And the dream's lost on me...
Hermione remembers everything.
(Sitting nervously at the back of the room during the trial, eyes shifting from impassive to hostile faces, wondering where the balance of justice lies within the Ministry.
The hearing shifting from integrity to judgment and the accusations thundering through the room into a screaming match. The echoes of a fray that left an impression on the Ministry walls as fingers gripped white with rage and curses stylized the walls.
There was never a moment full of more clarity.
They've gone too far, she thought, and they'll go further. Someone has to do something, someone has to step up. This has to stop.
It has to end.)
Nothing escapes her memory, it's all there in the stockroom of her past. She won't forget.
She will never forget.
(Drenched in sweat, blood and triumph as a foreign woman approached her, "Have you seen my son?"
Yes, Hermione had wanted to say. Yes, he died bravely.
"My baby!" she didn't look as the tears of irreplaceable loss and litanies of "why" filled the air.
Her vision was as red as the war scene.
She wanted to pitch tent and declare this land as her own. This moment was Home, in all the ways that mattered.
They had won the battle.
But it wasn't over yet.
There was still a war.)
There's nothing that can overwhelm the memory of freedom and the organized harmony of complete control.
Hermione is in her third year apprenticeship for Arithmancey when she comes across the dubious text of the strange properties of the equations of the perception of lines and blood. She calmly gathers her bags, puts her quill behind her ear and walks out of the study.
She doesn't return.
"You can rest."
"They're still out there."
"They always will be."
"Then don't tell me to rest."
She calmly walks to Harry's flat and says, "I need your blood."
He trusts her, with his life, but when she unhooks the blade from it's holster in her bag, he blanches, pales and takes a step back.
"It will be nothing like last time. Please believe in me, Harry. You have to. I know what I'm doing. Please, please
please.
She slashes through the calluses on the palm of his hand and he smiles weakly, "That wasn't so bad."
She slashes harder yet through her own palm and faster than an attacking cobra intertwine their fingers together. Her knuckles turn white. Blood falls in rivers down their wrists. He is contaminated with her unworthy blood.
And she, with his.
She wants to pluck away more off the bones. Keep picking until all the unsavory bits are cleansed.
She starts mapping out configurations.
Her roommate says:
"Hermione, you're much too old for this sort of thing."
"Hermione, you'll never find the value to 'Y'."
"Hermione, there's no number that equates happiness."
She moves in with Ron two weeks later.
He tells her:
"If anyone can chart out the plan for peace, it's you."
"But don't expect me to help."
"I can only see what's missing in the pattern."
And then doesn't matter, because she's just solved the equation.
They use Unforgivables and suffer for it.
She creates Unforgivables and they love her for it.
"I'm a good person." She says.
("But a better person would say they were sorry.
A better person would believe it.")
A better person wouldn't use the term acceptable deaths.
Plural.
Her actions save more lives than they take. The world's a better place, because, "I'm a good person" because, "I followed my morals" because, "I made them see" because, "now they understand."
They are wrong.
She is right.
It's why they suffer.
She tells him she watered the plants last week and frowns in puzzlement at the wilted leaves.
With an offhand gesture he absolves her of blame.
Nature's a constant. Neutral and inclusive.
Nature doesn't lie. It cannot tell when the truth is crushing and unbearable. It doesn't forgive, it doesn't understand offense.
"I killed them." she says, and he stops moving, forgets to breath.
"They can be replaced." she says and he watches her walk out the door.
He remembers, sometime around six in the morning that he loves her.
It's enough to justify her actions.
She buys plastic flowers after the third batch dies.
She throws them away a week later. She doesn't want something that cannot die. Cannot feel. Cannot appreciate that she's doing her best.
The next step is leaping from the a cliff to the hard rocks below and hoping...
Hoping that when the time comes, she'll have learned how to fly
No one, least of all Hermione Granger, knows where Lord Voldemort is. He prefers it this way. Malfoy Manor, on the other hand, is in Wiltshire. Narcissa Malfoy lets her into the house because she is Harry Potter's best friend.
Nothing could have prepared her for meeting the Dark Lord head on. But she reminds herself, no one will hurt her boys, no one will hurt her boys.
No one no one no one .
The Death Eaters close around her where she stands and soon she finds herself in the center of a circle. There's no escaping.
He calls her:
A foolish child.
Bait.
Mudblood.
Adrenaline rushes through her veins, through her ears and makes his voice sound distant. The throbbing of her heart catches in her throat. It's surreal to think she's made it this far only to lose her nerve now.
Her voice is soft, but carries through the room. She says:
"I don't care about blood."
But in this, she lies.
She tries to hold her head high when she says it. To look him in his eyes and challenge his authority. But he radiates power, terrible, horrible magic. A storeroom of knowledge in a soulless mind.
She can't look up and so stares vaguely at the wall behind him, thoughts racing. Knowledge of her own crackling with intensity. She notices the shadows on the wall forming sharp points. Cutting through the white, white walls like an incision. Slants, inclines, slopes aimed by the directing light of the sun. It's the properties of the equations of the perception of lines. She's memorized that text.
But it's the blood she needs to secure the curses never effect her boys.
No one gains the Dark Lord's trust, least of all a half educated mudblood. She tells him Harry has been in the chamber. She tells him it has been destroyed, Salazar's great accomplishment. She tells him he is a descendant to ruins.
They're all connected to Lord Voldemort through the Dark Mark. All she needs is... All she needs is...
And eventually, one of them gets too close and underneath her nails embed skin fibers and blood. Harry's and the Death Eaters. Harry's and the Dark Lords. Given willingly, giving unsuspectingly.
Cruciatus drains her adrenaline and the pain emboldens her. She swallows the blood in her mouth from where her sharp teeth cut through her tongue and if she listens closely she can still hear her screams still echoing. The laughter of the Death Eaters cease when she says, "I know all his secrets."
Lord Voldemort is listening.
The Death Eaters cannot attack Hogwarts. The castle is more powerful than even the greatest of wizards. The castle will stand when all else has crumbled in the world. She loves Harry, and so she tells them of the Shrieking Shack, just outside Hogwarts bounds. She loves him, and she tells them of it's emotional impact on the trio, and most of all, on the Boy Who Lived.
Hermione sits in a golden prison cell, writing on the walls when she runs out of parchment and is too tired to conjure more. She doesn't want to be misinterpreted. They come for her and steal her hair. She argues and she thinks:
Cruciatus is a life affirming phenomenon.
She works twice as hard on the script, and soon the angles come together.
They bring in Harry and throw her at his feet. He is unblemished, defiant and he calls her
traitor.
They steal each other's blood with a backhanded blow that cuts her lip and a rake of nails that scour his face.
And they cannot touch him. That's Hermione's work. That's the blood coursing through the perception of lines deflecting their curses. And she knows, the Dark Lord will figure out this miracle and tear it to shreds.
She knows. But he's impressed.
"I'd hate to be your enemy." Harry says as they lay together in a gilded cage
"Oh, yes. I think you would too." She doesn't know what else to say.
They sit in silence, then, "I've never been a pacifist. It would shame me to not act." She says, "It should shame you too."
He stares at her for a long moment.
"There are things worth dying for." Suffering for.
He was the one who showed her that, but it was the enemy who taught it to her.
Lord Voldemort sends his Death Eaters to Scotland, and swears the killings won't stop until the castle surrenders, and he will have his victory.
He comes to her one night, and she knows what he's here for and that she isn't prepared. Not against Him. He'll steal everything in the stockpiled room of her mind that she doesn't know how to safeguard.
He has darkest of power to get what he wants. When and whatever.
She says:
"I bet you're regretting a lot of it right now. All of it?"
"Do you sit around thinking 'how is it possible a poor Mudblood could do this'?"
"Are you scared yet? Do you know how close I am? You should be scared."
"You will never touch him again. I will bleed – he will bleed - every day if that's what it takes to keep him safe."
He shakes his head. He smiles. He replies:
"Brilliant minds can not bear to lose."
His cold hands grab hold of her neck, long fingers digging into her jaw. He lifts her from the ground, and lifts her higher until the tips of her feet just barely brush the ground. She chokes while he stares into her eyes.
Flash
"She's a nightmare, honestly. "
Flash
She shrinks against the wall, dizzy and scared, she thinks she is about to faint. The troll continues to advance on her, knocking the sinks out of the walls as it comes ever closer.
Flash
Yellow eyes as big as her fist, reflecting back in Penelope's mirror. And nothing. Nothing.
Flash
A Death Eater in a white mask slashing his wand violently through the air. A streak of purple flame slamming right into her chest. "Oh." She speaks, surprised, and then falls to the ground, motionless.
Flash
Notes are spread over her entire flat. The Properties of Blood by Grilshay Bobbins. Wizarding Brands by Fina Wtain. Curse Scars by ...
The answer is on her face, the Death Eaters are all connected to Lord Voldemort through the Dark Mark. They are all connected.
Flash
Golden webs of a poly-hexagram with equilateral hexagons shooting off in spiraling webs. She touches her wand to the illusion and three more figures of six lines lazily extend the sides. She puts her head in her hands and screams in frustration.
Flash
She adds the value of blood, her blood, Harry's blood with the touch of her wand and the triangles web off, particles shivering and relocating.
Flash
She gives the equation words. Voice to make it real.
Flash
The web still shines brightly, but now only in her head. She has them memorized and locked in her mind. She's in Azkaban and (this doesn't feel right) there is a group of prisoners and officials waiting to see her brilliance. (this is wrong) . That massive tree of lines, of power, of math enter clear into her mind. She can see it like it was in front of her (They deserve this. It's all science. Magic. In the name of learning... To win the war...) She opens her mouth and says, (nothing might not happen. Please let nothing happen)
Flash
Order of the Merlin. Third class.
The Dark Lord is still holding her chin tight in his icy grip. There will be bruises blossoming where he has touched her. He lets her go and she falls to the floor, panting and exhausted.
"Lord Voldemort thanks you, Miss Granger. You have been most informative."
"I didn't do this." She speaks in a sotto voice and beside her, her companion stirs, "No," Harry says, anger and hatred caught between his teeth, "but you were vital."
She spends the night staring at the ceiling. She has a soul and it remembers. It feels and cries and begs and screams. She's nothing like Lord Voldemort.
She just has to hold on, (She misses the authority,) keep her pain close (the knowledge) keep it real (and knowing she was right.) because she really has no other way to trap a conscience (They wouldn't have given her the authority if she lacked the intellect to understand discipline and rules.
To make a few of her own.)
The world's a better place and she's a large part of that.
Break every bone, every law, and she will mend the losses.
There's nothing she cannot fix.
THE BOY WHO LIVED MISSING
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE DEAD
GRANGER EXCORIATED FOR THE ADMINISTRATION OF HER ACTIONSStaff reporter: Rita Skeeter
Yesterday, at 4:45am the Ministry of Magic gave in to demands set by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, under pressure of another violent attack. This reporter wonders what changes will be made to the doctrine now that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has taken seat as Minister.
Many have fled to Hogwarts, which seems to be the only place holding up against the abundance of attacks.
Many will remember when muggle-born Hermione Granger, third level Arithmancer, who created the class three Unforgivable curses to be used to fight the war against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was taken hostage days before Harry Potter vanished off Hogwarts grounds, where he'd been teaching Defense for the past year as a favor to a long time friend and confidant, Albus Dumbledore.
What at first seemed a tragic series of events have taken a new spin. The curse used to fell one of the greatest wizards of our time was examined and claimed as the curses Miss Granger had fashioned. We can only assume this is due to Miss Granger leaking vital information on her new breed of Unforgivables to You-Know-Who's Death Eaters and allies.
This reporter wonders what other horrors Miss Granger plans to originate with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and his army of the darkest creatures standing by her side.