CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
19 September, 1979
(eighteen years ago)
The pain started before the sun rose. She lay on her cot, one hand pressed against her swollen midsection, breathing slowly and deliberately.
This must be labor. She'd been preparing for it for weeks, mentally, knowing it was coming, but with no idea what to expect.
She blinked back tears.
She wanted her mother.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The ceiling of her cell was filthy. She stared up at the cobwebs and dust and centuries of grime. Surely she couldn't bring a child into the world here, of all places. Surely this was no place for a baby.
But she couldn't let them take her. Or him. Girl or boy didn't matter, so long as it was healthy, though she had been envisioning a little girl for months.
They couldn't take the baby away.
Babies need their mummies.
A particularly sharp pain came over her. She clenched her teeth and hissed to keep from crying out. How long would this last?
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Her feet were shackled both to each other and to the wall. She could walk around her cell – well, shuffle, really – but she had limited movement. How could she give birth if she couldn't even properly spread her legs?
What if it hit its head on the cold stone floor when it came out?
What if she couldn't stop bleeding and she bled to death, leaving the baby wailing for sustenance, wailing for a mummy it would never know?
She wished she'd talked more to Narcissa. Narcissa knew about this sort of thing, having gone through pregnancy already herself. And Andromeda, she'd had a baby earlier in the year.
Breakfast was provided. Brown bread, water, apple, orange.
"You must be special," said the raggedy haired old man in the cell across from her. "I didn't get a fucking apple. No fucking orange, either."
"You're not gestating," said the guard, that young one, the one who'd said he was born in this very prison. Shacklebolt. He slipped his hand into his robed and pulled out something wrapped in gold foil, which he pressed into her hand through the bars. She didn't response, didn't thank him, didn't speak at all, for fear if she opened her mouth she'd start to cry… or scream.
The guard continued down the hall. The man in the cell across from hers continued to swear and spit, furious over his lack of fruit. She had half a mind to throw the apple at him. If it got him in the head and knocked him unconscious, it would be worth losing out on the extra calories.
She unwrapped the foil.
Chocolate.
She saved it for after the orange.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It wasn't the worst pain she'd ever felt, not yet. How long could contractions last, anyway? She didn't feel it was necessary to try to undress yet, to try to push.
She ate the bread next and drank the water, saving apple for later. She might need to bite into it while giving birth, as she didn't have a strap of leather.
Her wrists were bound too, but the chain that connected them was long enough that she could spread her arms out like a lowercase T, provided she kept her elbows flush against her sides.
At lunch, another piece of brown bread, more water, and thick murky brown stew that smelled putrid. She ate the bread, drank the water, and devoured the apple. She supposed the could always bite down on the core later, if necessary.
Dinner, if it could be called that, was served while she was starting to experience what could only be described as hard labor.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She could barely breathe at all.
Brown bread. She was so bloody sick of brown bread. If she never saw bread again in her life, she'd be happy. Brussel sprouts, boiled, the day's vegetable. One half of a baked potato, no butter, no salt. Tasteless.
It didn't matter.
She couldn't eat anyway.
By the time she was ready to push she was dizzy from the pain.
But she managed.
She managed.
And she had a daughter.
She had her, then she lost her.
It was the best and worst day of her life.
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1990
(seven years ago)
Hermione was reading, as usual, when she saw the cat.
She was positioned in her favorite tree – she being Hermione, not the cat – with her legs dangling over either side of a thick branch, almost like riding a bike. Her back was to the trunk and the book, Matilda by Roald Dahl, was well-loved, but in good condition. She'd gotten for her birthday two years prior. Exactly two years prior.
She was eleven today, Wednesday, and there was no school because of the fire that broke out the day before. Curious, that fire. One moment, Hermione had been in the girls' toilet, about to receive a pummeling from a group of bullies who weren't too happy with her for telling their teacher she'd done the entirety of their group project on her own, when suddenly the room filled with smoke and teachers in the hall were shouting, "Stay calm, students! This way! Follow me!"
Curious things happened like that to Hermione sometimes. Curious things happened to Matilda, too. That's why it was her favorite book. She even told her parents the book had taught her to move a pencil with her mind. They didn't believe her, she'd had to show them.
And even then, they'd tried to find out how she 'really' did the trick.
She was on the chapter in which Bruce has to eat a whole cake when she first spotted the cat. It was sitting straighter and more regally than cats usually did, and it was staring at her. The markings around its eyes reminded her of eyeglasses and she giggled, picturing a kitty with poor vision. The cat's head cocked to the side as if it was wondering what was funny. Hermione's eyes widened.
It came toward her.
She watched it carefully.
It sat in her driveway and there it stayed until her mum and dad arrived home from work. They were dentists who shared a practice not too far away. They'd let her stay home unaccompanied today, since she was eleven now, and very mature for her age.
"Mroww," said the cat.
"Go home, kitty," said her dad.
"Maybe it's lost," said her mum. "Does it have a collar?"
"I don't think so." Her dad bent down and reached out to grab the cat. She backed up.
"Pretty cat," said her mum. "If we don't find her owners, we should keep her. Hermione's been wanting a pet."
"Hermione?" called Dad. They hadn't spotted her in the tree yet. He opened the front door. "Hermione, do you know whose cat this is?"
"I'm here, Dad!" She climbed out of the tree. She hadn't been far off the ground as she wasn't terribly big on heights. She bounded over to them, Matilda tucked into her arm. "That cat's been here all day. If we can't find her family, can we keep her?"
"Let's bring her in," said Dad. "Looks like it might rain."
"I've got her," said Mom. She tried to scoop the cat into her arms but it shook its head, shot them a reproachful look, and walked into the house through the open door all on her own.
"I think she speaks English," said Hermione. "She's an interesting cat."
The Grangers and their daughter followed the cat into the living room, where she hopped up onto an easy chair.
"Oh, we don't allow animals on the furniture," said Mom.
Dad reached for the cat. In a blink, though, the cat was gone, and he had his arms around a dark-haired older woman wearing a gray dress, black boots, and an expression of annoyance.
"Would you mind unhanding me?" the cat – er, woman – asked.
"What…?" Hermione's dad jumped back.
"How did… where did…?" Hermione's mother had gone pale.
"I knew you weren't the typical cat!" said Hermione. She placed Matilda on the end table. "You've been watching me all day, even when that mouse ran by, even when those dogs were barking. You're not the most convincing cat I've ever seen, but your markings are interesting."
"It's… she…" Mum's mouth gaped open.
"But that's impossible," said Dad.
"My name is Minerva McGonagall. I sent you a letter explaining I'd be stopping in today. I'm the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"I thought that was a joke," said Dad. "The letter went straight into the rubbish bin."
"You're eleven today, Miss Granger?" Deputy Headmistress McGonagall asked. Hermione nodded.
"Happy birthday, then. Would I be rude to ask for a glass of water, or perhaps of a cup of tea? It's been a long day."
"Alright," said Mum, looking too stunned to question the request, though she made no move toward the kitchen.
"You're a cat headmistress?" asked Dad, equally bemused. "Is the whole school taught by animals?"
"I'm happy to answer any of your questions, but first, I'd like to congratulate young Miss Granger. Hermione." She beamed. "You're a witch!"
Hermione's face lit up.
"A what?" asked Dad.
"I don't understand," said Mum.
"A witch!" repeated Deputy Headmistress McGonagall pleasantly. "Are you surprised?"
"Yes," said Mum.
"Yes," said Dad.
"No!" said Hermione. She picked up Matilda and hugged it to her chest. "I can move a pencil with my mind!"
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
"I do not understand you as of late," said the Dark Lord, sneering down at the woman in his bed.
"Nor I, you!" she said, but her voice was muffled by the pillow she was holding over her face. "How could you?"
"How could I what?"
"You know what!"
"If I knew what, I would not be asking." He grabbed the pillow and tried to pull it away. "Bellatrix, look at me!"
"NO!"
"Bella!" With a flick of his wand, the pillow exploded, sending feathers flying in all directions.
Bellatrix burst into tears.
"What is this?"
"You're having an affair!" she said miserably, her arms thrown over her face as the pillow had been. "How could you?"
"An affair? Me?" He scoffed. "You're married, not I!"
"Not by choice."
"Divorce him, then."
"I tried." She finally met his eyes. "Remember? I filed for divorce during the first war, but before it was finalized I became pregnant and went into hiding."
"I remember." He nudged her over enough to allow him space on the bed. "What makes you think I'm having an affair? Since the very first time I Summoned you to my side in the middle of the night, I have been clear that the companionship of women is hardly a necessity for me, that I do not need-"
"Evangeline Chaucer. That cow. I caught you with her in July. Or have you forgotten?"
"Caught me with her!" He shook his head. "Caught me with her?"
"Yes, caught you with her. In bed."
"In bed?"
"In bed. Naked."
"Naked?"
"Yes." She sat up and turned to face him. "Stop repeating everything I say."
"Stop repeat-"
"My Lord!"
"Mrs. Lestrange!" He stood, threw up his hands, and turned his back to her. "Have you gone mad? Too much time in Azkaban? The stress of having found your child?" He swiveled around, glaring hatefully at her. "Or is it hormonal? Menstruation? Menopause? Are you no longer the pillar of strength and reason you once were? Have you-"
"Don't try to make me think I've gone mad, my Lord. On the thirty-first of July, I entered this bedroom to find you in bed with that desperate dick-sucking slag! I've tried not to let it bother me, but this morning I walked in on her with my husband, and frankly, I do not understand the appeal."
"Why were you entering the bedroom of your husband this morn-"
"They were in the bloody library! Don't change the subject!"
His eyes widened. Had he brows, they'd be raised to the point his hairline had once reached. "You are out of line, Mrs. Lestrange. No one speaks to the Dark Lord tha-"
"Has everyone had a turn with her?" Bellatrix cut him off, too far gone to care about the punishment for her behavior. "Was she a one-off for you? For him? Or is she the go-to whore of the entir-"
"I have never been with Evangeline Chaucer."
"Liar."
"You dare call me a liar?" He raised his wand and she flinched, but no hex or curse came.
"I don't understand how you could hate me this much," said Bellatrix. "Not when I've shown nothing but love to you for all these years. Not when I alone looked for you, I alone spoke your praises to the Wizengamot, I alone bore your child, I-"
"Do you know what I do not understand?" he asked. "Why you are accusing me of having had an 'affair' with Evangeline Chaucer when I have done, nor would do, such a thing. Have you gone mental?"
"I saw you!"
"You saw me?"
"Stop repe-"
"I shall say it once more and only once more! I have never in my life been to bed with Evangeline Chaucer!"
"I saw-"
"I do not know what you think you saw, Bellatrix Lestrange, but I am no liar, and it is due only to our complicated history I am letting you live after such an accusation." He grabbed her face roughly, forcing eye contact. "Show me."
She felt him pushing into her mind and offered no resistance. He could feel her hurt, her insecurities, her pain. Had he caused this? Without even trying, or realizing he'd been doing so? The thought made him feel… powerful. But also a twinge of something else. Something unfamiliar. Something he did not quite understand. Almost like… regret? No, how silly. He pressed on.
He quickly found that July memory. He saw it from her eyes.
She was in the hall. She'd been drinking, but not much. She was not yet pissed. Her memory was not yet foggy or distorted.
She opened the door. An image swirled before her.
The Dark Lord, in bed, naked, beside Evangeline Chaucer.
He exited her mind.
And laughed.
She shivered.
"Come with me." He grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her roughly from the bed. She stumbled but managed to catch her balance as he hurried them from the room.
"I'm in my night-"
"Quiet."
He was already showered and dressed in a long black robe, but she was wearing a thick floor-length cotton nightgown, white with red flowers, borrowed from Narcissa. Certainly not the sort of thing she'd want to be seen in.
He led her down the hall and down one set of stairs to a locked door. The nursery, formerly the bedroom of babies Diana and Draco, which had long ago been locked as the Malfoys did not plan to have more children.
He used his wand to unlock it and ordered her in first.
"In the wardrobe," he said.
She opened it.
And the image before her swirled. It became a bed, the bed in their bedroom, and there he was, naked, beside Evangeline Chaucer.
"A Boggart?" she whispered. She wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks with her sleeve.
"I discovered it in the bedroom months ago and stored it here rather than let it be destroyed, as we may find use for it later. Banish it back to the wardrobe."
She couldn't banish it back. She hadn't brought her wand.
"Riddikulus!" he said, with a wave of his. He then trapped it back inside the wardrobe.
"A Boggart?" She turned to him. "I feel foolish. Stupid. I-"
"You owe me an apology."
"I'm sorry."
"Idiotic woman."
"I said I'm sorry!"
"You called me a liar. You were insubordinate. Dangerously so."
"My Lord, I'm-"
"Quiet."
Her mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. He had silenced her.
"We'll never speak of this again. And in the future, you'll do better to remember your place. Understand?"
She nodded.
"I want to hear it." His wand hand twitched, lifting the charm.
"I understand, my Lord."
"I'm growing increasingly tired of you, Bellatrix."
"I'm sor-"
He hit her.
The force of it knocked her into the wardrobe. Hurt in more ways than one, she sunk to the floor, holding a hand to her injured cheek.
She didn't understand.
The last time he did this, he said it would be the last time. He promised.
She stared up at him, her lip quivering, absolutely destroyed yet again.
"Why?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.
He sneered down at her, his lip curled, without a hint of compassion or care.
"You're not the woman you once were, Bella."
When his back was turned, when he was stalking back to the bedroom without a second glance in her direction, when he made it clear he was through with her and this discussion was over, she whispered her response.
"And you're not the same man."
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
Severus Snape wasn't typically the type of man to have erotic dreams, but shortly after sunrise on the nineteenth of September, he awoke from a whopper of one. His cock was painfully confined by his cotton pajama pants, which he wore only in case there was an emergency that forced him out of bed in a flash, as he preferred far less on his body at night.
He groaned, stretched, and walked himself straight to the shower, intending to turn the cold water on full blast and wash away the sins of his subconscious.
But once he was under the stream, he couldn't force himself to go cold instead of hot… and he couldn't force the images from his dream out of his mind.
She was kneeling before him, wearing that dress from her seventeenth birthday party last year. One year ago today. They were in the library at Malfoy Manor. Music was playing distantly; a party must be going on. Perhaps another birthday party. But not that one last year, as she was older in this fantasy. Not a student. A woman.
She had his cock in her hand, her mouth laving over the tip. She was taking him deep into her throat. She was sucking her balls into her mouth, one at a time.
He lathered up his hands, ignoring the flannel hanging on its hook, and began washing his body… beginning with the part of his anatomy most in need of attention.
He closed his eyes, tipped back his head, stroked his throbbing cock, and moaned her name.
"Hermione."
His Muggle father's family had been strong believers in Heaven.
If they were right about the existence of the afterlife, he was relatively certain he'd be going to hell.
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
Hermione didn't feel well. She awoke with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her gut, one she did not know the immediate cause of.
Then it hit her.
The date.
The nineteenth of September. Her birthday.
"Happy eighteen," she murmured. She pulled her pillow out from under her head and held it over her face. By her feet, Crookshanks stretched and yawned. He made his way up her body and plopped back down on her chest. The light vibrations from his purrs almost dulled the pain of knowing she had spent the entirety of her seventeenth year – her first as an adult – living in captivity. She wrapped her arms around the half-kneazle.
"I'm glad I have you."
"Mrowww," was his response. She took it to mean, "Me, too."
"You're having a lie-in?"
The high-pitched, quiet, voice startled her. She jumped up, startling and upending the cat, got tangled in her blankets, and fell from the bed.
"Graceful," he said, staring down at her.
"My Lord!"
"Father."
"Father!" She unwrapped her legs, tossed the blanket back on the bed, and sent grumpy Crookshanks an apologetic glance.
"It is your birthday." He was dressed in a long black robe, holding his wand. The snake slithered around by his feet. Crookshanks hissed in her direction. She hissed back.
"Yes, sir."
"Happy birthday, dear Hermione."
Dear Hermione?
"Th-thank you, sir. Father."
"It's time for your lesson, but I see you are not yet… prepared to start the day."
"My lesson?" Had he told her she was having a lesson? What time was it? How long had she been asleep?
"Dress. Wash your face. Brush your hair and teeth. I'll wait here."
She nodded, grabbed the first clothes she found in her top drawer, and hurried into her little loo. It took her no time at all to get ready, though she skipped hair-brushing, pulling it back into a low, messy, tangled ponytail instead. She re-entered the main room of her cell and grabbed her wand. He looked her over discerningly.
"Your attire."
"My attire, sir?" She glanced down. Tonks' old jeans, given to her by Andromeda, and a plain white Hogwarts uniform shirt with the Slytherin crest over the left breast. This had been Draco's. She wore it partially unbuttoned over a black chemise bought for her by her mother. She thought she looked alright.
"Too… Muggle." He sneered. "Your mother will take you shopping. When I see you tonight, for dinner, I expect you to be wearing something much more suitable for a witch. Much more fitting for the Dark Lord's daughter."
"I… yes, sir."
Did he say her mother would be taking her shopping? Shopping, out in public, where anyone might see them? Her heart and stomach fluttered with excitement.
"But first, breakfast. Then, your lesson."
"Yes, sir."
He unlocked the cell. She followed him up the cellar steps and all the way to the kitchen. He did not glance back, nor did he speak to her again until they were seated.
"Eighteen years ago this morning, your mother birthed you in a cell in Azkaban."
"Yes." Hermione fidgeted. She'd never shared a meal alone with him before. And she had no idea what the forthcoming 'lesson' might entail.
"Eggs?"
"What?"
The Dark Lord nodded toward the house-elf standing beside his chair, across from her. She hadn't even noticed the little guy.
"Eggs, toast, blood pudding," he said to the elf. "And for you?"
"Er… same."
"Coffee, pumpkin juice."
The elf bowed low to the Dark Lord and turned to Hermione.
"Yes," said Hermione. "Coffee and pumpkin juice would be lovely, thank you."
The elf's eyes widened. Hermione had the feeling "thank you" wasn't something he heard often. But he did not comment on it. He simply disappeared with a loud POP.
"You were early. I was not expecting you to be early."
"I've always been the punctual sort," said Hermione, for lack of any better response. "My mum and dad used to say, 'Early is on time and on time is late.'" Her chest constricted. She had purposely avoided thinking about her mum and dad since it became clear she wouldn't be going home to them. "Sorry," she whispered.
"You love them? These… Muggles?"
"They raised me. They took care of me. They loved me. And yes, I loved – love – them. They're good people, decent people. Hardworking and fair. Honest. Affectionate. Genuine." Their smiling faces popped into her mind and try as she did, she couldn't force them out. "They never made me feel strange. They always told me I was special. I knew I was adopted, but I never felt like they weren't my parents. They said they chose me. They called me their miracle." She sniffled. "And when they learned I was a witch, they were surprised, but proud. Excited. They hadn't even known witchcraft was real, but they embraced it, embraced me. They only ever wanted for me to be happy. They were the best sort of people."
"But they were Muggles." He seemed perplexed. She laughed.
"Yes! They were Muggles. Wonderful Muggles. And I thought I was a Muggle. Muggles are… there are many wonderful Muggles, my Lor… Father. You're wrong to fear them."
"I do not fear them."
"You are wrong to hate-"
"I do not hate them."
"You don't?"
"I hate the Muggles who raised me, make no mistake. I was raised in an orphanage, Hermione. A dismal one, with a female matron who loathed children, especially odd, gifted children like me. Like you. She would have hated you."
"You were odd, too?"
"The other children did not wish to be my friends." If he couldn't make her hate, surely he could get her to empathize. This was not his strong suit, but it had been one of Grindelwald's signatures, and he'd studied the dark wizard extensively, enough to take a page from his book, so to speak. While he was speaking, he rifled through her mind, plucking from it memories he could use to his advantage.
"Once, the older children chased me up a tree. They were throwing stones at me, taunting me, calling me weird, a freak. I hid up there for hours."
"I've done that!" Hermione gasped. "I've climbed a tree to get away. I've hid for hours!"
"They were Muggle children who didn't understand me. Didn't understand us. They don't understand us because they do not know that we exist. We have to keep hidden, even now. We're not up in trees, trembling, avoiding being hit by stones. We are hiding in other ways. Keeping our villages hidden. Keeping our government hidden. Keeping our Quidditch World Cup hidden." He shook his head morosely. "Keeping our children hidden."
"No one should have to hide," she said. Coffee appeared in front of them. Then, pumpkin juice. She took a sip of the former, without even adding milk or sugar. The hot liquid burned her tongue, but she did not react.
He lifted his mug and did the same.
"I quite agree." He set it back down. "There are a great many things we have to hide, things which are at the core of who we are. Your maternal grandmother was in love with a woman. She had to keep it secret, for fear of incurring society's wrath, being ostracized."
Hermione nodded.
"Your mother and I have to keep our…" (What should he call it?!) "Our relationship hidden, for I worry if too many know of our true feelings for each other, it would put her in even greater danger."
"Everyone knows now, though," said Hermione. "Because of me."
"Because of Harry Potter," said the Dark Lord. "He told the papers about you, about your parentage, about your mother and me. He put her in danger, not you. Please, do not feel guilty. Should anything horrible happen to her as a result – anything like what happened to your aunt Narcissa at the hands of Potter, Black, and Longbottom – it would not be your fault."
Hermione's brow furrowed. She stared down at her mug and chewed her lip. He bit back a smile. She was buying this, all of it.
"I've already gotten my mother hurt twice," she said. "If someone were to do that to her because of me, I-"
"It would be the fault of Harry Potter, my dear girl, not you. You shouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions. Though I suspect you've been doing precisely that for years, haven't you? Taking responsibility for 'the Boy Who Lived.'" He tutted. "You got him through to the Philosopher's Stone as a first year, did you not?"
"I… yes, most of the way, but Ron-"
"Played Minerva's little chess match. Yes, fine. And what did Harry do?"
"He… flew… to catch the key…"
"You couldn't have caught that key?"
Hermione shrugged. "I'm not much of a flyer."
"But you're brilliant. Surely, you could have gotten it in another way."
"I… yes, I think I could have, if…"
"I know you could have." He smiled.
Though she still felt uncomfortable, she smiled back.
"I figured out Snape's potions riddle. He never could have managed that without me."
"And you figured out what Slytherin's monster was, didn't you? Clever girl."
Her cheeks went slightly pink.
"I did, yes, because the library-"
"Because you put in the work. When in doubt, go to the library. That was my manta as a student, and your mother's, too. That was one of the things that first attracted me to her, you know. She always had her nose stuck in a book."
"She did?" Hermione's eyebrows raised. "She was… she didn't have many friends, either."
"No…" He shook his head and reached for the pumpkin juice. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"I'm afraid it's our fault you struggled to make friends as a child. As an exceedingly brilliant child, and a magical one, you naturally stood out among your peers. I believe Muggle children can sense our magic, even though they cannot identify it. It's one more thing that sets us apart, makes us different. Special. Better. And you… even child witches and wizards cannot help but be jealous of you. Your intellect. Your natural talent. Your thirst for knowledge. It sets you apart from a wizard like Ronald Weasley, who wishes for fame and seeks a sense of self-importance at the expense of those around him, or one like Harry Potter, whose focus in myopic, whose self-control is nonexistent, and whose abilities are… limited, though his intentions are good. How much harm has he caused despite those good intentions?"
"I…" She thought about the Ministry break in. She hadn't wanted to go. She wanted to check Grimmauld Place. She thought it was a bad idea. But she went along with him, they all did, and they all could have died. Sirius died. She was injured. Tonks was injured. Ron and Neville were injured. Because Harry acted without thinking.
Again.
And she'd ended up a prisoner as a result.
But… no. She'd ended up finding her birth mother as a result.
Or, more accurately, her birth mother found her. She found her and saved her from a filthy, furious would-be rapist. Where was Harry when Dolohov hit her with that curse? Where was Harry when Rodolphus bent her over that table?
Where was Harry?
Their eggs, toast, and blood pudding appeared on plates in front of them.
"Tuck in," said the Dark Lord. He lifted his fork and broke the yolk on his egg. Hermione picked up a triangle of toast.
"But I digress! I did not ask you to breakfast to discuss that hotheaded, misguided Potter boy and his ginger sidekick."
"No?"
"No." He chuckled. "You are eighteen now, Hermione. Entering your second year of adulthood. And, as much as it must sound strange to hear coming from one of your parents, I've grown quite fond of you over these last fifteen months."
She nearly dropped her toast. "You have?"
"I have. You remind me of your mother, when she was young, though she was entirely devoted to me while you are… torn. That's understandable, considering. And I accept it, difficult as its been for me to process. For both of us." He smiled. "She was beautiful at your age. As are you, don't misunderstand! But she was…"
"Did you love her?"
"Love her?" The question almost threw him, but he recovered quickly. "When she was your age, I knew her only as the daughter of a friend. Cygnus… well, it's unfortunate you're unable to know Cygnus as he was. I had no… personal… interest in her then, as she was too young. But, being a man, I could not help but notice that she was beautiful. And underappreciated. A brilliant witch, a brilliant mind, but she was expected to marry and have children and keep a lovely home. Not the life best suited for a fiery, intelligent woman like that. Like you!"
He chuckled. Hermione smiled. She liked picturing her mother at her age. She liked thinking her mother was beautiful. Underappreciated. Brilliant. That was both how she felt and how she wanted to feel. Who wouldn't want to be beautiful? And with Harry and Ron, she often felt woefully underappreciated. And hadn't even Severus Snape said she was brilliant?
"I want more from you, too, Hermione. I've seen shades of greatness. Last week, you used the Cruciatus Curse on a tree. I was watching from the window. I was impressed. You have proven yourself trustworthy and – despite a couple of disastrous duels with Draco, which I can only attribute to your being out of practice – you have shown me you are more than capable with a wand. Capable of defending yourself. Of defending those you love, like your mother, your aunt. Your Muggle parents."
"My Mugg-"
"I failed to protect you both once. You and your mother." He lowered his head as if chastened, as if forlorn, and set down his fork. He could feel her eyes on him. She was enraptured. Perfect.
"What do you mean, Father?"
"When you were born, you were early. I had to be strategic to break her from Azkaban. It was not easy. At first, I did not move because I expected her to have a trial, or, at the very least, a hearing, as was customary by law. I knew I could easily free her from the Ministry, without risking the lives of any of my other Death Eaters. Forgive me, Hermione, forgive me, but I felt it would be irresponsible of me as a leader to risk the lives of other Followers to save a woman who could best be described as my mistress, especially as she was, for the moment, technically safe. Perhaps safer in her cell than she'd been in her parents' cottage home or at Malfoy Manor, where Order members could appear at any time, and do worse to her than they'd done to Narcissa. They'd already proven they didn't care if a woman was pregnant, unarmed, afraid; they would do her unspeakable harm."
Hermione felt hot, angry tears welling up in her eyes. She shredded her toast, having lost her appetite. He, on the other hand, took a bite of blood pudding. She had to wait for him to swallow to continue.
"I was biding my time. I did not expect them to keep her locked up so long without a hearing, though. And I did not know what to do. Breaking her out of Azkaban in her condition could be dangerous, more dangerous than it would have been to free any other prisoner. Pregnant women should not apparate, nor would it be safe for her to travel by boat over that freezing water. For the first time in my life, my dear girl, I did not know what to do. But I thought I had time."
One of those hot tears wound its way down Hermione's cheek, landing on her lip. She licked it away.
"She gave birth early. 'Good,' I thought. 'I'll get them both out, now.' But only minutes after I received word of your birth, I received word of your death. I was furious. And then I was told Bellatrix had died, too."
Hermione gasped. "You thought she'd died, too?"
"In childbirth. That's what I was told." He was lying, of course, but it was clear from her wide, watery eyes and the horrified O of her mouth that she did not suspect a thing. "I was despondent. I'd never felt loss before, you understand. I was but minutes old when my own mother passed, and as a child the orphanage matron let me believe I'd killed her, that it was my fault, so my feelings as far as she was concerned fell more along the lines of bitterness and guilt than love and loss."
"But at some point, you learned she was alive?"
"They brought her to the Ministry, finally, to stand trial. One of my Ministry contacts informed me straight away and, without even concocting a plan – unusual for me, as I am typically the type to plot, to research, to be prepared, like you – I stormed into the Ministry and rescued her. But we both believed it to be too late to help you. We both believed you'd been buried by the prison. We grieved together, she more than I, as I did not know how, and, frankly, it isn't the same. I hadn't seen you, hadn't held you, hadn't carried you inside me all those months. I grieved the person you could have been. Her heart was broken because she's lost the person you were."
"And Dumbledore ordered it so," whispered Hermione. "He admitted it. He wanted me killed. A baby. A newborn! My mother didn't deserve that. Nothing she did could have warranted hurting her-"
"Hurting you," said the Dark Lord. "An innocent. But his cruelty knew no bounds. 'For the greater good,' he believed. You read the book."
"Yes." She picked up her fork to stab at her eggs, but she had no desire to eat them. He was making his way through his meal, though. She tried a sip of pumpkin juice but it burned like acid going down. She felt too ill to enjoy the taste, one she usually enjoyed.
"Eighteen years ago today was meant to have been the day you died, but it was the day you survived, my dear girl. Your birthday and the day you cheated death for the first time. The second time, you were thirteen years old, Petrified, but not killed, because you were smart enough not to look that Basilisk in the face."
She didn't question how he knew all this. There was something sort of comforting in believing he was all-knowing, the way she used to picture Dumbledore. And there was something sort of comforting in the notion that he knew her, that he knew all about her, as a father should.
"You cheated death a third time when in danger of the werewolf, when you used the Time Turner, clever girl. And again when you held your own against Dolohov, one of my best, a man who feels mortified now, knowing who it was he attacked, and twice against Rodolphus, who'll never lay another hand on you, not because he fears my wrath, but because he fears yours."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. She sipped coffee and nibbled toast crust while he heartily tucked into his meal. When his eggs were almost gone, as was the blood pudding and half his toast, she asked, "Father?"
"Yes, Hermione?"
"You said there was going to be a lesson?"
His pallid face broke into a grin.
"Indeed! Today, your eighteenth birthday, is the anniversary of the first time you cheated death." He stood, still smiling, and gestured for her to do the same. "And this, my dear daughter, is the first day of the rest of your life."
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
"You angered him?" Narcissa massaged the cold healing salve into her sister's cheek and temple.
"Clearly," said Bellatrix, wincing.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"I wish I wouldn't, too." Bellatrix hissed through her teeth. It hurt to have her sister pressing on the forming bruise, but she knew if it wasn't taken care of now, it would be a swollen purple mess later.
"Lucius and I have been talking." Narcissa screwed the cap back on the container of healing salve, given to her by Severus for the first time all those years ago after her attack. She had very little left, despite having used it as sparingly as possible over the last eighteen years. She hated to have to ask him for more. She hated the thought of it all being gone. Even though it was completely irrational to have formed an attachment to a tub of healing salve.
"Have you?"
"He's hurt because I didn't tell him when it happened, but he understands. He says he would have gone after them, unquestionably, and he understands he would have likely ended up dead or in Azkaban as a result. I asked if he forgives me. He said I have nothing to seek forgiveness for. He still loves me."
"I've never known a man to love his wife more than he loves you." Bellatrix closed her eyes. The salve tingled and slightly burned, though not unpleasantly.
"Your daughter is eighteen today." Narcissa had a knack for abruptly changing the subject. Bellatrix was used to it. "Have you been down to see her yet?"
"Not yet. But I've arranged the perfect gift… provided the Dark Lord doesn't change his mind about letting me give it to her." She sighed. "I should not have made him hit me. If he takes back her gift, it's my fault. It's my fault for angering him."
"He shouldn't hit you, Bella." Narcissa cupped her sister's cheeks. "Look at me." Their eyes met. "I realize none of those who've followed him are immune to his wrath, but you – you're not quite like the rest of us. He takes you to bed, still, doesn't he?"
"He does."
"And he treats you as one would a girlfriend?"
Bellatrix thought back to that day not so long ago when they were hiding out, when she was reading the magazine, when they were exploring each other like teenagers. When it felt like it used to. But she also thought about this morning, and about the last time he'd hit her, and the time before that.
"He's not the same as he once was," she answered finally. "Before… he never hit me before."
"How can you love him?" whispered Narcissa. With her thumb, she brushed an errant tear from Bella's face. "How can you love a man who hurts you?"
"I don't know any other way to feel about him," said Bellatrix. "When I was in Azkaban, I told myself every day that he would return, that he would come for me. That he loved me. And I loved him. If I didn't love him, if I hadn't been able to believe… You don't know what it's like in there. The constant crying, the screaming. Starvation. Madness. The cold of the air and the cold of the Death Eaters. Abusive guards. They put me back in the cell where I'd birthed and lost my daughter. I stayed in that cell for all those years, Cissy. I battled madness. I hallucinated. I scratched at the walls and at my skin and, once, at the eyes of a guard who came too close; I was soundly punished for that. Without my love for him, without telling myself he loved me too, I wouldn't have survived. That love was all I had."
"But it's not now," whispered Narcissa, still gently holding her sister's face. "You have me. You have your daughter. And we love you. Isn't that enough?"
"I don't know," answered Bellatrix softly. "I don't know."
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
Hermione had been the recipient of a number of birthday presents she would cherish, but none more than the one given to her by her parents.
"A bedroom?" she asked, taking it in. "For me?"
"Yours is the only occupied bedroom on this floor, save for ours," said Bellatrix. She took her daughter's hand and squeezed it. "We'll have it heavily warded, to keep you safe. From the fireplace you can only Floo to other rooms in the house, and the only room from which anyone can Floo into yours is ours. This means, if you Floo from here to the library, you'll have to walk back. It's not a perfect system, but it was devised by your father personally, for your protection."
"This is all mine?" Hermione grasped her mother's hand tightly. Her father was not present; he'd gone out after finishing her lesson this morning and hadn't been seen since, but promised to return for dinner. They were having visitors. She didn't yet know the guest list.
The bedroom was massive. Two rooms, really, plus a full bathroom with both a standing shower and a claw foot tub. There was a small balcony off the sitting room, from which she could sit at a round, glass-topped table and sip tea and stare out over the grounds, or read while the late autumn sun shone above her. The sitting room itself included a couch, two chairs, an oak desk with several draws already filled with parchment, ink, and other necessities, a table for potions work, and an entire wall of bookshelves, mostly unfilled – "but we'll fix that," Bellatrix assured her. "I wanted to be sure to put on it only what you'd want to read or need for school."
In the second room, the bedroom, she had a dresser and a wardrobe, two large windows facing the same direction as the balcony, a plushy queen-sized bed with light purple sheets and a dark purple comforter, and even a small area just for Crookshanks, with a cat bed, a cat tree, a toy basket, a flowing water fountain, a large covered litter box that self-cleaned (keeping her room from smelling foul as the cellar sometimes did), and built-in shelves for his food.
There was a book shelf in here, too, a smaller one, one to which all of her books from the cell had already been moved. On top of it were three framed photographs. One of her from her last birthday party, with Bellatrix. One of her with playing chess with cousin Draco while Crookshanks batted at the pieces.
And one of her Muggle parents when they were young.
Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth.
"Do you like it?" asked Bellatrix.
"It's the lovel… the pretty… the most wond…" Hermione threw her arms around Bellatrix. "Mum, it's the best room I've ever had!"
-0-0-0-
19 September, 1997
(the present)
Cygnus Black returned to Malfoy Manor for the birthday dinner of his eldest living grandchild, and again he was confused about her identity, though this time he knew she was not Druella.
"You look more like your mother each day," he said, leaning close to kiss her cheek. "How lucky we are to have three beautiful daughters to make us proud."
"Father, come to the table," Bellatrix took him by the elbow and steered him in the right direction.
"Druella, are you hiding a bruise?" He gently touched her cheek. She winced and jerked away. He tried again to touch her face. "Did I do that?" he whispered, horrified. "I've tried to stop drinking, Druella, I've tried, but sometimes-"
"You didn't do it," said Bellatrix testily. She pulled out his chair and practically manhandled him into it. "I fell."
Hermione glanced uneasily at her mother. Earlier, when she'd asked about the bruise, Bellatrix told her she'd been attacked by Order members while on business for the Dark Lord. She described a young man, stocky, with a deep tan, many freckles, and long ginger hair.
"Charlie Weasley?" asked Hermione, shocked.
"Could have been a Weasley," Bellatrix had said offhandedly. "Can't be sure. I Stunned him and apparated away. I would have fought, ordinarily, but I didn't know whether there were others nearby and I was alone." She'd smiled then, and kissed the back of Hermione's hand. "And I wanted to be home before you woke up this morning. I didn't quite make it, but I was happy to learn you'd eaten with your father."
Hermione had bought this, having no reason not to, but Bellatrix worried too many questions would unravel her story. She wasn't convinced the girl had no natural skills as a Legillimens, after all. Though the magic was rare, the ability ran in the Black family and the Dark Lord was one of the best to ever live. She should have inherited it. She knew she ought to work with her on this, just as both Snape and the Dark Lord had worked with her on honing her Occlumency skills (this, unlike Legilimency, was entirely a learned skill) but she was remiss to do so, as she didn't want the girl rifling around her mind.
"Druella…?"
"I'm not Druella!" Bellatrix huffed. "Cissy, can't you sit with him?"
"Yes, of course," said Narcissa, already sounding tired. "Draco!" she called. "Come… Oh."
"He's at school," said Hermione.
"Yes, I remember." Narcissa sighed. Those three words were the first she'd spoken to Hermione in over six weeks.
"He writes me. He's worried about you."
Narcissa settled beside her father and glanced wearily up at her niece. "Is he?"
"He says you've been the best mother he could have hoped for. It kills him to see you in pain."
She smiled sadly. "He's been the best son. But I've hardly been the best mother. My daughter… If I were any sort of mother, I'd still have my daughter."
Hermione quickly took the seat beside her. "What happened to her, Auntie? What happened to Diana?"
"I can't." She turned her back on the girl, twisting in her chair to face her father. "We're having French onion soup tonight, Father. Your favorite!"
"Soup?" he asked blankly.
"French onion soup."
"Soup," he said. "Yes, Eloise, soup would be lovely."
"Narcissa, Father. I'm Narcissa, your daughter. Eloise was your mother-in-law."
He chortled. "Please, Eloise. I believe I would know my own daughter." He reached for his water goblet and gulped several times, though there was nothing in it.
"Hermione!" Bellatrix was calling her from across the room. "Our guests are arriving. It would be customary for you to greet them with me." She darted a look to the Dark Lord. "With us."
"With us," he reiterated, smiling, holding out an arm, drawing her to him.
Hermione moved closer, but had to fight back a shiver when he put his arm around her. Without thinking, she reached down and took her mother's hand.
"I believe you remember the Rowles," said Bellatrix, as Euphemia and Thorfinn entered the large dining hall.
"Of course." Hermione reached out her hand to shake Euphemia's. The woman reciprocated reproachfully. Hermione smiled. She was determined to be on her best behavior tonight. She did not want to do anything to jeopardize her night – the first night she would spend in her brand-new bedroom, with real windows and fresh air and a large tub and a little library all her own. If she had to drip sugar all over every single one of these Death Eaters at dinner, she would. If she had to shake hands or hug or make friends, she was willing. Anything.
Evangeline Chaucer arrived next, alone. Hermione could feel the furious heat radiating from her mother toward the woman. Evangeline smiled, nodded at them, and moved quickly across the room to join the Lestrange brothers. Hermione's stomach dropped. They must have come in through the other set of doors; she hadn't noticed them. She hadn't seen Rodolphus since she'd tortured him with her parents' permission. He didn't so much as glance her way now, which suited her fine. She never wanted to make eye contact with him again.
"I did not sleep with her," the Dark Lord said sharply, under his breath. "Calm yourself, Bella."
"I'm perfectly calm, my Lord." Her smile was forced and her hand gripped Hermione's tighter. "I simply don't like her because she's a slag and I don't want that sort of lifestyle around my child."
"Mrs. Lestrange…" It was a warning when he called her this, even Hermione could sense it, though the girl didn't know there'd been a time in the past when using Bellatrix's married name and title had been like foreplay for them.
And she never would know, as Bellatrix didn't consider it any of her business.
"Tom," said Bellatrix coolly.
He sent her a sharp look. She cocked one eyebrow.
"I thought I could call you by your former name when in the presence of our daughter, darling."
"When in her presence alone, if you do not mind, dear."
Hermione bit her lip. Her Muggle parents had had a fight like this in front of her once, when she was about nine. Though neither had said a cross word to the other, they sat across the kitchen table at dinner and talked through their teeth, as if she wouldn't realize anything was wrong so long as they didn't scream or throw dishes like the neighbors did during their rows.
Finally, someone entered Hermione was actually happy to see.
"Professor Snape!"
"Severus," hissed the Dark Lord. He took one of Severus' hands between his in greeting. "Happy you could come."
"Thank you for the invitation." He nodded at Bellatrix. "Lestrange."
"Snape."
He turned to Hermione. He did not smile, not with his mouth, but his eyes wore a twinkle they hadn't when looking upon either of her parents. "Hermione. Happy birthday."
"Thank you, Professor. Before you leave…" Was this too forward, what she was about to ask? "I've been given new living chambers. I have a sitting room with an academic corner. I spent this afternoon setting it up. I even have a table for potions brewing, fits three midsized pewter cauldrons at once. Would you be willing to gift me a tutoring session? I worry my mind will go to waste without education."
"Can't have a great mind going to waste," he said. "Provided it is not scandalously late when dinner is through, I would be most interested in a tour of your new accommodations." He looked to the Dark Lord. "Assuming this is where I'll now be tutoring you."
"Yes," said the Dark Lord. "And I have decided to increase my time with the girl as well. Her talent is going unused at the moment and an unworked limb begins to atrophy."
"The Dark… er… Father…" She smiled at him, though it wasn't easy. She didn't suppose it would ever be easy. Not like with her mother. "Father and I spent nearly two hours in the library this morning, while Mother was out. He's teaching me…" She broke off. "Am I allowed to tell him-"
"Yes."
"To protect myself against Dark Magic. He wants me to learn to fight back against the Imperius Curse. He's afraid if the Order or Dumbledore's Army manage to kidnap me, they'll use the Imperius to control me, either to make it easier to take me in, or… or for more nefarious reasons." She stood a little taller. "He said there have been threats, but he does not wish for me to live my life in fear. I've been in captivity for my own protection long enough. Now that we don't have to fear the Ministry or… or Dumbledore…" (It still pained her to think of him in that tower. Confessing to wanting her killed. Falling to his own death.) "I'm safer than I was, but not safe. He wants me to be safe, should anything happen when I'm out with Mother."
"Good thinking, my Lord."
"There have been threats," repeated Bellatrix. "Our sources tell us, with her survival confirmed, there are those who wish to take her from me. From us. They want to use her as propaganda. This, after Potter told the world she was brainwashed and mad." Bellatrix looked furious. "They want to get her back, force her to pretend she's defected back to the side of Dumbledore's supporters, and then they intend to kill her and blame us. They feel it's the only way they can explain away the dissertation Potter accused…" Bellatrix hissed through her teeth. "That vile boy is exactly like his father. The Order used, abused, and discarded my sister in 1980 and they want to do the same to my daughter now."
"Let us discuss this another time," said the Dark Lord. "This is to be a happy occasion. The eighteenth birthday of our only child. Come, Hermione." He led her toward the table. At some point while they were talking, her uncle had entered, as had a woman with two girls who looked to be around Hermione's age, with whom Lucius and Narcissa were chatting.
"Ah, excellent!" The Dark Lord nodded toward the woman and the girls. "Bellatrix, will you introduce Hermione?"
"Hermione…" Bellatrix pulled her over to the trio. "This is Adele Greengrass. She was one of Cissy's friends at Hogwarts. And these are her daughters, Morgana and Maisey."
"Hi," said the slightly taller of the two. "I remember you from Hogwarts. You got Petrified when we were fifth years."
"You're the same age as our sister, Daphne," said the shorter girl. "Pleasure to meet you."
"I… you, too."
"Let's be seated," said the Dark Lord, gesturing to the table. "The meal will begin momentarily."
While the twins were taking their seat, Bellatrix leaned close to Hermione to whisper in her ear.
"This is Draco's gift. He thought you'd need friends with him back to school. I spoke with Narcissa so she wrote to Adele. They have four daughters, the Greengrasses, and one son. I thought, if you and the twins get on…" Bellatrix shrugged. "I've never been terribly popular with other girls my age… or anyone, really… but I thought you might enjoy having them over to swim or play chess or… read. When I suggested it to the Dark Lord, he thought it a good idea."
"Thank you." Hermione wanted to throw her arms around Bellatrix again, as she had in her bedroom earlier, but restrained herself.
During dinner, Bellatrix sat to the Dark Lord's right, across from Severus. Morgana sat beside Hermione with Maisey to her other side, and the three chatted for much of the meal.
Across the table, Severus tried to pay attention to the rest of the table, but found his eyes wandering back in his pupil's direction. He watched her mouth as she spoke, those pretty pink lips, full and glossy… they'd look spectacular wrapped around his…
"Happy birthday, Andromeda!" said Cygnus Black loudly, raising his glass, sloshing wine over the edge and down his arm. "I can't tell you how glad your mother and I are that you decided against marrying the Mudblood after all!"
"Father," said Narcissa, sounding exasperated. "Andromeda is-"
"Is glad you're glad," Hermione cut in, smiling. "Thank you."
"Happy birthday," he said again, beaming.
The Dark Lord raised his glass, prompting the rest of the guests to do the same.
"Happy Birthday!"
A/N:
So… it's been awhile. And this chapter didn't go as it was supposed to or end where it was supposed to, for which I'm sorry.
Thank you so much to those who reviewed and sent kind, positive messages here or on FB. I hugely appreciate every single one!
I apologize for the long, unexpected hiatus. I was overwhelmed with work-related writing, and then I started to get a few messages that made it tough to continue – namely from people hoping I don't "ruin" this story as I did All Roads Lead to Rome. I have to be honest, while I try to be thick-skinned with reviews, it causes me a lot of angst when I start to worry that my next update will have people who had previously enjoyed the story feeling angry or upset. I end up with performance anxiety, so to speak, and it's hard to post the next chapter. Silly, I know, and my goal for 2019 is to stop letting stuff like that get to me! In order to suit the muse and fix a few things, I redid this chapter, so Hermione didn't get or give gifts from/to Severus yet; that's been pushed back to the next chapter.
Thank you again so very much for reading, for your patience, and for the concerned PMs and constructive and/or encouraging reviews.
Expect one chapter every week until I can get back into the flow, then I hope to resume posting twice weekly.
Thanks!
-AL