The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins, Chapter 4, 1994
She couldn't believe it. One year.
All she wanted was one year to focus on her education without
persistent life or death distractions.
And yet her hopes were dashed once again.
At the very beginning of her fourth year, Dumbledore
announced that the school would be hosting the try was a
tournament, which sounded like a completely barbaric and useless
waste of their already limited time if anyone were to ask her.
Irritatingly, nobody did. Her peers were frustratingly
ecstatic about it, none more so than Fred and George, who'd
skipped at least three of their classes already dedicating their
time to finding a way around the age restriction.
Ronald thought they were brilliant and longed for the
ability to put his name into contention alongside theirs.
Hermione thought they were all fools.
Harry seemed to be the only one who wasn't tripping over himself
to fawn over the potential notoriety of becoming a
Triwizard Champion, though she supposed he already had quite
enough of that. His lack of desire to
participate did not match her deep rooted horror at the
existence of the tournament, nor its overshadowing of their long
overshadowed studies. It's absurd.
She huffed, shuffling the books into her arms, fresh from her
first library visit of the year. Can we not just have a simple
year without gauntlets or giant snakes, all men who turn into
werewolves, or rats that turn into men, or any other
potentially fatal occurrences? I thought that a reduced
schedule would afford me a greater focus, but no, instead
we're to host this asinine. She noticed that Harry had
stopped and was now standing at least 4 paces behind her,
spinning on her foot, Buck Tower wavering in her arms.
She followed his line of sight down the corridor and found Cho
Chang, who was sneaking glances back at him.
Go and talk to her, she's nice. Harry's laugh sounded strangled.
It's not, so I'm worried about. You're a fine charismatic.
She winced, taking in his dishevelled appearance.
It was exceedingly difficult to consider Harry as a romantic
prospect, even when trying to look through the eyes of
another. He was too much like a brother.
Just go and say hello. No, it's I should, I, I mean.
He scratched the back of his head and she bit back a smile as
his hair stuck upright. Are you good getting back?
I've got a letter to post. Serious.
Of course. She smiled over her books and
nodded encouragingly. Yes, go ahead.
Harry spared one last glance at Joe before taking his gin and
heading the other way, shaking his head as he went.
Ron was no better, likely off somewhere trying to speak to a
fast moving group of pretty girls from Burbaton.
She should have been expecting to witness the absolute
surrender to their hormones this year, but she'd failed to
adequately prepare herself for just how pathetic it would all
seem. She carried on her way, books
secure as her footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the
castle, and she let herself wonder how she would manage
those same challenges within herself.
She was far too level headed to be swayed from her focus by a
mere boy, and there was nobody within these walls that she'd
ever spare a second glance. Except that wasn't entirely
true. There had been moments, fleeting
and likely inconsequential, where Hermione had felt not
attraction, no, but fascination, allure, captivation.
She found herself eager to pull at the threads of certain
people, to evaluate the relationship she'd formed with
them. One in particular had taken up a
lot of her headspace over the summer, had caused her to lose
much needed hours of sleep to stare off into the distance
while her parents spoke about their work or her studies.
That had her pinning up a sketch to the wall above her bedside
table and tracing the lines of it each morning.
Even with all that time spent considering their interactions,
she was still unsure of what exactly it was that drew her so
strongly to him. He wasn't overtly pleasant, not
really, and he had far too high an opinion of himself and he.
The books lifted out of her hands and moved aside, pulling a
small gasp from her throat as they parted.
In front of her face, Draco Malfoy appeared, his wand raised
now at the floating books and his face a portrait of jovial
amusement. She had not much of a chance to
observe the changes in him when she'd seen him at the Quidditch
World Cup, but she could see them now.
He was taller, a little sharper, his hair a touch longer.
He looked well, really well, and she wasn't too proud to admit
that she'd missed him. Think of the devil.
She muttered, and he raised his eyebrows in question.
Hi, Malfoy. Hello, Granger.
His smile was soft but broad, rounding out his face, which had
shaped significantly over the months they'd spent apart.
He was pale, and as always, but there was a slight glow about
him. Had he spent the summer abroad?
Had he travelled with his family or his friends, and he flown his
broom over sandy beaches and eaten fresh fruit under the
morning sunshine? Had he thought of her?
Had he missed her too? His head tilted towards an
alcove, and she followed him into it, letting the books
follow along behind her. Still under the influence of his
chivalrous magic, he settled his back against the Stonewall,
letting the books stack themselves neatly by his feet
before shoving his hands into his pockets.
He looked entirely too relaxed, and she felt entirely too
jittery. Good Slammer?
He asked, eyes creasing and glinting.
Productive. She answered quickly, limply
pointing his way. You're taller now.
Seems to happen every year. Less gel in your hair too.
Yes, well. He looked down at his feet, and
she noticed the very tips of his ears turn pink.
I always get a better reaction without it.
From whom? She asked, leaning back against
the opposite wall. He did not answer her question,
tilting his head instead as he observed her mouth twisting into
a soft smirk. It's Thursday.
You've learned so much over the summer, Granger.
She sighed, but it was impossible to keep her amusement
out of the sound. I told you I wouldn't be able to
sneak into the dungeons this year.
He nodded patiently. And I told you I'd find
somewhere else. Have you?
She asked, eyebrows raised. Never heard of the come and go
room. Now that sparked her interest.
The Room of Requirement, you've found it?
He nodded again, chest puffing under his robes.
I did. She pushed off the wall.
But it only appears when a person is in great need.
The satisfied smile that formed on his mouth could only be
described as diabolical, and the words she told herself earlier
about being too level headed to be swayed by Boyer's charm
melted into nothing. He pushed off the wall and
leaned closer to her until the alcove felt short of oxygen.
She inhaled instinctively, catching the fresh scent of
cinnamon on his breath, and wondered what he'd had for
breakfast. Had he gotten a burly and eaten
the fluffy pancakes, or did he drag himself out of bed for a
last minute bowl of porridge? Had he looked across the hall to
the Gryffindor table in the hopes of spotting her the way
she'd been hoping to spot him? He did not lean back before he
spoke, and the sweet, woody spice permeated the remaining
air between them. I was in great need, Grainger.
She didn't know what to say to that, fearful that her reply
would be altered by the dizzying proximity of his much taller,
much more fragrant presence, so she just swallowed hard and
pressed her back flat against the wall to get some more space.
He told her exactly where to go and exactly where to find it on
the 7th floor behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
She had to walk past it three times while thinking of what she
needed. When she asked him exactly what
that was, he'd merely smiled and said A place to be alone with
me. Then he'd levitated her books
back into her arms and left her there in the alcove, spice in
her nose and blood thundering in her veins.
She'd been anything but productive that afternoon,
barely hearing a word while Ron told Harry everything he knew
about the try was a tournament, hardly noticing when Fred and
George went barrelling out of the common room with a box full
of rattling vials, not blinking at all when Padma touched her on
the shoulder and asked if she was coming down for dinner.
She caught the silver eyes of a laughing Malfoy as she settled
on the opposite side of the hall that night, and instantly felt
electrified. Without sparing another moment
to talk herself out of it, she tugged on Harry's sleeve and
pulled him into a conspiratorial whisper, which made him grunt
into the chicken leg he'd been in the midst of taking a bite
of. I need to borrow your cloak
tonight, she said. He pried his teeth out of the
chicken leg, frowning at her as he wiped his mouth.
Restricted section again. She didn't want to lie to him,
not about this, but she also didn't want to divulge her
secret partnership with his school time nemesis.
It wasn't that she was ashamed, although she would be a liar if
that didn't play some small role in her omission.
It was more that she wasn't sure what it was between her and
Malfoy. Not yet.
They weren't exactly friends. Friends didn't speak in the
shadows of alcoves or only met in the middle of the night.
They were study buddies at best, top of their classes, working
together to stay there. They had an understanding of
sorts. No, she answered him honestly,
deciding not to elaborate further.
He pressed his lips into a firm line and gave her a look of
unmistakable concern before his shoulders sagged.
Don't RIP it. She snorted, shoved him once,
and turned her attention back to her plate.
The walk to the 7th floor was no less perilous than the walk to
the dungeons, but it did mean significantly less risk of
running into anyone who hated her specifically, other than
Missus Norris, who remained blissfully absent.
She pulled back the tapestry of Barnabas teaching a group of
trolls ballet and paced the corridor 3 times, just as
instructed. With each pass of the tapestry,
she let one thought drown out all the rest.
A place to find Malfoy. When the door emerged, she had
to clap a palm over her mouth to stop the squeal of elation from
bursting from it and giving her position away.
It was magnificent magic, ancient, complicated, almost
sentient. She vowed to read every passage
she could find about this room and how it came to be.
She shoved the cloak into her bag and pushed the door open
quietly, slipping inside. Malfoy was already waiting
inside the room, which was made of wall to wall shelves and a
small 2 seater sofa in the centre.
It wasn't anything grandiose, but she supposed she hadn't
required it to be. Malfoy pushed up from the sofa
and walked to greet her, his smile warm and inviting and
gods, he appeared genuinely happy to see her.
You're late. He clicked his tongue, pointing
to an old grandfather clock wedged between the shelves.
You're Hurley, She counted, brushing past him and throwing
herself down on the sofa, eyes gliding across the dimly lit
room, absorbing every detail. This is remarkable.
How did you find it? The Malfoy library is extensive
and I had a lot of free time to research.
Ah yes, the great Malfoy Library.
He told her about it last year. He'd spoken about it with more
reverence than he'd had even for his broomstick.
She spent many nights thinking about how it might look, how it
might smell, and wondered if she would ever one day be allowed to
see it. But that fantasy had never been
more out of reach, especially after the events of the World
Cup. I haven't thanked you yet for
your warning at the match. She sat up straight as she
spoke, and the genial glint in his eyes went out like a candle
flame. I don't know what would have
happened if you'd not found us. His jaw clenched tight and he
did not move to take the seat beside her, instead taking a
step back and running 1 long finger against the rung of a
shelf, leaving a clean line through the settled dust.
Don't thank me for that. She cleared her throat.
It had indeed been the bare minimum, so why had it felt like
so much more? Deciding not to dwell, she
patted the space beside her and gave him a friendly smile.
Come, sit down, I don't like it when you loom.
He blew out a breathy laugh but did not object.
The sofa was small enough that they were shoulder to shoulder,
which felt formal and wrong, so she turned to face him and
crossed her legs beneath her. His eyes immediately fell to her
legs, the corner of his mouth twitching as he took in her
attire. Muggle jeans.
He said quietly, reaching out seemingly without realizing he
was doing so and pinching the hem of her cuff.
They are nice. The back of his fingers twitched
the bare skin of her ankle, and her breath audibly hitched as if
he'd finally noticed what he was doing.
He jerked his hand back and clasped it on his lap with the
other, his ears turning pink as they did in the alcove earlier
that day. She could feel the blood rushing
to her face and thanked every God she could name that the
lighting was low enough to disguise it.
How many classes are you taking this year?
He asked, voice sounding a little hoarse, eyes determined
not to meet hers. Was she supposed to be able to
form a coherent thought for her? Normal amount?
He scoffed, settling back against the cushions with forced
ease. Normal for you or just normal?
She smacked his shoulder lightly, which pulled a more
natural laugh from him. Her hand, though, did not jerk
back as suddenly as his had. Instead she let it linger there
on his shoulder for a moment more, fingertips tracing the
seam of his jumper, which was cashmere and had a soft shade of
grey that seemed to complement the metal shards of his eyes.
Goderick. She needed to get a grip.
She placed her hands on her lap, much like he had, and clasped
them together, much like he did. I'm already furious.
Oh, do tell. This bloody tournament is going
to hinder our studies. As if we haven't had quite
enough of that these last three years.
Speak for yourself. I've managed to stay mostly out
of trouble. She narrowed her eyes at him and
he smirked in return, and that increasingly familiar sense of
simplicity settled over them once more.
It shocked her less each time how easy it was to be in his
company. He never snapped at her like he
had before, in fact, it had been a long time since he'd been
anything but kind to her. If he were playing a game, it
was a long one and he was winning.
You don't see any problem with the tournament?
She asked warily. He shrugged.
The only problem is the age restriction.
Dumbledore is a fool not to allow myself or Theodore to
enter. We'd be representing historic
magical houses. It would be a great honour to
this wretched school. She sucked in her breath through
her teeth. Now.
This is more like the Malfoy she knew.
Arrogant and foolish and ungrateful to be within the
castle walls that had offered her a life she once never could
have imagined. So humble of you.
I'm not going to feign humility to appease you, Granger.
I know who I am, I know my name, and I know the weight it
carries. Yes.
She wanted to hiss. And you wield it like a weapon,
or more often, a shield. Well.
She said, nose raising higher. I, for one, am glad for the
restriction. It's completely irresponsible
for the school to house such a dangerous event.
Insisting on a minimum age is the least they can do.
Malfoy shook his head. You wouldn't understand, You're
not from this world. Her hackles raised in an
instant, the hairs on her arms standing to attention, her
molars grinding with the fury she tried to bite back.
Because I'm muggle born, yes? He said calmly, and she waited
for it. She waited for him to say it, to
spin where he sat, point his wand in her face and call her a
filthy little mudblood, To curl his lip in disgust, to laugh at
her for thinking that he, heir to the ancestral House Malfoy,
would ever lower himself to become acquaintances with the
likes of her, let alone friends. She would bite back, of course.
She would tap into that buried rage the second he sneered.
But he didn't. He just shuffled in his seat,
winced at her and tried to explain.
There are traditions that you will be unfamiliar with because
you did not grow up with them. They may seem extreme to you or
not make any sense, but to me, they make absolute sense.
He was using his hands to express himself, weaving the
threads of his words for her to see.
It's not going to hold the same importance for you.
That surprisingly made sense. I still think it's a waste of
time and resources. His smile was gentle, warm, and
possibly even affectionate. I know you do.
Her hair calls lowered her arm hair settled and her teeth
unclenched. She didn't have to agree with
him to understand him, and she did understand him for quite
possibly the first time since they'd known each other.
She could see his side of things, and the vision was
clear. So she started, keen to move on
Tuesdays and Thursdays. He tipped his head to the
ceiling, resting on the cushions of the sofa, and she wondered if
he was trying to hide his face from her.
Sounds good to me. Only to start bringing blankets.
She laughed, tugging at her sleeves.
It's freezing in here. So the room could hear her.
A presence not unlike herself or Malfoy.
The walls began to shake. They both stiffened at once, her
hand darting up to grab hold of his shoulder, his arm shooting
out to cover her. They watched as the far wall
expanded, pushing the shelves apart to make room for an
enormous tiled fireplace with coals already placed and a log
already laid across them. The fireplace roared to life,
flooding the room with beautiful heat.
Remarkable, indeed, Malfoy murmured, slowly lowering his
arm from where it had banded across her, but her gaze had
hardly lingered on the fire at all.
No, it remained on that arm of his which had shot out so
protectively, so instantly, that it could not have been by
anything other than that same instinct that caused her to
reach out for his shoulder. Indeed.
She echoed, letting the crackling of the firewood fill
the following silence. 1999 The Vern?
Hermione asked, looking up from the documents that she'd been
handed the second she walked into the tent.
What is it? The others watched her with hard
expressions. She was shaking like a leaf,
still soaked from the rain, still covered in Christopher's
blood, unwilling to resolve either of those issues.
It's a prism within the Cliff side.
Martin told her carefully, passing her a picture of the
entrance. We think Rookwood has taken
control there. He's likely imperious the
prisoners and killed the guards. How do you know this?
She asked, flipping through the documents staining each page she
touched. Catherine cleared her throat.
Reports arrived from the Ministry today while you were
while we were out scouting. Hermione asked through gritted
teeth while they were turning over stones and wandering
aimlessly, while they were still figuring out how to ask a
question the Ministry already had the answer for, while
Christopher was choking on his teeth and blood, and she closed
her eyes briefly, letting the anger fester.
She'd need it. How do we get in undetected?
She finally asked, her voice sounding a lot stronger than she
felt. I highly doubt there is a side
entrance. There isn't.
Martin pointed to the picture in her hands.
That's the main entrance in the Cliff side.
The other is by the footbridge. The bridge is our best option.
I think it'll be narrow, but I put money on most of the guards
being stationed at the main entrance.
It was a guess, but she'd worked with far less.
All right, we'll take the footbridge.
Do you know how many numbers we are expecting?
There were five with him at the main quarry.
Emma said, wincing. But who knows how many more
he'll have wait in. Doesn't matter, it'll be a fight
regardless. Hermione shrugged, turning to
the desk and the paperwork that piled atop it, ink fresh and
undried and a series of scrawled signatures.
Is this the report? Yeah.
Martin coughed. We were waiting for you to sign
and date it. The document that would formally
declare Christopher dead would be sent off with an owl to the
Ministry, where it would be placed in a file with all the
others. The file would be taken to the
doorstep of his townhouse, under the arm of a Ministry wizard who
might not have ever even known Christopher, who never heard
stories about the family that they were delivering the news
too. She picked up the quill and
coldly signed her name at the bottom, hesitating only when it
came to the final dotted line. What is the date?
December 31st. Catherine whispered.
The quill shook in her hand, dripping ink splotches onto the
parchment. The words hit her like a cold
plunge. Had Harry or Ronald mentioned
Christmas in their letters? Had they forgotten to?
A strangled sound caught the back of her throat as she
remembered Christmas mornings at the Burrow, the singing and the
jumpers and the chaos at the cramped dinner table.
She remembered winters at school, how the castle
decorations would appear overnight, the enormous tree
that Hagrid would drag through the gates, and the owls that
worked overtime to deliver letter after letter to homesick
children. She remembered Draco Malfoy and
the way that he'd shake a little box at her from across the hall
before tucking it into his pocket, the promise of reveal
resonating like a vibration in her chest.
Goddrick, had any of them noticed?
She cast a quick Tempest charm and watched the clock tick
steadily towards midnight until the numbers reset to 0.
The tent remained entirely silent as the new year ushered
in. This annual reset did nothing to
change their situation. Christopher's body was still
rigid and cold in the tent across from them.
His wife was still an unknowing widow, his son was fatherless,
and Hermione still had a job to do should an old acquaintance be
forgot. She mumbled under her breath as
she signed the date, folded the letter and sent it off with the
camp's tawny owl. The others were watching her
with guarded expressions as if she were a cornered animal, and
she wondered if they could sense the fury that rolled in her
veins. She turned towards them and
placed her wand back in its leather strap, waiting for them
to do the same. When nobody moved, she raised
her arms at her side in exasperation.
What are you waiting for? She snapped.
Martin, Catherine and Emma all shared a wide eyed glance and
Hermione wanted to kick them in the shins.
Hermione, do you not want to wash that off first?
Emma asked, gesturing to the blood that still covered most of
Hermione's upper body. She looked down at her hands and
turned them over, palms facing up.
She was bathed in it, some wet from the rain, some of it dried
and cracked, all of it from her friend, who she bowed over and
pressed herself into, trying to hold in what had seeped out.
She turned up, arms down, twisting her wrists under the
dim light of the lamp's flame. It was not the first time she'd
had blood on her hands. There had been the Nosebleed
she'd had in Shaftesbury Avenue when they'd escaped the wedding.
There had been Ron's splinting. She'd held chunks of his flesh
in place as he wailed beneath her touch, in too much agony to
even beg for relief. There had been the battle, the
one that had brought down the only home she'd had left, the
one that had killed so many of the people she loved.
Her hands had been covered in a grotesque mixture of blood and
filth. She hadn't even known whose
blood it was by the end of it. Now it was Christopher's.
Hermione did not answer them. Her focus caught on the darkened
lines of her palms, the dried flakes under her nails, once
vital parts of the human body now reduced to dirt that she
would scrub away in a stream. Am I in E?
Emma pressed again, taking a cautious step towards her.
I think you should stay here, our numbers are too low.
She replied flatly, curling her fingers to her palms.
You're in shock. I'm not.
She said, dropping her hands to her side and meeting the eyes of
her camp mates, all of whom looked exhausted and pale and
gods, scared. It made sense, they should be
scared. They were heading for a fight
that they were woefully unprepared for.
They hadn't scouted the location, they hadn't gotten a
head count. Catherine was a medic, she
should not be expected to duel. And yet she would be.
They would all be the four of them here, and the three that
currently patrolled the wards. If we wait any longer, he'll
slip away. She spoke again, more determined
now. Is everyone ready?
Martin didn't look ready. He looked like he wanted to say
something more, possibly offer another protest or question her
wavering sanity. He opened his mouth for a
fleeting moment before snapping it shut and grinding his teeth
together. She was right.
Any wiggle room they gave Rookwood, he would take.
Martin knew it, they all knew it.
Unusually, she couldn't rejoice in being correct.
I'll recall the others. Catherine mumbled, brushing past
Hermione as she exited the tent, followed closely by a tents
Martin. Emma however, lingered behind.
She was still staring at Hermione with her heart in her
eyes, pleading silently. Hermione, you need to wash.
No, Hermione did not stay there any longer, ducking out of the
tent and grabbing her bag, opting to wait for the rest of
them under the canopy of her own tent's awning.
She did not want to wash the blood from her hands, she wanted
Rookwood to see it. They regrouped and set off
shortly after, leaving Christopher's covered body
behind in his tent. He didn't need protection
anymore, and they couldn't spare a single wand.
They walked in silence for the most part, save for the
occasions that Martin recapped the plan.
They would attempt a distraction at the main entrance, that would
be Hermione's job, while Emma set up anti apparition wards,
and then they would try to make it into the prison via the
footbridge. There were no blueprints for the
inside layout. Everything from there would be
chaos. Hermione peeled off as they
approached the stone walls that seemed to sprout from the
hillside as though they had grown naturally like the
surrounding bushes. The rain had ceased, but the
wind had not. If anything, it had only grown
worse. The beach Rd. that connected the
island to the mainland had flooded.
She could see it from where they stood now, waves rippling upon
the pebbles of Chesil Beach and marooning anyone without magical
means of travel. If Christopher were here, he
might tell her to stop and take it all in.
The power of nature, the smell of the ocean breeze, the sound
of the crashing waves and howling winds.
He might close his eyes and tip his head back, letting his
glasses fog as he faced the weather with a smile.
He might tell her a story about the history of the land, or
point at the white cliffs of the Jurassic Coast and inform her of
the sediment. But he wasn't here, and that was
the point. Don't hang about, lure them out
and apparate to us. Martin told her, no trace of
trepidation in his voice now. Only focus.
When she didn't answer him swiftly enough, he stopped and
placed her hand on her shoulder, only to lift it off again when
she flinched instinctively. Hermione, I need to hear you say
that you'll apparate to us. We won't be able to wait long,
of course. She nodded briskly.
Well, be quick. Martin nodded and pointed to the
split in the road. You go that way.
I'll activate the coin when we're ready.
She did as instructed, not sparing another glance at the
others before hiking her bag strap higher on her shoulder and
marching up the road. Her eyes burned as she climbed
the steep hill, and she focused on that pain, feeding from it,
letting it fuel the volcanic anger in her blood.
The main entrance to the Verne was an imposing stone archway
that might have impressed her had she not spent years
surrounded by the ancient architecture of the magical
world, by castles that towered in impossible shapes or
townhouses that appeared from nowhere.
She'd been enriched to a fault. Everything paled in comparison.
The entrance was guarded by two men who seemed more preoccupied
with their own conversation than keeping watch.
They must have been Wizards. The imperious Muggles would not
have the cognition to converse. She drew her wand from its
leather strap and held it tightly in her bloodied hand.
The connection was instant, even more so than usual.
It was ready, and so was she. She took her place behind a
large, unkempt Bush and waited. 8 minutes later, the coin burned
in her pocket, and she pointed her wand at the Stonewall that
the two Wizards were leaning against.
Bombard her. Maxima.
She whispered, and her wand seemed to sing it back to her.
The wall burst outwards, burying the unsuspecting Wizards under
the rubble. For a horrifying, unstoppable
moment, she heard Fred's last laugh.
Carry on the wind. He'd not even been afforded one
final punch line before the Stonewall had hit him.
What of these men? Had they finished their sentence
in sad? A voice called out, capturing
her attention. Another man was running into the
entrance, his cloak billowing behind him.
The coin burned hotter in her pocket, a stern nudge that told
her under no uncertain terms that she was expected elsewhere.
They wouldn't wait long, they couldn't.
Gus, get inside. The voice called again.
Gus or Gustus or Gustus Rookwood.
It was a guess, but so was everything, and her hands were
still covered in Christopher's blood, so she stepped out from
the Bush and walked towards the entrance calmly.
There was no need to rush. The others would cut off the
footbridge exit and they couldn't apparate.
She stalked forward, reckless and furious, until she was
inside the tunnel and the winds died, leaving only a sharp ring
in her ears. It was her pulse.
Objectively, she knew that, but in the moment it felt like so
much more audible proof of her magic, of the rage that made it
sizzle under the skin of her fingertips.
Fuck. The man called, The same one who
had called for Gus, the one now standing in front of a door that
seemed woefully fragile. He pointed his wand at her.
His mouth formed the spell, but Hermione was faster.
Ever a Verde satum? She muttered, sending him
flying. She didn't bother to see where
or how he landed. It could be on his neck for all
she cared. Instead, she pushed open the
door with her boot and walked inside.
It led to the older, unused part of the prison below.
The modern cells with their electrical locks and overhead
LED lights would be found, but here was more familiar to a
which she had spent her youth in a castle.
Everything was made of damp, cold stone.
The stairs spiralled. The light was formed by flame,
and the footsteps of whoever was fleeing echoed down the
corridors, beckoning her. She followed the sound.
The coin in her pocket was now hot enough to burn, and there
was something delightfully tethering about the painful
sensation against her skin. She wondered if it would leave a
hole in her jeans. She almost hoped it would.
Fucking mad blood. A female voice came from above.
Hermione turned for the stairs and took them two at a time,
wand at the ready. The curse that flew past her
head was close enough to lift a few hairs from her shoulder, but
not close enough to stop her pursuit.
The witch was waiting and ready, her wand held up in front of
her. Her lips curled around the sound
of what would undoubtedly be the killing curse.
Hermione didn't blink as she turned to the side and dodged
it, nor when she deflected the curse that followed.
This was always their issue, she thought passively.
They waste their energy on the first spell, de pulso.
She fired back, clearing the way.
There was a crack as the witch hit the wall, followed by a
desperate, airless groan of agony, but Hermione did not stop
to look. She continued, sending anyone
who came her way flying. The others were surely here by
now. They would find the fallen and
bind them. She had one target only. 1-2
staircases, 3 corridors, 6 doorless rooms, none of them
which held Augustus Rookwood. She could hear the voices of her
camp mates from the floors below, but she did not wait for
them. It was objectively, incredibly
foolish for her to proceed alone.
But she was not thinking objectively.
She was thinking of Sarah opening a letter that detailed
the time of her husband's death. She was thinking of Tobias
sliding along the hardwood floors with no one to chase him.
She was thinking of a grand piano left to grieve in silence.
They were deep in the cliffside at this point, Muggles likely
going about their business only a few feet above the sounds of
their battle. Covered by the strong winds,
Hermione moved to another room, long with multiple alcoves that
might have once been cells. It was difficult to not think of
the alcoves at Hogwarts, how they'd become a place of refuge
or frenzy. She could almost feel the cold
Press of the stone between her shoulder plates, could almost
smell the cinnamon spice that would linger on his lips.
Surprised they let you out of London?
The wizard stepped out of an alcove.
His smile was rotten and his hands were obscured by shadows.
Reckoned you'd be under the same blanket as Potter.
Augustus Rookwood, a tall, pockmarked, greasy haired man
was smiling at her without a hint of concern.
He must have tried and failed to apparate by now.
He must have heard the cries and curses of his fallen followers,
and yet he stood before her, looking entirely relaxed.
She began to feel a lot less like a predator and a lot more
like prey. I'm working on the clean up.
She shrugged, working hard to match his nonplussed energy.
Ah, I thought you were his. He tutted, shaking his head.
Did he not demand your protection?
Is there trouble in paradise? She forced her eyes to roll, not
enough to lose focus, but enough to put on a show.
It wasn't the first time people thought there was more to her
relationship with Harry, nor would it be the last.
She considered how he might recoil in horror if only he knew
the truth of were her heart called home, of whose heart she
housed in return, he wouldn't believe her.
And for reasons unbeknownst to her, it only made her want to
tell him more. Is that blood?
He asked as she stepped into the dim light, a small smile pulling
at the corner of his mouth. Now I see why they sent you back
in. The Order doesn't have time for
anyone who bends their precious rules, do there?
Times change. She replied, deciding that the
Order's reputation for pacificity, though incorrect,
was worth maintaining, if only for the element of surprise.
People change, some do, some don't.
He raised his wand and she mirrored his action.
You won't beat me, Mud Blood. She braced herself.
Confront. Before the spell had even formed
in full, she was flying. The air tore from her lungs and
the very bones of her felt like Jelly until the very second they
didn't. She hit the wall so hard she saw
stars. Entire constellations.
A wheeze squeezed from her lungs, sounding much more like
Cruickshanks whenever she'd accidentally trodden on his tail
or tried to clip his claws. Everything ached.
Breathing was impossible. Her ribs had shrunken around her
lungs and were leaving depressions on the organ.
She clawed at the wall, trying to find purchase, but it only
exposed her defendor. Rookwood called and her back
opened with a flash of white hot, blistering pain.
She screamed without restraint, A breathless and cracking noise
that seemed to dial every other sound out of existence.
The flow of blood was instant and intense, soaking her shirt
through within seconds. She didn't need to see it to
know it was deep and large and God, she felt dizzy.
She reached for her wand as quickly as she could, which was
unfortunately, not very quickly at all.
The movements were unmasked and desperate, and Rookwood saw it
coming from a mile away as his fingers wrapped around the base
of her most beloved tool. Pain shot through her so rapidly
that she dropped it again. It didn't matter.
None of it mattered. All that mattered was the
sensation. This burning, this boiling, this
abject agony that swallowed the rest of the world.
Her skin was a flame, peeling, shredding.
Her mind was being vibrated to a paste.
It would leak out of her nose. Her eyes would bulge beyond
repair. Every blood vessel would burst.
Her optic nerve would sever. Her teeth were sure to shatter.
She would swallow the shots of them and choke.
They would sliced tears inside her throat.
Oh God, she needed to die. She needed to die right now.
It had to end. She'd felt this before the
Cruciatus, and she couldn't possibly be expected to feel it
again. She'd beg if she had to, on her
hands and knees here in the prison, inside the cliffs of
Portland, covered in blood. She would crawl and beg for the
sweet mercy of death. Bitch.
Rookwood bellowed as the curse melted out of her paws.
Her surroundings formed back into view.
Her face was wet with blood, tears, sweat.
Godric only knew she was stomach down, cheek pressed against the
damp stone, nails chipped from scraping at it.
Breathing was exceedingly difficult, as was everything
else. Sleep was so close.
All she needed to do was close our eyes again and let it
happen. It wouldn't be so bad, she
thought. All she needed to do was stop,
just lie here and wait. Rookwood would kill her and
parade her corpse across the country as a sign of victory, a
claim of power, but she wouldn't care.
She'd be dead. No more scrubbing filth from
under her fingernails. No more curses that had her
pleading to the sound of returning laughter.
No more grief or worry or agony. No more watching the moon and
wondering if he was watching it too.
No more Harry with his ridiculous laugh and bouncy
walk. No more floppy, out of control
hair that only got worse each time he tugged at it.
No more repairing his glasses when he sat on them or bemused
glances whenever she did something unexpectedly reckless.
No more Ron, his broad and comforting frame would never
envelope her in another hug. He would never let her win at
Wizard's Tess again, or roll his eyes when she started talking
about whatever book she was reading.
That bright hair that looked like flames in the sunrise, or
eyes that shone even in the dark.
No more Weaseleys, who had taken her so immediately under their
wings when she'd arrived in a world unknown to her in
practice, who had defended and housed her, who had gifted her
Christmas jumpers and written her letters in the summer.
No more Malfoy, who had made her feel so very alive and so very
blissfully happy to be. That wouldn't do that, couldn't
do. So, with a loud groan and a
staggering amount of effort, she pushed herself to her forearms
and began crawling towards her wand.
Rookwood laughed loudly, his footsteps nearing.
You lot never learn when to give up.
She ignored him, pushing herself forward again, teeth gritted and
spit flying. Every inch of her was trembling.
Her back was still open and gushing, her legs were out of
action, but her wand was right there.
She pushed again, one shaking hand outstretched for it.
What's your plan, Mudblood? Going to stun me?
He asked mockingly, and she realized he was waiting for her
to act first. He could have killed her quite
easily at that moment, but it wouldn't have been any fun at
all for a man like him. He expected so very little from
her, and she'd never been happier for it.
The only way you're taking me in is if I'm cold.
Aye, no, She gasped, finally closing around her wand.
Hermione had been granted a series of books in order to
prepare for her first year at Hogwarts.
She would be starting behind a lot of her peers, of course.
It was only fair that she'd been given the opportunity to catch
up as much as possible. She remembered reading about
spells, mumbling them to herself over and over as her parents
drove her to and from swimming classes, as they built sand
castles on the beach. In between bites of her dinner,
she would point at various objects and whisper, Levy, Oh
Sir. She would lock the bathroom door
and let her hand rest against the handle, muttering Aloha
Mora. She would leave her pencil case
on the other side of the room and shout Axio.
Sometimes things twitched. Sometimes she felt it, that
pull, that thing within her that had only grown more unmanageable
with time. But none of it worked, of
course. Until she held her first wand
and heard it call to her, felt it caress her magic like they
were old friends reunited. But even then, in her most
inquisitive, she never dared to speak those 3 words into
existence. Rookwood watched her roll onto
her back, his eyes alight with Glee, waiting for her futile
attempt at self defence. But he, like so many others,
underestimated the true depth of her anger.
The words formed on her lips with unsurprising ease.
As she spoke, she thought of Christopher, who had held her up
from the Dewey grass of Lulworth Cove and half carried her to
camp, who shared his stories and his provisions willingly.
He reminded her to stop and smell the roses, whose blood
still clung to her skin and the base of her wand.
Rookwood paled as he realized that she was not, in fact, about
to cast an easily deflectable stone.
His arm shot up, his wand at the ready, but it mattered not.
She was already uttering those words into existence for the
first time in her life, but undoubtedly not the last.
Avada Kedavra. Green light flashed before her
eyes, blinding her. Rookwood hit the ground at the
same time her wand did, tumbling from her limp pants as she
collapsed back against the stone floor and remained there,
settling into the growing pool of blood beneath her.
The books had been right. She had to mean it, and that was
exhausting. She didn't feel different, not
really. There was no overwhelming
darkness creeping in like she'd been led to expect.
Nothing felt corrupted. Perhaps she was already
corrupted and this was merely confirmation.
The seething was dripping, and she focused on the sound of the
droplets hitting stone. It reminded her of the steady
hands of a grandfather clock stuck between two shelves,
ticking away as she rested her head in a warm lap that welcomed
her. Time passed without measure.
Fresh blood met the backs of her hands where they rested at her
side, and her breathing became shallow.
Eventually, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridors,
followed by the frantic shouts of someone searching for her.
She noted someone searching for her.
The desperate, dying part of her hoped it would be Malfoy.
She could picture it so clearly from behind her eyelids.
He would skid to a halt. His eyes would widen in horror,
he would gather her into his arms and heal her open wounds
with gentle touch of his magic. He would call for help and then
lower his voice to a whisper as he buried his face in her soaked
hair. He would call her an idiot and
she would try to pinch him for it.
And then his lips would brush that spot just below her ear and
his words would turn saccharin. Am I in He?
Martin shouted and she pried her eyes open to find him standing
at her feet, hands in his hair. Oh thank fuck you are alive, am
I? Martin called back down the
corridor for the others to assist him before dropping down
beside her and beginning his inspection of her injuries.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and hip before rolling her to
her side, which was agonising but not enough to pull a sound
out of her. She could feel the Press of the
tip of his wand to her back, the slow icy sensation that numbed
the area before he sat to cleaning it.
Holy Emma was here now, and Hermione could make out the
corner of her eye that she was staring at Rookwood's and
naturally posed body. That's not good, that's really
not good, isn't it? She wanted to ask.
It felt pretty good. Hermione, this is going to hurt
a lot, but I need you to stay awake until Catherine gets here.
Martin's instructions were little more than a distant home
in her ears. Promise me you'll stay awake.
She nodded subtly, slowly, but he caught it.
He began the delicate work of closing her wound, which must
have been deep enough to see bone hissing spells and
reprimands, into his breath as his other hand held her steady
on her side. And Hermione remained silent,
just as she'd promised, until Catherine dropped to her knees
and poured tonics down her aching throat.
And when she dreamed, she didn't think of the rattling sound of
Rookwood's last breath, nor the way her wand had flinched when
the spell coursed through it. She didn't dream of exposed
spines or pain visceral enough to make her vomit.
She dreamt of him, silver shards in his eyes, teeth pristine and
on display as he threw his head back in laughter, his hand in
hers, tugging her closer on that tiny little sofa in a world of
their own. When she awoke, she was in her
tent. Her skin was clean, her wounds
were healed and bandaged, her hair had been brushed, and a
fresh set of clothes waited on the chair beside her.
It was the first day of the new year and none of it mattered
because nothing had changed.