Lacrimosa
Author's Notes: Sorry for the long wait; I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter.
First of all, so much thanks to the genius, wingedmercury, for taking time to beta this chapter.
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Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.
Act Eleven: Cantata
The woods were dark and lovely in the snow. Behind Lupin, Tom crept, holding his wand aloft in anticipation. In front of him, the werewolf was visibly trembling, and Tom smirked at the man's cowardice. He resisted the urge to make sport of Lupin's fear — Greyback was nearly as amused by the cowardice of other men as Tom was, and were he to follow Tom's example and also make sport of Lupin, it would be a bloodbath.
And that really interfered with his own plans, after all.
"T-they ought to be somewhere round here," Lupin said loudly. It was a feeble attempt at bravery. With a scoff, Tom pushed onward.
"You're pathetic," he sneered, lighting his wand and continuing on the path. It only took a few simple spells before up ahead, in a parting in the tree tops, a full moon shimmered in the night sky. The spells were, naturally, nothing Lupin himself would ever attempt.
"No, you can't—" Lupin halted when he realized that he was not changing, as he stared down at his still-human limbs in surprise. "An illusion?"
"A signal, imbecile. Now, be quiet — with all your blubbering, we might miss our rendezvous."
Lupin made a noise at Tom's admonishment but all the same silenced himself. Crouched and ready, the two men strained their ears and eyes.
It happened suddenly, and it took a trained eye to see it. In the heavy darkness, shapes began to shift: eerie spectres began to materialize. Glowing patches — light hitting the backs of their eyes — flickered like the eyes of the dead. This was the stuff of nightmares, and yet, Tom felt no fear. He relaxed and stood tall and proud, waiting for the halflings to show themselves in the moonlight. But they were hesitant, and holding back. A faint smirk curved his pale lips. Greyback was no fool — he knew who to fear.
"Voldemort."
On silent paws, Fenrir Greyback emerged, the luminous eyes of his pack still watchful from the shadows. "And the pup himself, Remus Lupin," Greyback growled jeeringly. Raking, barking laughter resounded from, it seemed, the trees themselves. Lupin openly scowled; this was the first sign of true bravery that Voldemort had seen from the man yet. Of course, Greyback was hardly shaken, and he dismissively snorted at Lupin before turning to Voldemort and bowing slightly. "I suppose the time has come?" He swiped his big pink tongue over his chops.
"Yes, the time has come to overthrow Gri—"
With an impatient swipe of his wand, Tom silenced Lupin before turning back to Greyback.
"Prepare your pack — you will receive a signal from me. You will know it when you see it." At this, Tom prepared to Disapparate with the still-mute Lupin, but Greyback stopped him.
"She's already been here tonight, Voldemort," he said in a low, gravelly bark, his yellow eyes flashing.
Tom grasped his wand.
"Let us pray that you join the right side, then." He paused, holding his wand meaningfully, waiting for the brute to make his next move. Greyback bared his canines in a grin.
"Oh, we have, my Lord," he whined like the lowly dog he truly was. "Regulus was here as well... and Rabastan."
Behind him, Lupin was throwing a silent fit, but Tom was gazing too rapturously at the woods around him to be bothered.
"Regulus, you say? Regulus Black?" he murmured. Greyback began to laugh a dry, bone-rattling laugh.
Around them, the trees seemed to hiss with laughter as well. Tom allowed himself to meet Greyback's smirk with his own. "This will certainly be interesting, won't it?"
Greyback's smirk broadened; the effect was hideous and cruel in its victory.
"I believe it will be, my Lord."
Had the others dealt with Bellatrix? Had Harry found and saved Ginny? These thoughts were inconsequential compared to the fear and panic seizing Hermione as she sat on her bed, trembling, observing the crows like black gashes against the snow outside. How she ached for Voldemort to be here now...
...And yet...He would not be proud of her, would he?
Her stomach lurched yet again, and this time it was not morning sickness. No, this was the nausea of guilt and shame. Here she sat, wallowing in her own fear and pity; here she sat, a sitting duck, awaiting her inevitable fate like some powerless damsel, wishing for a prince who would never come to save her from the wicked witch.
She'd come this far, hadn't she? Hermione looked down at her hands, scarred and calloused from a life of servitude, yet still small and, admittedly, somewhat elegant. These hands of hers curled into fists; the trembling stopped.
She was not a damsel. She had survived countless beatings; abandonment by nearly everyone she had ever loved; repeated rape; humiliation; torture... Her life had always been desolate, so why should she crumble now? Her inner strength was precisely what she always had secretly prided herself on — why was she forgetting that she was made of something stronger than anyone else?
An odd calm settled over Hermione. No, she would not sit here and await Bellatrix. She would not be a damsel — she would be her own prince. Holding one hand over her yet unchanged abdomen (would a baby even survive in a womb that had endured so many years of malnourishment?), Hermione rose from the bed. She heard the front door of Malfoy Manor fling open; she heard Bellatrix's unbalanced, throaty, yet still rich cackling.
She would confront this wicked witch, yet first, she had something to do. Just as the door to her bedroom flung open, revealing Bellatrix with Narcissa and Draco hot on her heels, Hermione turned on the spot and effortlessly Disapparated yet again.
When she Apparated, a wave of nausea passed over her that was mostly stifled by the gust of cold air and the rush of icy snow over her bare cheeks. It was dark here, the howling wind nearly drowning out the cawing of the crows, yet she was positive she could still somehow hear Bellatrix's shriek of fury at her disappearance. Hermione's lips curved at Bellatrix's rage and she used this amusement to quell her own fears rising up in her throat, quickening her heartbeat as she approached the drooping, pathetic dwelling. As she stepped out of the moon's light and into the shadow cast by the sagging overhang, the hairs abruptly rose on the back of her neck.
The door, which normally could not be opened if it were visible, was not only visible but was hanging off its hinges.
Hermione swallowed her fear and performed a Disillusionment charm, though she speculated that it would likely not be enough to protect her from something that could have found Ollivander's dwelling. Now blending in with her surroundings, she crept inside, her desperation to acquire a wand — any wand, really — outweighing her fear.
Inside it was dark and the silence was prickly. Hermione held her breath, waiting for...what? She didn't know, really, what she was expecting to find. After a moment, she finally registered a sound: dripping.
Was there a leak in the roof? Hermione crept further into the room, allowing the moonlight streaming in to light her way partially. She felt along the walls tentatively as she moved on silent feet, when quite suddenly, she smacked into something.
Before she could stop herself, she let out a yelp of surprise, and then froze, waiting to be attacked. But nothing happened — there was only an odd creaking sound, and more dripping. What had she run into? It had been rough fabric over something stiff.
She felt like she might be sick again as she realized wetness was sopping the front of her gown, bleeding through her cloak and the cloth of her stomacher. Determining that nothing was in this house with her, she crept back to the shaft of moonlight coming in from the doorway and rubbed along her cloak to pick up some of the liquid. It was probably just melted snow from a leak, but what on earth had she run into?
The creaking and dripping had mostly subsided by now, though every time she heard the creaking, another chill went up her spine, freezing the blood in her veins. It sounded like swinging, though hard as she strained her memory, she could not recall anything hanging from the ceiling before. She put it out of her mind as she whispered finite incantatem and became visible again. She reached the chink of moonlight and held her hand up to the light.
Something dark, slick, and of a thin, watery consistency was coating her fingers.
Blood.
Now she could not control her shaking. Hermione cast one of her blue fires and held it up, lighting up the room. Blue light was cast on the barren room, and with her blood thumping in her veins and the world spinning around her, she held the light towards the other side of the room.
This time, she felt a scream building up, but it never was able to wrench out of her throat, and instead, she stood there in the tiny room, gasping for air that would not come.
Ollivander's body, already stiff from death, hung from the ceiling like a grotesque marionette. Someone had had a bit of fun with a knife, apparently, for blood still streamed from deep gashes, dribbling onto the dusty, worn wooden floorboards. His entrails were hanging from a large wound in his stomach, spilling out over the gash in his robes. The blood looked like it was nearly gone from his body, and the last of it was dripping from his many wounds.
"Don't wilt now," she told herself harshly, her breath clouding before her. As she studied the room more closely, she could see evidence of advanced spellwork. There had been a duel here, and it looked as though someone had been desperate to acquire Ollivander's wands, for there were black smudges on the walls that looked to be the remains of explosive spells.
It was so cold that the room had not become marred with the scent of death and blood; like the street outside, it smelled like snow and cold.
When she finally had recovered from the shock, Hermione felt she might give into her own misery when she realized the implications of Ollivander's death for her.
Someone must have found out that he was supplying Mudbloods with wands.
And someone must have very much wanted to stop him from giving Mudbloods wands.
Feeling desperate, and perhaps secretly praying that Ollivander had anticipated disaster and had hidden the wand especially for her, Hermione began to look around the room. In the corner, a little table had been overturned, and a vase was smashed, with dark flowers splayed out around it. The water was gone; it was surprising that the flowers were not dead. Hermione knelt down to examine them, holding her blue flame over them for better visibility.
Upon closer inspection, they proved to be black tulips, as velvety and perfect as the ones in Grindelwald's garden. She touched them and something sharp gripped her heart: loneliness. In her memory, images of walking with Voldemort that day, when the Malfoys had gone to visit Grindelwald and his garden, sprang forth: his hands, so elegant and yet masculine, brushing his fingertips alongside hers over the black tulips.
Had that really been so few weeks ago? It felt like an eternity. The loneliness squeezed her heart again, and, thinking of his composition still pressed, folded, to her breast, her fingers curled over the black tulip. Warmth instantly surged through her, emboldening and infusing life into her quite suddenly. Macabre as it was to take flowers from a dead man's home, she could not bear to leave the flowers here. Memories of Voldemort were so powerful for her.
However, as soon as she picked up one of the flowers, the air around it shimmered and it transformed into a stick.
Wait...Not a stick.
A wand.
Hermione nearly dropped it, but gripped it tighter in her sweaty hand. Ollivander had anticipated trouble, though she wondered at how he could have possibly known that the black tulips might catch her eye. A fear that this might not be a wand intended for her washed over her like icy water, but she cast it aside. She couldn't afford to think like that now — she needed to get away from here, and fast.
She looked down at the wand in her hand as her fear dissipated and an odd calculating calm settled over her as she stared down at it.
Hermione rose, gripping her wand, feeling steadier than she had in hours — no, inyears. Her breath came in short gasps, her hands were shaking, but it was not from fear. It was from exhilaration.
She was holding a wand with the intent of using it.
She, who could Apparate without a wand, was holding a wand. Possibly her own wand.
There was nothing to stop her anymore.
She should have been afraid of the power, but it only warmed her in a way that heat never could. She stood taller, prouder, pushing her shoulders back. She had braved some of the worst things that mankind had to offer, and here she was, still standing, more powerful than ever before. This was her reward for her suffering: to be able to fight back, to be able to break the cycle of pain and suffering for future generations.
Here, in her hands, she was holding the key to changing the world. She knew it.
She knew she and Voldemort — together — would change the world.
Adrenaline and something else were coursing through her veins now. She calmly walked to Ollivander's body and, using a few simple charms that Voldemort had taught her, severed the rope holding him up and hovered him gently to the floor.
Now she could see that the rope had been his own doing; he had hanged himself, most likely after being attacked and left to die a slow, painful death. She couldn't blame him; she'd prefer a quick death than a slow one as well. She closed his eyes and stripped off her cloak, feeling strangely confident that she would be able to find another one, and covered his body with it. She couldn't risk a proper burial now, and in this cold, even with magic, it would take hours to dig a grave.
Hermione left Ollivander's, her wand drawn, as she pondered her next move. She was at odds with herself, for her eyes burned from exhaustion and her body screamed for food and rest, but her mind was alive as it had not been in so long, and a thirst to show herself — and the world — what she could do with this wand was nearly overpowering her baser needs.
So, with a resounding crack, Hermione returned to Malfoy Manor for the last time.
"You went into hiding without telling me?" Harry roared. Ron hid behind his hands, the lace on his cuffs helping to hide his face further from Harry's rage. The other Weasleys, save for Ginny, were standing in varying forms of bemusement around them. Only Ginny stood proudly before Harry, her belly swollen with child and her sharp chin held high.
"Harry, calm down," she ordered sharply. "We couldn't find you, and we couldn't wait any longer." She rested a pale, freckled hand on her belly, giving Harry a significant look. Harry's shoulders rose up and down rapidly as he attempted to catch his breath after a powerful burst of rage, but he still could not seem to calm himself down.
He'd only found the Weasleys, hiding outside of Hogsmeade in an abandoned Muggle house, after a recent tip from Dumbledore. He had been searching all night, with no sign of any Weasleys, and only then had been surprised by Dumbledore Apparating directly to him, with news of where the Weasleys had gone.
The rage at having been abandoned, in spite of being the father of Ginny's child, had been unexpected. It had exploded inside of him, scalding his throat and causing his eyes to tear. His mind went, so quickly, to assuming that they had abandoned him because of his blood status. It had taken Dumbledore nearly an hour to reassure him, even though in his heart he knew it, that the Weasleys had only been thinking of Ginny's safety and had been frantic with fear.
But he couldn't rid his mind of one niggling thought: not all of the Weasleys were so kind-hearted, were they? Hadn't Ron happily abandoned Hermione, in favor of a Pureblooded, legitimate wife?
...What if, after all this mess was over, Ginny married? What if Ginny found a new father for their son? If the child resembled Harry at all, if there were any suspicion, and Ginny married another man, he'd be executed for sure.
Now, standing in the shabby parlor — Mrs. Weasley had done her best to fix up the house, but it hadn't been quite enough — staring at the Weasleys, it was eight against one.
"Fine," he finally managed to choke out, in a raspingwhisper. "Fine. I'm glad you're safe, Ginny," he added coldly. "I've got to go and see if Hermione's safe. She could be dead by now."
"Where did the Mudblood go?" Bellatrix shrieked wildly, turning round and round in the hall as though certain she had simply missed the concubine in plain sight. Draco hung back, his hands trembling slightly as he followed his aunt and mother back downstairs to the front hall of the Manor.
How quickly he had lost control! When he had first reported what he'd seen, he had stupidly thought he'd be regaled as a hero for his actions. But no — suddenly he'd been shoved to the side, left to watch something horrible rapidly unfold.
"Aunt Bella, please calm down — you'll shout yourself hoarse," Draco pleaded, though his voice was much less forceful than he might have liked. Bellatrix whipped around, her wand raised at him.
"You foolish little boy," she began, her dark eyes glittering with disdain as she advanced on Draco. Narcissa threw her overly coiffed self in front of her sister, her own pale eyes wild.
"Leave him alone, Bella," she ordered sharply, producing her own wand. Bellatrix looked surprised at her sister's uncharacteristic display of power. "You won't be hurting his concubine — we paid good money for her."
A squabble between the two sisters began. It was made only worse when Madame Umbridge slunk into the room, simpering with the news that his concubine was, in fact, pregnant. A fresh outburst of rage between Bellatrix and Narcissa broke out, though luckily it occurred to neither sister to reprimand Draco for this unexpected turn of events. As for Draco, he melted against the wall behind him, staring at the opposing wall in pure shock.
The Mudblood was pregnant?
He felt sick with fear as he looked upon his aunt. He knew what she did to Mudbloods and their half-blood offspring — perhaps she wouldn't do it, out of respect for her nephew?
They were so caught up in their arguing that neither of the sisters noticed the door open, and Madame Umbridge was so preoccupied byenjoying the aftermath of her 'news' that she didn't notice either. Only Draco saw the front door to the manor creak open, yet his throat seemed to stick itself together in shock.
"Draco may punish the stupid Mudblood for her mistake as he sees fit, Bella!" Narcissa snarled, brandishing her wand.
"Oh, may he?"
Everyone fell silent.
The snow swirled around a slim, proud form in the open doorway. Hermione's long, wild hair fell behind her like a lion's mane, her hand was steady as she held a wand. Her dark eyes were flashing with something Draco both feared and respected, and he hated her for it. She was a feral goddess. Like Voldemort, her power seemed to shimmer in the air around her. Like Voldemort, Draco found he could not tear his eyes from her.
Bellatrix was the first to recover from her shock.
"There you are, Mudblood," she greeted in a false coo, brandishing her wand as she walked delicately towards Hermione, a sickening smile pasted on her pale face. "Madame Umbridge has just told us your news!" she squealed as she reached Hermione.
Foolish aunt Bella, Draco thought reprovingly. The Mudblood was holding a wand, and he was nearly positive that she knew how to use it. And, guiltily, he knew she had a reason or two to be a bit displeased with the Malfoys...and, with Purebloods in general. Draco was all for controlling what belonged to him, but there was no need to be an idiot.
"Don't touch me," Hermione said, mimicking Bellatrix's fake coo of delight, as well as her simpering smile. "And yes — I am pregnant, and only because that woman neglected to put the birth control herbs in my tea," she continued, her voice dripping with vitriol. Bellatrix's eyes flashed. All pretenses vanished as she raised her wand.
"You dare blame Madame Umbridge for your disgusting mistake? You impertinent little bitch," she hissed, continuing to approach Hermione.
Bellatrix let out a cackle, before shrieking: "Crucio!"
Hermione dropped to her knees on the marble floor, screaming through her teeth, though she never relinquished her grip on her wand. Even Bellatrix seemed surprised by this. A sudden, suffocating panic gripped Draco: would she lose his baby if Bellatrix continued?
Bellatrix was just ready to fire another Unforgivable at Hermione, when the Mudblood rose to her feet, still pale and trembling from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, and fired a Hex of her own.
"Sectum Sempra!"
Bellatrix screamed; her wand clattered to the floor as blood dripped from her hand.
"Filthy Mudblood! Get her, Cissy!" Bellatrix shrieked. But Hermione was faster, and before Narcissa had even had time to process her words, Hermione had fired another Jinx.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Fury ripped through Draco as he saw his mother's arms and legs snap straight. Without anything to balance her, she toppled over, her wig falling off and revealing flat, fine blonde hair pinned close to her head. Narcissa's face flushed with humiliation as Draco rushed to her aid. Madame Umbridge had scampered off, leaving the duel to Hermione and Bellatrix alone.
"What in Merlin's name was that — "
"Obliviate."
Tom watched with detached amusement as Lupin's eyes crossed before he righted himself again, shaking his head. The two men stood on the path leading to a shabby old Muggle house; these were the new Order headquarters. It was a foolish and obvious place to hide a group of wizards, especially in such close proximity to Hogsmeade, but the Secret Keeping charm had been placed. Only Dumbledore could tell the location of the house. Normally, Tom would have put work into becoming another Secret Keeper as well, but it was unnecessary and he had other, bigger problems to tackle.
"Why are we standing outside in the snow?" Remus asked in a dazed voice. Tom kept his sniggering to himself. Remus Lupin was a clever man, but even he could be so easily manipulated with nothing more than a few flicks of his wand.
"To get away from the Weasley girl's whinging —" he began, but just then, the door seemed to explode open, revealing Harry Potter. His face was flushed and he looked livid. Bill and Arthur were making to follow him.
"I'm going to Malfoy Manor to save Hermione," Harry explained heatedly, in response to Tom's arched brows.
"At least let Voldemort accompany you, Harry," Arthur begged. Harry looked displeased with this option, but Voldemort had to admit he was curious to see how Hermione was getting on without him. "Oh, and Voldemort — there's been a message for you."
Harry's journey to Malfoy Manor was momentarily delayed as Arthur handed a scroll of seemingly blank parchment to Tom. Could it be Hermione? He doubted she'd be so foolish as to communicate by letter, and his doubts were proven correct when he recognized a thin, spidery script bleed into existence on the parchment as his gaze settled on it.
Voldemort —
I am sure you realized that I had to use Legilimency on you the last time we spoke. It was necessary; I have finished your friend's wand and have placed it under a disguise in my home. She will recognize the disguise; it is taken from a memory of you both that I found in your mind. I hope, when she is ready to take her wand, that I will still be alive to give it to her...But if I am not, I wish you both the best of luck.
Ollivander
"Who is it?" demanded Molly, who had scurried out into the snow whilst Tom had been reading Ollivander's note. With a faint grimace, Tom banished the parchment.
"An old friend," he said simply. "Gone now, most likely."
His sharp mind was racing, even as the Weasleys continued to bicker. He had to get Hermione to Ollivander's soon — Ollivander must have suspected someone had found him out. This was terrible news, but not insurmountable. Ollivander was a clever man, and would probably have found an efficient means of hiding Hermione's wand. Hopefully, whoever was going after him was not clever enough to detect the disguise.
"Come, Harry. We will Apparate there; time is of the essence," Tom said, straightening his cloak.
Jinxes and Hexes were fired back and forth across the hall; Draco crouched over his mother's prone form, still trying to find the counter-jinx to release her. He had to cast numerous Shield Charms, as Bellatrix and Hermione seemed to care less and less about aim as their duel went 's hair was singed and blood was ominously staining Hermione's gown; the house seemed to quake with their screams as each cast Hexes and Jinxes more vicious than the last.
"Diffindo," Hermione cried. A horrible ripping sound filled the room and Bellatrix let out a shriek of pain, dropping to her knees. Draco's eyes widened in shock and fear. He had never seen anyone best Bellatrix in a duel.
But the thing about his aunt Bellatrix was that she was most dangerous when she was emotional or hurt. Shakily she rose to her feet again, her wand hand trembling.
"Avada —" she began, her voice wild with rage and pain.
Later, Draco would question himself over and over again, with no explanation for his actions. But, in the moment, it all seemed to make perfect sense. He leapt forward, one hand clutching his mother and dragging her, the other reaching out for his aunt's shoulder, and turned them on the spot.
It took several, wasted minutes for Tom to convince Harry to Apparate with him to Malfoy Manor. Still, Tom reflected as he grasped Harry's skinny arm, the boy's wise to distrust me. Wiser than the lot of them, anyway.
Luckily, no one seemed to take Harry's suspicions seriously, and soon Tom was given the signal to Disapparate. It was a relief; he'd been becoming increasingly anxious about Hermione, even though he knew it to be irrational. He'd know if Hermione had died; they'd made the Unbreakable Vow, and, only in death could it be broken.
Still, he needed to see her.
Bracing themselves for whatever trouble they might be welcomed with, the two men Apparated to Malfoy Manor.
A powerful burning smell filled the air; when they both had righted themselves, Harry and Tom turned to gaze at the Manor. Intense heat melted the snowflakes around them as they gazed up at it.
It was burning to the ground. The flames rose higher and higher, crackling and eating everything in sight. There were groans as wooden beams buckled, and hisses as the fire destroyed them. The fire was massive, consuming the manor.
In front of it stood a lone figure, wand raised, hair whipping around her shoulders, cloak flapping in the snowy wind.
So, she'd already gotten the wand then? Or perhaps she had stolen it.
"Hermione!" Harry called, scampering through the snow. Tom stood there, watching her. Hermione turned her head to look over her shoulder at them, and her gaze bypassed Harry to land on Tom.
She burned brighter than the flames; she was Power itself, as she held her wand. Her dark eyes met his and a thrill of pride rippled through him. He had created this; from her raw talent he had shaped something radiant and powerful. She was a goddess; she was merciless.
She was magnificent.
And, most importantly, she was his.