Chapter 9 Uprooted
Author's note: Since I've recently got a review asking for longer chapters, I'll try to expand the content. But please keep in mind that it can take quite some time til the next upload due to the fact that I'm currently translating each chapter from my mother tongue into English.
I hope it's worth it. I feel quite insecure to be honest.
London, September 1926
The air was stuffy. The smoke of cigarettes, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume resulted in an odor people referred to as the typical Blacksmith's Club scent. The young woman who was dancing to the tunes of Black Bottom didn't seem to be bothered about the stuffiness of the air which made it almost hard to breath. Focused on her dance, her naked arms coated in a thin layer of sweat, she enjoyed life to the fullest, as she had always done. The embellishments on her dress sparkled in the dimmed light of the lamps with each move she made. A small smile was playing around the corners of her mouth. Her brown hair was short, coiffed into one of those stylish bobs that had recently become popular. She looked cheeky, but all the same she couldn't deny her social background. The dress fit her perfectly, obviously made to measure. Her jewellery looked unostentatious, but was in no way affordable for any middle class woman. That girl, who was dancing as if there was no tomorrow, wasn't short of a bob or two. Bobby had often seen her here. She never wore the same dress twice. For one or two months, she would come each second Friday, spend her time dancing through the night. Then she would take a break that usually lasted four weeks until she would return. That's how it had been for the bigger part of the year. Sometimes he asked himself where she would go in the morning. To Mayfair, where London's high society lived? People who owned big houses and who didn't have to sleep with five others in a cold, small room in a run-down building. Bobby wasn't an overly jealous person, but sometimes he called into question if there was any kind of justice when some people seemed to own the world while others had to live from hand to mouth.
He had been fired in June and was grateful to Richard for having given him the job as a barkeeper at the Blacksmith's. Still, it had meant he earned less than before which had ultimately forced him to swap his old abode for an even more unappealing one.
Bobby caught his lower lip with his teeth, biting it. A quirk that came out whenever he was angry at himself. If he hadn't joined the strike of coal miners, he wouldn't have gotten fired. The fight for justice hadn't offered him any reward.
It hadn't been all about earning better wages, he'd also wanted to declare his solidarity with the coal miners who had been threatened with longer working hours concomitant with a reduction of their wages. He'd let himself get carried away by the feeling of finally making a stand against those who preyed upon the poor. It had cost him dearly.
The woman stayed until closing time, occupying herself with dancing, drinking and smoking. When the club began to empty, she came over, sat on a stool near his position behind the bar and winked at him coquettishly.
Oh love… No pedigree dog wants to mate with a mongrel, he thought sadly to himself. Still, he gave her a friendly smile.
She moved the stool closer to the bar, and bent over whereby her long pearl necklace slid across the greasy tabletop.
"When does your shift end?", the woman asked cheekily.
Bobby raised his brows.
"In ten minutes!", he responded almost eagerly.
She fluttered her eyelashes.
"Ten minutes, huh? I'll see you outside then!"
Without giving him a chance to respond to her, she stood from her seat and went out of the club.
Bobby stared at her vacant chair. Did she really mean what she said? A coughing fit interrupted his thoughts, and he pressed the handkerchief to his mouth that he'd pocketed in the morning. When he removed it and gazed at the rumpled cloth, he could see fresh droplets of blood. Again…
He shook his head. It was probably just an aftereffect of the damned cold that confined him to his bed during the last week.
He was confronted with a cold puff of wind as he exited the club and locked the entrance. He looked around. Indeed, the girl was still there. Slowly he strolled towards her. Bobby fixed his clothes while walking, hoping beyond hope to make a good impression aside from the obvious beer stains on his sleeve hems.
"Come here!", she whispered, gripped his collar and pulled him into an unlit alleyway between a butcher's shop and an abandoned house whose windows had been boarded up.
"You are so handsome!", she breathed in his ear. Her lips wandered over his neck and Bobby gulped for air. He shivered with excitement.
"Do you know what you are doing to me, love?", he asked short of breath.
"I'm not a prudish country bumpkin!", she retorted, sounding almost offended.
Then she began to giggle gleefully, as if she had won something very valuable, and her mouth captured his.
Her tongue thrust against his lower lip teasingly. He opened his mouth and began to kiss her thoroughly. His fingers, that had gripped her hair, went limp, and all of a sudden he felt like putty in her hands. Bobby slipped to the ground.
He exhaled one last time.
"Poor, poor boy!"
Morgan bent over the man's corpse and looked into his dead eyes for the last time.
"I'm sorry, but the ordeal you would have had to endure a month later would have resulted in a very agonizing death!"
She stepped over the body, ensuring that it lay visibly enough to be found. It was a shame. No one would miss the guy. He had no family left and not a single friend who would have stood by his side once his illness reached the terminal stage.
Morgan didn't pick her victims without a reason. Most of the time they were fatally ill or criminals that deserved nothing but death. By stealing their vital energy in a gentle manner, she did not only prolong her own life (thus feeding the curse that lay upon her), but also spared them a painful death.
She felt sorry for Bobby, though. He'd been so young and, still, so ill. Even magic couldn't help him. Just thinking of the grisly fate, his future would have held in store for him was enough to make her eyes tear up. One day the poor boy would have choked on his own blood.
She brought death, but it came swiftly and without pain.
Unlike fate which couldn't have cared less if someone suffered before their demise or not.
The sky turned grey, morning had broken. Morgan strolled down almost deserted streets. Only some very late night crawlers crossed her path, not yet ready to bid the night adieu. She liked visiting this muggle populated part of the city. The people here weren't as tight-lipped as some members of her world. They welcomed life with open arms and lacked the cold demeanour that was typical behaviour for a vast majority of her world's society. She sucked the cold air in, savouring the flavour that the last breeze of the dying night exhaled. An earthy, fresh scent that held the promise of new adventures.
After a while she passed a vacant shop in a deserted alleyway and would have walked on if she hadn't spotted the doubled up person lying in front of one of the dirty shop windows. A young, pregnant woman was crouched on the ground, dressed in rags that were caked with dirt. She was breathing heavily as Morgan approached her. Something in the young woman's posture had sent her alarm bells off. Her eyes widened as she saw the reason for her sudden tension. Between the girl's thighs, blood was pooling rapidly. The girl herself was frantically cupping her lap as if she was trying with her all her might to prevent the miscarriage. She uttered a piercing scream.
"It's too soon, too soon! Dear God above, don't take my child, I beg you!"
Don't take my child…
Memories flooded her brain.
Memories of a time long gone. A time where she hadn't been able to save her own flesh and blood.
She didn't waste a second. Morgan might not have been able to save her victims from death, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let this poor thing die. With her wand pulled out, she came to a halt next to the hysterically crying girl whose shaking hands were slick with blood.
"Calm down, child. Calm down! Breathe in slowly! Everything's going to be alright. I'll promise. You won't lose your child!"
She had been one of the most talented healers in her time. She knew a lost cause when she saw one, and for once Morgan had never been more certain: She could save the baby.
The girl belonged to her world. She had admitted as much when Morgan tried to erase the memories of their encounter. What had such a young woman been doing so far away from her parents in the streets of London? Morgan eyed the sleeping form on her bed in one of the better rooms the Leaky Cauldron had to offer. Initially, she had booked the room out of pure nostalgia. She could have afforded every luxury suite from here to America and back, but this pub held a special charm that Morgan just loved.
The girl groaned in her sleep. She had been so exhausted that she hadn't even been able to get dressed. Morgan had taken her with her, and tried to nurse her back to health. To no avail. The baby was alright, the mother wasn't. If no one showed up to take care of her, she wouldn't survive childbirth. Morgan had many questions, but no answers. The girl hadn't talked much, sidestepping each and every personal question, but so far every detail Morgan had found out pointed at her being a runaway.
Maybe her parents hadn't approved of the baby's father, and she had gone with him? But where was he now? Did she come from a wealthy family and had clandestinely left them behind because her little fling with one of the stable boys had resulted in an unwanted pregnancy? Maybe the dress she had worn was a hint? It's current state made it impossible to identify it as a designer dress, but Morgan being used to all sorts of pricey clothing had recognized the pattern regardlessly. At the beginning of the year, this dress had been presented at a muggle fashion show she had visited.
Morgan knew exactly how expensive this one was. Someone had paid a lot of money for the little runaway's wardrobe. It was a shame… In it's current state the dress wouldn't even have been good enough for cleaning the floor.
Morgan had disposed of it. She would get the girl some warm clothes, and then they would find her a new abode. The girl had no money, that much was clear. Still, she wouldn't have to worry about her financial situation, if Morgan assisted her with gold, which was indeed her intent.
Gold had never played a big role in her life, and it wouldn't play one in her future for in three days time she would tie the knot with Raghnall Warrington, one of the richest bachelors the high society of the wizarding world had to offer. She smiled tiredly. How many husbands was that now? She had stopped counting them.
I'll be forever grateful for everything you did, Miss.
You saved my child's life and gave me a roof over my head, so I could find the time to rest. I'm deeply indebted to you. You have a big heart, and I hope that one day you'll be rewarded for your kindness. However, I simply cannot become a burden on you. It's already enough that I take the clothes you gave me. I don't want to take advantage of you for I'll have to atone for my sins on my own, please understand my decision.
In gratitude for all you've done
Merope G.
Morgan lowered her right hand that still held the girl's note and curled up her lips. The young woman was gone. Most likely she'd returned to the bustling streets of the capital. Morgan had refused to accept it, but with her flight the girl had confirmed her apprehensions. Merope had abandoned hope. The girl would give birth and die. She had known before Morgan owned up to the truth.
Poor girl, all dead inside. A living corpse that would undoubtedly try to prevent Morgan from finding her. The ancient witch instinctively knew that every attempt at tracking her down would prove unsuccessful.
Poor thing… What would happen to her child?
A loud bang behind her made her jump with fright. The girl's note slipped out of her hands and sailed through the air until it landed underneath a tattered sofa. Soon to be forgotten by the world, just like the person who wrote it.
Meanwhile, Morgan eyed the striped cat sitting on the washed-out rug that lay in the middle of the room with bared teeth.
She would have recognized the animal everywhere since it had been her who'd ensured that it would stay like this for the rest of its existence.
"What do you want, Zar?"
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. Her eyes, narrowed to slits, locked on the uninvited guest with a suspicious expression.
"Not much. Only your help!"
HGTR
Harold and Alicia weren't the only members of her new, old house who tried to have a friendly conversation with her during dinner.
A chubby girl with slightly greasy, ash blonde hair introduced herself as Sarah Bobbin which prompted Hermione to ask herself inwardly if Sarah was related to the Hufflepuff from her timeline, Melinda Bobbin, who, just like her, had experienced the doubtful joy of being a member of the Slug Club in her sixth year. Rupert Jones, a fifth year, insisted on making the school choir tempting for her and Heather Isles, a seventh year student, saw it as her duty to inform Hermione about the more or lesser known secrets of Hogwarts. She tried to be a perfect audience, but Heather had such a monotone voice that it became quite hard to listen to her ramblings with the occasionally thrown in interested ohs and ahs.
Hence, she was quite grateful when a beefy looking boy approached the girl, effectively interrupting her monologue.
Hermione let her eyes roam over the big house table. The sight was so familiar and, at the same time, so odd that she felt quite out of place.
Animated conversations, smiling faces, laughter. It felt the same. But the faces were foreign, the conversations didn't centre around the topics that had been common in her timeline, and she couldn't match any of the voices she heard with the ones she'd grown accustomed to. She dropped her gaze.
Hermione would have sold her soul to get Harry and Ron here.
Yes, even the naive, childish Lavender Brown would have been a sight for sore eyes. Indeed, her presence could have eased the feeling of loneliness in her heart.
Harold and Alicia made her laugh, yes, but they weren't able to alleviate the pain she felt. The terrible feeling of being completely uprooted was intense, and it was certain that it would take some time until she could become used to these foreigners. It didn't even do any good that two of them looked an awful lot like their potential descendants.
After lunch the majority of the students left the Great Hall. Most were exhausted due to the long journey by train, and now they craved nothing more than their warm, soft beds in their dormitories. However, some of the students remained seated and exchanged witty anecdotes about their summer holidays. Hermione, who'd taken Harold's offer to show her the way to the Gryffindor Tower, instead of just following the other first year students, had once again become lost in her thoughts, only listening with half an ear to Harold's anecdote about a Sunday trip that had gone awry.
His conversational partner, a pale, slender boy with oddly slanted eyes laughed every so often about the admittedly partially funny story.
When Harold finally stood up, the Great Hall had noticeably emptied. Silently, Hermione followed him out in the hallway.
"Gillian! Gillian, wait!"
She spun around, recognizing Alphard who approached her hastily, followed by Abraxas and the boy whom she would have preferred to hex to the next universe if only she'd been allowed to: Tom Riddle.
Had the three of them actually sat around to head her off?
Just in time she suppressed the grimace that had already been trying to manifest itself on her face. Instead, she put up a brave front.
"Go ahead, Potter!", Abraxas ordered imperiously.
"We will bring her to the Fat Lady's portrait later on. You've already gotten the password, haven't you?" he turned enquiringly to Hermione.
She nodded mechanically.
Meanwhile, Harold looked as if he expected her to decline Abraxas' offer before casting a glance to Alphard, who, in turn, stared at him in defiance.
He shrugged.
"I'll see you tomorrow!", he said, sounding distinctly less friendly than he had during dinner. She felt a stab to her heart, as she watched him leaving without deigning to look at her again.
Inwardly sighing she turned to Alphard.
"What is it?"
"You… ah… you… What are you doing in Gryffindor? Most of your ancestors went to Slytherin!", he sputtered, sounding almost accusingly, as if it had been her fault entirely that the Sorting Had had sorted her into Gryffindor.
"If I only knew the reason!", she responded, pretending to be utterly crestfallen.
"I'd set my hopes on being sorted into Slytherin!"
Abraxas stepped forward and patted her right shoulder.
"Didn't you try to persuade the Sorting Hat that you would be better off in Slytherin?", he asked.
"I didn't know that was possible!", Hermione said sheepishly.
"Ah, well, sorted is sorted. Still, we aren't out of reach! If you need us, you'll just have to say so, my love!", he soothed her.
"Well, it seemed to me that for Miss Warrington the unanticipated sorting into Gryffindor wasn't as dire a fate as you make it sound, Abraxas. On the contrary, it appeared as if she was rather busy making new contacts and amusing herself in the process. If I may introduce myself: Riddle, Tom Riddle!"
He held his pale hand out to her. Gulping down a sudden feeling of nausea, she shook hands with him. Just long enough so it didn't appear impolite.
"Since you are a new student, and as far as I was informed, not used to the routines of a school, I'll gladly offer you my service should you need my assistance. As this year's head boy, it is my duty to care about the concerns of the students, so do not hesitate to approach me, Miss Warrington.
Surely you will. You are so keen on helping others, you should be called a bloody Samaritan. Don't make me laugh, Riddle!, she thought while at the same responding in a saccharine voice:
"That is most generous of you, Mister Riddle. I'll gladly take your offer should I need it. Now, if you would excuse me, it was an exhausting day and I feel rather tired. Alphard, Abraxas I bid you a good night. We'll see each other tomorrow. And a good night to you too, Mr. Riddle!"
She was about to retire, but there was one thing she hadn't reckoned with: Riddle.
"So you deem it wise to wander around this huge castle all on your own? Without knowing the way to your dormitory?", Riddle asked, sounding amused.
The shock about not having considered this circumstance in her hasty attempt at getting rid of Riddle hit her to the core. How could she be so stupid? If she went on like this, she would arouse his suspicion. Merlin's beard. She was an idiot. Such an idiot!
"My apologies, I'm just so tired I didn't think of it!"
She began to stagger in order to emphasise her tiredness. Riddle better believed her act of only just keeping herself from dozing off.
To her horror he stepped forward and grasped her waist to stabilise her body.
"Careful, my dear. We wouldn't want to hurt ourselves on the first day of school, would we?", he urged with concern.
"Alphard, Abraxas, you can go ahead! I'll take Miss Warrington to the Gryffindor Tower, safe and sound!"
Panicking she noticed that Alphard and Abraxas seemed to be okay with the order. They began to move without another word and soon they were nowhere to be seen.
She was alone with Riddle.
Alone with the nightmare turned reality.
"Can you stand on your own, Miss Warrington?"
"Y-yes!", she panted, torn between keeping up the charade of the tired woman and the urge to escape his deadly grip.
"I- I'm alright, thank you!"
Riddle withdrew his hands.
Hermione took a step forward and this time she actually lost her balance. Her ears were ringing, her head was spinning and she felt ready to throw up.
His voice… It had sounded exactly like the one she'd heard in her head whenever she'd worn Slytherin's locket. His horcrux. The sight of him flooded her brain with all the dreadful memories of the war. Terrifying images that seemed to choke her, making it harder to breathe. With all her might she kept her masquerade in place. She couldn't let her fear, panic and disgust blur the expression of exhaustion on her face. Not now…
"I see that quite differently! Come, my dear, support yourself on me. By Merlin, you must be utterly exhausted!"
He offered her his arm, and Hermione had to restrain herself from slapping it away.
Bile rose in her throat. She bravely gulped it down and took his arm.
"You are too kind, Mister Riddle!"
The way to the Gryffindor Tower seemed to drag on forever. Never before in her entire life had it felt that long and when they finally reached the Fat Lady's portrait she had almost been ready to cry out of joy.
"There we are, my dear. I bid you a good night, Miss Warrington. Rest well, the next days could be quite tiresome, especially if you aren't used to the school's routines!", Riddle said in a jovial mood.
"Thank you, that was very polite of you!", she practically squeezed the words out, turning around to face the Fat Lady.
"Solstitium!", she said weakly.
The portrait slid to the side, revealing terra firma.
Hermione slipped through the hole as fast as she could. Only when the portrait had slid back in its initial place did she dare to lay a hand on her wildly beating heart, and utter a relieved sigh. She was out of the woods. For now…
Somehow Dumbledore had managed to convince the current headmaster, Armando Dippet, of the necessity to give her a single bedroom.
Probably because otherwise it would have been quite difficult to talk to Zar without her house mates asking inconvenient questions. As soon as she entered her room, she raised her wand and whispered muffliato.
"Soooo, what's your first impression?"
Zar approached her leisurely, yawned heartily and smacked his lips.
"I want to throw up whenever I see him!", she answered truthfully.
By now her dismay had yielded to anger. She was angry with Riddle, and herself. Angry because of the panic that felt so foreign to her. Her, who normally wouldn't shy away from a task. No matter how difficult it was.
"Indeed? I heard he steals all the girl's hearts!"
Hermione huffed in disdain.
"He's a liar. A monster, trying to act as if it has the heart and face of a saint. He's just as wrong as his ideals!", she practically barked.
"Oh, and you, my little one aren't a liar then? Always having a clean slate, aye?", the cat hummed, sounding slightly amused.
"On whose side are you, Zar? Do you think I do all this because I have nothing better to do?", she spat with her arms akimbo.
The cat got onto his hind legs and began to lick himself clean.
"Tom Riddle doesn't wear his mask because he just loves it. He pursues an objective as much as you do. Get used to his presence and accept the fact that you both are merely players on his stage, mind you! We didn't only give you the identity of a Warrington to make your social background appear flawless, but also to arouse his interest. He will want to socialise with you, which in turn makes it easier to grow accustomed to him!", Zar revealed conversationally.
Hermione blinked dumbfoundedly.
"Please what? Arouse his interest?", she repeated, panicking.
She'd hoped to time the moment she would approach Riddle herself. Her recent anxiety attack had taught her that she still had to work a lot if she was to weather this catastrophe of a mission. She suddenly felt cornered. Her safety net was missing, and she was about to fall.
"Didn't you listen to Morgan?"
Zar looked at her disdainfully.
"Numerous Warringtons were deep into the dark arts. The family library contains their records. What else could attract Riddle, but the prospect of getting access to records, so valuable, not even the Malfoys could provide something similar, let alone this sorry excuse for a school library? Believe me when I say that the moment Riddle learns about your family's dark arts records he wouldn't miss out on this chance. So drop your contempt. The sooner you get in touch with him the better for us and the future."
Taken aback she stared at the cat.
"A bit of a warning would have been nice!", she said after a while.
The cat ignored the reproachful remark uncompassionately and immediately brought up another matter.
"So where did the Sorting Hat put you? I couldn't see where this oaf Dippet brought me, but it sure wasn't the Dungeons!" By now he had climbed onto her bed and resumed the process of cleaning his fur.
"Gryffindor!", she spat icily.
"Gryffindor of all houses!", he cried out, drawing a face that looked like he'd just been pushed into a bathtub full of water.
"It's a good house and just because I haven't been sorted into Slytherin it doesn't mean that I can't accomplish my mission!", she said, basically repeating what the Sorting Hat told her a few hours ago.
Zar shuddered.
"But… why couldn't it have been one of the other houses?", he grumbled.
"Well, I didn't really want a speaking cat as a room mate. Tough luck! Get used to me being a bloody Gryffindor!", she hissed, taunting him with his own motto.
"Ouch, woman! You have a sharp tongue! I'll grant you that. Speaking of room mate… I will certainly not sleep in this… this thing over there! It's hard, itchy and cold! On top of this it's pink! Blargh!"
Zar pointed with one of his paws, obviously disgusted, at the cat basket Morgan had bought for him.
"If you rather want a new spot, go on. We've got plenty of floor here!"
"Floor? You are cruel, woman! You've got a huge, warm, and soft bed. I've lain in it by way of trial, so don't think of running it down!"
"I see!", Hermione said in a peeved tone, brushing fine, black hairs off her pillow.
"But you will certainly not sleep in my bed!"
Zar was having none of it.
"Many people let their pets sleep in their beds!"
"Many people own a real pet and not some cursed man in the body of a cat!"
"You know, you could be a bit more clement! I'm pulling all my whiskers out to support you and what do you do for me in return? You aren't even willing to grant me the footboard!", he howled affectedly.
With her arms akimbo once more, Hermione cocked her head and eyed him suspiciously. The cat looked positively depressed. She felt her resistance melt away and sighed loudly.
"Alright! Under one condition: You won't snuggle up to me. Understood?"
"Your wish is my command, madame!"