestors decided to anglicize themselves. As the professor talked, Hermione simply stared. The unicorns were gorgeous, their soft silver fur shining, their horns sharp and deadly. Beauty and death, going hand in hand. Hermione gave a chuckle at that, drawing one of the unicorns' attention. It looked at her with purple eyes, meeting her own. It whinnied slightly, as if calling for her. Hermione stepped closer, unaware that her professor had authorized doing so a few moments prior. The unicorn gently butted her with the side of its head. Hermione smiled and ran a hand down its back, then along its side.
We will be there for you, Princess of the Highlands, a voice called. Hermione looked at the unicorn, mouth agape. It whinied. Yes, we can communicate. Most humans are simply unworthy of it.
"Why me?" Hermione asked in a whisper.
You are creature, the unicorn nickered. You are royal. You are kind when possible, deadly where needed. You are heiress of druids.
Hermione blinked, fighting back gathering moisture in her eyes. These beautiful beings had chosen her as theirs, not out of obligation, but because they found her worthy. Her first followers and allies. Hermione smiled and resumed petting the unicorn. Her first, but not her last.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione jiggled her leg, watching anxiously as the champions stretched. The knots in her shoulders that the presence of unicorns had helped shrink grew back with a vengeance. It felt like every muscle of hers was either tensed or moving.
Unlike the rest of the spectators, Hermione knew what was going to happen. The organizers had originally wanted to use her as Fleur's hostage. Hermione's trust issues quickly put a stop to that. Fred and George, the Weasleys who had been sent to collect her, had been disarmed and bound before they finished their explanation. In her defense, they had started the conversation with, "Hi, we're here to kidnap you." Even after the explanation Hermione had refused. She refused to be trapped, made unconscious, and forced to entrust Dumbledore with her well-being.
Fortunately, while the champions had little choice in participation, there was no contractual obligation for Hermione to involve herself, something she had forcefully reminded the organizers. Unfortunately, their second choice was Gabrielle. Hermione had apologized to her, but Gabby was ecstatic to be participating in such a famous tournament. She had been forbidden from sharing any of the knowledge she had gained with Fleur. She had promptly ignored that, informing Fleur of what was happening as soon as she returned to the Room of Requirement, and telling her that the organizers promised nothing bad would happen to her sister. Despite those assurances, both of them had been incredibly nervous. At least Fleur could do something about that.
Hermione watched Fleur with her brows furrowed. She heard Ludo Bagman's loud, "THREE! TWO! ONE! START!" Fleur placed a bubblehead charm on herself, followed by a warming charm, and leapt into the water.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The water was cold even with the warming charm. Swimming in the ocean may have given Fleur the skills to deal with this task, but it hardly prepared her for just how cold Scottish waters could be.
Fleur continued swimming, bushing herself deeper and deeper, away from the other champions.
" Ventus maxima, " she whispered. A surge of pressure flew through the water, changing the currents. Keeping her wand at the ready, Fleur began swimming again, pushed along by the helpful current. A grindylow came swimming towards her. Fleur halted its advance with a silent stunner. The current slowed. Fleur pointed her wand behind her.
" Ventus Maxima ." The helpful flow of water returned. Hermione had warned her that it would slightly help her opponents, though not as much as her. It also made dodging the local wildlife easier. Fleur sailed by one grindylow, then dodged another as she kept swimming.
The merfolk's village was quite the sight. Underwater structures, built entirely out of bedrock and coral, formed perhaps two dozen houses. A wall encompassed the village with four towers watching the higher waters. Fleur swam through the gates, avoiding the houses in favor of the clear tournament path. Four merfolk stood around the 'hostages.' Fleur hoped she didn't have to fight them. She nodded respectfully as she approached her sister. They nodded back.
Two severing charms later, Fleur swam out of the village, sister in her arms. She could see Cedric nearing the village, coming from above. She passed over the walls, then pointed her wand downwards.
" Ventus maxima. " The blast of force shoved Fleur and her sister closer to the surface. " Ventus maxima ," she cast again, flying closer to the finishing beach. One more spell and they were at the surface, Fleur swimming as she dragged her sister to shore.
"Gabby," Fleur began once they reached the surface, Ludo Bagman's voice in the background. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes," her diminutive sister said, waving her off. She looked around. "Oh! You came up first! Fleur, that's so great! I didn't think you would, not after you lost the swimming--"
"Shut up," Fleur said with a smile, pulling her sister into her tight embrace. "I just saved you, be grateful."
"Fleur!" a voice called. The sisters turned, Fleur embracing Hermione as she came closer. "That was incredible! The spells worked even better than I thought, and you're a much better swimmer than you said! I thought you said you swam like an arthritic ninty-year-old!"
"Ah," Fleur said with a sheepish grin. "I may 'ave been exaggerated."
"Fleur!" Hermione said, punching her in the arm. "Don't do that! I was worried!" Fleur raised an eyebrow.
"And you wouldn't have been if I said I was a good swimmer?"
"Well, no," Hermione said, blushing. "I worry about you--everyone else--"
"'Ermione," Gabby said, interjecting. "There's a bug on your 'ead!" Hermione slapped her hand to her head, quickly grabbing the bug, holding it in her hands. It tried to fly out, but failed. It then tried to pry her fingers apart, tickling them. Hermione frowned. It was far too smart for a normal bug. Her eyes widened as she took in the shading around its eyes.
" Stupify, " she whispered. The beetle fell limp. "Fleur," she said, turning towards her mate. "Our usual place, as soon as you can." Fleur nodded, more than a little confused, and turned to watch the judges' scores.
Chapter 30: Dealing with ReportersSummary:
Hermione and Fleur make a deal with a bug
Chapter Text
Fleur entered the Room of Requirement, still trying to figure out what her mate wanted to talk about. She hoped it wasn't anything too serious.
The room was different than where they normally stayed. There were no bookshelves, instead cartons full of old newspapers. Books on animagus registration sat at the desk.
"Ah! Fleur!" Hermione said, walking around a bookshelf. They embraced for a moment before Fleur asked,
"Hermione, what is this?"
"Right! Follow me," she said, leading Fleur around one of the shelves. They walked towards the back of the room, took a corner, and Fleur gasped. Sitting in a glass container was a bedraggled, unhappy, and pissed-off Rita Skeeter.
"Hermione?" Fleur asked. "Did you kidnap her?"
"It depends how you look at it," Hermione replied, before turning back to the writer. "Remember the bug Gabby pointed out?"
"Yes?"
"Remember how you said there was no way Hagrid and Madame Maxine's conversation was in public?"
"Yes." Hermione turned back towards her, a feral grin on her face.
"Turns out she had a secret trick. A secret, not-so-legal trick." She turned back to the box. "Rita darling, would you shift for us?" The reporter sighed, and a moment later was replaced by a tiny beetle.
"She's an animagus?!" Fleur asked, incredulous.
"She is," Hermione said, smiling. "And what a very fitting form. But more importantly, she is an illegal animagus. Rita here isn't registered with the ministry. She can't be if she wants to keep getting those inside scoops no one else can."
"What are you going to do?" Fleur questioned. Hermione shrugged.
" We are going to make a deal. If," Hermione said, biting her lip. "You're okay with this." Fleur rolled her eyes.
"'Ermione, I grew up as literal wizarding nobility. This might be the shadiest way I've ever dealt with a journalist, but I'm sure that's not true for much of my family."
"Good," Hermione said with a smile. "Now then, Rita," she said, turning back to the journalist. "Here's the deal. You don't write anything negative about me, Fleur, or our families. Ever. If there's bad news about us, you spin it positive as much as possible. Understood?" The woman growled, but nodded all the same. "Good. I'm also giving you your next story, since this one turned out to be a bust."
"Oh?" Rita asked, standing up and walking towards them, still trapped within the box. "What do you have that's so newsworthy?"
"I'll tell you," Hermione said. "After you sign the contract." With a quick movement of her wand, Hermione switched the location of a wooden box and the chair within Rita's larger, clear-walled box. The journalist opened it cautiously, taking out an inkwell, a quill, and a contract. Reading it over, she nodded twice, checked for glamours, compulsions, and other magic, sighed, and signed. Hermione smiled and switched the chair for the contract. Using her own quill and ink, she also signed. Fleur signed after her, a ring of magic enveloping each of them afterwards.
"Right then," Hermione said. "We don't need your cage anymore." Not a moment after Hermione finished, the box was gone, much to Rita and Fleur's astonishment. Hermione smiled at them. "It's a very special room. Now Rita, about your next story."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Language Banned at Hogwarts! Dumbledore's Secret Bigotry!
Those who attended Hogwarts in the last few years may remember half-blood Sterling McCubbin, a young Ravenclaw who was on track to be prefect. "He was a good lad," Professor Minerva McGonagall said. "Diligent worker, clever about it too. Managed to get real detail into his transfigurations."
"Brilliant student," Professor Fillius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House said of McCubbin. "Bit distracted, always had six or seven projects going on. Never slacked off though. Always managed to put a little something extra in his spells."
"He was a good friend," one of his Housemates said. "Helped me with Charms. Probably got me from an A to an EE." Other descriptions of McCubbin were "friendly," "pleasant," "helpful," and "wicked smart." All who knew him were shocked that he did not return for his fifth year. None of the students I spoke to knew why, much to my surprise. Even Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had not been informed of McCubbin's fate.
Three days before the Hogwarts Express left for London, Sterling McCubbin was talking to Craig Dunn, a Hufflepuff and son of businessman Malcom Dunn. Both live near Craig Phadrig, a wizard enclave near the muggle town of Inverness. Nearby were Padma and Pravati Patil, twin daughters of Arun and Sadvini Patil.
"We were chatting, talking about our summer plans," Padma said. "Sterling and his friend were nearby, I think doing the same thing."
"It was crazy," Pravati added. "One moment we're just talking, the next the headmaster and Professor Snape were grabbing both of them and hauling them towards his office."
According to Hogwarts school records, both Sterling McCubbin and Craig Dunn were expelled after a formal hearing for the crime of, "speaking a forbidden language."
"It's mad," McCubbin said. "Just cause I say something in Scottish--at a school in Scotland, I might add--I'm expelled? Rowena Ravenclaw spoke Scottish!"
"I have no comment on whether or not my son spoke in Scots Gaelic on any occasion," Malcolm Dunn said when asked for comment. "I will, however, say that banning languages--especially languages spoken by some of our finest ancestors--is something Hogwarts and the Ministry have no business doing."
That's right dear readers. Scots Gaelic isn't only banned at Hogwarts, but by the Ministry of Magic as well. Other languages banned by the ministry include Irish, Welsh, Kentish, Cornish, and Breton. Speaking these languages, all Celtic in origin, carries a heavy penalty. Each word carries a sentence of 5000 galleons and/or six months in Azkaban. Over the last forty years, fourteen students have been expelled for speaking these languages and seven people have been sentenced to Azkaban. Azkaban, for saying a single word--one unrelated to a spell at that--seems rather ludicrous. Surely the ministry has some reason for such a heavy punishment? No, dear readers, it seems not. Rather than anything to do with protection, these languages remain banned as punishment for events long since past.
Irish was banned in 1691 to punish the Irish for opposing the Ministry's total control over the Irish wizarding population. Scots Gaelic was banned in 1720 as punishment for Scottish wizards' support of the former monarchy. Welsh was banned in 1724 after an official in Cardiff called for greater regional autonomy. Kentish, Cornish, Breton, and other "heathen" languages were banned as well to cover up the political motivation.
After languages the Ministry, attempting to create a single, Anglo-Christian culture, began banning ceremonies. They started small, with Lughnasadh, a celtic harvest festival. Over the course of several decades, spells and rituals associated with celtic culture were banned under the guise of protecting the populace from "dark-magic weilding heathens," to quote the Internal Security Act of 1745.
The ministry has come a long way from the blatant language it used in 1745. In 1883, Ogham (also known as the Celtic Tree language) was banned after claims by the Ministry that it was being used by Dark Wizards to harm the production of potion ingredients. There was and is no evidence to suggest this.
Now you might be asking, dear readers, how this happened. After all, the Wizengamot's role is to protect from such overreaches of power. And you would be correct--the Wizengamot can undo these laws. However, since 1688 the number of Celtic families on the Wizengamot has fallen from an average of thirty to the low single digits. With their demise, there was and is nothing to stop the Ministry from doing as it pleases.
The cultural annihilation that the Old Alliance fears didn't start when the Ministry banned Yule, Ostara, Litha, and Mabon in 1946. The Ministry's attempt to destroy cultures has been going on for centuries and shows no sign of stopping. Best of luck out there dear readers.
Me, Myself, and I, is syndicated column written by Rita Skeeter that appears in numerous newspapers and magazines internationally.
"Well then," Hermione said, looking up from the paper and glancing around the Great Hall. Dumbledore was glaring at someone. Snape seemed to have a sneer plastered onto his face as he devoutly ignored the furious whispers of Flitwick and McGonagall nearby. Most of the students seemed to be eating, though a substantial number were communicating in harsh whispers. Hermione smiled. Another job well done.
Chapter 31: ReactionsSummary:
The leaders of Light and Dark react to Hermione's opening strike
Chapter Text
Dumbledore was furious. He couldn't show it, of course, not here and not now. Banning those heathen rituals had been the work of several lifetimes, a duty handed down from father to son amongst the Allied Houses. There weren't many of them left, not now. There was Moody, but the old auror wasn't what he used to be. Fleamont Potter had been one of their best, managing to take runes off the mandatory curriculum and heighten the standards for the teachers to obscene levels. Now Hogwarts was the only school in the kingdom with an Ancient Runes class, and they spent most of their time on translations, one of Euphemia's brilliant ideas. Unfortunately, James hadn't inherited his father's political abilities. Even worse, he and Lily seemed to share some of his uncle Charlus' sensibilities. There was a reason the bastard had married into the Blacks, perhaps the last openly heathen house.
The Prewetts would still side with them, but they were far weaker now than they were. The twins had died, Molly had seven children to look after. Good Lord! Albus appreciated the commandment to be fruitful and multiply, but Molly and Arthur were doing enough work for three. Which was just as well, considering Albus had no children of his own.
The worst thing was that it had come from nowhere. Albus had been gearing up for Tom's return, something he'd always known was coming. Why else would he have bothered to involve himself so much in politics the last decade? Surely not for the pleasure of Cornelius Fudge's company. He'd drawn the battle lines well, even perfectly, to fight against the Dark. Now the field was thrown into chaos. Tom was still coming back, and there would be a war, no doubt. Only there were now two fronts, not just the one. Albus had been so focused on fighting the Dark that he had forgotten about the heathens.
He needed to meet with Severus. The boy clearly knew something, something important. Something he was hiding from Albus. He'd been over to see Lucius during the Christmas break. If it had just been Lucius panicking about Tom (something Albus was certain the old peacock was doing, if he wasn't steeped in denial) Severus would have told him already. Which meant there was something else. Given how potent this new group's opening shot had been (and that Albus had no idea who was behind it) he couldn't afford to let even the smallest bit of information slip through his fingers.
Albus would not lose the coming war. Either of them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione was exhausted. She had completed an immense amount of paperwork over the past week, filing for full emancipation in both the magical and muggle worlds. On top of that she had filled out the paperwork to claim her ladyships--all six of them--the forms to pay the dues to be seated accordingly on the Wizengamot, the forms to take control of the familial, ancestral, and personal vaults of the various houses while still allowing the goblins to manage them; the forms granting her access to her various properties, the forms to legally possess the ancestral portkeys to her various abodes, the paperwork that accompanied her rather extravagant warding, repairs, and furnishing purchase from Gringotts; and, of course, there was her correspondence with the wizarding members of the Provisional IRA, the ILA, and the 'Official' IRA; as well as the more legitimate members and associates of Sinn Fein, Plaid Cymru, and the SNP; and, of course, independence sympathisers in majority Scottish, Welsh, and Irish units of the British Armed Forces and influential wixen in Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.
It was a heavy load, but one she needed to take on, especially with likely military conflict growing closer.
Which is what brought her to a largely abandoned mansion on the outskirts of a minor muggle settlement. A rather ironic place for the orphan-turned Dark Lord to be hiding, but even he could place necessity over style upon occasion. Rarely, if what Hermione recalled from her history books was correct.
Barty was, once again, providing her cover story. Officially, she had detention with him, helping the paranoid old man he masqueraded as gather materials in the Forbidden Forest. It was a good cover, she admitted begrudgingly.
"My Lord," Barty said, dropping to his knee. Hermione bit back a sigh.
"Father," she remarked, remaining standing. "You mentioned a need to coordinate plans?"
"Yess, my daughter," the Dark Lord hissed. "Barty informed me of your opening strike."
"It weakens him in the eyes of his allies," Hermione said.
"And strengthens him with some of mine," he snapped. "Yaxley, Burke--"
"Not yet," Hermione interjected. "The article made no move towards reviving the Old Faith, only legalizing languages and rituals. Dumbledore and his merry men are coming for their rituals too these days."
"Perhaps," the Dark Lord mused. "Nonetheless, you should have consulted with me beforehand. You may be my heir, but I am still the Dark Lord."
"Of course, father," Hermione replied. She may not like submitting, but even as a decrepit homunculus, her father held more power--both politically and magically--than she did.
"How go your preparations?"
"They go well. I will officially become Lady Black, Gaunt, Peverell, Ravenclaw, Rosier, and Slytherin by the third task. The militias seem increasingly willing to return to violence. The politicians will take longer, but progress is being made."
"Will they form an alliance?" Hermione suppressed a grimace, instead taking in a breath and forcing her face to remain calm.
"Not directly," she replied after a moment's pause. "Many of them fought against you in the last war. Most, I think, would ally with an ally of yours, however."
"You," the Dark Lord said, narrowing his eyes.
"If that is your wish," Hermione replied, struggling to keep the smirk off her face. There was a pause as the Dark Lord stared at his daughter while she stared back. What they were looking for, Barty had no idea. From their identical smirks they both seemed to have found it.
"Well played," the Dark Lord said softly.
"Father," Hermione said, dipping into a slight bow. She exited the room, leaving the Dark Lord alone with his most trusted servant.
"Ironic, isn't it," the Dark Lord said. Barty froze, not knowing if this was something he should respond to, or one of his master's soliloquies. His dramatic side was not solely reserved for the war. "I make her to have an heir, yet her claims come from Bella's family. It seems I chose her mother well."
"My lord?" Barty asked, deeply confused.
"The Mormaers of Mar, Bartemius," the Dark Lord explained. "Through them the Blacks can claim descent from Robert the Bruce and Llewelyn the Great both. Through another route they are descendents of the House of Alpin. A most enticing leader for the diminished Celtic faction, wouldn't you say? Made all the more for being Rowena's prophesied heir." He paused, a forked tongue emerging to scent the air.
"She may be using her mother's blood, but she is still my heir," the Dark Lord declared. "What could be more Slytherin than using the Light to aid a Dark Lord?"
Chapter 32: Marks and MatesSummary:
Karkaroff is amusing, Hermione finishes one of her projects, and suggests adding a little spice to the bedroom with Fleur.
Notes:
Aah! Sorry for the late update. I like to post all my stories at the same time and my posting caught up to my writing with my Bellamione fic.
Anyway, here's a double-update for y'all. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
"It's getting darker," Karkaroff hissed, and it took all of Hermione's willpower not to laugh.
Of course it's getting darker, she thought, unable to prevent a smirk from forming. He's coming back . Did they truly think he wouldn't?
"Karkaroff," Snape sneered. "I am teaching a class."
" Do you know what this means? " Karkaroff asked through his teeth. Snape glared at him, and for a good reason. The man was practically waving his bared arm around, and unlike at Durmstrang, those bearing the Dark Mark were hardly welcome at Hogwarts.
"Get. Out." Karkaroff scrambled to get away from his far more deadly former colleague. Snape, for his part, turned to glare out at the class. Fortunately for Hermione, she had not been the only one eavesdropping on his conversation, though she had been far more subtle than some of the others. Potter and Weasley, for example, had practically thrown themselves over each other trying to listen. Their antics gave her ample time to return to her potion, making it seem that she had never been interested. Fools truly were their own worst enemies.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione's face relaxed as she shifted. It had taken quite a bit of practice to get to this point, but it was well-worth the effort. It was still somewhat painful, but more like popping a joint than anything else.
Hermione grew several inches as she shifted, bones snapping into place. From around her shoulderblades, two large wings burst into existence, blood-red feathers covering the bone and flesh as they materialized. Rolling her head, Hermione flexed her wings, smiling as they unfurled to their full length. Carefully, she bent forwards, picking up a small scalpel. She gingerly moved her arm under her wing, watching carefully in the mirror. She bit back a wince as the scalpel broke through her skin, cutting out a single feather, blood coating the nib.
After applying the antiseptic, Hermione shifted back, the cut-out feather placed next to the coreless blackthorn wand on a small desk. She relaxed briefly as she shrunk, her wings once more disappearing. Picking up the scalpel, still coated in blood, she began carving further runes into the unfinished wand, carefully referencing them against the books. Despite reading up on them for this project, futhark and futhorc were not her specialties. She could probably manage without them, but runes were not something one ought do on the basis of probabilities.
Gently caressing the feather, Hermione wrapped it around the wand, sending a current of magical energy towards them. In a flash the feather disappeared, trapped within the wand as its core. The final runes of the wand wrote themselves against the wood, carving into it with definitive strokes. An unbroken circle near the base of the wand completed the markings, another flare of magic bursting from the wand before it settled. Hesitantly, Hermione picked up the wand, carefully placing it in her protected box, next to the elm and yew wands. All three wands completed, she locked the box, sealing it with a parselmagic ward she had learned from Slytherin's manuscripts.
Standing up, Hermione stretched out her back, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension she'd been carrying around. Checking the time, she still had a half-hour before Fleur would show up. With a smirk on her lips and a hungry glint to her eyes, Hermione began reconfiguring the room.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fleur walked into the Room of Requirement, fully expecting to see either a makeshift bedroom or her mate hunched over a desk, obsessively reading or working. Possibly both.
Instead she found, along with a comfortable-looking bed, a pile of rope on said bed, a handful of crops and whips nearby, a Saint Andrew's cross against the wall, and her mate pacing nervously. Hearing Fleur clearing her throat, Hermione spun towards her, blushing heavily as Fleur arched an eyebrow, pointedly looking around the room.
"I, uh, I maybe wanted to try something?" Hermione said, rushing out at the end. "I, well, I mean we don't have to--if you're not--it's, well--"
"'Ermione," Fleur said, cutting her off with a smirk. "I 'ave no complaints about adding BDSM elements, but this is ze kind of thing you 'ave to talk about first."
"I know," Hermione said. "I just thought it'd be easier to jump-start the conversation this way."
"Which role were you thinking of?" Fleur asked. "I am, I believe the english term is, switch? Zo I prefer being a sub," she added, mumbling. Hermione met her eyes for the first time since the conversation started. The amethyst flecks seemed to take over her eyes as they gleamed with lust and hunger, a wave of heat pushing onto Fleur's core.
"Excellent," Hermione purred, the intensity of her eyes making Fleur blush and look aside. "Do you have a word?" Fleur hummed for a moment before responding.
"Haricot for pause, Aurors for stop?" she suggested, and Hermione nodded.
"We can talk more later. For now, I want to tie you down and tease and fuck you til the sound of my name on your lips is all you can remember. Sound good?' Fleur nodded eagerly, quickly stripping out of her uniform as Hermione stalked towards her, forcing her up against the bed and pushing her down on it.
"I've been doing some research," Hermione said, smirk audible in her tone. "When Seiu Ito began popularizing kinbaku, one of his biggest buyers was a witch. Of course, she wasn't satisfied with just looking at kinbaku," Hermione added. "She found a way of incorporating her magic into the ropes, binding her subs with more than simple twine." Fleur shivered at her tone, listening closely as Hermione whispered a few words, her right hand stroking the ropes. They glowed as her magic began passing through the strands, strengthening the ties. Fleur gasped as warm tendrils crept around her wrists. The magic seemed to trickle down her skin, its heat teasing. Hermione moved to straddle her, her mate's mouth kissing along the side of Fleur's neck, hands teasing around her breasts, never on them. She seemed determined to drive Fleur into a whimpering, begging state, and she was already getting close.
Hermione bit back a groan as her naked, gorgeous mate arched her back into Hermione's touch, straining against the magic-woven ropes. For her part, Hermione lifted her hand as Fleur moved, relishing in the soft whimper her mate made at the sudden lack of stimulation. Smirking, Hermione tsked as she looked down at her mate.
"No moving love," Hermione said. Fleur whimpered at the impossible command. Feeling bold Hermione drew a single finger across her wet folds, drawing them back immediately as Fleur bolted upwards, straining at the ropes. Her mate lowered back onto the bed and Hermione started again, focusing on her partner's tits to the detriment of her pussy, much to Fleur's frustration. But, then again, that was much of the point.
After twenty minutes of biting, twisting, pulling, caressing, teasing, licking, and sucking on Fleur's breasts, Hermione finally, finally , turned her focus back to Fleur's cunt. By this point desperate for release, Fleur strained against her bonds in attempt to keep herself in place. She tensed her muscles to lock them in place, an effort that grew more and more difficult as Hermione continued teasing her. She maintained her stillness when a single finger entered her dripping folds, drawing a long moan from her. The second finger entered suddenly, Hermione's other hand coming to wrap around and pull at her hair in the same moment, and Fleur arched her back, her moans loud enough they drowned out even the sound of Hermione's fingers furiously fucking her.
Fleur came soon, and hard, Hermione dragging out her orgasm as she continued to play with her. She didn't stop when Fleur flopped against the bed, instead picking up the pace. Fleur's sensitive walls sent waves of pleasure through her, causing her to arch her back skyward again and buck her hips. By the third orgasm the pleasure was so intense it was overwhelming, and after the fourth Fleur was forced into using her safeword.
Breathing heavily, Fleur barely noticed the powerful display of magic as Hermione wandlessly and wordlessly banished the ropes. Instead she burrowed into her less-exhausted mate, gratefully accepting the Rehydration Potion and taking a long drink. Her mate, having long since stripped out of her clothes (her self-induced orgasm coincided with Fleur's third, though the veela was too far gone to pay much attention) eagerly accepted Fleur's affection, wrapping her arm around the older witch as the cuddled amidst the sweat-drenched bedsheets.
It had been, undeniably, a very good day.
Chapter 33: AzkabanSummary:
The long-awaited escape
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Most students didn't leave Hogwarts for Easter Break (as the light, christian faction-leader Albus Dumbledore insisted upon calling it). The five-day break (two of them being the weekend) simply wasn't worth it, especially to those students who weren't Christian. Among the minority who did leave the castle, very few of them spent any part of their break visiting remote, desolate islands in the North Sea.
Then again, Hermione Slytherin was not most people. This was highlighted by the fact that she had, just the day before, officially taken her seats as Lady Slytherin-Black-Peverell-Rosier-Gaunt-Ravenclaw. It had taken a vote by the full Wizengamot, but with Dumbledore fortunately busy at Hogwarts he had been unable to interfere. Really, Hermione needed to write McGonagall a thank-you note for that.
That, however, was an issue for another time. Preferably after leaving this gods-forsaken rock.
Hermione arrived at Azkaban in a non-traditional manner, momentarily hovering a foot above before falling onto the prison roof. Making sure neither the engraved wooden portkeys nor the wands were damaged, she slipped into her animagus form and began searching for holes. Between the prisoners, the guards, and the remote location, Azkaban had seen little maintenance over the centuries, and none for the past few decades. As such it was rather simple to slip through the rooftop's holes and slither into the maximum-security section. Really, Azkaban needed new management.
Making her way down the wall without falling was a much more difficult task. Fortunately the walls were nearly as weathered as the rooftop, giving just enough purchase to make the journey possible, if extremely uncomfortable and nerve-wracking. A fall from fifteen feet could easily damage or kill her if she stayed in her animagus form, and the dementors could do far worse if she shifted back too soon.
Hermione's instinct was to take her mother first. But as much as she wanted ( longed, craved , her thoughts corrected) meeting her mother, it was for those same reasons she needed to be the last. Thus, she slithered across the floor, taking care to avoid the underside of the dementor's cloaks as they floated by. Even as a horned serpent the beings still gave her chills.
She reached Rookwood first. Her father trusted him, enough to tell him of her existence, and he was a powerful and intelligent man. Hopefully enough to keep the second person at the rendezvous-point until she could return.
Slipping through the bars and into his cell, Hermione returned to her human form only briefly, thrusting the engraved portkey into his hands and activating it before returning to her serpent form. A note would await the man, and would hopefully satisfy (or interest) him enough to keep him there.
Back in her serpent form, Hermione repeated the process with Antonin Dolohov, then slithered her way back. By this point the dementors were getting antsy, having sensed the appearance of one soul twice and the disappearance of two souls separately. Hermione moved quickly as they gathered in outrage, slipping through the bars of her mother's cage and shifting back.
Bellatrix Black had noticed the serpent moving down the wall when it first arrived. She had seen it slither off, and at first had taken it to be no more than a peculiar snake, until the dementors began to gather. Obvious something had happened, and the snake was most likely an animagus. After all, that was how dearest cousin Siri had escaped. Perhaps someone was attempting a rescue by the same means.
Bellatrix was no fool. She had watched eagerly as the mark darkened. It had happened slowly at first, but the last two years had greatly accelerated it, and now it was bordering on a dark brown. Not the black it would be when He returned in full, but close enough to know it would happen soon. She wondered if this animagus was helping Him, or simply collecting imprisoned relatives before His jailbreak forced prisoners to choose sides.
Not for a moment had she considered the animagus to be the person before her. She looked almost like Bellatrix had at Hogwarts, her hair the same pitch-black curls, her skin the same pale porcelain color, her lips just as full and red. Her eyes were different, a dark brown with amethyst flecks, and she was taller (if only slightly), but other than that it was like looking in a mirror, set more than two decades back.
"Mum." The voice drew Bellatrix out of her keen observations, drawing her attention to the moment. Dementors were swarming around them, and the girl in front of her was holding a slab of wood engraved with--was that Ogham? And she had just called her mum .
"Gwen?" Bellatrix asked, unable to keep the question from her lips. She might be the Dark Lord's most loyal, fervent follower, His most potent enforcer, but all that meant little compared to how devoted she had been to her child, to their child. All of it taken away when she was told her perfect babe had died.
The girl's eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled slightly. A howl of rage from a nearby dementor reminded them of the circumstances. The girl (for Bellatrix needed confirmation before calling her Gwen or daughter, she could not go through all that again) grasped Bellatrix's arm, pulling her close.
"Hold tight," she said, as if Bellatrix would do anything else with the girl who could be her daughter. " Glauis ." In a whirl of colors much unlike the portkeys she was used to, they disappeared.
They reappeared in a field, landing smoothly (compared to other portkeys, at least). Bellatrix stumbled slightly, but pushed herself away from the girl, barely taking in the presence of Rookwood and Dolohov.
"Y-you, are you--" she began, and the girl nodded slightly. That was all it took for Bellatrix to wrap her in a bone-crushing embrace, ignoring all the rules of polite pureblood conduct.
"I--I thought," Bellatrix began to say, and the girl--Gwen, her daughter--cut her off.
"I know," she said softly. "It hasn't been easy, but I'm alive. I'm here, you're here, that's what matters, right?" It was clear to Bellatrix there was much her daughter wasn't saying, but now was hardly the time to press. Instead she sucked in the joy of being reunited with her daughter, their magic blending in a way that alleviate any doubts she might have held.
"Sorry to interrupt," Dolohov's accented voice cut in. He drew both witch's attentions, turning them towards him and a stunned, shocked Rookwood whose eyes were filling with tears. "But what exactly is going on?"
"Ah," her daughter said. "Yes, I suppose introductions are in order. I am Gwendolin Morgana Athena Slytherin Black, though I also go by Hermione Slytherin and Lady Slytherin-Black-Peverell-Rosier-Gaunt-Ravenclaw, daughter of Bellatrix Black and the Dark Lord." She smirked as Dolohov's jaw dropped. Rookwood's did too, and she was certain even her mother was surprised, both by the sheer number of titles and the alias. "I also have wands for you three."
"Thank you, my lady," Rookwood said after taking a moment to recover his senses. He gingerly accepted the wand being offered, surprised at how well it fit him, shown by the ray of ivory sparks that flew from it as he grasped the hilt. Dolohov's fit well too, it would seem, if the blood-red sparks dripping from his wand were any indication. It was Bellatrix's though, that surpassed them all. Not that this was any surprise to Rookwood, given her general power and aptitude. Upon grasping her wand a golden light filled the room, its edges tinges with a bloody crimson. Her wand seemed to shake for a moment before accepting her, the golden and blood-red light streaming back into the wand.
"How--" he began, but the lady cut them off.
"I read you before the rescue," she answered, as if that ended the matter. Which he supposed it did, barring that it was extremely difficult to do so using normal means. Then again, the portkeys were based in Ogham (he had carefully examined them while waiting for the mysterious rescuer's return) so he doubted she would listen to a ministry ban on norse rune-bones.
"I haven't felt a wand this powerful," Bellatrix murmured. "Not even my last one, and that held the heart of an ancient dragon."
"Blackthorn," her daughter answered. "With a blooded Erinyes feather."
"Those only follow family," Rookwood cautiously stated, and the daughter smirked.
"Well," she said. "She is my mother."
Notes:
Next: Some Mother-Daughter bonding, Azkaban fallout, and what it takes to be an Erinyes
Chapter 34: The Azkaban AlibiSummary:
Hermione cuts short her reunion to establish an alibi. Surprisngly, the Ministry sent over a competent auror--will he find anything incriminating?
Notes:
Apologies for the late update. I'm not good at keeping track of time and the quarantine situation hasn't helped.
Hope this helps alleviate some boredom and stress.
Chapter Text
Hermione's declaration on her identity as an Erinyes had not gone overly well. Her power was admired, of course, but Rookwood's explanation of how it could have gone dormant so long in the Black family line (the most likely suspects, since Slytherin already held another trait) incited a rage in Bellatrix that left most of the field scorched or pulverised. To be an Erinyes, Rookwood had reported, one had to suffer traumatic abuse and had commit a righteous murder, both before the age of eleven. In addition to having the requisite bloodline, of course.
It had taken the better part of an hour for Bellatrix to work through her anger, and even then she was still fuming, though it was down to an acceptable level. Hermione would take it.
"Where are we?" Dolohov asked after Bellatrix had finally calmed down.
"We are currently outside one of my properties," Hermione replied. "Clogaid Cruaidh, ancestral home of the House of Black."
"You restored it?" Bellatrix asked incredulously. "We haven't lived here since--"
"1748," Hermione finished. "I know. It's time we stopped pretending to be English." Not waiting for a response, Hermione flourished her wand. In a shimmering light the illusory shield fell, revealing the castle. Hewn of great black rocks, imbued by centuries of wards, the castle sat on the southern shore of Black Isle. It had been their family's home since the third century. The wards were ancient, tall, and powerful, charged by the ley-line that ran through the Great Glen. They were matched by the tall black walls that housed the towering keep. Hard Helm was an impregnable fortress, or at the least had been before it was abandoned. The walls were thick and hardened by magic, the wards surrounding the castle in a giant dome that reached far above the central keep's eighty yards. Towers jutted out of the walls, connected to the keep's upper levels by level causeways supported by arches underneath. The whole building hummed with magical power.
The quartet stepped towards the castle and were nearly overwhelmed when they felt the wards washing over them. Hermione and Bellatrix felt the warm welcome of home, a tight embrace from a long-lost ancestor. Dolohov and Rookwood froze at the touch, a sense of warning and caution overwhelming them. The wards would be watching, they were warned. Black blood would not be spilled on these grounds.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione left the trio of freed Death Eaters after showing them their rooms. Clothes were there as well, fitted to each of the three. There were house elves to serve them. While Hermione wished she could spend more time with her mother, or pick Rookwood's brain about banned magics, she needed to establish her alibi. Thus, with a long walk and a faint pop, she disappeared. In another house she would have used one of her house-elves to avoid the walk, but Clogaid Cruaidh was warded against such magics.
Hermione arrived outside the Malfoy's gate and let herself in. It had been an hour and a half since the Azkaban breakout, and with any luck the aurors would be arriving within the next thirty minutes. Until then, she could enjoy the satisfaction of a job well-done and pretend to work on her schoolwork. Or actually work on it.
"Aunt Cissa?" Hermione called out as she entered the manor. A short pop alerted her to the newly arrived house-elf.
"Mistress Cissa asks you not be shouting in the house," the house-elf--Tinny if she remembered correctly--said. "She also says she be in the living room."
"Thank you, Tinny," Hermione replied, making the house-elf blush at the praise. Lucius really was an arsehole to them, an idiotic move given how much power a house-elf could possess. Hermione had gone out of her way to ensure the loyalty of her own upon discovering that she had them.
"You is being welcome, Miss Mione," Tinny replied, disappearing with another faint pop.
Cissa was indeed in the living room, a book on magical creatures open and unread on her lap.
"Aunt Cissa," Hermione said with a smile.
"Hermione," her aunt replied with another smile, standing to embrace her niece. "Is all well?"
"Mostly," Hermione replied. "There are certain requirements to being what I am. She was unhappy to learn I had met them."
"That is not surprising," Cissa replied. "I remember crying when Severus told us about you, and I didn't even know you were blood at the time." Hermione looked away, trying to contain her emotions. She had never been good at handling pity or sympathy. Not even three years with a mind healer had changed that.
"I suppose," Hermione finally said. "It's still so strange to me. I spent so long cursing whatever parents I had for abandoning me and now--" She choked, unable to voice her thoughts. That she had somehow made things worse for her parents. That she had condemned them while knowing nothing. That she was terrified that now she wanted them they wouldn't want her. Aunt Cissa pulled her into her embrace, the two seated on the small couch.
"There's no way you could have known," Cissa said, gently combing her hands through Hermione's hair as she cried onto her ornate robes. "They won't blame you for it. Bella won't, at the least. Have you had the chance to talk to her yet?"
"Not yet," Hermione said. "Things were too rushed, and she got so angry about what happened that she couldn't talk--"
"She always did," Cissa said with a sigh. "She turns everything bad into anger. She always has. Not very healthy, but it's the only negative emotion she really knows how to deal with."
"It's going to take the house-elves the better part of the day to repair what she did to the field," Hermione said, pulling back from Cissa's embrace with a smirk. "I've never seen a bombarda that powerful."
"It is one of her specialties," Narcissa said. "That, Confringo , and the Cruciatus. She likes her wand, I take it?" Hermione looked at her aunt, scandalized.
"Of course--" she started to say, but was cut off by a powerful knock on the wards.
"AURORS!" a magically amplified voice called out. "OPEN THE WARDS!"
"Everything hidden?" Cissa asked softly. Hermione nodded. "Good." Closing her eyes to focus on the manor's warding system, Cissa pulled opened a door at the gate, letting the ministry men into the grounds. Within minutes a team of five streamed into the living room.
"Stand up, wands on the table," man in charge demanded. He was a tall man with dark skin, a shaved head, and a brilliant fez placed atop it. Both Cissa and Hermione complied without complaint.
"Dawlish, Gabbard," the man said. "Search the room." The two men began rooting around through drawers and under the cushions, going so far as to look under the couch. Cissa bit back a sneer as they took apart the armchair, leaving it with the arms detached and cushion opened.
"What's this about?" Hermione asked, making sure to be polite as possible. The tall man didn't answer, instead turning towards the young woman who entered the room.
"Lord Malfoy was in his study," the woman said. "Roswell found the son out flying. No sign of anyone else." The tall man sighed, turning back to the Black women.
"Thirty minutes ago three people broke out of Azkaban," he said. Both Cissa and Hermione donned masks of unsettled surprise.
"And you think we'd harbor prisoners?" Cissa asked incredulously. The man shook his head, turning back to the other aurors.
"We're done here," he said, and the aurors began filing out. "My apologies for the interruption." Hermione nodded, bending down to pick up her wand, passing Cissa's to her as well.
"Reparo," the man muttered, flicking his wand at the taken-apart armchair. The pieces moved as if of their own accord, arms reattaching themselves as the wood sealed itself, the stuffing flowing back into the cushion before it restitched itself. With a slight bow of his head, he departed.
Feeling the disappearing presence of the aurors, Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief.
"I didn't think they'd send Shacklebolt," she said. "I was hoping for someone incompetant."
"It's good they sent him," Hermione replied. Cissa quirked her eyebrow, leading Hermione to elaborate. "If he couldn't find anything, no one will doubt our innocence."
"Fair enough. Now then, when can I see my sister again?" Hermione smiled.
"Now should work." Seeing her aunt's eager nod, Hermione gripped her arm, and with a short crack, they were gone.
Chapter 35: ReunionsSummary:
Bonding and reunion fluff, ft. Cissa, Bella, and Hermione!
Notes:
This is a short chapter, an extra of sorts. I hadn't written this when I posted the last chapter, but the public demand for reunion fluff had me reconsidering the jump back to Hogwarts. Thus, enjoy your fluff!
Chapter Text
They appeared with a quiet crack. The earth around them was still left in craters, freshly-churned soil and clumps of grass littering what little land was left undisturbed. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at the scene before following her niece into the well-warded grounds.
It was a decent walk from the wardline to the front gate, a decision the ancient Blacks had made before the newer reticence for physical activity made its way into the wizarding elite. Not that the Blacks had ever stopped their physical training, of course. Narcissa had been here just once before, a short visit with her sisters sister and granduncle Acturus to be educated on the family roots and origin. The castle had drastically changed from the damaged ruin she had first seen. The crumbling towers were back at their full height, the blood-identifying wards raised to their previous levels and beyond, the walls rebuilt and refurbished, the ancient wardstones cleaned and renewed.
The gate rose and the front doors opened as they approached, revealing a buxom older woman, curling black hair turned slightly stringy from more than a decade in Azkaban, her skin still sallow and showing signs of malnutrition, but the steel-grey eyes sharp and smirking as ever.
"Cissy!" Bella cried, throwing herself at her youngest younger sister. Their arms wrapped around each other in a tight embrace. They paused there for a moment, before Narcissa pulled back, her eyes roving across Bella, checking for any sign of physical unwellness. Finding far too many, she dragged her older sister into the castle, intent on giving her a full medical examination and cramming a few nutritional potions down her throat. Bella may have been the protective older sister, but Narcissa had always been a mother hen.
Following behind them, Hermione managed to constrain her laughter. She knew first-hand how futile protesting Cissa's mothering instincts could be.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"So," Bellatrix said, pushing her food around with her fork. Cissy had managed to talk her into a family dinner, which was turning increasingly awkward. Much like her relationship with her daughter, something that mad Bellatrix want to tear her hair out. She had not spent fourteen years in Azkaban to be defeated by awkwardness. "Was that Ogham on the things you used?" That should be a good start. Common interests were good, right? Gods, why was she so nervous?
"Yeah," her daughter replied, voice meek. She was just as anxious and awkward, it seemed. "Azkaban was used as a prison after the ban, so I thought . . ." her voice trailed off. "Did you ever study Ogham?"
"No," Bellatrix said, shaking her head. "Never got around to it. Figured Futhark would be more practical for cutting through wards."
"Probably," her daughter conceded. "Ogham's good for getting around them, but when it comes to some of the older, lethal systems. . ."
"It's not a chance you want to take," Bellatrix finished. "So, how did you get a Horned Serpent as your animagus?"
"Well," her daughter said, a deadly smirk on her face. One Bellatrix had seen in the mirror more than once. "That is a bit of a story. Do you know about the Room of Requirement?"
Chapter 36: The Celtic AllianceSummary:
The return to Hogwarts, and Hermione's first steps into making her own following
Notes:
AAA! Sorry for posting so far behind schedule! I've been dealing with a real lack of inspiration lately, which is the reason my other HP story hasn't been updated. The only reason this one is is I finally worked up enough motivation to do some editing on the backlog. Don't know when I'm going to post again, though it *will* be this month.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
It was, relatively speaking, a let-down to return to Hogwarts. After fourteen years without her mother, it was painful to leave her again, the separation resulting in tears from both of them. It was worth it though. The past three days, spent largely in the company of her mother and aunt, had been some of the best in her life. She and her mother shared a passion for the Dark Arts and rituals in general. Much of their time had been spent sharing what they knew, Hermione's specialties lying in Celtic and other esoteric rituals, her mother having specialized in Norse and Roman rituals and spells. Which was not to say they knew little outside their specialties.
They had also dueled, or sparred, rather. An actual duel could well have left Hermione dead or maimed for life. It was easy to see why her mother had been so universally feared during the first war. Even with her sacred tattoos and runic brands she hadn't been able to take back the momentum, let alone win. Her mother's offense was awe-inspiring, but her defense was nearly as potent, and Hermione needed to defeat both to win. She had defeated neither. She might have been able to by shifting forms, but that wasn't something she wanted to rely on.
Hermione had learned a great deal from those three days and was still revelling in her mother's instruction as she boarded the Hogwarts Express, one of the few students taking it. Most importantly, she had convinced her mother and aunt to, ostensibly at least, follow her in the war, rather than directly following her father.
"Would it not be the same, in the end?" Narcissa asked. "You will be following the Dark Lord, after all, will you not."
"Yes, but with some autonomy," Hermione responded. "It's the only way some of our allies will stomach an alliance with my father. It also means that if Lucius decides to do something stupid, I can insulate you and Draco from it. If you side with me."
"He wouldn't--"
"Cissy," Bellatrix groaned. "Would you stop defending your husband and be honest please?" Narcissa glared at her eldest sister, but sighed and acquiesced all the same.
"Fine. He might do something that would anger the Dark Lord. But would following you truly change that?"
"If you follow the Dark Lord directly, you enter this war as Lucius Malfoy's wife, and Draco as his son. If you follow him through me, you enter the war as His daughter's aunt, and Draco as His daughter's cousin."
"And he'll really let you protect us?" Narcissa asked. "Even if Lucius--"
"He will," Hermione said, her voice full of confidence that was not entirely felt. Truthfully, he had to, but she might not like what it took to keep them safe.
"And what do I get?" her mother asked, a playful smirk on her lips.
"More time with your daughter dearest," Hermione responded with the same expression. "And much less waiting around doing nothing. Our part of the war is starting first." Her mother's eyes lit up at that, a grin spreading across her face.
"Deal."
"Oh, Aunt Cissa?" Hermione said. "If you join us, you'll also be my proxy once I'm known." Family, security, and six proxy seats on the Wizengamot. How could Narcissa say no?
Narcissa hadn't said no. Nor had Rookwood, nor Dolohov, though both were still her father's followers first. Only her mother mark had changed, from her father's skull and snake to her own unicorn rampant (albeit with a horned serpent coiled on its back). The sigil of Scotland since the 12th century, and her own sigil, having been blessed by the unicorns. The words spoken to her by the unicorn by the Forbidden Forest had been echoed by those near her own lands in the Great Glen. Princess of the Highlands , they had called her. Heiress of the Druids.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Finnigan." The wizard in question turned towards the witch who'd called his name. Nodding to his nervous friends, he was soon left alone with (most likely) the most dangerous student at Hogwarts.
"Slytherin," he replied, dropping his false English accent. "Congratulations on the elevation."
"My thanks," she responded with a slight smile.
"I heard you haven't taken your seat in the House of Lords," he continued.
"Sinn Fein doesn't take their seats either," she responded. "For much the same reason, I assure you." Seamus smiled. He was increasingly glad he'd ignored the whispers of his housemates when it came to Hermione Slytherin.
"There's a meeting tonight," she said quietly. "A few like-minded individuals."
"Where?"
"Seventh floor," Hermione said. "Behind the tapestry of the dancing trolls. Meeting towards the end of dinner." Seamus smirked. He might be a Gryffindor, but he was also a Finnean. Stealth was no stranger to him, nor to the Lady Slytherin, it seemed. None would find a few people leaving early from dinner suspicious, nor would they notice the same people filtering back into the retreating masses when they let out. It would have to be a short meeting though.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The meeting, though small, was better-attended than Seamus had expected. Slytherin was there, of course, along with some of her house-mates; the Carrows, Selwyns, the elder Greengrass, Zabini, Donnel Urquhart, and Bridget Dagdo. There were two people in Hufflepuff robes (Kenneth Dunn--younger brother of Craig Dunn, expelled for speaking Scots Gaelic--and Harvey O'Brien, he would later learn), and two in Ravenclaw robes (Banga O'Deluga, a half-Shona, half-Irish wizard; and Isobel MacDougal). To his surprise, he had fellow Gryffindors present, Fay Dunbar, Morag MacDougal, and Anita MacDuff. Seventeen, all told. A fraction of Hogwarts' student body, but a respectable number nonetheless.
"Thank you all for coming," Slytherin began the meeting. "We are here, of course, to plan and plot of a better future. One in which the restrictive, oppressive, iron fist of the Ministry is lifted from the people of Great Britain. As I am sure many of you know, this break I assumed the seats of my family. The exposé on the imprisonment of gaelic speakers has given us some visibility and momentum in the public eye. Yet despite this, repealing these oppressive laws through the Wizengamot is impossible. Dumbledore's so-called Coalition of Light is more than happy to continue banning our tongues, our gods, our rituals, and our spells. Many of the Traditional Alliance are little better, focused on preventing their own rituals and festivals from being banned. If we want change, we cannot accomplish it from within the system alone."
"What are you saying?" Morag asked, interrupting the speech. "Clearly you have another idea, spit it out." Seamus could already see the other houses rolling their eyes, most likely thinking; Gryffindors . He couldn't really fault them this time.
"If we cannot achieve our freedom through politics, we must find another method."
"War," Isobel said. Slytherin nodded.
"War. I have, through the House of Black, a claim to both the Scottish and Welsh thrones. I plan to claim them and declare independence."
"And why are you telling us?" Anita asked. Slytherin looked at her, her amethyst-flecked brown eyes boring into Anita's.
"No war is won by a single person," she said. "Dumbledore will, without a doubt, be an integral part of whatever plan the ministry uses to prevent the creation of a free Wales, Scotland, and Ireland."
"You want spies," Kenneth Dunn said. "Inside people. Observers whom none would expect."
"I do," she said. "And, when the time is right, I want allies who can take over the school. We are, after all, on Scottish soil."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two weeks after the first meeting, the group met again. The first meeting was, of course, not truly the first meeting. Hermione had been working on forming relationships with each of the recruited individuals for months beforehand, ensuring they would (probably) join her. Nor was this the next meeting, as she had talked frequently with all of them since the first (official) meeting. Her investment had paid off. Not only did all of the first meeting's attendees return, but others came with them.
"Do you pledge yourself to a free society, to the liberation of all Celtic peoples, to follow orders when given, to abide by the secrets of this alliance, to maintain the integrity of said secrets even upon pain of death, to persevere against all foes, to protect the children and future of our society?"
"I do," Seamus Finnigan responded. "For Ireland." Hermione nodded, pressing her wand to his forearm. Slowly a black shape emerged, not dissimilar to her father's marks, though the process was far less painful for the recipient and less magically exhausting for her. Granted, she could do far less with it, but Hermione was uninterested in long-distance torture. The lesser magic presence also meant it could be concealed.
When she lifted her wand, a celtic harp, the insignia of the muggle Republic of Ireland, was emblazoned on Finnigan's skin.
"Do you pledge yourself to a free society, to the liberation of all Celtic peoples, to follow orders when given, to abide by the secrets of this alliance, to maintain the integrity of said secrets even upon pain of death, to persevere against all foes, to protect the children and future of our society?"
"I do," Emily Selwyn said. "For Wales." It was a very different oath than her father's. No demands of personal loyalty, of sacrifice and death. Then again, it was a very different organization than her father's. It was, she supposed, much more like Grindelwald's. They were fighting for a cause more than any man.
Hermione removed her wand, revealing the Welsh dragon now present on Emily's forearm, though in black rather than traditional red.
One by one, each of the sixteen students pledged themselves to the cause, receiving a tattoo. Those without a specific country, who had joined for Hermione as much as the cause (Daphne, Bridget, and Blaise, her close friends) received Hermione's personal mark, the unicorn rampant, a horned serpent coiled on its back.
Even with the powered-down version of the marks, sixteen of them left Hermione's magical reserves depleted. No wonder her father only ever marked a handful at a time.
Chapter 37: Weapons and RebellionsSummary:
Shit gets real as Hermione gears up her preparations
This chapter, and the rest of this story, will heavily feature a sympathetic view of violent Scottish, Irish, and probably Welsh nationalism. To be clear, I am not endorsing the domestic terrorism used by the IRA, the Ulster Militias, and arguably the British Armed Forces during the troubles. This is a story, one featuring a heavily romanticized version of pan-Celtic nationalism. Please keep that in mind as you continue to read.
Notes:
Remember when I said I'd post again in May? Yeah, that was a lie.
Seriously though, I'm sorry it's taken so long. I was in a long inspiration drought, which I think I've shaken. Hopefully, that is.
I'll also be updating my other story, The Legend of Hermione Black. My Game of Thrones piece, probably not so much. That fandom is 90% harsh comments and insults, so I'll probably stay away from them for a while. At least until I have something that's complete so I can fully ignore comments.
If you've made it to the end of this note, congratulations, and thanks for reading. Now, enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
To say Hermione was busy would be a massive understatement. Even more than the before break she was exchanging letters with various revolutionary and potentially revolutionary wizarding groups. Most importantly, at least for the moment, she was also planning two heists.
An integral part of the first heist was Maol MacDuff, the great-uncle of her follower Anita MacDuff and leader of the wizarding MacDuff clan. She had been talking to him beforehand, in his capacity as a member of the wizarding Scottish National Party, but things really broke open after his grand-niece swore herself to Hermione's cause.
Maol was an interesting man. He traced his ancestry back to a bastard son of Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, who sided against her husband to crown Hermione's ancestor, Robert the Bruce. He was also a guardsman at the Castle of Edinburgh, where the Honors of Scotland were held and the site of Hermione's first heist. He had already proved instrumental in identifying which guards could be allies and reporting on schedules. Unfortunately, while Maol ran the security of Historic Scotland, who guarded the Honors and the Crown Room, there was another security force present.
Major-General Jonathan Hall was the General Officer Commanding Scotland, in charge of all British Army instillations and personnel in Scotland. His seat was ostensibly Edinburgh Castle, though he mostly operated from Craigiehall. He was also English and impossible to bribe.
While the headquarters were at Craigiehall and the army was housed in the Redford Barracks, Edinburgh Castle still held a serious military presence, mostly office workers, but a significant amount of sentries. Furthermore, Craigiehall and the Redford Barracks were barely a half-hour from the castle. The heist would need to be quiet, quick, and have a fool-proof escape path. A rather difficult thing, even for wixen as Edinburgh Castle had been first warded in the 11th century.
Fortunately, that was the more difficult heist. By comparison the second was exceedingly easy, as proved by four students four decades prior. Granted, security had improved since the Removal of the Stone, but it seemed the English still didn't appreciate just how important the Stone of Scone was. While they didn't have an inside informant in Westminster Abbey, Hermione didn't think they really needed one.
Yet, for all the planning the heists were taking, they were still easier than dealing with the politics. While her wizarding allies informed her the rank-and-file of the IRA was more than willing to resume the conflict, the politicians would require something more. Even the relatively militant Martin McGuiness, a former P-IRA leader, needed proof that a new offensive could result in something other than loss of life and stalemate.
Hence, her presence on Durmstrang's boat, inside a well-warded cabin.
"Sverre," Hermione said, nodding at the tall, muscular blonde.
"Slytherin," she replied. "I believe I told you to call me Freya."
"After you."
"Very well, Hermione," Freya said with a smirk.
"Thank you, Freya." Freya nodded, gesturing for Hermione to take a seat while she poured out a clear liquid Hermione suspected was Akvavit.
"To liberation," she said once seated, holding up her shot glass.
"To liberation," Hermione echoed. The glasses clinked briefly before both downed their shots in a gulp. It had been years since Hermione drank, and the alcohol burned her throat, though she made sure not to show it. She held back a grimace at the taste. Liquor had once been her favorite for how quickly it could get one drunk, but years off had cooled her taste for it. Hopefully there wouldn't be celebratory toasting.
"I have heard rather interesting things about you," Freya said, leaning slightly forwards in her chair.
"Indeed?" Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Indeed," Freya replied with a smirk. "Though only once I started asking around."
"And what are these interesting things you have heard?"
"Saoirse O'Neill said you're working with the IRA,."
"Is that so?" Hermione asked, her voice chilling slightly.
"Don't blame Saoirse," Freya chuckled. "My father's worked with her for decades, and I've been helping for a few years. She knows who we'll support."
"What kind of work do you do?" Hermione asked.
"Transport and sales," Freya replied with a smirk.
"I suppose that answers my next question."
"On capability? Yes, it does," Freya said, continuing proudly. "The Sverre family has connections throughout Norway's army and its contractors. We even have access to some of Denmark, Sweden, and Finland's army supplies. And, of course, contacts with the former Soviet Republics."
"Did Saoirse say why?" Hermione asked.
"No," Freya smirked. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out though. You're working with the IRA, which means you need to convince the politicians you can offer more than the British. Which means improving capabilities, which means--"
"Buying weaponry and using it," Hermione finished.
"So," Freya said, sitting back. "What do you want? Machine guns? Explosives?"
"I want something they don't have," Hermione said. "Something they haven't been able to get."
"Armored vehicles?" Freya suggested, but Hermione shook her head.
"No. Even if the equipment's even, they don't have the numbers or training to beat the British in pitched battles, not yet anyways. I want portable, guided anti-tank missiles that can beat ERA." Freya let out a low whistle.
"You know those will be expensive, right?" Hermione flashed a toothy grin, learned years ago from the goblins.
"I think you'll find I can afford it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Saoirse O'Neill, freedom fighter, witch, descendant of the Uí Niall, and wizarding attache to Sinn Fein, was not welcome in Hogsmeade. Officially speaking, there were multiple warrants for her arrest, though she was not a high-priority target. Especially not now that they were searching for three escaped Death Eaters, something she suspected the woman she was meeting had been involved in. One of them, after all, was the woman's mother.
The Hog's Head could accurately be described with Alec Guiness' lines from A New Hope . It was also, however, an excellent place to meet and do less than legal business. Rather ironic, considering the owner was the brother of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (and Supreme Mugwump of the IWC, and a half-dozen other titles besides) but the two hated each other with a passion. Or it was an act. Either way, Aberforth would be learning nothing of her deals, not when both of them were glamoured to high heaven and hidden behind thick layers of wards. Saoirse actually shivered when she passed under them.
"Saoirse O'Neill," the woman said, looking her up and down. "You don't look like your photographs."
"Nor do you, Lady Slytherin," Saoirse replied. The woman smirked.
"I suppose not," she said. "Now, correct me if I am wrong, but you did not attend Hogwarts, did you?"
"No, I didn't," Saoirse answered. "My mother taught me, along with Lady MacDavie and some of her friends. Why are you asking?"
"My apologies," Lady Slytherin said. "I was curious. There is no official Hogwarts policy regarding gaelic-speaking purebloods and half-bloods." Saoirse shrugged, not really knowing what it had to do with anything.
"Shall we get to the point?" she asked.
"As you wish," Lady Slytherin replied. A thin folder floated from the table to Saoirse's hands. "The list of equipment your organization will be supplied with should they enter an alliance with me, along with shipping dates and locations, numbers, and specifications." Saoirse opened the folder, surprised as it magically expanded from a thin slip to a somewhat hefty document.
L16 81mm Mortar (4), June 30th, Kilkeel.
81mm HE Rounds (120), June 30th, Kilkeel.
Ak-5 (200), July 5th 1995, Cobh.
5.56x45mm NATO ammunition (2 tonnes), July 13th, Newcastle.
F1 Grenades (200), July 17th 1995, Strangford.
V40 Grenades (120), July 17th 1995, Strangford.
Colt Canada C-8 (120), July 22nd 1995, Warrenport.
Carl Gustaf M3 (10), July 31st 1995, Portavogie.
FFV502 HEDP Missiles (200), July 31st 1995, Portavogie.
"Y--Is this real?" Saoirse asked incredulously. The document went on and on, detailing regular shipments of weaponry.
"Does that mean you'll end the ceasefire?" Saoirse looked up from the documents, staring at the young, obviously wealthy woman, who simply stared back. There were amethyst flecks in the young woman's eyes, an unnatural color that, if Saoirse remembered her lessons correctly, indicated involvement in the Dark Arts. Not that she really cared. Saoirse could tolerate such magic if it meant a free, Republican Ireland.
"I need to take it to the leadership," Saoirse said. "But I doubt they'll say no." Lady Slytherin smiled.
"Excellent. I do hope they'll be open to coordinating attacks."
"I'll make sure to ask," Saoirse said, giving a quick bow (as necessitated by pureblood etiquette) and turning to leave.
"Ms. O'Neill," Lady Slytherin called out. "My alliance does come with an addendum." Saoirse turned, looking curiously at the woman, more than a little nervous about what the addendum might be.
"Yes?"
"No more civilian targets," Lady Slytherin said. "It's incredibly ineffective."
"What targets would you suggest?" Saoirse asked, trying to keep a level voice. She didn't like the civilian targets either, but blowing up government property, even when it was civilian government property, sent a strong message.
"There's a reason I'm giving you heavy weaponry," Lady Slytherin smirked. "We're attacking their bases."
Notes:
Fun fact time! So, I mention the Removal of the Stone, which was a real incident where four university kids associated with the Scottish Covenant Association snuck into Westminster Abbey and took one of the most precious artifacts of Scotland. None of them had any expertise in security, none of them had criminal experience that could have helped them, they were just average uni kids--well, average extremely political uni kids--who managed to take a precious relic from one of the most well-known sites in England. The rest of the story is fairly crazy as well--look it up if you have the time--but the fact that four students manage to do this is hilarious to me.
To make things even better, they used Ford Anglia's--Arthur Weasley's car.