— CHAPTER TEN —
Worlds Apart
"We have a long-established tradition of observing Yule. Every year, a festive gathering attended by supporters of the Dark Lord and their families takes place at the manor. Your presence is expected at this event, Hermione."
"But that would mean revealing my identity to everyone! The Dark Lord said I am not to compromise my position."
"The Dark Lord never told you explicitly to hide from trustworthy members of the community, and believe me, the selected company I invite to the manor is nothing less than trustworthy. There are ancient Dark spells making sure of it. It is, of course, up to you whether you wish to take the risk. However, since the traitor has been unmasked and dealt with, I truly do not see why you would not reveal yourself to them. Many are already aware of your identity, having met you at raids. I would strongly appreciate it if you were to attend this event."
Hermione looked into her lover's grey eyes. How could she refuse? She would do anything for him. She would do anything to please the man she loved. And he had to know the risks better than her. She was new to the Dark side, while he had been involved in it since before she'd been born. She nodded.
Lucius had expected nothing less. He continued:
"A social event like this one requires formal wear. Buy yourself a dress – I would recommend Madam Malkin's shop – choose something appropriate for the occasion. Bear in mind that all guests present will be dressed their best and will judge you by your attire. I do not wish you to arrive in an off-the-peg set of dress robes."
"But I would never be able to afford – the Aurors aren't paid that much –"
"Good Lord, Hermione, what did I say about not being 'able to afford' items? My mistress will not be poor like some flea-bitten Weasley!" he said aggressively. "Tell them to take the money from Gringotts vault number fifteen."
Had he just given her the number of the Malfoy vault? This was like giving someone the number of your credit card in the Muggle world. Wizards could buy anything, to an unlimited amount of money, and pay just by giving the number of their vault to the salesperson … Hermione couldn't believe this.
"But –" she started.
"Be silent, Hermione," he said coldly. "When will you understand that with your – ah – status, money is never a problem? Now, I expect you to wear nothing less than the finest dress you can find, regardless of its cost. Do not argue with me!"
Lucius had never failed to scare her when he was angry. In her second year, she had been impressed and frightened by the fury in his eyes when Mr Weasley had tackled him in the bookshop. His eyes had been almost glowing with wrath and menace. It had been like seeing an enraged king, and Hermione had shivered at the mere idea of being the target of that anger. Her parents had been shaking in terror, and Hermione herself hadn't been far from trembling.
That had been her first glimpse of Lucius Malfoy's violent temperament, and knowing how much he disliked Muggle-borns, she had feared had him deeply from that day on. She still did, occasionally. Especially when he acted like this.
"Of course," Hermione said meekly, cowed by his sudden display of irritation. "Of course... my Lord. It was stupid of me to argue with you, especially on such an insignificant matter. Please forgive me."
She chose to refer to him by his title in an attempt to calm him down. He seemed to have taken her disagreement personally; he thought she was defying him, but that had not been her intention. No, she was just, er, taken aback by his generosity.
"You should be aware that mere words will never suffice, Hermione," he said, but the anger had drained from his eyes.
"You know it's not mere words, Lucius." She wavered for a moment, then continued bravely, "I don't know why, but … I want to prove it to you. To prove that I mean it … it's right, isn't it?"
"It is indeed."
With a gentle but imperious gesture, he tilted Hermione's head so that it rested against his shoulder. He smiled into her eyes.
"You truly do know how to placate me …" He kissed her hair. "Narcissa would have started shouting by now … she never does learn the lesson … in fact, any other woman would have been affronted. But not you. I have always known that you were different …"
She smiled back, answering, "I don't think your wife understands you. And she's a Black and you know what they're like – look at Bellatrix. She spent thirteen years in Azkaban for a stupid mistake – staying at the scene of the crime to gloat – and she still does the same thing. She still hasn't learned not to wait for the Aurors to arrive. The Blacks are known for their foolhardiness, aren't they?"
When had Hermione started judging and condemning those around her? Since when did she shamelessly express contempt towards others? When had she started acting like a Malfoy?
Actually, she always had.
During her seven years at Hogwarts, she had proven time and again that she could be haughty and condescending. She had never paid much regard to the opinion of those she considered intellectually inferior, such as the oddity personified by Luna Lovegood.
And in her fourth and fifth years, she had found such delightful power in blackmailing Rita Skeeter, not that the woman hadn't deserved it … and she had always been a good liar in the instances when she didn't consider it wrong to lie – sometimes people were better off when left in the dark. Yes, Umbridge had been right about one thing: what they did know could hurt them, but what they didn't could not.
Just as Hermione had expected, Fudge made his Junior Assistant, Percy Weasley, the temporary replacement of Madam Bones. Percy had always had an interest – and a talent – for law, and Hermione had no doubt that he would do well as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But Fudge insisted that it was only a temporary replacement until the Minister found a more suitable candidate. Preferably someone who actually worked in the department.
Percy still hadn't 'rejoined' his family. Whenever he met his father in the corridors of the Ministry, they would acknowledge each other with a nod, but they never talked. Percy's family had been a disappointment to him; he had always been in the shadow of his brothers, and now that he had the chance to be independent and act as he wished without being limited by his family's expectations, he preferred to keep his distance from them. You see, Percy's family had never understood his ambition – just like Hermione's friends had never understood hers.
When Percy had turned against his family, in Hermione's fifth year, she had stayed silent when the others raged about him. Hermione had understood him. The things he had said to his father, no matter how hurtful they must have sounded to Mr Weasley, especially when coming from his own son, were true. It was Arthur's obsession with Muggles that had prevented him from advancement at the Ministry.
Percy had always looked up to his father, and he had worked so hard because he wanted to earn some money for the family. Percy had grown up in poverty, but he didn't want to stay poor all his life. He had wanted to get a good job so that he could bring the Weasley name back into esteem. Everyone knew Arthur Weasley was paid so little because his somewhat – extreme – liking for Muggles wasn't appreciated at the Ministry. And Hermione could understand that, too. Sure, it wasn't Arthur's fault that he was a bit mad about Muggle contraptions, but she could imagine how annoying his co-workers must find it.
And Percy had tried to climb the social ladder – but he had found his father's reputation following him everywhere. Everyone would look at his red hair, hear the name Weasley, and their opinion of him was already made. Their whispers followed him everywhere he went: no money; son of that disgraceful Muggle-lover … there was nothing worse than to be judged on who your parents are and not who you are – Hermione, a Muggle-born, knew that all too well.
When he finally got a decent job with sizeable wage, his family's reaction had been a huge disappointment for Percy. Instead of the praise and support Percy strived for, his father had given him a lecture on how bad it was that he had been promoted, because Fudge was trying to use him to spy on his family, as his family was part of some secret society led by Dumbledore and Percy had never been told about it.
Percy had realised his family did not trust him. And he had told them the truth. The fact that they were so poor was because his father couldn't control his Muggle obsession at work. Percy had not thought up those things to hurt them – no, he had been objective, and he had said the entire truth. Then his father had shouted at him that he was a disappointment to the family and that he should apologize – for what? For saying the truth? Out of sheer defiance and courage, Percy had refused.
Hermione knew all this because she had always got along well with Percy, except when she had been defending house-elf rights too adamantly, and at the Ministry, they talked occasionally during the coffee break. And Hermione knew what it was like to have disappointing parents.
When Hermione had first told her parents about her intention to become an Auror – and explained as much as she could what an Auror was – her parents had not been too happy, nor had they expressed strong opposition. They didn't fully understand what Aurors were, although Hermione had told them they were the wizarding version of Muggle police, tracking and hunting down criminals, only with a lot more prestige to the job.
Andrew Granger and Gladys Puckle had both been top of their class at the prestigious University of Manchester School of Dentistry, which was rated as the finest dental teaching establishment in the UK. Hermione's father had come to the so-called 'Knowledge Capital' to study dentistry and then come back to his native London to establish his own practice. That was where he had met Hermione's mother, who had been born in Manchester, and by the time they graduated, they had decided to get married, move to London and start a joint practice.
Hermione had been expected to follow her parents' example by becoming a dentist or a doctor. They would accept nothing less of their daughter. But as their daughter turned out to be a witch … they had even asked her to return to the Muggle world and attend Muggle university once she was out of Hogwarts, but Hermione knew she could never be happy in a world that was not her own. She was a witch and her world was the wizarding community, not the world her parents came from.
And she had told them all this in a heated argument about her career plans. They had conceded by telling her to become a Healer, if that was what wizard doctors were called. But Hermione had never fancied medicine. Even before she had received her Hogwarts letter, she had never wanted to work in the same field as her parents. Of course, out of fear of disappointing them, she had never said so. That was why she had always studied so hard: because her parents would be disappointed if she, the daughter of two top-of-the-class students, had less than perfect marks.
But Hermione had already chosen her future career, and for once, she was ready to pull it through even if her parents did not agree with her decision. In the end, once Hermione had described the glory and respect the Aurors received, once they had understood that in her world, the Aurors were the elite of society, her parents had grudgingly told her they were 'glad' and 'hadn't expected any less' of her.
Resentment filled Hermione every time she thought of her parents. Mum and Dad had always had such high expectations for her … and they never understood. They had never understood it when she was tired and wanted to rest instead of studying; to them, time that wasn't spent studying or working was wasted time.
It had been at least six months since Hermione had last seen her parents, and a few months since she had last owled them. Should I pay them a visit? she wondered. As a Death Eater, she was not supposed to socialize with Muggles. And she didn't really want to, either. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to them one last time, would it? After this, she would not contact them anymore. She was a witch and they were Muggles; their kinds weren't meant to live together, no matter what Arthur Weasley believed on the subject.
She would visit them... to say goodbye. She had to learn not to care about what they thought anymore. How would they would react to their daughter becoming one of 'those foul, evil murderers'? This would be the last time she fraternised with Muggles. She was a Death Eater; she had to cut all ties with Muggles, even those who were related to her by blood. Bad enough her parents were Muggles; the majority of the Death Eaters would never accept her if they knew she was still in contact with them.
That evening, Hermione went into Diagon Alley directly after work. Even without her Auror robes in sight – they were mostly hidden by the silvery fur coat she was wearing – Hermione had no difficulty standing out in the crowd. She was well known in the wizarding world; her reputation as one of the best Aurors of the times extended even beyond the British coast, and her picture appeared in the Daily Prophet regularly (and she was just as popular in Witch Weekly, judging by all the rumours they thought up about her being the girlfriend of either Harry, Ron, Neville, or, even more far-fetched, Zacharias Smith, who was also an Auror and one of the most paranoid and ruthless in the department).
Many people gave her friendly, grateful looks. Hermione supposed they felt safer doing their Christmas shopping, with the knowledge that they were in the proximity of an Auror who would defend them if Death Eaters were to appear on the street like last time. If only they knew what she truly was … a Death Eater in an Auror's clothes.
Hermione walked past Gringotts Bank and the intersection with Knockturn Alley; she passed Flourish & Blott's to arrive in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Just as Hermione was about to reach for the doorknob, the door opened and a distraught-looking witch dressed in a sumptuous coat of white fur stepped out – and collided with Hermione.
"Oh, pardon!" they both said at the same time.
"It's my fault. I'm very sorry; I wasn't looking where I was going –" Hermione's automatic apology halted abruptly as she stared at the woman, who was also, in turn, staring at her. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she recognised the woman she had seen briefly at the Quidditch World Cup, eight years previously. The woman possessed an imposing kind of beauty and her carefully styled hair shone like gold.
Meanwhile, the blonde woman was staring at the brunette who was wearing a silvery fur coat of a splendour that rivalled Narcissa's own white one. She looked vaguely familiar …
"Well, well, well … isn't it Narcissa Malfoy," drawled the witch in an uncanny approximation of Lucius.
Narcissa did a double take. Yes, this witch looked familiar … the profuse tresses of dark hair, the graceful silhouette …
And then she figured this was the same woman she had caught a glimpse of in the garden, when she had peered through the window late one night ...
"You!" Narcissa hissed, her pale blue eyes flaring with hatred, "you!"
The two witches glared at each other with equal loathing, though in Hermione's case, the hatred was nuanced with smugness.
"Oh, so you know me somehow, though I don't have the faintest idea how, nor do I care. So tell me, Madam, how have you been these days?"
The woman glowered at Hermione, who was scrutinizing her carefully. As she clenched her teeth and did not answer, Hermione continued:
"True, you do look a bit unhealthy … you display the symptoms of a severe lack of sleep," she remarked with a feigned concern that did not fool the older woman.
Hermione could not resist taunting her rival, knowing how infuriated the woman was and how hard it must be for her to maintain her collected, disdainful attitude. Her pale eyes were flashing furiously, and her upper lip was twitching. It appeared that Hermione had hit home with her 'lack of sleep' comment.
Hermione saw the woman reach for her wand. "Going to kill me, Madam? In plain daylight, might I add? In that case, perhaps I need to remind you that I am an Auror and a very skilled duellist …"
"Pardon?" the woman said sharply, her eyes widening in disbelief, "Did you say an Auror?"
"Yes, I'm part of the Ministry's Elite Defence Force," Hermione said casually. This was the formal appellation of the Aurors working for the British Ministry of Magic.
The blonde woman was muttering something under her breath, and Hermione caught snatches that sounded suspiciously like, "An Auror … cannot believe … ridiculous … insane …"
"I'm in a hurry, Madam, but don't worry, you will see me again at Yule."
"What?" Narcissa said incredulously. How did this Auror even know of their Yule Ball? Was she going to set the Ministry on them?
"Really, Madam," said Hermione, lowering her voice, "I thought you were aware that all followers of the Dark Lord knew of the event?"
"Followers of the Dark Lord?" repeated Narcissa, looking at Hermione even more disbelievingly. Hermione knew what must have been going on in her head: Is she an Auror or a Death Eater? What is this supposed to mean?
Then something snapped in Narcissa's blue eyes and her face gained a resolute expression. Throwing a look full of loathing at Hermione, the she turned and hurried into Knockturn Alley.
"Good luck," Hermione called after her, smirking.
Narcissa did not turn around, but she did hear the words, and she thought malevolently, good luck to you – you're going to need it.
A bell chimed as Hermione pushed the door open and walked into the shop. A short but solidly built witch dressed in mauve robes hurried over to her, smiling kindly. "Miss Granger, how nice to see you again!" The woman glanced at Hermione's fur coat, and her smile widened. "You look dazzling, my dear! Are you looking for a new uniform? Or maybe dress robes?" she asked quickly.
"Dress robes it is, Madam Malkin. Show me the best your shop has."
"Over here," the shopkeeper said, motioning Hermione to a variety of bright-coloured dress robes to the side of the shop. Hermione looked at the dresses; she ran a finger across some of the fabrics. This was where she had bought the periwinkle-blue dress she had worn to the Yule Ball, yet she was sure none of the dresses on display would fit Lucius's expectations of 'the finest dress you can buy'. She surely had to order a custom-made one.
"Excuse me, Madam Malkin, but you do not seem to have understood my query. I want a personalized dress of the finest kind, not a run of the mill, low-priced one."
The shopkeeper seemed to understand instantly; in fact, it looked like she had been waiting for Hermione to admit she was ready to pay a substantial amount of money. "Oh, of course, just a moment," Malkin said, disappearing into the back of her shop.
The woman came back with an assortment of decidedly more extravagant garments. "Here," the witch said respectfully as she laid out a dozen dresses on the counter before Hermione, "these are the best in stock. Choose one you like and we'll tailor it for you."
Hermione looked at the dresses. One, made of red satin, caught her eye. There was another of gold brocade, and a third one was pure white velvet. Hermione stood there, thinking quickly. No, as appealing as these colours may look, they were too flashy, and she doubted that was the style Dark witches would wear to a party reserved to supporters of the Dark Lord. Nor would it be a good idea to stand out by being dressed in the colours symbolic of Gryffindor House. Besides, these colours were so bright that Hermione herself would fade behind them, and she would have preferred a classical, more reserved sort.
The experienced shop owner noticed Hermione's uncertainty. "Can't choose, dear? Let me help you. In this one –" she gestured to the red satin, "you will appear slimmer – not that you need it. The golden one harmonizes with your hair very nicely –"
How was Hermione supposed to tell shopkeeper that she wanted a dress appropriate not for a Ministry event or a party at the Weasleys', but for a Death Eaters' Ball?
"Well, it's just … these are not really the type – I mean … that is to say –" Stop. Lucius Malfoy trusts you enough to give you the number of his vault, and here you are acting like some awkward girl who can't even tell a shopkeeper what she wants to buy! Hermione, THINK! How would Lucius have acted in this situation?
Her pause lasted less than a second. True, she had always been a quick thinker …
She smiled faintly at the shopkeeper, but it was not an embarrassed smile. It was a smile of confidence and smugness. "Excuse me, but do you have anything more traditional? It is not exactly a Ministry party that I will be attending, and such flamboyant colours might be … less than appreciated in those particular circles of society."
Merlin, she really was turning into him. She was aware of the effect this attitude produced on people: it made them feel inferior. And she had to admit it was fun – as long as she was the one mocking them, not the other way around. She had secretly found it enjoyable, the effect she used to have on her classmates when showing off how much more she knew than they.
Madam Malkin looked carefully at the young woman. There was something different about Miss Granger, she was starting to notice it … in fact, the polite girl who had come to her shop regularly to buy Hogwarts robes had never shown open boredom, or impatience, before. There was an air around her that was almost intimidating. And what could she possibly mean by 'those particular circles of society'? The shopkeeper realised this client spoke somewhat like her previous customer. Madam Malkin often had customer who were obviously Dark wizards and witches, and this was the kind of thing they asked for. But Granger was an Auror and friends with the Weasleys, so why would she suddenly want a darker style?
There was definitely something dodgy going on. But as shopkeeper, it was not her job to ponder that. She did not want to lose a customer, especially one who was prepared to spend a substantial amount of money. Therefore she said, "Of course, if that is what you mean … this might take longer than expected, but don't worry, we'll find something suitable for you."
And she collected the dressed from the counter and disappeared into the stockroom behind the shop again. She returned carrying a handful of darker, more classical dresses, in navy blue, dark green and black. "Here … blue contrasts well with your eyes …"
But it was a forest-green dress that caught Hermione's eye. It was floor-length, sleeveless, and made entirely of velvet. The perceptive shopkeeper, noticing Hermione's admiring gaze, clapped her hands. "Excellent choice, Miss Granger, excellent choice! Green compliments your hair and eyes beautifully, and the dark fabric will make your skin tone stand out nicely … you have very good taste, Miss Granger."
"Alright, if you are going to fit it for me …"
Madam Malkin took out a measuring ribbon from her pocket. The thing was obviously magical, as it nearly attacked Hermione as soon as it came in contact with her. It wound itself around her shoulders, then her chest, her waist, her hips, and most unpleasantly, her neck. But the ordeal was over fairly quickly, and in a few minutes, the shopkeeper had noted all Hermione's measurements on her clipboard.
"The custom-made dress will be delivered to you on Friday. That will be eight hundred twenty-five galleons and six sickles."
Oh dear. Eight hundred galleons? That dress probably cost more than the entire Weasley house. Judging by the fact that Hermione had bought her fairly decent house in London for 2,000 galleons … this dress cost a fortune. But then, Lucius wouldn't be able to accuse her of buying something cheap …
The shopkeeper was probably expecting Hermione to pay in cash, but alas, she was in for a surprise. Or more like a nasty shock.
Hermione leaned over the counter. "Take the money from Gringotts vault fifteen," she said in a low voice.
The shopkeeper's eyes went wide. Her previous customer had said the same thing … the same number. And she had heard that phrase too many times not to remember to which family that vault belonged. Madam Malkin was startled out of her musings when her customer asked in a slightly annoyed voice,
"Is there a problem?"
"N – No, no, Miss Granger, o – of course not," said the sturdy woman, still looking shocked. "You'll need to sign this form to … to finalise the purchase."
Hermione took the quill the shopkeeper was offering her. She hesitated for a single second before scribbling Hermione A. Granger in her usual neat script on the bottom of the transaction record.
Hermione rang the doorbell of the Grangers' London home. Once. Twice. Nothing. No light, no sound. They must be out, she thought. Well, in any case, she wasn't going to wait outside in the cold until they arrived. She glanced around to check that no one was looking, then pulled out her wand. "Alohomora," she whispered.
The door opened with a loud click. Hermione walked inside, shutting the door behind her. Here she was, breaking like a burglar into her parents' house.
Hermione turned to the moving, talking, magical portrait of herself hanging on a wall in her parents' sitting room. The picture had been taken shortly after her seventh year at Hogwarts. "Where are they?" she asked her younger self.
The magical picture spoke in Hermione's voice – or at least, what used to be her voice, tiny and uncertain. "Mum and Dad are on vacation. They finally took that trip to Italy they'd been saving for."
"When will they be back?"
"In two weeks. They just left yesterday. You … you look different," remarked the portrait, looking at her carefully.
Oh, well. She would come back another time.
"Who are you?" she asked her younger self.
The teenage Hermione in the picture stared uncomprehendingly. "I am you, don't you know that?"
"Really, you think you are me? Well, we'll see if you are." Hermione laughed cruelly. "Once again, who are you?"
Still looking puzzled, the portrait answered: "Hermione Granger, Muggle-born witch, Gryffindor, future Auror ..." Then, finally catching up with the game, she added, "And who are you?"
Hermione glanced mockingly at the naive girl she used to be. She answered in an emotionless tone: "Hermione Granger, Death Eater." To reinforce her point, Hermione pulled up her sleeve and raised her left arm, showing the glittering crimson mark to the portrait, thoroughly amused by the horrified look in the eyes of her former self.
Her image gasped.
"Now, do you still believe you are me?"
The girl in the picture was too shocked to respond. "B – but w – why?" she asked, genuinely baffled.
"You cannot fathom why I joined the Death Eaters … and yet, you have been me. No, it is the truth, do not deny it … I see that spark of mystery in your eyes … a spark I had first noticed in the mirror late one evening, when I had ran off to hide in the prefects' bathroom … do you remember?"
After the disastrous escapade to Hogsmeade at the end of their seventh year and the Death Eaters' failed attempt to kidnap Harry, the Golden Trio had made their way back to Hogwarts accompanied by a dozen witches and wizards from the Order. After a visit to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey had insisted that Ron stay for the night, Harry and Hermione had been told to go to their dormitories and not leave the school for the whole weekend by Professor McGonagall, who had somehow been alerted to the whole situation.
But instead of going to the girl dorms where she would have had to face Lavender and Parvati, Hermione had snuck out of the Gryffindor common room. She had wanted to be alone. As Head Girl, she had been allowed to patrol the school at night, so the usual curfew did not apply to her. She had locked herself in the prefects' bathroom, where she spent most of the night thinking. But catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she had been taken aback by her reflection. Never had her eyes appeared so large, so dark, or so deep. Something subtle had transformed her.
And from that day on, that indecipherable mist, that look of mystery had never left her eyes. Even – especially – now, Hermione thought as she emerged from her memories – and by the expression on her younger self's face, she wasn't the only one reminiscing.
"Have you ever known love?" Hermione suddenly asked the portrait. Seeing her younger self about to nod, knowing exactly what she was thinking, Hermione elaborated, "No, do not mention Lockhart or Viktor. I don't mean some fleeting teenage infatuation but true love … love that would make you give your life for him … love for which you would gladly betray all you ever knew, even your own blood, because he desires that you do so … love that does not fade with time …"
A fervent light flared in the present-day Hermione's eyes, which puzzled the portrait, but she knew it wouldn't take too long for it to grasp the meaning. Hermione had always been clever. "Tell me, have you known such love? Have you?"
"I … I don't think so, no. But what does this have to do with –"
"You think not. But you hesitate, don't you?" She started piercingly into her younger self's innocent brown eyes – or perhaps not so innocent. "Deep down, you know the truth. You refuse to admit it to yourself … it's unacceptable; it's unthinkable … come on! Why did you refuse Ernie's proposal?"
Ernie Macmillan, the pompous Hufflepuff prefect, had been named Head Boy in the same year as Hermione was Head Girl, and he had asked her out. They had been dating through seventh year, and after the Leaving Feast, Ernie had told Hermione how much he loved her and asked her if she would marry him. Hermione had refused, not quite knowing why.
She saw her portrait's eyes cloud over in reminiscence again. She remembered too. Hermione had never forgotten that conversation.
"Hermione, I was so worried when I heard you were attacked … Hermione, you know how much I love you, right?" Her boyfriend, Ernie Macmillan, had asked.
She had nodded mutely. Attacked, huh? That wasn't exactly the word she would have used to refer to that incident, but then again, she had preferred to let Ernie think whatever he wanted. Never, ever had she told a soul about what had truly happened that night.
"Hermione, will you marry me?"
She had been taken aback, to say the least. She had no intention of making a commitment so early in her life. If Ernie had at least waited until she finished her education, until she got a job … perhaps –
But at that precise moment, Hermione had known, somehow, that she would never accept. Not now, not ever. Her entire being had been strangely revolted at the very idea of becoming Ernie's – or anyone else's, for that matter – wife. Repeatedly, mercilessly, a firm, strict no had resounded in her head. The very idea – it had felt so very, inexplicably wrong. It had felt like going against destiny, as though by merely considering Ernie's proposal, Hermione had opposed fate. It was a most weird thought, since Hermione had never believed in fate. Well, at least not until she had found out about the prophecy and Harry's tragic destiny.
Hermione had always refused to admit the existence of a thing like fate – that was why she held no great esteem for the likes of Sybill Trelawney and Parvati Patil. There was no fate; everyone had choices in life – at least, everyone except the prophesised ones. The prophesised ones, like Harry, had a destiny, and it was something Hermione would never wish upon anyone. To have your life planned out for you before you were even born, to have no freedom, no choice as to what you wanted to do with your life, to be the tool destiny had chosen to use to accomplish its means – it was a horrible life, and she often wondered how Harry put up with it. But Hermione, as far as she knew, was not under a prophecy – she had the choices everyone else did; her actions weren't dictated by some Seer's words. Therefore, the idea of fate was a very, very odd thought to Hermione.
"I'm sorry, Ernie," she had answered, "but I don't want to become a housewife. I have my career to think about, I want to become an Auror …"
"But Hermione, I won't stop you! You'll work if you want to, I've got nothing against that!"
She had stood there, thoughtful, for a few minutes. She had wondered what was stopping her. She liked Ernie, didn't she? Didn't she? And Hermione had been surprised at the answer to that question, the answer that came unbidden, without a hint of disappointment nor regret. No. No, she did not love Ernie. Not anymore.
"I thought you loved me, Hermione," Ernie had said, his pride offended by her lack of answer. He had known she was hesitating; he had guessed her answer would be negative – why else would she have been dilly-dallying for so long?
Yes, she had loved Ernie. Loved. Past tense.
Back in the present, Hermione looked at the magical portrait of herself, painted when she had been barely out of Hogwarts. "Well? Why did you say no?"
"Because … because I realised I didn't really love him. Ernie deserved a girl who loved him … and who could give him an heir. By the way, what's become of him today?"
"He married Hannah Abbot shortly after Hogwarts, and he still looks at me with wounded eyes at Order meetings sometimes. Now, again, you – I – refused to marry Ernie Macmillan because …"
"Because I didn't love him, not really."
"And why didn't you? You did like him when he first asked you out, so what had changed by the end of the year?"
The young Hermione looked taken aback by the question. She paled slightly. "I – I don't know," she whispered.
"You're afraid to think about it …" The portrait shook her head quickly. But of course it was useless to argue with yourself, and even more so with an older, more experienced version of yourself.
Hermione smiled knowingly at her younger self. "You think I don't know? But I am you, child …" In reality, she wasn't so much older – only five years separated them – but she had changed a lot during those few years. And she had changed even more in the past couple of months. "You can't hide your secret from me. You hid it from your friends, your parents, the entire world … but you could never hide it from yourself. I know why you – that is, I – declined Ernie's proposal. Because it felt wrong … because your heart belonged to someone else. Because another man had claimed you and you were his. In your dreams, you imagined things … you feared him, you hated everything he stood for, but you admired him because he was everything you could never be: pure-blood, rich, respected … and you loved him."
"No!" the young Hermione, her face very pale, protested vehemently. Unfortunately, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
"Truth hurts, doesn't it? You loved him … I still do. It's so wrong, isn't? Yet at the same time, so right … that glint of mystery in your eyes, it wasn't there before a certain incident in seventh year … are you still convinced you haven't known love?"
The eighteen-year-old Hermione blushed. Her older counterpart didn't. "One thing time has taught me is to accept what I can't change. To accept … and over the past few months, I have learnt to be proud, not ashamed. Do you still wonder why I joined the Death Eaters?" She smiled at her younger self and dropped her voice to a thoughtful whisper. "When he asked me … I could never say no."
The Hermione in the picture breathed a tiny "Oh!" of realisation. "But – but Harry and Ron! How could you do that to them?"
Her face twisted in a grimace. "They got what was coming to them all along, the ungrateful prats!"
"But what about Mum and Dad? Doesn't that mean you've betrayed them too, if you're going around killing Muggles?"
"I haven't killed anyone yet. No one aside from the spiders I practiced on during Auror training. And didn't I tell you I've betrayed my own blood? I don't regret it. About the only thing my parents ever understood about Hogwarts was the notion of prefects, which is hardly enough to maintain a conversation. They are Muggles; they can't understand us."
The portrait stared at its original. "You've changed so much... I don't recognise myself. How could I turn out that way?"
"Love can do mysterious things."