Chapter 7: Soul Seeker
Hermione lay in her bed the entire day after she awoke groggily in the morning light. She felt ill, as if the night before had been a passive dream concocted by her sick mind and now it was punishing her for dreaming something so horrible.
But the black and blue bruise on her shoulder proved her wrong and she trembled softly at the memory, nestling deeper into her plush bedding and wishing the world could wait for her to return.
It couldn't, apparently. An insistent owl tapped at her window and she scowled, recognising her Doctor's bird. Scrawling an appeasing reply, apologising for missing herfirst appointment since she began attending therapy and promising to attend her next, she sent the bird off after a bite to eat and a gentle pat on its regal head.
Hermione found herself incapable of facing her bed after having left it, memories of a hot mouth and tongue and bites christening those sheets driving her away.
She entered the lounge after carefully wrapping a scarf around her neck and a knitted matching beanie on her head and dumped herself ungracefully on the old, velvety green couch.
"Long night?" A voice questioned from the doorway.
Hermione jumped at the sudden noise and turned towards Harry, smiling against her will. For some reason, the boy always brought out the best of her (to her constant annoyance).
"Mmm," Hermione hummed her answer, toying with the ends of the fraying scarf.
Harry smiled in his mysterious way in reply and came to sit down on the old leather chair next to the sofa. They both faced the smouldering fire and slipped into their meditation, an old ritual long ingrained from their attempts at teaching one another occlumency nearly two years ago now.
Finally, Hermione broke the comfortable silence by clearing her throat.
"Harry?" She asked softly, gaze not wavering from the flickering flames.
"Yeah?" Harry responded distractedly, clearly lost in thought. Hermione smiled softly, glad she caught her brother in such a relaxed state.
"Do you remember a Snatcher named Scabior?" Hermione asked pensively, trying to hide any nervousness from her voice.
The questions seemed to surprise Harry, for he turned away from the flames and appraised her with glowing green eyes.
"Yes," he answered simply. Hermione couldn't find any particular tone in his answer, so she braved forward.
"He was the one who…" Hermione suddenly found her throat clogged, as if her body were attempting to stop her from speaking further.
Harry seemed to understand her frustration and he turned back to the flames, patiently waiting as she cleared her throat again and attempted to explain.
"Scabior was the one who took me there." Hermione finally announced. To her surprise, it wasn't that hard to say in the end, not with Harry looking away first and listening second.
"I know," Harry admitted, brows drawing together with painful recollection. She was grateful he stopped talking and waited for her to continue. Hermione wasn't sure she would be able to if she stopped now.
Hermione nodded firmly, knowing he would see the action in his peripheral vision. She forged on, careful to not step on any emotional landmines lest she blow herself up.
"We met a few times before then. You remember that time in the forest when I turned your shoe into a portkey?" Not waiting for his answer, Hermione kept talking, the words now flooding from her like a broken dam. "I tried so hard to keep them from knowing you were there too. I was so scared they'd find you and then when you arrived, I was even more scared that you'd try to intervene." Hermione choked then, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as it instantly dried.
"Yes, I recall – you almost caught my leg with that spell," Harry chuckled, his light mood paired with a bright smile.
Hermione smiled as well, recalling how scared she'd been that she accidentally cursed Harry. Then her smile fell.
"He took me back to his camp. I woke up on his bed, shackled by magical restraints."
Harry inhaled sharply then, clearly never having heard this side of the story. He gazed at her deeply then, but she continued as if failing to notice his singular attention.
"I found a way to break the magical restraints. Cursed objects they might be, but everything – everyone – has a tell," she whispered into the darkness, brown eyes gleaming in the firelight.
Harry looked at his sister with awe, once again reminded of her cleverness. Even when he thought she couldn't surprise him anymore, she did, blowing past his expectations with resounding irreverence.
"I left my scarf in the forest for him that day. I told you it was for Ron, but to be honest I didn't want Ron to return. It was… ignorant of me. Arrogant," she corrected herself sharply. "I thought he couldn't touch me after my grand escape."
Harry turned towards her, giving up his pretence of looking at the flames. But Hermione was long gone, stuck in haunting memory.
"Then…" she rasped, choking once more. "And then he caught up after we got back from Mr. Lovegood's. He caught up to us and I knew Ron would leave if I told him to, so I made him take you away. I couldn't bear the thought of you being captured – god knows what they would have done to you."
Hermione took a shuddering breath and Harry carefully remained silent, listening to her tale.
"I used a spell that I think may have fractured my mind, Harry, or at least something that protected me from madness in exchange for my sanity," Hermione admitted with dark solemnity. "Doe Eye, the Anglos called it. It reverts the caster to an animalistic frame of mind. When he took me to Malfoy Manner, I think he thought they would dismiss me to him. He hung around, Harry, sticking close. But then she saw the sword and it was over instantly."
Harry shuddered at the sight Hermione painted for him. He turned to her and lifted his hand up to capture her trembling fingers, enclosed calloused hands in her cold, clammy grip.
"She did things that even I don't remember, Harry. I know you want me to talk about it, but I really can't remember. I do remember screaming and begging and answering so many questions." Hermione turned her watery eyes to Harry and he looked back so reassuringly that it made her cry. "I answered so many questions, Harry," she admitted, sobbing. "I thought they would find you for sure."
Harry fell to his knees and wrapped her in a hug, tucking her head against his shoulder as she sobbed.
"I was so sure, Harry, that I'd doomed you," she softly admitted between sobs, burying into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Harry – I thought I would have been stronger, but I broke so fast."
Harry held her closer and listened, waiting for her weak sobs to die down.
"'Mione," Harry murmured soothingly, catching the witch's attention.
She lifted her head and looked at him so entrusting that Harry hated himself for not telling her sooner. He inhaled deeply and admitted with little ease, "Scabior told us where to find you."
Hermione gaped almost comically if it weren't for the shuttering confusion in her eyes.
"What?" She asked stupidly, as if her mind had sealed itself away in shock.
"He found us, god knows how – that man is unparalleled in tracking," Harry rambled suddenly, trying to fill the silence with answers, excuses.
"He found us as Shell Cottage and we all thought we were damned when we saw him walking on the beach towards us. But Bill told us to trust him, claiming something about his 'werewolf alpha senses', whatever that means, and Scabior told us the exact coordinates we needed to find you. He even told us how to get past Malfoy's security. He recommended an elf could pass the barriers and thankfully we had Dobby, someone with intimate knowledge of Malfoy Manner."
Harry cut off suddenly, taking a moment of silence for the fallen elf.
"When we found you, you were moments away from death. God, Hermione, you almost didn't make it. She had done a real number on you. Sometimes I'm grateful that she burned up with Voldemort, because I would have ripped her to shreds for what she did to you. Most days, though, I hate that I didn't have the opportunity."
Hermione stared at her adoptive brother, gobsmacked.
"But…" Hermione felt her voice catch in her throat, trying to process Harry's words and failing spectacularly. "But he did this to me," Hermione whispered, uncomprehending.
"He did," Harry agreed fiercely. "And I will never forgive him for that fact. But he also brought you back, Hermione, in the only way he knew how to. He's not marked, none of his pack were marked, but he had a duty to serve; all werewolves were pulled into Voldemort's sphere of influence and few could summon the support group to refuse." Harry looked away at that, his heart still weeping from the gaping hole left by Remus and Tonks' death.
"As an alpha, he would have sentenced his pack to death if he had refused to aid Voldemort's cause. So he tracked and snatched for the Ministry and kept his pack away from the conflict as best he could. I'm not saying he's good, Hermione," Harry looked at her sternly to drive the point home. "But everyone has a reason for what they've done. That's something that Snape taught me, and it's a lesson I'm not willing to forget easily."
Hermione felt numbed by Harry's speech. All this time, she'd assumed her friends didn't know the whole tale – but, in reality, it was herself who was protected from the truth.
She felt her cheeks redden at the thought of Scabior in her bed. After knowing his actions, it made it easier to accept his behaviour and – god forbid – made her feel less guilty for her impossible attraction to the wolf. Yet she'd allowed him to practically devour her last night before knowing what he'd done. Hermione hung her head in shame and felt large droplets of water begin to streak down her cheeks without her permission.
"'Mione," Harry whispered in comfort, folding his sister into a hug and rocking her gently, the comforting swaying easing her tears.
"I love you so much, Harry," Hermione sniffled, clasping her bonded brother closer to her with trembling arms.
Harry laughed suddenly, holding her close as well. "I know, 'Mione, and trust when I say I love you too. You should see the look your ol' werewolf's face when I say it, too, 'Mione. If looks could kill, the grumpy bastard would have murdered me a hundred times over."
Hermione's eyes turned to saucers as she faced her snickering brother, mouth parted in surprise at his candour. "Oh don't give me that," Harry chuckled deeply, loosening a hand from around her shoulders to lift the scarf around her neck and glance pointedly at large the mark on her neck. "Go get him, tiger," Harry teased, winking devilishly.
Hermione felt herself her face turn redder than a whole family of Weasleys baking in a tropical sun and she launched herself out of the lounge to escape his burning gaze, secretly pleased as Harry's warm laughter chased after her.
The next day, Hermione woke with a fire lit under her skin and a glint in her eye. She dressed for the day, carefully pulling on her favourite pair of jeans and tucking a soft, loose cotton shirt into her pants. She pulled on her lucky boots (after all, they helped her fight a damn Dark Lord) and stood before her mirror, carefully picking apart her reflection.
It had been so long since Hermione had tried to look decent and she found herself scowling at her appearance. She had kept a lot of that weight off that she'd lost in the forest with Harry during the horcrux hunt, but it wasn't a positive change as it was mostly born from poor appetite and exhaustion. She looked despairingly at her thin, sickly frame, despising how much like a patient of the terminally ill ward she appeared. Dark bags bruised the skin beneath her eyes and what little skin lay exposed to sunlight was littered with accursed scars.
Hermione decided firmly that bitching about her appearance would only make her look even more sallow, so she turned away from the tutting magical mirror and swallowed a particularly strong Pepper-Up potion, eyes crossing as steam erupted from her ears like an angry train, nostrils whistling with fervour.
She left her apartment, head feeling clearer than it had in months.
After all, she was back on a mission – to completely and utter ruin a werewolf's day.