I apologize for the lull in this. I must have written and re-written about a hundred and one times, and I'm doing the best I can to get this juuuuuust right. It's a little tricky, you see, because I'm trying my best to stick as close as I can to what I can see potentially happening. I've got a lot planned out after this, it should go much smoother, and I'm so excited for it! Thanks for the follows and reviews, they mean a whole ton to me!
They looked like they weren't even people anymore.
Their faces were dirty. Some were injured, some limped, some grimaced. The Golden Trio watched them all as they were hauled where they were to be kept, and Hermione couldn't help but feel a deep sense of guilt. It wasn't in her nature to hate or begrudge. Yes, god knew she was passionate. She yelled, she snapped, but it was hard-pressed to stay beyond that moment.
"Bloody well serves 'em right." Ron muttered, turning back to his large stockpile of bacon and eggs.
Hermione had felt guiltier than she had a right to. The thought was there again, because yes, the war was over, but what of it now? They'd been victorious, they'd won, and now, in their victories they could live again in peaceful happiness.
But there were hundreds to Voldemort's cause who were imprisoned, now, and she couldn't help but feel like she wished it could all be balanced, even. It was a perfect world one would consider, the sort of world where good always triumphed, and evil always receded back into the dank holes from whence it had come.
But sometimes good won, and there was evil even there. She thought of Azkaban- Azkaban, and the way that its entire security system was designed to be ridiculous, inhumane, and downright maddening. It was there, perpetually, darkening the corners of her mind. Was there no way to bring balance, to be fair and just, but still to live in a world that looked favorably upon all living creatures? Was everyone truly unsalvageable?
She shook the ideas off like cobwebs and returned silently to her breakfast, wondering just how much injustice had to be committed before justice could weigh in heavily.
Perhaps she'd been thinking too much.
Not sleeping enough.
Perhaps she'd felt strange and lonely.
Perhaps she'd felt reminded each time she glanced at the inside of her left arm, how the lines of good and evil were divided.
"Slow as you are stupid, ay, Muddy? And you've brought friends."
"It's impossible." McGonagall balked just a bit, even the eldest professor somewhat awestruck, "We were absolutely certain you had died."
"You sound disappointed, Minerva, or even, dare I say it, surprised?"
She cracked that wicked grin, then, and her deeply obsidian eyes danced with a malice that dove itself straight into a pit. It was all Hermione could do not to squirm beneath them, because they glanced past McGonagall, disapprovingly beyond Shacklebolt, straight to her. Like she was trying as hard as she could to slice through Hermione Granger without ever touching her.
"Tell us how." Kingsley spoke, his voice an authoritative boom.
"Wouldn't you just love to know?" the Death Eater sing-songed, but for a moment, she was fooling no one. Beneath that attire she was skin and bones, and- as an unregistered Animagus she'd clearly been living in the forest off meager creatures, rats, things small enough for her to hunt. Hermione's brain was working overtime again, plotting out points with a relative ease. Bellatrix was no fool, never had been, and never would be. She wouldn't have shifted from animal at any point, because if a Centaur wasn't to find her, something worse, or something, perhaps, more informed toward the school's populace would. To change would be to blow her cover, and from the Gryffindor's calculated thoughts, the size of Bellatrix's animagus form did not make for a very proficient hunter. The creature seemed vicious enough, with the Black's brand of malice behind it, but on a predatory chain the wolf wasn't very large at all.
How curious, she thought, then, that the woman should take on the form of a wolf, a pack animal, when she'd always seemed much too rabid to function in groups.
"I haven't got all day. I was just about to lie down for a nice nap when little red riding hood came rudely intruding on my territory, and I should like to get back to it."
And Bellatrix was sure she was in the clear, scott free from any punishment she might have suffered. After all, these were the 'good guys', the so-called heroes of the tale. They were not bloody torturers or merciless sufferers. They did not blood-let, did not Cruciate, did not seek to divulge dirty secrets from her by way of pain. She would be alright. She had been deposited in rather fortunate hands.
It had been so long ago that Minerva McGonagall had hated her as a student, but she did not second-guess an ounce of her treatment. She was a Gryffindor, after all, a roaring lion if there ever was one. Integrity and honor and honesty and justice and all that rubbish. McGonagall would keep to being civil, Bellatrix could count on it.
Cheeky, cheeky monkey.
She seemed like the struggling had stopped, and the bespectacled headmistress motioned gently to the other two in her company, wordlessly asking them to turn their backs. This was a deliberation that needed to be made. There were questions that needed answering.
What if the Dark Lord had made a plan?
What if Bellatrix Lestrange had made her own damned Horcruxes?
It certainly wasn't too far off-base to presume she'd desire the resurrection of the only-shortly-fallen Voldemort.
"The only logical choice would be to send her back to Azkaban."
Captivity, Hermione thought, shutting her up in a cell for the rest of her life.
And she should have felt like it was the most natural decision in the world. But something sitting in the bottom of her gut told her it was not. Bellatrix Lestrange was capable of magnificent, albeit sometimes grievous, things. She was talented beyond measure, she was a brilliant duelist, she was smart, cunning, devious.
She was someone that very well could have been an asset with the right push.
"No." Hermione spoke up suddenly, and self-consciously glanced back like she had been too loud. The eldest Black sister was still swaying in the wind, still staring off into the distance like this entire situation was burdensome, her heavily lidded eyes blinking lazily. She dove back into the huddle, Kingsley's wise gaze settled patiently on her. And for that, she felt thankful. "No. There's a reason she isn't dead. It could be a very important reason. The possibilities, the capabilities- she's the worst, Professor, she's awful. But what could she be if she wasn't?"
"That is a hopeful and courageous undertaking of a statement." McGonagall seemed leery, but Kingsley's expression was calculating. They could almost see the thoughts as they circled his head.
"She has a point. She may know something big. She has a lot of secrets, after all, and I'll bet anything she's got a few of the Dark Lord's she's been keeping."
"Tick tock, tick tock!" Bellatrix called, "If you're done with all this secret society nonsense I'd like to get on with the remainder of my life!"
"We'll speak to the Ministry." Hermione didn't hesitate, her voice unwavering. And then the deal was sealed. "I staunchly believe this could be good."
"Do you plan to throw me in the dank dungeons, then, McGonagall?" no one replied. They remained silent, and watched her as she walked forward, head held high, treating the entire world like it belonged to her. "Tell me, is my Roddy dead?"
And no one had an idea what to say. How did anyone break the news of a dead husband? Unpredictable was not the word for Bellatrix Lestrange. The reaction could have been anywhere from furious to miserable to ecstasy to tantrum. It was almost impossible to gauge, so the three behind her fell back a bit, and she stopped in her tracks.
"I'll take that as a 'yes'. And Rabby? I won't be surprised if the answer is 'yes', too. Those two never rightly did a thing without each other."
Rodolphus Lestrange was as dead as any other carcass, and in a way borderline discomforting, Bellatrix was right. Rabastan was just as dead.
"I suppose it'll be Bellatrix Black, then. Pity. I was so fond of the Lestrange."
Her hands had been bound behind her back, and for everyone else this felt like a military march. For Bellatrix this was a cheerful romp, a giddy little stroll with a series of impoverished subjects.
"No one's answered my question!" she exclaimed, oozing false authority. "Where will my next stay be? The old Slytherin dormitories? I remember those. Fit for we serpents. So much nicer than you bloody Lions, all the arrogance, none of the talent. Tsk."
They finally led her inside, an when they did, the air rushed violently out of the room. The Great Hall was silent, every student straining to hear the sounds just outside. A loud, harsh cackle resounded, and it rebounded loudly off the cold stone. A hundred shifts and shuffles, a hundred heads turning.
"Bloody hell." Ron was the first to speak, and he reached up to rub his eyes, dig his knuckles in deep to dispel the vision. It was not a dream, it was a nightmare. "Is that Bellatrix Leatrange?"
Harry nodded, his mouth set into a thin, worried line, his eyebrows knitted tight. The cogs in his head were turning but produced no correct reaction. It seemed he was not the only one in the room with that problem.
"Kiddies!" she shouted brightly, and shot a look into the Hall as she strode by, "Kiddies! I've returned!"
Neville's blood ran cold. Every breath in the room was held, a collective gasp, very deep, felt like the thrum of a pulse.
"'Mione?" was the redhead's second inquisition.
But the brunette did not look inside.
"Oh, you're going to negotiate with me?!"
The room was large enough, the walls barren, done up in hideously striped wallpaper. No portraits to speak of. Nothing but two very large, ancient, claw-footed couches and a single high-backed chair before what seemed to be a massive fireplace.
"Yes." Kingsley was to the point, at the very least, and Bellatrix arched an eyebrow not-so-subtly.
"Hmmmmmmmm, now what could you want out of me?"
All teeth and pyre-bright eyes, the captive dropped lazily across the couch, stretching like a cat. Her wrists and hands were still wound behind her, but this didn't seem to stop her from being the most positively limber, lax human being on the face of the earth.
"We can't have a plan," Hermione had murmured quickly to the other two, "she's clever. If we smell of the slightest premeditation she will know. And if she suspects, she'll shut down. -I just assume we should handle her like a very devious serial killer."
"Cooperation." he said slowly, and for a moment he shot a look toward the other two, desperate for approval. As no one butted in, it must have been acceptable.
"You can start off by releasing my hands. Unless you're into that sorta thing, of course. In which case this all seems like a rather troublesome way to meet a simplistic conclusion." she sat up on her knees and McGonagall waved her wand at the accepting nod. The Lestrange flexed her fingers, sighing relief, and cracked her knuckles without making a full fist. Needless to say, it was intimidating. "Ooh, you are serious."
"We want to offer you freedom." Hermione shot immediately. All eyebrows rose, and the muggle-born flushed a rosy pink, shocked by even her own suggestion.
"Bet freedom's got a different definition for you, Muddy. Freedom inside four walls, freedom in a cage, freedom from death."
"Real freedom." McGonagall's teeth ground together. It was a bitter pill to swallow, telling this beast she could be set loose in the world. She just kept remembering that arrogant, wild-haired little girl Bellatrix had been. She hexed the underclassmen and she laughed so everyone could hear, and she got excellent grades and excelled in all her classes and was the envy of everyone who had not been on the unfortunate end of her Stupefy spells.
"Hmmmmmmmmmm..." she purred thoughtfully, and tucked her legs beneath her, twirling a strand of dirty, limp, black hair around her long finger. The longer she dragged out the word, the lower her tone got, and the lower her tone got, the wider her grin became, as though competing with the sound. "And what is the price?"
"No killing." McGonagall began.
"No Cruciating." Kingsley added.
"No hurting." Hermione finished, feeling much more confident in the sound of this.
"This is all very delectable, if those truly are my only stipulations. But you're all missing my point. What do you want from me?"
Her grin had disappeared and she was staring around the room with a wary expression, trying with a harsh extremity to read all three of the others. It was a hunter's stare, the dissecting gaze of an animal made of instinct over rationale. It smelled wrong, to her, this supposed hospitality, overly friendly.
"Nothing but those things we just asked of you." Hermione filled in the silence after a moment or two, trying to keep her voice even. If exams had been this difficult, she would have failed each and everyone.
"Of course you won't be allowed total solitude. You'll need a chaperone, someone who-"
"I will vouch." She didn't know how quick she'd said the words, and they burned in her throat. Hermione was willing to throw herself into this headfirst. McGonagall had given her a stern glance, but she swallowed hard and returned it with a decisive nod. This had been her idea, her suggestion, and she was well sticking to it.
"Touching, Muddy," Bellatrix's smirk had returned, and Hermione imagined the things she would have done, had she been the one with the power in this room. She'd be on her feet, touching the brunette lightly, with a grip that would slowly escalate to a more commanding clutch. She would take her by the wrist and whisper in her ear, though when she looked over Bellatrix was still sprawled on the sofa, her tone low, "What, have I gotten under your skin so far I've lived beneath it? Stick your neck out a bit further, someone will cut off that pretty little head."
"Miss Granger is making an offer that could be your only one, Bellatrix." Hermione swore she had never heard McGonagall sound so truly venomous. It was not anger in her voice, but hatred, undiluted, the same way, she thought, a child often hated. Without boundaries or stoppage, just a startling purity.
"The girl's a bloody fool," dark eyes heavily closing, she rested her head back on a throw pillow and yawned lazily, elegant, her face slowly slipping into a cheeky, content grin. For a moment, one might even assume her dreaming, "But I never said I wouldn't accept the offer. After all, it's my crown jewels you're after, and I've got a few diamonds for you."
"Have you gone bloody raving mad?!"
Hermione was grateful they were outside, because inside Ron might have caused quite a spectacle. She understood why. Even she thought it sounded mad.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had authority. Enough authority that, with Scrimgeour's death and the Ministry in good and proper control, Shacklebolt was the acting Minister until it was decided whether or not he would hold the place permanently. Several owls with remaining Ministry officials, Bellatrix throat clears, and declarations of how bored she was later, and they'd come up with a plan.
It was one Hermione had agreed to helm, and every person present was apprehensive about it.
Bellatrix Lestrange could not be trusted at Hogwarts. If this was another of Voldemort's plans, there would be too many tools at her disposable. Students, a menagerie of magical items, professors, and wands, most importantly. An abundance of wands.
Just off the coast of England and between that border and Scotland's, there was a Wizarding isle. It had no name to speak of, but it was small, quaint, and had been acting as a safe haven for several years to Witches and Wizards who needed it. Unused and unmentioned unless necessary, the place was safe due to enchantments in place to fool Muggles and Wizards alike.
Hermione would willingly live there with Bellatrix Lestrange. She would share a roof, sit at a table, live life, with Bellatrix Lestrange. The more Kingsley put forth his idea the larger the knot in her stomach grew, until beneath the table they were sitting at she'd felt her knees touch together nervously, her posture askew. Her heart sank like a stone.
"I would check in constantly as would the Aurors."
"As would I." McGonagall interjected, and slid a distrusting glare toward the Death Eater. Who was disinterestedly picking bits of dried blood from beneath her nails.
They simply couldn't trust the woman in a crowded area, and more than that, they couldn't trust a crowded area with her. She had made too many enemies in her life, powerful ones. And now that she was 'cooperating' with Ministry plans? She would have made yet more enemies with former friends for that.
She reminded herself that she singlehandedly might have been preventing the start of another war, and Bellatrix's insane giggle sounded in her ears when she said, "I'll do it."
"And just like that you agreed?!" Ron hollered, and the muggle-born did not know whether to feel slightly ashamed or terribly adamant that this was the right decision. Both were considerations she thought about, but it was hard to ascertain the right one.
"Hermione, this is an awful idea."
"I know it is!" her patience snapped. And she wanted to tell them she couldn't explain why she had her hand in this, why she was tossing her chips in this pot, but it felt right. It felt like something smart, something dire. It felt much bigger than her. "But without this possibility, it could get much worse. If I don't do it- if they put her back in Azkaban and she has something- something planned?"
"Then we bloody deal with it, we don't move in with the murderer!"
"We don't have another choice. Your mum killed her, Ron, we saw her kill Bellatrix and now, she's back, she's here, she's very much not dead and as the Dark Lord's most powerful lieutenant who knows what she could be capable of."
"And why should we have to find out?"
She looked toward Harry desperately, asking wordlessly for his compliance. She knew she wasn't going to get it, but she was trying, feeling adrift on a sea where she was surrounded by unforgiving dark clouds and sharks waiting to feast on her better intent. It had been a long time coming, and she knew she should have learned to get used to this, this unacceptable sense of disgust for what most- herself somewhat included- would see as a very poor idea.
"I can't, 'Mione." Ron had settled, almost apologetic, and he stubbornly stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His freckles stuck out vividly from his cheeks, and he was frowning, his disagreement writ large across his face. "You're making a completely stupid choice."
"Let's see how stupid it is when we find something out." the brunette spat stubbornly, and turned to storm back to the Castle before either boy could open their mouths.
It might have not been the best informed choice, nor the most well-thought out one, but in a way much larger than she could measure Hermione Granger was doing something awfully imperative. She was trying to change a life not her own, and to save several she might have been accountable for. Yes. It was a noble decision. It was a respectable deed. It was something that might ripple throughout Wizarding history, leaving a seismic impact.
So why did she feel like this was a mistake?