The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins Chapter 6/19/95
Objectively speaking, Hermione had rather a lot to be concerned
about at this very moment. The pressure on her chest was
unsupportable. Her ribs were going to crack any
second, maybe Pierce into a few vital organs as they crushed
under the weight of 1000 rocks. Logically, she knew that.
She was not, in fact. Being held down by rocks.
This was just her semi conscious mind trying to rationalize her
situation. In reality, her eyes were not
open and scanning the abyss, her body was not held down in the
swaying foliage, and she was in no real danger.
When she was summoned to the Headmaster's office along with
Ronald last night, she'd expected it to have something to
do with the tournament, but not this.
Her immediate instincts told her to refuse, to remain on her high
horse and leave the room with her shoulders squared.
But then she made the mistake of looking at the others.
Ron had beamed at the chance to participate.
Cho had shrugged and nodded. Gabriel had declared it in
honour, and Hermione had foolishly let her pride get the
better of her. Perfectly safe, Dumbledore
assured her. She was beginning to suspect
that the Headmaster had a slightly skewed view of what
safe meant. He'd allowed the tournament to
take place after all. And so here she was, carefully
placed into a bewitched sleep and floating near the bottom of
the Black Lake. Her mind, which had always been
overactive, decided this was an opportune moment to play tricks
on her. In her subconscious, the weight
of the water manifested as rocks, the back of her eyelids
morphed into endless terrain, and her missing desire for
oxygen turned what should have been a restful slumber into a
waking nightmare. It was a deeply unsettling lack
of vital sensation, not needing to breathe.
It was something that she'd done instinctively for the entire
time she'd been alive. The sweet pull of air, the
expansion of her lungs, the rise and fall of her chest, all of it
was missing. The need for it was missing.
It made her want to try anyway, but the stasis had robbed her of
all the ability to operate her own body.
Were the others as aware as she was?
Had she somehow found a way to fight the spell enough that it
had only half worked? Was it beginning to wear off?
Would she wake up at the bottom of the lake and be unable to
make it to the surface in time? Would the merfolk notice?
Would they cut her free? Would they let her drown?
Perfectly safe. She didn't feel safe.
Nothing about this felt safe. She wanted out, up.
She wanted to move her fingers, to kick her feet, to swim and
swim for a break in the water and breathe.
She had to get out of here. She had to get the rocks off her
chest. She had to.
The rocks moved one at a time. She could feel them being pushed
and pulled away from her body. They clattered down to the lake
floor, revealing more and more of the unending abyss.
Until a flash of platinum, the only light in a starless sky.
Long fingers wrapped around another stone and shoving it
aside. Silver eyes mirrored the panic
she felt. No, no, no, he can't be here.
Malfoy's eyes caught hers and she tried to scream those words
through lips that refused to cooperate.
He wasted no time shifting another rock, kicking at it a
few more. His cheeks puffed, holding a
breath that should not have been enough to get him down here, and
certainly wouldn't be enough to get him back to the top.
Go. She wanted to scream.
You need to breathe. I don't.
Her silent pleas went ignored as he grabbed another rock, one of
the last, and threw it into the sand.
She tried to shake her head, to reach for his wrists and stop
him before it was too late. His air was limited, his time
even more so. What was he even doing down
here? He wasn't a champion.
He shouldn't even know she was here.
The final rock slipped from her body and he didn't hesitate
before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her up from the
lake floor. One hand tucked her head into
his shoulder while the other held her at the waist.
She was entirely pliable, unable to even blink as he kicked off
the sand and began the tortuously slow journey to the
surface. Let me go, let me go, let me go.
She was slowing him down, and for nothing.
She had to be here. But he didn't.
She was perfectly safe. He was moments from death.
With every fresh bout of effort she put into rousing herself
from this magical paralysis, she only felt herself grow more
desperate. Malfoy kicked his legs wildly,
his hand releasing her head to assist in his effort of raising
them. Small, choked sounds emitted
from his throat and Hermione couldn't stand it for a second
longer. He was going to die.
She was going to watch him die. He could drown right in front of
her and she wouldn't be able to do anything but float and watch.
Blonde hair flattened against his head with every surge
upward, his lips pressed tightly together as he fought the need
to gasp for air that wouldn't be found here.
His eyes set, undetermined. She watched him, wishing he
could just look at her and see that she was fine, not in need
of rescue, not turning that same sickening shade of blue he was.
Every nerve in her body felt alert, but none of them were.
She longed to kick, to assist, to grab him by the waist and
drag him to the surface, but she could do nothing.
The spell had even robbed her of the ability to close her eyes.
I'm dragging you down, she wailed in her mind, pounding on
the cage of her own body, begged to the gods that she'd never
believed in go, just go, please. But he would not have it.
His arm tightened around her as his kicks increased in strength
and tempo, and suddenly they were gliding as though the
surface called to them like the water below propelled them, arms
unseen, reaching in to drag them into the crisp winter air that
surrounded the lake. With one final herculean effort,
Malfoy broke through the water. Every sensation that had been
dulled or removed met her at once, hitting her with a force
enough to stun, and she gasped for the air that she'd not
needed moments ago. It tasted metallic.
She'd bitten her tongue. Her hair stuck to her face and
neck, trapping and hoarding the cold of the wind rattling her
teeth. She sucked in a breath like it
was her first and possibly her last.
It was only once her lungs were full and her eyes were cleared
that the panic she'd felt below the surface returned.
Malfoy. She called, turning towards the
body that she could feel beside her, ready to grab his lifeless
form and paddle them to the shore as quickly as possible.
But it was not Malfoy that she saw.
It was Victor. He looked calm, careful,
collected. He grabbed her by the waist
again and began swimming with really quite remarkable strength
towards a large dock that certainly had not been there the
day before. It was only then, in the madness
of it all, that she remembered what on earth she'd agreed to.
This was the second task. Air me on.
Victor said, capturing her attention again.
Swim, please. She swam, she swam with all the
energy she had left. They moved towards the dock,
Hermione scanning the crowd for the face that she'd expected to
find in the water. Cho Chang was standing with a
furrowed brow, warming up in the arms of Cedric.
Fleur was kneeling, her hands wrapped around the edge of the
dock in a white knuckle grip, her lips wobbling as she looked
down into the water. A handful of professors were
there, blankets in arms, ready and waiting.
Hermione couldn't think of a single word to say as Victor
thrust her towards a small crowd of outstretched hands, all of
which lifted her gently out of the freezing water.
She was bundled in blankets within seconds, her hair being
dried into what she knew would be an unmanageable mess, warming
charms cast on each of her limbs and muffled words of
congratulations given to Victor as he pulled himself out of the
dock beside her. No Draco Malfoy anywhere
insight. Her worry for his whereabouts
dimmed slightly as Harry failed to appear in good time.
The rumblings of the professors grew tenser.
The crowd began moving eagerly. Fleur began to cry.
Hermione watched and waited for her two friends to appear,
trying not to let her nerves get the best of her.
It was not uncommon for Harry to scrape through by the skin of
his teeth. He had extraordinary look, not
always good luck, but extraordinary indeed.
As suspected, he appeared fashionably late and to no
surprise of her own, with Ronald and Gabrielle in his arms.
She might have rolled her eyes, was she not so ecstatic to see
him. The three of them were helped
out of the water and given the same treatment she had been,
blankets over their shoulders, ones waving them from head to
toe. Harry appeared bashful as he was
informed that his valiant effort to wait for Fleur was for
naughty. Ronald, however, looked far too
pleased with himself. Did you see how Fleur looked at
me? He asked as they trudged back to
the castle, fanfare mostly over their stomachs rumbling.
I feel like a fucking hero. You didn't do anything but
sleep, Ronald. She tutted, pulling her blanket
tighter around her. Yeah, but she doesn't need to
know that you are shameless. She muttered, turning to Harry
instead. Where did you get the gillyweed,
Dobby? He said distractedly, staring at
his feet as they stepped through the castle doors.
And need to buy him some socks or something.
He'll love that. She agreed.
Maybe you can get a few for the elves in the kitchens.
The gills were a bit grimmate. I don't know how you expect
Chotus not you instead of Diggery when you look like an
overgrown fish. And you, Hermione completely
ignored Crumb. Fucking crumb.
Both of you are hopeless. It's lucky you have me too.
Her arm yanked backwards. No, her arm was yanked
backwards. She let out a startled Yelp and
reached for her wand with her other hand, turning towards her
attacker with fear and fury in her throat.
What do you? Oh.
She stopped short when she met the silver eye she'd imagined at
the bottom of the lake, filled with that same sickening concern
as they had been then. It was almost enough to convince
her that it had been real. Malfoy.
Ron echoed, Ronde already in
hand. Get your hands off, are you
slimy git? Ron, don't.
She began, her own hand instantly lowering, but she
didn't get the chance to finish before she was pulled into a
bone crushing embrace. Malfoy's hands were shaking as
he held her, his face buried in her shoulder, his breath ragged
and uneven. After a few moments of
hesitation, she embraced him back.
Malfoy said nothing, just holding her like she might
disappear into thin air if he didn't.
She turned to peer over her shoulder at Harry and Ron, who
were wearing expressions of vivid shock and horror, Ron's
one still raised, albeit limply. What the fuck?
Ron mouthed. Later, she mouthed back.
The boys spared a glance at each other before shooting Hermione a
look that said, under no uncertain terms, that they
suspected she had lost her mind. Please.
She asked silently. With another disbelieving look
and a hesitant pair of shrugs, they turned and left her
standing there in the empty castle corridor, wrapped in the
arms of someone they only knew as an enemy.
She would have to explain it to them later, but right now all
she could think was about the trembling boy trying to crawl
into the crook of her neck. Malfoy.
She asked gently, hands splayed wide on his back.
Are you OK? His laugh was sharp and muffled.
Me. Are you OK?
Are you cold, Are you hurt? Did they?
I'm fine. You're not fine.
He pulled back, hands coming to cut her jaw, tilting her face
from left to right as he inspected every inch.
This is a fucking criminal. There must be repercussions for
this, putting you in danger like that.
And I'll speak with my father, he'll be able to.
I volunteered. His eyes widened, his breath
hitched. I don't care.
You shouldn't have been asked. She stared into his wonderful,
symmetrical face for what felt like eons, cataloguing every
twitch of his jaw and shift of his eyes.
She wondered if he'd cast an unspoken warming charm on her,
or if the relief of his company was enough.
His fingers loosened on her jaw, holding it carefully now, slowly
caressing. Is this happening?
She breathed as her eyes dropped to his lips, worried pink and
parted. Or are we still in the lake?
His eyebrows pulled together. Grainger, what are you, Draco?
Another voice called from the left, and they both turned to
see Theodore not standing at the end of the corridor, a smirk on
his face and his hands in his pockets.
If we're late, Pans will kill us.
Let her, Malvoy replied. Lip curled.
Sorry, let me rephrase. Pans will ask questions.
Fuck. Malvoy dropped his head, turning
back to Hermione. Meet tonight.
She smiled. But it's Friday.
He stepped closer, his nose almost touching hers.
And perhaps she ought to have been concerned about how much
Theodore was seeing, how much she wanted Malfoy to step
closer, how much she wanted to push up onto her toes and taste
the cinnamon that had always seemed to linger on his breath.
Tonight. He repeated, and she could only
nod. Good.
He moved away, letting out a low and slow breath as he stepped
out of her immediate space. They did not share another word
nor glance before parting ways. Draco went right towards his
friends, his girlfriend, and everything else she could never
be a part of. Hermione went left, hurrying to
the common room where she would face a bombardment of questions
from Harry and Ron. She and Malfoy were friends, she
could tell them that much. Friends who studied together.
It wasn't a lie, though. It was none of their business
anyway. They didn't accept her clipped
answers, of course, so she'd pulled the it's been quite a
long day card, which neither of them could argue with, try as
they did. When Hermione asked Harry to
borrow his cloak again, His eyes bulged so far out of his head
that it was borderline worrying. Are you using it to see him?
He asked, blanching. Have you always been using it
too? Thank you, Harry.
She swiped it out of his hands and hurried to bed before he
could ask any more about it. Unlike Tuesday and Thursday
nights, when she would be far too wired with anticipation to
settle, it took only a few minutes after crawling into bed
for her to fall asleep. She slept so well that she woke
up 15 minutes later than she'd intended to.
She ran through the corridors, only realizing halfway that
she'd not changed out of her pyjamas.
She didn't care enough to turn back and change.
When she got to the tapestry on the 7th floor, the pacing began,
her mind going too fast to focus on anyone.
Requirement she required to get in there.
She required a place to bring Malfoy to her, a place to find
him, a place to discuss the events of the day, a place to
come home. Yes, that's what he told her at
the ball before his lips met her cheek and turned her blood to
lava. A place to come home.
The door emerged on her third passing, and she almost ripped
it off its magical hinges. Granger.
Malvoy stood from the sofa, rushing to greet her.
The fire was lit and two bowls of still steaming soup sat on a
small table with high stalls tucked beneath them.
She took his outstretched hands and let him guide her there with
a smile. She indulged his every question,
soothed his every worry and delighted in his every touch.
He held her hands as she told him about the dream under the
lake, offering only comfort instead of needless solutions.
He levitated the sofa and placed it in front of the roaring fire.
He let her rest her head on his lap and brushed her hair behind
her ears. When she slept.
He didn't wake her until an hour before they needed to be up,
leaving her enough time to return to her dormitory
unnoticed. It was the only Friday night
they spent together. The rest of their meetings
continued on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Even as the madness of the tournament continued to ramp up,
it wasn't until the end of the year, when Harry returned,
screaming with the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory, that they
stopped. Hermione listened to Harry's
retelling of Voldemort's return, bile in her throat and a heart
sinking like lead in her stomach.
Nothing could be the same. Not the school, not the
professor's, not their friendships, and certainly not
her evenings with Draco Malfoy. Everything from that point on
would be marred with the pre scars of oncoming war.
A solemn silence followed every bout of laughter.
Evenings were spent sleepless and wondering what life would
look like in the years ahead. Harry turned inward, hardly
looking at her or Ron for the few remaining weeks of the
school year, heading to bed early despite having no chance
of resting. They didn't know what to say to
him or how to help him, resolving that all they could do
was show up even when he pushed them away.
And that's what they did. They saved breakfast for him and
ensured he ate it. Ron pulled him out of bed for
games of wizard chairs on particularly restless nights.
Hermione read aloud when they sat together in the common room,
determined not to leave him at the mercy of his own thoughts.
Malfoy seemed to understand her lack of spare time, never once
complaining. She'd noticed his extra effort
to be in the library at the same time as her, or to pass her by
far more closely than he'd needed to.
In the corridors, she shot multiple subtle smiles at him as
their classes came to an end, and his eyes glinted secretively
in return. She managed to speak to him
briefly one night when she followed him into the high
shelves of the library. Where she knew nobody.
Would see them and grabbed a hold of his sleeve.
She had so many things to tell him, so many questions to ask,
so many reassurances to request. But when she opened her mouth to
speak, only one question formed. What's with the art?
She asked, his eyebrows raised. She bit her lip as she felt her
face heat and his eyes locked onto her movement.
You've given me a few drawings now.
I didn't know you drew, though I never thought to ask, I suppose.
But why? Why do I draw, or why have I
given them to you? He asked, head tilting
curiously. She shrugged.
Both. He sighed, leaning back against
the bookshelves. It's distracting.
From. He considered it for a moment,
lips twitching. It's one thing nobody expects of
me, Ah. She breathed, moving closer.
And why do you give them to me? His smile was reserved, shy
slightly heart breaking, and as he leaned forward, one hand
raising to cut the back of her skull, he pressed a quick kiss
to her forehead. And then he left her there,
standing between the shelves, her skin feeling too tight.
It was their last conversation of the year, and it only
resulted in Hermione feeling more confused when the time came
to board the train that would take them back to their normal
lives, which she knew could never really be normal again,
she followed Harry and Ron down the gangways in search of an
empty carriage. Her gaze caught Malfoys as they
passed their open carriage, and she had to curl her hands into
fists to stop herself from rushing in there and grabbing
him by the collar, begging him to lie to her, begging him to
tell her that everything would be all right again next year.
But when she looked to his side, she found Theodore not his,
hands ringing together in his lap, his eyes squeezed closed.
She noticed Pansy Parkinson on the opposite bench, picking
absent mindedly at a loose thread in her skirt.
Blazer Beanie sat beside her, staring out the window with a
lost expression. And Goyle, who she tried very
hard to ignore, glared back at her with genuine disdain.
She gave Malfoy one last lingering look and hoped he
could see in her eyes all the things that she could not say.
She turned and continued to search for an empty carriage
with Harry and Ron, who were already talking about what they
would buy from the food cart, none the wiser to her beating
breaking heart 1999. They'd been up and down the
Jurassic coastline for 8 long months now, turning back on
themselves whenever new sighting reports came in, setting up
their tents on grass already flattened from their previous
stay. Her crew rotated again.
David had been called to London, Scott sent up north.
Arabella was the only one who had remained, much to her
displeasure. They spent 2 long, silent weeks
together before Tony, a young witch from the Ministry who was
almost certainly there to observe them more than assist
them, arrived alone. Hermione had no idea what was
happening with the rest of the country.
Newspapers gave nothing away. Radio transmissions offered her
the same false platitude she'd spewed only a few weeks prior.
If there was any progress, it was being made silently.
Time had begun to blur. Mornings felt like evenings,
dinner felt like breakfast, and Hermione felt the pieces of
herself that she'd once clung to slowly wilting away.
She went a whole week without saying a single word.
She didn't even notice until she tried to ask Arabella for the
ink pot, and her voice felt like sandpaper in her throat.
During the long nights in her cot under the shelter of her
tent, she scrambled for a hold of her memories.
She held the sketch of the room that had once been home, her
fingers tracing the lines where he'd drawn the sofa, and she
would try to remember how the springs from the cushions would
dig into the back of her thighs. She tried to remember the echo
of the cracking wood fire and the smell of cinnamon.
She tried to remember him, the sound of his laugh, which had
morphed into something more carefree than it had ever been
in reality. The gleam in his eyes.
Had they really been that silver, or had they in fact been
blue? On the darkest nights, when the
hole in the roof of her tent revealed the stars, she would
search the constellations and swallow the bitter ache when she
was unable to find them. Ron's letters informed her that
he was spending a significant amount of time amongst Muggles,
learning their cultures and customs.
He asked her questions he was too embarrassed to ask them,
though never detailing why or where.
She didn't even know if he was still in Scotland.
Harry's letters informed her that he had been reunited with
Ginny in London and an immense feeling of envy clouded her joy
for him. She could never begrudge him for
having any form of happiness, God only knows he deserved it,
but she couldn't pretend that she didn't want it for herself.
Those two nights in Cumbria would never be enough, but they
had to be. The folded paper in her breast
pocket suddenly weighed a ton as she followed Arabella along the
sand formed cliffs of West Bay. He'd given it to her in that
cabin, a way of remembering the place they'd shared merely days
after watching it burn. She regretted not offering him
something to remember her by in return.
Nothing but the kisses she'd pressed into his skin, the words
she'd whispered in his ear, the nail marks she'd left on his
back. How long had it taken them to
fade? Arabella shuffled the strap of
her bag on her shoulder, her bright green hair glowing under
the midday sun. She pulled the water bottle free
from her side pocket and gulped down a few mouthfuls of the
magically chilled liquid. Hermione, suddenly aware of the
leather in her mouth, followed suit, earning A sideways glance
from Arabella. Did you ever used to come here
as a kid? She asked, and Hermione almost
cracked her neck with how fast her head turned.
Umm. She stumbled.
Arabella never made conversation, not with her.
It was a dynamic they both seemed or too happy to maintain.
No, not here. I did.
She sighed, smiling at the vast expanse, gesturing limply to a
cordoned off section of the Cliff edge.
Collapses. Are frequent here because the
sediment is so varied it's almost sand, but you'll see that
it becomes clear and marble as we go further along.
It's usually much busier here. It's lucky we get to set out so
early, otherwise we'd be dodging.
What is happening? Hermione asked before she could
stop herself. Arabella stopped walking,
raising an appraising brow. Right now you are interrupting
me. That is the most you've ever
said to me. She shook her head, watching
Arabella through strands of windswept curls.
Why? Arabella sighed and began
walking again, expecting Hermione to follow.
You know, I've tried to talk to you when we first met, but you
just shut me down. Do you remember?
She couldn't. Lie.
Not really, Arabella snorted. Charmin.
Sorry. Nor you're not, and neither am
I. It was a better idea to not
become friends. I've lost far too many already.
It's no secret that you have two.
She turned left, leading them down a slope that indeed looked
a lot more like clay. Out of everyone I've met, you
are the person most likely to be killed.
Almost everyone wants you dead. Hermione coughed a sharp laugh.
Thanks. It's nothing.
That you don't already know. She shrugged.
What I mean to say is that you were right to be a bitch, and so
was I. So why are you talking now?
Arabella turned to face the wind, closing her eyes briefly.
Because we are here. In West Bay, yes, she confirmed,
still walking. Do you see that harbour wall in
the town? The cute one by.
The fish and chip Hut. Hermione scrunched up her nose
as she thought back. I think so.
I proposed to Meredith there proper romantic.
We spent the day. Feeding each other ice.
Cream and getting sunburned and I got us this enormous
inflatable kayak and blew it up with a muggle pump.
It was humiliating, but she loved it.
I was going to propose to her on the water, but as soon as we got
out there the damn thing popped. No.
Hermione gasped, and Arabella let out a low chuckle.
Oh yes, barely made it back to shore with the ring.
I swear I would have drowned before I let that thing go.
We were soaked and tired and she was pretty angry with me.
So while we were sitting there on the wall, cold and eating
chips neither of us wanted, Nah, I just went for it.
And. And she said yes, of course.
Hermione laughed and Rubella shocked her, a winning grin over
her shoulder, and it all felt so natural.
Perhaps they could have been doing this all along, keeping
memories alive through the simple act of sharing them.
It didn't mean they were friends, not by any means.
But as Arabella's soft chuckle carried on the wind, it felt
like Hermione saw her for the first time.
A person who loved and mourned, A person who had a home within
her heart for another. The person who watched the
horizon and wished just as she did.
Is Meredith the woman that you saw at the Ministry?
Hermione asked carefully. Arabella nodded.
That's. Her.
She works for the Prophet. I know, I know, but she's good
at her job. I didn't say anything.
You didn't need to. I know how you feel about that
paper. You scan and burn them before
anyone else can read them. Hermione stopped abruptly.
Have I burned her articles before you can read them?
More than once. I I'm so sorry.
Arabella waved her hand dismissively.
She sends me the clippings in her letters.
No, I'm awful. I shouldn't have Hermione.
If it was a problem I would have brought it up, trust me.
Now keep walking. I want to get through the route
before the muggles descend. She kept walking.
Ignoring the heavy guilt that churned in her stomach, the sun
had almost risen, the brittle chill of the morning air had
begun to mellow out into a late summer breeze, and the grass
under foot became drier as the dew evaporated.
What about you? Our brother asked over her
shoulder as they continued along the path.
Who gave you that drawing you stare at all night?
Oh, was all that she could say. It had not occurred to her that
anyone had noticed. She reserved the drawing for
moments of privacy. It's complicated.
It's always complicated. This is really complicated.
She laughed darkly, but the sharp stab of pain that followed
the thought of him did not go unfelt.
Do. Go on, we've got hours to kill
and I'm feeling shatty. It was a gift from someone.
I. She trailed off, gritting her
teeth. We were at school together.
Would I know them? Yes.
No SO. They were your boyfriend,
girlfriend. I don't know, she admitted
quietly. They are mine.
How sweet Arabella. Cood.
Oh, young love, they say the first cut is the deepest.
Hermione rolled her eyes. You asked.
I remember those days well, making out in the broom
cupboards, sneaking into dormitories, trysts in the back
of the library. It's all so beautiful a cliche.
Shut up. I'm not.
Trying to date the piss is all very painful and real.
I'm just saying that it might not be worth putting too much
stock in school time romance. I mean, you're not a teenager
anymore. Shut up.
Don't tell me to. Shut up.
She grabbed Arabella by the sleeve and pointed ahead.
Look. Arabella squinted into the
distance, palm shielding her eyes from the sun.
I don't see anything come. Here.
Hermione pulled her back a few paces and then forward once more
over that rock. Do you see it?
She repeated the movements, dragging Arabella back and forth
until finally she let out a low whistle.
Hermione's shoulders sagged in relief before immediately
tensing again in anticipation. There, merely a few feet ahead
of them besides an inconspicuous looking rock, was a faint
shimmer. Notice me not?
Arabella asked, and Hermione nodded.
Shit. At once they pulled out their
wants. Hermione wasted no time in
casting a patronus, bending down to her translucent Otter and
whispering Please fetch Tony. They walked towards the gleaming
stretch of air, taking care to not make much sound.
The wind provided them with sufficient cover enough, and
they hadn't seemed to trip any wards yet.
Arabella took the lead, her wand pointed at the shimmer as they
made their approach, her other hand raised to keep Hermione
quiet. Arabella steadied her wand,
fingers turned around the wood, and she let out a steady breath.
Revelio. They both stumbled as the
shimmer expanded, fading into nothing, revealing a small and
battered canvas tent. Nothing more, nothing less.
It wasn't exactly where one would expect to find a
high-ranking Death Eater. Although she supposed there
would be no high-ranking Death Eaters anymore, just stragglers
trying to scrape enough of a following to reach their rank
again. Arabella looked over her
shoulder to Hermione, offering her a confused shrug.
Hermione nodded, and they proceeded closer.
Every step was so painfully slow.
Their breaths held, their wands gripped tight.
Arabella paused in front of the entrance, which was tied
together with worn tears of leather, and waited.
Should we cut a? Hole in it.
She whispered. Hermione shook her head.
I think we need to step back and wait for Tony.
She Tony isn't going to be of any help.
The girl eats chicken wings with a knife and fork.
We have no idea who or what is in there.
We need to be careful. This is the first.
Sign we've come across in months.
If you want to waste it waiting on some, it is not unreasonable
to suggest that we think of a plan.
Fuck your plan, I'm sick of this.
Oh. A streak of white light hit
Arabella in the shoulder, sending her crashing into the
grass below. Hermione threw up a swift
Protego. And twisted around to locate
their attacker, her wand raised, her teeth bared, her blood
pumping through her veins with frightening intensity.
Another curse rebounded from her shield, and she cast another,
and another, sending cursed flames to the side of the tent,
letting it burn until the lights dimmed enough to reveal the
hunched, pallid man standing not 3 feet ahead of her.
Hermione had seen Amicus Cairo before, far too many times for
her own liking. He was a short, plump man with
beady, rodent like eyes and a circular face.
She'd carried around his likeness in her bag for 8 long
months, imprinted the details of his sweaty, snivelling
expression into the back of her eyelids, and thought about the
harm caused by his stumpy little fingers.
She knew what he looked like, and she knew without a shred of
a doubt that this was him. And yet he looked different.
Ravaged. He bent inwards, hunched over
his own knees and drawing ragged breaths.
His frame was frail, half of what it used to be.
His curves were replaced with sharp, disconcerting edges.
His face, which had always contorted in the most unsettling
way, was slack. He was noticeably, visibly
exhausted and, more importantly, entirely alone.
Potter's Mudblood. He began wheezing.
So nice. For the ministry to let their
pets out for a walk. She did not feel required to
dignify him with a response, nor offer him the time he sought to
regain his energy. Her wand was up in less than a
second, as was his Stupefy flibando.
The spells hit one another with a resounding crash.
Hermione flew backwards, her wand biting into the palm of her
hand before ejecting itself. She heard a muffled cry from
Amicus as he hit the ground beside her, a sickening crack
echoing through the air. Fuck.
No. She heard him cry.
Had he broken his leg, his arm, his spine?
She pushed herself to her feet, wincing, and looked over where
he kneeled on the ground, his hands open, holding the broken
pieces of his wand. His shoulders trembled, his
chest heaved, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself
from laughing. It was all so bloody pathetic.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, his head snapped up and his eyes
locked onto her. There was nobody here but them.
Arabella was still out cold, but the rise and fall of her chest
told Hermione that she was still very much on this mortal plane.
Tony was nowhere to be seen. The Mughals had yet to creep out
for their morning walks. The tent, which was still
turning to ash, appeared empty. He seemed to realise this at the
same moment she did, both of their heads turning slowly to
land on her wand, now equidistant between them,
waiting on the ground. She bolted, he scrambled, she
ran, he crawled and shot out as she called out her magic, hoping
the bond shared between it and her wand would be enough to
summon it to her. It twitched, but did little
more. It had been a long time since
Hermione had used her magic like this.
Months of housekeeping spells, ward work, bluebell flames and
silent tents. But this, This intuitive,
wanderless magic, It had been too long.
Amicus lunged, and she tried again.
The one shifted towards her, enough to pull from his reach,
not enough to meet hers. She'd doe for it, but Amicus had
switched targets now, his arms coming up for her, shoving her
back down into the grass. Silly girl.
He spat, but she reached out for her wand again, feeling her
fingers wrap her round the base in Kasser.
Her spell cut short as Amicus dropped down to her chest, his
knees digging into her ribs, tearing the air directly from
her lungs and compressing them, not allowing them to refill.
She groaned, trying to raise her wand to free herself, but he
gripped her wrist with both hands and pinned it down.
Drop it, jog. He roared, squeezing at her
wrist until she was sure it would break.
Her hand spasmed as his grip tightened, wand tumbling into
the grass. She turned her head to look at
it, knowing his greedy, tiny eyes were doing the same.
With nothing but hope remaining, she pointed her fingers at her
wand and yelled to Pulso. Her wand shot back a meter, but
no further. She tried to wriggle free of
Amicus's grip, but his knees dug deeper into her ribs.
He leaned over her, ready to reach for her wand again, and a
thought swirled in her suddenly vacant mind.
They were wandless, yet still trying to fight like a wizard
under witch, relying on getting to the wand before the other was
able. Amicus was a pure blood who
would have been raised to think that magic was not only the
superior method of doing things, but the only method of doing
things. Hermione had never been
particularly physical. She'd fallen off her first
bicycle the second her father removed the stabilizers.
She'd broken her collarbone when she tried to follow her
childhood neighbor into a tall tree.
She tripped and stumbled her way through the Hogwarts corridors
for six years, and she'd snapped Harry's wand in half, blowing
them out of that little house in Goddrick's Hollow.
Then again, she'd tussled with Millicent Bull strode.
In second year, she'd ripped out her hair and scratched her arm
while trapped in a headlock. She'd left a sizeable palm print
on Malfoy's face. In 3rd year.
She'd hit him hard enough to free him, so he'd once told her.
She'd howled at a werewolf, chased Death Eaters, flown on
the back of a dragon. She'd survived.
Amicus Cairo had merely existed. She wondered briefly if he'd
ever even thrown a punch before. While he reached for her wand,
she turned her head the other way and leaned forward, sinking
her teeth into his thigh. He flinched, letting out a cry
of surprised agony as she bit down, retracting his reach.
She did not stop there, her hand flying to his face, her fingers
clawing at his eyes. What there?
He barked, but her curled fist connected with his mouth.
She felt his lip slip against her knuckles, hot blood dripping
between her fingers. He fell back, hands clasping at
his broken face, and she took the opportunity to pounce.
She crawled onto him, scratching and clawing and writhing until
she had his arms pinned beneath her knees.
He should have been stronger than her, but he was weakened,
hungry, sleep deprived, completely alone, and finally at
her mercy. Her fists rained down on him,
connecting with his nose again and again until it gave out.
She felt the raw skin of her knuckles as it split against his
cheekbones, the stabbing pain that shot up her forearms as she
hit his brows, the feral sound that came from her throat as she
dug her nails into his closed eyelids.
His struggles slowed, his cries gargled with blood that pooled
behind his broken, chipped teeth.
She pulled her hand back and struck him again, and again, and
again and again, until the bones in his face cracked under her
palms. It was enough.
He was subdued, but she could easily roll off him and grab the
wand now. But she didn't want to beat him
as a witch. She wanted to beat him as a
Muggle. Spit flew from her gritted
teeth. Her vision blurred with tears,
and she hit him again. She hit him in the ears.
She hit him in the temples, She hit him in the teeth, again and
again, her energy waning with every punch.
The soft, wet sound of his battered face was no deterrent,
not even as her swings became weaker, not even as her sobs
grew louder, not as she curved over him and pounded against his
rattling chest. She didn't see him, she saw
Harry's vacant eyes as he realised he'd been raised for
slaughter. Ron's cries for a brother that
was already gone, the unknowing stares of her once loving
parents. Malfoy pressing his face into
her stomach and pleading for her to forgive him for something he
had yet to do. Her hands were bloodied once
more, her body exhausted, and Amicus Caro lay still beneath
her, gasping for air through fractured bones.
His eyes were swollen closed, his teeth were smashed to
points, his nose was bent to the left, and his lips were obscured
with blood that seemed no different to her own.
Then, and only then, did she roll onto the grass beside him.
The sun had risen above the horizon, bathing them in hues of
glistening gold. The waves crashed against the
cliffs in melodic repetition, and the cold breeze met her
stinging, pulsing hands like a gentle caress.
Footsteps approached. A Muggle, perhaps coming upon
the scene of a crime that they would never be able to
comprehend. She turned her head to the sound
and found a stumbling Arabella, flunked by Tony, who had clearly
just arrived. Am I any?
Tony gasped, her eyes falling to Amicus, who was emitting low,
strangled sounds of agony. What did you do?
She looked up at the sky, now clear of the usual grayscale
clouds, and smiled at the sight of a hawk hovering above, wings
spread wide as it rode the wind, looking for a meal.
I won.