She wakes up to her own scream.
Her eyes snap open just as her body lurches forward from her bed. Her forehead is slick with sweat and her curls pressed onto her flushed cheeks. For a moment, Hermione is still a prisoner to the fading edges of her dream, her thoughts muddled together as she tries to figure out where she is.
It takes her half a minute to realize that she isn't in the courtyard and it takes a twitch of her fingers to reassure her that she's not paralyzed. Not like in her dream—no, a memory—where she watched Harry and Ron die again, frozen and unable to help.
She blinks and she is sitting safely inside the drawn scarlet curtains of her four-poster bed. Hermione whispers a silent prayer of gratitude to the silencing charm she cast on them, there is no doubt her scream would've woken everyone up and had Ginny rushing to her side again. She made that mistake once before and she won't be so foolish as to do it again.
The soft beams of sunlight seeping through the cracks of her drapes indicate she has not gotten more than two hours of sleep. Hermione can't seem to recall a time where she hasn't been plagued by insomnia. Everything that was once good feels so far away and out of reach.
On occasions, Hermione wonders if she died alongside Harry and Ron that day and that she is in some version of Purgatory—or maybe even Hell—because life, to simply put it, isn't supposed to be this bloody difficult. Her eleven-year-old self had planned for her to have mastered magic by now, on her way to becoming the Minister. If only Hermione knew the chain of events that would follow her admission, would she have ever come to Hogwarts? She thinks the answer may be no.
A shudder runs down her bones and she feels something sour churn in her stomach. Throwing the curtains aside, Hermione jumps from her bed and rushes into the bathroom. She kneels over a porcelain bowl and a crawling feeling creeps across her skin, followed by the rise of something up her chest and past her throat. Acidity stings her tongue as she vomits, heaving up the remnants of yesterday's lunch—she didn't end up having dinner. When the need to force everything out of her body has been satisfied, she falls back onto the cold floor; her eyes are heavy with exhaustion and the taste of bile burning her throat.
"Hermione, are you alright?"
She looks up and Parvati is standing at the doorway, barefoot and rubbing her tired eyes. Hermione smiles weakly and rises to her feet, wiping away the remaining puke on her lips, "Just first day jitters, don't worry about it."
If Parvati doesn't believe her, she shows no signs of it, only nods awkwardly and returns to the room to catch up on her last hour of sleep. There's no point for Hermione to go back to bed now, she would just end up laying there, staring at the ceiling—lost in thoughts she doesn't want to be lost in. She needs a distraction. Hermione makes her way to a sink and presses her hands on the cold enamel, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Merlin, she looks like something Crookshanks dragged in.
Her eyes are bloodshot. The bags that hang underneath them are so dark that someone far away could've easily mistaken it for black eyeshadow. Her curls are a tangled mess; a product of a night of unrelenting tossing and turning. She has visibly lost weight, her sunken cheekbones are a sign of that.
Hermione picks up her toothbrush and begins to brush her teeth. Once to get rid of the taste of vomit, and then once more just to make sure they are really clean. When the taste of metal fills her mouth—replacing mint—she spits out the toothpaste, revealing streaks of red that run vividly through the white foam. Hermione turns on the faucet, staring at her blood blankly as it swirls around the sink and down the drain.
She gives it no other thought and continues to rinse her mouth. Seeing blood has become a norm in Hermione's life—it doesn't faze her, not as much as it once did. She casts a charm to tame her wild hair and to hide her tired features. When Hermione is done getting ready, she looks at herself once more and decides she looks almost normal. Almost like the image of hope.
There is just one thing missing.
She forces a smile on her lips and then there she is, the Golden Girl that everyone knows: perfect and optimistic. Hermione's grip on the edges of the sink tightens as she continues to look at herself. She swallows hard, her knuckles itching to punch her reflection. To watch herself crack into various broken pieces. At least, she'd be staring back at someone she recognizes. Hermione lets the smile fall again and she grabs her satchel before leaving the sleeping girls. There will be at least an hour until breakfast begins. One more hour to herself before she has to put on that ridiculous facade again.
Hermione makes her way through the quiet corridors and out past the courtyard; she tries not to look at the statues. A draft of morning breeze whistles past her ear and brushes across her skin, causing her to flinch. She diverts her rampant thoughts away from the idea that it's the dead calling to her. Asking her why she didn't protect them like she was supposed to. Asking why she let them die.
It wasn't until she left the courtyard that she realized she'd been holding her breath.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Hermione walks to Wooden Bridge—which they repaired a few weeks ago after Neville had blasted half of it off into the ravine. The bridge creaks and groans underneath her footsteps and she wonders just how well it was fixed, she certainly wouldn't be angry if the bridge collapsed right now.
Hermione rests her arms on the railing of it and soaks in the morning air. She lets the tension in her shoulder blades go. At least with everything around her falling apart, she can find tranquility in the early hours of the day. There is no one around to plaster on a fake smile for.
In the distance, Hermione can notice a faint shimmer in the sky whenever the sunlight hits it just right. McGonagall and the other professors set up stronger wards after the battle, it is checked on every hour of the day by various Order members. Hermione's shift won't be until later tonight. The stone soldiers are on guard at every possible entrance to Hogwarts—it is quite impressive, really—but she still can't help but wonder if it was enough. Wonder when the next battle will be and how many more lives will be lost. She looks over the edge and contemplates slipping over, but then the ragged rocks at the bottom cause her heart to do a sickening flip and she leans back.
Hermione lets out a quiet exhale and focuses on the line where the Heavens meet the Earth. She draws in a slow breath. Takes in the early coolness. Tries to think of anything but the war. There is a nostalgic tug at her heart and it is here in the foggy morning where she longs for home. Not for her abandoned house in Muggle London, not Hogwarts—a place she once called home without hesitation—and the dorm room she shares there, but for the warmth of her mother's calloused hands, and for her father's stories at the dinner table. She hopes they are doing well in Australia.
"Do you have to be so depressing this early in the morning?" Malfoy's voice interrupts her peace, he is walking down the bridge. "I can practically feel the sadness dripping off of you."
Hermione casts an annoyed look at him and rolls her eyes, "Here to steal Order secrets from me, Malfoy?"
"Not yet, Granger," he replies without missing a beat, and it incites a snicker from Hermione. He stops next to her and rests his arms on the bridge's railing as well, clasping his hands together. "Haven't quite received my orders."
"McGonagall's off her bloody rocker, you know?" Hermione huffs. "Letting you and your friends back. It's all so fucking stupid."
"We're not Death Eaters, so I don't see why it's an issue," says Malfoy. He twists the silver ring on his middle finger, there is a tone in his voice that she doesn't quite recognize.
She keeps her gaze on the dissipating fog, "Not long before you take the Mark too."
He shrugs and turns around to face her, leaning back so his elbows were resting on the ledge now, "Next week, actually."
Hermione's eyes dart to his instantly, her fingers fly to wrap around the collar of his perfectly-ironed shirt, and she gives in to a dark temptation. She makes a single pushing motion and he is nearly dangling over the edge of the bridge. His platinum blond hair thrashes against the strong winds and a flicker of fear flashes across his eyes. It sends a surge of satisfaction to run through Hermione and she relishes it, savors in the feeling of power and control.
"Just because McGonagall trusts you, it doesn't mean I do," she snarls, tightening her grasp on the small ball of fabric in between her fingers. "I'll be watching you and your little team of Slytherins. One little misstep and I swear to Merlin, I will get rid of you bloody traitors myself."
Hermione jerks him back to see that flash of fear again before pulling him forward until they are mere centimeters apart, her brown eyes trained on his stormy grey ones. "And you can bet on Salazar that I will get away with it. After all, who would suspect the Golden Girl?"
He manages to free himself from her and pushes her back with one shove. His expression is riddled with anger and shock as he smooths his shirt, "You crazy bitch! You could've killed me!"
The strain in Malfoy's voice and his ragged breathing brings her back to her senses. It is as if something in her switches off and Hermione's lips part in disturbing realization. "I'm so sorry," she widens her eyes in horror, confused by her own actions. "I don't know what came over me, that was—"
"Save it, Granger," he hisses, looking her up and down in the same manner of disgust he always did. "You're a fucking mess without those boys at your side. Get a grip, it's been months."
"I—I'm allowed to mourn," she stumbles over her words, then silently curses herself for it. Curses herself for letting him get to her again. Malfoy did always know how to push her buttons. He's perfected it over the years.
Malfoy's eyebrows quirk up in amusement and he lets out a sarcastic scoff.
"Look around you," he laughs dryly, throwing his arms up. "You're the only one still stuck in her head, everyone has moved on. It's about bloody time you start doing so too."
With that, he gives her a final glare before turning on his heels and leaving her alone on the unsteady bridge and the flickering wards. Hermione doesn't realize she's shaking until Malfoy's out of sight. She lets out a shudder and rests her elbows on the bridge railing again, —buries her face in the palm of her hands.
She stays like that until breakfast has ended and the school around her begins to bustle with life. Before she can attract the unwanted attention of bystanders, Hermione lifts her head up and trudges back across the creaky bridge and into the stone castle. She reminds herself to smile.
The class is inattentive as usual during Professor Binns's first lecture of the year. His class is notoriously boring and Hermione is struggling; she is more focused on the crookedness of his spectacles than his distorted words. Her elbow is propped up on the table, her chin resting lazily on the palm of her left hand as her right brushes over the carvings on the desk—no doubt made by students from previous years.
"Merlin was a great wizard—" the History of Magic teacher drawls on, unaware that none of his students are paying attention. "very influential—flip to page 24 of your book, please."
Hermione does as she is told, although she is sure that it's purely out of instinct and habit. Hermione Jean Granger, ever the good student and teacher's pet.
"Here..." Professor Binns says, blinking slowly. "You will see... the most powerful weapon Merlin has ever..."
He pauses to readjust his slipping glasses—Hermione is grateful for this—and to smack his lips together.
"...created. It's known as Merlin's Cursed Blade and has been said to subject... its victims to a fate far worse... than death."
This catches her attention. Hermione straightens her posture and starts to read the textbook, the Professor talks incredibly slow and often drifts off into periods of sleep. If she waits for him to finish reading, she would be here for centuries. Her eyes float to the large paragraph and to the diagram that decorates the right side of the page. Hermione traces it gingerly with her fingers, admiring the intricate detailing of the dagger before returning her attention to the text.
Merlin's Cursed Blade
According to legend, Merlin crafted a very powerful dagger a few years before his death—made purely out of dark magic. As the story goes, Merlin needed a way to defeat his enemy, Morgan Le Fay, swiftly and permanently. Le Fay was a dangerously powerful dark witch and Merlin would resort to any method to stop her, even going as far as using her own methods. He spent years perfecting the weapon that is now notoriously known asMerlin's Cursed Blade (Figure 1.3A).
The dagger's blade was forged from crystals found in the mountains of Scotland. It was collected from an abandoned mine that collapsed years prior to Merlin's arrival. The terrible incident took twenty-three lives and was commonly avoided by locals because of the negative energy that seemed to surround the area. It took the wizard two days to carve the crystal into a beautiful blade. The handle is said to be made from gold, smelted from the cross-guard of King Arthur's sword—Excalibur itself. When the weapon had been made, Merlin enchanted it with evil sorcery, cursing all those who were cut by it to a fate far worse than death.
Merlin defeated Le Fay shortly after finishing the dagger. Eyewitness accounts detail seeing something extraordinary when the blade cut into the witch, though there have been no written documents found explaining exactly what happened to Le Fay on that fateful day.
Honoring his wishes, Merlin was buried with his dagger at his death. His grave's location has remained a mystery to historians for many centuries now. Today, most people believe this story is merely a tale, an exaggeration of what truly happened. Some have tried to search for this dagger in hopes of power, but all have died trying.
So, dear reader, will you be the first to discover it?
"Fascinating," Hermione says out loud, enthralled by the legend. She flips to the next page in hopes of finding more, but to her dismay, the story ends there. Realizing the classroom has gone silent, Hermione looks up and is instantly taken aback. The Professor is looking at her with an expression that can either be bored or annoyed. Hermione slowly lifts her chin off her hand, "Is there something wrong?"
He blinks slowly at her, "Miss Grant—"
"Granger," she corrects him, following it immediately with an apology when his eyes narrow.
"Care to explain... why you're talking in class... when I am giving a lecture?"
"Sorry, Professor," she laughs awkwardly. The whole class is staring at her now and their eyes feel like pins on her back. "I was just saying that the legend was interesting."
His face twists into a scowl, "Legend?"
"Yes," says Hermione, pointing at the textbook. "I found the story very exciting.
"Miss Grant, I do not... teach about delusional fantasies... in this class," Professor Binns shakes his head as slow as he talks. "Legends... are children stories... and I will not tolerate... you interrupting my class to... babble on about such...topics."
She blinks once. "But... you are teaching one right now."
"What... in Merlin's name... are you talking about?" he sneers and Hermione can hear the growing frustration in his voice. She licks her drying lips and lets out an awkward chuckle, pointing to the textbook. Binns follows her finger. Lets out another scowl when he realizes what she's pointing at.
"Do you...think that Merlin...was a legend?" he says in disbelief and Hermione swears she can see his ghostly blue hue turn the faintest angry red. Her eyes dart back to the book, but to her horror and bewilderment, the story of the dagger has vanished, replaced by a dull timeline of Merlin's life. She flips the pages, her thoughts running rapidly in her head as she tries to find what she'd been reading mere minutes ago.
Her eyebrows knit together and she shakes her head, "No, no, it was just here. How did it disappear?"
The class has begun to talk in hushed whispers now, their stares bore into her. Before Hermione can even start to explain herself—she doesn't even know what she would say—the Professor lets out a loud sigh.
"I would give...you detention for that outburst," Professor Binns mumbles, "but the Headmistress has...made it clear that the Golden Girl... will receive no punishment." He says her nickname like its poison on his tongue.
Hermione feels her cheeks flood with color and she lowers her head—embarrassed. Somewhere behind her, she hears Malfoy snicker. She wants to spin around and call him a spineless brat but all eyes would be on her again and gossip would ensue—she did not want to hear McGonagall's lecture that would ultimately follow.
She looks at the text again and it has changed yet again. A single sentence is written across the page as if taunting her.
Shhh. Only the worthy can know.
Professor Binns continues on with finishing his lesson and Hermione falls into another trance, her head occupied by the legend of Merlin's weapon. She wonders why she'd been chosen to know about it. More importantly, who had chosen her? And why was she worthy?
Hermione desperately wants to learn more about it. The dagger and the power it held captivates her; she isn't sure why, but she is hungry for more knowledge. Starving, in fact.
Knowledge is power.
Power is control.
She needs to feel in control again, like back when Harry and Ron were still alive and things still made sense. It's been months since Hermione felt like she had everything together, every day is a struggle to get through, and she feels as if she has lost control of all parts of her life. Hell, she's stuck playing some pseudo role of the Wizarding World's perfect girl. She doesn't even have control over who she wants to be.
It's difficult to suppress the anger she experiences daily, more negative thoughts invade her head every day, and the more she continues to try and pretend like they aren't there, the more they appear. It is like the mythical Greek creature she read about once.
Suppress one negative thought, two more take its place.
The rest of the day drags on as Hermione continues thinking about the dagger. She fiddles with the hem of her robes as she lays in bed and stares at the ceiling of the dorm, relieved that she has something other than the war to think about.
"Ginny," she says, sitting up and turning to face her friend—who is in her own bed, occupied by a book.
The ginger barely raises her head, "Hmm?"
"I discovered something in Professor Binns class today," she continues. "It's a dagger made by Merlin and supposedly very dark and powerful."
"Yeah?"
"It's intriguing, don't you think?" Hermione slips off her bed and begins to pace around the room, she is thankful they are alone for once. The shadows cast by the candlelight bend with her steps. "If the Order were to find it, it would give us the upper hand in the war."
To this, Ginny lowers her book and raises an eyebrow, "Isn't it a legend?"
"But what if it wasn't? Wouldn't it be worth searching for? According to the story, it defeated the greatest dark wizard of their time."
"Even if it were true, I don't think resorting to dark methods is the brightest idea, Hermione," she presses her lips into a thin line, her eyes following Hermione.
She stops in front of Ginny's bed. Pauses for half a second before tightening her eyebrows. "We will lose if we continue to fight this way, we must do something. Harry and Ron are dead. Wake up from your daydream, Ginny, there is no more savior."
The younger witch flinches and Hermione knows she's hit a nerve.
"Don't you think I know that?" says Ginny. Her book lost under twisted blankets now and long forgotten. "I lost my boyfriend and two of my brothers on the same day, you don't think it haunts me too?"
Hermione snorts and rolls her eyes. Turns to look at a dark spot on the wall. "You seem perfectly fine."
"And you love the privileges of being the Golden Girl—"
"You don't know anything," Hermione snaps and turns abruptly to face Ginny again, interrupting her midsentence. "You've had time to grieve and mourn. Since the last battle, I've been forced to put on a smile every single day and pretend like I wasn't suffocating, forced to play the role of hope. I'm tired of pretending like everything is fine. Like I'm fine."
Ginny opens her mouth to speak but Hermione gives her no chance.
"McGonagall has lost her bloody mind. The Ministry is in shambles. We've lost half our wizards. What other methods do you suggest we try? I'm sickof fighting, Ginny. This could put an end to it, we have to try, even if it means resorting to dark methods."
"How hasn't it been discovered yet then?" the ginger retorts.
"Many have tried."
"And?"
"And many have died trying."
"Hermione!" Ginny scowls in disapproval. She straightens her posture and furrows her eyebrows. "Don't be ridiculous, is that not reason enough to quit?"
The brunette shakes her head, "You don't understand, I'm not like anyone else. The book said I was worthy. That I was chosen."
"What does that even mean? Do you even know where to start?" Ginny huffs, face growing red. "What if this is all just a prank?"
"It's real and I'm going to find it. I can feel it," Hermione's eyes dart to a clock and she grabs her wand from her bed. "I have to go check on the wards now."
"Hermione, tell me you'll drop this," Ginny says sternly, almost pleadingly. She sits up a little straighter as if she wanted to get up and stop Hermione. "Please don't get yourself into more danger. You're smarter than this."
Hermione leaves without an answer and disappears down the stairs to the Common Room. She passes by everyone without being detected, slipping out into the dark hallways and then out to the wards by the Entrance Courtyard. The night air is cold and stings her skin as she examines the protective barriers for any possible damage or signs of attempted entry. They shimmer underneath her fingertips as she brushes them lightly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione catches the movement of a dark figure behind her. Her fingers tighten around her wand immediately and she turns, senses on high alert as she scans the dim space weakly illuminated by torches.
"Who's there?" she calls out to the empty expanse. "Show yourself!"
Her heart hammers heavily against her ribcage. Thoughts run through her head as she tries to prepare her next steps. Did Death Eaters get in? If so, who? Fear shoots down her spine at the idea of hearing Bellatrix's high-pitched laughter. The memory of her lying on the floor of the Malfoy Manor almost makes her freeze in place. Unable to move again.
But when the figure finally steps out of the shadows, Hermione's shoulders slump in relief and she's able to breathe again. She crosses her arms over her chest and she taps her upper arm in a staccato beat, her eyebrow arched as he approaches her.
The corner of Malfoy's lips is pulled into a smirk. He is clearly delighted that he's fazed her, "It's just me, Granger. No Death Eaters here, you can relax."
"Do I need to report you?" she scowls. "You're always wandering the castle at bizarre hours. Care to confess what you're up to, Malfoy?"
He responds with a simple shrug and Hermione ignores him to inspect a different part of the wards. She expects to hear his footsteps retreating into the school, but there is a snap of ignition and Malfoy is beside her again. This time, a pale thin stub is perched in between his fingers. The end of it is flickering in patterns of yellow and orange as a curl of smoke wafts out. Hermione tries to pay no attention to him. Tries to let him fade into the stillness of the night. She soon discovers it is impossible.
"So is this what you're up to when you wander the school?"
"Yes, but for some bloody reason, you keep interrupting. Imagine my surprise when all I wanted was to relax before lessons began this morning, but instead, I ended up dangling off a bridge."
"I said I'm sorry," Hermione sighs and cringes at the memory.
He remains silent.
"You're lucky I don't care enough to report you and that," she presses her lips into a thin line and watches as he tucks the cigarette into his mouth again. He draws it out smoothly, letting a puff of smoke escape his lips.
"What's there to report?" he pays no attention to her, his eyes glued to the shimmering wards. Analyzing them. "McGonagall said herself that everyone heals in their own way, this helps take the edge off. You're not the only one who had a friend die."
"I'm aware," Hermione's voice becomes sour and she spins to leave, finished with her inspection. "Seems like everyone can't help but remind me today."
She walks back toward the castle. Malfoy doesn't follow.
Instead of going back to Gryffindor, she takes a different turn and heads toward the Library. Her argument with Ginny is ringing in her ears. She isn't being ridiculous, on the contrary, she is being smarter than anyone in the Order. They are like sitting ducks, just waiting for Voldemort to attack again before doing something. Daft fucking idiots. She isn't going to condone this. If they don't want to do anything risky, even if it'd save their own sorry lives, then Hermione will take matters into her own hands.
She enters the library easily, though she hates it, being the Golden Girl—and most important member of the resistance—has its perks sometimes. Skipping past the rows of books, Hermione makes a straight beeline for the Restricted Section. She finds comfort here when dreams become nightmares and she'd rather be lost in stories than in the labyrinth of her mind.
The closed-off part of the library is dusty and has a heavier—almost darker—atmosphere compared to the main areas. She casts a Lumos charm and walks through the shelves, her fingers grazing along the spines of the books—browsing the titles until one catches her eye.
The Dark History of Armaments
She slides the book out and sits down at a nearby desk, upgrading her Lumos charm to provide more light. Hermione flips eagerly through the pages. Just as she is about to give up and close the book to find another one, the drawing of a dagger stops her.
This is it.
Hermione reads through the page in one quick scan, and to her disappointment, everything is just a more detailed version of what she already knows. Muttering profanities under her breath, she flips to the next page a little too quickly and aggressively. A sharp sting shoots through her finger and red dots begin to appear at the thin line that slices across her skin. Hermione winces and watches as her blood seeps into the old parchment of the book.
"Crap," she curses, frowning with disdain. She hates mistreating books. Especially old, vintage ones.
Hermione picks up her wand to cast a spell to rid of the growing stain. Stops when she realizes her blood has started to spread throughout the paper in spirals. She sets down her wand slowly and watches patiently as the ribbons begin to form letters. Watches as the letters begin to form words and the words begin to form sentences and then suddenly, it stops. Hermione picks up her wand again and hovers the Lumos charm over the words.
She reads.
Find me where the spirits meet the bones,
and where my master's blood turned to stone.
The path to me is trapped in his last breath,
where I wait to give those who encounter me,
a fate far worse than death.