Chapter 19 The thread of fate. Hermione ran the shower scolding
hot, allowing the heavy water pressure to hammer against her
skin, the epidermis flaring in patches of angry red.
Crookshanks had been scratching at the door for 20 minutes.
She would feel bad about keeping him out, he loved playing with
the stray water droplets, but she needed to be alone and she
couldn't fit any more guilt into her conscious mind.
Percy was dead. He was dead and it was her
fault. The Weasleys had reacted based
on the news of her pregnancy, and instead of waiting to see
what information the Order could glean, they decided they
couldn't and wouldn't wait. They decided they needed to
fight. Hermione couldn't even blame
them. She felt their rage as if it
were her own. This wasn't how any of this was
supposed to go. Harry was meant to have survived
the battle, to have fulfilled his destiny and defeated
Voldemort from reports obtained after he had walked into the
Forbidden Forest to face his fate.
But fate that day had not been on their side.
In the days after everything had clicked into place for Hermione,
Harry had been Voldemort's unintentional Horcrux, a piece
of his soul slicing from him and on to Harry when he first
attacked them in Goddrick's Hollow during the First
Wizarding War. It was why Harry could speak to
snakes and always had this odd connection with the dark wizard.
With Harry murdered, there would have been only one Horcrux to
go. Nagini and Neville took care of
her. After that, Voldemort should
have been easy to fell. Except he wasn't.
He had a last trick up his sleeve.
It felt like he was always a step ahead of her, and she
despised it. No, none of this was meant to go
this way. Hermione ached for the Weaseleys
and all that they had collectively lost.
She could imagine them now, riling each other up, convincing
each other that the time for inaction had passed.
The shower water pounded down upon her and she cursed
internally at the mess of the day.
If only she had known she was pregnant.
Why couldn't she have been allowed to keep at least that
precious piece of information that she was going to be a
mother? Then she could have warned her
family ahead of time, saving Percy's life.
It made no sense to her. Hermione prided herself on
knowing things. Throughout her journey in
discovering the wizarding world and her attempt to ingratiate
herself with its members and customs, she spent an inordinate
amount of time and resources to study everything she could get
her hands on. Knowledge wasn't power.
Knowledge was security, the securing of her rightful place
in this newly discovered world. Every day of school, especially
that first year, she'd been so anxious that Alba Stumbledore
would revoke her admission at the drop of a hat if she weren't
able to keep up with the class work.
The concern only mounted during every exam season.
She knew people found her insufferable, hell, even she
found herself insufferable replaying the day's
conversations and sneers of the Slytherins for her over
exuberant need to not only know it all, but also to show
everyone that she did indeed know it all.
And if she were honest with herself, she did know rather a
lot. It truly was a marvel she ended
up in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw.
Maybe if she had pushed for the sorting cat to put her in Rowena
Wavenclaw's house instead of Godrich's, she would have been
challenged further. Perhaps then she would have
found a way to save Ron and Harry, to weaken Voldemort
before the battle to discover whatever ancient magic he was
playing with. The hot water continued to
punish her back while she let her mind sort through the tangle
of thoughts. Hermione brought a hand to her
stomach, wondering idly if a shower this hot was sensible
during pregnancy. She would have to check the
library for baby books or ask Narcissa to pick one up from
flourishing blocks. See, she thought to herself,
inching closer to the thought that pranced around the edges of
her mind. When I don't have information, I
go looking for it. I would never have willingly
offered up my memories to come back here.
As soon as she grasped hold of the thought, she knew it to be
true. Which left only one question.
Who had obliviated her without her consent?
And truly, if she were honest with herself, there was only one
answer. Draco Malfoy.
Despite the implications, his name scratched a delicious
little itch in her mind, and Hermione ran a thumb along her
lower lip, tracing the surface where his lips had pressed
against her own. That morning, he had tasted
better than she ever imagined. Rich Italian coffee spiced with
something taboo. Anna seed, cinnamon or Chai?
Hermione wondered what his kiss would taste like in the evening
after a glass of red wine and a wood smoked steak.
Her core pulsed in response and another flavour swam into her
senses. Iron.
His blood drenching silver blonde hair, the glint of a
dagger in her hand. Her pulse raced and she took in
a sharp intake of breath, slapping a palm to the child
wall to steady herself at the intrusive thought while a heavy,
rhythmic knock upon the door pulled her back to reality.
You all right in there? Not trying to drown yourself and
Malfoy's precious offspring, are you?
Hermione spluttered outer. Not today I'm not, before
turning the magical dial on the wall, taking a deep breath, and
stepping out of the shower. I can help you dry off if you
like. Theo teased from behind the door
to her bedroom. Hermione sniffed a sad gust of
air, her nose still sore from all the crying.
As much as I appreciate your flirtation tactics to cheer me
up, I'm perfectly fine thank you.
She replied, her shaky voice betraying her.
Hermione ruffled her towel over her hair, causing the curls to
tighten up for a moment before dropping down loosely, plucking
a beautiful green velvet dressing gown from a hanger on
the door that she had been saving for a special pampering
evening. Hermione covered her still red
wrought torso and entered the bedroom where she found Theo
pacing. Cruickshank sat upon the vanity
table, ears pricked up as though he were on guard, and Theo
turned to her, his usually playful expression one of
concern and trepidation. I promise I'm OK, just sad is
all. She responded to his look.
Sad. And at the end of my tether, I
can understand that loss of loved ones, time travel, and
secrets take a lot out of you. Take it from someone who studies
such matters with academic intent.
He frowned a smile and sat on the thick armchair, reaching
over to Cruickshanks who so easily surrendered to pecks.
Hermione smirked sadly at the sight, not able to appreciate
the rare pair fully as waves of woe still crashed against her.
Is anyone else Privy to my entire life story?
I need to keep track of my secret keepers?
Hermione asked almost moodily. Hey.
Theo said, holding his hands up in innocence.
Malfoy only consulted with me since the very device that
brought you here is my entire life's work.
Hermione paused at that. But sure, you keep rattling on
about how this all revolves around you.
The words cut her a little, but his tone and expression remained
jovial and candid. I'm sorry.
Hermione apologised, walking over to the window side of her
bed, lifting up the mattress and unearthing the bronze time
Turner Malfoy had given back to her last night.
I didn't know. I mean, I recognize the markings
from one of your letters to Draco, but it never crossed my
mind that you could be his maker.
Can we really say I'm his maker if I haven't even invented it
yet? He chortled with a smidge of
insecurity, Hermione noted. I think so.
Said Hermione confidently, bringing the necklace over to
Theo and dropping it on the vanity unit by his side, the
metal chiming melodiously against the polished wood.
She watched him curiously as he lifted the hourglass pendant by
the chain and examined the circular dials surrounding the
centrepiece. Theo's usually playful demeanour
shifted instantly into a studious, thoughtful manner.
I got a quick look at this the other day.
Draco wanted my confirmation. I've been a bit shifty with him.
Well, basically everyone on the topic of my research since its
inception. Theo mused idly while continuing
to peruse the peace. For he cornered me.
He did, he's good at that. Hermione gave a wry smile.
Theo murmured his agreement and began twisting the peace in
various directions, eyes locked on the minute equations
scratched into its metallic surface.
He asked me to study it against my own schematics, work out
where and how far you've come from.
Oh. Hermione felt a little
vulnerable, taken aback by the behind the scenes machinations.
Perhaps they weren't meant to be secret at all.
Theo was being open about the request.
Why did it fill her with such dread?
Jaco Malfoy must die. The Order cannot be trusted.
His weakness is you. The doctrines pressed into her
subconscious. She felt unsafe, uneasy.
There was an unmistakable crack of apparition outside the suite,
down the corridor, and the echo of quick, striding steps along
the corridor to her open bedroom door.
Hermione ran to the doorway and in seconds felt herself melt as
strong arms encased her. I'm so sorry.
Drago's voice was pure remorse and he brought her hand to the
back of her damp hair, stroking it gently.
Her body buzzed at his touch, the fibres of her skin standing
on edge. Ha, so romantic progress has
been made, Theogeford. Nothing like a surprise
pregnancy and a death in the family to stoke the flames of
desire. They both scowled at him before
Draco stole her lips as his own. She wished she could stay in
this moment, freeze time and live like this for eternity, but
she knew she could not. Percy's body?
Hermione asked, pulling herself away from him.
We can't risk it. He answered immediately
understanding what she would be asking.
He will have to be buried on the grounds, but Hermione.
He looked at her sadly with his gun metal eyes.
We were reckless today. I'm glad you're back safe, but
it's time we start seeing this war for what it truly is.
This isn't an US versus them. Draco pulled out his wand and
drew a sharp silver shape in the air, the magic hovering there
like a freeze frame firework. This is a 5 pointed star.
You and me, the Order, the Phoenix rebels, the Dark Lord's
regime, and the dissenting Death Eaters.
She pulled herself back from him, trying to gauge his
meaning. The Order is splintered.
Hermione added slowly, understanding dawning.
As is the regime. Theo offered to the pair, who
finally broke apart, much to her chagrin, to admit his
participation in their debrief. Avery and Mulsiba are staging a
coup. Well, that much was expected.
Draco scowled, turning away from Hermione to rub his forehead in
thought. They already approached me.
Join the ball. Plus, they have Grey back and
his pack by the collar. They've offered him Hermione,
should they manage to overthrow you.
Hermione fumed internally. Did she have a golden vagina or
something she didn't know about? What was the damn obsession with
her? The last of the Golden Trio,
apparently. Such a prize.
Do they not hold any loyalty for Voldemort anymore?
Why? Asked Hermione.
I thought he was practically a God to them.
He rose from the dead only three years past and finally overthrew
the entire government mere months ago, yet they're already
seeking new leadership. Hermione found their desire for
instability to be unnerving. One should at least have courage
in one's own convictions. You want a New World order?
Well, here you fucking go. You've got it.
The realization that some among the Death Eaters were already
looking for reform which would surely lead to even more loss of
life, not only baffled her orderly nature, but also
incensed her. I suspect, remarked Draco, that
the latest political rhetoric of pure blood magic being merely an
antiquated myth, and moreover the encouragement of mixing
magical and muggle born, even Muggle blood, overwhelmed their
skewed moral limits. The trio leaned into a silence
of consideration. We've got to end Voldemort,
Hermione said with surety. Before the Death Eaters can
organize themselves into an even bigger monster.
That much is a given, Granger. Malfoy agreed.
We're on the right track with the spell.
We will make it work and take him down.
It needs to be a spectacle, Theo added.
A public assassination, one that buys us some time and not
provoke an instant retaliation from Avery, Mulciba or the
werewolves. Hermione's vision began to blur
and she took an unsteady step back.
Grange Malfoy began. Bathroom.
She muttered, hurrying to the toilet, feigning nausea while
her mind cracked open in a blaze of white light.
She slammed the door behind her and fell on the toilet, bracing
herself for the next stream of directives.
The 4th Doctrine emerged from the Mind Vault and scrawled
itself across a parchment behind her eyes.
Voldemort will fall by Malfoy's wand unless another snips the
thread of fate, Hermione. Draco called out and she came
too, blinking against the influx of colour and panting hard.
After multiple assurances that she was fine, just a wave of
pregnancy sickness, the young men left her to get ready for
dinner, and she steeled herself. Malfoy would be the one to kill
Voldemort. Unless.
Why wouldn't unless be seared into her subconscious?
Was she meant to be the one to kill Voldemort?
Was someone else? No, Draco Malfoy must die.
The web around her grew ever more fraught and tangled.
The only question that remained was whether she were the spider
spinning the web or the prey to be caught up in it.
Once Hermione was back in clean, unblooded clothes, she rejoined
Draco, spending the remainder of the evening debriefing one
another fully and laying Percy's body to rest in the family
mausoleum. Theo did not join them, instead
taking himself to hunt down Narcissa for what Hermione
supposed would be his own debrief.
Draco explained the magic of the underground, building a stasis
enchantment on the remains, meaning that should the war ever
be over, she could return Percy's body to the Weasleys.
Relatively like new. It offered her much less comfort
than was intended. During dinner, Draco was absent.
Sure, he was sitting with them, but he wasn't really there.
He kept his head bowed down to his meal.
Chewing his meat with deliberate intensity and barely raising his
head to offer a thanks to Poppy and Kip for each of their
servings. She could see his mind whirring
from where she sat, wanting to be closer to him, to rest a hand
on his knee and soothe him. His mental absence was perhaps a
blessing, however, for Hermione, the awkward energy emanating
from Narcissa and Theo was excruciating.
Draco's mother avoided every look of longing Theo cast her
way, purposefully oversharing details of her upcoming
scholastic pursuits and course material with Hermione in order
to stave off her son's best friend's attentions.
Once the atrocious social display was over and the knight
had fully crept in, Theo grumpily announced his leave,
promising Draco that he would examine the time Turner.
Offering a final rueful look at Narcissa, he headed out of the
front doors and left. The final three all bid a
courteous good night to one another, Hermione giving a
wistful look at Draco as he apparated directly to his wing,
evidently eager to have some time alone to think.
Was it as lonely in his mind as it was in hers?
She mused sadly to herself as she passed by the library to
search for pregnancy books. Half an hour later and the stack
of pure blood pregnancy books in hand that she had no true
confidence in at all, Hermione called the long, illuminating
and heartbreaking day to a close.
August 31st, 1998 evening, Malfoy Manor.
In the almost three weeks it took to colour the gardens
greenery a threatening dirty gold and the pretentiously white
Peacocks to shelter inside their pens from the multiple summer
storms, Hermione and Draco worked in The Cave.
They danced around each other and occasionally into each other
while they worked to craft the elusive new offensive Avada
Bombarda spell. Never more than a kiss, his
hands so strong yet so hesitant of taking more, resistant in a
way she could only appear to crack with snark and brattish
banter. Despite her attempts, he blew
hot and cold, retreating in on himself, frequently disappearing
from the Manor behind his Dark Commander mask for days on end,
and always coming back a little more broken and despondent.
Meanwhile, Hermione toiled by the desks of The Cave, the spell
crafting being so far beyond her comfort zone that some days she
feared they had set themselves an impossible task.
On his good days, Hermione found herself enamoured with the way
he held himself. Not cocky and arrogant, but
assured in a way that made those in his circle feel that he was
in control and that you were safe in his care.
As a child. She couldn't see through his
sneering facade to reveal the worried boy beneath, with the
world he carried on his shoulders.
To be raised by a father with such a limited perception of the
world and his place within it. She could see as clear as day
that Draco felt the need to help, The need to do something.
But with everyone in his life telling him the opposite, what
was a preteen supposed to do? Harry had been called upon to
fight, had been told by Elba Stumbledore that it was his
destiny. Draco hadn't been given the
wrong models, Harry had, and she found it painfully unfair that
he should carry the full weight of guilt for every poor decision
that had led him to this point. He shouldered the blame for
every loss, and as much as she tried to broach the subject, he
would hear nothing of it changing the subject and going
cold on her again. It wasn't his fault, but it was
both of their responsibilities now to do whatever was in their
power to avenge them both. The four Doctrines had scarred
themselves so deeply against the walls of her mind that when she
purposefully tried to reach for them in the recesses, she
failed. They came to her in snippets
when she needed to be reminded of her direction.
They also came to her in her dreams, Dreams of pale skin
splattered in Crimson red. Whenever she would go to examine
the thoughts, they would ever Ness as though they had never
existed in the first place. The Order had responded to
Percy's death with silence, a fact that both relieved and
saddened Hermione. While the Daily Prophet and
other tabloids continued to bolster the propaganda in favour
of magic, as Might and Voldemort's mysterious unveiling
of his new wizarding school, unfortunately the Dark
Commander's forces followed a different tact.
There had been more dissent among Voldemort's ranks, from
new initiates to stalwart followers from the first war.
An episode of Hope Watch, led by Luna and Neville, even claimed
that the Dementors, reacting to the growing instability of their
masters, were unleashing more chaotic assaults on Mughal
areas, driven by their hunger for more souls.
None of the growing disquiet of his followers appeared to
concern Voldemort, according to Draco.
No, much more worryingly, the Dark Lord seemed to relish in
the unrest, instructing his right hand man to bide his time
and quell any descent to a light rumble for the time being.
As though he knew something Draco and his forces didn't.
By the end of the third week, Hermione felt no closer to
cracking the spell than she had to much first stepped into the
room. She felt the constant
frustration and so often felt alone in the pursuits with
Malfoy stepping further and further away from her.
She had also barely seen Narcissa in recent days, who had
been in full service to Voldemort, and Thea rarely made
an appearance either, evidently still sore from the aftermath of
whatever had occurred between the pair.
On a rare day, the eve of a new Hogwarts year, where Draco found
some time to work with her on the spell, Kip ran scrambling
into the library, where Hermione and Draco were arguing about
which obscure books to take into The Cave that day.
Mr. Malfoy, Sir, Miss Granger. The young elf heaved against her
little lungs. They is at the gates.
They is. Demanding an audience.
With Sir. Who, Kip?
Hermione asked quickly, Draco having frozen in place.
The Death Eater's Miss. Kip wobbled, fear climbing her
little body as she shook out the words.
Unwelcome visitors were descending upon the Manor.