Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and any similarity to other characters both real or fictional are entirely coincidental.
Anima Vinctum
Chapter 1: Corpus Sine Pectore (A Body Without a Soul)
Margaret Wright had just started work at Wool's Orphanage last Tuesday, and already she had her hands full. She had expected to be assigned something small to start out with; reading to schoolchildren, or watching them during their brief periods outdoors. Instead she was given an ear-full about the "percentage method", and shown how to properly mix cow's milk with water, cream, cod liver oil, and a touch of sugar. This was, apparently, extremely important to their patrons, and Mrs. Cole did her best to accommodate them. Margaret was then shoved into a square room filled with at least two dozen cribs, with a blanket in one hand and a bottle in the other.
She braced herself against the noise. Many were crying, a couple of older infants screaming and shoving themselves against the edges of the crib. She startled as the child next to her saw her standing there and made a racket she was convinced was unholy. Other babies saw her enter and did the same. She stood solidly for a few moments against the irritating cacophony of sound before she sprang into action. She really needed this job. She would figure this out.
She took the child nearest to her into her arms, swaying slightly in nervousness. What looked to be a he didn't stop screaming, so she settled him into the crook of her arm and shoved the bottle and its rubble nipple into his mouth. It took a few minutes, but the sound around her settled some and she was able to take the bottle out without him getting upset. She turned him on her shoulder, padded his back with her fingertips a few times, and carefully put him back in the crib.
She quickly went to the next crying baby and did the same.
She wished she could say that after she had made a round, it was quiet. There was some odd chain-reaction, and one fussy infant seemed to wake everyone around them, until the screaming started all over again. She could barely afford to give any attention to the fussiest of infants, let alone the quiet ones. As she carted a squealing baby girl over her shoulder, she looked down at one of the few silent infants. The name attached to the front of the crib stated, "Tom Marvolo Riddle" in block letters.
He was a handsome baby to be sure, with arresting dark eyes that peered at her over the top of his crib. She thinks he may have been one of the infants that started to cry after she came into the room, but he had stopped after not receiving any attention as she attended to the other infants. She considered briefly whether or not she should try to hold all of the infants, before her attention snapped back to the baby in her arms as the girl yanked on a few loose strands of hair.
They would be fine. They weren't crying, right? To be honest, Margaret did not have much experience with children, having been brought up as an only child by an aunt and uncle after the death of her parents. She could only assume that if they needed something, they would let her know. She set a mental remainder to tie her hair back during lunch, shoved the nipple into the mouth of the baby girl and steeled herself for another round.
Hermione did not feel herself. Since the end of war there had been so much to do. Funerals. Trials. Attempting to rebuild. Passive aggressively reminding Professor McGonagall that various students needed to sit the N.E.W.T. if they were to be able to move forward with their future. And when it was approved that a test would be administered in December, her days were taken up with a mad, frantic energy that bordered manic anxiety as she attempted to reread every textbook, and every other text of possible import that she could get her hands on.
Her days became an organized dash to review notes, make more notes, and attempt to ignore how everything was falling apart around her. How upset she was that she didn't seem to feel the same relief as everyone else. How she still felt as if she was hanging off the edge of a precipice. How there was a growing pain that seemed to originate somewhere in her chest that cut into her every time she wrote a sentence, bit into a sandwich, and got out of bed in the morning.
How she no longer felt comfortable relying on her friends. Harry would always be near and dear to her heart, but he had gone through so much. He still suffered from night terrors, and his reflexes bordered paranoia, but she could tell he was happier. Whether it was playing Quidditch with Ron or snuggling on a couch with Ginny, she could tell he was coming to terms with peacetime and she did not want to burden him with the fact that she did not feel the same.
And Ron. How had things ended up this way? How could she possibly confess that she had kissed him because destroying Hufflepuff's cup had left her feeling a loss so substantial that she was desperate to establish a connection with anyone? And she had tried so hard after the war to reconnect with him. In between trials and funerals, she attempted to cling to his broad chest, snogging him as if she could regain her feelings for him by force. But he noticed that she couldn't quite reciprocate. She didn't let him take her virginity, despite the various times she initiated intimacy. She didn't say that she was in love with him, despite the fact that Ron had felt that those words were all that held him together after the death of his older brother and the end of the war.
When he questioned her it had turned into a fight. Not that she was surprised.
"Why, Hermione? You start kissing me and touching me, and then you push me away like the thought of me inside you disgusts you! I want to make love to you! What is wrong with that?"
Hermione ignored him as she pushed her shirt back down over her stomach and buttoned her jeans. She started heading towards the door. She felt dirty and guilty, and was desperate for some space if only to distract herself and separate from these ugly feelings.
"Wait a second! Where are you going? I'm trying to talk to you!" Ron took several steps forward and grabbed her wrist, before swinging her back so that she faced him. "Well?" he asked, his face red.
Hermione knew she had to make a decision, but she also knew that ending her relationship with Ron would more than likely end their friendship. Years of her life she had spent enjoying him for his sense of humor and his warm affection. And she had so few friends. She knew it was selfish of her to lead him on, but she didn't understand what was wrong with her and was desperate for comfort. She thought she had wanted him for years; why were things turning out this way? Why couldn't she just get over the anxiety, and the depression, and the pain? Why were they still present? Shouldn't he make those feelings better?
She didn't have a lot of experience with relationships, and she knew that she was probably overestimating her expectations, but should she really feel so empty? And she couldn't lie to him. So she had attempted to distract herself from making a decision that she knew would change her life. She was afraid. Afraid to be alone, but afraid to take a step forward without being positively sure that it would work out for the better.
But he was pushing her to make a decision right now.
"Ron, let go, you're hurting me."
"Not until you tell me what is going through your head. Why are you acting this way?"
"Ron, I want to leave, let me go!"
"No! Talk to me! We have been after each other for years, Hermione! And it will be perfect! We can get married. Our kids and Harry and Ginny's kids will play with each other and go to school with each other. I'll even let you work at the Ministry and get a career like you've always wanted! This will work!"
Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. He would let her have a career? As if she needed permission? But her first inclination when pushed to make a decision she wasn't ready for was inaction. And while she wasn't known for her rash decision-making, she tended to let her mouth go when she was in a temper.
"Ron, I don't think I'm ready for anything like that!"
"Well, yeah, but soon right? Me and Harry have already been contacted by the Ministry, and we are set to start Auror training in October. So maybe we could get married in September? I'll be really busy once I start working, and this way everything will be fine just in case you get pregnant." He rambled this off in obvious excitement, and his broad smile displayed all the confidence in the world. "That's why you've been like this, right? I talked to Mum about it, and she said it was because you needed a sign of commitment. Well I am committed! I don't have the ring yet, but I should have it soon, so no problem, right?"
Hermione froze. And then immediately felt nauseous in the wake of his proposal. She had to stop herself from hyperventilating as anxiety tore through her body, physical pain in its tracks. Did she have to make that decision now? She wasn't prepared! And while the picture he painted of their red-headed children playing behind the Burrow sounded like everything she had wanted since she was fourteen, there was so much she couldn't ignore. What about her ambitions? Her life plan? And the presumption. They had only been dating for a couple of months! They fought all the time as teenagers, how was she to know that this would work the way he wanted?
As the silence continued, Ron's grin faltered and his grip tightened.
"Yes?" he suggested with less confidence.
"Ron…" she started to say, before Ron shoved her arm back.
"No?" he asked as his face started to turn red again. "Why not?"
Hermione started to breath more heavily as she backed up into the door. She couldn't do this right now, she couldn't, and the nausea and pain were making her want to vomit. She swallowed nervously as she rubbed the spot where he had gripped her arm.
"I can't…" she started to say, before she was cut off as Ron took another step forward.
"Why not?!" he practically screamed in her face.
She snapped, and screamed back, "Because I can't, Ron! I don't feel the same way! I don't feel happy, or in love! I feel sick all the time! Nervous and in pain, and I don't know why! And I can't share your confidence, Ron! We fight all the time! And how do I know you will be there when it gets difficult?! You left, Ron!"
He looked like he'd been slapped. He took a few deep breaths, before saying with a hint of a whine, "I came back! I tried so hard to come back! Isn't that more important?"
"I can't, Ron," Hermione stated again, barely more than a whisper as she hugged her arms into her chest.
His expressions seemed to change for a solid minute before settling on a sneer. "Fine. We are through." He flew out the door and slammed it shut behind him.
Hermione sank to the floor holding her head in her hands. What would she do now? She knew there was no turning back; there is no way Ron would so easily forgive such an insult to his pride. But what would she do? Without her friends, because she had no doubt that Ron was on his way to speak to Harry about what had happened…
She sat there long enough for her breathing to settle and her legs to cramp and grow cold on the floor, before she moved her hands down to cup her chin. But even as her body grew stiff, her mind was restless, conjuring images of condemnation and rejection until she started to rock herself.
Her panicked musings were interrupted by a firm knock on her door. She got unsteadily on her feet and felt dread wash over her. She opened the door while trying to plan out what she would say if it was Harry, but that train of thought left as the door swung wide open.
"Luna?"
Luna was smiling tiredly as she pushed her way inside and made herself comfortable on the couch, earrings made of washers clanging slightly from the momentum. A twitch of her wand and the door closed. "Hermione?" she suggested, her hand gesturing to the tea set on the coffee table. Hermione felt her eyebrows and forehead wrinkle in consternation, before she sighed, picked up the tea tray, and headed to the kitchen to brew some tea.
Someone else knocked on the door while she was still heating the water, and she heard Luna get up to answer it.
"Harry!" she heard Luna exclaim, before answering his upset, muffled inquiries. "Yes, Hermione is here, but now is not the time to talk to her. She is dealing with some issues right now, and is not in the right state of mind."
There was another muffled assertion, and Hermione was reasonably sure she heard Ron's name, before Luna shook her head. "I have no idea what happened with Ron. I'm talking about the state of Hermione's soul."
Harry's, "What?" was easier to make out as Hermione robotically measuring out loose leaf black tea, feeling a sense of suspense settle from her torso down to her fingertips. Her soul? Was there something wrong with her soul?
Luna continued. "A disruption of the soul is usually difficult to see, I understand, but I couldn't ignore the slupnotts I saw migrating to her chest the last time she was at Hogwarts. They usually fester in cracks the soul makes when performing the darkest of magic, and I have seen them before on Death Eaters. But they are all over Hermione, so I fear something dreadful must have happened."
The door must have been pushed open further, because Hermione could make out, "Luna, what are slupnotts?" quite clearly. She unwrapped a container of biscuits and poured them onto a tray.
"Slupnotts? They look like maggots, and they have a tendency to eat the edges of a broken soul. Daddy says they cleanse the break and allow for the edges to heal, but if there are too many they can actually eat away at the soul. I think that is what is happening to Hermione. I've never seen so many- except on Lord Voldemort, of course, but I figured that was a given."
There was a moment of silence before Luna stated, "In any case, I need to figure out what is going on. You'll have to come back later." She closed the door on Harry as he recovered and attempted to ask another question. The door shut with some noise, and Hermione could hear Luna resettle on the couch before she carried the tea tray out of the kitchen. There was a juggle on the doorknob and a couple of bangs that let Hermione know Luna had locked the door, before silence.
"Slupnotts?" Hermione asked. She didn't know how to feel- she was caught between relief that she wouldn't have to argue with Harry, a sense of dread and anxiety that pulled at her suspicions, and a skepticism that typically followed Luna's outlandish claims.
"Mmhmm," Luna hummed in ascertain, before taking a long look at Hermione. "And they seem to be getting worse," she stated as her brow creased and premature stress lines became visible on her forehead.
Hermione frowned as she sat opposite of Luna in an upholstered chair. "Where did you hear about this, again?"
Luna tilted her head, before ignoring the question and asking, "How do you feel?"
Hermione felt taken aback. When was the last time that someone had asked her that question? She tried to be honest without sounding melodramatic. "Tired. Anxious. Unsettled. Depressed."
Luna got herself of a cup of tea, and peered at Hermione over the edge of the lip. "What does your anxiety feel like?"
Hermione let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Like every muscle in my body is tensing for something that has yet to happen. Like my chest is in knots, and I'm somehow trapped in my skin, until I want release so badly I'm tempted to scratch the skin on my forearms off with my fingernails. Like nothing is going to go right, and I am somehow not right, and suddenly I can't breathe…." Hermione had to take a moment to force herself not to hyperventilate.
Luna watched with a frown. "Tea?" she suggested, and Hermione bent over to get herself a glass. "And Ron?" she asked, watching intently as Hermione froze and seemed to force herself to pour a glass.
"He decided that we should no longer be together," Hermione stated with a bland face, resting the tea cup on her knee so that her hand would stop shaking. Luna just tilted her head again, before giving her own soft sigh.
"When did these feelings start?" she asked, taking a sip.
"The Final Battle," Hermione stated, somewhat glad to get away from thinking about Ron. She wasn't ready to properly digest the implications of that interaction, so her immediate concern was finding something else to think about. Although considering the ruined state of her soul did little to assuage her of worry.
"Did you perform any of the Unforgiveables during the battle?" Luna asked without any inflection, and Hermione got the feeling that if she had, she wouldn't face any judgment from the girl sitting across from her.
"No," Hermione stated, shaking her head before tightening the hold she had on her teacup. Almost, she admitted to herself, but something always stopped her. Although truthfully she couldn't state whether or not that was because of moral principles, an instilled sense of self-righteousness, or because she didn't want to risk jail-time.
"What other exposures did you have to dark magic during the battle?" Luna asked, picking up and nibbling on a biscuit.
Hermione did not need to spend any amount of time thinking about it. "I destroyed a horcrux with basilisk venom," she stated, looking at her wrist where drips of the venom had burned into her skin as she had attempted to shove it into the cup. They appeared as splotches of white that spread out and blotted in the shape of tiny stars.
Luna frowned again. "But that wasn't the only horcrux you were in contact with, right?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, I wore Riddle's locket for a few months last fall."
"But that exposure didn't make you feel this way?"
Hermione clenched her teeth as she recalled how she felt wearing the locket. It made her feel warm, which was unsettling- she was convinced the ease and comfort she felt from the locket was Riddle's attempt to put her in a false sense of security, similar to Riddle's tactics in the Diary. And then he opened up his mouth, and her irritation with his arrogant, belligerent, confrontational attitude overrode any pleasant feelings she had. Which was for the best.
But wearing it- and its destruction- did not bring this hollowed emptiness or anxious nervousness. She shook her head.
Luna's mouth puckered. "Any other instances of exposure?" she asked, putting her teacup on the coffee table.
Hermione shook her head again as she stated a despondent, "No." She grabbed a biscuit, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth. It was too dry, and Hermione didn't wait to gulp down some tea.
Luna's face was still puckered. "We should go to Hogwarts. One of the professors might know more about it."
"About soul magic?" Hermione was doubtful that any of the professors still living could tell them very much. Other than Professor Dumbledore, and possibly Professor Snape, she couldn't imagine they would be well-informed. In her research on Horcruxes she discovered that Soul Magic was a rather obscure branch of magic, and that it was very often connected to Dark magic. "Not unless we can talk to the portraits."
Luna immediately brightened. "The portraits! Of course! Let's go now," she stated as she jumped up, her earrings jingling as she threw a biscuit back on the tray without abandon. She started heading towards the door, before she noticed that Hermione had remained perched at the edge of her seat. "Hermione?" Luna asked.
Hermione did not want to get up. This entire enterprise sounded like a waste of time. She did not feel well, but that did not mean that the cause of her illness was something so unusual. This was normal right? She remembered reading about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a child in her parent's house, and the depression and anxiety were typical responses in the face of trauma. And she definitely felt that getting tortured, watching her home of the last few years go up in flames, and losing her parents and friends counted as trauma. So wouldn't going to Hogwarts be an over-reaction? And she was just so tired. She really did not want to do anything right now.
"I don't see why I need to," she told Luna with a stubborn set in her chin.
Luna tilted her head again. There were a few moments of silence before she acquiesced with a nod. "Alright. Well I hope you feel better Hermione." She was out of the door in moments, and Hermione took an uncomfortable breath trying to remember if Luna had sounded upset or disappointed. It wasn't that she didn't believe her- not necessarily. But that did not mean that she thought she should go all the way to Hogwarts. And who was to say that this was because of her soul? Hermione frowned, looking at the closed door, and the abandoned biscuits on the coffee table.
Well, maybe she could bother looking at her notes again before she skipped dinner and went to bed. Hopefully tomorrow she would feel motivated enough to crack open her 7th year Arithmancy textbook. And perhaps a few texts about Soul Magic that she had thought to keep in her bag during last year's escapades.
The next few months passed rather quickly. According to the Daily Prophet there were several senior Death Eaters still at large, and more than a couple articles detailed hypothetical scenarios in which they had banded together to form some kind of resistant alliance in the Underground. Hermione openly scoffed at these conspiracy theories, sure that if there was some kind of organized resistance being formed, the death of innocents would have followed in its wake. Still, reading the imaginative, nefarious (and need she add, melodramatic) schemes while sipping on tea in the morning had become a welcome diversion from her otherwise busy study schedule.
Every time she thought about Ron tendrils of anxiety wound their way into her chest, so she did her best not to think of him. Harry had come back to visit at some point, but their conversation proved to be unproductive. He did not feel comfortable ousting his relationship with his soon to be brother-in-law, so their conversation consisted of skeptical speculation about Luna's claims, and empty platitudes regarding their continued friendship. Both of them wanted to remain in contact, but they knew that it would be difficult to do. In the midst of her depression Hermione considered this the end- she had never really been a priority to Harry, so why would that change now? Why would she expect him to take her side, especially when he didn't fully understand what was wrong with her? The hopelessness and sorrow she felt at losing Harry, when she had fought so hard for him, tore at her already hollowed chest. But who was she to make this decision for him?
And she found that as time progressed, her symptoms were getting worse. The initial fatigue was now a bone-weary kind of exhaustion that made it a struggle to move. Nausea made it difficult to eat. Night terrors made it difficult to sleep. She was so tense that the slightest noise in the quiet of her parent's house made her startle and whip out her wand. The pain had intensified and collected in certain areas of her body, including her head, chest, and joints. She spent quite some time considering the strangely inevitable descent her body and mind where making, consciously preparing for the crash, but frustrated at her inability to prevent its passing. Mind over matter was practically a principle in magic. Shouldn't she be able to duplicate the affects in regards to her depression?
According to an objective part of her brain that somehow seemed removed from her hormonal state, she could intellectually understand that she spent an inordinate amount of time wallowing, and she tried to offset the habit as best as she could by keeping to her study schedule. Regardless of her lack of motivation, she still loved to learn new things, and that same objective part of her brain marveled at the perseverance of her obsessive need to collect and store information. It also helped that she had kept in contact with many of her old professors and sent owls asking questions about likely topics on the exam. Their correspondence gave her a sense of obligation and expectation that helped to push past atypical bouts of laziness.
Her attempts to practice the practical portions of her exams became increasingly derisory as time went on as the strength behind her spells waned, but she attributed that to the depression and reasoned that she could find a way around it. She poured over Potion and Charm texts looking for temporary solutions to alleviate her symptoms that would allow her to adequately cast spells for the practical's. After a couple of weeks, she had an arsenal set up in preparation, although she didn't take anything prior for fear that tachyphylaxis would occur and prevent them from being effective during the exam. She didn't bother looking into long-term solutions. After all, this was temporary right? She simply needed to get these negative emotions through her system, and then she would be fine. She considered finding a therapist after the exams in order to obtain a more permanent method of treatment.
Soon enough the N.E.W.T. tests were due to be set, and she made her way to Hogwarts in a frantic rush wrapped in four layers of clothing. She was still somehow unprepared for the chill that accompanied Scotland winters, and made her track to the castle through snow at a pained, hurried pace. The new Headmistress was kind enough to meet her at the doors.
"Miss Granger!" she exclaimed with a smile, ushering her through the doors and leading her to the Great Hall. This part of the castle had been fully remodeled and refurnished by this time, and Hermione had to keep from moaning in pleasure as the warmth of the castle settled into her bones. The Headmistress continued to speak as she pushed Hermione towards a round table in the center of the room with a hand behind her shoulder-blades.
"You have come just in time for dinner. It's the Christmas Hols right now, and a majority of the students who returned for this year are home with their families. We have a few who elected to stay here, however, and a few other individuals like yourself who are set to take their N.E.W.T. exams next week."
The Headmistress nudged her to an open seat, which Hermione observed dispassionately was situated between Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. She had spoken at both of their trials in their defense; she may not have cared for their frequent verbal assertions displaying their obvious bigotry and blind prejudice when she was a child, but she didn't think it was enough to warrant a lifetime in Azkaban. While they had both been branded, they had not participated in murder, and their obvious terror and fear surrounding their roles was enough to convince her of their lack of implacability.
And Ron's ardent dismissal of her attempts, and irritation at her participation made it increasingly obvious how Dumbledore and the attitude of other Gryffindors had perpetuated House bias, and how those stereotypes could have contributed to Slytherin's ongoing resentment.
She shrugged almost subconsciously, before taking a seat with little aplomb. The weariness had settled back into her joints, and she couldn't manage grace if she tried, even to keep what little self-respect she had left.
Both boys gave her a side-ways glance, one with a frown and a furrowed brow, the other with practiced apathy, before they continued to eat their food. She half-heartedly shoveled some mashed potatoes and broiled chicken onto her plate, grateful for the fact that she didn't have to prepare anything. The familiar wave of nausea erupted as the smell of food wafted towards her face, and she fought through a gag reflex as she took a first bite. The second was easier.
Silence was maintained between the trio throughout dinner, but she barely noticed. There were a few whispered conversations about the latest news article, which detailed "Ground-breaking, up-to-date information about the killers at large and their plot to avenge the death of their tragic leader and their lost cause!". She didn't bother to hide her scoff, and rolled her eyes.
She saw several professors frowning and whispering to each other out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn't seem to make herself care. And when the Headmistress invited her up to her office, she had to fight the urge to sigh in obvious displeasure. She just wanted to lie down. She already felt as if she had expended an excessive amount of energy. Was that too much to ask?
She followed her favorite professor up the spiral staircase leading into the Headmistress's office, and started when she saw two familiar faces blinking down at her from within their portraits. Looking into the eyes of Severus Snape she had to fight not to sink into the memory of his death, of the gushing blood and drowning helplessness she felt at his side, breathing a little too quickly for comfort as she all but fell into a chair that was facing the portraits. With a concentrated effort she looked down at a neatly organized desk made of cherry wood, staged behind thick tartan curtains.
"She was right to worry," she heard Professor Dumbledore state with consideration, and glancing up she saw him observing her while stroking the white hairs on his chin.
"Who knew the impertinent chit was this weak?" Professor Snape drawled behind a sneer, which turned into a frown as her only response was to swing her head to look at the black gleam of his buttons with obvious indifference. "What is wrong with her?" he asked the Headmistress, who was standing to the side of her chair.
"Miss Lovegood seems to think that there was a disruption to her soul. She contacted me about it months ago, but none of the staff has managed to convince Miss Granger to visit the castle before this point. And she was responding to all of her letters, so we didn't think the situation was dire enough to visit her current residence," Professor McGonagall stated with obvious concern, and Hermione could feel herself frown obstinately. She was fine. Well, no she wasn't fine, but there was nothing anyone in this room could do to help her. And it is not like they really cared anyways. She was hardly their favorite person, or someone worth consideration while they were still alive; why would that change following their deaths?
Grasping that bit of self-righteousness and misery, she made to get up so she could leave and find a place to sleep, before she felt the Headmistress push down on her shoulders so she was forced to sit back in the seat. Hermione looked up and glared, but McGonagall did not move. "We are not done here, Miss Granger," she stated imperviously behind her spectacles, before moving around to sit at her desk.
Professor Snape spoke up. "The quickest way to ascertain soul damage would be to investigate the state of her magic. Her ability to cast certain spells, and the proficiency behind them would be affected if her soul was truly in a state of disruption."
Professor McGonagall considered that for a few moments, before turning to look her in the eye. "Well Miss Granger? Would you care to give us a performance?"
Hermione's frown deepened. Why? Why should she have to do any of this? Her magic was fine. Or if it was less than fine, it was a result of her mental state. Other witches and wizards who have gone through acute periods of depression have had issues with their magic. In that case, how would this be an indicator?
She hadn't realized she had spoken her objections out loud until Professor Snape retorted with, "That is because, Miss Granger, serious cases of mental disturbances have been known to rupture the soul. So first we need to evaluate how serious the disruption before we can inquire as to its origin. A levitating charm, if you please."
Hermione glared, before retrieving her wand from her pocket and waving it at a box of utensils on the Headmistress's desk. It barely levitated two inches off the desk for a few seconds, before gravity took hold and it dropped back down with a clang.
"Perhaps if you cast the spell verbally?" Professor Snape suggested sarcastically, his facial features set somewhere between a smirk and a sneer as he crossed his painted arms in front of chest. Hermione returned the look and resisted the urge to physically gesture her malcontent.
Professors' Dumbledore and McGonagall frowned at them both, before looking at each other. "This is much worse than we thought," the Headmistress stated, before looking back at Hermione.
"What else did Miss Lovegood report?" Professor Dumbledore asked.
"Miss Granger disclosed that this started after the Final Battle," Professor McGonagall stated.
"Did you cast any Unforgiveables?" Professor Snape asked through pursed lips. They tightened as she shook her head.
"Did someone curse you with dark magic during the battle?" Professor McGonagall inquired.
Hermione frowned and shook her head again. "No, nothing like that."
Professor Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, before suggesting, "Perhaps a soulmate was lost on the battlefield?"
Professor Snape snorted in response. "Oh, Albus. You and your need to romanticize the most mundane of events…" he snarked. "Of course it is impossible that this could be as a result of the battle. Death, horror, and bloodshed would be enough to disturb the hearts of most men. Don't you agree?" he continued. Hermione noted, quietly impressed, that his final question managed to sound both rhetorical and sarcastic.
"Everyone else seems to be adjusting adequately enough," Professor Dumbledore suggested with a shrug. The flippancy of that remark disturbed Hermione enough to stare at him with no small amount of horror. Adequately enough? What about the missing family members? Orphaned children? Physical disabilities? The individuals that turned? Lavender Brown would spend the rest of her days as a werewolf. Lost inheritances, lost property, lost jobs, lost lives? And everyone had nightmares. She had been afforded glimpses of Professor Dumbledore's tendencies to act dismissively towards casualties during the war, but she really had to wonder if they were just calculated collateral damage.
And how wasn't she adjusting? Wasn't she doing the best that she could? Wasn't she here trying to forward her education?
The Headmistress seemed to share her train of thought. "I am going to pretend you did not say that, Albus," she stated tiredly. "We could try to ascertain her soulmate, if she has one, so we can at least rule it out as a possibility."
Professor Snape's sneer grew more pronounced. "I didn't realize you knew any spells that would locate a soulmate. How romantic."
The headmistress scoffed in his direction. "This could only be the work of soulmate if they had somehow acknowledged the bond. In which case they had to have come in contact in order to establish one. And I'm sure you in your infinite wisdom can agree that simply making present bonds visible to the viewer greatly simplifies the process," she sniped at him, before picking up her wand and turning towards Hermione. "Scoot your chair closer to me, my girl," she stated.
Hermione tried to ignore the familiar flare of anxiety and a rush of nerves as she sat up and pushed the chair closer to the desk. She sat back down with no small amount of trepidation, clenching the wood armrests tightly in her hands.
"Singillatim Vinculum Aperire," Professor McGonagall stated as her wand moved in an intricate fashion. Immediately a rush of light was produced and several ribbons of various colors became visible, leading from her chest in various directions through the floor and ceiling. Several were broken, including two, thin, orange ribbons, and looking closer Hermione could see the names of her parents printed in her small cursive. There was another ribbon that demanded her attention, however, obvious for its much larger size and lack of color. Above the silky, silvery grey Hermione read a name that made her freeze, and then frown in consternation.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Hermione looked up at Professor McGonagall. She pointed at the ribbon and asked, "What does this mean?" She had an idea, but she was desperate for some other explanation.
The Headmistress saw the broken ribbon, but didn't elect to say anything. She leaned back in her chair for a moment, before frowning at the tip of her wand. "What did it say?" Professor Dumbledore asked from behind her, but she merely shook her head in response. "I must not have cast the spell correctly," she muttered to herself, before turning back towards Hermione and casting a quick "Finite." She then repeated, "Singillatim Vinculum Aperire."
Again a stream of light burst from her chest, but the colors and names on the ribbons remained the same. Professor McGonagall again frowned.
"Please do away with these unnecessary theatrics, Minerva. A name, if you will," Professor Snape stated, attempting to peer out of his portrait to see the names on the ribbons coming from Hermione's chest.
As the Headmistress continued to sit in silence, Hermione answered in her place. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. Although I have no idea why he and I would be bonded. Professor, what do these colors mean?"
Both men ignored her question, their faces displaying obvious shock. Professor Snape even muttered, "What?" as Professor McGonagall leaned closer and poked various ribbons with the end of her wand. When she touched the ribbon with Tom's name, hurt shot across her chest and through her limbs, and she couldn't contain an exclamation of pain. Through a wince Hermione saw McGonagall's frown deepen as her face grew disturbed. She finally said, "These colors represent the different kinds of bonds. Familial, feudal, obligatory. In order to appear they need to be realized, to some extent. For them to have color, they need to be actualized."
Hermione looked down at her chest and took a deep breath, her hands white and shaking. "So I had the potential of a bond with Riddle? But neither of us ever committed to it?"
Professor McGonagall nodded her head, and Hermione could see the tension emulated in her frame as her face tightened. "If you had, you would not be alive at the moment."
Hermione let out a frustrated puff of air. "Why is it there to begin with? I've never even spoken to the man. Not really."
Professor Dumbledore felt the need to interrupt. "Miss Granger, you carried his soul around your neck for weeks."
Hermione had to resist the urge to glare at him for stating the obvious. It was just a piece of his soul, though, right? Did that even count? Obviously, she corrected herself as she looked back down at the broken ribbon. "So is this why I feel the way I do?"
Professor Snape seemed to have recovered from his shock, and he spoke uncertainly, "No, that shouldn't have been enough. Not by itself. The state of your soul is much worse than I would have suspected considering your bond was never actually established."
Hermione's brow furrowed as she looked back at the recently defeated Dark Lord's name written in her handwriting. And she wondered how in the world fate felt it possible that she could be a soulmate to someone like Tom Riddle. Where was the connection? She certainly had no ambition to become some racist, megalomaniacal dictator.
Her musings were cut short as Professor Dumbledore asked a question. "You wouldn't happen to have been personally responsible for the destruction of any of Tom's horcruxes?"
Hermione could only nod, and all three professors blanched. Professor Snape started nodding. "This would be why," he stated, before giving her a look that Hermione could almost attribute as pity.
Suddenly overcome with apprehension, Hermione looked questionably at the Headmistress, who sighed and stated, "Actualized or not, knowingly or not, you destroyed a piece of a shared soul. This is why soulmates typically cannot harm one another; it is interpreted as a kind of suicide, a rejection of the self, which rebounds unpleasantly on the individual. If Riddle's soul had been whole, you would not be alive. As it is now, your magic has turned against you and is eating you alive."
Hermione felt her eyes widen, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Her hands dug into her jeans, where she clawed into the material with her fingernails. What? She had never heard of any such thing before. What was she to do? Was there anything she could do? She looked desperately at the three individuals giving her council, but no one offered up a solution. The feeling of dread that had flooded her body on occasion in the past few months took hold, and she desperately tried not to cry. She had not cried once throughout this entire process. For fuck's sake, she would keep it together and not cry now. She nodded slowly, thanked her professors, and stumbled out of the room in a rush before anyone there could stop her.
She wandered down the stone hallways, attempted to breath, when she ran into someone with pale hair. She stepped back and recognized Luna, and then Ginny a few seconds later. She couldn't bear to say anything, but numbly heard Luna chase Ginny away after looking at the state of the ribbons still streaming from her chest. Luna then grabbed the front of her robes and led her into the Prefect's Bath. She couldn't be bothered to ask how she knew it was there, before Luna had sat her down on a bench and grasped her fingers in her small, pale hands.
"Hermione?" Luna asked softly, her head tilted to the left. Hermione took a staggering breath as she took note of the musical tilt in Luna's voice. She really was a lovely creature, if a bit odd.
Hermione shook her head, before stating, "It's all over for me. Apparently my magic is eating me alive. They didn't give me a prognosis, but I suspect I do not have much time left." She looked down at the hands grasping hers, and was surprised to see that they were about the same shade of pale.
Luna squeezed them in attempts to get her attention back to her face. "All is not lost, Hermione. You simply need to change your fate."
Hermione could not resist the frown, although she stopped the sneer. Just barely. "Isn't that a paradox, Luna? If you can control it, can it really be called fate?"
Luna laughed a tinkling laugh. "Oh, Hermione. You would not be the one in control."
To be continued…
