A/N: Hello! Welcome to chapter twenty-seven! I'm sorry in advance! It's a bit graphic and dark; not that the rest of the fic doesn't have its dark moments, but this is super ugh. I sort of wish I hadn't wrote it, but it happened and now it's a thing I can't take back. (I love cats. They're beautiful, magnificent creatures. If you have a cat or are particularly squeamish or violence against animals is a trigger for you, you might want to skip paragraphs nine, ten and eleven - or all the way up until "Potter.".) That said, none of the main characters did it, the actual violence happened offscreen and I don't make a habit out of harming animals in my fics because I just love them so much, but it's a sort of "this is what's happening now" explanation and an entry point for the rest of the fic.

Inevitably, someone's going to say "was that necessary?" and I think... I don't know if it was. I can't give you a proper answer to that. But yeah, I think so.

Also, why don't I like Lily? I just... don't know. Every time I try to write her all perfect and sweet something happens in my head and she becomes irritating!Lily. Maybe it's because I love Severus so much. Idk.

I've never harmed an animal and could never do so. There's a spider in my bathtub that has been there for over twelve hours and I can't bring myself to kill it. I'm terrified of spiders.

Love Always,

Eli x

Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.

Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence, sexual scenes... The whole lot, basically. Dumbledore Bashing, too. Severus doesn't have the best time, bless him.


The Ghost of Grimmauld Place

Chapter Twenty-Seven


Monday 1st September 1975

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Gryffindor Tower, Girls' Dormitory

Living in a room with four other girls accustoms one to loud exclamations; the squeal when one's crush acknowledges their existence, the shout when one receives their favourite magazine in the post, the cry when their hair falls slightly out of place – Hermione was familiar with these, and guilty of most of them and more. She and Marlene contributed just as much to the overall level of noise in the place as Fawcett and Shepherd, if not on such a regular basis.

Rue, of course, was innocent on all counts.

This particular scream raised the hairs on the back of Hermione's arms, tore through her ears without pity, and stirred her into a run before she realised she was frightened. She and Marlene burst through the door, Rue following more sedately behind, her face a mask of polite disinterest.

Fawcett was on the floor by Shepherd's bed, eyes bugged completely out as she rocked, keening, in Shepherd's arms. Shepherd carried on a constant stream of "don't look don't look don't look" in her friend's ear, all the while staring at her bedspread with a sort of fascinated horror. Upon their entry, she spun on her heels and snarled.

"You," she hissed, abandoning Fawcett to stalk across the room, stopping in front of Marlene to punch a finger into her sternum. "You're sick, do you know that? Sick. Wait 'til I tell McGonagall, I'll have you expelled for this, mark my words."

"Yeah?" Marlene asked, peering around the other girl to try and get a good look at the spectacle. Hermione's own view was blocked by the curtains, but she knew that whatever was on the bed, it was likely she'd not want to see it. "You and whose army?" With a huff, she shoved at Shepherd's arms until she stumbled back a few steps and used the distraction to wander forwards.

She stopped. Her eyes widened, and her face was tinged slightly green. "Oh, Merlin," she murmured, shaking her head. "Bloody Hell, Fawcett, who did you piss off?"

"Don't you talk to her, you psychopath!" Shepherd screeched. "You think we don't know it was you?"

Marlene scoffed, but it was a mere shadow of a thing. Someone brushed past Hermione and she realised it was Rue – sweet, sensitive Rue approaching whatever was on the bed. She lunged forward to grab her arm and hold her back, but it brought her in view of the… thing… and a sudden wave of nausea pinned her to the spot.

It was – or had been – a cat. A familiar cat, with queer yellow eyes and soft tortoiseshell fur – not that the fur was visible anymore. Splayed on its side across the bedspread, the material underneath hardening slowly as the blood dried and congealed, it could have been sleeping but for the skewed angle of its spine; too hard, too bent, even for a cat. The stomach was torn apart with six vicious gashes, each bisecting fur and flesh from one leg to the other, at equal intervals all the way down. Fur was intermingled with spilling innards and other such gore.

Apart from the mess, the whole scene was reminiscent of June last year, when Cleo – that was her name – would spread herself across the bed as though she owned the place, sunning unselfconsciously, hissing whenever someone drew close. Even her eyes, still open, gave the impression of glaring glassily out at them, despite the fact that she was most certainly dead, and had been so for an hour at least.

"Wow," Rue said without inflection, leaning over the mass of fur and blood. "That's quite the dissection."

Fawcett was hyperventilating now, but Hermione was too shocked to do anything about it. She felt sick; she was sick, running for the bathroom to void her stomach. From the slam she could tell that Marlene was doing the same thing – perhaps Hermione's reaction was a trigger, breaking their concentration so that they could focus on trivial things such as bodily function instead of the –

The thought of Cleo, Fawcett's evil Maine Coon, her prized familiar that her parents had had imported for some obscene amount of galleons just so it could terrorize her dormmates, lying out there on the bed, an empty shell, never to hiss or spit or scratch – and that someone would do that, to a cat, a pet – she threw up again and again, not sure how long it had been until there was something cold touching her face, bringing back visions of a pool of rapidly cooling blood – far too much blood for such a little creature, surely? She jerked back, giving a little scream of her own.

"Potter," Rue snapped, slapping her lightly on the cheek to bring her back to earth. "Drink this, you'll feel better."

Hardly, she wanted to say. But she didn't. Instead, she took the glass she was being offered – crystal, of course, fucking Shafiqs – and used the contents to wash out her mouth, before sucking back half in one go. She pressed the side to her clammy forehead, feeling the clouds clear somewhat, and peered up at Rue. "The cat-"

"Shepherd finally left to get McGonagall," Rue said dispassionately, casting another aguamenti to refill Hermione's glass. "I said she should have gotten someone else – this being a bit close to home for McGonagall – but she just swore at me, which I think means no?" Hermione nodded, and Rue scoffed. "Why not just say it, then? It was a perfectly rational suggestion." She watched Hermione try to get her bearings for a few seconds before she said, "do you require help?"

"No, I'm good," Hermione muttered, levering herself to her feet with one hand on the wall and another on the toilet seat. "How – are you alright?"

Rue shrugged. "It was cruel, yes, and horrifying, and I pity Fawcett, but I was more concerned for the cat." Catching Hermione's raised brow, Rue smiled sadly. "Cleo didn't suffer, you know. I know enough from watching Gio prepare his ingredients to know when the incisions were made. The blood – it comes from the wound in the neck. They cut her throat. I think the other wounds were a later decision, 'overkill', as the muggles say. She was dead; she felt nothing."

"Rue…" Hermione groaned aloud, then shook her head. She didn't want to think about it, not as a thing present in her life. Instead, she decided to follow Rue's example, as though it were all scientific intrigue, and felt better immediately. "Yeah, alright. Any idea who did it?"

"I should think that was obvious." Rue turned piercing eyes on Hermione, who snarled a little.

"It wasn't Marlene."

Rue smirked. "Did I suggest that? The woman is unhinged, and her family barbarians, but one has to admit – the only things safe from her temper have four legs." She held out her arm, which Hermione took with a grateful look, and together they hobbled slowly back to the bedroom. "No – this is the work of another. The single perpetrator is irrelevant – rather, the group…"

Shivering, Hermione was careful not to look at the bed as she re-entered the bedroom. Fawcett was wrapped in a blanket from her own bed, curled up on a chair, with Marlene hovering attentively. It was odd – these girls had hated them since they'd first looked at one another, to the point that they would accuse Marlene of something so horrific, but Marlene was still kind-hearted enough to offer support. "You think it was Death Eaters? But that's -"

"Obviously not something their Dark Lord would order, no," Rue whispered, back to her habit of talking almost without volume now that Fawcett was nearby. "It's not the first time one of them has taken actions that would otherwise be considered… ill-advised."

"Who was missing from the Feast?" Hermione asked, ignoring the reference to Avery, who just last year had been accused of using the Cruciatus on first-years. The only reason he remained in school was because no victim had come forward, and without evidence they could hardly expel him.

"Rowle, but I don't think he has those sorts of allegiances. Crouch Jr…"

"Merlin," Professor McGonagall swore, her voice preceding her as she entered the room, eyes fixed on the cat. Rue had obviously moved the curtains aside, and Hermione realised then that her friend had dried blood under her nails, though she'd obviously made some effort to clean it from her fingers – which would explain her presence in the bathroom, if nothing else. She steeled herself from flinching away at that – Rue was an odd girl, but harmless, really. Completely harmless.

"Miss Fawcett, please pull yourself together," Professor McGonagall said in that clipped voice of hers, though it was softened slightly around the edges. "Hysterics will not help us get to the bottom of this crime."

"I already told you, Professor – it was her!" Shepherd accused again, pointing one wobbling finger at Marlene. Really, to do so when the other girl was presently comforting Fawcett just made Shepherd look petty, even though Hermione could quite understand her concern – it had, after all, been Shepherd's bed the creature had been found slaughtered in and were she not to shout in all likelihood she would instead break down.

"Miss Shepherd, please do contain yourself," Professor McGonagall snapped to Shepherd, though again, it was not without compassion. "Perhaps you might make yourself useful and take Miss Fawcett to the Hospital Wing, so that I might begin my investigations." McGonagall's eyes flicked to the cat again, and she paled yet further. "And perhaps, Miss Shafiq, you could find and bring me Mr. Filch and the Headmaster. Both of them will want to be aware of this, I'm sure."

"Yes, Professor," Shepherd said, practically yanking her distraught friend from Marlene's arms and shuttling her out of the room. Rue nodded her assent and disappeared equally as quietly as she'd appeared, leaving Marlene and Hermione to face Professor McGonagall alone.

She did not think this was accidental.

"They are becoming more violent," Professor McGonagall observed, twitching the curtains back into place to hide the body. "We've always had some mischief-makers, blood purists, but never – to do this – to kill someone's familiar – devastate that most sacred of magical bonds…"

Even Minerva McGonagall, tall, stern and unbending, seemed to have trouble processing the scene. She stared unblinking at the curtains, the tiny fingerprints of red where Rue had pulled them back to assess the crime in her own weird way. She turned on them, her face a mask once more. "I must ask – did you have anything to do with this?"

"No!" Hermione gasped, nausea rising once more at the very idea. Marlene, for once not herself, shook her head vehemently. McGonagall gave what appeared to be a sigh of pure relief, sagging slightly.

"I am glad to hear it. I trust that you would have better sense, but I had to hear it denied." Closing her eyes for a second, McGonagall pulled herself together with difficulty. "That leaves one remaining possibility, which, having eliminated all else, must therefore be true."

"Sympathisers?" Marlene asked shakily. McGonagall gave a terse nod. "But – why? Fawcett's a half-blood."

"Miss Shepherd, as you well know, is muggle-born." McGonagall shivered. "I believe it is a message."

"Quite so, Minerva, quite so," Professor Dumbledore concurred, appearing in the doorway. Skulking behind him was Mr. Filch, a relatively new addition to the school, if one which you could easily believe had been here for millennia, such was his propensity to threaten students with medieval torture. Dumbledore swept over to the bed and stood for a moment, suspended over the mutilated corpse. "Ah, Cleopatra…"

With a shake of his robes, he spun on the spot and pinned Hermione and Marlene with his large blue eyes, devoid of humour. "I hope that this event has opened your eyes to the necessity of your lessons," he rumbled ominously. "Indeed, I assume that you will submit your best efforts to learning all you can in the light of this horrific invasion. The dark forces we face have no mercy nor scruples…"

And neither should you hung in the air, ever unsaid. He rarely attended their lessons; even rarer was the occasion that he'd acknowledge their existence, but when he did, he would hint at such things – that they were allowed to be devoid of morality, that they should work as hard as possible to be the best no matter the cost. Such directions were not followed, not in the main, though the implicit permission for students to explore their sadistic sides was an invitation that some of the others couldn't refuse.

Rida, for one, enjoyed testing the boundary between acceptable and unacceptable, and as yet hadn't been pulled back.

Hermione doubted she'd ever take up the mantel; her morals and ethics meant too much to her. His instructions did, however, give her an insight into what he was attempting to mould with these lessons, and the knowledge was unwelcome. Stubborn as she was, she refused to give him the satisfaction of bowing to his wishes, whether or not he claimed it was 'for the Greater Good'.

"Yes, sir," Marlene said, the rebellious glimmer in her eye hidden for his benefit. Perfect little soldiers they were not.

"Very good. Now, I've sent for Miss Evans, who I believe is your prefect. She'll get you settled somewhere else while we sort this out."

"Thank you, sir," they replied in tandem, and he twinkled at them.

"Go on, then. Good night, ladies."

"Good night, sir."


Tuesday 2nd September 1975

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Gryffindor Common Room

"Hermione! Oi, Hermione!"

Smiling, Hermione skipped down the last few steps and dropped into a seat next to Remus by the fire, where the newly self-styled 'Marauders' awaited her. It had been all she'd heard the first few weeks of summer – 'Padfoot this' and 'Moony that'. They were abominably unsubtle, but she kept her own counsel. "Morning," she greeted them brightly, leaning over to drop her satchel on the floor, only then noticing James' face. "What is it? Do I have something in my hair?"

"No – no," Remus reassured her, rolling his eyes. "I told you, Prongs. She's fine."

"Are you?" James asked. Hermione's heart clenched at the earnestness with which he asked that question; he was pale with restless eyes that checked her over again and again. "We heard what happened."

"Oh, the cat?" she replied, feigning innocence with everything she had. Hermione loved James, but he was prone to drama, and if he knew how much it had affected her – how she had a dark pit at the bottom of her stomach, draining all of her energy; how, when she'd gone to sleep last night, she'd slept fitfully, dropping into nightmares of dead cats walking and her friends, slowly bleeding out while a masked man hovered over them carving slurs into their stomachs. She'd felt like she was drowning in blood, her screams non-existent and gurgling, and there had been pain – real pain, as she thought a Cruciatus must feel, except more, and endless. How she'd woken up to Marlene desperately trying to soothe her, and then couldn't get back to sleep until the two of them were curled up together so tight there was barely room to breathe, with Rue sat on the pillow, gazing out into the dark like a gargoyle on watch, and she finally felt safe.

He didn't need to know these things. He didn't need to know any of those things. "Really, James – I was a bit flustered, yes, but Dumbledore's taken care of it now and I'd rather just forget it, if you don't mind."

She thought for a moment she might get her wish, but then – "CAT? What cat?" James was aghast. "I meant Emily being shunted off to the Hospital Wing – cat?"

Damn. "Oh, it was nothing – just, well, someone killed Fawcett's cat. Nothing big, really. Oh, look, it's Marley – Breakfast, Marley?"

She hopped up, almost tripping as her bag strap tangled itself around her ankles, and hurried Marlene out. "Quick, quick," she hissed, practically dragging the girl through the portrait hole.

"Hermione? What? You do know James is shouting for you, right? Is this about the cat? Oi! Give her some space, alright! No – don't you stick your tongue out at me, Black, or I'll cut it out and feed it to you! There, they've stopped following us. Does that help?"

"Marlene McKinnon," Hermione sighed, linking her arm through her friend's and leaning her cheek on her arm. "You are amazing. I love you."

"Ew," Marlene grimaced, peeling Hermione away and holding her there at arm's length. "Emotions. Bleurgh. Not before breakfast, please. I refuse to watch you cry without pancakes."


Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Library

"You've had an eventful night," Regulus drawled, dropping into the chair opposite her. Hermione shot him a scathing look, but he pressed on. "How did I know, you ask? Well, though I constantly bemoan Severus's unreasonable attachment to the Gryffindor with the tart hair-"

"Lily Evans," Hermione filled in for him, abandoning her quill and giving him her full, undivided attention, just as he demanded.

"Lily Evans," Regulus repeated with an exaggerated expression of disdain. "It appears there are some – very few, mind – advantages to having him follow her around. One of these advantages is that she brings with her readily available opportunities to practice our duelling – and you can thank your brother for that, from the very bottom of my empty heart – and the other is that when my darling, dearest friend, Miss Hermione Potter, is hiding something from me, Severus, because of his creepy spying ways, will always know the answer." He folded his arms on the table and gazed at her unblinkingly. "So, darling, dearest friend, why don't you tell me about this cat?"

"What cat?" she said blithely, already tired of the subject. "Do you know, I don't think I've ever noticed how lovely your eyes are before."

"Nice try," Regulus rebutted, though not fast enough to prevent a faint blush from splashing his cheeks. She smirked in victory. "You know, just once I'd like you to tell me your secrets, rather than having to learn them through Severus."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I don't see why you should have to learn them at all – and as for Severus, shouldn't he be stalking Lily, rather than using Lily as a reason to stalk me? He's not a very good obsessive if he can't stay on target."

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Hermione – and why should you be, with all of the men in your life in love with her – but Lily Evans is really quite dull. All she does is study and flirt. No inappropriate liaisons, no secret spy classes; she's not even in the duelling club. Severus is an intelligent man – don't laugh, I'm being serious – and he requires more entertainment than that."

Hermione scowled. "Then why doesn't he stop following her around?"

He shrugged with a smirk. "The heart wants what the heart wants. Even if it's vapid."

"She's not that bad," Hermione chastised. A bit hypocritically – she wasn't a fan of Lily Evans. They didn't have much in common, not really, and Lily tended to look down on her with the superiority of one who might be older but was not wiser. She also had the unfortunate habit of tarring Hermione with the same brush as her brother, and nothing scared 1975's Lily Evans so much as a lesbian on the prowl, even if said lesbian was wholly a product of her own imagination.

"I'm sure," Regulus said without inflection. Hermione knew his opinion was unchanged – he'd never liked her, and thought that Severus was a different person in her company; a person who disdained Regulus, which Hermione also couldn't forgive. "The cat, Potter. Tell me about the cat."

Wrinkling her nose, she pushed her work aside. "It was dead. There was a lot of blood. It was disgusting." Aware that in her effort to detach herself from the experience she had begun to sound like a five-year old writing prose, she opened herself up a bit more, only to pour everything out, as happened around Regulus. "Oh, Gods – it was awful, so small and pitiful and lifeless… and poor Emily! She hasn't said a word since, Shepherd told us, and I can't imagine – if it had been Monty – and the nightmares…"

She was sobbing, she realised with curious absence. Regulus had the look of a boy trapped, but he still offered his handkerchief and patted her arm gently. "There, there," he hummed awkwardly, his eyes darting around the room as if desperately searching for help. It wasn't forthcoming – their table was hidden at the back where nobody else went, for obvious reasons. It was where their 'study group' congregated outside of hours, and the only place in the school they'd found where Slytherins consorting with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs went unnoticed.

"Stop it," she said half-heartedly between cries. "Your boundless empathy will only make me cry more."

He acknowledged this with a wry look and backed off, leaving his handkerchief clutched in her grip. "Nightmares?"

"It's silly," Hermione muttered, drying her cheeks. "Just lots of blood and pain. You'll think I'm being ridiculous, but they felt like memories."

Regulus studied her for a moment. "Well… maybe they are memories." Hermione raised an eyebrow – possibly not as effective as usual, but Regulus was kind enough to pretend it was. "Traumatic events can often break Obliviates, you know."

"I do know," she rolled her eyes. "I was the one to teach you that."

"Well, see, it came in handy. Severus can help, he's a whizz with mind magic."

"Severus hates me," Hermione grumbled.

Regulus waved that assertion away impatiently. "Severus hates your brother. You, he finds, and I quote, 'remarkably tolerable, given her background'."

"I am so very flattered." It was said in her most dry tone, her deadest of deadpans, and Regulus cracked the tiniest of genuine smiles. "Truly, I shall write my mother straight away and notify her of this, the highest of compliments."

He smiled wider and tapped her on her hand. "So you'll do it? You'll ask him for help?"

"If I have time," she warned him. "With Kingsley upping sessions and Professor McGonagall claiming all my free time, it's not likely I'll have the chance."

"There are twenty-four hours in a day, Miss Potter – no doubt you'll find something. Now, what I was going to ask you was-"

"Regulus," she asked suddenly, and he startled, visibly backtracking over the speech he'd prepared. "It wasn't you, was it?"

Far from being offended, he smiled kindly, eyes softening until they were swimming pools of mercury. She hadn't been lying – he really did have the loveliest eyes. "The cat? No, Hermione. It wasn't me."

She let out a breath she hadn't noticed herself holding. "Thank Merlin. Rida?"

"It wasn't one of us," he reassured her again. "I swear."

Nodding, she pulled her work back and picked up her quill. "Right, then. You were asking?"