Chapter 34 Doomsday hand at midnight the holding cell sat at
the centre of the compound, adjoining a room that could have
easily been ripped straight from a procedural crime drama.
Two way mirror included. On one side of the table
slouched head aura robots, a patchy brown beard doing a poor
job at masking a weak jawline. His posture sagged, shoulders
rounding inward. Opposite him, the unnamed
Unspeakable sat rigid as a rod. She had a healthy fullness of
figure, yet her skin had the translucent pallor of one
unacquainted with sunlight, and her buzzed hair gleamed in an
unnatural shade of purple. As she and Kingsley observed
behind the glass, it dawned on Hermione that this was the first
time she had seen an Unspeakable without their hood.
How many of them sported the cropped hairstyle, and why?
To prevent hair fry from potion experimentation?
Or was it some cultish trend among those in the fold?
Robards fired off question after question like a solo duelling
match, his technique not unimpressive, she noted,
recalling the books on negotiation tactics.
She devoured the atrocious year of Umbridge's stint at Hogwarts.
But with each unanswered query, she felt the clock ticking down.
In just eight hours, witches and Wizards from across Britain
would descend upon Malfoy Manor expecting a lavish Halloween
ball, blissfully unaware of the night's true purpose.
And when the clock struck midnight?
We don't have time for this. Hermione grizzled inwardly when
a crystalline voice stilled her. I shall speak to the woman
behind the glass. Hermione's larynx closed up.
The Unspeakable's eyes, the same Violet shade as her hair, were
so pretty, naturally glassy that they seemed to Pierce through
the mirror. Kingsley clicked his tongue.
Not a word all day. And when she finally speaks, she
demands you like she owns the sight.
I do not like it, Hermione thought.
Kingsley was one to talk. No one protested and Hermione
stepped into the room, Robards sharing an exasperated double
eyebrow raised at her that said good luck as he left.
The door sealed shut behind her with a heavy clunk and she
squeezed her wand so tightly she was sure she'd find the wood
grain pattern embedded into her palm were she to release it.
The woman's eyes tracked her like prey as she sat opposite.
Hermione raised her mental walls, barricading every entry
point with mundane memories. OWL revision, reading, catch up
during Quidditch matches, even knitting the 100 little hats for
the house cells of Hogwarts. When she was satisfied with the
disorder of her defences, she crossed her arms, narrowed in on
their prisoner, and cut through the bullshit.
Do you know who I am? The woman tilted her head like a
rigid ventriloquist doll. I know who you are not.
Her voice was like an iced overlake, still yet dangerously
deceptive. If Hermione let her focus waver
even for a second, she had the distinct impression the words
themselves might flake away into frost.
You are not the fresh faced golden girl Hermione Granger
most believe you to be. You are a druid of The Tempest,
a woman weaving through the sands of time and space,
shifting, compressing, expanding through eventualities.
Fucking Unspeakables, Hermione cursed inwardly.
Yet she held her gaze, unflinching.
And how would you know that you saw yourself a mere sliver of
the kinds of magic we protect, research, and archive in the
Department of Mysteries some years ago when you ransacked our
core. I would hardly call it a
ransacking, far more of a barrage.
The woman's lips quirked in something that wasn't quite a
smile. As you seem to know so much
about me already. Hermione pressed, leaning
further forward, testing her intent.
Then tell me what has brought me to this timeline.
You sought to bring an end to the darkness.
A thunderclap released its roar in Hermione's chest, but you
were unsuccessful. Now you hope to eliminate the
Source before it ever manifests. His magic cannot kill the Dark
Lord, lest he himself become the Darkness.
Hermione's pulse climbed, but she reined in, her outward
reaction keeping her voice controlled.
And you know precisely what magic the Dark Commander was
subjected to, don't you? It came from your archives,
didn't it? She could practically sense the
men stir beyond the glass. Silence.
A vein quivered in Hermione's temple, soul branding.
The words slipped from her lips like an incantation, disturbing
the dust of half forgotten knowledge.
The ritual had been scribed into the blackest art's ancient magic
of true darkness, its details seeping into the cracks of her
memory like spilled ink on parchment.
She had read it. She had known it, and yet only
now did it take shape, obvious and undeniable.
Clever, clever girl, she whispered.
The words rang hollow. Hermione wouldn't let the praise
infect her resolve. Instead, she borrowed Draco's
impenetrable stare and pulled his steel heart into her own,
holding firm. The key to saving Draco was
within reaching distance. She could feel it, explain it.
The command took root in the space, branching out into every
corner of the interrogation room, portraying a Malfoy
dominance she hadn't known could exist within herself until now.
The Unspeakable tutted, toying with her lips, performing
reluctance, but Hermione could see the truth bursting at the
seams from her countenance. She waited, the branding of the
father's soul on to his named son.
She began, her face a twisted vision of smug superiority.
The ritual, archived centuries ago, has its origins in the
fallen wizarding city of Colothan, Ancient Greece, and
disabled to have been crafted by Mopsus himself.
Hermione observed her for any trace of deception, but found
nothing she could unravel. Thought originally devised to
secure pure blood wizarding lines should an heir be
suspected illegitimate, insuring bonds, trusts, and blood magics
be transferred without question to the appropriate heir.
The soul of the father, on to the son.
Long shall the blood live on. Hermione sat back, arrested by
the implication of the words. It's almost Oedipal, don't you
think? The woman mused darkly.
It just required a bit of tweaking to ensure the vestige
of the Dark Lord's soul would live on in his new vessel.
Hermione cut her crosser, voice cold.
So, if I understand correctly, we can all trace Voldemort's
latest pillars of strength back to your department, You, with
all your infinite wisdom and fountains of knowledge.
She sneered sardonically. Have placed all this power
directly into his hands, the answer to immortality.
And I gather you were also responsible for his miraculous
protection against the Killing Curse at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Hermione saw the minute dimpling of her pale cheek as a
confirmation why she breathed. The woman puckered her lips,
deliberating playfully with her response before speaking.
Our conclave follows power. We are the guardians of
uncharted, volatile, and ancient magics.
It is our prerogative to maintain control over the
mysteries we protect. For that reason, it was decreed
long ago that we Unspeakables would never oppose the ruler in
power we serve, who holds the throne without question, without
defiance. We exist beyond the politics of
the age. It is the oath we swear when we
surrender our lives to this duty.
Hermione's rage flared, twisting the space around her until only
the woman remained, sharpened and singular, as if viewed down
the barrel of a telescope. There's a vast difference
between refusing to resist and willingly laying not only your
loyalty, but the very keys to the Kingdom at his feet.
Hermione scowled. We beg to differ.
She smirked. In the absence of another clear
wielder of power, our duty shifts to ensure the quest of
knowledge can continue to safeguard the Archive, to secure
our place in whatever world emerges.
And if that means giving up your morals, there is no room for
morality in the pursuit of learning.
There, I will have to beg to differ.
Hermione's echoed words were edged with diamond glass.
Truly. The woman arched a brow.
I had thought I was speaking to a kindred spirit.
Your name has been in our registry of fated archivists
since the moment you first came into your magic.
Hermione's jaw clenched, resisting the urge to cast 1 of
Jinny's signature bat bogey hexes to remove the smug
expression from the woman's face.
It wasn't as if she had never considered working at the
Department of Mysteries as a potential career.
She had weighed the advantages of working in nearly every
ministry department at one time or another.
She exhaled. And if I had joined, what then?
Would I be sitting where you are now, justifying cowardice under
the guise of neutrality? The Unspeakable gave a slow,
knowing smile. Perhaps.
Or perhaps you would have redefined the very fabric of our
existence. That's what you do, isn't it?
Break the rules of magic simply by refusing to acknowledge they
exist? Time traveller.
Curiosity and the insecurity of ignorance fogged her thoughts.
She shook her head. Time doesn't normally work this
way. It's a loop.
I'm not actually meant to be able to change things.
I'm supposed to be a part of what they were always going to
be. And yet the version of me from
this timeline disappeared where in typical rules of travel, she
would not have. And I am changing things.
What's happening now is not what happened before.
I didn't save Drako the first time, and I know I wouldn't have
been sent back unless changing the future was at least a slim
hope. The Unspeakable observed her for
a beat. You're muggle born, so perhaps
this analogy will land where it would not with my colleagues.
Imagine you are a tiny charge of electricity travelling down a
wire, but instead of following the path laid out for you,
you've leapt to an adjoining wire.
Magic like energy cannot be destroyed.
And so said Hermione, picking up the thread she had weaved.
The reaction forced my alternate self to replace the void I left
on the adjoining wire when I travelled to the past.
The Unspeakable nodded and Hermione exhaled slowly, the
weight of it settling over her like a second skin.
She had stolen the life of her former self in this timeline to
ensure at least one of them in one existence in one lifetime
could save Draco. Hermione couldn't allow herself
to dwell on the cold realisation, could not dwell on
what terrible fate may have befallen that version of her.
It would slice her heart open, icing her organs from the inside
out. Instead, she focused on the here
and now. She had changed everything, and
that meant she could change more.
Voldemort will die by Malfoy's wand unless another snips the
thread of fate. The 4th Doctrine could have
easily meant killing either Draco or Voldemort, and not for
the first time, she found herself utterly exasperated by
the clues Draco and her future self had left her with.
In for a penny, in for a pound. She fortified herself and
pressed on. How do we break the bond between
them and stop the darkness from manifesting in Draco?
The woman closed her eyes slowly, as if cataloguing the
moment in her own inner archives.
With every second, Hermione's patience waned, the ticking of
the clock like a time bomb. Tick, tick, tick.
Come on, give me something to work with here, Hermione pleaded
to whatever deity may be listening.
Finally, with deliberate, painstaking elocution, she
answered. Her voice was an epitaph,
sounding out the syllables as if they were the last words ever to
be spoken. The flesh must perish before the
intended air strikes the compelled blow.
The flesh must perish. It was like a flock of phoopers
had been released into her chest cavity, beating their wings
furiously against her rib cage. She needed a way to ensure the
magic had no conduit through which to travel from sire to
air. Hermione rose quickly.
Thank you. Turning when she reached the
door, she gave the Unspeakable a curious look.
Why now? Why only when you are
apprehended do you relinquish your oath?
Why wait until the Doomsday Hand is at midnight?
You could have come to us at any point before now and turned the
tides. The woman cocked her head, eyes
gleaming with a devilish intensity.
Oh, darling girl, are you under the impression that my presence
here is by some failure of my own?
Her lips curled, a razor edged amusement slicing through her
voice. I am exactly where we planned.
I be where and when. Fate needed me to be.
She leaned backward in her chair, placing her hands on her
lap and raising her head to the concrete ceiling.
Perfectly relaxed, perfectly unnerving.
We follow power. One day, in one world or
another, you shall understand. Pelting across the compound
moments later, Kingsley at her heel, she reached the building
Jinny had pointed out to her that morning.
George. Hermione choked, bursting into
the camp's potion lab, her lungs filling with the acrid fumes.
I need your help. Theo leaned against the doorway
of Narcissa's suite, watching as the waning sun bathed her in
molten gold. She sat poised at her vanity,
draped in a champagne coloured fur robe.
Her lashes flickered in thought, expression drawn, until she
caught Theo's gaze through his mask in the mirror.
She didn't turn, merely pressed her lips together and frowned.
It's not polite to stare. The fault is your own for making
it impossible not to. He drawled.
Narcissa exhaled slowly, idly teasing out a non existent knot
from her silken curls. He wondered what she thought of
his attire, the crisp lines of his suit tailored in a more
modern muggle fashion than the traditional witch might be
accustomed to. If she had an opinion, she kept
it guarded, much like everything else.
He was like a dog with a bone, relentless in his presence, and
his mask, ready for the evening's events, matched his
dogged persistence. But Narsissa held her
compliments from him like a dragon hoarding gold, offering
nothing but silence. Instead, she smoothed an
invisible crease from her gown. Guests will be arriving soon.
Have you seen my son? He's pacing the grounds, all
murderous, intense and mopey. So just like every other
weekend, you could say he has a right to be.
Her fingers tightened around her brush.
Unless the woman who tried to end his life not 24 hours ago
arrives armed with a plan, there isn't much that will stop him
from killing the Dark Lord. She paused, blue eyes darkening
as though her consciousness was sinking into the depths of the
Black Lake. Playing right into his hands.
Theo crossed the room, pulled the pastel poof from beside the
armchair and dragged it in front of her until their knees
brushed. He followed her gaze as it
lingered on the contrast her bare kneecap against his
tailored trousers, then gently tugged the fur lining of her
robe to shield the porcelain skin from view.
He's got more than one person in his corner.
Hermione is brilliant, but I'm not too shabby myself, you know.
She granted him the boon of her illustrious smile before
reaching for his mask. With delicate fingers, she
unclasped it, setting it on the vanity before meeting his gaze.
Even as a boy, you were never shabby.
He smiled slyly. Does that mean you no longer see
me as such? Narcissa's voice dipped low and
Husky. Do you think I would have
invited you to my bed if I did? Heat pooled, his pulse
quickening as something deeper stirred below.
But he had learnt his lesson. Desire had never been the risk,
it was the rejection that had nearly undone him.
You still regret it. He murmured, lowering his gaze
to the floor. She grazed his cheek with her
delicate palm, and tingles rippled through his body.
His eyes fluttered closed as he leant into her touch,
appreciating the waves of adoration like one would the
crashing of an ocean tide. Just as he allowed the
sensations to ebb, he felt her pillowy lips on his.
An unbridled groan vibrated through him and into her as she
parted her lips to trace her tongue lightly across his own.
Both of her hands raked through his mop of hair, the fresh
spikes of sensation prickling down his spine.
He could sense every ounce of feeling that she wished to
express in her soft gasps, quiet mules and precious hums that
left Lumos light glowing in his heart.
I'm sorry. She rasped, breaking from the
kiss and bringing a hand to her mouth as though to conceal the
evidence. It is terribly unfair of me.
Shaking his head, he brought both her hands in his, trailing
soothing lines over her knuckles before pressing small, chaste
kisses on them. Once I thought your kisses would
strip me of all power, that with just a taste you could draw out
my very soul and keep it in a Locket around your neck, leaving
me utterly at your mercy. But it has been quite the
opposite. You are my Talisman, Narcissa,
my holy relic. She wrinkled her pointed nose at
the implication of age, and he flashed her a mischievous grin
as he pressed on. I would never want you to
suffer, Salazar. I don't even know if I could
live without him. If Drago.
He drew in a quick breath as his voice lowered an octave.
Believe me, I would stake my very life to save him from
himself. Such her sweet words, she
whispered, her eyes glittering as if she had stolen the sun's
shimmering reflection from the Ocean's surface.
But I would never ask that of you.
You're not asking. Do not endanger yourself, Theo.
He is my blood. But you?
She faltered. You might just be my bones, and
your life is worth just as much. Draco prowled the grounds,
withered leaves crunching beneath his boots.
He was a beastly minotaur trapped in his own cursed
labyrinth, doomed to wait for Theseus and the merciless bite
of the killing blow. Blood roared in his ears, his
nerves firing, his skin itchy with the irrepressible hunger as
the hollow ache inside him begged to be filled.
But in Granger's absence, only one thing answered.
Loathing. Loathing for himself.
Loathing for his Maker. If the Dark Lord wished to play
this twisted game, so be it. If the wretched creature longed
for death, Draco would grant him the courtesy of watching the
light leave his eyes forever.