Author's Note: Firstly, to those of you perhaps reading my other stories, I'm sorry. I'm having computer troubles (and at times I am without one entirely) and I'm too engaged in those stories to offer half-assed attempts at updates, but I simply do not possess the ability not to write if I am capable. I've been reading much more lately and dipping back into the Harry Potter realm of fanfiction, so thoughts on the subject have been plaguing me; I'm redirecting my efforts here until I can be sure that I will be able to post on my other stories with relative frequency. Secondly, this story will be written if and when I have the chance to update. Given my computer complications, I promise nothing, but I hope to have the issue resolved soon. Thirdly, all of that being said, this is my first foray back into the HP-verse in quite some time, so I may be a bit off-base on some things, and for that I apologize. If you catch any mistakes or feel that the characters are morbidly OOC, please let me know and I will do my best to make the appropriate changes to my writing when I can. Review and let me know if this is something you'd like to see more of.
Hermione awoke suddenly.
There had been a dream – something awful and heart wrenching and filled with agony – but beyond that Hermione could remember very little. She panted, curling a fist around the swatch of fabric that covered her heart as its rhythm ratcheted beyond her control. Hermione waited for some time, but the harsh beat of the organ never calmed with her progression from sleepiness.
Something was happening. Hermione didn't know what, and the more mystical aspects of magic had always been inflicted upon Harry far more than she, so she was quite foreign to the feeling, but somewhere, in her bones and her blood and her heart, Hermione knew that something was happening. And whatever that something was, it was affecting her deeply.
She tossed the covers from her body with vigor, feeling abruptly some sense of urgency that she had little clue what to do with. There was somewhere she needed to be, or something that she needed to be doing – Hermione could feel it – but she had not even the faintest idea of where her feet were leading her when she sneaked out from the bedroom she shared with Ginny at Grimmauld Place.
Had she known where she'd end up, perhaps Hermione might have had the sense to stay put. Later, though, Hermione would realize that she'd never had that choice.
She descended the steps as swiftly as she could while remaining unnoticed, but it quickly became clear that her suspicions had been correct. Something was happening, and the bustling of people and raised voices that greeted her as soon as she'd padded through the silencing wards at the bottom of the stairs only served to prove it.
Despite their lack of knowledge about the Order, Hermione had been spending a great deal of time around the organizations' members for the last two years. Though she was slated to join in a months' time, Hermione was no fool; so few of them actually supported her decision that she would likely still be kept in some degree of darkness, even if not quite the same amount as she was exposed to now.
She knew better than to ask about what was happening, because she would receive no answers – only a hasty escort back to her room.
Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes; she was legally of age, now, and only the technicalities harped upon by the Weasley matriarch and all of her sympathizers kept her from being introduced to the Order properly. Though her use of the time turner in her third year had certainly not been extensive enough to age her much, she'd traveled about four hours back every weekday for the nine months' worth of term. Some calculations had determined that Hermione was nearly thirty days older than she should be, which meant that now – entering Hogwarts as a seventh year in just a week – Hermione could perform magic without the trace, and was also fully capable of Apparition.
The Ministry, having issued the time turner to begin with, had been well aware of the alteration to her age and had submitted her for licensing.
Reminding herself that she was fully of age now encouraged Hermione to cast a disillusionment charm quickly paired with a notice-me-not that would hopefully keep her presence undetected. Most of the Order appeared either enraged or exhausted (with Dumbledore and McGonagall topping the list of the latter, and Mrs. Weasley fueling the former), but whatever Hermione needed, she knew it wasn't here.
She frowned to herself, disliking with a severe intensity the skin-crawling feeling of discomfort that washed over her in that moment, before she very quietly (and without thought) Apparated away.
Hermione told herself that it was sheer, rotten luck that she hadn't been splinched in the process, as she was still fairly new to Apparition and had very little experience with the mode of travel. In addition, she'd had positively no destination in mind at all. Her arrival in one piece was nothing short of miraculous, as far as she was concerned, but her relief of discovering all of her limbs intact was short-lived.
Heart still racing and fighting furiously against some unseen force, Hermione felt compelled to turn around. She knew that she was precisely where she needed to be, now, and the magic thrumming through her veins confirmed it, but why?
She didn't have to wonder much longer.
The young witch had about five seconds to surmise that she was still ensconced within the protection of Grimmauld Place's wards, but beyond that she scarcely recognized the room she was in. It made little sense, considering she'd been through the entire house more than once over during their attempts to clean it two summers before, but nothing about this room seemed familiar. It was covered in an anti-Apparition ward strong enough to rival that of Hogwarts', so in place of her confusion about the location, Hermione was utterly stumped on how she'd even arrived to it.
A wail of distress interrupted Hermione's exploration, startling her into whipping around, wand drawn on the impossible (but breathtaking) sight of Bellatrix Black magic-bound and curled in a corner, beaten and bloody and raw.
"A mudblood in my ancestors' home!" The woman screeched furiously, thrashing on the floor against the magic that held her captive. "How low my cousin has sunk!"
Hermione swallowed and blinked her surprise, but did not gasp and did not lower her wand. Instead, for reasons that the brilliant witch simply could not begin to fathom, Hermione dropped to her knees and used her outstretched wand to try healing the mad Azkaban escapee.
"What are you doing?" Bellatrix narrowed her eyes suspiciously, the growl from her chest issuing a well-received warning to the muggleborn who dared to approach her.
Hermione couldn't answer, because she had no bloody clue. The witch had done nothing to Hermione's knowledge but cause mayhem and destruction her entire life, and over the last couple of years both Kingsley and Tonks had been subjected to the crazy Death Eater's powerful Cruciatus, with only Tonks escaping with her life.
Still, Hermione's heart hammered and her blood boiled with a rage that she couldn't understand, because – for unidentifiable reasons – she wasn't angry at seeing the witch.
Hermione was angry at what had been done to her.
Bellatrix bared her teeth in threat to the muggleborn, but Hermione offered a small shake of her head, softly murmuring, "Let me help."
"I need nothing from you," Bellatrix snapped, even as her eyes flickered with vulnerability and confusion. "Take your filthy hands off me, mudblood."
"Let me help," Hermione repeated softly, wand limply waiting between loose fingers as Hermione sought the older brunette's permission.
She wouldn't use her wand if the older witch was so against it – Hermione wasn't stupid; she wouldn't sign herself up for Bellatrix's fury, even if she was currently bound and being detained by the Order – but the eldest Black sister was not in good shape. If the finger-shaped smudges of purple around her neck were any indication, someone from the Order had given into a fit of personal rage against Bellatrix. Bruises of alarming magnitude surrounded her dark, lovely eyes, and a large gash swiped the length of the woman's jaw. Blood also poured from a wound in her temple, and, though it was hard to tell through the darkness of her robes, Hermione was pretty sure that her torso was sticky with the same substance. The smell of copper flooded the room, and Hermione swallowed again to stable her senses against it, with no success.
The scent was as intoxicating as it was foul, and Hermione couldn't wrap her head around any of it. A soft haze had corrupted her mind, and Hermione vaguely wondered if this was a trick; a ploy, somehow, for some purpose that she couldn't see. Still, if the bewilderment plastered over Bellatrix's face was anything to trust at all, the woman was as lost in this as Hermione felt to be.
"Why?" Bellatrix snarled. "Why would you help me, little witch? Dumbledore put you up to it? Hm?" The prisoner speculated. "Did he put you in here with the big bad to play me for information?" She cooed, snapping her face forward close to Hermione's, so that Hermione could smell the danger and allure of the Death Eater whether she wanted to or not.
Hermione suppressed the shiver. She shouldn't be here and she was sure that she knew that, but everything in her forced her to stay. Drawing the scent of the dark witch in with a heavy breath, Hermione tried to steady herself against the magic pulling inside of her and the burst of arousal that threatened to emerge.
"I've got news for you, mudblood," Bellatrix purred, lips brushing against Hermione's ear and cheek whispering against the young witch's own, even as her magical restraints kept her hands bound to her lower back, "I've no intentions of betraying my Lord, no matter how you wield that wand of yours."
Hermione shook her head again, desperate, now, to heal the woman, even if she couldn't for the life of her discern why.
"I don't care about your bloody Lord," Hermione murmured, lowering her wand in the single, most foolish move she could have possibly conceived, allowing the stick of wood to clatter against the hardwood floor as a gesture of good will.
Dazedly, Hermione's hand rose to the gaping wound at the dark witch's temple, moving her fingers across it.
Bellatrix hissed and whelped in pain. Hermione closed her eyes and released a soft sob of sympathy – the kind of which Hermione had never felt – as her fingertips dusted across the length of the injury. With her eyes still shut, Hermione couldn't see the laceration knitting itself together beneath the gentleness of her touch, but Bellatrix could feel it.
Though she was bloodthirsty and psychologically scarred in more ways than just a few, Bellatrix Black was a powerful, intellectual witch. She was gifted in the Dark Arts and more so in destruction, and therefore thrived in wartime. She'd seen a great many things in her life, and she felt more deeply than most would think her capable.
But never in her life had she felt the sort of warmth that the mudblood witch's magic provided as it hummed throughout her body. Bellatrix's own magic thrilled at its presence, chasing after the wisps of golden light that seeped within her skin and throughout her lithe body, healing wounds the girl had yet to even see.
What magic was this?
Bellatrix frowned and cocked her head to the side, feeling invigorated but calm in a way she'd never experienced, even before the tortures of Azkaban.
"What have you done to me?" She whispered, locking her eyes into deep, golden brown pools welling with emotion that Bella felt, too, but couldn't comprehend.
Hermione's brows furrowed with the confusion of Bellatrix's healed wounds. Her eyes flitted to her wand at the floor, and she shook her head again, this time in resignation more than anything else.
"I don't know," she whispered in return, daringly leaning her forehead into the dark witch's for support she (rationally) knew would not be offered.
Startling them both, Bellatrix allowed the movement. It occurred to her that she could, without much trouble, at least head butt the foolish girl, but she withheld, finding as much comfort in the gesture as the young witch did, if not more.
"Why are you here?" Hermione rasped unstably. "Why have they taken you?"
A bubble of Bellatrix's madness revealed itself as she cackled, and though the noise was intimidating and fearsome and entirely lacking in sanity, Hermione merely dropped her head to the older woman's shoulder with a soft sigh of displeasure as she awaited an answer.
"Why, why, why?" Bellatrix simpered mockingly. "Because I've killed their families!" She exclaimed gleefully. "Because I've served my Lord with honor!"
Part of Hermione wanted to flinch, but another part – an overwhelming part, in truth – knew that despite the lunacy, Bellatrix had answered her question with as much honesty as the Black sister was capable of, and Hermione appreciated that despite herself.
Nodding decisively, Hermione loped to her feet with grace that Bellatrix did not realize was in her possession and snatched her wand from the floor.
"Right," Hermione said, glancing down at the witch with determination lit in her eyes and defining the set of her jaw. "We have to get you out of here."