~.~.~ Vicissitude ~.~.~
A/N: This story, although AU, will tie very closely with the real series by J.K. Rowling with obvious differences, pairings, and whatnot. I do not own Harry Potter (goes crying in a corner) but I do own any OC characters that might be placed inside or of any objects created as well to serve certain purposes. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. This story will also remain Rated: T until fifth year - then it will change to M, whenever we get there. :D Thanks, and enjoy!
SUMMARY: Body twitching in excitement and fear, Hermione Granger waited with baited breath to be sorted, her eyes consistently turning to the table of red and gold. However, quite unexpectedly, the hat didn't bellow Gryffindor as she had requested…but Ravenclaw.
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Dark and ominous, yet beautiful and magnificently stately, the Malfoy Manor hovered on the precipice of the finely manicured lawn. Elegant and exotic albino peacocks strutted along the dark green grass, small heads on long necks bobbing up and down gently, low coos escaping their light-beige beaks. Their pale plumes were folded over their backs, trailing against the blades of grass ever the slightest. The large lawn, even within the dark, looked to be greatly well-taken cared of with lush, evenly cut grass as it gradually crescendo-ed up the hill. Spare trees and bushes were well-manicured and contained patches of wild flowers near the house, surrounding the large, white marble carved fountain in the center of the cobble-stoned walkway (that was certainly unneeded), were wonderfully arranged in aesthetically pleasing arrangements.
The mansion itself was exquisite with numerous bay windows lining the front from the left to right, east to west, on all floors: first, second, and third. Quite proudly, the estate held approximately thirty-eight windows (with twenty-four on the front face of the house in between the marble pillars), two sets of windows on each side of the house, and eight in the back including a large glass patio wall that led out to a large, spacious deck equipped with only the best outdoor lounging chairs and tables (where tea parties and picnics were most popularly held). The deck was a deep oak, the Malfoy family crest fondly emblazoned on the surface. The Manor was constructed of the finest granite. Frivolous displays of wealth were represented by fantastically manufactured sculptures near the top of the alternating pillars in the front of the house, surrounding the large French entrance doors, every step and even some randomly scattered meticulously along the lawn. A beautiful, intricate engraving of twin snakes swirled around the Malfoy crest along the massive lock that barred the large, threatening thin, black gates closed, surrounding the entire Malfoy plot.
A place of such beauty, wealth and power…Many witches and wizards could only dream of being anywhere near such displays, much less than actually own it.
It was so hard for eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger to comprehend the fact that the Mansion was housing an evil individual so fowl and so dark that it even made the cupids on the fountain, as she passed by it with a stiff and rigid Professor Snape, seem unfriendly and forewarning. Their upturned lips of what should have been smiles and squeals of laughter turned mocking and cruel; their almond shaped eyes hooded – as if drunk by the power emanating from the household. Even the crystalline waters that gently rippled from the actions of the fish underneath appeared black and polluted. Licking her dry lips, the bushy-haired witch tried to calm down the rampaging heart that was trying very hard to run from her chest and back to the safe haven that was Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. From underneath her drawn up hood, Hermione cast back a furtive glance at the other pale-faced, lightly sweating recruits that were also being escorted by their sponsors. Their eyes reflected the inner turmoil, disbelief, and sudden terror as realization at what they were about to do entering their minds. Yet no one tried to run away.
It would be the last thing one wanted to do. No one, absolutely no one, turned back when expressing an affirmative interest in joining Lord Voldemort. If one somehow did manage to escape the more than proficient Death Eaters alive and well, it only meant that they could never be safe again; only to be hunted down.
Dear God, she could not believe that she was doing this. Hermione glanced up at the large house as they crept closer, her large brown eyes taking in the Roman architecture and if it had been any other occasion, she would have shown a great amount of intrigue. But alas, it wasn't, and Hermione barely gave the figurines more than an appreciative glance at the vast detail that was put forth in the wind-blown togas.
They reached the first of twelve steps that led to a pair of tall, dark French doors and Hermione must have started hyperventilating because Professor Snape managed to whisper severely, yet soothingly at the same time, so that they could not be overheard through his Death Eater mask.
"Miss Granger, control yourself! We're almost there." He scolded her from the corner of his mouth.
Hermione glanced at the taller man beside her and pushed down the urge to push him into the fountain as she fiercely whispered back, "How can I control myself when I am coming closer to enslaving myself to him?!"
"For Merlin's sake, woman," she swore that she could see his pitiless black eyes flashing with irritation through the slits of his mask, "Use your Occlumency breathing exercises. Use what little time you have left to strengthen your mind's defenses."
Grudgingly, Hermione bit her uncharacteristically rebel and disrespectful tongue to do what he ordered. To be truthful, he was right. She should have been doing exactly that the moment they arrived just outside of the gates and the Anti-Apparition wards. Hermione lowered her eyes to the stone her feet softly scuffed on and allowed herself to travel deep within her subconscious, searching for the Hogwarts library that she oh-so loved and enjoyed with the deepest depths of her heart. She traveled along through the labyrinth-like shelves packed full with books and leaflets of parchment, the scents of ink and paper wafting through her senses. Most of the books were unlocked and ready for perusal, books that glimpsed into the memories she was willing to be pried into. Not glancing at the books, Hermione made her way to the Restricted Section of the library and with her wand unlocked the dozens of security attachments with a small amount of effort.
She closed the door behind her softly and looked at the two oppositely-facing shelves that were filled with many thin booklets. She checked every single book, reinforcing the keep-away charms and wards on the locks of the books with vehemence. Memories of Order meetings, meetings with the secret location of her muggle parents, memories of her learning Professor Snape's true alliance, memories of Draco's confession of not wishing to tread down the path of a Death Eater, intimate memories with Theo, rather embarrassing memories she wouldn't dare to allow the Dark Lord to peruse, and certain (she blushed) fantasies. All of them were locked again. Memories of her helping Harry and Ron find the Chamber of Secrets, she doubly locked that memory. Something inside her told her that the Dark Lord would not have been pleased one ounce to learn that she had been the reason why the sixteen-year-old memory of his former self was unable to cleanse the school and get rid of Harry Potter. Nor would he be happy to notice that she had gone back in time with Harry to save his rather handsome (she blushed) godfather, Sirius Black. No, no indeed.
Once reassured that she had locked every vital memory to her highest of capability, Hermione redid the locks of the Restricted Section and even added on another for extra measure.
A hand on her shoulder forced Hermione abruptly back to the present. They were entering through the doors and Hermione felt her heart tremble even harder as she took in the large, grand staircase that was proudly displayed in the capacious entrance hall. Its black marble steps lined up in rounded curves to an overhang that led to the second floor, both sides assuredly leading to guestrooms. Small pillar pedestals holding expensive-looking vases (filled with most probably exotic, imported flowers) lined the hallways. Off to the right they saw a dining room of grandeur that held a long, dark cherry wood table and numerous small, leather-padded chairs. Dirty, poorly-clothed house elves were running around the magically enhanced room with a feared tenacity that tugged at Hermione's compassionate heart as they re-dusted the walls, the chairs, wiped down the surface of the table until it gleamed precociously, snapped their fingers and cleaned the fur rug that coated the wooden flooring. They polished small pieces of work that were displayed here and there. Gorgeous, goblin-crystal goblets suddenly appeared within the time span of a blink of an eye, shimmering and reflecting everything off within its vicinity. Empty, silver platters were whisked onto the table with the same manner as were multiple eating utensils lying upon crisply folded white napkins that were delicately emblazoned with the Malfoy crest in ivory, the slightest change in the nuance of color making it subtle yet elegant.
To the left was the drawing room, compiled with comfortable-looking furniture that were held up by obsidian marble frames, the armrests coiled serpents. The high ceiling held a mural reminiscent to the painting in the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo. The bright and soft colors of the ceiling contradicting strikingly against the stark black and white décor of the room and the further they traveled through the large estate, the more Hermione understood why Voldemort would wish to dwell and scheme here than at the graveyard that Harry had described during fourth year. Every part of this dwelling screamed status, blood purity, royalty, and wealth. What a better way to boost up your self-esteem and confidence by surrounding yourself in such leisure?
But it must suck for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, Hermione couldn't help but sympathize with the matriarch. Although Mr. Malfoy would be more than pleased, most undoubtedly honored, to house his lord, Narcissa Malfoy might be the most distressed at being in such close proximity to the man that was the epitome of the Dark Arts. Of the few times that she had seen Mrs. Malfoy, she always held that air of haughtiness and superiority. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if she will see the same look when they entered for the ceremony to take place.
It didn't take them long to reach the patio, to pass it and go on to the deck. Hermione felt her breath hitch up into her throat as dozens upon dozens of heads, clothed in black masks, turned in almost aching sync to gaze at the fresh meat with ravenous eyes. From the height, Hermione could see the flash of bright blonde-silver hair. Draco…The young man, though having grown in to his own skin and a far cry from the helpless boy he had been during his years at Hogwarts, looked shaken and sick to his stomach. Another flash of bright blonde made Hermione look to the source and was utterly shocked at the mortification and fear that was horribly trying to be suppressed on the woman's pretty features (when said facial features weren't scrunched up in distaste). Her hands were bone-white as she clasped on to her handkerchief, beside a clothed Lucius Malfoy, tall and erect. She heard, rather than saw, Bellatrix Lestrange as she shrieked with abandoned happiness and pleasure.
"Milord! Milord! The new recruits are here!"
Hermione felt an uncomfortable chill roll up and down her spine at another bark of laughter that left the woman's heavily lipstick-coated lips; her dark, brooding eyes were sparkling; her tangled black hair, though shiny, was haphazardly thrown into a messy bun. It appeared that she didn't care that the other Death Eaters saw her face.
"Indeed…"
A low yet oddly high-pitched voice returned. Hermione felt her body tremble despite her attempts at stopping the natural reaction. The smooth voice was like that of a cold, winter blast of wind. Chilling and seeping its coldness to the center of her being, taking away any warmth she might have had underneath her plain, black cloak – and far faster and effective than any Dementor could have done.
Heart thumping loudly in her ears, Hermione almost didn't register Professor Snape discreetly poking her shoulder to follow the pair before them and down the steps to the backyard that was just as beautiful as the front. Past the throngs of unbelievably large amounts of Death Eaters (Hermione never thought that there were this many), a tall man stood by a large pond that reflected the bright, semi-fullness of the moon in the sky. The large weeping willow overshadowing a small portion of the lake didn't mar the man's image. The stark paleness of the bald head set him off as a beacon, seen by all. Slowly, he turned.
A scream threatened to escape her lips yet Hermione thankfully managed to suppress it.
Extremely thin lips spread into a horrific, foxy smirk. A pair of slated, crimson orbs burned brightly through the pitch blackness of the night like twin flames. Long, spidery fingers caressed a thirteen-inch, phoenix-feathered wand.
Once the recruits were ushered into a large circle that the surrounding Death Eaters formed, Lord Voldemort spread his long limbs outward into a sweeping gesture of welcome. It only succeeded in making many of them flinch.
"Let us begin," he hissed triumphantly.
Prologue: Freak Accident
Eleven-year-old, almost twelve, Hermione Granger hummed lightly under her breath in between half-mumbled recited formulas and whatnot as she finished her homework for the evening.
The scents of books surrounding her gave the little girl a sense of ease as she worked her ballpoint pen to exhaustion on the rough draft that she was making for English class. The lined paper she was currently pouring over was supposed to be a small one-page, two-hundred word biographical essay of the author of the book they had read for third quarter. Where as others would have done the basics (birth, family, career, death) and winged it until they got the required minimum of two hundred words, Hermione proved once again to overachieve by the full nine yards. Unlike most who used the public library's computers to type out their essay and print it out (free of charge), Hermione much rather preferred to write out the three rough drafts she usually does for every essay sent her way. She was actually going over her second one right now. Her total word count, so far, was up to three hundred and fifty-nine words, not too much overkill, she believed.
Amongst her curly handwriting, Hermione corrected her mistakes with a red pen, her front buck-teeth biting gently on her bottom lip in concentration. A small, ink-stained hand absentmindedly batted away a stray, tickling curly strand of fuzz from time to time. Large, inquisitive brown eyes scanned through the extremely cramped lines with ease that would instead leave a person feeling dizzy. The margins were decorated heavily with new facts to add in along with miniscule notes to change the wording of a sentence that sounded odd. When finished through, Hermione placed her pen down, and giving the papers a good ruffle to smooth them out, read the essay once again. She shook her head in aggravation as she caught another "their" that was supposed to be a "there." It was a horrid habit of hers.
Correcting the error, Hermione dropped the papers and picked up a thick reference text with a list of influential authors in the UK, the picture and name of her author meeting her gaze. She turned the page. The large pages were covered in head to toe with incredibly small print. Where as any other child would have groaned in distress at having to look at such boring drivel about someone they didn't even really care to know about, Hermione's eyes lit up and her smile widened. Bending over, Hermione read the book quickly underneath her breath, her guiding index finger leading her.
Three pairs of contemptuous eyes stared at the small, bushy-haired girl who was eagerly pouring herself over the large tomes around her. She was constantly making sticky notes, writing little tidbits on to source cards. The three boys looked at her, their gazes hard and envious.
"She's such a show-off," one muttered hotly.
"Making herself look more important than anyone."
"Just because she's freakishly smart doesn't mean that she's all-shit."
"Stupid, ugly bird," another one mumbled darkly, black eyes shooting daggers at the oblivious bookworm. They flashed hotly, slightly chubby cheeks flushing light in anger, resentment, and humiliation of her rejecting him to play four-square with him…just so she could read a stupid, boring book. His play-worn fingertips clutched at the book in his hands.
"Looks like she's writing some novel," the taller one sneered, his eyes discreetly sneaking a peak at his rather abysmal paper that was only half-finished. It was a no-brainer that the geek's paper would be ten times better than his. And without a doubt their teacher would once again go spouting off praise and awe once again during class about little Miss Perfect's paper.
The smallest boy at the table looked at her with disinterest. In truth, he didn't really hold a grudge against her for she was always polite, even if a bit pretentious in the way she spoke. What with having two extremely well-known dentist-surgeons, the little boy could only wonder even more if she hadn't. Everyone within their district knew how well-off the Granger family was. They had a nice, white, two-floor story house with a picket fence and a beautiful garden in the back. It was picturesque. Mr. Granger was in his early fifties (was it allowed to have parents that old?) but looked to be in his early forties. Mrs. Granger was young in her mid-thirties. With having such older, mature parents, it was a given that their only child would inherit both of their sense of maturity and brains.
But it didn't make it any easier to deal with.
They lowered their heads and began to whisper in conspiring tones.
A small beep from her digital watch caused Hermione to look up in mild irritation. She looked at the highlighted screen and sighed. Five thirty. The library would be closing soon and mum would be starting dinner. Since she could not check out the book from the library, or leave sticky notes, Hermione wrote down the page numbers and title. Closing the dozens of books surrounding her, Hermione grabbed them into her arms and strolled around the vast labyrinth to place them back in their rightful places. Biographical section, non-fiction, reference section; Hermione gave a small, shy smile at the librarian who smiled at her in thanks for cleaning up her area.
She passed by a table containing three boys from her class. She missed the cruel glint in their eyes.
Hastily making her way to the small, round table, Hermione stuffed her notebooks, pens, and papers into the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. Gracing the kind librarian with a "goodnight" and "see you tomorrow," Hermione headed out into the hallway that was filled with lockers left and right. The hallways were dimly lit, causing her shadow to stretch farther. I wonder what Mum will make for dinner, Hermione thought to herself, a small, lonely yet content smile spreading on her lips. Her frizzy hair bounced up and down with her steps as she came closer to the exit.
Hermione thought back to the boys in the library and felt a small jolt of longing in her scholarly driven heart. Hermione Granger didn't have friends, she had the random one here and there, but classes and social circles usually tended to break them apart. And when they were separated, well, social opinion took it up from there.
Thinks she's better than everyone.
Look at her, always waving her hand at every question.
Such a show-off.
Teacher's pet.
What a snoot.
Doesn't she at least care for her appearance? I mean look at her and her buck teeth!
You'd think with parents as dentists would have given her the perfect smile.
Hermione felt the irritating prick behind her eyes as tears gently brimmed on the bottom edge of her eyes. The water blurred away her brown Mary-Janes. In truth, she was lonely and wanted nothing more than to reach out, but how could she? In the beginning, she thought that her intelligence would be friends closer, while instead it created nothing but foes. She was far from being inattentive to the people around her. She heard the rumors, the gossip behind her back. People would act nice and friendly to her when working on a project, but the moment it was finished, their nice-guy act disappeared to reveal the horrible monster underneath.
They poked fun at her hair and her teeth relentlessly. Hermione could barely count all of the times she had cried herself to sleep after successfully reigning in her emotions away from her overwhelming parents. If they knew the abuse, the bullying she was receiving, they would pull her out right away and take her to a new private school without a single thought to the difficulties of moving, of having to find new positions in clinics. She loved them, she really did, but she couldn't fathom doing that to them. They paid a good deal of money for her to attend the prestigious primary school.
A sigh escaped her. Friends. Did she really want them? Sure, it would be nice to laugh and talk to someone other than her parents once and a while, to feel that sense of belonging outside of the home, to know that someone cared for you. Hermione wouldn't deny that she wished to feel that way. To have sleep-overs, to have someone to play with outside of school, to converse with academically would be very ideal. But what about the downsides of a friendship? The nagging, the slightly harmful teasing, the pressuring to do something popular, to change oneself – Hermione didn't think that she would really like that. She liked reading her large tomes and old American literature, to read poems by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Frederick Douglass, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. She liked reading Shakespearean tales and playwrights. She liked Jane Austen and Jules Verne. She liked Mary-Janes and plaited skirts and sweater-vests, and although she would love nothing more than to tame her hair just the slightest, she knew that she wouldn't have it any other way.
And her teeth, Hermione knew that within time she would grow into them.
With a nod of her head, Hermione felt her heart steel with newfound resolve. She could make it.
A hand roughly grabbed her shoulder with such a wrenching force, Hermione gave a surprised gasp. Seeing a flash of leering eyes and cruel smirks, Hermione gave an outraged, panicked cry when finding her small body thrust into a plain tan locker. Her satchel was torn from her side as her head banged sharply against the back of the locker, making her see stars. So dizzy and out of focus, Hermione barely made a move forward when the door to the locker slammed closed. Engulfed in darkness, brown eyes snapped open in fear at being pressed in a small fourteen inch by fourteen inch locker. Fast breaths escaped her, tears staining her eyes. She immediately began banging on the door in frantic hysterics.
"L-Let me out! LET ME OUT!" she cried, tears falling down her cheeks.
The boys laughter made her sob harder.
"Blimey this bag is heavy!"
"Let's look inside –"
"Bet its filled with books and shit."
"STAY OUT OF THERE," Hermione pleaded, her heart clenching in tightness as she heard a sound of a zipper and the pouring objects on the tiled floor. The sounds of books and papers rustling made Hermione slam her fists harder onto the metal. A hard slap on the locker made her recoil.
"Pipe down, freak! We'll let you out sooner or later."
"When we feel like it." One of them chortled.
"Guys look at this! She's writing a novel like we said she was."
"Hey! Hey! Let me see it for a moment."
Dread filled her.
"Hey, Hermione," said one of the boys. Hermione perked up in hope. "Listen to this."
A loud distinct rip of paper being shredded entered her ears.
The boys keeled over in boisterous laughter as Hermione began screaming at them in angry tears. They hooted and mocked her cries to be let out, taking sinful joy in ripping her essay apart until there was nothing left to place it back together.
"Let's do the same to her book!"
"The Templar Legacy by Steve Berry – sounds like a bore."
Righteous, indignant anger filled her. She had done absolutely nothing to them! All she ever did was strive to learn more, read to her heart's content, and did the best to her capability in every class. Why was that so wrong? Why was she to be condemned from all of the others? What made her so special? Why was she singled out from amongst the other depressed outcasts that inhabited their school? The teachers adored her – they appreciated her efforts. Why couldn't they? All she wanted was to be accepted and feel belonged. All she wanted was to be acknowledged by her peers. Why was it so wrong to be the best that you could possibly be?
Fury, that she had never known herself to possess, weld up in her stomach before bubbling up her throat and entering her mouth with venom and bitter taste. Eyes screwed shut tightly, Hermione moved forward to bang her fists against the door of the locker once again.
"LET. ME. OUT!"
The next thing that happened was perhaps one of the most mystifying experiences she ever had.
With the calculation of her mass and the force behind her thin arms in contrast to the door that was latched indefinitely in place, Hermione knew what happened next was illogical, impossible. With a large whistle and a bang, the door shot away from the locker frame to collide loudly against the hard-tiled wall and falling with a ruckus. The fortunate boys who were out of the path of the door, stared in slack-jawed amazement, their hair and clothes ruffled from the whistled air. The book lied clutched in their hands unharmed. Hermione, breathing heavily in exertion, could only stare in shock at the battered, bent form of the door across the hall. Her knees trembled underneath her plaited skirt. Her hands trembled in their formed fists. Tears stained her cheeks as small wisps of brown hair fluttered around her face before settling.
A strangled sound met her ears. Gulping and licking her dry lips, Hermione cautiously stepped out of the locker and into the deadly-silent hallway. She felt her heart drop to her stomach as she looked at the shredded remains of her essay – there was no hope in restoring it. Glancing at the boys, however, made her go numb. There was only one expression on their faces: fear. She opened her mouth to say something and gasping, the boys dropped the book as if it had burned them upon contact. They turn-tailed and ran out of sight. A boy turned around to lock eyes with her, only for him to turn and run even faster than before. Hermione gulped, her body trembling as she wondered what she was supposed to do, her brain frantically trying to come to terms with what just happened.
When hearing a door far down the hall slam open along with hurrying footsteps, Hermione panicked and quickly grabbed her satchel and her book that was dropped unceremoniously on the ground. Stuffing it into her bag, Hermione sprinted out the exit doors before the librarian saw her. Even with a painful stitch in her side, Hermione didn't relent on her hell bent path towards home, wild curls and frizz flying behind her shoulders. Reaching home, the girl ran past the kitchen, ignoring her mother's concerned calls. She ran up the stairs, stumbling twice, to the second floor. She dropped her belongings in the aisle and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door. Promptly locking it, Hermione dashed away from the dark oak, huddling in between the bathtub and the loo, her legs curled into her chest.
Tears ran rampant down her cheeks, pit-pattering softly against her knees. Her body shook with her sobs, fear and revulsion shaking her to the core. She didn't feel right, as if there was something unbelievably dirty and wrong about her, as if her skin didn't feel right. Her knuckles turned white, her fingers bruising her skin as she clutched at her calves. Hermione tried with all her might to use her logic and common sense, to go over every detail of what happened and dissect it until she understood what happened. Maybe there could be a realistic reason why what happened the way it did. Maybe her earlier beatings against the door had weakened the hinges. Maybe the lock had been damaged when the boys slammed it roughly after shoving her in. But nothing made sense. Nothing connected. Nothing was concrete. Nothing anchored her.
All she could see was the face of the boy who looked back at her.
As if she was a monster.
Kindly review, please! Tell me what you think! Should I continue? I just wanted to see a story where Hermione wasn't always not placed in Gryffindor but Slytherin. So let's try Ravenclaw!
-Miss Artemis
