Chapter 36

Life, Interlinked.

She threw up, forehead sticky against the cellar wall. Her stomach was empty, though, so she spat out the bile and bit her lip.

And then she reeled and choked and gasped and nothing made sense anymore and ohshitohshitohshit how much more can I take it and fuck this fucking shit and Bellatrix and…

What the heck? Bellatrix?

It kind of cleared her head, at least to the point when she was able to rub her eyes with the back of her hand and stand up on shaky legs. She turned around, world spinning before her, a nightmare turned into a reality, treason upon treason (wasn't it supposed to be easier? Take out Voldemort before he exposes the Wizarding World to the Muggles? Stop the Muggle conspirators? Die?), and forced herself to look at the woman in question.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall, her eyes huge and her frame small. She was observing her with something that resembled fear, pity and… something immensely warm. It was genuinely disturbing and magnificent, simultaneously.

'…Hermione?' the question was voiced quietly.

She had no answer, truth be told. Instead she staggered towards the other woman and sunk to her knees. She knew she looked a mess. A horrendous, disgusting mess of a human being. Something in her, probably the last shred of dignity, screamed at that, protested furiously and berated her for being so obnoxiously weak.

Especially in the eyes of a woman who loathed weakness with all her might.

Awesome leadership skills, Granger. Awesome. You might as well as drop dead and cut it out with all that crap.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and rubbed her cheeks. Oddly, her flesh felt cold and clammy, like a dead thing's. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She wiped her hands against her hips. She cleared her throat. She blinked. She licked her lips. She was clinging to those small actions, as though they were a lifeline of sorts. And each time she did one thing, she thought about it. All her focus narrowed to the present. Inhale, exhale, get a grip, measure your strengths (what strengths, are you deluding yourself you worthless piece of crap? a tiny, icy voice in the back of head leered at that and she shuddered like a beaten dog), check out your surroundings (it's a bloody cellar, you dumb bitch, can't you even realize that?).

She shook her head. Whatever the voice was, it wasn't helping. She was torn between self-pity and self-hatred, and she needed to focus.

Probably, though, and it was her own thoughts that betrayed her now, they were doomed. She went back in time, by accident, yes, but she had hoped to change things and nothing really changed. The mess was only unraveling, new twists, new facts, new information, new betrayals, all the effort was truly in vain. Was Schopenhauer right? The past was fixed in stone? The flow of events was truly determined by the reality itself?

Fatalism, how she hated that. Never a fan, and now here she was, trying and failing everything.

Unless... it struck her, struck her hard and made her recoil, as though from a snakebite, unless she didn't go back in time enough. Maybe she had arrived too late? Maybe the fine line between doom and salvation had been..earlier.

But when? When did that start?

Maybe she should find a way to go back a hundred years? But to mess with the timeline meant she could actually undo more than just this apocalypse.

Or maybe... maybe time was a fixed line, one you could not alter?

She remember from a book, that before Christianity, mankind believe time to be circular, a vicious circle of apocalypse and world reborn from the ashes. And maybe it was so? Maybe they were headed for an ending so that there could be a beginning? Or maybe the straight line of time was unfixable?

Her head was spinning. She was spinning. Thoughts, too many of them, flooding her. She needed to be in the moment. She couldn't dwell on what ifs and maybe nots.

'I'm sorry.' She said. She had no words. Nothing made sense anymore. Not even language itself.

'Were they…?' the woman tried again and swallowed, visibly, harshly. 'Was it your father they…?'

She had no words. She nodded, slowly, tentatively and suddenly the words came out spilling, a torrential downpour of apologies 'I'm sorry. Maybe you were right about Muggleborns. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen.' And 'I wish I had never been accepted to Hogwarts.'

And she was cut off. A hand, placed firmly on her lips, eyes boring into hers, ablaze with something fierce and mesmerizing.

'Do. Not. Apologize.'

She tried to argue. She tried to move her lips against the woman's palm, warm and oddly soft, but all that escaped past the gag, was strangled noises, broken sobs and unintelligible mumblings.

'It's not your fault, Hermione.' Bellatrix all but snarled at her 'Stop that.'

She shook her head, but the hand on her lips never moved away.

'Be quiet.' The older woman said. 'It is not your fault.' The chocolate-black eyes were boring into her very soul 'It's not your fault.' She repeated huskily. 'You did no wrong.'

And finally she relented. It might have been hours, might have been minutes, but she found herself nodding.

It was not her fault.

Or was it?

They were sitting side to side, their shoulders grazing, against the wall. Bellatrix's legs were stretched long, her own were pressed into her chest, her left arm encircling her knees. It was not a comfortable position, but it was comforting.

'What do we do now?' Bellatrix broke the silence.

'I don't know.' She said instantaneously. It had been her mantra for the last, what was it, hours? Anytime Bellatrix asked something, she would come up with the very same answer. Truly, though, she knew nothing. Her mind was utterly blank. And it was probably the most alarming sensation she had ever felt.

Even in the bleakest of conditions, even mortally wounded, even leading the last of her people into a frenzied defense of the remnants of her world, her mind would work. It was both a blessing and a curse. Permanently acutely aware of her surroundings, strategizing every waking moment, taking in the scenery, analyzing details, scrutinizing others, thinking, planning, remembering, she had always been stuck in the wondrous inferno of hypersensitivity.

And for the first time there was nothing. Just silence drowning in everything it its wake.

Was this how Dementor's Kiss worked on its victims? This immense vastness and blankness and this sensation of pure destitute – was this how its victims existed?

She shook her head. If she was to be so useless, she could as well as be dead. Even if they were doomed, and most certainly they were (all in vain, right?), she would not go down without as much as a noise.

Gryffindor courage or maybe simply the terrible Granger pride, whatever it was, it was beckoning her to get a move on.

'We need' she mumbled, lips wooden, numb and swollen 'a plan.'

'Very much so.' The other woman scoffed at that 'And here I thought you were the brilliant one.'

She tried to smile, but her face was weirdly stiff.

'Shut up.' She croaked in a very failed attempt at levity 'I can't think straight anymore.'

'This happens only to the lesser men.' The older woman observed snidely. 'You are a fighter, Granger. I've seen you. I know you.'

She turned her head only to see Bellatrix looking back at her, something resembling pride on her face.

'You think so?'

'Oh I know so.' The woman shrugged 'Look, girl, I was raised in a family of warriors. I lived my entire adult life as a warrior. And I can tell a fierce thing apart from meekly sweet lambs.'

If she could blush, she probably would have had. Alas, she was too exhausted to accept flattery with any shame. It felt natural, the woman's words. Like an acknowledgement into a certain family.

She swallowed, lost for words once again. Becoming a custom, is it? Me speechless. She almost smiled.

'Stop that.' The woman instantly retorted. And Hermione could not help herself. It was an automatic reaction. She smiled. Grinned, actually, baring her teeth, feeling giddy and lightheaded. Despite the predicament they were in, smiling seemed like the right thing to do. If, of course, there still existed things that were right and things that were wrong. Lines have blurred, this one singular thing was certain.

Suddenly they were facing each other, faces only inches apart. She could feel Bellatrix's suddenly speeded breath on her nose and cheeks. She swallowed and saw the woman follow the action. There was a speck of dust on the woman's chin. Without thinking she reached out, tentatively as though approaching a wild animal, and touched her chin with her index finger. Slowly, cautiously, she removed the speck of dust or filth, or whatever it was. The woman never flinched. She could feel, however, Bellatrix's shivering.

Or was it her own?

As though on its volition, her hand moved and suddenly she palming the woman's jaw. Bellatrix's eyes were glued to hers, trepidation mixed with something that could have been…yearning and tenderness, if she was reading correctly.

'…I' the woman suddenly breathed, her lips quavering, her face contorting into a mask of pure terror. Hermione tried to pull her hand back, instantly, but then saw the woman's gaze gluing itself to her lips.

The world stood suddenly still. She could her the thundering of her heart. Or was it solely her heart? Maybe together they were, here, on the threshold of something… Unreal. Impossible.

She inched closer, her hand still resting on the woman's jaw.

'It's okay' she breathed back at her. She inched even closer. Bellatrix's lips were red, full, and trembling.

'What are we…?' the woman's whisper was broken.

'Dunno.' She whispered back.

And then Bellatrix moved closer and closed the distance.

And they were kissing.

It felt like being electrocuted. It felt like drowning. Their lips mashed against each other. It was a slow, careful kiss. Wet, quite sloppy. Tongue-less and oddly innocent. She could feel Bellatrix's hand travel to her hair. The palms was trembling. The woman was trembling. They were trembling and the kiss was slow and scared and full of inexplicable tenderness.

And then they pulled away, forehead against forehead. The kiss probably had lasted moments. It was chaste. Like a first kiss.

It was a first kiss, of sorts.

And then they pulled back fully. Hermione opened her eyes and saw the woman blinking furiously. She expected… Anger. Fury. Panic.

All she got was a broken grin. One she reciprocated.

And then they were laughing.

'You are terrible at romance, Granger.' Bellatrix snorted. 'Kissing me in a dingy cellar? I should have had the brains to kill you when I could.'

'Oh, stop complaining, Black.' she retorted smoothly, still unable to believe what had just transpired.

'What do we do now, Granger?' Bellatrix snapped, but without any bile. It felt natural, this tit-for-tat, compliment-for-smack down thing they were having.

'Dunno.' She said, shrugging despite some faint throbbing in her right shoulder. 'Shall we break out?'

'Pray tell me: how do you wish to achieve that?'

'Classical Muggle way.' She almost sing-sang, and then giggled.

Yes, she was falling apart. This was evident.

'Which is?'

'Dig a tunnel.' And upon saying that out loud, she laughed. It was bitter, it was insane, and it was a way to cope.

'Are you losing it?' their eyes met. Bellatrix was looking at her with concern mixed with amusement, question burning in her gaze.

'No.' she calmed down 'Or yes. Or maybe. Thing is, Bella, I no longer know.'

Saying her name out loud normally would have resulted in Bellatrix's smoldering rage. The woman ignored it, though, as if it was something natural. Granger and Bella. Bellatrix and Hermione. This was the new reality.

Probably the very symbol of doom impending.

'Think, Muddy, think.' Bellatrix murmured and stood up. Instantly she felt the loss of heat. Her shoulder prickled and her skin exploded with goosebumps. 'We can't go crazy right now.'

She sighed, and pushed her hair out of her face. It became a tangled, sweaty mess. She could feel all the curls going crazy, a darkish fountain of unkempt waves rolling down her shoulders, falling on her forehead, like Medusa of old days.

'We need a plan.' She finally consented. 'We need a good one, at that.'

'Yes, Muddy.' Bellatrix was pacing now.

'The thing is…' she hesitated 'that things don't add up now.' She was thinking out loud, fixing her gaze onto her nails and narrowing her eyes 'See, the thing is, that before I set out, and by that I mean…mini-me, you know, the young me –'

'Quit rambling, I understand.' The woman cut in, her pace brisk and her face contorted in a thoughtful grimace.

'- Yes, so I erased my parents' memories. You do already know that. They're somewhere in Australia, unaware of ever having a daughter.' She cleared her throat. Yeah, it still hurt, despite all the betrayal and unpredictable twists, the act of no longer being a daughter pained her to no end. She cleared her throat once again, feeling Bellatrix's scrutiny. 'How on Earth would…would they maintain a form of contact? He should be, my dad that is, missing for several months now. They should be looking for him… Shouldn't they? I mean…unless there's a doppelgänger of my dad's out there…'

'This isn't very possible.' Bellatrix remarked dryly. 'Unless Muggles have some sort of… -'

'Cloning device' she cut in 'And there isn't one. That's why' she looked at Bellatrix, who was standing now, hips canted and head tilted to the side 'this doesn't make any sense. Who's running the research? Where the crap is my dad?'

'Unless someone removed your Obliviate, Muddy.' Bellatrix narrowed her eyes 'You sure you casted it well?'

'Positive. My casting skills have always been…fine, to say the least.'

'Modest, are we?' the woman smiled curtly, something of bemusement in her eyes.

'Don't derail me, now.' She shook her head 'Look, it makes no sense. Unless someone broke the spell.'

'That would mean your Muggle-loving, wizard-hating friends have a wizard working alongside them.'

'… That Marigold woman?' she was suddenly on her feet.

Their conversation was cut off. Someone was walking down the stairs. They both stood up, side by side, facing the door.

'Stand back!' a gruff masculine voice barked the order 'I've a gun, ladies. Back against the wall, hands on your head, now.'

The accent was amiss.

'American.' Hermione hissed under her breath. 'C'mon.'

They did as they were told.

'Facing the wall!' the man barked another order and suddenly a beam of light penetrated the cellar. He was using a flashlight, and a strong one at that. 'Don't move an inch!'

They heard the crate creak open and he stepped in.

'All right, Billy. C'mon down here.' He yelled and soon another footsteps thundered down the stairs.

The two men entered the cellar.

'We gonna cuff you.' The first man informed them. 'Put your hands to your back.'

They complied once again. Hermione held her breath. She felt a pair of hands grab her wrist, them something clicked, cold and hard, and then her hands were bind together. The man stepped back, grabbed her forearm and pulled her towards her.

'We going out.' He told her 'Be good. I don't wanna kill ya.'

They were marched out of the cellar and up the stairs. Soon the air grew colder. They were outside and it was pitch black. She could smell something intense. Moors, she recognized in a heartbeat. They were out in the open, somewhere further from the mansion than she had predicted. She could remember, albeit not very clearly, a document she had once read, something about the family's properties.

Wine cellars.

'What now, Muggles?' she almost started when she heard Bellatrix's drawl. It was menacing and bored at the same time. However the woman could pull that off, it was an amazing spectacle. 'Will you kill us now or do we have to wait a tad longer?'

'No one's killing anyone.' The man who was holding Hermione, probably the boss of the entire operation, answered her calmly. His accent was strong and his voice was gruff, low, but not entirely unpleasant. 'We're in for a road trip.' He informed them disinterestedly.

'But where's the car, Big John?' the other man, Billy, if she remember correctly, asked him. He must have been young and pretty nervous; she could hear it in the sharpness of his pitch, in certain quavering quality his voice held.

'Relax, Billy.' The man sighed 'And shut your trap.'

They stood in silence. Hermione lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was clear. She could see the stars. Peculiar sense of serenity washed over her. She might have been captured, cuffed, and the entire world might have gone to shit, but it still was exquisitely beautiful. Crystal clearness of the ear, the scent of moors, the slight wind that smelled of winter and – somehow – the sea, the stars that seemed distant yet so close, bright and innumerable – it was all spectacular and glorious and the world was something to be loved.

Mankind made it shitty, she thought. In itself, it was a wonder upon wonders. A lonely planet in a Solar System, which contained life itself. Oxygen-breathing, reproducing in numerous ways life, which moved, which grew, which changed, which ended – a miracle unparalleled in the known universe. She thought of viruses, bacteria, cells, amoebas, plants, animals, men, and thought how they were all interlinked with one another, sharing those traits (save for viruses, she remember with a fond smile:

A sun-filled classroom, speckles of dust revolving slowly in the air, the blackboard, Miss Stevens in a pink blouse and a proper brown pencil skirt, hair tucked neatly in a bun, May, warmth, a notebook lying on her desk, which was flooded with sunlight it made reading almost impossible, Peter Grayes on her right, Amanda Bockles on her left and her bestie, Eve McDonalds, in front of her, a blonde braid falling down her back, biology lesson – remember, children – Miss Stevens always called them children, as though they were little – viruses are not quite alive, they're alive but they're not alive at the same time…)

A rumbling of an engine shook her out of her musings. She turned. A car was approaching. In the pale light of its headlights, the world looked sharp and unreal and she could see Bellatrix's outline and how milky-white her skin seemed. She swallowed hard, fighting against this sensation of eeriness growing in the pit of her stomach. It was of no use, she had to be focused. She had to be tough.

The car stopped and the backseat doors opened. It turned out to be a van.

'Step in.' a man's voice spoke out 'We're going for a ride. We're going to Cambridge.'

A/N:

Right.

Given I have a little more time on my hands, here I am, updating to the best of my ability. Please excuse any mistakes. I don't have a beta, that's one thing, the other is I never bother with rereading what I wrote. I know it's a lame habit, one I ought to improve, but I'm lazy. And I guess I over-value my time a tad too much.

Probably I ought to apologize to all of you, guys, for the very definition of inconsistence that I pull off with this story. I either fall silent or flood you with updates. I'm sorry, but I write whenever I can - and my time's very sparse, so I'd rather flood you from time to time than update, like, yearly or so.

I promise I'll try and stop delaying...that much :)

Anyway, here goes: thanks for your patience. And for the kindness of your comments.

As to the story: it's gonna only get darker, I fear. Bear with me, though. I cannot promise you regular updates, or extremely long chapters, but I do promise a bumpy ride.