Due to my screw-up, the Hermione/Draco timeline is a bit disjointed from Harry/Ron's. H and D are catching up in days now, which I hope doesn't confuse anyone.
This is a rather short chapter, I'm sorry, and it's rather filler as I indulged into writing in several memories of my childhood.
Thirty-five kilometers north of the Trans-Siberian Railway and somewhere between the small blue-collar towns of Kusa and Urgala, hidden on the rugged slopes of the Ural Mountains, lies the ancient hold of the Dolohov family.
The terrain here lacks the jagged edges and sharp summits of its younger cousins. Unlike the Rockies or the Himalayas, the peaks in this land don't pierce the sky anymore; like Atlas, they're content to shoulder its burden with the cool dispassion of old age. But don't mistake maturity for senescence: the land, still, is deadly to the unwary traveler. It demands respect and preparation, and one lacking the foresight to plan ahead will easily find himself lost among thickets of pine and spruce, succumbing to the elements, drowning in bogs or collapsing into deep ravines.
Despite the dangers, the mountains are generous. Rich in lumber, ore, fur, and precious metal, they reward greatly those who cherish their value. Dachas cling to their sides, with villagers flocking to the wooden residences in early spring, staying till when the cold northern winds start to blow by mid-september. They plant the food that will sustain them through the harsh winter, harvesting squash, tomatoes, pumpkin, onions, garlic, cabbages, potatoes and cucumbers. The evenings, after a full day of hard labor, are spent playing cards over mugs of chai, mixed in with freshly-picked blueberries, raspberries, or gooseberries.
The odd car will rumble over the potholed village road, but, excepting that, it is quiet and serene.
One peak stands above the others, a worn out rock jutting out from its pinnacle. Locals call it 'the fang'. It does resemble a fang, in a away: a torn out tooth of some mythical beast that lies buried beneath the mountains. There's a path that begins near it – a path that no muggle can see, but that will lead the wayward explorer to a series of valleys clothed in a verdant dress of evergreen forest with seams of frigid water streams. One of the valleys is warded stronger than the others; here, over a thousand years ago, a wizarding family, fleeing persecution in the east, made camp on a cold and windblown night, and then stayed, building up their home into fortress of stone, magic, and life.
Hermione saw it from the sky; Drakosha's wings beating rhythmically around her. Draco had fallen asleep during their journey, his head lulled in the crook of her shoulder, but Hermione had spent the time contemplating her recent thoughts on the virus.
As with any weapon, its existence was a double-edged sword. In the proper hands it could be wielded for justice, but, should it fall into the wrong ones, and the repercussions would be biblical. Knowledge of its existence would have to be limited to a circle of one… maybe two, counting Draco. He'd understand its value.
Hermione also considered the muggle dilemma, ultimately deciding that an application of the virus would be premature. There was still time; besides, surely there were more viable alternatives to genocide. She didn't win a war over a homicidal megalomaniac just to become one. However, she was loathe to leave its potential untapped. There were so many ways to exercise the spell's power for the greater good.
One of the virus's primary objectives was to reprogram the human mind. Voldemort's version amplified aggressiveness and hostility, thus enhancing a propensity for violent crime. But, conversely, couldn't it be used to make people more malleable to others' beliefs? The wizarding world was still rife with prejudice, and discrimination against muggleborns and magical creatures, while not as grave as before, was still very much active.
But, if the virus was altered to boost a host's levels of empathy and tolerance, then she could eliminate the root of this injustice. People would become respectful towards one another; blood wouldn't matter. She could force the existence of an egalitarian, peaceful society that valued human rights, and if that meant she had to overwrite a few thousand bigoted personalities, well… this omelette was worth cracking a few eggs for, right?
Political opponents and opposition leaders could be swayed in a similar fashion. Hermione had a plan, after all – a vision of how she thought the world should be. Turning that dream into reality had become suddenly so much simpler. Instead of an upwards battle in the ministry, campaigning for her beliefs against advocates of a pureblood agenda and compromising on legislation, she could use the virus to pass any law she wanted. She could make the ministry – and the people – agree with her.
Hermione still remembered Bellatrix's bulging eyes bubbling with insanity. The hate, disgust and vitriol she spewed simply because Hermione's blood boasted a muggle origin. Mudblood, she'd carved into her skin – an everlasting reminder. Well, that inscription had stayed, but Bellatrix was dead, and Hermione had vowed to destroy everything the crazy witch had stood for.
This was the most direct route.
There had been a jostle in their flight then, and her thoughts had turned to Draco. Idly, she'd brushed a few silky strands of pale hair from his forehead, frowning at the temperature. It wasn't sickly, but his skin radiated a little too much heat for comfort. She'd cast a cooling charm, wondered at how comforting it was to have a loved one by your side, and then rested the rest of the way.
The Dolohov estate came into view with the last seconds of the setting sun. The mountains, like the shoulders of a slumbering giant, cast long shadows over the craggy ground. It sparkled in rays of ebbing light; snow and ice framing this untouched, vast expanse in a diadem of pearly-white. Hermione softly nudged her beau awake. He blinked his eyes groggily, and a sheepish smile tugged on a pair of chapped lips.
"We're here," she whispered, butterflies in her belly.
This was it, she thought. The final rest before confronting Voldemort's evil. With a blood potion brewed by a relative, they could track down Antonin Dolohov and end this war. All those months in the muggle world, her magic locked away…
…and she would have her revenge.
Draco must have realized the distant paths her mind had wandered, because he gave her a long, solemn glance. "Not so long now," he said in agreement.
They landed in a puff of snow, clouds of flurries beaten up by the force of Drakosha's wings. Anastasia hopped off, chest expanding as she took in a big gulp of crisp air. She looked around herself with the gaiety of a sailor back from a long voyage; a soldier arriving from a year-long deployment in a distant, murky land. Her journey had been long, lonely, and, finally, she was...
"Home!" she exclaimed, exhaling, as a wide smile burst forth. She spun around, her laugh tinkling like a pair of silver bells during the holiday season. She was the epitome of happiness at this moment, and, with one look in her direction, Hermione felt the bitter stab of envy rip into the very center of her soul. Why couldn't she be so happy? Why didn't she have a home?
Her vision became blurry then, and she looked away, blinking several times. A heavy lump formed in her throat as she thought about the meaning of the word. Home. A place where you feel safe, where you benefit from the most precious gift in the universe – unconditional love. Somewhere you're cared for and accepted for who you really are. Hermione had something similar to that – she had her friends, for which she was eternally grateful – but she didn't have a home. What she owned was… a house. A building made of wood on the edge of a forest where she spent her lonely nights, falling asleep to the sound of wind and pained memories.
A hand touched on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" Draco whispered.
Hermione sniffed, shrugging, and wiped the corners of her eyes. "It's hard, sometimes," she admitted, "to see what you do not have."
Draco considered that for a moment, watching as Anastasia, eager and radiant, ran around her 'little' (he was bigger than a house) pet, calling him 'moi malenkiy' and planting smooches on the scaled exterior. She was caught up in the moment, her grin infectious, her eyes beaming with the innocent delight of a child welcoming a new day.
Draco didn't have any worldly advice to share, no profound knowledge to impart. He sighed and shrugged and simply said: "I know."
Hermione snorted, leaned back for a second, feeling his body bear some of her weight, and then pushed off, walking forward to face whatever the future would bring.
She did so with a spring in her step.
As always, thank you for your reviews.