Breaking the Window

Chapter 15: Expelled!

The next day after her conversation with Trix about her going to spy on Voldemort in an effort to earn herself her freedom from her impending marriage, Hermione was in quite a state. She hadn't slept, she couldn't eat nor could she find escape in her academic pursuits for a sheer lack of concentration.

Hermione was quite literally sick with worry for her friend. Right now, back in 1968, Bellatrix was putting herself at great risk.

Or would be.

Or had been.

Or could have been.

Hermione groaned as she sat behind her desk, staring at the empty parchment which was to contain a report on the growth cycle of the common glowcap, a report she simply couldn't muster the will to start on. She tossed the quill to one side with an angry grunt: aside from being sick with worry, thinking too hard upon the vagaries of temporal mechanics was giving her a headache.

It didn't take long, however, for worry to make way for anger. No, not anger. Unbridled rage! Aimed at Dumbledore. Dammit, she had Trix convinced to stay away from Voldemort! She was safe! And then that sanctimonious old goat Dumbledore just had to reel her right back in for the sake of that self-righteous concept of the 'greater good'. And he had known just the right thing to entice Bellatrix to risk her life and future for. For all she knew, it was him whom had caused Trix' downfall by sending her on the path to self-destruction.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, letting her head hang back for a moment: maybe the conspiracy theorists had been right all along. Maybe Dumbledore was simply using his old tricks for a different goal, but has always remained the same power-hungry manipulator he had always been and used people to further his own goals.

The young witch let out a sigh as she regarded the quill on the ground: maybe she was more angry with herself than anything. Hermione felt completely and utterly helpless: when she'd been with the boys, she could usually convince her friends to see things her way... and if not, there'd always been a big book to beat them over the head with until they complied.

That didn't work so well with Bellatrix. Not only could she only speak with her one hour in the day, but unlike the boys, Hermione wasn't smarter than her. In fact, Hermione had to admit that in some ways, Bellatrix was actually smarter than she was. Convincing Bellatrix to see things her way would be like herding a cat.

'Think, Hermione! Think!', Hermione forced herself. Maybe there was some sort of option here. Yes, 1968 already happened, correct? Perhaps looking a bit more into Bellatrix's personal history from around that time might help give some insight. Could it? Wasn't she changing things? Would anything still apply?

Argh, temporal mechanics again.

And then there were… the feelings. Feelings she could barely make sense of. How she ached for Trix every single day, an ache that could only be relieved when talking to her in the depths of night. Now the mere mention of her name made her heart skip a beat. How she'd like to pretend that her life-sized tiger plushie was actually Trix, the paws her arms holding her. Then… the more… physical… fantasies… Shameful fantasies. Thoughts of kisses, caresses and deep desires.

There was a knock on the door and being disturbed out of her concentration annoyed her to no end. Before she could stop herself, she aired her frustration by shouting out a vitriolic "FUCK OFF!".

The door opened and Hermione was startled for a moment when the door swung open and in the doorway stood McGonagall with one eyebrow raised.

"P-professor," Hermione muttered, her anger subsiding quickly.

"No need to apologize, miss Granger," said the professor as she strode inside, closing the door behind her. "Your frustration today is quite clear. In fact, Professor Flitwick asked me to speak with you: he's been getting quite concerned. And then there is the matter of a letter from your father."

"My father?" said Hermione. "He sent a letter?"

"A rather... strongly-worded letter," McGonagall pursed her lips. "Your father is angry at us for not taking better care of you. For not helping you with your current troubles. And for exposing you to a war at a tender young age. Try as I might, I cannot find fault with his arguments."

Hermione nodded. She quite understood: her dad felt helpless too. His daughter was hurting and there was nothing he could do. Even if it was just by writing a letter, it was a way for him to give a voice to these feelings of helplessness. Perhaps she should do the same... perhaps she should just tell Trix how she felt. Perhaps...

Hermione's silence was an invitation for McGonagall to continue. "Truth is, we have failed you. We haven't been giving you the help you need. Frankly, we don't know how. Mental care is something muggles have, but we don't. Merlin knows, with all the mad wizards and witches in our world, it is something we should consider. Perhaps you should take some time off and spend it with your family. Take as much time as you need. School will be here when you return."

The young witch let out a gasp. Though the offer was kind enough, she couldn't be away from the school. Not now. If she couldn't talk to Trix, she wouldn't be able to prevent her from causing her own downfall. This couldn't help. "No!" Hermione yelped. "I cannot leave. Not right now. I have to keep near Hogwarts."

"Why?" asked McGonagall.

"I..." Hermione fell silent for a moment and looked away. "I..."

"Miss Granger," said McGonagall. "I'm seeing some disturbing parallels with another young witch who used to walk these halls. Like you, she wouldn't eat or sleep, slowly withdrew into herself and tried to toss herself on her schoolwork to keep herself distracted. She went from a clever, vibrant young woman to a withdrawn and unstable recluse. It is one particular history I would not see itself repeat."

Hermione sighed. "You're talking about Bellatrix Black, aren't you?"

A slight nod was all she needed to see. This made Hermione bristle with anger. "Where were you and Dumbledore then when Bellatrix needed you, hm? And was her becoming a withdrawn and unstable recluse before or after you sent her to spy on Voldemort?!"

To say that McGonagall was startled was an understatement. "How did you know...?" she blinked, but soon resigned herself. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Yes, you are correct. We threw miss Black to the wolves even though we knew the risks. At first, she gave us some valuable information, but nothing which we couldn't have found out through other sources. At some point, she started buying into the rhetoric and turned down a much darker path. Something happened. We're not sure what or when. You're quite right, miss Granger. I should have done more. I should have protested Albus' plan. But I did not. And through our actions, we sacrificed a promising young woman and practically handed her to You-Know-Who, who turned her anger and power into a weapon for his cause. Miss Granger, if I could turn back the clock, I would. But the past is the past."

The past is the past?

Not if Hermione could help it.

"I'm sorry, professor," said Hermione, only half lying.

"I might not have been able to help miss Black," said McGonagall. "But I do want to help you. As of today, you are suspended from all classwork until I deem you fit to return."

Hermione blinked, letting those words run through her mind until she realized just what her professor was saying. "Are you expelling me?!" she yelled out in a panic.

"No," said McGonagall. "I am forcing you to deal with your issues and that will never happen as long as you have your classwork to distract yourself with. You have two days to make arrangements to find a living space. After that, you will be barred from school grounds until I say otherwise."

"I..." Hermione blinked.

"That is final," said McGonagall. "Deal with your issues any way you see fit. Stay with your family. Rest in Hogsmeade. Enjoy a vacation. The choice is yours. But I am taking away your opportunity to stick your head in the sand. We will, however, give you a stipend for the time being to cover your expenses."

A flabbergasted Hermione was left behind her desk while McGonagall gave her a nod before leaving the room.

"So it finally happened. Your worst fear has come true!"

"It's not funny, Ron!"

Sat in the common room of the Three Broomsticks, it was still a bit on the quiet side at 1 pm. Hermione's plans to continue classes and focus on her homework were effectively cancelled indefinitely. Still, Hermione wouldn't be Hermione if she couldn't adjust quickly and get on her feet.

She had gathered all her clothes, the life-sized tiger, a plethora of books and notes as well as all the gear she would need, tossed it all into a bottom-less bag and booked a room at the Three Broomsticks. McGonagall might bar her from Hogwarts, but she couldn't bar her from Hogsmeade. And Hogsmeade was, actually, closer to the Forbidden Forest. For now, it would be a good place to stay.

Ron came back to visit and was promptly directed towards the Three Broomsticks, where the two friends were now enjoying a meal and a pint of ale.

"I don't know what you're complaining about, Hermione," chuckled Ron. "Free from schoolwork and getting paid for doing absolutely bugger all? Sounds like slice of fried gold to me."

"It's just the circumstance of it all," Hermione muttered. "This is exactly what I don't need right now."

"Really?" said Ron. "Hermione, you're not the same as you used to be."

"Part of growing up, Ron. You should try it," Hermione bit back and quickly let out a sigh. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

"It's alright," Ron chuckled, but his face quickly fell. "We're all dealing with the aftermath of the war in our own way. Still, I'd rather see you happy and smiling again... even if you'd just want to beat me over the head with a book."

"I'm quite aware I haven't been myself lately," Hermione muttered.

"No kidding," said Ron. "I hoped inviting you over at the Burrow would pull you out of your shell a little, but you hardly talked to anyone. I would have, but..."

"Pansy," Hermione chuckled. "She seems a bit... high-maintenance."

"Noticed that, huh?" Ron gave her a goofy grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say. It's just that... she was doing some things for the auror office, we got to talking about a case. Then we got to talking about other things. Then we went to have lunch together. It sort of escalated from there."

"Considering your family's opinion on Slytherin..."

"... and yours on Pansy," Ron added, to which Hermione let out a snort.

"Anyway," said Ron. "Not sure where this is going to go, but so far we've been enjoying ourselves. She actually gets along quite well with my parents and likes staying at the Burrow. I don't think her parents ever paid much attention to her, to be honest."

Hermione was about to say something, but quickly swallowed her words. Bellatrix turned out to have hidden depths and was not the same in 1968 as the woman whom had tortured her. If she could see her tormentor whom had scarred her for life in a different light, why couldn't she do the same for the girl who only made nasty comments at her in the hallways? Granted, it was seven years worth of nasty comments, but still…

"Seriously, I do hope it works out," smiled Hermione. She did want her friend to be happy. And if he could find happiness with Pansy, who was she to stand in his way?

"Oh, before I forget the whole reason I stopped by," said Ron as he made a grab for his bag. "Your book finally came in."

Ron produced a rather ancient and heavy tome, leather-bound and dusty, it looked as if it hadn't been moved from the shelf in decades. Embossed into the leather in gilded lettering was the title: 'Verlorene magische Geschichten aus dem Schwartzwald'. Hermione loved old books like this: the musty smell, the artful leather binding and how the edge of the pages were seemingly gilded as well.

"Not sure what you're going to do with it now that you can't enter Hogwarts anymore," shrugged Ron. "There's no return date, so you can keep it as long as you like."

"Oh, you have no idea how you've helped me, Ron," said Hermione while running her hand over the leather-binding slowly and lovingly.

Ron snorted for a moment. "Do you two need a moment alone up in your room?"

Hermione made a face and, reluctantly, continued on having her meal and chatted with Ron. After having another cup of coffee, Hermione said her goodbye to Ron and the moment he was out the door, she grabbed the book at ran upstairs to her room.

Her home for the time being was a surprisingly spacey room above the common room of the inn with a single large double window by the side of a two-person bed. A small, but perfectly functional private bathroom had a nice shower and opposite to the bed was an armoire. The room, thankfully, came with a rather comfortable chair and writing desk, one where which she had placed the books she had brought. The life-sized tiger found a home on the bed. As did the clock Bellatrix had gifted her, which looked just fine on the nightstand.

This forced vacation was a bit of a blessing in disguise: Hermione didn't read German and would need to translate the text in the book with the help of a German dictionary. That would take time... and now that her hands had been freed, she had all the time of the world to actually work on her translation.

And if she needed a book from the Hogwarts library? Well, she had a way to sneak out of the castle undetected and that would work perfectly well the other way around. For now, she was fine.

After scanning the index, she found the story of the Fae Mirror. Or rather, Feen-Spiegel, as it was named in this book. The moment she reached the page, she found something odd. On the page, between the chapter title and the start of the text was what seemed to be a familiar looking ink sketch. Immediately, Hermione reached over to her satchel and unrolled the painting which Bellatrix had gifted her. Holding it next to the sketch, she found to be almost the same: a unicorn looking into a Fae Mirror and its dark reflection looking back at it. Furthermore, she checked other chapters and found no such ink sketch anywhere else in the book. She could only come to the conclusion that someone had drawn it in the book. Perhaps a young Achille Rosier had been idly doodling into this very book before committing it to canvas? She could only hazard a guess.

Almost instinctively, she touched the drawing. And immediately withdrew her hand as it if was burned. The lines in the ink shifted beneath her fingers, almost artistically forming into lines which in turn formed into letters. 'Hello miss Granger. Please meet me at this address at your earliest convenience. Yours truly, A. Rosier. 31st of January 1982.'

Bellatrix's uncle? And that date... that would be a few months after Voldemort's fall. And scant a few days after Bellatrix' trial and sentencing.

She quickly grabbed a quill and wrote down the address before the sketch returned to its original shape. Though she had set out to translate the original tale, this had taken an unexpected turn so far. She turned her head to the clock on the nightstand, and made a swift decision.

For a moment, Hermione wasn't sure she had gotten the address right. She'd gotten to Manchester by train just fine after apparating to Glasgow and arrived around 4 pm. Following the map to the address had led her towards some of the older districts of Manchester, where old factories and warehouses from the Industrial Revolution stood. Most of these old buildings, once the places where most of the cotton processing in the UK had been done, had been converted to living areas or upscale coffee shops. This single building looked as if it had stepped right out of the 19th century, waiting for scores of the working class to arrive to work their 12-14 hour back-breaking shifts.

It was a two-story building made from stones with a sandy colour and when she looked up, she was expecting plumes of smoke to emerge from the two chimneys. Its windows were large, wide and high. Fitting as a cotton mill needed plenty of light. She approached the large wooden double doors and banged the knocker. It remained silent for a long time.

Part of her worried that she had made the long trip for nothing. Achille Rosier, while a very famous and prolific artist, was a notorious recluse. I wouldn't surprise her at all if he would refuse to see her. Her fears were for nought, however as the sound of a heavy bolt moving behind the door. The door swung open but no one appeared. Hermione carefully approached the door and stepped through the portal. The door closed behind her and she found herself standing in an entrance hall. A small office was at the end of the hall, next to a few trolleys of packaged up paintings which were undoubtedly ready to be sent to those who had commissioned them. The occupant of the office was a small female goblin, immaculately dressed and currently writing in a ledger.

"Welcome," spoke the goblin with a high pitched voice. "Mister Rosier has been expecting you for quite some time. Please, step through the door."

Hermione gave the goblin a nod and pressed forward. The moment she stepped through the door, she found herself in what once was the cotton mill hall where the factory's machines had stood. It was now, however, filled to the brim with paintings. Beautiful paintings. Some were put on trolleys, others were prominently displayed. Aside from the windows, every bit of wall was covered by a painting. Multiple racks had been placed in the middle of the hall to display more paintings, making make-shift corridors in this large room. The entire factory was Rosier's atelier.

She was startled when she came face to face with a rather prominently displayed painting... of her. For a moment it startled her: Hermione stood clad in a school uniform, among the trees of a forest. The painting itself was quite large, some two meters high and one meter wide and framed in oak. What surprised her the most was the year next to the signature: this painting had been made in 1969, ten years before she'd been born.

"Hm," a French accented voice sounded near her. "Long brown 'air, cascading down 'er back. Deep brown eyes, expressive eyebrows. Creamy white skin, somewhat less pale than my niece 'erself. Fiercely intelligent, but somewhat unsure of 'erself. Slender, slightly taller than my niece. Likes to wear a school uniform even when she doesn't 'ave to. 'As this oddly bossy quality to 'er voice. Bellatrix gave a good description, though it was rather impossible to give the quality of your voice a proper impression in the painting."

The man who presented himself was thin and pale, indicitive of an indoor sedentary lifestyle. With graying hair, the man looked to be in his seventies, middle-aged for a wizard, bearing a white apron which was speckled with paint. The man quickly removed it and tossed it to his side, revealing comfortable muggle slacks and shirt. This was, undoubtedly, Achille Rosier, a celebrated and prolific artist in the wizarding world… but also a famously reclusive and private person who barely interacted with the public.

"Achille Rosier, I presume?" Hermione asked, extending her hand.

Achille Rosier took it and smiled warmly. "And you are Hermione Granger. Though I knew what you looked like long before I even learned your name. Bellatrix would not speak of it, but she did give me instructions for this painting. I made that for 'er, you know? She didn't want to forget you."

"I found your letter," said Hermione, getting right to the point. "Or rather, sketch. In the book."

Achille scraped his throat. "I knew you would and... ach, forgive my 'oarseness. I do not speak often."

"It's quite alright," said Hermione just as Achille pulled a white cloth from another painting. It was another painting of herself... with young Bellatrix. The two of them stood in the forest, Bellatrix laughing and Hermione smiling while the both of them held hands. It looked as if Bellatrix was trying to coax Hermione into dancing with her.

"That was one of 'er favourites too," Achille chuckled. "A fantasy, really. A dream. Before it all went to merde for 'er. Would you be kind enough to follow with me for a moment?"

"Of course," said Hermione. She couldn't help but feel intrigued. Apparently the Bellatrix of the past had shared some details of their impossible discussions through time and space with her uncle at some point. And her uncle had remained silent as the grave for almost thirty years. She followed Rosier out of another door leading into a small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the building and one side looking out over the water. A green patch and a few trees adorned the courtyard, but the centrepiece was a marble column. A grave. Approaching, Hermione could see the writing on the column.

"Bellatrix Druella Black

1951-1998

Rest well, cherie. You deserved better."

Achille set down on a small bench next to the grave and patted the marble for a moment. "I found 'er, cherie," he spoke softly. "She's 'ere for you."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat when the full realisation hit her. "God, is that..."

"Yes."

"But I thought all Death Eaters whose bodies were unclaimed were buried in unmarked graves," said Hermione.

Achille nodded. "I still remember my nieces when they were young women. They had a bond which we all thought unbreakable. After all that 'appened, I cannot blame them for not stepping forward. I think… I think Andromeda would prefer to remember Bellatrix as the big sister she once was to 'er. And Narcissa, well, she 'as a family of 'er own to think of now."

"But Bellatrix still had family left," said Hermione. "You."

"Correct. I claimed 'er body," said Achille. "In the deepest of secret. I 'ad some favours left with some Ministry workers in the right places. I would not see my poor niece buried underneath some tree in the Forbidden Forest forgotten and unmourned. Bellatrix Lestrange... people know 'er as a killer, an insane dark witch, Voldemort's most loyal servant. But you knew 'er like I did..."

"A smart, but troubled girl," whispered Hermione. "Someone who loved her sisters, dreamed of going on adventures. Academically gifted and with an interest in the macabre. Someone who managed to figure out a muggle clock and willed a working one into being from a single block of wood in three hours."

Achille Rosier nodded solemnly, turning towards the headstone. "You see, cherie? She remembers. I told you she would."

"What happened?"

"Thing is about Fae Mirrors," Achille snorted. "They come into being randomly. And they cease existing just as randomly. That one remained as stable for as long as it did was a miracle in itself. My niece loved talking to you. She looked forward to every conversation. Until one night she came to the pool and... it just didn't appear. Nor did it ever afterwards."

Hermione took a few deep breaths. "And then?"

Achile remained silent for a moment, glancing first at the grave and then back at Hermione. She could see the hesitation etched on his features, as if he was debating with himself to share what he wanted to share. A few moments later, he finally made his decision. "Bellatrix loved you, you know?"

Hermione gasped, many different emotions dropping into her stomach like a brick. Trix… loved her? Equal measure of joy and dread fought for dominance within her being as Hermione turned her gaze towards the silent grave.

Achille continued. "She didn't realize it fully until you were yanked out of 'er world suddenly. Bellatrix fell into a deep depression. She lost 'er only friend a few months before 'er wedding," said Achille. "Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep. Threw 'erself on distractions until it wouldn't 'elp anymore. Sadness became anger. She felt abandoned. Oh, in 'er mind she understood, but 'er 'eart... my niece was a creature of passion, miss Granger. She became angry with everything, with the world, with 'er fate and with you. That anger turned to 'atred and 'er feelings of betrayal became projected on all muggle-borns. That rat-face Rodolphus and that lord of them exploited that when she was at 'er most vulnerable and turned 'er into a weapon for their own devices. And 'er parents, those two mouchards, just stood by and let it 'appen!"

Hermione swallowed hard, her breath quickening. Achille was gritting his teeth, angry but not at her specifically. He grabbed a rock and hurled it into the water. "They sold my nieces! They sold Bellatrix and Narcissa to pure-blood lines for the sake of alliances! And when poor Andie did not go along with this, they exiled 'er! I tried to plead with my sister to come to 'er senses, but she agreed with her con of a 'usband! Even told me I was never to talk to 'er again… Cygnus tried to feed me some cock and bull story about meeting with Andie in secret only! So I told them both to eat a baguette and moved out the same day. All that rot about the importance of family. It's all bullshit!"

Hermione nodded. It was good to know that the Black family had at least one decent member. "What happened next?"

"I 'elped Andie get on 'er feet. She sometimes visits still," said Achille. "But by that time Bellatrix 'ad descended into madness. She no longer wished to associate with me. Blood-traitor, she called me. Voldemort 'ad completely brainwashed 'er, made 'er do terrible things. I once sought 'er out before the first war, I reminded 'er of you. She said nothing, but walked out the door with tears in 'er eyes and told me she would kill me if I'd mention you again. Then came Azkaban. Black manor stood empty now: Andie exiled, Narcissa gone, Bellatrix gone, Cygnus dead because of a potioneering accident and Druella... suicide by poison out of loneliness."

Bitterness and guilt was obvious on Achille's voice, especially when he mentioned his sister's name. A terrible thought came over her. "Mister Rosier? I... perhaps you've heard, but Bellatrix, she... she tortured me... I..."

"I know," replied Achille sadly. "I am sorry."

"Do you think she... she realized who I was when she... when..."

"I know for a fact she did, miss Granger," said Achille.

Hermione just couldn't take it anymore. Her body started to shake and her lip started to quiver. Tears burst from her eyes as she wept. Though she had only met the man a few moments ago, she allowed him to embrace her. "There there, miss Granger. It's not your fault. It was never your fault."

"Yes it is!" Hermione sobbed. "I thought I was helping her! I thought I could change things! I thought I could make things better! But I just made everything worse, didn't I? She... she's my friend and I... There has to be something I can do!"

Helpless. Hopeless. It all came crushing down upon her all at once. Time was a harsh mistress: it wasn't Dumbledore who was the reason for Bellatrix' fall. It was Hermione herself. She had given Bellatrix hope in a dark time, friendship and caring... and then when it had been ripped away, it had left Bellatrix is such a damaged state that it left her vulnerable to be exploited.

The horrible and crushing truth was that by trying to prevent Bellatrix' fate, Hermione had caused it.

"I tried to save her! Are you telling me she became the way she was because I tried so hard to save her?!" she fought back more tears. "Time is immutable. I should have known… I should have realized!"

"Time, she is a cruel mistress, non? I see you 'ave come to care a great deal for my niece," said Achille, offering her a hankerchief which Hermione took with gratitude. The young witch dried her tears as the man smiled at her. "There might be a way to break the cycle… by breaking the rules."

Her produced a satchel which was filled with books. "Everything I could find on Fae Mirrors. It took me years, but this should 'elp you. I am a 'umble painter, miss Granger, not a researcher like mon père or you. But I think you can make sense of this and not 'aving to track down these books should 'elp you save some time. Because make no mistake, miss Granger, if you still want to 'elp my niece, you are definitely 'on the clock' as they say."

"How long do I have?" asked Hermione.

"March 3rd 1969. Or 1999, apparently," said Achille.

"Another combination of threes or multiples," said Hermione, rubbing her chin. "That can't be a coincidence either."

"Hm, now that you mention it," replied Achille. "Ah, but that is because you are the academic and I am not, non?"

"Thank you so much," said Hermione. "I promise you, I am committed to helping Bellatrix."

Achille nodded with a smile. "But why?" said Achille. "What do you owe the woman who tortured you?"

"Because..." Hermione started, thinking of her own nightmares and trauma. "I haven't been myself since that day at the manor. Since the war. And... if I help Bella, I feel as if I'm helping myself too. Like you said, she deserves better. And so do I. We both do."

"Ah, you see, cherie?" Achille turned to the grave. "Hermione never forgot about you. You were wrong. And she will find a way to undo this injustice. Won't she?"

Hermione nodded sternly. "I will!" she stated with conviction. "I will do whatever it takes!"

Just then, Hermione felt a bit woozy. She reached out and put her hand on the headstone to keep herself from falling over. Then, she went weak in the knees and the world started spinning. The next thing she knew she was lying on a cot just inside the atelier, letting out a groan.

"Careful, miss Granger," said Rosier. "Don't be sitting up too quickly, non?"

"Hm," sighed Hermione as she raised her hand to her head. "Wh... what happened?"

"You fainted," said Achille, holding a cup of water for her to drink. "My assistant and I put you on the cot for a rest. Are you alright?"

Hermione let out a sigh. "Haven't been sleeping well. And then... all this..."

"Ah, it is a bit overwhelming, non?" said Achille. "You are welcome to stay the night, if you wish. My assistant could order dinner to be delivered."

"No... no thank you," said Hermione. "I have to get back to Hogsmeade."

"Or Bellatrix might be worried when you don't show up to chat with 'er, non?" grinned Achille.

"I was a late a few nights back," said Hermione. "Overslept due to lack of sleep. She tried to hide it, but..."

"I understand. Be well, miss Granger."

By now it was close to six and she would need to catch the train back to Glasgow. With any luck, she'd be back around 10 pm, hoping to catch a few winks on the train and have a bit of a kip at the inn after some food.

Like Rosier said, Hermione was on the clock now. And she'd have to use her time very efficiently.

Once sat in her compartment, however, with the train now speeding through the English countryside, the full weight of the implications came bearing down upon her. Thankfully, it was a private compartment so nobody could see her anguish. She couldn't keep her hands from shaking while a torrent of negative emotions flooded her every thought. In that moment, Hermione hit proverbial rock-bottom. She had never felt this anguished, this shredded or this useless in her entire life. A failure, a fraud, a fool, a fuck-up… a burden and a detriment to everyone around her.

Grey clouds and rain slashing against the pane of glass while her train passed through Bradford, the UK's most dull and dreary town in existence, didn't do much to improve her mood.

She felt like hopeless, helpless and damaged beyond repair, stuck down in a pit so deep that looking up at the light above only reminded her of the endless climb she'd have to do to get out of it.

Her hands were shaking again. Her entire body was shaking. She'd felt like this when the magic was raining down upon Hogwarts that fateful day. Only difference then was that she didn't have the time to think about it.

She didn't want to feel like this anymore. She didn't want to be like this anymore.

Hermione glanced at the railing of the baggage container. It looked sturdy and inviting. Had she been wearing a belt, it would have been perfect. Close the curtains, tie the double doors together and it might be two of three stations further before she'd be found. She'd be free.

But, of course, she wasn't wearing a belt today. Yet another fuck-up…

It wasn't the first time Hermione had thoughts like this, not by a long shot, and it likely wouldn't be the last time. She'd never shared them with anyone, not Harry, not Ron, not even Trix. Hermione wasn't quite sure what prevented her from sharing, or prevented her from going through with it. Perhaps it was the realization that it would hurt people she loved, no small amount of shame and maybe, on some level, there was some small spark of hope left in her.

'She loved you'. Achille Rosier's words came back to her. 'Bellatrix loved you'.

Hermione glanced at her side, to the bag of books. No. No, this was no time for selfish acts. Not at all. Hermione grit her teeth and squared her jaw, yanking the topmost book out of the bag and opened it to scan the table of contents.

'She loved you'.

Hermione would save Trix. She would. There was a stark realization that she wouldn't be alone in this. She'd have Trix to rely upon. Lord knows the girl was smart, perhaps even smarter than she was on some levels. The two brightest witches of their respective ages would figure this Fae Mirror out. They would cheat fate. They would cheat time. All they had to do was to find a loophole in fundamental laws of physics and magic itself. And, to be honest, changing the laws of time and the universe actually felt a hell of a lot more attainable than fixing herself in that moment.

Pushing all her despair aside, she opened her notepad and started vigorously taking notes as she diligently worked her way through three books for all the hours it took for the train to reach Hogsmeade. She picked up a cheap soggy sandwich from the station vendor and headed straight into the Forbidden Forest, where she sat at the pool for hours while working in her notepad. In fact, she lost track of time and was only broken from her work-induced reverie when the area around her was illuminated blue.

Looking up, she saw Bellatrix' dark eyes looking back at her. Instantly, Hermione heart soared and her mouth involuntary curved into a smile as her darkest thoughts were banished by a radiant sun. "Hey Hermie!" Bellatrix greeted while pouring herself a cup of tea. "Oof, what a day. Lestrange has been whining again, about something more mundane this time. He thinks it's embarrassing that his future wife consistently gets much higher marks at everything than he does, so he's rather pathetically asking me to botch up a few assignments. I told him the next time he asks, he'll get a hex to the knackers instead."

'She loved you'.

"Trix," Hermione said. "Wait till you hear what I found out."

'She loved you'.

She would keep secrets from Trix. She wouldn't tell about meeting her uncle. She wouldn't tell her what fate had in store for her. But she would tell her everything she would need to know to crack the secret of the Fae Mirror. Together.