AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm sorry this one took slightly longer than usual. I'm… not entirely sure what happened to delay it; but even now I'm not entirely happy with the end result. Though you might be, being a very kind audience from what I've seen. As always, please review, and thanks to those who have already done so or otherwise shown their support through Follows and Favorites!
Chapter XXXXVI: Business
"…Parselmouth of Gryffindor?!…" she repeated once the steam had settled down. "That's a rubbish name!"
"It is what they call you," Professor Snape said, defending his choice. "The ritual demanded a title be used, and this felt more appropriate than the crazy, scary girl."
"Which is…"
"The other thing that they call you, yes," Snape deadpanned.
"I can't imagine why," muttered Lucius Malfoy, who had dipped his stump in the jar of Elixir-augmented Regrowing Potion and was now waiting out the few minutes for his lost limb to regrow.
"Lucius, no sarcasm or you don't get that peacock."
"But… you promised!"
"Perhaps I promised, but you bribed, stole, maimed, murdered, and generally deserve a paid vacation in Dementorland. Stop questioning my trustworthiness."
"…Forgive me," the businessman grumbled.
"…Well!" Grindelwald said, feigning cheerfulness. "At any rate, a stupendous display! I congratulate all participants, truly I do. Especially you, Professor Snape… a stunning marriage of instinct and discipline like yours, it will take you far among Potioneers."
"I'm afraid…" Snape hesitantly replied, "I'm afraid I have more or less burnt those bridges, long ago."
"Nonsense, Snape," laughed Grindelwald, "nonsense. You are young, very young… plenty of time to Conjure more bridges in the next hundred years, eh?"
Hermione, who had climbed halfway out of the cauldron and was now sitting on its thick rim as if on a very unusual bench, blinked in surprise. Snape, young? Why he looked — she would have said he looked to be at least 45 years old, more, perhaps — young? But then, yes, he must be, if he had been childhood friends with Lily Potter; she had read that Lily Potter had been 21 when the Turban had killed her; that would have made her 34 today. 34. Professor Snape was 34, or nearly so? Who'd have thought?
"A hundred years!" Snape repeated, eyes wide in an unreadable expression. "A hundred years to live…"
"Of course!" Grindelwald chuckled, although somewhat more darkly. "I was a man already, a hundred years ago… and those hundred years have changed me, oh yes — but for the better, I think."
"No doubt," said Snape in a low and threatening voice.
"That century," Grindelwald continued, "may do you good as well, Snape. There is a darkness and bitterness in your aura… which I hope you can find the wisdom to cure yourself of. In time."
"I—"
"…Wait. Wait," Moody said suddenly, cutting Snape's answer short. "…Should she be… purple?!…"
Hermione choked.
"Me? Purple?! What—"
She looked down at her newly-recovered hands.
Where a pale, pinkish complexion should have met her gaze, she did, indeed, find a vaguely mauve hue. Now, it was not truly purple skin; but she looked about as purple as ordinary Europeans were pinkish. And that was very concerning. Especially since her veins seemed to glow purple like some extravagant neons.
"Okaaay…" she said, forcing a smile. "Must be some weird side-effect of the ritual… I'm sure it'll wear off in no time at all!…"
"I wouldn't be quite so sure," said Dumbledore, frowning. "This is dangerous magic we have tinkered with today. Let me cast a few diagnostic charms on you…"
Without bothering to open his mouth, Dumbledore waved and twirled the Elder Wand around her. Then, as quickly as he'd started, he stopped and stepped back.
"Oh, dear."
"What?" she pressed, before muttering: "Merlin's beard, Douglas, if this is your fault—"
"You're not in any danger," Dumbledore reassured her, "not at all. Your condition is stable. But… heavens. It seems you are no longer quite… human."
"You mean, physically?" she asked. "Because philosophically, I don't think—"
"No, no, neither," he explained. "Rather, it is magically that your essence has been… mingled. Most strange."
"Oooh…" she gaped as the explanation downed on hr. "That's why… uh. Well. Looks like I… goofed."
"The blood!" Snape said, snapping his fingers. "It was the blood, yes? I did think the brew reacted strangely — this — you momentous imbecile! This was not human blood!?"
"WHAT?" said quite a few other people in the room.
"Er… no?…" Hermione shrugged. "The book didn't specify the blood had to be a certain species. I went through the list of my enemies; the most easily available — and the one who'd come closest to truly killing me — happened to be…"
"Orga," Dumbledore finished, still shocked. "The Acromantula. You asked me where I had imprisoned Orga and her mother — oh, my stars… But this geol was not unguarded…! It was protected! I—"
"Yes," Hermione said. "But the protections were mostly for keeping the prisoners inside, not preventing forced entry. And Douglas is quite good at what he does, when he applies himself."
"Three points to Slytherin," said Snape without even looking in her direction.
"I see," Dumbledore breathed, lightly tracing a purple vein down her wrist. "The luminescent blue blood of the magi-arachnids met the red blood of men and women — result: a radiant periwinkle… The biological structure, unaltered, but the magic properties were transferred… yes, it does make sense, in theory…"
"Does that mean I have an Acromantula's magic now?" she asked with palpable excitement.
"Yes," said Dumbledore, at the same time that Grindelwald said "No".
"What is it, Gellert?"
"Do not give the girl false ideas. 'A drop of blood does not a monster make.'"
"That is not what that proverb means."
"It is now," said Grindelwald, flippant."My point is, Miss Granger, your blood has the magic of an Acromantula's blood. It should allow you to breathe with ease even scarce or poisoned air, and conserve itself more efficiently if you are injured; for an Acromantula cannot be bled to death; the blood repairs the vessel's wall almost instantly; natural Transfiguration, I studied it, once. You will, of course, become immune to Acromantula venom, and perhaps other venoms and poisons also; though don't go about kissing Nundus, to be clear, I mean only weaker sorts. …And of course, you have the glow, obscured in true specimens by the thick chitin."
"In so many words, Gellert," Dumbledore frowned, "she shall have an Acromantula's magic."
"After so many years," chuckled the old Dark Wizard, "still you make the same mistakes, Albus… You jump to absolutes. Non, old dunderhead, she shall not have an Acromantula's magic. It's not all in the blood, you know! She won't have the spell-resistance, the supernatural strength… let alone the ability to spin silk."
"Oh. Well. It's still not bad, is it?" Hermione said, once again smiling. "Glowing purple gives you a style, anyway. Oh, look! The light refracts through the mists of the Modesty Charm, it gives off a lovely shade of lavender, now…"
"Yes, speaking of that…" Dumbledore noted, "shouldn't you get dressed?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know, actually. Modesty Charms are quite long-lasting, I have read; especially one cast by your wand, I should suppose. Knowing you. And I think it's very comfortable, as long as th weather allows it. …Yes, I think I'll stay as I am for now."
Snape reddened.
"Miss Granger!" he roared. "You will respect the Hogwarts dress code, or I shall be forced to deduct points!"
"Actually," said Hermione, drumming her fingers along the side of the Cauldron, "today is Saturday. We do not have to follow the dress code in the week-end, or have you forgotten? Students are free to wear school robes, indoor robes, sportswear, or even Muggle clothing if it suits their fancy. You must have noticed all the Weasleys wear trousers and jumpers when not in class? Ands surely you cannot have missed Luna Lovegood."
"That may be," argued Snape, "but the question then is how to dress. Not whether. You are in violation of the Modesty Decree of 1567, which clearly states that deliberately immodest apparel will not be t—"
"Professor, this is literally called the Modesty Charm," she bit back. "How could you possibly classify it as immodest?! And since we're talking about rules, are we forgetting the 1883 ban on greasy hair?"
"Very good point," Dumbledore said, playing along, perhaps enjoying the flabbergasted looks Grindelwald and Malfoy were giving Hermione and Snape. "What of it then, Severus? A budding rebel, are we?"
"Some would say you're headed down a dark path, Snapey," Moody added. "…Oh wait! Bwahahah!"
"Really?" said Snape, baring his teeth. "But then, Headmaster, are we to overlook the Ministry's 1921 regulations on exceedingly long beards?"
"Wasn't that one repealed in '49?" Moody asked.
"I do believe so," Dumbledore chortled.
"Not quite," Hermione ruled. "But they did add an amendment concerning eccentric schoolteachers."
"I may neither confirm nor deny involvement," Dumbledore commented with just the smuggest grin.
"…I should go," said Lucius Malfoy, abrupt. "Good day."
He strode out as haughtily as a blackmailed politician could possibly do so while holding one of his hands inside a jar of sloshing life-potion, occasionally splashing drops of it on the ground to add to the various potions residue littering the Potions Laboratory.
"I should probably depart as well," Grindelwald added, brisk. He pressed a button on his end, and, with the connection cut off, his three-dimensional reflection in Hogwarts vanished.
"Rather brisk fellows, aren't they?" Hermione commented. "I — uh!?"
An antique harpsichord.
She shook her head.
An antique harpsichord… had appeared, embedded where the Cauldron and her legs should have been?!
"Er… Albus…?"
Then the harpsichord disappeared without warning, as if it had never been there at all.
"What?"
"No, nothing," she waved off the concerned Headmaster. "For a moment there I — oh, I think I'm simply tired. I'll just go tell Ron and Harry and everyone that I'm okay, and that they're not to worry, and… oh, Albus, I know we already skipped one because of my death and everything, but could we push back the Occlumency training again? Say, tomorrow, same time? I just want to go to sleep."
"Of course!" Dumbledore answered, "of course, it is quite possible that a ritual such as this would take a toll on your strength, especially in light of the unexpected transformation you went through."
"Thanks," she said with a friendly smile. "And all of you, thanks for all the help. Good bye!"
Hermione followed her plan and had a long, restful night's sleep. She relished in it. There was, of course, much to be said for the advantages of not sleeping at all, which she had tested for several nights in a row thanks to her porcelain body; but sleep gave you a time to pause, rest, and think. A stretch of six to ten hours where all you had to do was let your body slowly shut down and gaze inwards, looking back at the day's events and discoveries.
And planning out the next's.
Hermione, at this point, could hardly do without plotting, scheming or planning; much like Albus, she could no longer get through a day without planning it out. (Planning, of course, had a particular significance and importance when one used a Time-Turner, which demanded a strict schedule be adhered to for spacetime's sake.)
Thus, when Hermione woke up, she had a very good idea — a plan — for what she needed to do that morning.
First, she'd gone to sleep glancing at a certain tin box on her bedside table. Since the age of seven, she had used this box to store any lost coin or banknote which she happened to get a hold of, be it through finding it or having it given to her for her birthday by a relative. As of late, she had been overusing it in an attempt to store her cut of the Other Paper's profits; it was, theoretically, nothing; just a percent of the net gain, with the rest divided between just Dobby and Quentin; but the paper had been doing so well that even after a reasonably-sized Engorgio enchantment, it was threatening to overflow at any moment. Not to mention the safety issue; her main Hogwarts enemy, Draco Malfoy, may not have had any need to steal from her, but she couldn't be sure this would always be so, and she had better things to do than create her own protections for her stash.
The point was, she needed a Gringotts Vault, and rather sooner than later. This would, besides, be a very good reason to talk a bit with some Goblins and see if there was anything she could do for them through Cornelius Fudge.
She drafted up an explanatory note which she left on Harry's bed in place of his Invisibility Cloak, wrapped the tin box up in the invisible fabric, and made off for a certain corridor on the First Floor which she had learnt of from Sirius.
On the right side of that corridor, propped against the wall, was a sort of large black cupboard adorned with golden flourishes. A Vanishing Cabinet, possibly the most recklessly dangerous passageway out of Hogwarts, which led directly to Diagon Alley. With no hesitation, she climbed into the Cabinet and closed the door behind her. She fel the self being Vanished and then reconstituted, and stumbled out of the other Cabinet, in…
…a sinister antique shop?
"What are you doin' here?!" screamed a hunched man with oily white hair, rushing out from behind a heap of dusty items.
Calmly, she climbed out of the Cabinet.
"…and in this… state of undress, at that!…" the wizard added, more uncertain.
"Ah," she said with not-entirely-genuine confidence in her voice. "Mr Borgin, I presume. Or is it Mr Burke?"
"Borgin, Charles Borgin," he said mechanically. "Caractacus Burke is dead, he's been for many years."
"Oh? …How did this happen?" she asked.
"Occupational hazard," Borgin shrugged with a small but distinctly evil grin. "Somehow he came home with one of our hairbrushes."
"Ah, it was poisoned, wasn't it?"
"Not quite," said Borgin, the grin getting wider and meaner. "It ate him."
"…ate him?"
"Ate him," Borgin repeated with gleaming eyes.
Hermione thought about it.
"…Was the brush sentient?" she asked.
Had he been seated, it was clear that Charles Borgin would have fallen off said seat.
"What? Why? Why did you say that?!…" he stammered.
"Because I want to know if it had a motive for the murder in rebelling against his slavedriver?…" she explained as if to an idiot. "That much was obvious, I think."
"Little girls aren't supposed to say that!" Borgin struggled to explain, losing his composure. "I — no one is supposed to say that!"
"What should I have said then?" Hermione asked accusingly.
"Nothing!" said Borgin. "You're just meant to be creeped out, gulp, and then shakily state your purpose! I've tried this on thirty-seven different people, not one broke the mold, not even Lucius Malfoy!…"
"Oh, you've met my pet."
"Your what?!… Oh…" Borgin took a few steps backwards and rested his hand on his counter. "Oh God… you're her, aren't you…"
"Who?"
"The Granger girl… the Parselmouth of Gryffindor…" answered the Dark Wizard.
"A-ha!" Hermione noted with interest. "So they do call me that!"
"Is it accurate?" Borgin asked shakily.
"You bet."
"…Eeh," wheezed Borgin, readjusting his dingy bowtie and straightening himself. "Well. It would be uncouth to ask how you got into my shop, I imagine, or why you are… dressed in this manner."
"My, what an accurate imagination you have," she said with a grin.
"Or why you are glowing purple."
"Quite."
"So," he said, "what is your business here, Miss Granger?"
"Mostly just passing through," she answered. "Although, if you should happen to have any reasonably-priced Slytherin heirlooms…"
"Aah," nodded Borgin. "You would seek to weasel out potential secrets through Parseltongue, eh? Well, not much at the moment, Miss Granger, not much at the moment, but I'll keep a lookout if you give me a little something in advance."
After a few dreary minutes of debating a suitable price with Borgin, she walked out a Galleon lighter into Knockturn Alley. That chance encounter had been as useful as it had been mysterious; that was to say, mildly so on both accounts (she could have shopped for Parsel-activated artifacts some other time, and it was easy enough to figure out the Cabinet had been stolen by, or bequeathed to, Borgin from its original Diagon-dwelling owner at some point since the Senior Marauders' days). She quickly put it behind her, walking briskly along Knockturn Alley and into Diagon, trying to ignore the feeling of the rough and unkempt stones on her bare feet, and the chill on her sides. Wearing only a Modesty Charm was all fine and good in comfy, heated Hogwarts, but it was not really appropriate for a city outing in the middle of September… though she steeled herself by remembering that it did serve a greater purpose for her visit today.
When she walked into Gringotts, she was instantly the center of attention — among the Goblins; at this hour there were only few human customers, and they all had better things to do than gawk at one another. At some point since her First-Year, she had read that she'd been quite wrong on her first visit: Goblins did not actually like fussy politeness, but instead valued being honest, blunt and to-the-point. Thus, she dispensed with greetings and bows and all the silly routine, and instead walked straight to a teller's desk and said:
"I would like to register a new account, please."
"You want Blordak," said the Goblin with a faint Gobbledegook accent. "In charge of new accounts."
With a claw, the teller pointed at a pudgy Goblin in his thirties, who had astonishingly well-groomed blond hair and a surprisingly small nose. He was probably half-human, she thought; and therefore, valuable material to ask about wizard/goblin relationships. She smiled as she approached him.
"Hermione Granger. I would like to register a new account."
"Good," said Blordak, beckoning a ledger to him with a wave of his hand. "New blood?"
"Yes," she answered without missing a beat.
"High-security, or low-security?" he asked.
"…Er…" she hesitated.
"Look," Blordak explained, looking up with his black Goblin eyes and frowning at her. "What I mean is, Dragon, or no Dragon?!"
