Sorry for the extended wait, writer's block got me. Got over it like a bad habit, though. Did another note thing at the end, thoughts and the like. Feel free to PM or review and let me know your thoughts, theories, etc.
Standard disclaimers and chapter one warnings apply.
Mosaic 7
Harry leaned forward to grab another tome and dragged it across the table to himself, checking the notebook page beside him to ensure the titles matched. Her loopy public school handwriting stared back up at him from the steno page, mocking his ability to find an answer. He was decent at researching, having picked up some of Hermione's habits when they were readying him for the Triwizard Tournament, but without their third member, he and Ron were just blindly seeing and not retaining. 'Nope,' he thought, looking at his best mate, 'No retention at all.'
Ron was almost drooling into the crease of the open pages, a high pitched whine occasionally escaping his nose as he slept face-first in a book about daemonic possession. Apparently, that was different than demonic possession, but whatever. It all went back to Hermione. Her bold voice echoed through his mind, chastising him for his lack of organization. Harry flipped back to the page of his notes, Inner Hermione telling him to 'read between the lines, Harry. There is a common link. This is why color coded-' He tuned her out in favor of reading over his notations, letting his mind wander naturally while he did.
Darkest Mindes had an entire chapter about trauma, torture, and mental illness, and how they 'opened the door' for Dark Magic to take root. Had it truly been her with that bloody barmy LeStrange, or was she still prisoner and someone was wearing her face?
The Imperial Gayze, and Other Unforgivable Tales contained references to the possibility of a witch or wizard taking on parts of their torturer's personality when held under two of the three Unforgivables for long enough. If it had been Hermione, how long would LeStrange have to have tortured her for his best friend to be so comfortable and natural pretending to be the Dark Lord's Lieutenant?
Adding to his confusion was the fact that he had been having the weirdest flashes from Voldemort. Sometimes they would be his own memories from an outside perspective, others were simply average moments; He might be looking at a clock on the wall, or simply viewing the ceiling of a darkened bedchamber. Morbid, gut curdling curiosity had him reading The Foul Fiend, the book Hermione had been reading before her disappearance. It had been hidden behind a series of pureblood journals under an enchantment, he remembered. Hermione had instantly grabbed it up after the necessary security spells and taken off to read it. Only days later, while tracking the next horcrux, she would be lost to them, the book left forgotten beneath her cot pillow.
Deciding not to dwell at the moment on the contents of Herpo the Foul's unsolicited autobiography, he woke Ron. As the ginger stumbled over his own chair and off to bed somewhere down the hall from the kitchen of Shell Cottage, Harry busied himself with picking up the books they had strewn across the table's surface. His mind wandered again as it had been lately, melancholy reverie broken an untold amount of time later by the chime of the hearth. The series of intermittent windchimes signalled it was their great and fearless leader. Wonderful. He deftly stacked the final book and placed them neatly at the corner of the table, taking the time to ensure they were in perfect formation. Whatever Dumbledore wanted, it couldn't be good for him. Not if it meant a hushed conversation after hours between the Leader of the Light and the Boy-Who-Lived.
"Ah, there you are, my boy." Dumbledore greeted quietly when Harry moved into view and sat down on the settee, respectful of the late hour. "I was hoping you would still be awake." Glancing at the grandfather clock face in the corner, Harry ignored the memory of wearing Voldemort's skin and noted it was nearly half twelve. Definitely time for bed, he thought, only a little annoyed by the late-night Floo call.
"Good evening, Professor," Harry greeted the floating bearded face quietly. Harry snorted inwardly as he sat down across from Albus' face. The only benefit to this conversation was Albus' inability to use Legilimency via Floo, Harry soon discovered. "How have you been, Harry? Mending well, I gather?" Bright green eyes sparkled encased in their flame confines, the elder wizard smiling with paternal affection. It was with this more detached communication Harry recognized the slight strain in Dumbledore's smile, the almost forceful twinkle gaining effulgence.
Harry played along, smiling tiredly back and rubbing his healing bruises good naturedly. "Yeah, Professor. Ron and I have been doing some of your suggested reading and enjoying Fleur's hospitality." He kept his voice modulated, his face open despite how closed off his thoughts were to his mentor.
Suspicion mounted further as he watched the flame visage seem to relax, finding no cause for alarm in his young protege's demeanor. Why would Dumbledore have been looking for such a thing in the first place? Harry was absolutely certain something was going on. He was being kept out of something; something big.
This time, there was no pain when it happened. His scar didn't throb nor did his grey matter feel like it would ooze from his ears. 'Lovely imagery, Potter.'
That. Fucking. Voice.
In the background, Dumbledore was still talking, Harry somehow keeping an interested if tired expression. 'What the fuck do you want?' He questioned, tuning back in enough to the head in the Floo to answer a question about Ron's recovery. Without warning, images flew threw the background of his thoughts, making him fake a cough to hide his shock from the man in the fire. The cupboard under the stairs and spider friends. Gawked at through the compartment door his first time on the Hogwarts Express. Red dripping down the stone, Enemies of the Heir beware. The loneliness, the hostility. Rumors and Ron's anger, the Triwizard tasks. Voldemort, red eyed and looming, skeletal in his resurrection. His mother, screaming. Tom Riddle in Slughorn's memories.
Harry felt a mental pause, like the inhalation before a speaker comments, but was interrupted by the stream of words coming through the Floo. "-Granger hasn't been found, but I assure you, we will keep trying." Hermione. More visions swirled through his head. Her reparo on the train. Her petrified form in a hospital bed, nutmeg brown eyes turned grey and frozen in fearful realization. A beautiful girl in a periwinkle dress, her waist small in his hands as her smiling eyes glittered in laughter and her head tilted back, exposing her graceful neck. Her soft hand holding his at Godric's Hollow, a wreath conjured for parents he had never really known. He forced the visions away and concentrated once more on the elder wizard in the flames, who looked decidedly unsettled. In the back of his mind, he felt Voldemort, the sensation of contemplation weaving around the entity.
"Harry, I must tell you, however, if we find Miss Granger, there is no telling what kind of state she will be in. I don't want to alarm you, but-" Both Harry and Voldemort jerked to attention, twin feelings of irritation rising with the elder wizard's words.
"But what? You're telling me what? She might need Healing? Okay, we'll get her a Healer. Or is it something else?" Crimson started to fade in at the edges of Harry's view as his temper rose. He felt Voldemort in the back of his mind like the eye of calm within an earth-wrenching hurricane of emotion. Without thought, he gave the Dark wizard his attention. 'Is he asking me what I think he is?'
'He wants to know if you can-'
"-Do what is necessary, my dear boy. There is every likelihood as not that Miss Granger has-" Oh, fuck that.
"What? Gone Dark? Joined Him? Yeah, yeah, there is. You think I don't know that already?!" The deep red haze flared in his vision. "We left her there, not you. We did, me and Ron, and we have to live with that, and now you're, what? Just nonchalantly flooing me late at night to discuss whether or not I could kill my best friend like a rabid dog? What kind of person do you think I am?!"
This time, Harry was unable to stop the images as they ripped through his mind. Memories of his dark desires, suppressed for their brutality. The time he had fantasized about sticking Cho Chang to a Library table spread eagled so he could eat her until she erupted all over his face, shocked and crying for how she had disgraced Cedric's memory by humping the Chosen One's thick tongue. The feeling of Lavender Brown's throat convulsing around the tip of his length as she swallowed his spendings, fucking herself wetly with her fingers in a hidden dungeon alcove in Fifth Year with his fist gripped in her hair. Hermione in the tent, her soft thighs welcoming his thrusts even as her heart raced in fear and she whimpered in defeat.
'And people say I'm evil and depraved. Tell me, Potter, can you do what is necessary, because I guarantee you… it very well may be.'
More visuals, this time from the wizard who had marked him. Another prophecy; 'She will know you by your name.' His mother's screams. Incorporeal, living as a snake, becoming Quirrell. The agony of Unicorn Blood, taken mercilessly, drunk with necessity. A worm-like creature, dependant on a snivelling rat. Becoming Voldemort, mind in disarray. A ritual, almost whole now. Summoned to an opulent room. Hermione screaming in pain before going silent. The slight opening of heavy doors allowing him to see her as she sat up straight and set hell upon unseen entities. The howl and wet squish, a chilling laugh. "Mr. Riddle, I believe this is yours." Evening drinks, intelligence shared. Maternal Bellatrix. A file, Grindelwald's name, references to a location and experiments. Snape sharing Dumbledore's orders. Unstable magic, unstable mind. Rabid. 'We need to talk.' Without another word, he felt Voldemort leave his mind, the carnage done.
Dumbledore was staring at him curiously. Harry schooled his face quickly to a cool mask. "Sir, if it's all the same to you, I haven't slept in-" he looked at the clock again, "-about 21 hours, so I don't think now is the best time to discuss this." Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Let me think about everything. If there is another way, I- sir, I can't lose my best friend. Not without doing everything else I can first."
Dumbledore, to his credit, nodded in a grandfatherly manner, all wisdom and understanding. "I commend you for your desire to consider all aspects, my boy. You have grown so much; it's just a shame it wasn't due to better circumstances." That rankled. Rather than debate semantics with the wizard, Harry simply said his parting words and closed the Floo connection. A distinct feeling of 'fuck that dude' colored his actions with petulance.
With a quick wave and a mumbled Nox, the lights were extinguished. After having a piss and taking care of his nightly ablutions, the Chosen Savior laid back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind wander. His eyes closed slowly, heavy with exhaustion, only to blink back open to a familiar scene. This time, when he pushed his hard length between her soft thighs, he met his own reflection in the shiny tea kettle. Guilt settled in his gut, but he was unable to stop the thrill of pleasure chasing up his spine. As both sets of eyes met - one lust-filled and ashamed, the reflection annoyed and smug - he felt his consciousness pulled from the scene, distantly remembering the way he had collapsed in that quiet tent in the forest moments after the scene began.
Now, he was focused straight ahead, staring through eyes which weren't his into an ornate washroom mirror. The face was familiar yet slightly older than he had last seen with fashionable scruff on his jaw making his age difficult to ascertain, though somewhere between mid-twenties or early-thirties.
"Harry Potter. Did you know you're a horcrux?" Tom Riddle's face stared at him, asking the question without preamble. Before Harry could answer, Riddle held up a finger. "One moment." Everything went dark and Harry had the sensation of physical movement without the actual movement. A wave of a hand which he felt was extinguishing light, his legs walking twelve steps only to bend at the knee, buttocks settling gently into a cushion. Riddle's face popped into existence again in a rather average hand mirror, muggle in origin. Weird.
'Yes, I found out not long ago,' Harry mentally replied. This time, he actively sent memories to the Dark wizard with whom he shared a connection. Dumbledore pacing his office, arguing with the paintings through a crack in the door. 'This was when he had me look at Slughorn's memories.' "You need to tell him!" Dippet's voice. "It isn't the right time!" Dumbledore half-barked back at the oil painting. "Is there ever a right time to tell the boy he is a horcrux?" Phineas Black's calm voice questioned. The so-called 'greatest wizard' deflated immediately, sagging against his desk and looking every bit his age. "I will tell him soon."
Riddle's face came back into view. "If it's any consolation, it was unintentional." Oddly, it was, and Harry said as much. "As it stands, I find I rather dislike insanity, so the horcruxes are being destroyed." The Dark wizard was almost flip about the fact, like mental stability was on par with a different cut of robe. Perhaps it was to someone like him.
"Oh, please, Potter. I'm not actually a sociopath. You started the process, actually, when you destroyed my diary. The portion of my soul was not destroyed, rather returned. With every horcrux, I have regained more of my… faculties." Annoyance clearly visible on his handsome visage, Riddle rolled his eyes. "Exactly what has Dumbledore been telling you? No, you know? Nevermind. I don't care. It's irrelevant to the matter at hand."
'And that is?' Harry dearly wished Riddle would get to the point already. Though his body was technically asleep, his mind was active and he would wake without having had any R.E.M. Hermione's voice echoed facts about the necessity of different levels of sleep and proper amounts, and Riddle chuckled.
"She's still a swot, even here. Yes, Hermione is here, and she is - well, physically, she is well. Mentally, however… I believe we have a problem Mister Potter."
The smell of Sunday roast mingled with the almonds and honey of the Bee Sting Cake Bubbe had made earlier. She was seated on her grandfather's lap in the small dining room of their townhouse, sipping cooled tea from his cup "like a big girl". In the centre of the table sat the round bienenstich, crisp almonds twinkling under the fake crystal chandelier. The neutral autumn tones intermixed with summer accents on the elaborate runner decorating the otherwise bare dining table.
The colours seemed brighter somehow, more vibrant, as though an artist oversaturated only certain items. Her tea was burnt umber, the same ruddy brown as the edges of the linen. The almonds were almost golden, like the gilded links of the chandelier chain above her. There was the vague sensation of importance, like she needed to pay attention to everything.
In the background, through a hazy doorway to what she knew would be her grandparents' kitchen, she heard multiple voices. "You need to speak with him, Paris. He is your father." Her grandmother's accented voice implored her father.
"I don't care if he is the Pope! I'll not speak to him. He knew, all this time, there was ample time to make arrangements." Her father sounded different, colder, not at all like the warm, proud man who called her his 'Little Princess'.
"Are you ready for Tuesday, Sweetness?" A rock settled in her gut. She would start school Tuesday, her first year of Primary. No, she decidedly was not looking forward to Tuesday. Her unruly curls fluffed to and fro as she shook her head and hid her eyes behind her mother's bad attempt at feathered bangs. "Why not?"
"What if they don't like me?" Her younger self asked Grandpa Bill. His work-worn hands turned her sideways in his lap so she had to look up at him. His kind smile bore down on her with understanding, blue-grey eyes twinkling in that special way.
"Because you're special?" He asked, tucking her fluffed, hairspray-stiffened curls under his chin as he held her close. She nodded, inwardly trying not to giggle as her hair made an audible noise like when her dad raked leaves. "I know it's hard, but you can't let them see if they bother you. When Bubbe was in the Bad Place, do you think she let the monsters see how scared she was?"
Hermione shook her head this time. No, Bubbe Vava was strong and brave. When the monsters kidnapped her and took her to the Bad Place, when they poked her with sticks and called her mean names, she showed them they were the weak ones. So pathetic, they had to make other people feel badly for being born different.
"Can you be like Bubbe on Tuesday?" Grandpa Bill asked her, his breath sweet and cold like the mints he always had in his pocket. Once again, Hermione nodded, and she spun in Grandpa Bill's tweed-covered lap to sip again at her tea.
Yes, she could be like Bubbe, she decided, watching her grandmother like a hawk for the rest of the evening. The Falscher Hase was delicious, the accompanying vegetables perfectly steamed and seasoned. Even her grape juice tasted sweeter on her tongue.
When the bienenstich was sliced and served, the filling was creamy and so flavorful, she even liked her mother for the moment. With the fond eyes of an almost six year old, she watched and blushed when her grandparents shared a quick kiss over a bite of the cake. Even though he wasn't her real grandfather, he was a pretty good one.
The Grangers returned home that evening stuffed and happy. When she yawned just after eight, Hermione was sent upstairs to brush and lay down. A contented air had taken hold of the young girl. After tucking herself in, she laid and let her mind wander in the twilight. She thought about the school kids. Would they like her? She had to be careful to hide what she could do, even if someone made her mad. That was okay, there were other ways she could help the other kids learn.
Missy Hermione?
She heard the telephone downstairs ring, her mother's voice for once not irritating her. Lethargy set in her limbs and Hermione vaguely registered her father's frantic voice and the heavy click of the rotary handset. Whatever it was, dad was upset. Probably work. Drowsiness was starting to take hold, the weightless sensation of almost-sleep promising to carefully hold her in a comforting black hug.
Missy Hermione.
Footsteps, her door, a weight on her bed. "Princess?" Her father's hand on her shoulder shaking her gently. White noise began to buzz in her ears, the only clear sound her father's words. A plaintiff noise escaped her slowly waking form. Her eyes opened, taking in her dad in the low light of her room.
Miss- Missy- Her-mione!
The white noise became louder while her father's mouth slowed with his reply. His words crawled toward her while the white noise became an intermittent noise, adding to the confusion. "Little Princess. I have some bad news. Bubbe Vava passed away tonight." When the words sunk in, it was like being sucked into a sound vacuum. Suddenly, Hermione let loose a low noise which rose to a scream, and her vanity mirror shattered.
Hermione flew awake as her magic crested over and exploded, a visceral crunch assaulting her ears just before something warm and wet flew at her in her darkened room. Stomach flipping unpleasantly, Hermione blindly dug a hand behind her and gripped her wand under her pillow. "Lumos," she whispered, voice cracking with a squeak on the second syllable. Her eyes widened and she screamed at the gore before her. She screamed, and she shattered, and she screamed some more.
"As you now know, information has come to my attention, both regarding Dumbledore, and Miss Granger -" Riddle was cut off by a blood-freezing series of screams and the connection was severed.
'That was Hermione,' Harry thought dimly before exhaustion overtook him. Were he not so drained, physically and mentally, he would have wondered at how wide and fearful Riddle's eyes were when she screamed before he cut off the mental link between them.
NOTES: some of you enjoyed them last time. The purpose of these is to inspire writings from you, whether related to this specific fic's 'verse (ask please, especially for specific character info) or your own creation. They also teach a bit at times and are a way for me to relate to and reach you if you don't follow me on Facebook (since I'm bloody awful at responding to reviews).
*Daemons and demons: 'Daemon' is derived from the Greek 'Daimon' and is really just, in lore, considered a congenial, helpful spirit - somewhere between a human and a god. I see them as being which aren't 'good' in the sense of performing miracles and whatnot. Instead, I would think a daon might possess someone like a drunk or addict with the highest potential for the most good and inspire a better path for them, not because it's the right thing to do for the person but because it maintains the natural order and has the maximum benefit for nature.
Demons, on the other hand, are exactly what you think. In this fic, I make ample use of the supernatural, as I do in most of my fics, but I also try to tie in faith in some manner. Demons in this are generally chaotic, but serve a higher purpose and power, often possessing people "for the fun of it." That isn't something that will be touched on too much in this, but it's just some context should anyone enjoy that sort of thing.
Harry is SUPER fucked up. This is obviously not canon, but I'm playing on a few things here. Why is Harry so fucked? Combine being a horcrux with years of abuse, then having people try to kill you during your teenage years and actively being set up as a lamb for slaughter, while alternately being hailed as basically a rock star but having had no positive model for healthy relationships. You'd be a little fucked, too. And I want to make it clear, the horcrux IS making things worse for him, but all it is doing is acting as a particularly silver-tongued devil on his shoulder.
Is Tom OOC? Ask me if I give a fuck. This is all for a reason, and I will be getting to that next chapter. He's the consummate Slytherin, not a chump.
So Bill is not Hermione's grandfather. I do mention it previously, in a roundabout way. That will also be addressed at an upcoming point.
Hermione did exactly what you may think she did. Poor Tulip. She was a good elf. A hardworking and obedient elf. When Thistle was ill with FaePax and couldn't work the kitchen for a week, Tulip did it. She is survived by her mate, grounds elf Alder, and their children Heather, Branch, and Sickle, who are employed in the West and North wings, and as a stable elf respectively.
