The Long Game

by inwardtransience

Britain has been at peace for nearly a century — protected from the devastation of Grindelwald's war, free of conflict of their own. Charissa Potter, raised surrounded by family and friends more numerous than she can count, never really expected this to change. But hidden forces, it seems, have been playing a long game. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.

38. Fifth Year — Assumptions

September 24th, 1995

---

'Maybe we won't sit there.'

Hermione stared at Luna, suddenly frozen a few steps in front of her. Well, suddenly so far as Luna did anything suddenly, that is, drifting to a halt gradually enough Hermione had more than enough time to stop without running into her, even with all the extra weight from the books she was carrying. 'Why not? Weren't we meeting Morag there?'

'Mm. I can just send her a patrōnus, tell her the change of plans that way. It's not a problem.' Not for the first time, Hermione had to fight off a flare of envious exasperation. Oh, yes, she'd just send off a simple message over something trivial with a bloody patrōnus, no problem! Jesus, Hermione had been trying for years and she still couldn't get the stupid thing right...

By this point, she'd mostly defeated her own mortification over working on Arithmancy and Runes with a student a year under her. Luna's mother had been a spellcrafter and enchanter — herself taught by her own mother, a bloody Ollivander, seriously — and had been teaching Luna basic runes and magic theory since she'd been four. It wasn't unexpected Luna would have age-inappropriate knowledge in the subjects. But, honestly, it still bothered her how absurdly easily actual casting often came to Luna. Hermione was always the first or almost the first to get a spell down in class. (Charissa barely edged her out most of the time, but she was unfairly powerful, that probably shouldn't count.) For some reason, despite being a whole year younger than her, despite Hermione already standing above her entire bloody class, Luna was still better than her. Any time they looked up a spell on their own, something neither of them knew yet, Luna almost always picked it up first. Easily, without even any visible sign of effort.

It might be a bit petty, but it bothered her.

A couple times, with Luna and Charissa being how they were, she'd found herself wondering if she weren't just a mediocre witch. But, no. From the impression she'd gotten reading, and simply her own observations, she was, in fact, significantly better than average. It only felt like she wasn't that special sometimes because Luna was a couple tiny notches higher up the scale, along with people like Neville and Gwyneira and Ginny.

Charissa didn't count. She was just broken. Seriously, it was ludicrous. Given the inherent inefficiency of magic cast without any sort of focus, some of the wandless magic Hermione had seen her do should have incinerated her own body from the inside out. Honestly, with some of the tricks she'd pulled over the last couple months, Hermione had no idea how Charissa was still alive.

But anyway, Luna was being weird. Something was wrong. It was sort of hard to tell for sure — Luna hardly ever showed emotion like a normal human being — but Hermione thought so. A slight tension in her shoulders and voice that wouldn't normally be there. Hardly noticeable at all by normal person standards, since this was Luna, but that was the feeling she got. 'What's wrong?'

'Oh, it's nothing. Just might be better if we go somewhere else.' Yeah, definitely something off. The normal light emptiness of her voice was slightly thicker and heavier than it should be. Barely noticeable, but there.

'What are you talking about?' Hermione stepped around Luna — the narrow halls between bookshelves hardly left enough room, giving her a couple lungfuls of the spicy green scent that seemingly followed Luna everywhere. She only had to look at the familiar clearing ensconced in the forest of books for a heartbeat before she knew exactly why Luna had attempted a change of plans.

Charissa and Neville were sitting at a table. The table.

Not that that was at all surprising, when she thought about it. It was their table, the one Hermione and Charissa and their friends had been using a few times a week since maybe halfway through first year. If anything, it was peculiar they'd been back at Hogwarts for a few weeks now and hadn't run into each other here.

Of course, she and Charissa had barely spoken at all over these weeks. She'd seen her constantly, since they did spend all their time in the same building and did still share most of their classes, but nothing more than absolutely necessary. She was having a sneaking suspicion that had been by design. She doubted Charissa would care to go out of her way to avoid her, but it was obvious Luna had intended to lead Hermione away rather than stay too close to Charissa for too long, and it was possible Charissa had people working her from the other side.

And she was just...

This whole situation was...

Ugh! Before Luna could say or do anything, Hermione was stomping up to the table, fingers tight about her bag over one shoulder and the books under the other. Before she could second-guess what she was doing, she walked up to the table, dropped her books onto the surface with a heavy thudding noise. 'This is stupid.'

Neville looked completely confused, even uncomfortable, his eyes flicking between Charissa and herself with a twitchy sense of being somewhere he didn't really want to be. Charissa, on the other hand, just stared back up at her, a single eyebrow ticking up slightly. 'What's stupid?'

'This whole...' Hermione shrugged, somehow resisting the urge to throw her hands up in the air. That seemed more overly dramatic than the situation really required. 'I don't know! Not being friends! It's stupid, and we should stop.'

Possibly for less than ideal reasons. Honestly? Not being Charissa's friend was just boring. Without Charissa around, she barely had any friends at all. As her mother had joked about once, she'd somehow gotten Luna and even Morag "in the divorce" — she'd rolled her eyes at the use of the phrase in her letter, but she didn't have a much better way to say it. Morag was the really surprising one, she'd always assumed she liked Charissa better. Well, she guessed Luna was a bit odd too, considering she and Charissa were cousins, but that hadn't surprised her too much. Luna was one of the few among "their" friends who would actually go out of her way to see Hermione when Charissa wasn't around. So.

Oh, and Perry would track her down to talk occasionally. She didn't know how to feel about that, but the boy had always seemed a bit sentimental to her. Still, not the point.

Because, well, she really felt saying "their" friends required the quotes. It was obvious in retrospect they'd mostly been Charissa's friends (and cousins), and had really only been tolerating Hermione's presence for her sake. Which she thought was something that should bother her, but it really didn't too much. She just... She wasn't sure she got as much out of the whole having friends thing most people did. If she really needed it as much as normal people, she would probably care that they'd almost all...chosen Charissa's side, so to speak. Especially given exactly what had precipitated the break-up. But, it didn't really bother her.

Come to think of it, she hadn't even really had friends before Charissa. Of course it wouldn't bother her.

Mostly. No, she wasn't hurt or anything by "their" friends more or less abandoning her. In some ways, it was actually an improvement — it was far less difficult to find a proper time and place to focus without people randomly annoying her. But, sometimes? She just got bored. While not all of Charissa's friends had been interesting enough, plenty of them still were. Not having people around to discuss whatever came to mind with, it just...

Even the random stupid drama other people got into! She still thought it was completely idiotic, but she hadn't realised just how...interesting, and vicariously exciting the idiocy that happened in other people's lives could get.

And now she didn't have it, and it was boring.

She did still have Luna and Morag, yes. Luna was pretty good for the former, Morag the latter. Unfortunately, she didn't really like Morag that much — it seemed the only thing Morag ever talked about was pointless social drama nonsense. A little bit of it now and then was fascinating, yes, but all the time? Ugh. She'd rather Charissa had gotten her, honestly. And while Luna was one of the more intelligent people Hermione had ever met, she... Well, Luna didn't quite think in straight lines. She could keep up with Hermione, which was a major plus, and she sometimes had absolutely fascinating insights that wouldn't occur to Hermione in a million years. But, as often as not, she seemingly spoke in riddles, the logic that led to those insights completely impenetrable.

Having Luna Lovegood as a best (only) friend was a bit frustrating sometimes. Though, she wasn't complaining that much. She was entertaining enough. And at the very least, Luna seemed just as uninterested in normal person silly nonsense as Charissa and Hermione herself were. It could be worse.

So, it wasn't necessarily just missing Charissa specifically. She could admit to herself that was definitely part of it. No matter how it might have annoyed and frustrated her at times, she felt she could use a strong dose of the very direct, blunt way Charissa had of speaking and thinking. She hadn't realised how much she'd come to rely on the zone of zero-tolerance for idiocy and double-speak that seemed to follow Charissa wherever she went. And... She didn't know. Sometimes she'd be sitting somewhere reading or writing or something, and it'd just feel wrong somehow. Like something was missing. And she wasn't so dishonest with herself not to know what that something was. But all the other interesting people she always had hovering around her definitely helped.

She wouldn't say she was lonely. She knew someone else in her place might be. But, before getting to know Charissa, she'd never had friends, and hadn't really felt like she needed them. Or, perhaps because she hadn't had them for so long from so young, she'd grown to not need them — it was hard to say for sure. So, it wasn't loneliness, exactly.

But she was bored. Being around Charissa would be an easy way to fix the boredom. Not doing it was stupid.

Of course, while being friends with Charissa again would solve the boredom problem, that didn't mean it wouldn't be annoying sometimes. The faintly amused look Charissa was giving her right now — eyebrows cocked, lips twitching with a slight smirk — that was annoying. Before Hermione could fantasise about hexing her for too long, Charissa spoke. 'So, I'm done waiting, then?'

A question was on Hermione's lips, asking what the hell Charissa was talking about, when the memory was suddenly washing over her.

'I still want to, you know, be friends. But I, I'll need time. I can't— It hurts to look at you right now. So, if that's okay.'

'Yes, that's fine. How long do I wait?'

'I'll come to you when...when I'm ready.'

'All right. I'll wait.'

Hermione felt like slapping herself. She was such a bloody idiot sometimes. She'd thought how they were very effectively avoiding each other had been, she didn't know, a mutual thing. That Charissa had her own reasons, just as she did. That Hermione's own reasons were mostly done with wasn't necessarily enough. Sure, she was...mostly comfortable with the idea of talking to Charissa again. It was still a bit weird. And she doubted she'd ever really trust Charissa, or at least not any time soon, but she didn't necessarily have to. Being alone with her would also be problematic at this point, but with other people around, no big deal, it was fine.

She'd assumed Charissa had her own whatever she was working out. For some absurd reason. One would think she'd learned by now to stop projecting feelings onto her inhumanly emotionless ex-girlfriend, but apparently not.

Honestly, she should just start thinking of Charissa like she were a magic robot or something. It'd probably be way less confusing.

Hermione didn't directly answer the question. Instead she just let out a sigh, coming around the corner of the table to slump into her habitual seat between Charissa and the window. An instant later, Luna was flopping down into the chair next to Neville, wearing a thin, characteristically vacant smile, as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. 'Luna, Morag, and I were going to work on Runes. Grammar and vocabulary, mostly.'

By the lingering smirk on Charissa's face, Hermione knew she'd noticed the evasion, and was not-so-secretly amused by it. But she obviously decided to let it pass without comment. 'Neville and I were doing the same.'

'All right, then.'

Charissa's lips twitched slightly. 'All right, then.' She was teasing her in her head, Hermione just knew it.

She somehow resisted an exasperated pout at the thought, and ruthlessly forced the topic toward Sumero–Akkadian cuneiform. That, at least, she knew how to handle.

---

December 21st, 1995

---

Hermione watched the unwelcome tag-along shadowing her mother and herself, doing her absolute best to not glare. And, probably, failing.

It was perfectly ordinary for large gatherings to occur on or around the Solstice. The Noble Houses were a small enough group they usually just had one stuffy high-society thing to themselves, but sometimes there would be a second one. The party (using the term loosely) for the important people had been yesterday, hosted by the Prewetts — or so she'd heard, she hadn't been invited. There would have been a fair number of people at the thing, yes. Hermione had been to a couple of those functions with Charissa, and there always hundreds of people around, walking around in fancy clothes and talking as though the world existed to validate them and support their way of life. Maybe Hermione had absorbed some of her grand-maman's attitude without noticing, because she was finding such people increasingly annoying these days.

Not to mention those silly fancy balls were often far more boring than she'd ever anticipated.

While the Noble Houses had their fancy things going on, the Common Houses had their own. On a typical year, a few dozen of them. As a part of her plan for House Cherwell — Hermione had never had it explained to her, but she'd seen enough now to feel certain there was one, and she could only assume this contributed somehow — Mum had decided they would have one of their own.

Mum had apparently been arranging it for months. Talking with some of the families making up their new House, asking them exactly what wizarding traditions for the Solstice holidays consisted of. (When Hermione had found out about this, she'd asked, feeling faintly offended, why Mum hadn't asked her. Apparently, Mum had wanted to know what normal people did, and Hermione really only knew nobility, making her knowledge mostly useless.) Once she and a few others had put together a plan, they had spent weeks putting everything together. Deciding exactly who should be on the invite list, how those invites should be given, weaving the spells everything would require, including an update to their wards to ensure their nearest muggle neighbours wouldn't notice anything, acquiring and preparing sufficient food and drink for all the people who would be showing up. And since that apparently involved a lot of meat and confections and alcohol, not to mention a few more exotic items to accommodate their non-human guests, it hadn't exactly been cheap.

The whole thing was being held at what Mum had started semi-jokingly calling the homestead, a few acres of land, she wasn't sure exactly how many, somewhere in... Actually, she had no idea where she was right now exactly. She had the feeling it was in Ireland...somewhere? But even that could be wrong. It wasn't like precise location really mattered at all with transportation magic, so she'd never been told. But anyway. Mum and some of her new magic friends running the unnervingly fast-growing House Cherwell had started in on construction already, but it was nowhere near finished. There was a collection of houses and apartments, shapes moodily half-lit in the firelight, in full light of day striking Hermione as an odd combination of modern muggle practicality and magical quirkiness. But there weren't that many of them, some even partially-completed skeletons, their ribs flickering eerily in the night. More a small village than a small town, which Hermione gathered was the ultimate intent.

And, of course, there were people around. An absolutely absurd number of very loud people — and she didn't only mean that literally. Her impression of wizarding culture she'd gotten at Hogwarts painted magical society as, well, basically Edwardian England. Somewhat more colourful, and with sometimes wildly different traditions and personal morals, but more or less. The clothes might be somewhat odd, but they were, for the most part, comparatively modest by muggle standards; sometimes in bright, eye-searing colours, but generally only one or two at a time. Everyone all reserved and staid and overly proper and self-possessed. While there was plenty of intrusive magical nonsense about, it had always seemed exactly that: intrusive. Like these wands and potions and enchanted whatever were superimposed on a culture that could have existed without them, an extra bit added on once everything else had been settled.

She'd always seen Luna as an outlier, an island of concentrated eccentricity amidst an ocean of comparative mundanity. Now, however, she'd seen far more of magical Britain, and understood better. Luna was still eccentric, of course, she was still an outlier, but not by nearly as much of a margin as Hermione had once believed.

If she'd thought noble mages could be colourful sometimes, they had absolutely nothing on people from Common Houses. It was, as Dad had once joked, as though someone had swallowed an entire rainbow of dyes, some of which glowed and changed colours, along with a couple dozen different kinds of glitter, and vomited all over them. In the most extreme cases, there would be people wearing robes in a clashing litany of colours, sparkling and shimmering with magical effects that sometimes just made Hermione nauseous, but some of them actually looked rather nice. Trousers a solid black, broken with softly glowing silver stars. A dress with indistinct shapes a deep green against a yellow-orange background, the shapes gently drifting back and forth, leaves of a tree against the sunset. One child running past almost seemed to be on fire, the swirling, glowing colours flickering and shifting like flames in slow motion. One woman Mum stopped and talked to for a few moments seemed to be wearing a long cloak made of black-tipped feathers a vibrant blue — thunderbird? — but a closer look showed it was simply cloth, stitched with unnaturally fine detail, some enchantment getting the tines to flutter in the wind in a perfect simulation of reality.

It wasn't just the clothes, either. Hermione had only been here a couple hours, and she already thought she'd seen more than she ever had before of unnatural hair colours, piercings all over the face and body, some of which she suspected would be impossible or merely cripplingly impractical without magic, tattoos of all shapes and sizes, some of which moved. Honestly, she'd barely talked at all the whole time. She just followed her mother around, watching the people around her, cataloguing all of the oddness she was seeing, continuously reevaluating her understanding of magical British culture.

Though, the celebration itself had plenty to draw her attention as well. It was, basically, a big outdoor...feast...picnic...thing. Under environmental wards holding off winter chill, spaced out all around were tables laden with platters and bowls of edible things of all kinds, cans and bottles and pitchers of various drinks. People would take whatever struck their fancy — sometimes simply grabbing finger food and walking off, sometimes using provided plates or bowls, though some seemingly couldn't be arsed to go that far out of their way, conjuring their own as they needed them. And they'd gather in little clumps of conversation, some standing as they ate and talked, others on randomly-conjured furniture, others just laid out on the grass. Most gravitated somewhere near the bonfires, creating dense packs surrounding, their long, flickering shadows dancing over the more widely spaced groups or wandering individuals between.

For there were bonfires, of course, that was apparently a Solstice thing. Seven of them, because seven was a magic thing. But, this being a gathering by the Common Houses of magical Britain, it apparently couldn't be that simple. Something had been done to the logs occasionally thrown onto the fires. Hermione had no clue what, but it was certainly impressive. The wood might burn normally for a while, giving absolutely no sign of anything unusual, but then there would be a tactile snap of magics released, and there was no telling what might happen then. The flames might leap higher into the air, contorting into forms and colours no natural fire would take. Sparks flung high above their heads in dense streams, only to gradually drift down again, not fading until they'd made a few distracting circuits around people's heads, gave the children about opportunity to chase after them with high squeals of delight. Sometimes dense wisps of glowing magic in all shades, rainbow fog forming a dome a few metres above the ground, filling everywhere the fires didn't reach with a faint, inconsistent light, each patch of spellglow enduring just long enough to be replaced by an eruption from the next bonfire along, never growing quite thick enough to obscure the curtain of stars above.

Occasionally, when their guests didn't have Hermione distracted, she would find herself wondering exactly how all that worked. Little pockets of catalysts embedded in the wood, only released when their shells were broken by the fire? It was fascinating, she'd never imagined such a thing.

Though the guests did have her attention rather a lot — she was technically the host, after all. Only technically, because her status as Mistress of the Common House of Cherwell was widely acknowledged to be a technicality. In every way except legally, it was her mother. But Emma Granger, being a muggle, could not lead a House under current British law. Hermione had gathered that hadn't always been the case, but it was at the moment.

So, Mum had instead organised the House under Hermione, with herself as regent, without Hermione's consent or even informing her until after the fact, which was, apparently, perfectly legal. The law was ridiculous sometimes.

Not that Hermione thought she'd be able to do a better job of it. Her eyes trailed away from their tail, refocusing on the conversation Mum was having at the moment. She was talking with an older man, looked to be in his late sixties, early seventies — assuming muggle aging, she meant, so his actual age was probably at least a hundred twenty and probably greater — wearing comparatively plain robes glowing a soft blue-white. Though even he had a couple rings looping through the tops of his ears, his unnaturally white hair glittering as though he'd combed crushed quartz into it. 'I do not contest that something, should be done, Madam Cherwell,' he said, his soft voice only slightly wavering with the weight of decades. 'I am simply unsure this is the correct way to go about it. The costs involved in such a venture would be significant.'

And her mother smiled at him, fluttering shadows thrown by the fires making the hints of a smirk more pronounced, seeming entirely unconcerned. 'So cautious, Master Burton! I hadn't expected it of you. Nothing I've heard of your reputation suggested you would be this miserly.'

The old man — apparently, head of another Common House — reacted to the half-insult with an exasperated expression. Not quite annoyed, not quite offended, as though he were merely somewhat impatient with Mum. 'I'm sorry, dear, was that supposed to be subtle? You'll have to try harder than that, I'm afraid. The benefit of experience and all.'

But Mum just smirked. Which Hermione had to admit was somewhat unnerving. Not that seeing Mum dressed up as a witch wasn't somewhat odd all by itself, it was — she'd even had her bangs charmed white as snow for the occasion, it was bloody weird. No, it was more the tone of the smirk itself. A hint of amusement, a trace of predatory glee, threaded through an overwhelming mountain of smooth self-assurance. The very clear sense that she knew she was going to win, Master Burton knew she was going to win, she knew Master Burton knew she knew, and the whole dance was quite exhilarating, his continued resistance of his inevitable defeat nothing more than adorable.

One of the more unnerving developments wrapped up in all this House Cherwell business was the insight into Mum's personality Hermione had gotten. When she'd learned about the houses of Hogwarts, she'd assumed that her mother, had she been able to go, would have been a Ravenclaw, or perhaps a Hufflepuff. After the last couple years, she hadn't any doubt Emma Granger was a Slytherin.

'The benefit of experience is exactly the point!' Mum said, her voice high and cheerful. 'It is a valuable thing, isn't it? But in the here and now, so many of the Common Houses are sending their children to their magical school of choice with hardly the proper experience to guide them at all! Hermione tells me even some of the students at Hogwarts of all places are dreadfully undereducated in the most fundamental of things, needing months of intensive tutoring just to catch up to the bare minimum in something so simple as reading.'

Ah, yes, Hermione remembered this. Mum, along with a few of the more clever new Cherwells and some allies in other Common Houses, was trying to put together a school for younger children. Primary school, sort of, before they were old enough to go to a proper school of magic. (It turned out, not all of them admitted people at eleven like Hogwarts did, but it was usually somewhere between ten and thirteen.) From what Hermione had heard, magical Britain had no such thing, children getting their most basic education from their parents, or whatever tutors they could arrange. Some other schools had programs for younger children, but there was tuition to be paid. Handling all that wasn't difficult for the Noble Houses, or the Common Houses Hermione would call upper or middle class, but for the poorer mages it was a serious problem the majority of the government seemed to think wasn't worth addressing. But even among the wealthy, the system was precariously ad hoc — things sometimes fell through the cracks. Master Burton apparently didn't believe Mum's assertion that even some of the noble children couldn't read and write sufficiently well by the time they got to Hogwarts, giving Hermione a doubtful look she returned with only a solemn nod.

Mum shot her a quick smile as Burton's doubt swiftly transfigured into something obviously uncomfortable. 'This is an issue that has been becoming gradually more and more problematic on the magical side of things for, oh, five or six centuries or so. Programs such as that at an Ollscoil are a good start, but they don't go nearly far enough. Interestingly, the same thing has become an issue on the muggle side only within the last century or two, but we've solved it already. Public schooling, you see, funded through taxation, which all people in the country are not only allowed, but required to attend.'

Burton gave a slow, cautious nod, as though acknowledging the theoretical usefulness of such a thing, but doubting it would ever come to be reality. 'You may have gotten our gracious countrymen at the Ministry to consent to the formation of your House, but you would have to be far more naïve than I believe you to be to think that has in any way endeared you to them. Should they ever agree to this, it would take decades of bickering and bartering. It is but a pretty dream, Madam Cherwell.'

And Mum just smiled at him, that bright, sharp, eager, slightly dangerous smile that so unnerved Hermione. 'Excuse me, Master Burton, but you seem to be operating under the mistaken assumption that we will asking. In fact, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe this should require the Ministry's involvement at all.'

When all was said and done, Mum had another House signed on to her plans to create a collectively-funded primary school for magical children. That this rather serious business was done with the distractingly colourful and chaotic Solstice celebration still going on in the background made it seem a hundred times more absurd. At some point, Hermione's life had apparently become one of those baffling avant-garde stage plays, and she hadn't even noticed.

In time, Burton left, looking somewhat annoyed, but grudgingly satisfied. Without moving, a bloody grin still on her face, Mum said, 'Liana?'

The call wasn't given in a raised voice. Mum had said it exactly at her normal speaking volume, flat and easy, with the clear expectation of a reply. Not in a cold, authoritarian sense, but just as though it were a natural reality of the universe, she couldn't reasonably expect anything else. And, in the blink of an eye, their shadow was no longer shadowing them from a distance, instead standing less than a metre behind Mum's left shoulder. Hermione's fingers twitched for her wand, despite knowing anything she could do would more than likely be less than useless. In her smooth, cool voice, with the barest traces of an accent too weak for Hermione to identify, 'Yes, milady?'

Mum blinked at the honorific, disoriented for an instant before just ignoring it. Which was a sort of surrender. Certain individuals among the new Cherwells seemed inclined to address Mum as though she were the Lady (Regent) of a Noble House, instead of the Mistress (Regent) of a Common — Hermione gathered this was infrequent but not unusual within Common Houses anyway — and Mum had originally argued, trying to get people to drop the ridiculous formalities. But mages could be stubborn. Apparently, Mum had given up. 'Mark down House Burton for fifteen slots, rotating, at cost plus twenty-five percent.'

The strange woman paused for a moment, her hard eyes slightly unfocused, committing the order to memory. 'It will be done, milady.'

And Mum just nodded and started walking off again. Perfectly casual, as though she hadn't just given completely mundane instructions, duties one might expect of a personal accountant or a secretary, to a bloody vampire.

Hermione must have spaced out momentarily, because Mum had gotten a few steps away. Liana was meeting her gaze, looking, if anything, slightly exasperated. There was a clear question in her eyes, but Hermione had absolutely no idea what to do about it. She still wasn't entirely sure how she should be dealing with vampires. Not that Liana really looked like a vampire — or, at least, what she had expected vampires to look like. That had been one thing she had immediately noticed, when she had come home for the winter holiday to meet a few for the first time in her life.

An entire clan of them, in fact, calling themselves Caiazzi, presumably because they were originally from the similar-sounding town in Italy, or at least somewhere nearby. There weren't very many of them. She hadn't been told the exact number, and neither had she asked, but she assumed it had to be maybe twenty. Which did sound like a lot, considering they were vampires, but as far as such things went it really wasn't — there were vampire clans on the Continent that numbered in the hundreds. Though, she'd been told, there had been more Caiazzi once upon a time, much more. Sometime back in the fifteen hundreds, a member of their clan had gone on a murder spree throughout the area, and the clan had been almost entirely slaughtered by local mages in retaliation. Out of a clan that had numbered maybe two hundred, only five had managed to flee, eventually finding themselves in Ireland.

Not that the name Caiazzi really meant anything — the British Ministry didn't recognise vampire clans in any meaningful way. While they still called themselves Caiazzi out of habit if nothing else, they were now, legally, Cherwells.

Yeah. Hermione still had no bloody clue how to process the reality that, under magical law, she now had vampire cousins.

While most of the Caiazzi stuck to themselves, Hermione had run into Liliana and her brother (cousin?) Ulisse unnervingly frequently. Apparently, as a part of the deal Mum had struck with the Caiazzi — and if that wasn't a terrifying thought, her mother meeting with a clan of vampires while she was away at school — Mum had gotten Liana's services as a personal-assistant-slash-bodyguard, and Ulisse's as, and this was the real kicker, a childminder.

Yes, that's right. While Mum, Dad, and herself were here at this ridiculous party thing, her sister, barely yet a year and a half old, was home alone, at their house in the middle of the bloody muggle suburbs, with her multi-centenarian vampire nanny. The weirdest thing about that was that her parents didn't seem to see anything wrong with it.

At first, when she'd first met Ulisse, she'd wanted to protest. She'd really wanted to protest, she'd had all the arguments about how powerful and dangerous and vicious vampires are primed in her head, just bursting at her tongue, and...she'd lost it. Gwenn had run into the room at that very moment, in that unsteady, tottering way she had, tugging at Ulisse's trousers for attention, blabbering away a mile a minute. And Ulisse had smiled at her all soft and warm, somehow picking through her half-incomprehensible toddlerish nonsense to respond adequately, and everyone else in the room had just stood there like there was nothing about this out of the ordinary, there was nothing odd going on here, and Hermione had never felt more out of place in her entire life.

It really said something when a couple strange vampires seemed more at home with her own family than she did. She wasn't entirely sure what that said, but it was definitely something.

They were nothing like how she'd expected vampires to be. They didn't look like it, they didn't act like it. Liana here had, of all things, curly blonde hair. Not a very vibrant blonde, a flaxen yellow shot through with flakes of deeper brown, but a colour that wouldn't seem out of place on any random normal person. Her skin was so pale and so clear she looked rather like someone had poured white chocolate into a mould and let it set. Her eyes a soft blue-green, rather reminding Hermione of one of the bays near Syracuse at midday. She didn't look too unusual at first glance, could pass as human easily enough if one weren't looking too closely. A mage, of course — the shimmering sparkles on her trousers and tunic in muted blues and oranges were obviously some kind of magic. It was in the way she moved, mostly. Sometimes too still, hardly seeming to breathe, others too quick, movements unnaturally smooth and rapid, easy as water flowing. It was noticeable, that Liana wasn't human, was something else, but it was very subtle.

Not to mention, when they were close enough, they felt...weird. She knew Mum and Dad wouldn't have realised this, since they didn't have magic, and Hermione was pretty sure that's what it was. But Liana and Ulisse just felt somehow wrong. It was hard to say exactly how. She just got the vague feeling, like a half-heard whisper in her ear, that the thing in front of her should not be, that it was sick and unclean. It made the hairs at the back of her neck tingle whenever they got too close.

If anything, she would say it felt rather like when the Greek Champion in the Tournament had used blood magic to subdue her dragon. Just not even close to so overwhelming, instead so weak she barely noticed it was there.

'Can I help you, young mistress?'

Hermione jumped at the sound of Liana's too smooth voice, jarring her out of her wandering thoughts. She was starting to suspect some of the drinks she'd been sipping at over the evening were alcoholic, she was being silly. 'No, I don't suppose you would.' Liana could help Hermione by going very far away and never coming back, but she figured there was little chance of that happening.

Liana's eyebrow ticked up a little more. But, Hermione noticed, her eyes weren't steady on her. They would flick to Mum every other second or so, watching her as she slowly made her way through the noisy crowd of celebrating mages. But even without having her full attention, it seemed the vampire could see enough. 'If you have a problem with me, I would hear it. It would make things simpler in future if I could know now.'

If she had a problem? Her mother was being watched virtually every minute of every day by a bloody vampire, and the bloody vampire herself wanted to know if Hermione had a problem with that? 'Do you really have to ask?'

'I do not intend to harm your mother, Hermione.' Liana's head tilted a few degrees, a thin smile coming over her face. 'In fact, I distinctly recall swearing to prevent to the best of my abilities any harm coming to her. So, you could say I intend rather the opposite.'

'Why?'

A sense of confusion crossing her face so faintly it couldn't quite be considered an expression, Liana just hummed a short, 'Hmm?' Then, her eyes turned in Mum's direction, Liana started walking. Slowly, with no intent to leave Hermione behind, seemingly just to keep Mum close enough to observe properly.

Hermione furiously debated in her head for a couple seconds — follow the bloody vampire and finish the conversation, or just leave? But, like, always, she quickly found her curiosity was not so easily ignored. Cursing under her breath, she helplessly trailed after the much older being. 'Why do you care what happens to my mum?'

Liana hummed again, her head tilted a bit to the side in thought. For some inexplicable reason, Hermione was forcefully reminded of Luna. 'I suppose I don't, to be frank. At least not in the way you imply. My elders tell me Mistress Cherwell must be protected, and so she shall be.'

That didn't answer the question at all, just passed the responsibility to answer it along. 'Okay, then. Why do your elders care what happens to some random muggle?'

Still slowly following Mum like some kind of colour-inverse shadow, Liana turned to give Hermione a look. 'You say "muggle" as though it makes any difference to us.' Hermione must be having an expression on her face, because Liana continued, voice carrying a slight hint of exasperation. 'Mage, muggle, you're all humans. I don't see why it should be that significant. There are vampires who can work magic, and others who cannot, but they are all yet vampires.'

Well, yes, Hermione did know that. There were more vampire mages, proportionate to the rest of their kind, than there were human mages. Something like one in ten, she thought, but that meant there were still far more "muggle" vampires than "magical" ones. Which was sort of a silly thing to say, since vampires were inherently magical just by the fact of their existence, but only roughly ten percent of them could actively cast spells, in any case.

Liana, Hermione knew, was one of those ten percent. Though she preferred not to think about that — vampire mages were about a thousand times more deadly than normal ones. Take Charissa, but give her superhuman strength, durability, and agility, along with hundreds and sometimes thousands of years of experience, and that was about the size of it.

Anyway, how non-human beings viewed the whole muggle–magical divide was fascinating, but entirely beside the point. 'You didn't answer the question.'

'No, I suppose I didn't.' Before Hermione could vent her growing frustration even a little bit, Liana kept talking. 'Why do people do anything?'

'That's not an answer either!'

Liana turned away from her vigil over Mum only long enough to give Hermione a crooked smirk, firelight glinting off too-white teeth behind her lips. 'But that was an answer, young mistress. Or, to be more precise, a hint at the answer. I was under the impression you were intelligent enough to reason out such things on your own.'

Hermione was pretty sure her mother's vampire assistant had just called her stupid. She had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Besides trying to set her on fire, anyway, but Hermione was positive she would fail, and that would just be awkward.

'It is really quite simple.' Hermione wasn't quite certain how to interpret the look Liana was giving her. Almost pitying, but not quite. As though Hermione were a foolish, short-sighted, arrogant child, and that was sad, but it wasn't truly her fault. A self-righteousness of youth, irritating and tragic, but one that she would inevitably grow beyond. Condescending, maybe? Whatever it was, it only made Hermione want to set her on fire more than she had a second ago. 'Rational people will, for the most part, do something for one of two reasons: either it contributes to their survival, or they simply wish to, out of some personal enjoyment or preference. My elders clearly wish to aide your mother, and they are more or less rational people, so their reasons must involve one or both.'

'I honestly don't see what you get out of it.' She really didn't. It was difficult for vampires to make their way in magical British society legitimately. Their situation was little different than that of most non-human beings — most were not treated well here. That was true, joining with House Cherwell could help them there, but they didn't really have to bother. They were vampires. They could simply take whatever they wanted. If not from mages, then from muggles, who were practically defenceless.

That look, when Liana glanced over at her again, was far more readable: disappointment. Perhaps with a shade of disbelief, as if she hadn't expected to be disappointed. 'You don't see what we have to gain from this alliance? I know you know how my family came to be here in Britain. And you still don't understand?'

Oh. Well. She supposed that was the risk inherent in simply taking whatever they wanted. They might be able to get away with it for a short period of time, but eventually they would make enough people angry enough they would do something about it. One vampire against an average mage wasn't even a contest. One vampire against an Auror wasn't either, but the other way around. A single Auror trio could probably take out an entire clan. Hell, Lily could probably do it herself, especially one as small as the Caiazzi. But even normal mages, it didn't take that impractical of an advantage of numbers to overwhelm a group of vampires. Considering how many more mages than there were vampires, it wasn't at all difficult to gather the numbers necessary.

After all, the vampire population of Europe had dropped precipitously in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries for a reason.

She thought she could maybe see the point. Sort of. There was more of an advantage for them in legitimacy than she'd originally assumed — not to mention the legal protections they got as a member to any House, so they couldn't just be exterminated at a whim. But it was somewhat odd. 'That's all it is? You think your chances of survival are better with us?'

They were stopped at the moment, Mum some distance ahead deep in conversation with someone new. So Liana turned to face her fully, her eyes hard and unnaturally steady on hers. 'I have never witnessed such a thing personally, you understand. My clan has lived here relatively unmolested for some centuries, and I was only brought into this world seventy-three years ago.' Hermione blinked — somehow, she'd been under the impression Liana was much, much older than that. 'But I have heard stories. Personal experiences related by my elders, of the slaughter they fled from, tales of the obliteration of other clans more recently, elsewhere. And they are not pleasant stories.

'They kill all of us, you know.' And Liana went on, the words themselves horrifying enough, the simple, casual way she said it making Hermione shiver all the harder. 'They kill us all, no matter that most of us have never done anything to deserve it. We keep to ourselves, do our best to live in peace, and still they kill us. Systematically, one by one. The men, the women, the children.' A slight hint of heat entering her voice, Liana said, 'And I don't think you understand what that means to us. Humans have children so easily, so many, often without even trying. But our children are so rare, so few. They kill them all, all the same, no matter their youth, no matter their innocence. If it is not human, it dies.'

That was one of the things Hermione had thought she knew about vampires that had been completely incorrect. Despite everything muggle popular culture and even some more sensationalist magical sources had to say on the matter, vampires were born, not made. Presumably, they were originally created by some sort of blood alchemy, but the ritual had been lost to the ages. Vampire reproduction, in essence, was exactly the same as human reproduction, differing only in that the vampire birth rate was significantly lower. Enough the Caiazzi didn't currently have any children at the moment — in fact, it was very possible Liana, apparently in her seventies, was the youngest in the clan.

'Not that the humans are safe either,' she said, a slightly twisted smile coming to her face. 'The humans of the clan are executed as well, every last one. The murderers come up with pretty but tragic words to justify it, that they are too far gone, too tainted by being in our presence so long. That they are putting them out of their misery. But still they are killed. Often as brutally as the rest of us, enduring tortures and violations innumerable along the way.'

That was one of the things about vampires that had been less surprising. Vampire clans tended to include a number of humans, often numbering more than the vampires themselves. While vampires didn't actually need to drink blood to survive in the short term — in fact, they ate food like normal people — they did need a certain amount to maintain their immortality. Without it, a vampire would resume aging at roughly the same rate as a human, and eventually die. (Hence speculation they had originally been created by some lost blood alchemy.) Clans usually kept a sufficient population of humans to support their needs on site, as it were. The typical narrative among mages was that these humans were essentially prisoners, abducted and held against their will. Other more sympathetic sources said that was sometimes the case, but more voluntary arrangements were actually more common. Hermione was inclined to believe the former, but she wasn't entirely certain — she'd never met any such people before, and since her sources weren't in agreement, she couldn't quite make a decision either way.

Liana's face had twisted into a sharp, humourless smile, something in her eyes dark and dangerous. 'It is rather funny, you distrusting us so persistently. There have been vampires who have done terrible things, I will not deny that. But most of us, the vast majority of us, have done nothing to you. We only wish to leave our lives in peace, like any other people. But you keep killing us, and killing us, and killing us. We are so greatly diminished, no one knows if we'll be able to replenish our numbers, or if we'll instead fade away entirely. Your kind have nearly driven mine extinct. And yet you still believe you are the nobler species, and we are the monsters. Honestly, I would laugh if it didn't hurt so much.'

And then Liana simply walked off, smooth and silent through the night, as though she really were simply Mum's shadow, leaving Hermione standing alone, temporarily incapable of speech.

She still wasn't certain vampires should count as people. They were obviously sapient, she would admit, but there were complications. It wasn't quite so simple. But, somehow, in everything she had read, in everything she had learned, somehow she'd never thought to consider whether the worldwide partial extermination campaign enacted against vampires for centuries now was, technically, genocide.

The thought made her extremely uncomfortable.

That's it, she was going to find Luna. The Lovegoods had been invited, and they were almost certainly here somewhere, but Hermione hadn't gone looking for them. She wasn't sure mixing Luna Lovegood and alcohol was a great idea. But a drunk Luna would certainly be distracting, and a distraction was exactly what she needed right now. Actually, come to think of it, Luna was pretty much always distracting. If Hermione hadn't known better, she would almost think it Luna's goal in life. So even if she weren't intoxicated, which Hermione honestly doubted, it would still be a good idea.

While on her search through the teeming masses chatting and laughing around the bonfires, it occurred to Hermione she wasn't entirely certain she did know better.

---

May 25th, 1996

---

For some reason, Hermione had found this far less annoying last time.

She'd been sitting in a corner of the common room when it happened, with a book. Well, not technically a corner, since Ravenclaw Tower was circular and thus had no corners, but somewhere out of the way, in any case. Not a book relevant to any of her rapidly approaching OWLs, even, just some random thing. A novel, in fact, which was so out of character she'd even gotten a few confused looks from her housemates.

It was possible she'd been getting mildly obsessive about the exams, revising far more than was entirely reasonable, living for a couple weeks straight just on the edge of a panic attack. Luna had force-fed her a calming potion, then went on one of her silly, slightly unfocused-sounding rants about how revising seemed sort of pointless for Hermione, seeing as she remembered everything she had ever read or been told ever with inhumanly perfect accuracy. Her objection there could be something on the exams she hadn't read or been told had been calmly countered by the assertion that Hermione read so much on her own that was extremely unlikely. Hermione might want to do a bit of practice for the things that would be on the practical, but there was absolutely no reason to waste her time going over things she already knew and would never forget. She would be fine, all she was accomplishing was hurting herself, and Luna would really rather she didn't.

Luna had left, after pressing a few more bottles of calming and sleeping potions into her hands, along with handwritten copies of the formulas she'd used, then flounced off, floating away across the library humming to herself. Hermione had sat blankly watching her back as she left, the plethora of thoughts and feelings running through her head mostly just boiling down to warm sort of bafflement.

That had been a few days ago now, and Hermione was trying to be less ridiculous. Luna hadn't felt the need to drug her again, so it probably wasn't too bad. And here she was, sitting in the common room, calmly reading. A novel, even! Or, mostly calmly. She did have the niggling feeling, itching at the back of her eyes, that she was supposed to be doing something else, that she wasn't supposed to be here, bad enough it made it sort of hard to concentrate on what she was supposedly reading. But it wasn't that bad. It was manageable. That seemed sort of like progress.

Luna seemed to think so. She'd seen Hermione sitting here, given her one of those warm, dreamy smiles she always did, confirmed they were going to meet for Defence practice tomorrow. (Hermione was practising for OWLs with people in her year, but she simply couldn't do Defence with Charissa. At least Luna could actually be helpful.) Then, humming to herself, she'd floated away to the stairs up to the dorms, to go do...whatever it was Luna did when she was alone. Hermione tried not to think of it, honestly.

Which didn't necessarily mean she didn't. Just that she tried not to.

It was rather late, late enough the common room was mostly cleared out. A little pack of third-years chatting by the fire, a fifth- or seventh-year reading alone here or there, almost empty but not quite. Hermione was, in fact, considering going to bed rather soon herself. She would need a sleeping potion again to manage it, because she was simply too anxious for no good identifiable reason, but that was rather beside the point. Quickly flipping pages, she noted there were only four left until the end of the chapter. Right, she'd finish this then go.

She was just getting back into reading when she felt it. It was recognisable, but... Ephemeral fingers grasping at some part of her that she could feel but not feel, more thought than form, plucking at her mind but not quite finding purchase, sliding off with nothing gained. A rising feeling of excitement, of uncontainable energy, mild but undeniably present, tingles racing across her skin, a ringing in her ears and the faint scent of grass and dirt thick with life teasing her nose. She knew what that was without even having to see the source. Even if she'd only felt it a few times, even if it was usually under far greater control than that, she still knew what that was.

So she wasn't even slightly surprised when Charissa, wearing a somewhat rumpled-looking red and white dress, stumbled into the common room. She was slightly more surprised when her unsteady steps brought her bumping into a low table, losing her balance to spill over the surface and then onto the ground, high, slow giggles ringing in the air abruptly still as everyone else fell silent to stare at the spectacle.

Well. That would explain why Charissa had lost control of her legilimency and magic, at least. She was clearly intoxicated.

Though, really, that just raised more questions than it answered.

'Don't get me wrong.' Hermione couldn't see where she was on the floor from here, so she only saw Charissa's hand rising above the table, a single finger pointing vaguely toward the ceiling. Her voice was wavering, the words somewhat slurred, but not so badly Hermione couldn't understand. 'Ravenclaw, Ravenclaws are great, and all. All smart, and not too too annoying, and leave me alone when I wanna. But Hufflepuffs? Hufflepuffs are ffuuuunnnn...' And another torrent of nasally, somewhat breathless giggles.

Never mind. Hufflepuffs. That answered most of Hermione's questions.

Hermione hesitated for a long moment, staring in Charissa's general direction. She should probably do something about that. The other older students had all gone back to their books, seemingly deciding the situation wasn't worth their attention, and the third-years by the fire were just staring with disbelieving fascination, as though they'd never imagined such a thing were possible. Though, whether that was because Charissa was a prefect or just because she was Charissa, Hermione wasn't sure. It wasn't every day the country's resident prodigy sorceress was laid out on the floor, high out of her mind on something and giggling her head off. Someone should probably make sure Charissa got to bed, but she seemed to be the only even half-responsible person around at the moment. Which was somewhat irritating, considering Charissa was supposed to be the bloody prefect.

With a hard, helpless sigh, Hermione flipped her book closed, slipped it into her bag, and got up to her feet. She started walking toward where Charissa had to be, then suddenly froze the instant she came into sight. She was sprawled on her back, the skirt of her dress bunched higher up her thighs than was entirely decent, one strap drooping over the side of her shoulder. Framed by a tangled mess of thick black hair, Charissa's face was pulled into an uncharacteristically wide smile, her eyes bright and unerringly focused on hers. As though she'd known Hermione would be appearing there before she'd even shown up. 'Hey, look, it's Maïa. The most Hermione of Maïas.'

Hermione's thoughts hitched for a moment, not entirely sure how to respond to that. For one thing, Charissa had only ever called her Maïa when they were... Well, it wasn't a name she'd ever used too often, anyway. For another, she wasn't really sure what that was supposed to mean, or if it even meant anything at all. But she'd gotten a lot of practice dealing with that sort of thing with Luna, so she just ignored it. 'What are you doing, Charissa?'

Her smile split slightly wider. 'Not much of anything, really? That's a silly question. I'm being. Obviously. I'm just being more tinglier and fuzzier than usual. Did you realise you have a thingie?'

Hermione blinked. 'A thingie?'

'Yes. Thingie.' Charissa's lips pinched with concentration, eyes narrowing slightly, hand lifting to gesture randomly around her head. Hermione felt something happening, she wasn't sure what, thin, unidentifiable strands of magic slipping against her skin. 'A thingie. It's all shimmery, and bright, and warm. No idea what that is.'

...Okay, then. 'You really should get to bed, Charissa. Before you hurt yourself or, I don't know, fall asleep in the middle of the floor or something.'

'I suppose that would be bad.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Yes. That would be bad.'

'But it's comfy down here.'

Got to be kidding... 'More comfy than your bed?'

'Well, maybe? I mean, I wouldn't ordinarily say the floor is comfy, but with the world going all swirly some comfiness must have swirled into it. Maybe the comfiness swirled out of my bed with all the swirliness, it might have gone somewhere else, and my bed will be uncomfy. Who knows?'

Hermione felt her eye twitch, entirely outside of her control. Her chest and throat felt too tight and too hot, and part of her, a secret part she normally didn't listen to, really wanted to hex Charissa right now. By the way Charissa blinked up at her, seeming pleasantly surprised, and slightly amused in a sort of condescending way, she probably realised that. But she fought the feeling back, burying it again deep inside. 'Yeah, you're coming upstairs anyway.'

It took way more effort to get Charissa up on her feet than it reasonably should. Just telling her to get up hadn't worked. Trying to drag her up by a hand had just seen her flopping bonelessly over to her other side. So, gritting her teeth, Hermione hit her with a featherlight charm, and hauled her upright, slinging Charissa's arm over her own shoulders. While she started dragging the other girl to the stairs, she let out a long hee noise. 'Your magic is nice.'

Er. That was weird enough Hermione staggered, distracted. 'Nice?'

'Mmhmm.' Charissa turned into Hermione's shoulder, face pressed into her shirt. 'It feels like how you smell. Essence of Hermione, all over me.' And she took a long, deep breath, by the sound of it through her nose. 'Hee hee...'

Hermione couldn't even begin to figure out how to respond to that. But she was pretty sure she felt herself blushing anyway.

Eventually, after much awkwardness and stumbling and trying to ignore how Charissa kept sniffing her and humming, she'd finally gotten the ridiculous girl up the stairs. Hermione dropped her bag in the middle of the hall, then dragged Charissa to the room she shared with Padma. Hermione was somewhat surprised, on looking around, to see Charissa's roommate wasn't here. Hmm. Whatever. In short moments she had Charissa across the room, just let her roughly fall onto the bed. Not that Charissa seemed to mind, she just giggled some more. After the slightest pause, Charissa said, 'You're right, Maïa. Bed is comfier.'

'Yes, well, it would be, wouldn't it?' She wanted out of this room. She'd gotten more comfortable with Charissa over the months, yes. Not so much as she had been before, it was still painfully awkward sometimes. In a way, that Charissa was seemingly unaffected by the same things that bothered Hermione only made it worse. That Charissa was very...odd right now, that wasn't helping. She kept being forcefully reminded, in alternation, of Charissa that night in France and Luna just in general. It made her uncomfortable. 'Right, well, you should probably take your shoes off and...' Hermione blinked a couple times, staring blankly at Charissa's feet. 'Charissa, where the hell are your shoes?'

'Hmm?' Charissa sat up a bit, pulled her bare feet up onto the edge of the bed — Hermione glanced away when she realised what was happening, far too uncomfortable with both the thought of randomly seeing up Charissa's dress and just how much Charissa didn't seem to care whether she could — leaning forward to stare at them. 'Huh. I forgot. Must be where I left them.'

Hermione sighed, lifting a hand to rub at her face. 'And where did you leave them?'

'Well, Hufflepuff, I think. I know I had them when I got there, and I took them off when my toes started feeling too squishy. Have you ever been in Hufflepuff? They have a nice common room, actually, it's all warm and dark and soft, it's nice.'

'No, I haven't.' She had seen pictures, but she wasn't sure she would like it. It seemed too...constricted? It gave the very clear feeling of being underground, she meant, by the look of it, too dark and tight and closed in. Not something she would like. 'What were you doing down there, anyway?'

'Hufflepuff was having a party. I mean, they have parties a lot, but this was an, a, an exam anxiety murder party.'

She blinked. 'Exam anxiety murder party?'

'Yes. OWLs and NEWTs are happening, people are anxious, so they beat their anxiety to death with brain-finicky things and lots of sex.'

A few years ago, she would have been shocked and horrified at the thought of a major educational institution randomly playing host to the students throwing narcotic-augmented orgies. Now, it didn't even phase her. She'd obviously never been to one, but she'd heard Hufflepuff just did that sometimes. When she'd asked about it, trying to not feel too intensely scandalised, the only answer she'd gotten was, They're Hufflepuffs. For some inexplicable reason, this had seemed a perfectly sufficient explanation to everyone who wasn't herself, so she'd just dropped it, and tried to pretend such things weren't happening down in the basement on a regular basis.

Hermione froze, turned to stare at Charissa. It was just sinking in that...that Charissa had collapsed into the common room after curfew and out of her mind on whatever "brain-finicky" substances she'd taken because she'd...just come back from a bloody orgy. That... She'd just... How...

With all the force of will she could possibly muster, Hermione forced that thought aside somewhere she'd never have to consider it again. 'Well, do you still have your wand holsters on, then?'

Charissa snorted. 'Course I do. I can't let someone touch me without my wands here. Don't be silly.'

Hermione remembered, over a year ago now, Charissa very deliberately divesting herself of her wands, the memory playing out before her eyes for just a second before she ruthlessly shoved it aside. 'You do take those off to sleep, right?'

'Mmmm, sometimes. Depends.'

Oh, well, then she wouldn't bother getting Charissa to do it. It clearly didn't make a difference. 'You should probably change for bed.' Hermione wondered if she should do anything else. Probably call an elf to make sure there would be water here, should Charissa need it. Charissa could probably use a potion or two on waking up, but Hermione wasn't even sure which ones, so she obviously didn't have any ready. Just had to take care of that herself, then. Right.

Charissa let out another long hum, seemingly considering that. Then, with an absent flourish of wandless magic that tugged at Hermione's hair and pinched at her skin, Charissa's dress expanded by a few sizes. Well, she guessed that was one way to do it. With a bit of flopping about, clearly far less coordinated than usual, Charisa shifted both straps to the sides of her shoulders, clenched a handful of fabric over her hips in each fist, and sharply tugged—

Sudden heat climbing up her neck and cheeks, Hermione jerked around on a heel, turning to face the other way so quickly she had to scramble to keep her balance. 'Charissa!'

'Mm?'

'Where are your clothes?!'

Sounding absently baffled, Charissa said, 'You just said to take them off.'

Hermione paused to count to five, trying to ignore how her fingers were twitching in want of her wand. 'Charissa, you do realise you weren't wearing anything under your dress, right?'

There was a short silence. Without even seeing it happen, Hermione was positive Charissa was blinking down at her own naked body with intoxicated confusion. 'Huh. So I wasn't. Weird. Coulda sworn I was...'

'Did...' Hermione sighed, fighting the impulse to rub at the sides of her forehead with both hands. After a second, she changed her mind, and just went ahead and did it. 'Did you leave your knickers down in Hufflepuff?'

'Think so. Prolly a slip too. No big, Sophie will get it to me later.'

There were so many things wrong with this. But, well, there was no use sitting here pointing it out. Charissa clearly didn't seem to think this was nearly as absurd as it was. So Hermione would just... Oh, wait, shite. 'Er, Charissa?'

'Mmhmm?'

'There were, er, boys there, right?'

'Yeah.' Charissa sounded slightly disgruntled.

'Did you, er...'

Sounding even more disgruntled, she grumbled, 'Well, yeah. It would be rude to not, don'cha think?'

It would be rude to— No, never mind, she wasn't going to bother thinking about that. 'You did remember the contraceptive charm, right?'

'Oh! Oh, no, I think I forgot that. I should probably, er...'

Hermione let out a long sigh. She was sure Charissa could do it, on a normal day. After all, she knew Charissa had been shagging the Gaunts and Neville, and whoever else Hermione didn't care to know about, she'd had practice. But casting any complex charms with her on...whatever she'd taken, yeah, that probably wasn't a great idea. Botched magic and the human reproductive system don't exactly mix. Cursing to herself in her head, Hermione turned back around, drew her wand. Trying to ignore how Charissa was still lying out across her bed completely starkers, apparently feeling no need to cover herself, Hermione cast the charm. Then again faced away as swiftly as she could manage.

Before she'd even made it all the way around, Charissa was giggling again. High and thin and almost ecstatic, not so loud Hermione couldn't hear the faint noise of Charissa's legs shifting against her sheets. Hermione was starting to wonder if she should just walk out. After a couple moments, Charissa got her lungs back under control, voice high and bright and uncharacteristically cheerful. 'Your magic feels like you smell, is nice.'

Considering exactly where her magic was while it was feeling nice, Hermione thought it was perfectly understandable that her face was only growing hotter. 'Well, er. Okay. I'll just be...going. Then.'

'Oh, will you, now?'

Hermione felt herself stiffen, shards of ice crawling up her spine. She knew that voice. It was low, and soft, and smooth, spoken with just slightly too much air, a bare sound of breath at the edges. Hermione knew that voice, she'd heard it more times than she could count. (Not really, that was just a thing people said.)

That was Charissa's we're-about-to-have-sex voice.

Well. Fuck.

She didn't have time to say anything, she barely had time to twitch. She felt it coming over her, a rush of hot sparks on the air, wrapping about her and yanking her back off her feet, a somewhat embarrassing yip bursting past her lips. After the barest second, Charissa's wandless summoning charm, which was just bloody cheating, brought the backs of her legs thumping against the side of the bed, and Hermione was tipping backwards, then rolling, the room swirling in dizzying confusion around her.

Somehow, she wasn't entirely sure how it happened, Hermione had ended up on her back. Charissa was on top of her, straddling her hips, fingers clenched about her wrists, holding Hermione's hands against the bed just to either side of her head. Face centimetres from hers, close enough the usual crooked, eager smirk wasn't completely visible, her eyes looking a bit glassy, slightly unfocused, but the hard green fire still all too familiar. And part of her was furious, and part of her was terrified, and part of her, a pathetic secret part of her she always tried to ignore, just wanted to—

Hermione tipped her head to the side, squeezed her eyes shut painfully hard, as though that would somehow make all this stop happening. She tried to pull away, squirming against the sheets, but it didn't work, she could barely move an inch. Then she felt it, not just Charissa's physical weight holding her in place, but a heavy, oppressive blanket of power, hard and unyielding, cold steel against her skin. Fuck. 'Charissa, stop this, let me go.'

She jerked at the warm touch of Charissa's breath, far too close against her ear. 'Is that really what you want?' And Charissa was moving, her face sliding in against her neck, hips shifting against her, and Hermione could only grind her teeth, clench her fists, and wish she could be anywhere but here.

For a long moment, she couldn't say anything to that, just cursing to herself inside of her head. Because she wasn't sure she could say no and sound entirely confident in herself. Some part of her, impulses and feelings she always did her very best to pretend didn't exist, some part of her missed Charissa desperately. It was a quiet voice, buried beneath the unending cacophony that was her own mind, but it was there. Some cold, sad, lonely part of her had never stopped wanting Charissa, didn't care about all the very good reasons she'd had for ending it, just wanted Charissa to touch her, just wanted to feel her, just wanted Charissa to hold her, she didn't even care.

She pretended she didn't. It was humiliating. She couldn't even exactly explain why, but she hated that little voice in her head. It made her feel pathetic and stupid and...less, somehow. But she couldn't make it go away, nine months now and it was still there.

She took long moments to silence that traitorous part of her before wrenching her mouth open. 'No. I want you to stop, Charissa.'

And, by some miracle, she did. She didn't get off of her — in fact, Charissa didn't seem to be moving at all, as though she'd been abruptly turned to stone, cold and hard. A few seconds passed, Charissa not even seeming to breathe, that intangible something brushing against the edges of her mind, like fingers gentle through her hair. Then, finally, Charissa sighed, and collapsed. She didn't get off of Hermione, no, but the eager tension had gone out of her, fingers loosened about her wrists, laying on top of her placid and boneless.

A bit awkward, her completely naked ex-girlfriend using her as a pillow, but she still felt the danger had passed.

Charissa let out another sigh, then spoke, her voice coming out a high mumble, slightly muffled by Hermione's neck. (Which was a more than a bit uncomfortable, but Charissa was clearly unstable at the moment, and Hermione didn't feel like risking setting her off again.) 'No. Don't want me. That's okay.'

She blinked; had that weirdness a moment ago been Charissa reading her mind? But... 'My occlumency is up. Isn't it?'

'Mmhmm. It's fine. Can get through it if I really want, but that's against the Rules.'

For some inexplicable reason, Hermione had the feeling "Rules" should be capitalised. And she was curious about that, but this wasn't the time to ask. 'Then how could you tell?'

'It's a...a thing. Like...' Charissa hummed against Hermione's neck, shifting against her somewhat, probably finding a more comfortable arrangement of limbs. 'Potions! Yes, potions. You know, you have your cauldron, and your cauldron is filled with potion, and you can maybe tell what it is looking at it. But if you can't look directly in it, you can't see. But you can see the fumes coming off of it. Not always, but sometimes you can kinda guess what the potion is by that. Not reliably, maybe not exactly, but sorta the idea. It's like that, but with feelings.'

That might make sense. Okay. Fine. 'Oh. Well. Thanks for not raping me, I guess.' Even as she was saying it, Hermione thought it might be the most...ridiculous and awful thing she had ever said. It didn't help that she was being completely serious.

Charissa hummed again, shrugging a little. 'Don't want me. I can make you want me.' At what Charissa was saying, just how flatly and plainly she was saying it, Hermione felt ice crawling up her spine again. 'Did I tell you about that? I copied the thing carīdwð do. Makes my magic all sexy, most people are shite at fighting it.' Charissa paused, just for a second. Then she said, voice bright and cheerful again. 'Did I really just scare you just saying true things? That's silly. You're adorable.'

Hermione had no fucking clue how to respond to that.

'I won't, though,' Charissa said, continuing her terrifying psychopathic monologue as though it weren't the slightest bit unnerving. 'That would be bad. Against the Rules.'

Yes. Raping people is bad. It took more effort than it really should to hold back the oddest urge to giggle. 'Rules. You keep saying that.' Sure. Yes. Keep the crazy ex-girlfriend talking. Hopefully she would pass out or something so Hermione could just leave.

'See, is this thing my mum did. She knew I was me. I mean... I mean, she knew I wasn't normal, that I wouldn't be normal-person-like, I would be me-like. So she gave me Rules to fake normal people things. Sev calls it "morality for psychopaths", with that little drawl he gets. He thinks he's funny, Sev. I didn't know about this until, like, summer. Mum didn't tell me, thought I would hate her for stupid normal person reasons that are silly and dumb. The Rules are useful, don't get it.'

Ah. Reading between the lines a bit, Lily must have trained Charissa from a very early age to... Well, Hermione wanted to say "not be evil", but that wasn't quite right. Which Lily had apparently felt guilty about, assuming that was the stupid normal person reason. And Hermione had to agree with Charissa on that, that was silly and dumb. Charissa could be a bit much even with these Rules of hers. She didn't want to even think about what she'd be like without them.

'Not that they're useful all the time. They're like... I think they're not perfect. Mum is Mum, right, she's pretty great, but even she can't think of everything. Things happen, and all. I think she didn't think of everything. Sometimes, I think the Rules can be broken sometimes. Sometimes they beg to be broken. A big flashing no, it sounds like it's bad, they're cringing or screaming or fighting or whatever, but you can tell they really want to be broken.'

Er... Hermione had the unsettling feeling what Charissa meant by "they" had abruptly changed somewhere in the middle. Not that this whole thing wasn't unsettling...

'Don't worry, you.' Charissa shifted, obviously moving somehow, and after a few seconds, Hermione felt Charissa...gently patting her on the head. Erm. 'I'll not do bad things to you even if the Rules break and won't go back together again. You're safe.'

This was very confusing. Hermione wasn't sure if she should be feeling more awkward, patronised, nervous, or terrified. So the tingling mass in her head seemed to settle on just a vague sense of surreal confusion. 'Er. Why?'

'Cause you're special.'

That answered absolutely everything ever. 'And how exactly am I special?'

'Cause you're mine.'

Hermione blinked. She glanced down toward the chaotic mess of black tangles on her chest, frowning to herself. 'Erm...' She had the distinct impression telling Charissa of all people that she did not appreciate that sentiment, to put it lightly, was a very bad idea.

And Charissa just giggled. The same hand that had been patting Hermione on the head a moment ago found its way to her stomach, poking her in the side. Hermione reflexively twitched away, clenching her teeth about her bottom lip to stop herself from letting out any embarrassing noises. Luckily, Charissa only made a couple pokes, stopping almost immediately. 'You're having scared feelings again. I'm not going to hurt you, silly. Never hurt you. Well, I mean, you know what I mean, never on purpose. It doesn't count when I don't mean to. Or if you want me to hurt you, that doesn't count either.'

Despite herself, despite the situation, Hermione was rather distracted by that last aside. Why would she ever want Charissa to hurt her? Well, knowing what the Gaunts were like sometimes, she could guess she probably meant...

She'd never much wanted to know anything about, er, Charissa's relationships with other people, but now she really didn't want to know.

'What does that even mean, though?'

'Hmm?'

'That I'm yours, apparently. What does that mean?'

Charissa shrugged a little. 'I dunno. It's this thing. It isn't quite right, but I can't think how else to say it. I don't care, you know. About most people. I'm not... They don't seem, real, to me? Like, they're just, things. Empty machines of chemistry and magic, just puttering along, substance with no essence.'

Okay, back to terrifying psychopath monologue, she guessed. 'But, er, you're a legilimens.'

'Well, yes. But that's the magic part of the chemistry and magic. It just seems so fake all the time. They feel, just, too... Too much, like a painting that's a little too colourful, too fake. And people's thoughts are stupid. You're less stupid, so I don't think you notice, but other people's thoughts, other people's feelings, are stupid. I can't imagine how any of it makes sense to them. That's the thing I know is right, that I'm just weird and stupid thoughts are normal thoughts, I know is a true thing, but that's something I know like I heard it somewhere, unconfirmed, it doesn't feel like a true thing. I can't imagine it makes sense, so it doesn't. And they don't realise it doesn't, so... They're like, you know, fake. Like the characters in a book, too thin to be alive. Like a construct, programmed to think and feel like that by a real person. They're always like that, all the time. People don't feel real.

'Some people are different. There are real people. Not very many, but some. And some of these people, I...' Charissa trailed off, her voice flickering into nothing. She had been getting gradually more slurred, even as her reasoning seemed to grow, paradoxically, less absurd. She was probably getting sleepy. Which was fine, then Hermione could make a break for it far easier. 'They're real people. And they're my people. Because, they feel real feelings, they think real thoughts. I want their real feelings to be good feelings, and their real thoughts to be pleasant thoughts, because they're real, and they're mine. No other way to say it. Just is.

'You were the first one, you know.' Charissa shifted again, burrowing further into her, suffocating a yawn. 'I remember, it was... I dunno. When summer was happening, and you were going home, where you'd be far away, and without any wards. And that was bad. That was unacceptable. You're mine, and you had to be where I could see you, and you had to be safe. Because you're mine.

'Should feel special. I don't keep very many people. I mostly don't care. There's... You, and Perry. Mum, sorta, it's more I'm her person than she mine, but close. Neville is getting there, and the twins prolly will later. And Bella, in an apprentice-y way. Perry is kinda getting like that now too, I guess. And that's it. There aren't very many. And you were the first.' Charissa's arms tightened around her a bit, face pushing firmer against her neck, drawing in a long breath through her nose. 'And you're comfy.

'So you don't have to be afraid of me. You're mine, Maïa. I'll always take care of you.'

Hermione was having a very strange moment. She thought, quite possibly for the first time in her entire life, she actually understood Charissa Potter.

Not very well, she would admit. It was a theoretical understanding only, like... Well, to use Charissa's own metaphor, like a character in a book, or a construct someone had designed. Charissa's worldview, the way she felt about people, made absolutely no sense to Hermione at all. But, even so, she thought she had the basic idea.

Charissa had, essentially, split the entire world into three categories: fake people, real people, and her people. Fake people didn't matter at all, and in most ways were beneath her notice. Real people were not beneath her notice, were complex and interesting enough to hold her attention for at least a little bit, but in the end she didn't care about them either, they were ultimately inconsequential. Her people were a select group of real people who she did care about, who she wanted to be safe and happy, for no other reason than they were her people. Perhaps a possessive angle Charissa hadn't verbalised, maybe wasn't even entirely aware of — they were her people because they belonged to her for some reason or another, the choice of words might not be meaningless — but it didn't really make that much of a difference. Didn't change the essence of the three categories.

It had never really sunk in. Charissa didn't think of relationships the same way Hermione did, she simply didn't. To her, it wasn't about friendship, or about love, or about anything like that. It was about the social dance, as Charissa had called it on several occasions, what was expected of her in various situations, even if she hadn't the feelings to motivate the steps. She played the dutiful heir to a Noble House, she humoured friends, she wore the trappings of passion, but they were meaningless to her. Like a dress she may put on one day, and switch out tomorrow for the next. All the rules and protocols and customs surrounding human relationships were only that to her, for the core feeling they'd been designed to wrap around simply didn't exist.

To Charissa, all it was about was what was hers, and what was not. The former were all she truly cared about, and the latter could all burn. Everything else was window-dressing, an empty performance of a normal human being.

For all that she'd known Charissa for years now, for all that had happened, she'd never truly understood. Charissa was not a normal person. She didn't feel like them, she didn't think like them. And she never would. With her absurd magical abilities, only growing more egregious by the day, she hardly even counted as human anymore.

Hermione should probably stop thinking of her as though she were.

Charissa wasn't the anachronistic picture of a wealthy noblewoman Hermione had originally conceptualised her as. She wasn't the cold, lonely princess in the castle. No, she was the dragon lurking outside, guarding the entrance with unlimited patience, silently watching any who could possibly threaten the residents with empty, apathetic eyes. Only held back from burning the countryside for the knights whose ire she would raise.

Distantly, Hermione wondered what would happen should Charissa grow so powerful the threat posed by those knights (Aurors, in the metaphor) no longer intimidated her.

But...

It was strange. Completely alien and more than slightly disturbing. But...it was almost weirdly reassuring, in a way. The few lingering doubts she'd had about their relationship, how what had happened and why, melted away. She wouldn't say she'd forgiven Charissa entirely, she wouldn't say she wasn't still a little afraid of her, but...it was enough. She thought she understood. Enough to be getting on with, in any case.

Though, now she was having a thought. A slightly worrying thought. She licked her lips, glancing down at the tangled mass of Charissa's hair again, the question lingering for long seconds unsaid. 'Charissa?'

'Mm?' Charissa sounded even more tired than before, seemingly just moments from sleep.

'I'm yours, right.'

'Mmhmm.'

'Does that mean...' Hermione paused to lick her lips again, swallowing. Then she spoke, trying to keep any trace of nervousness off her voice. 'I mean, you wouldn't flip out of I started seeing someone.'

'No. Course not. Mm...' Charissa tensed slightly, an odd sense of focus coming over the air. 'Depends, I mean. Who is it?'

'I, er, haven't asked her yet...'

Her voice suddenly far more awake, flat and hard, Charissa demanded, 'Who?'

'I don't really think—'

And then the world around her shattered into a million pieces as Charissa barrelled through all the meticulously-laid defences about her mind as though they weren't even there.

It only lasted for a moment, a dizzying moment filled with her own thoughts and memories swirling about her in a chaotic storm, her head filled with light and power and agony, and then Charissa was retreating, disappearing as though she'd never been, reality snapping back into place in her absence. Hermione was left with an awful, blinding headache, the pain somehow draining all the energy out of her, her breath high and thin. She could barely even move, she could barely even think, just waiting to stop shivering...

'Oh, Luna.' And Charissa sighed, casually snuggling into her again, as though she hadn't just violently assaulted her mind. 'Luna's fine.'

Normally, Hermione knew, she would be absolutely furious. She'd be glaring, she'd be shouting, she'd be firing off hexes despite how useless she knew that would be. But she just couldn't. Whether it was from the lateness of the hour, or aftereffects of the legilimency, she didn't know. She was just...tired. It was impossible to summon up the energy to be properly enraged. 'You didn't have to do that,' she said, her own voice now sounding slurred and unfocused.

'Weren't telling me. Had to know.'

'Why do you have to know? Not your business.'

'It is, though. They might hurt you. I... I already hurt you. Like that. No one else will. I can make people do what I want, I won't let them.'

Hermione was far too exhausted to process that.

'But Luna is fine. Luna's nice. Weird, though, didn't you used to hate her?'

Hermione shrugged. That was second year. Things have happened since then. 'Luna's nice.' And pretty. And smart. And funny, even if Hermione suspected maybe a good three-quarters of the jokes went right over her head. That was just Luna being Luna, she thought.

'Mm.'

Hermione never did make it to her own room that night, drifting off into a deep sleep before she could remember to get up. It wasn't a bad night's rest either, still and comfortable, the late spring chill warded off by the warmth of Charissa laid out atop her. In the days to come, she would come to realise that that had happened made exactly zero difference. It made absolutely no difference to Charissa if they randomly slept together here or there (literally speaking). Hermione was still hers, and the little details about their friendship didn't change that the slightest bit.

But that didn't stop explaining to Padma the next morning why exactly she was in bed with Charissa — silently watching the whole conversation, lying there out in the open still distractingly nude — from being unspeakably mortifying.

---

Phew. So that all happened.

Chapter delayed somewhat by a combination of insomnia striking again and sudden employment. I actually moved a scene to the next chapter just to have this out today, and it was getting sort of long anyway. Employment will continue to be a thing, so there will certainly be a bit of irregularity in my schedule in future. I'll keep up as much as I can, but that's as much as I can promise.

Poll on my profile. Also, I'm semi-seriously considering putting up a forum here. I sometimes answer the same question several times, and I was earlier this evening reminded the forums exist. I may or may not do that, and may or may not use it for anything other than public review replies instead of just putting it in my updates like a silly person, we'll see. If anyone has particularly strong opinions yay or nay, review away.

Until next time,
~Wings