Chapter 33 Mortal Peril The room fell into a silence of three
parts. 1st the thick smothering hush of disbelief, dense and
full bodied, like wading through unspoken questions, accusations
and protests stirred by her confession.
It sat heavily in the burning cheeks of Jinny, in the slow,
deliberate breaths of Kingsley, and in the tight creases of
Minerva Mcgonigal's pursed lips. The second was the sharp, tinny
silence of shock, the hollow ringing in the aftermath of an
explosion. It lingered in the rapid blinks
and vacant expressions of Arthur and Neville, the only visible
evidence of the detonation. The third silence was different.
It wrapped around her, warm and familiar, like the vapour
curling from a mug of hot chocolate.
The sight of siblings nestled together in sleep or the steady
purr of a cat at rest. It was the all consuming,
beating silence at the heart of a family.
A family that she was reminded she was just a part of, as she
was Draco's. And then Charlie and Luna
brought me here. She let the final words of her
tale filigree themselves through the air, imagining her signature
scrawling at the end like a convict's confession in the
moments they took to digest all she had revealed.
That Hermione had travelled back in time to save them from a
future where Voldemort was not their greatest enemy, but Draco,
the darkness Incarnate. That she was already more than
halfway through a pregnancy conceived in that time.
That for months she had been following the orders of a
disembodied imperative, earning a few pointed side eyes from
Jinny and Arthur at that revelation.
And if they didn't subdue Draco before he killed Voldemort
tomorrow night, the ritual would be complete, sealing their fate.
Hermione took in her surroundings, studying the
barracks. A makeshift kitchen had been
installed along one side of the room.
In the sink, a bristled brush scrubbed mugs on its own,
swirling soap suds as sporadic sprays of water spluttered from
the faucet. A hodgepodge mismatch of stools
and chairs surrounded the table, seemingly conjured by different
people, their styles all too varied to belong to anyone set.
The walls and floors remained bare, a stark coldness to the
space that made Hermione wince. The only light came from the
magical map spread across the main table, its glow
illuminating the grandfather clock at the far end of the
room, A focal piece of the Burrow that Hermione had always
admired the magical ingenuity of.
A deep sadness churned in Hermione's gut as her eyes
landed on it. Ron and Percy's hands both
pointed to lost. She swallowed hard, as though
she had a bezel lodged in her throat that she couldn't clear,
but another revelation stole her breath.
A fresh hand had been added to the stately device, her own
Hermione, and like the entire remaining Weasley clan, it was
fixed firmly on mortal peril. The silence fractured as Arthur
Weasley finally tutted and crossed his arms.
Never trust something that can think for itself if you can't
see where it keeps its brain. Hermione let out a sardonic
hoof. And that would be all well and
good, Mr. Weasley, except that the future Theodore not made
sure that I trusted these doctrines above all else.
Be that as it may, Miss Granger. Mcgonigal interrupted, her tone
sharp as an ice pick. You were a compromised agent.
You should have aborted your mission and returned to the
Order. She pared down at Hermione, an
air of reprimand in her gaze. You could have jeopardised the
entire war. She could have been mistaken.
But Hermione thought she saw Missus Weasley stiffen, arms now
with the knowledge that Hermione hadn't been entirely honest with
them. Would she lay the blame for
Percy's death at her feet? Had Hermione's silence somehow
fuelled the conflict? Could she have stopped them from
fighting back if she had been more open about her mission?
No, she decided, Nothing she could have said would have
tempered the Weasley men's resolve.
She only hoped that Molly's grief wouldn't cloud that truth.
Hermione pushed herself up from her stool, fists bawled at her
sides. With all due respect, Professor,
none of you aside from Jinny. She said, locking eyes with her
friend, who met her with a knowing nod.
Can understand what it's like to be possessed by a directive you
cannot refuse, no matter how hard you try.
It's as strong a force as being imperious.
Bill spoke then, his voice croaky and tired.
I believe I have some experience with such imperatives, Hermione,
both from my professional career breaking curses, and from my
affliction. Hermione studied him, the map
highlighting the deep scars from roseclaws had left across his
face. She exhaled, conceding with a
small nod. Then you also know that sharing
such information, even with those you trust, can be
immeasurably difficult, if not outright impossible, depending
on the curse or possession. Bill gave an imperceptible nod
as the clock chimed 1:00 AM and it was like each of them had
just been doused in a Pepperup potion, shaken out of their dark
thoughts and back to the present.
It is late. Kingsley said in his deep
baritone. And I believe you are in need of
proper rest and a bath. Hermione opened her mouth to
protest. There was too much to plan, too
much to work through. They needed to strategize, to
figure out not just how to kill Voldemort, but also how to
prevent Draco from completing the final step of the ritual,
stop him from becoming the darkness.
Before she could voice any of it, Kingsley levelled her with a
grave look that stilled her tongue.
You have been through a great ordeal today, he said, and our
own day wasn't without excitement.
His gaze swept across the room, and not for the first time,
Hermione sensed that she was missing something, some unspoken
piece of the puzzle. You have given the Order much to
think about, Hermione. If it is, as you say, that Draco
is tied to Voldemort and has been possessed with the need to
kill him in order for Voldemort's essence to pass to
him, then we must do everything within our power to prevent that
from happening. Even Hermione tried to butt in,
but he continued, gesturing for her to heed his words.
If that means neutralising Malfoy first.
Hermione's mind echoed Draco's final words to her as if they
were her own. I'd like to see you try.
Kingsley turned to Jinny. Jinnevra, see to it that Armani
is debriefed on our current situation and then get a good
night's rest. It will be imperative for our
plans tomorrow that we are all ready for what's to come.
Kingsley panned the room. We meet back here at 0900 hours.
I will alert the rest of the order.
After a parting squeeze from Arthur and a teary eyed pat from
Molly, who murmured. So glad you're back home, dear.
In a way that hurt far more than it should have, Jinny guided
Hermione outside, across the neighboring structure and up two
flights of stairs to her private quarters.
It warmed Hermione to find Jinny's green and gold holly
head. Harpy's bedding had made it to
the camp, the linen messily strewn across the mattress and
the pillows piled up in a heap where the bed met the corner of
the wall. Atop the bed, a wizarding sports
magazine lay open, images of Quidditch players whizzing on
and off the pages, and to the side, a giant stack of textbooks
propped up a small orb of light and a magical alarm clock.
Hermione, eye to the tomes suspiciously.
Well, I wasn't going to read them, was I?
Said Jinny with a smirk. But I didn't think you'd be best
pleased if I left your expertly curated library behind.
You'd be right about that, thank you, Jin.
Hey, at least I tried to grab the ones that looked the most
dense and studious. She said with a shrug.
All while sending me 12 fail save ways to charm Wizards.
Well. Jinny asserted, quirking an
eyebrow. It clearly came in useful,
didn't it? They fell into silence, as if
both of them were unsure to laugh, yell, or cry as both
their eyes tracked to the large bump beneath her velvet robe.
Alongside the opposite wall, another bed lay fully made, the
edges of the Gryffindor blazing sheets tucked neatly in and the
pillows set at the head of the bed at the exact position she
preferred. I've had your bed made-up since
we got here, Said Jinny softly as she chewed the corner of her
lip. It felt better to think that you
had a spot reserved, like my sister would come home any day
now. Oh, Jin.
Hermione choked, looking at Jinny, but she was already
turning away. Most people assumed that Jinny
wasn't a crier, that she just wasn't as emotional as every
other girl, just because she was sporty and tough.
But that wasn't the case at all. She was just tactical about who
she showed her tears to, who she chose to share her vulnerability
with. Hermione used to be one of the
few. Jinny crossed the room and
pulled open a drawer in her modest dresser.
A photo on top caught the light. Harry's 17th birthday, the
entire family beaming and waving behind 1/2 Dome snitch cake in
the gardens of the Burrow. Jinny hesitated for a second
before retrieving a pair of pyjamas and a towel, then
turning to Hermione with a small smile.
Bathrooms at the end of the hall 10 minutes later, cleansed and
calmed in a deep tub filled with foam bubbles.
There was a tap on the door. Miney.
Hermione ruffled the bubbles to cover any breaks in the suds.
You can come in, Gin. She entered in her sage green
dressing gown, her hair let loose and down, looking so much
like the young girl she truly was instead of the resistance
fighter, and took a seat on the wooden stool at the side of the
bath. This had been a ritual of theirs
at Hogwarts, the two airing out all their troubles and boys
dresses among the frothy bubbles of the prefect bathroom, where
Hermione would sneak Jinny in with impish regularity.
After a few moments, with only the faint fizzing and the pops
of bubbles to accompany the silence, Jinny spoke, emotion
thick in her voice. I wish you could have trusted
me. I wished I could have too, Jin.
It took months for me to fight against the doctrines to the
point of even just questioning their motives, and when I
finally felt like I had a clear head on it all, it still wasn't
enough to save Draco. But Malpha was alive, yes, and
not for lack of trying. Jinny shook her head and bit her
lip, relinquishing a deep sigh that echoed off the bathroom
tiles. You really love him, don't you?
She said after a moment, her voice holding no hint of a
question. It was a statement, a surrender
to the truth. The water rippled around
Hermione as she felt the faint kick of one of the twins by her
right side. Yes, yes, I feel you in there.
She thought wryly before looking at Jinny and pouring all the
convictions she could muster in her words.
I do, but it's Malfoy ferret face, notorious mudblood hater
and pretentious arse wipe. Hermione chuckled.
All that and absurdly, the love of my life and their father.
I for fuck's sake, I'm going to have a Malfoy as a
brother-in-law. Jinny groaned, throwing her head
in her hands dramatically. Hermione laughed, a long
forgotten melody sending a tingle of joy through her before
the song died in her throat. Only if we save him first.
Jinny held Hermione's gaze and it was then when she noticed the
dark, sullen wells below Jenny's tired eyes.
I'm so sorry about Percy. The smile on Jinny's lips
slipped away as she studied the floor tiles.
Me too. She said, and after some
consideration, as though building up the bravery to ask
that question she really wanted to know, she asked.
Were you able to put him to rest?
Emotion climbed her throat as she nodded.
For now, he's in stasis in the Malfoy family crypt, and when
all this is over, we'll give him Ron, Fred, everyone still to be
recovered, the burial they deserve.
We've got to take him down first.
Voldemort. Jinny said, and Hermione felt
both sickened and grateful for the clarification.
And find out where and how he's keeping them.
The dread swarmed around them both, as if Death Eaters
themselves were conspiring with the bath fumes of the fallen.
Hermione knew of those Voldemort hood grotesquely displayed upon
his altar. Lavender, Fred, Lupin, Tonks,
Ron, Slughorn, though she had been spared the horror of seeing
them for herself. What did Kingsley mean earlier?
Jinny sat up, her chest puffing out, her smile sly.
About our exciting day. We've caught ourselves an
Unspeakable. You haven't?
Hermione exclaimed, sitting herself up, the water flowing
over the rim of the bath as she quickly moved the bubbles to
keep herself covered. Yup.
And managed to bring Professor Slug home.
Home too. Hermione let her words sink in.
He was being animated like Moody.
Jinny nodded. The implication of the fate of
her brothers lingered in the empty space where her response
would be. Where's the Unspeakable now?
In our holding cell. She's been interrogated all
evening by the Muggles, military negotiators, and Kingsley's aura
team, but she's not giving anything up.
Hmm, well, we'll see about that, said Hermione firmly.
Jinny smiled and blew out a laugh.
Well, I wouldn't want to be her tomorrow morning.
After sitting in a reverent silence for a while, Hermione
shot Jinny a mischievous look and a playful smile creeping
across her lips. So, Charlie and Luna, oh, don't
get me started. Jinny barked a laugh.
It's so cute, it's actually disgusting.
They cackled as twilight deepened around them, finding a
solace in the fleeting moment, their laughter a brief reprieve
against the treacherous day ahead.
October 31st, 1998 Morning Imber camp.
Hermione slept uncomfortably, the twins practising their own
battle manoeuvres late into the early morning and her nightmares
more like night terrors. Images wading through the tar in
her mind, pieces of her missing past and potential future mixing
in a messy swirl like a botched potions experiment.
Kingsley made good on his promise.
The entire order convened in the main barracks at 9:00 AM sharp.
Hermione and Ginny arrived early, followed by George, who
looked like he'd had just as much sleep as Hermione, reeking
of something reminiscent of Snape's dingy potions lab, the
odour of unidentified concoctions wafting off him, and
his arms covered in potion burns.
He relaid the glowing map upon the table, and her mind's eyes
blew wide as she gasped. She watched as tiny steps
labeled Draco Malfoy paced from one dark line to another.
Oh my God, George, is that she breathed.
Our version of the Marauders Map.
George muttered, finishing her sentence almost absentmindedly.
Sunlight streamed in the open door as a young woman with dark,
warm eyes and chunky braids bounded in.
George said you arrived last night.
So good to see you, Hermione. Angelina greeted, beaming and
wrapping Hermione in a Quidditch player arms, then handing George
a coffee. He sips the drink without
thanks, eyes scanning the map of Malfoy Manor with the intense
focus of someone playing Where's Wally in search for a name to
appear. How do you, I mean, how long
have you been watching us on this?
Hermione asked hesitantly. You and I started working on it
when you realised you'd be spending more time at his Manor.
George said with a frown. I imagine it's one of your
memories you haven't got back quite yet.
Hermione's stomach twisted. She lowered her head, shame
curling around her ribs like a snake in a bird's nest.
It hadn't even occurred to her to consider which memories of
her family she'd have lost in the process.
Worse, she had barely given their retrieval a second
thought. What else had she let slip away
to the sands of time? Birthdays, heart to hearts, late
night inventing with George, All while she'd been so singularly
focused on the future. Angelina placed a comforting
hand on her shoulder, her expression saying don't take it
seriously. As if George's sharp edged
demeanour was just another casualty of the war, more
brooding and preoccupied with strategy than bringing his usual
Weasley levity to the room. More Order members filtered in.
Kingsley and the rest of the Weasley clan, Luna, Neville, the
Batil family who Hermione caught up briefly with, Madame Pomfrey,
Penelope Clearwater, Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and even
several high-ranking looking muggle military personnel.
With every new arrival, the room seemed to magically expand, but
the tension remained tinny in the air like the notes of a
pitchy violin. The door opened a final time and
Hermione's entire body went rigid.
What is he doing here? She spat, her voice razor sharp.
Mulsiba strolled in behind Mcgonigal, flashing her a grin
that looked far more like a wolf bearing its teeth than any kind
of friendly greeting. Mr. Mulsiba has been
instrumental in our war efforts, Hermione.
Kingsley said darkly. He even attempted to offer Mr.
Malfoy a way out and organised an assault on Voldemort before
his associate Mr. Avery was betrayed.
And a good thing for it too. She snarled back.
She imagined her words were like a clawed hand taloned around
Mulciba's wide neck. Or have you all decided that
child casualties are all part of the greater good now?
Their planned attack on the school at an assembly of literal
children, some barely ordered to even know how to hold a quill,
was at best reckless and at worst a major war crime.
Ha. The stocky blonde Death Eater
let out a bark of laughter, crossing his arms and planting
his feet wide. You've got some nerve playing
the docile little war prize. A fragile wallflower, all
Cushdie in Malfoy's palace, while the real resistant
fighters are dropping like flies every week.
Hermione's jaw clenched. That's different.
He aimed straight for the weakest chink in her armour, and
he knew it. I don't see how.
He shrugged, maddeningly indifferent.
A tense silence crackled between them, the Heir charged with
unspoken accusations. All around them, Head swiveled
back and forth as if following a high stakes Quidditch match.
Fortunately, said Kingsley, Mr. Mulsibur has managed to stay in
Voldemort's favour without arousing suspicion, all while
recruiting sympathetic Death Eaters to our side.
I understand all that, she shot back.
A heavy silence filled the room. The furtive glances, the
shifting of feet. She wasn't the only one who felt
this way. But he killed Percy.
Her voice was cold steel. He worked directly with
Greyback. To Hermione's surprise, it was
Mrs. Weasley who interrupted her diatribe.
Hermione dear, it's been a hard Rd. for all of us, but we've
decided to put our differences aside to end this bloody war.
Mulciba, like the rest of us, has made horrific choices to
ensure his and his family's survival.
He obliviated the wolves to forget their alliance, which has
also put him and his colleagues in greater danger, and he has
made an Unbreakable vow to serve the Order.
Please respect our choice to not focus our fire at him in this
matter. We need more allies than ever.
Hermione, I can't. Tears began to spill like a duct
had burst down Molly's face. I won't.
I refuse to lose another of my. Her voice completely broke and
her mind's own eyes stung and welled.
Arthur moved about the room to wrap an arm around her shaky
shoulders. Another of our children, our
simply will not survive it. The fire in Hermione's chest
sputtered and died, doused with Missus Weasley's tears.
That includes you 2, you know. Molly said sternly, reaching out
a plump hand to pull Hermione close to her.
And you may not be bringing my biological grandchildren into
the world, but my goodness, I will love them as if they were.
Hermione blinked back tears. She had been so worried, feared,
that once they knew the truth, everything she had built with
them over the years would crumble.
That they would turn her away, unable to understand the bond
she cherished, would wither and die the moment they learnt that
she had given her heart to a Malfoy and not to their son.
She felt so raw and exposed, finding just how wrong she had
been. Kingsley cleared his throat and
the room fell still, every eye snapping to him.
He addressed the room and as he was speaking it was clear that
the members of the Circle trusted him.
His words held a weight and gravitas that was hard not to
believe in. He held back on the more
sensitive details that Hermione had shared the previous night,
leaving out any mention of time travel and what Draco was to
become if they did not stop him from killing Voldemort.
Hermione thought that must count for something.
If Kingsley wasn't telling the Order to kill on sight, then
there was more hope for Draco than Hermione's nightmares had
allowed her. The mission was clear.
Infiltrate the manner, showcase the Order's formidable might to
the upper echelons, and eliminate Voldemort with his
Hawcruxes obliterated, his continued existence depended
solely on the reluctant support of the wizarding world and his
fragile hope of immortality. Without these, he was nothing
more than a man. One of the Mughal officials, a
woman clad in military dress with honey blonde hair pulled
back in a tight braid, was the first to speak when Kingsley
opened the floor for questions. Sir, our regiment will be on
hand for aerial assaults alongside your dragon tamers,
and the platoon of tanks will be stationed nearby in the
neighboring woods, concealed by Mr. Flitwick's enchantments.
She said, her lips pressed into a firm line, her words clipped.
However, I must implore you to consider that we need more
intelligence before the incursion.
We must know the best point of entry, which civilians require
protection and which methods can be used to eliminate the leader.
Yes, you are quite right. General Kingsley replied, his
tone carrying an almost Dumbledorian emissions and
nervingly calm. That is precisely what I am
hoping Miss Granger will be able to assist us with.