A/N: Hello again, all! Thank you for the favourites, follows, and especially for the reviews. I'm grateful for the response that this story has earned so far and glad that people seem to be enjoying the eventful—and admittedly dark—first chapter. Just an FYI, I'm posting this as I'm falling asleep, bleary-eyed, so if there are any glaring typos, please ignore them. They will be removed sometime tomorrow XD
Moving right along! Same warnings apply.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This story is written purely for enjoyment and I do not profit from its being written nor from its being shared on this site. No copyright infringement is intended.
c. 1 Year Earlier
"Hermione, sweetheart." The mother of the young woman in question was leaning against the door frame of her daughter's bedroom, watching said adolescent with concern in her gaze and a frown on her lips. "Something happened again this year, didn't it? Something you're not telling your father and I?"
Hermione looked up from page 49 of Hogwarts, A History, where her unseeing stare had been fixed for an indeterminate amount of time. At the knowing look in her Mum's eyes, Hermione knew that she had no chance of evading the subject of her year at Hogwarts this time. It had been three days since she'd returned home, three days spent away from the magical world in body, but not in spirit. Hermione's thoughts remainly wholly preoccupied with Harry, Cedric's death, and Voldemort's return to power.
Hermione sighed. "Yes," she admitted, her voice hesitant, "but I don't really want to talk about it, Mum."
Jean Granger left her post at the doorway, strode slowly into Hermione's room, and settled herself down at the foot of the bed where her daughter was sat, lifting Hermione's ankles up and then laying them down again so that the teen's dainty, sock-covered feet rested in her lap. She took one of those feet in her hands and began to massage it over its cotton, maroon-and-gold striped sheath, using her thumb to apply pressure to length of the arch, just so. Hermione groaned and flopped backwards onto the stack of pillows behind her; if you asked her, her mother gave the best foot massages known to man.
"That's rubbish, Hermione," her Mum chastised her good-naturedly. "You do want to talk about it, badly even. It's written all over your face. But you're afraid your father and I are going to take you out of Hogwarts if you tell me, aren't you?" Hermione remained silent, so her mother pressed on. "It was that bad, wasn't it?"
Hermione was quiet for a moment, mulling over her response. "Will you?" she asked. "If I tell you...will you make me leave?"
Dr. Granger considered her daughter's question solemnly, wanting to give her an honest answer. "Well," she began after a long pause, "I guess I should ask you this, Hermione, before I tell you one way or another: do you want to leave?"
"No," Hermione immediately replied, her tone smacking of panic and defiance. "No," she repeated, a little more calmly. "I don't. It's my world, Mum. I love it, in spite of the fact that it's dangerous, in spite of everything I've had to go through because of my being Muggle-born." She shot her mother an apologetic glance. "I can't just leave it behind, and not just because it's where I feel I belong. Harry..." Hermione trailed off for a moment. "He's going to need me, Mum, now more than ever."
"And why is that, darling?" Jean asked, genuine sadness for her daughter's plight shining through her features, albeit mixed with a twinge of trepidation.
The Wizarding world was still so unreal to Jean. The only contact the dentist had with it—aside from Hermione herself—was her yearly visit to Diagon Alley accompanying Hermione on her shopping trip for school supplies, as well as the presence of occasional owl rapping at her kitchen window, bearing news from Hermione in letters that had grown increasingly self-censored as the years went by. It was hard for Jean to watch her daughter become so distant, to be drawn deeper into a world in which Jean herself had no place; but at the same time, she understood that it must be even harder for Hermione, who tried to shelter her and Seb (Hermione's father, Sebastian) at every turn, and who had to fend for herself in a society that viewed her as an outsider despite all her efforts to prove it wrong.
That last detail had never escaped Jean. Though Hermione had always been naturally academically ambitious, the fervour with which she pursued her studies at Hogwarts (even in the summer) was revealing of a deep-seated insecurity in her daughter, a need to prove herself worthy of being a part of the world that so many of her peers had had the advantage of being born into, rather than being abruptly initiated at the age of eleven. Jean had hoped that the need would subside over time as Hermione grew more comfortable at Hogwarts and in the Wizarding world. It seemed, however, that the opposite had happened—that the better Hermione got to know the magical world, the more she discovered about the extent of the prejudice that existed against wizards and witches like her: Muggle-borns.
Hermione sighed again, bringing her mother out of her ruminations. It hurt Jean's heart to hear the world-weariness the simple huff of air betrayed when coupled with furrowing of her daughter's brow and the conflict in her expression. Despite the fact that she tried to keep such knowledge hidden from her parents, that was yet another thing Hermione hadn't quite been able to hide: a growing maturity and, to an extent, cynicism. The end of every year at Hogwarts saw Hermione coming home more solemn and more jaded than the year before, and the shifts seemed to growing exponentially. This year had been no exception.
"You know how I wrote you about the Tournament, Mum? About how someone had tampered with the Goblet to force Harry to compete?" Hermione asked, meeting her mother's gaze at last. Jean nodded. "Well," Hermione went on, and her eyes dropped to her clasped hands, where she was finicking with a hangnail, "it turned out that it was...You-Know-Who. Or, well, a follower of You-Know-Who, but same difference, really." At her mother's befuddled expression, the young witch hastily clarified, "I mean Lord Voldemort. The Dark wizard who killed Harry's parents and who's been after him since first year."
Jean frowned as she absorbed the new information. "The one behind the giant snake that Petrified you in your second year?" she asked, her tone foreboding. It had taken the combined efforts of Hogwarts's Headmaster and Minerva McGonagall to convince the Doctors Granger not to pull Hermione from the school then and there after they'd coaxed the reason for Hermione's extended lack of correspondence from their anxious daughter. Hours of placation and reassurance concerning Hermione's safety had been required from the two professors in order to stand Hermione's parents down.
Hermione nodded. "Yes—although that was actually a preserved memory of him rather than You-Know-Who himself. The real You-Know-Who was in hiding while all of that was going on, too weak to do much of anything." When her mother continued to look confused, Hermione waved her off. "It's complicated," she declared, clearly determined to leave it at that. "Anyways. The third task of the Tournament was a trap. The goal of the Task was to navigate past a series of obstacles to the center of the maze and be the first to grab the Triwizard Cup—the Tournament's trophy. It turned out that the Cup was enchanted to become a Portkey—a transportation device. Harry and Cedric agreed to take it at the same time; they'd saved each other's lives and were determined to share the prize for winning the Tournament."
Hermione gave her mother a tragic smile, tears filling her eyes; she sniffed, tilting her head back and blinking her eyes in a desperate attempt to stymie their falling. Eventually, Hermione gave up and simply withdrew her feet from her Mum's lap, bringing her knees in to her chest and hugging them tightly in an attempt to soothe herself.
"The Cup Portkeyed them to a graveyard where You-Know-Who and the servant who'd been keeping him alive were waiting. The servant, Pettigrew—he killed Cedric, Mum." Hermione was crying openly now, tears spilling down her pinkened cheeks. "He killed him just for being there, because You-Know-Who told him to get rid of the spare." The tears morphed into full-blown sobs. "Cedric didn't stand a chance!"
"Oh, Hermione," murmured Jean, admittedly stunned, but not so stunned that she found it beyond herself to gather her daughter up in her arms. As Hermione wept into her mother's shoulder, said mother rubbed her back in slow, firm circles, struggling to come to grips with what she'd learned.
No wonder she was worried about our reactions, Jean thought to herself. I'm not particularly enamoured with the idea of letting her go back to that place. What she told us about what happened those other years was bad enough, but a student being murdered?
Hermione's sobs and hiccoughs quietened after a little while, and Jean felt her daughter turn her head and lay a cheek on her shoulder, exhausted and all cried out. "You-Know-Who got Pettigrew to do a ritual—that was why they needed Harry—and the long and the short of it is that it restored him to full power. He's back, Mum. You-Know-Who's back, and Harry only escaped him because of a strange bit of magic that happened because their wands—Harry and V-V-Voldemort's—they share the same core. I don't even really understand it," Hermione confessed quietly. "But the Minister of Magic...he didn't believe Harry or Professor Dumbledore about You-Know-Who being back, so this year is bound to be a hard one. They're probably going to smear the both of them in the press, Mum, and that's the last thing Harry needs to deal with right now."
Hermione fell silent after that, obviously deep in thought. Jean joined her in quiet introspection for a time.
The younger Granger was the one to break the silence several minutes later.
"The only silver lining about Cedric's death," Hermione said slowly, clear reluctance in her tone at the admittance of the possibility of such a thing, "is that it was quick. Pettigrew used the Killing Curse on him, the Avada Kedavra." Jean could feel her daughter gnawing at the inside of her cheek, and knew from experience that her eyes would have glazed over by now, her gaze becoming unfocused. "It's an Unforgivable, enough to earn someone a life sentence in Azkaban Prison, if not the Dementor's Kiss. But it's said to be painless, and it's very fast. So, even though it's horrible that Cedric died," Hermione said, clearly distraught, "at least he didn't suffer."
Jean couldn't help but agree. Of all the ways the poor, young man could have gone, she thought to herself grimly, there were probably far worse.
Present Day
It was dark. There was a distinct humming noise in the background—almost a purring of sorts. She was lying on a soft surface that shifted jerkily from side to side every so often.
Wait...she didn't remember lying down. What was going on?
Hermione's eyes fluttered open and immediately squinted to shield themselves from the harsh light overhead. Once they'd adjusted, Hermione could make out the form of a chandelier above her; at the same time, she noticed that she was on a bed—one that, for whatever reason, seemed to be vibrating. All in all, she felt like she'd been run over by a bus.
Something about that last thought struck her as oddly appropriate.
"Where am I?" Hermione croaked. She jolted at the sound of her own voice, not having meant to speak aloud.
"Ah, you're awake, Miss 'er-my-knee! That's a relief. Oh, an' you're on the Knight Bus," a familiar, male voice answered helpfully. "You fainted—not that I blame ya or anythin', but that's wha' happened, ain't it?"
Hermione turned her head towards the source of the response, Stan Shunpike's face came into view...
...and then it all came crashing back.
"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, rocketing up into a sitting position on the bed.
Vertigo struck her like a backhand across the face and nausea punched her in the gut. "I think I'm going to be sick," she murmured, reaching for something unknown, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
In no time, a wastebasket was shoved past her hands and into her lap, directly underneath her chin. Before she had time to utter her thanks, Hermione was violently expelling the contents of her stomach into the bottom of the pail.
As much as the acrid taste of bile that accompanied her vomit was disgusting, Hermione found that there was something cathartic about the act of physically purging her system. Her body seemed to agree; even once there was nothing left in her belly for Hermione to choke up, she continued to dry heave into the wastebasket for several minutes, stomach acid stinging her abused throat.
Some minuscule, unaffected part of Hermione's brain registered a soft, warm weight settling over her shoulders. Someone's wrapped me in a blanket, she noted distractedly. How thoughtful.
Meanwhile, as her body was busy rejecting her breakfast, Hermione's mind was bogged down under a thick fog of overwhelming numbness.
She didn't see Stan Shunpike waving a hand in front of her face, didn't hear him calling her, asking her if she was all right. All Hermione could see was a bolt of unholy, shocking green light, a familiar pair of brown eyes, and the exact moment when the consciousness had left those same familiar, brown eyes—the moment when any and all spiritual presence had been blasted right out of them, leaving only a poignant vacancy behind.
Avada Kedavra, she recalled silently. Likely derived from either Latin, Turkish, Aramaic, or a combination thereof. It has several possible meanings, the most well-known of which being "let the thing be destroyed."
After seeing the spell's effect firsthand, Hermione had a morbid, newfound appreciation for its etymological roots. Abracadabra indeed, she mused abstractly, feeling strangely disconnected from not only her body, but from the entire chain of events that had just come to pass.
With that same detached disinterest, Hermione noted that she was likely in shock. And what was more? She couldn't really bring herself to care.
I just killed my mother, Hermione thought, trying to provoke some sort of reaction in herself beyond the persistent, echoing emptiness that she was currently experiencing. I committed matricide. Or was it euthanasia? Maybe both—what do you call it if it was both?
Her inner monologue paused as she pondered the question with the same idle curiosity with which one might consider a clue in a crossword puzzle.
Euthanasic matricide? she tried. Yes, let's go with that. 'I committed euthanasic matricide to spare the woman who raised me from the gruesome fate of being tortured and murdered by a psychopathic witch with a penchant for sadism.'
Or, in other words, I killed my own mother.
Hermione's body gave its last, shuddering dry heave at the thought, and the force of it was enough to wrench the young witch from her hysteria-induced trance.
As she came to, Hermione heard Stan Shunpike's voice once again. He was saying, "I reckon she's in shock, eh, Ern? Dunno where we should take 'er, tho. St. Mungo's, d'you reckon? Tho, if she's on the run, it might no' be the best place to turn up."
"Hogwarts," she managed to rasp, and Stan came rushing from his spot at Ernie's side at the sound of her voice, peering at her in earnest as though unsure if she was in her right mind. She couldn't blame him for his uncertainty. "Take me as close as you can to Hogwarts. I need to see Professor Dumbledore, as soon as possible."
"You sure ya don't want to go to St. Mungo's first, Miss, an' get checked out?" asked Stan, genuine concern in his eyes, his skin still pale from fright even as he rambled on incessantly. "Reckon I might, if I'd just been chased down by Bellatrix Lestrange. Well—I reckon I sorta was, ain't it? But she was mainly after you, Miss, that's what I'm sayin', and that ya look a bit peaky. Not, like I said, that I blame ya."
Hermione interrupted the well-meaning conductor, feeling a headache threatening around the edges of her already battered brain. With a great deal of effort, she managed to say, "Thanks, Stan, but I can always go see Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing at the school if I need to."
Unable to argue with her logic, Stan told Ernie Hermione's destination and the Knight Bus continued on its way, course adjusted for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Upon their arrival at the Hogwarts' Entrance Gates, Hermione thanked Ernie and Stan as profusely as she was able given her condition—which is to say, quietly and solemnly, but several times—and despite their protests that there was no need, insisted upon paying her fare as well as a tip for each of them. She hadn't taken off her handbag when she'd gone into the townhouse and so it was still slung over her chest, mercifully full of both Wizarding coins and Muggle pounds.
Hermione felt that after the ordeal with Bellatrix, it was the least she could to do give the two Knight Bus workers a few extra sickles—"for the trouble," as she'd put it. For Merlin's sake, if the Knight Bus hadn't turned up when she'd hailed it, she almost certainly would have been dead or in Bellatrix's custody by now. Not to mention that Stan had shown her a great deal of kindness. After she'd finished regurgitating her previous meal, he'd Scourgified the wastebasket so she wouldn't have to put up with the smell of her own sick for the rest of the journey and then he'd fetched her a glass of water and a mint-flavoured sweet from the Bus's tea trolley to help rid the bitterness from her mouth. He also hadn't pestered her for details about Bellatrix's attack and for that, Hermione was infinitely grateful—especially given that she had no idea what she would have told him, had he asked. In any case, she knew from previous experience that it wasn't usually in Stan's nature to show restraint when it came to gossip or respecting people's boundaries; it must have taken him a colossal effort to leave her alone.
When they stopped in front of Hogwarts, Stan helped a still-shaky Hermione up from her bed, through the Bus, and down from the loading platform, taking care to steady her on her feet when she wavered on the uneven ground. Once she'd regained her balance, Hermione took the conductor's hand in both of hers, met his gaze with somber eyes, and said to him, her tone firm, "I meant what I told you, Stan. You and Ernie saved my life. If there's ever anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Sure thing, Miss—and I'll pass your message on to Ern', too," Stan replied, shuffling a little awkwardly at the intensity in her stare before he was able to compose himself. "You look after yourself, Miss 'er-my-knee," he bade her, an uncharacteristic gravity permeating his features. "Stay safe, and best o'luck to ya. Hope Professor Dumbledore'll be able to help ya." Then, he'd shaken her hand and hopped back on the platform, Ernie had tipped his cap at her, and the Knight Bus had taken off towards Hogsmeade, very literally leaving Hermione in the dust.
The witch began the walk into Hogwarts at an automatic, leisurely-paced stride, barely noticing when the castle's massive, wrought-iron gates unlocked themselves and swung open for her, so lost was she in her thoughts.
Hermione was still experiencing an alarming sense of detachment from the reality of the past hour or so, but it was slowly being gnawed away by a creeping sort of melancholy that the young woman found oddly reassuring. Or, at least, it was reassuring compared to the void of emotion that kept threatening to take over her mind. Its cloying emptiness kept looming at the edges of her subconscious, and Hermione found the call of the void to be repulsive and tempting, all at once.
Repulsive, because surrendering to the void would entail Hermione being unable to punish herself for causing her parents' death, would put the emotions she could use to torment herself out of reach.
Tempting, for the very same reason.
For the moment, though, fatigue was trumping every other thought or feeling in Hermione's head, a fact that was no small source of bemusement for her. Among other emotional responses, she ought to have been terrified, and for more than one reason. For starters, if Bellatrix hadn't yet returned to Voldemort to report her failure to capture Hermione, then the demented witch might still be searching for her, maybe even with backup this time—and it wasn't as though it was a wild stretch of the imagination to guess that Hermione might seek refuge at Hogwarts. True, other more intuitive hiding spots would be the Burrow or 12 Grimmauld, Hermione knew, but she'd rejected both places as viable options as soon as they'd come to mind.
A sizable chunk of Hermione's motive for that rejection had to do with her fear of leading Death Eaters to either house's doorstep; but that being said, there was more to it than her concern for the safety of her friends and of the Order. For one thing, just the thought of being subjected to the sight of the Weasleys and their beautiful, large, generally-intact family—to the sight of Mr. Weasley getting home from work and giving Mrs. Weasley a peck on the cheek as she bustled about the kitchen, fussing over her children and the evening meal—it was utterly repellent to Hermione in her current state of mind. She didn't want to be reminded of family right now; the very notion of it made her want to spew the now non-existent contents of her belly. She also didn't want to be subjected to the inevitable and constant scrutiny, whether fueled by suspicion or pity, that would begin the very moment everyone found out exactly what she'd done to escape Bellatrix's clutches. Hermione wouldn't be able to stand it; her skin was already crawling as she imagined the way that Mrs. Weasley and Remus and Harry and Ron would look at her.
It would be unbearable.
Hogwarts, on the other hand; Hogwarts was large, and in the summer, it was predominantly empty. Hermione could hide at Hogwarts. She could be alone with the ghosts and the portraits and the suits of armour. She could have time to process things...time to grieve.
But she was getting ahead of herself. That scenario could only come to pass if the second reason why she ought to be terrified didn't pan out.
It being? Hermione had used an Unforgivable—arguably the Unforgivable—on her own mother. The Grangers' townhouse was likely a smouldering pile of ashes by now, perhaps even illuminated by the viridian glow of a Dark Mark, given Bellatrix's flair for the dramatic. That meant that sooner or later, the Aurors would come investigating, and Hermione called upon as a witness. And then all hell would break loose.
Vaguely, Hermione wondered if she would be sentenced to serve time in Azkaban. It was a definite possibility, after all. Regardless of the situation, the fact was that she'd killed a person using the Avada Kedavra. Sure, she'd done so for the best of reasons, but as people always said, the road to hell was paved with good intentions. It could well turn out that such things didn't matter in the eyes of the Wizengamot and the DMLE.
As she'd been reflecting on all of those things, still with that same eerie impartiality, Hermione's body had led her directly into the castle, up the main staircase to the second floor, and down the Gargoyle Corridor to the entrance to the Headmaster's Tower. She came to a sudden halt in front of the corridor's namesake, and Hermione found herself at a bit of a loss as she stared at the stern-looking statue, ignorant as she was of the password. For a few seconds, she seriously contemplated listing off a series of sweets in the hope of discovering it, but something told her that a direct approach might be more effective.
"I need to see Professor Dumbledore at his earliest convenience," she announced, feeling slightly foolish.
The feeling intensified when, predictably, the gargoyle remained immobile.
"Please," entreated Hermione. "I need to speak with the Headmaster. There's no one else who can help me now."
Still, no response.
"My parents—" Her voice broke. "My parents are dead," she persevered, gritting her teeth. "I need...I need help. Please. Please let me in. If Professor Dumbledore's not there, I'll wait quietly, I promise. I'll behave myself. But please, I'm begging you, just let me—!"
Seemingly taking pity on the desperate Hermione, who was becoming progressively more desperate and hoarse in her pleas as second after second passed without change, the Headmaster's Gargoyle took a deliberate and decisively large step to the side.
"Thank you," whispered Hermione, relief flooding her already overtaxed nervous system with all the force of an avalanche. With a slight stumble, the Gryffindor Prefect made her way up the Tower staircase, stopping every so often to grip the banister as successive bouts of lightheadedness assailed her. Eventually, though, she made it to the top, and found the door to the Headmaster's Office left ajar, as though her presence had been expected.
When Hermione entered the office, however, it seemed that that was not the case; for Professor Dumbledore was nowhere in sight and neither was Fawkes, his phoenix. The portraits that lined the wall all appeared to be fast asleep, some of them snoring more obnoxiously than others. The several, strange silver instruments that were scattered over any number of desks and tables throughout the room continued to putter about, unaffected by Hermione's presence.
Remembering her promise to the Gargoyle at the bottom of the staircase, the young witch cautiously approached the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk and lowered herself into it, helping herself to a sherbet lemon as she took her seat. She popped the sweet absentmindedly into her mouth, sucking on the sour candy it as it dissolved against her tongue and cheek. All the while, her hands clasped themselves in her lap, fretting away at too-long fingernails and rubbing anxiously at callouses as Hermione settled in to wait.
Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into tens of minutes as Hermione sat there, waiting with an uncanny air of calm for the Headmaster. Eventually, the adrenaline that had been keeping her going dissipated from her veins, and Hermione's eyelids began to droop, her hands ceasing their nervous fidgeting and her body sinking involuntarily into the plush seat-cushions of her chair.
Hermione fought off her rising drowsiness for an admirable length of time, but the sheer weight of her trauma-induced exhaustion could not be denied; and so, eventually, the poor, afflicted young woman's eyes fell shut, her limbs went slack, and she fell into a heavy sleep, her body granting her what brief respite it could manage from the horror of her predicament.
