Ch. 11 "It's Gonna Fight"
Hermione stood in the cold antechamber, listening to her ginger knight hiss in imitation of Harry. In her ears, it sounded like gibberish, bouncing off the walls in echo.
Yet there they still stood, Ron trying desperately to open the huge door. She stood quietly, letting him work. Their conversations over the last few weeks echoed in her mind while he worked on opening the door in Parseltongue.
Ron was neither thick nor stupid. She came to realize this one night while snuggled in his arms in that miniscule bed they shared. He was slower in thought, but also deeper as well. Personal berating aside, she came to appreciate that he was a chess master – confused as she was about people, he saw patterns and logic on a different level, with people and events. What he needed was time and patience while he considered what confused him, give him time to work through it then stumble through with lacking eloquence.
That night, before she woke, and he had time to talk without her interruption did wonders for him. He told her rather directly that it was the first time ever that she let him say everything he ever wanted without her arguing with him. She hit him on the arm for it, but the smile on her face gave away her demeanor. The change in him was a delight.
He felt, passionately. She saw that now. For Ron Weasley, it's all or nothing. He did nothing half-arsed when he put his mind to it. He was also easily frustrated when he couldn't understand something. If anything, his volatility hindered him.
Her recovery from the night at Malfoy Manor took time. She wasn't completely healthy. The wound on her arm still throbbed from time to time, along with some residual itching on her neck. The burn on her chest was still angry, even with slathering of that nasty paste. She kept it now in her beaded bag now on her back.
That also didn't include her fatigue. For the first two weeks, she couldn't walk around the property at the cottage without that blasted walking stick, and would nap multiple times a day to recover. Only in the last ten days did she push harder, enduring longer before falling in exhaustion into Ron's arms. In the last five, she discarded the stick, throwing away her crutch that held her back. She made her decision to keep up with the men leading the charge.
Fleur mentioned that dark magic residue would drain her for longer than anticipated. She didn't care since they had a job to do, and intended to do it. They needed her, and she would be arsed if they had to leave her behind. So, from the moment she awoke in the morning, to when Ron would carry her to the bed asleep wherever she fell, she pushed. She struggled. She demanded more of herself.
'You're not doing enough,' whispered Harry in her mind, something he said months prior after they abandoned Grimmauld Place. His unintentional motivation helped drive her when her body wanted to give out.
'I get it. You choose him,' whispered Ron in her mind when he stormed out of their lives in a rage. His fury drove her to work her mind harder, pouring over spell books and more to find the path they needed to end this war.
'Filthy Mudblood,' haunted her memory every time she picked up the bent walnut wand. She still worked with it, channeling her ability through the unyielding dragon heartstring.
Ollivander woke after she did, and when she had a break from Harry's incessant planning, she spent an hour discussing the wand with him in the bed where he lay. In the miniscule bed, he took the wand proffered, and verified it was Lestrange's wand. The discussed minutiae of wand lore, as well as a hasty testing on her part in his presence. He said that the wand was still deciding if she was worthy, ready to ride the tiger that it was. She had no choice but to use it. Their mission to Gringott's demanded it. She needed to master it, even if it made her sick.
Each time before she touched the bent wand, she hesitated. It was uncomfortable in her hand, coarse and brittle under her ink stained fingertips. The flashbacks to her first day of broom lessons felt the same way. She had no confidence in the wand she was bequeathed. She questioned herself in those quiet moments in the middle of night when she awoke to Ron's snore.
So each day, on her morning walk in the surf, she wielded the wand, learning how to avoid flinching when she cast a spell, or working charms to build her magic back up. It worked, but not flawlessly. It didn't fit her fingers right, didn't flick and swish easily. It performed like wands do, but she couldn't. The memory of pain was still great.
Hermione slipped her hand in his, maintaining her silence. A stolen glance in his direction betrayed his change in demeanor. His ears flushed along with his face. A deep breath and he tried again, hissing just a touch slower.
A squeal, followed by metallic grinding buffeted her ears. Mouldy stench battered her nose from the slow opening hatch.
She lay on the marble drawing room floor, sobbing from the pain that flowed through her body. Taunts and deprecations battered her, from Bellatrix who was still interrogating her to the source of the sword, to Greyback, who whispered cruelties in her ear. She was powerless to fight back.
"When I'm done with you, leaving you a bleeding husk, I'll turn my attention to the ginger downstairs. I bet he's a tasty morsel."
She scowled, but it came out a grimace. "Don't touch him!" She could only whisper when her mind screamed.
"Really? You? Tasty morsel like yourself can't stop me."
He sniffed down from her ear to her face, and onto her neck. He stopped at the crux of her shoulder to neck, licking her.
He pulled back to look right in her face, nose to nose. "He's not even tasted your flesh." He snarled into a grotesque smile, full of malice and loathing. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you."
His rancid breath in her face made her vomit.
A pull on her hand broke her waking nightmare. Ron stood next to her, looking concerned. "Come on, no dawdling. We've got a job to do."
He led her into the chamber, treading carefully on the slime covered floor. The brackish water in the chamber, along with the mold everywhere, made the stone tiles slick to walk on. "Smells like the pond at home before the fall rains start."
"I didn't remember the pond smelling this way."
"It's not been this way in years. Once dad put some kind of fish in it, the smell went away. We never asked, but it changed a few years ago."
"Oh. I didn't realize there were fish in the pond."
"We've not swam in it in years. Charlie loved being out there, but when he left, the rest of us just quit playing in it."
"Oh."
They carefully tread deeper into the chamber.
Hermione gasped when she understood the enormity of the beast that lay skeletal in front of her. "Dear Merlin, Harry killed this monster with the sword second year? How did he do it?"
Ron only nodded. "You don't realize how massive it is. No one's ever seen one and lived to tell about it. The entry of Magical Creatures is rubbish compared to this."
Hermione could only nod numbly. 'Just another tale to add to the myth.' She shook her head to clear the image in front of her.
Ron stepped up to the desiccated remains. Pale white bones stood out in the green coated chamber. A squish on his boots gave off an additional deplorable odour.
"Oh Merlin, what was that?"
Ron looked down and grimaced. "That might've been an eyeball. Smells disgusting." He continued to reach out for the incisor in front of his hand. "Let me do this. I don't want you slipping on this mess."
She nodded while he went back to work.
"Basilisk venom is still lethal is if pierces the skin. See this?" he pointed to the tar like residue on the end of the tooth. "That's the stuff that gives it the lethality. Of course, getting bit by this monster probably would kill you too even if he wasn't venomous. But that doesn't even count the fatal stare."
Hermione watched while Ron yanked the fang from the skull. "You listened in class. That's wonderful."
"Nah. We had an old copy of Fantastic Beasts that I used to love reading through. When I was sick in bed with Dragon Pox, Percy would read to me the book. He's a prat, but he could read well when he was nine. I was mesmerized by his telling."
Ron worked diligently, never taking his eyes off of the task in his hands. Each fang he wrenched out was tossed over his shoulder to her.
"How many you think we need?"
She looked down at the three in her hands. "Two more should do it."
He wrestled with the last two teeth, taking the sharpest on the roof. A clatter in the expansive chamber rattled her. "Now we're ready for battle."
"Battle?"
Ron nodded. "You think that's just an ordinary cup? Nah. That thing's gonna put up a fight. And you're gonna kill it."
"Me? Why me?"
He looked at her, cocking his head to the side. "It's your turn. Harry took care of the diary. Dumbledore, the ring. I had the locket. The cup is yours."
She frowned.
"Didn't you say that I had the emotional depth of a teaspoon? Serves you right that you get to kill the cup. It holds more than a teaspoon."
Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Fine," she huffed. She picked up the longest fang, testing the weight of it.
"Wait!"
"What?" she huffed again.
"It's gonna fight, fight hard. It'll show you things, things that aren't true. Mess with your mind things."
She looked down at the decayed scimitar in her hands. "What did it show you? What wasn't true?"
Ron walked over, and took her wand hand in his own. He knelt down next to her. Warm breath flowed over her skin, tickling the fine hairs along her ear.
"It said you didn't love me. It showed me that you loved Harry, and was rather graphic about it. "
She turned to look him square in his eyes. Sadness showed. "Only after you woke at Shell Cottage did I know that to be a lie. You woke for me, and no one else."
She looked back down at the pitted fang in her hands. "I loved you for years. Walking out made it worse. I was afraid to show you, if you didn't feel the same way."
He tipped her head back up, looking at her again. Neither could speak. He leaned in, and kissed her gently on the forehead. She opened her eyes, and saw steely determination on his face. "Be ready."
Instead of weeping, she hardened her features. A huge breath and she gripped the fang in her hands.
He scrabbled to the other side of the cup, holding it between his hands. "It might take two stabs to do it. Bone isn't as strong as goblin silver."
One more nod, and she was ready. He gripped the cup harder. She gripped the basilisk fang in hers.
"Ready when you are, love."
She raised the fang above her head.