These Secret Lives
One – The Story of Memories
Hermione Granger stood alone at the penseive, a bequest given to Harry just before the world turned upside down and they began to lose. Dumbledore's penseive and why should Hermione stand there alone by it? She felt oddly naked, as though being without Harry and Ron was against nature. As though keeping this from them, for the time being, was innately wrong. But only till she was sure, only till she knew for a fact that this might help. That this might fix everything.
The letter that came with the small thin tube in her hand lay to the left of the penseive, glaring up at her in the dimly lit room like an accusation. She would have to tell them, she decided. But only after she watched this memory. Something was holding her back though.
"I would have remembered her," Hermione said.
The utterance was barely a whisper yet the words rang back at her with a bite. Hermione knew of everyone at Hogwarts, especially those that were in her year. True, this was a specimen of Slytherin, but she still would have known her. That, in fact, was all the more reason why she would have. She searched the catalogue in her brain and again could not for the life of her recall this unknown person.
"Iris Bingbee," she said, almost sighed. "Why did you pick me?"
She glanced down at the tube in her hand and with another sigh, this one markedly filled with tension, twisted the lid off. A soft pop echoed through the room and Hermione uneasily looked over her shoulder. Even through the locking enchantments and two closed doors, she could hear Ron's uninterrupted snores. Her shoulders relaxed and she turned back to the penseive and poured the contents into it. Black and inky, the memories swirled and swirled.
As Hermione dipped her face into still surface, the words on the letter flared a brief bright gold and then settled back into their original black ink. The contract, it seemed, had been signed.
Hermione had time to realize these memories weren't like any memory she has ever glimpsed at. It was as though many people were whispering a story in her ear, a story she watched unfold around her as the inky memories formed into a setting. Hermione had time to see this, but only just. A voice, soft and gentle, filled her ears over the other babbling ones. Then her conscious mind was swiped away to be replaced by the dialogue of the memory. It was as though she had become Iris Bingbee in this temporary space of time.
"Let me tell you a story," the voice said and Hermione instinctively trusted it. "It begins with two children..."
Hermione was all at once lost.
The sun is very warm here. It casts a golden light over everything, illuminating the beautiful and the ugly alike with its unbiased attention. Hues of green swim into being. The grass smells sweet and the grasshoppers rub their legs together to form a sweet harmony. There is giggling somewhere in the distance, but out here she is alone and safe and that's the way she likes it. The others are mean and she doesn't understand them.
She is picking flowers, smelling each in turn and smiling at their sweetness. Her hands are very small. The hands of a child barely out of diapers. The grass is just tall enough to hide her from them, but soon she knows she will have to return to the manor. If not, mother will send them to fetch her and she would rather endure their taunts in front of grown-ups. At least then they wouldn't pull her hair and try to light her dress on fire.
She sinks down on the ground and pries up a daisy. She likes daisies. Behind her, a twig snaps. She turns around, nearly falling on her bottom.
A boy her age stands before her, his face flushed guiltily. His hair is pale blond, lighter than the sun. He has grey eyes and they are looking down at her now with unreadable expression.
"What do you want?" she hisses angrily. "You scared me!"
"Sorry," he mumbles.
She ignores him, stands and moves to walk away. He quickly moves to walk beside her, saying nothing. Unnerved she stops, her hands on her hips.
"Are you here to make fun of me again?"
"No," he says. "I want to play the game again."
"No," she says coldly. "You make fun of me like the others."
"I don't mean it though," he protests.
"Then why do you do it?" Again he flushes and averts his eyes from hers.
"I don't mean to, but they wouldn't like me if I didn't."
She' humphs' and goes to walk away. He grabs her hand, pulling her back, his grey eyes alight in the setting sun.
"C'mon Iris, let's play. I won't be mean to you with the others, I promise."
"You said that before..."
"I pinky swear," he says solemnly and holds out his pinky. She looks at it for a moment and then hooks her pinky with his.
"Okay," she says quietly. It is not the first time this scene has played out, nor will it be the last. The truth is she wants to play as much as he does, but she hates that he's so mean to her afterwards.
They sit cross legged across from each other, her flowers forgotten at her side. They hold hands in the cool shade of the grass, their eyes locked. It is nearly silent out here save for the wind in the grass. It tickles at their faces as it sways, but neither notice. Their attention is solely focused on each other.
Pictures form in her mind. Something red. Something red with wheels.
"What am I thinking about?" he whispers.
"A red wagon," she murmurs not a beat later.
He smiles and it transforms his haughty features into that of an angelic child. She smiles back in spite of herself. He has a power over her and she over him. It has always been this way.
She pictures a purple flower, its petals tiny and delicate. She effortlessly sends it to him.
"What am I thinking about?"
"A violet," he answers right away.
And so they go on for a while, playing their secret game. Their soft giggles of glee fade into the wind. The sun turns dazzling again and the memory changes.
The Great Hall is massive, frightening with its dark sky and floating candles. Professor McGonnagal calls her name and she tiptoes to the stool, the limp hat seeming to stare at her through its patches and frays. She climbs on the stool and the image of an entire hall of students is mercifully taken away as the hat falls over her eyes. The last face she sees is his, his eyes anxious as she disappears under the hat.
"A great mind, a powerful mind … perhaps Ravenclaw … no, not challenging enough I see. But then, Gryffindor?"
"Yes," she murmurs. Anything to get away from them and their endless taunting and bullying. Anything to get farther away from her parents and their pureblood legacy.
"You could do great things in Gryffindor," the hat murmurs. "But you could do greater things in Slytherin … talent, power, perhaps the power to change a great many things … better be Slytherin!"
Her stomach drops into her shoes. She will never get away now. As the hat is pulled off her and she slides off the stool to the cheers from the Slytherin table she sees relief in the grey eyes seeking her out amidst the crowd of first years not yet sorted. The candles flare brightly and the memory changes.
There is snow on the grounds. She is thirteen today. No presents greeted her this morning at breakfast, but then again she didn't really expect any. She is wearing jeans and a thick cloak. As she walks out onto the grounds, she passes three very familiar faces. The Golden Trio. The ones all her housemates hate. She wonders if they would have been her friends had she been sorted into Gryffindor. She wonders that often.
No one smiles at her or acknowledges her presence as she walks past them and finally she is truly alone out on the grounds. The snow clings to everything and the cold stings a little, but she doesn't care.
Iris.
She turns sharply around to see he has followed her outside. He is, for once, alone and without those two dunces who follow him around.
"Yes?" she says aloud, in no mood for games today.
"Why are you outside, it's bloody freezing," he remarks, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his pale hair blowing about his face in the January wind.
"I like it out here," she mutters and turns around, walking down the path to get closer to the lake.
"Don't you want your present?" he asks in a sing-song voice, as he walks ahead and stops in front of her.
"Present?" she asks, her eyebrow raised.
Why do you want to be friends with Scarhead?
She bristles angrily at that and says, Stay out of my head!
He recoils slightly, as though burned, but a small smirk plays about his lips. For some reason though, it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Do you fancy him, then?"
"Maybe," she breathes, blushing at her own daring. "What's it to you?"
The smirk fades quickly and he's two inches from her face in a flash, anger turning his light grey eyes a dark sooty charcoal.
"He's a pathetic prat who's gotten lucky," he growls. "If it weren't for the Mudblood and the Weasle-Bee, there would be no Potter. Why you would fancy a wanker like that is disgusting."
She laughs softly, knowing from experience it's best not to anger him too much.
"I was joking," she says. "Jealous?"
He barks a laugh with little mirth and turns away from her, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small wrapped box.
"Of the Boy Who Should Have Died … not in your wildest dreams," he murmurs. She frowns at that and then eyes the box in his hand.
"What is it?" she asks.
"Your present."
Did you steal it?
Of course not.
Wouldn't put it past you.
He smirks again and tosses the small box to her. Not bothering to watch her open it, he walks back up the path, then stops and slowly looks down at her.
Happy Birthday.
His grey eyes become all there is and then the memory changes again.
It has been a year, maybe two at most. A crack in the door is all her vision allows. Through this crack, she spies a room filled with three men and two women. They are hovering over a glowing object, their eyes wide and excited. One of the men whispers something to the others and they all lean in closer... The glowing object suddenly glares blindingly and the memory changes.
This party, she admits to herself as she stands alone by the punch table, is a little lame. But it's the first party she has ever been to that wasn't attended out of the necessity to please her mother. A deep unease rests below her rambling thoughts and it's the same unease everyone present feels. Voldemort. Voldemort is back and everyone finally believes Potter. About time too. But there is a further unease, one caused by something no one knows of, something not involving Voldemort. Or at least not directly.
He is planning something, but he keeps his thoughts carefully hidden from her now. In fact, she has barely talked to him all year. He is distracted and he looks very ill as of late… Then a distraction comes in the form of Potter as he interrupts her train of thought. He brushes past her, exchanging a whispered conversation a few feet away from her.
His expression is one of slight amusement as he watches Hermione Granger disappear just as McLaggen pops in front of him, demanding her whereabouts. She turns away from this scene with a derisive smirk, thinking, Oh, Quidditch players.
Professor Slughorn, she notes, looks positively plump in his tweed suit, but she supposes he always looks plump. Suddenly, everyone goes silent as two heated voices surge over the music.
"Professor Slughorn, sir. I've just discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to be invited to your party," says Argus Filch.
She looks at the slightly taller figure Filch has accosted and her eyes narrow when she sees it's him. Her unease grows.
Not a moment later, Professor Snape leads him out of the room. Neither look particularly happy about it either. The fairy lights of party swirl together as one bright light and the memory changes.
It is a few weeks since the party and she is walking down a corridor, alone and wandering as she has done for six years now. Without warning, a classroom door to her right opens and a strong hand reaches out and grabs her arm. Dragging her into the room, the door slams closed and she's against a desk, her wand pulled out without her realizing she has done it.
He stands by the door, looking from her to her wand with amusement.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" she spits at him.
"Staring at a witch who's daft enough to think she could pull her wand on me," he returns with a mixture of a sneer and amusement. The combination infuriates her.
"The next time you want to chat, don't accost me and drag me into a classroom like some D-"she doesn't finish her sentence. His eyes narrow and he takes a step towards her. She straightens up, guarding her mind with a series of mazes and stone walls as she's taught herself to make so many years ago.
"Like some what?" he whispers, his eyes that familiar mercurial shade she knows so well.
"Prat," she answers somewhat lamely, jutting her chin defensively.
He stares at her for a moment and she can feel him at the entrance to her mind, testing the boundaries that lie there.
"What do you want?" she hisses when a small ache rides through her left temple. He's attempting to break in and she has no intention of letting him. Not with the knowledge she is carrying.
He doesn't answer right away, and continues to stare into her eyes, seeming to dare her to look away. He doesn't know for sure that she knows something, but he's suspicious. She almost sighs with relief when he backs away from her mind….but she knows it's an act. He's still there in the shadows, waiting for a crack to seep through.
"What are you hiding?" he demands quietly, his tone light and careless, if not for his eyes.
"What are you hiding?" she responds, not bothering to whisper. She's careful not to let her eyes dip to his left arm because it would be catastrophic if she did that. It would lead to other questions, questions of how and why, and how much, and she didn't want to answer those. No, she did not.
Unexpectedly, he asks her another question and her confusion is enough to ask him to repeat himself.
"Have-you-been-hanging-out-with-Potter?" he sounds out, his eyes guarded and light grey again.
"No, I daresay he doesn't know I even exist," she replies, perplexed.
Liar.
"I am NOT lying," she grounds out between clenched teeth. "And even if I was, why would you care? It's not like you and I are bosom buddies." And oh how she hopes the hurt doesn't show in her voice.
"You do realize how that would look, you and Potter?" he growls, but she doubts it's that part he cares about. He seems to catch some of this and his gaze turns steely.
"When school is done I am not returning home," she blurts out almost against her will. He is prying at her mind again and it is highly uncomfortable. The attack stops just as soon as it began, his surprise barely disguised on his face.
"Don't tell me you're against our side, I always knew you were strong willed and against certain … philosophies, but to turn against your family-"
"They are no family of mine and you know it. They have never loved me and they never wanted a daughter. They'll be glad to be shot of their weirdo offspring just I will be glad to be shot of them."
"And what about those who do care about you? My mother would let you live with us."
She laughs at that. "It's not about that anymore. It's about Him. "
They both go silent at this. He tilts his head to the side, looking at her curiously, but again she knows this is also an act. He saw this coming, she knows. He knows very well how she feels about him even using the word 'Mudblood" in her presence. The question is why he has chosen to speak to her at all. He must suspect she saw something she shouldn't have seen…but she banishes the thoughts away before they can take form in the forefront of her mind.
"I will not join him, no matter how many death threats I receive from home every day. I will not take the mark. I will not stand by and watch the innocent die because of some stupid outdated pureblood mania. And I will fight if I have to."
She is trying to distract him, draw him away.
"Turn your back against us then? Against me?"
"It doesn't have to be that way," she murmurs, her tone softening.
He sneers fully now, the amusement long gone. "And join Potter and that old nutter? Lick their boots for some mercy for the son of a Death Eater? I'd rather go through the Cruciatis."
"It wouldn't be like that. They would except you…they might not trust you at first, but-"
"Are you fucking him?"
The question was uttered without a trace of emotion in his voice. His eyes are nearly black. Fear grips her heart and squeezes tightly, winding its icy fingers into her gut. Yet a sliver of anger pierces her soul.
"I think Dumbledore's a little too old for my taste," she says coldly.
With a nearly inhuman growl, he quickly closes the gap between them and slams his hands down on the desk at either side of her. He is hovering over her, his face still calm, but his eyes a deep black sea of turmoil.
Don't play games.
I am not playing games.
So you are fucking him?
He and I have never exchanged so much as a glance with each other. Happy?
"No," he growls and suddenly grips the back of her neck, his fingers woven roughly into her hair.
She sees what he's about to do and is powerless to stop him. Closing his eyes, he slides his faces next to hers, their cheeks and temples touching flush against each other, and he is suddenly, brutally, in her mind. An icy spike of pain followed by a sharper flame of burning races up the middle of her skull at the intrusion. She cries out and her knees buckle, but he grabs her around the waist, holding her up and maintaining contact. In her mind, she is racing to close all the doors, racing to that one last door that he must not enter. He rifles through her memories with ease, twisting the hand buried in her hair into a fist and pulled her closer. The air around them is humming with the purest and most ancient of magic, the air itself shivering from the tension. She finally reaches that last door and throws herself in front of it, watching as he quickly approaches.
She does the only thing she can think to do as he rushes before her. In reality, she twists her face, her hair pulling painfully but she doesn't notice until later. She twists her face until they are facing each other, and he opens his eyes. They are glowing a bright white light and she knows he is much more powerful than her, more powerful than she could ever be, but she finally understands why the Sorting Hat placed her in Slytherin.
She pushes herself up, using his shoulders for leverage and kisses him. Immediately, he is gone from her mind and the pain in her head leaves with him. His hand is still twisted in her hair and her lips are still against his, but neither of them move or breathe. Then suddenly the hand around her waist also flexes into a fist, pulling within it a fistful of her shirt. The hand in her hair loosens and moves to her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye. Then he is kissing her back, kissing her in a way that no one has ever kissed her before. The air suddenly begins to hum louder, the sound almost melodic, harp-like. She sighs into his mouth and he grips her closer to him.
Then suddenly, the warmth of his mouth is gone and he is backed against the door, panting harshly and staring at her. The light in his eyes is gone. She takes a few breathes, a shaky hand touching her sore scalp.
"You have taken the mark." She says it without regret and as the words flood the room, his breathing calms.
He straightens up and without a backwards glance exits the room. The scene transforms to darkness and the memory ends.