It's the age-old question of time that keeps her blood pumping through her veins.
When does it—time, that is—have the most meaning?
Hermione's answer: when Death finally catches up to her.
When the cold grip of Death's gangly fingers seizes a person and rips them away without any mercy. Yes. That's when time suddenly becomes more vital than oxygen itself.
It's the sinister kiss of Death—the inevitable end of life as one knows it—that forces time to stop, speed up, fluctuate. Swing like a pendulum in outer space, controlling the earth below like its creator.
Funny that it appears to create yet simultaneously destroy. Anomalies like this don't come often.
Death greets the Slytherins, Hermione, and Harry in the office of their save haven—the club that is Amortentia—and all that's extant in their fraught minds is ending all of this once and for all. Ensuring that Death does not take anyone else from them.
Hermione vowed once to protect them all. Keeping that promise remains a priority.
"They're probably long gone by now," Theo mutters, his voice hitting the ground. "Rose and Aberfield."
"What do we do?" Daphne asks, turning over her shoulder to look at Theo while retaining her consoling grip on Blaise's arms. "We can't let them get away with this."
"They won't," Draco rasps, the tone of his voice denoting his preparedness to fight. "We're going to find them, and they'll get exactly what's coming to them."
"He's right," Hermione adds, tilting her head up and reaching Draco's eyes—eyes that are filled to the brim with a glare of vengeance. "They're not going to get away with this."
"They've already taken people from us," Adrian says in a whisper, but it simultaneously overflows with rage. He cranes his head out of Harry's chest and glares at the group. "Our parents, Graham, and now Titus. If they take one more person—" Adrian's hand defensively tightens around Harry's bicep, his fingers curling in possessive tantalization— "then so help me, I'll go to the ends of the earth to find them and kill them myself. With my bare fucking hands."
"They're not taking anyone else from us," Hermione asserts, leaving Draco's side and stooping before Adrian. She gazes up at Harry briefly before cautiously extending her hand forward and running her fingers across Adrian's damp cheeks. His tears are still fresh and tepid to the touch—she feels his grief in those droplets of pain, and that's all the more reason for her to make this promise yet again: "Adrian, I promise. I got you all into this mess, and I swear I'm going to get everyone out alive. I swear."
Adrian's gleaming, jade eyes look up and reach hers, and he stares at Hermione for what feels like an eternity. Her heart thumps against her ribcage as his response looms like a storm cloud just before the downpour. She knows that, at this point, her words are likely vacant, failing on ears that are tired of the unchanged promise being made over and over again.
"Stop making promises you can't keep."
The way Adrian says it breaks her. Every ounce of strength inside of her begins to dissipate into nothingness. It's all in the cadence of his delivery, and the exhaustion in his eyes.
"You've said that very thing before," Adrian continues, shaking his head, "but here we are. Titus is dead, and he was just as a part of this group as anyone else here. He was family."
"I know," she croaks, biting her lip to conceal the guilt in her voice and compel the tears filling her eyes to rescind. "I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe me."
She's terrified that he won't. But Hermione presses forward.
"The F.D.E.R.E. was not supposed to hurt you. It was supposed to help. But I've realized that the intent of the program does not cancel the impact. I was so fixated on what I thought you needed, and what I considered was the right way to go about this, that I didn't leave room for you all to express exactly what you needed. And I'm..." She tentatively reaches her hand out to rest upon his, and he accepts her touch—thank gods. "I'm so, so sorry for not fighting harder for you then. And I'm sorry for dragging you into this."
Adrian doesn't reply immediately. Just stares at her, studying her eyes. Calculating her level of sincerity. And then he slowly exhales out of his nostrils, and his eyebrows lift in an ultimate moment of contemplation. Finally, he says, "We were going to be dragged in, anyways. If Aberfield was able to do this to our parents and Graham, then he was going to find a way to do it to us, too." Suddenly, Adrian's hand trades places with Hermione's—wraps around hers and pull it to his heart. He meets her bronze eyes with his jade ones and whispers, "But... at least we had you."
The dam behind Hermione's eyes shatters, and without proper consideration, she throws herself against Adrian's body and consequently, into Harry's arms. She buries herself in him—begs for forgiveness again as her lips meets his cheeks, pressing passionately against his skin in an apology that's dipped in pure sweetness. And she sighs in relief when Adrian dips his head towards hers and returns those speckled kisses.
"I'm sorry," she whispers again as Adrian's hands press firmly against her lower back. "I'm so sorry."
"I know, Granger."
Hermione pulls away from the embrace, her hands secured to Adrian's shoulders as he now finds the strength to sit up straight on his own. With his arms, Harry maneuvers Adrian so that he's nestled between his legs but sits up by himself. Adrian inhales deeply, then exhales, releasing his flecks of anger with that breath. And then he glances over Hermione's shoulder at Titus. Does a double-take and parts his lips in a silent gasp.
Hermione shifts to the right to block the view of Titus' body, because Adrian doesn't need to see more death.
"Don't look," she whispers, coaxing his eyes to swing back to hers.
"But... it's beautiful."
She has no idea what she means by that—not until she turns over her shoulder and beholds a sight that is, indeed, beautiful.
Were she situated right in the middle of a field of flowers that stretches for miles and miles of pastel tones and colors galore, Hermione would feel just as tranquil as she does right now—she'd be unable to spot the difference, particularly in the way that her heart begins to beat faster.
Because before her, Pansy and Draco are working together to conjure flowers from the tips of their wands and contour the silhouette of Titus' body with them.
Draco summons white flowers—daffodils, with their distinguishable golden centers and dulled petals—and Pansy summons... purple and yellow pansies. Splotched black and gold and lavender spots in the center of the flowers lend them intensely beautiful dimensions, and when scattered between the daffodils, they resemble constellations in a clear, night sky—bold and stunning against a backdrop that others would consider ominous.
It's a ceremony that occurs in total silence, everyone watching in awe as Pansy and Draco collaborate in creating this illustrious, picturesque landscape right in the middle of a dull office floor.
And although he'd dead, Titus somehow gleams next to the florae. A natural pale complexion falls across his cheeks.
He looks at peace, surrounded by a matrix of flowers.
A minute later, they're finished, and it's like a sight straight out of a film set. The bright flowers against the dusty, coal-colored floor of the office seems to push the agenda that beauty exists in even the dingiest of places, or simply a place where people never suspected it would ever occur. Yet somehow, here, it's perfect. It looks simultaneously out of place yet harmonious.
Pansy straightens her spine and takes a step back, wiping one stray tear from the inner corner of her eye. "That looks... better," she whispers, rocking her head up and down.
Draco copies her action, standing up and approaching Pansy's side. He inhales—doesn't say a word—then lets his shoulders drop in a moment of acceptance, although judging by the solemn gleam in his eyes, he's still attempting to fully come to terms with it all.
Tears begin to swell deeper in Pansy's eyes, and Hermione watches as her nostrils flare and her eyelashes flutter with intense speed, as if she's trying with everything inside of her to keep those tears from falling, just as she's been told to do her whole life. Repress it. Ignore it. Repeat your mother's words in your head:
It doesn't exist, you're just being dramatic.
But now, Pansy's fingers start to quiver, judder, tremble. Draco glances down to catch the sight. She's biting her lower lip to preserve those tears, maintain that strong façade, but it's crumbling. Hermione suspects that the waterfall behind Pansy's eyes is poised to burst at any moment—shed its barriers and allow a torrential surge of water to flow from its base.
Pansy sputters a cry—a choke. Covers her mouth with her hand. Her legs go weak—bend at the knees—and in the next moment she's dropping into Draco's arms. Wailing in his chest and staining his shirt with her tears.
"I tried," she sobs, gathering her fingers into fists and slamming them against Draco's broad chest over and over and over again, each thump slower than the last. "I tried.I'm sorry. I can't... I can't... I can'thold it in." With a panicked inhale, Pansy stammers over her breathing, like she's held it in for far too long, and that painful repression of her emotions is now finally meeting its limit—reaching fruition.
And Draco holds her tight, cloaking his arms around her body and holding onto her for dear life. He hushes her cries as they echo off the wall and stab each of them in the heart, and he slows her flaying arms as his hand rubs up and down her back. Hermione knows that feeling—knows that there are little currents of sweet electricity that surge from his fingertips to electrify and illuminate broken hearts. She hopes that Pansy can feel that sensation, too.
"It's okay," Draco mumbles into her perfectly straight hair. "Cry, Pansy. You can cry."
"I'm so tired," she groans into his chest, accompanied by another wail. "I can't do it anymore, Draco. I can't. I can't."
"Shhh," he whispers, lifting his head to find Theo, lingering over Pansy's shoulder. Theo's lips tremble as he restrains his own downpour, but he nods at Draco to affirm that he's ready to receive his love, his life, the piece of the puzzle he's been trying to solve since he theoretically knew what love was—what it could one day feel like. "We've got you, Pansy."
Slowly, Draco passes Pansy into Theo's arms, and he embraces her warmly. Whispers little affirmations into her ears and kisses her cheek over and over and over, perhaps to soak up those tears in a way that signifies his undying love. Tender lips meet her tired cheeks, and Pansy descends into Theo's arms. She's embraced. Held. Squeezed like she'll never be let go.
And after dragging the palm of his hand down his face in exhaustion—perhaps to conceal any festering tears of his own—Draco looks up and locks eyes with Hermione. She parts her lips slightly to speak, but he gestures his head to the side before she can. Her feet fly to him, and when she reaches him, Draco cups her cheeks with his hands and strokes his thumb against her skin, trailing her cheekbones like they're cuts of gold.
Draco doesn't initially speak. Just gazes at Hermione.
"They're not going to get away with this," Hermione says, leaning her head into his touch.
He gulps, afraid of his own question. "But where are they? What if it's been hours since they escaped? What is they're long gone by now?" He pauses, angling his head down and looking at Titus' bare desk in the corner of the room. "What if—" he curls his fingers a little tighter around Hermione's face, and they're tense but still docile— "what if I'm the reason that he's dead?"
"No, Draco—"
"I brought them here," he whispers, his eyes widening as he contemplates that reality. "I abandoned him. Practically handed them a getaway on a silver platter." He looks back at her, and now Hermione perfectly perceives the tears in his eyes. "What if they cursed Titus and stood there and laughed at him for not being able to breathe—"
Hermione raises her left hand to cover his on her face, and it's with that touch that Draco immediately exhales a deep breath and releases the tension in his fingers.
"We're going to find them," she says plainly, securing her fingers between his. He curls his own within hers, creating a tangled mess upon her cheek, but it's perfect. "They could've sought refuge at one of the manors. All the adults who were a part of the program are still confined to their houses. Perhaps the Pucey's, or Nott's, or Parkinson's house is—"
"So help me," Draco suspires, closing his eyes, "if they're camped out at my fuckinghouse like he was during the war—"
"Your parents despise Aberfield the same way that we do," Hermione interrupts, reminding him of the way that they abandoned the meetings just as Graham did that day. "I don't believe for a second that they would go to the manor."
"So, what do we do?" Draco asks. "Where do we go?"
She sighs, scouring her mind for the right move, the perfect thing to do, something—anything—that will not only reconcile what's happened, but also end the turmoil that lies ahead.
And then, Hermione reminds herself of the Patronus she dispatched to Kingsley. Perhaps, with some stroke of luck, he'd received it and had already returned. Yes, perhaps he is already waiting for them at the Ministry—anticipating not only their arrival but also a bout of heavy news.
It's the only lead she has to go on in the moment. She believes in the desperation of her Patronus—the way her voice shook when she imparted the message had to have been enough for him to finally listen, right?
If it even made it to him in the first place.
Gods, that's the scary part. For all she knows, Kingsley could still be missing—travelling Europe with the vision of rebuilding the Wizarding World while she and these Slytherins crumble under an oppressive system that's only goal is to destroy them, their essence, and everything which they love and cherish. And then they'd all be really fucked. Royally, completely fucked.
"The Ministry," Hermione answers. "We should go to the Ministry and see if Kingsley has returned. We can tell him—show him—everything that happened."
"He didn't believe us before," Draco says, rolling his eyes with a brief scoff.
"He'll believe us now," Hermione responds, her tone grave as she reaches into her pocket with her free hand and pulls out that miniscule vial—Graham'svial. "No more willful ignorance on his part. If we all go together, we can convince him."
Draco attempts to smile. "Maybe."
"No," she insists, gripping his hand a little snugger. "I swear it. I refuse to let this go. You all will get your share of peace.
Slowly, Draco sets his forehead against Hermione's. They close their eyes—breathe each other's air for a moment that feels frozen in time.
"Seriously, Granger," he barely whispers, the flutter of his voice invigorating her skin, "the sun itself doesn't promise anything quite like you do."
"I mean it," she responds.
"I know."
"I really mean it."
"I know you do."
She withdraws her forehead from his, regarding the admirable look on his face as he opens his eyes and gazes down at her. Her hand drops from his, and she turns around to face the group.
"We don't know where Aberfield or Rose are," she starts, fidgeting with her fingers as she searches for a way to properly convey her plan. "But I think the best thing to do here is to go to the Ministry together, find Kingsley, and tell him everything that has happened. We can show him the memories, show him the marks, tell him about Titus. And hopefully... he'll listen. And we can all search for Aberfield and Rose before they become untouchable—before they're out of our jurisdiction."
The group is stagnant, no one willing to make the first move. Hermione sighs—hates that she has to pull them out of this necessary period of grief. There is shock still settled in their miens, pain centered in the forefronts of their heads, anger coursing through the warm blood in their body, and Depression with a capital 'D' threatening their very existence—the sheer chance that they pull themselves out of this catastrophic loss. To force them through the stages of grief this quickly—impel them to move on as quickly as time requires—feels like she's dragging them through another immoral, unscrupulous program.
But time is of the essence. Death looms over them like a hanging garden, its vines swaying in the wind and threatening to wrap around their necks—wring them dry, too.
She thinks that they all eventually become aware of that reality, because slowly but surely, they all begin to rise like phoenixes from ashes. And there are newfound guises of vengeance that cover their faces—color them angry beyond what language can describe. Red and blistering as fire itself, the Slytherins adopt the soul of a dragon. Serpentine in classification yet protective in nature, they rise, bunch their fists, and nod at Hermione. Assent to the undertaking like it's the only thing keeping them going anymore.
Then, there's a quiet hum that rings from behind her, and so Hermione turns around and regards Draco casting some sort of protective charm over Titus' body. A translucent haze trickles down his body and encases him like a coffin, everything inside protected by this glorious luminescence—Titus, the flowers. All of it, sealed with a kiss of protection beneath this glowing casket. It's gruesome and troubling yet beautiful at the same time, and damnit, Hermione knows that feeling all too well.
Draco shoves his wand back into his pocket, and he looks up at the group.
"He'd want us to fight for our peace."
His eyes reach Hermione's, and the glimmer—they fucking glimmer like she's never seen them glimmer before.
"So, let's fight."
It's not what she expects.
Apparating into the Ministry is not this difficult.
But when all seven of them continue to land on Whitehall Street, just outside the magical boundaries of the Ministry, Hermione begins to suspect that the wards which were once taken down after Voldemort's defeat—the ones that prohibited witches and wizards from simply apparating into the Ministry—are now reimplemented.
It's the only explanation—but why is it so?
She panics. With each failed attempt at apparating, Hermione grows more apprehensive about the situation. Frustration attaches to her nerves, and her entire body judders.
Hermione considers the toilets but remembers quite quickly that they're attached to the Floo Network, and if the apparition wards are back as she suspects, then there's no chance that the backup system will work. It's as if she can already see those metal bars guarding the passage from the Floo to the atrium—can feel the cold metal of them around her fingers.
There's no hope in that route.
But there is in another pathway.
And Hermione blesses the moment that Kingsley once informed her of it.
"The stone on the sidewalk with a splinter that resembles a lightning bolt that's thirty paces from the telephone booth was once used as a secret passage into the Ministry," Kingsley once explained to Hermione in his office with the sliest look on his face. "Not many people are privy to that information. However—" He had pointed his finger at her and smirked— "you are certainly worthy of that surreptitious secret, Ms. Granger."
She flies down that sidewalk—exactly thirty paces over—followed by the others, and when she reaches the slab of concrete with a splinter in the shape of a lightning bolt—a river with multiple tributaries streaming into it—she exhales in a moment of relief. Takes her wand, casts a quick Disillusionment Charm over the area which they occupy, and then meticulously studies the curves of the crack in the concrete with the tip of her wand.
Her leap of faith drives the charm out of her wand: "Revelio."
The ground rumbles. Like an earthquake splitting the earth apart, the slab of concrete pulls back into another piece of the sidewalk, and a brilliant, stone staircase emerges from the depths of the ground. One by one, each stair settles into place, alluring them into the dark, hollow cave that serves as a secret entrance to the Ministry.
"Merlin, Hermione," Blaise comments, leaning his head over to capture the sight of the magic. "That was bloody brilliant."
"Kingsley once mentioned it," she responds, glancing up at him and immediately becoming transfixed by his gleaming eyes—eyes that wonder at the magic like they're a child's once again. Like they've no preconception of the magical world and its very existence. "I'm just glad it actually worked."
"Hopefully it gets us in," Daphne adds, meeting Blaise near his side and offering a hopeful smile.
"Where does it lead to?" Theo asks.
Hermione gnaws the inside of her cheek. "Not sure." She takes one step down. "We'll see."
Minutes pass between the descent and eventual ascent. The tunnel is dark, the only light coming from the tips of their wands in little lumosbeams. They wander, hand in hand, through the narrow passageway until a wall appears in front of them. The floor begins to rise in an incline, the ceiling becoming closer than before, and Hermione bends her eyebrows in confusion. There's just a wall in front of them—no door. No way out.
"Up here." Theo's voice ricochets off the stone walls of the tunnel.
Everyone's eyes follow the light of his wand, pointed at a trapdoor in the ceiling. It's wooden—a darker shade—with metal fixes and panels crossing over it. A black, metal latch hangs to the right, begging to be tugged and unlocked.
Shooting onto his toes and reaching his hand up, Theo grabs the handle and turns it. He pushes himself higher, throwing the trapdoor wide open. And they begin their ascent.
One by one, they're lifted out, and when Hermione meets light again, she spins around and curiously inspects her surroundings.
She's standing right in the middle of the atrium—an odd place for the passage to lead to, but that's not what she questions. That's not what sends chills up her spine.
She's only seen the Ministry this way once before—that night at the Department of Mysteries.
But even the atmosphere that night wasn't as chilling as what has been exhibited here today.
Because normally, at this time in the morning, the atrium of the Ministry is bustling with employees. They're everywhere, swarming like ants who rush towards a delectable food source. They're like vultures, scouring the area for their meal. They're like a stampede of gazelle or buffalo or wild horses, beating through the wilderness in search of prosperity. But today—today is different. It's ominous. Everything is fucking ominous—empty. Void of life.
There's nobody here.
The others notice it immediately, too. Each time one emerges from the ground, they twirl and search the ginormous room for a source of life—a living, breathing thing. With perplexed eyes and creased foreheads, they search but find nothing. And once everyone is through the door—once Harry has been pulled up by Adrian and the door has been closed yet again to hide the secrets below—hands wrap through one another's as they march through the atrium towards, Hermione and Draco leading the pack.
Aberfield's office is the first stop.
"The Memory Vials," Hermione issues as her reason. "Kingsley has to see everything."
The others agree without protest.
Silence permeates each turn, each corridor, each corner of the building. It feels like there's not one soul present. So when they reach Aberfield's office, they barge right in, expecting no one to be inside, and when she confirms that it is indeed empty, Hermione darts for that shelf where the vials are normally kept. But when she stops in front of it, her breath hitches in her throat—she can plainly hear it in the silence.
Because the vials are gone. They're not in the rack. Nonexistent.
"Fuck," she mutters, turning around and securing her eyes on the jars resting on the shelf on the other side of the room. She pushes through the Slytherins, arriving at that shelf, praying that perhaps the Nulliwinkle is still there—
Her hands go to work, pushing through jar after jar after jar, and her eyes wander furiously over the precise labels. But there's no Nulliwinkle—no menacing purple plant situated in a clear jar. Just random powders and stems and leaves and petals.
"Where are the vials?" Adrian asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
Hermione shakes her head, her eyes darting between the group. "I don't... I don't know. I don't know where the Nulliwinkle is, either."
"Perhaps they took it when they poisoned Adrian," Pansy quietly suggests with a shrug.
Adrian huffs, glancing down at his arm for a brief moment before curling his fingers into a fist. "Gods, fuck them. What do we do now?"
"We should just go find Kingsley," Daphne proposes, crossing her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from some omnipresent but invisible threat. She exhales, stress passing through her lips in a flutter. "It's just horrifying being here all... alone."
"You're not alone," Blaise whispers, placing his hand on her back. "We got you."
Draco is the first to storm out of the office, throwing the door open so hard that it creaks at the hinges and crashes against the wall. Everyone follows quickly, Hermione rushing to the front of the pack to grab Draco's hand—calm him down. But his palm is hot, and judging by the blush of his cheeks, Hermione assumes that his entire body is burning with anger.
Wands are out in a cautious state of being as they pass through corridors, each one of them carefully maneuvering their way through the intricate maze of the Ministry as if danger lurks in every corner—as if out of nowhere, someone will appear out of the thick silence to thwart their already dwindling plans.
And perhaps it does—perhaps there is danger everywhere. Everything is so fucking eerie that Hermione can feel her skin crawl with anticipation and anxiety. It's like any second could be there last.
Hermione mutters a spew of gratitude when they make it to Kingsley's office unscathed, but she knows that their fight is not over just yet. She can see that wooden door in the distance—that Garden of Eden. Tranquil and perfect—the answer to their problems. Or, as it was in the story, the breeding ground for chaos. Behind that door, there is either peace, or there is danger. Temptation. Evil.
That auspicious feeling of wickedness is confirmed when, while just a few feet away from the door, Hermione finally hears a noise—a struggle within the confines of the office. Glass breaks. People cackle.
She doesn't bother knocking—is miles past that stage now.
Instead, Hermione flings open Kingsley's office door, and when her and the gang stumble into the room, they're met with a horrific display of mutiny. Insurrection beyond anything Hermione has seen up close and personal—practically synonymous with the moment that Voldemort infiltrated Hogwarts, although this time, it's somehow even more chilling.
And perhaps it's because it occurs in this office space, where the indigo tiled walls feel like they'll concave on everyone in there in one swift motion, whereas Voldemort confronted people in an open courtyard. The world felt bigger then.
The world feels much smaller as her eyes connect with Aberfield's crazed ones.
He's got his wand aimed at the Minister. His head is turned over his shoulder and his hand shakes with unbridled rage—rage that spills from his eyes to every limb. Rose is to his left, her wand pointed directly at Kingsley, and she turns over her shoulder and glares at the group through her peripheral.
Kingsley has his back pressed up against the back wall against his own volition—he appears to be struggling under a spell of some sort. His neck strains against the barrier which Aberfield and Rose have constructed in front of him, and as he tries to push forward, he fails and blunders over his breathing. It's rocky and paced oddly, causing his eyes to bulge and his temples to sweat. His perspiration glistens like the tears that form against his eyes.
Hermione glances down for a moment and finds Kingsley's golden desk overturned and shoved out of the way. Loose pieces of paper cover the Persian rug and tiled floor beneath the spread. And Rowena, his assistant, is sprawled on the floor between Aberfield and Rose, petrified. Possibly dead. She's not moving, not breathing. Hermione knows well now just what Aberfield is capable of—death does not escape her mind when it comes to the innocent assistant.
And then to the right, backed up against the shelves that line that wall, are five adults. Watching, waiting.
Four out of the five of them are recognizable to Hermione from Graham's memories and fleeting moments with the Death Eaters throughout the war, but then there's one that stands removed from her memory. She's never seen him before, but by the cut of his cheekbones, the shape of his jawline, the soft pink of his lips, and the charcoal black hair on his head—not one silver hair in sight—Hermione infers his identity quite swiftly.
Mr. Montague.
And the others—they're carbon fucking copies of their children.
There's Mr. Nott, as trimmed and proper as she remembers in the memories. And then there's Mr. Pucey, tall and horrifyingly threatening with his broad shoulders and downturned lips which slowly but surely turn into a menacing smirk. And then there's the Parkinsons, and although they stand side by side with victorious facades strewn across their perfectly sculpted faces, each sideward glance and scoff confirms that they hate each other now just as much as they did during those meetings.
But where are the others? The Greengrasses? The Zabinis? The Malfoys?
Aberfield's eyes are ablaze with revenge, and his lips curve in a sinister smile. He cackles as the members of the group stumble into the office and linger near the doorway, shock painted across each and every one of their faces. It's a sight that intoxicates him—Hermione witnesses those deep inhales through his nostrils, as if cementing this moment is time can only be done through subsuming the bloody particles in the air.
Kingsley widens his eyes even further, flaying his fingers at his side to fight the barrier again. "Ms. Granger—"
"No!" Aberfield shouts, throwing his head back and jabbing his wand towards Kingsley. "Shut up. No talking from you."
Insanity runs through the veins on Aberfield's neck. His voice trembles, lips quiver, and teeth chatter with a madness that's attached to his bones—transfixed in his being. His breaking point is at a culminating period. He's going to burst any second.
Hermione doesn't even know where to focus her attention. Because while her friends are focused on their families in front of them, Hermione can't take her eyes off of Kingsley. He looks so powerless, and how can that fucking be? He's the Minister of Magic, yet in this moment, he looks nothing more than a scared solider, a mirror of a young boy in the throes of a war he was never supposed to fight.
And is that representative of just how threatening Aberfield can truly be? He could possess a title lesser than the garbage he'd scrape and clean from a sidewalk, and yet he'd still be petrifying and volatile beyond words in this moment. Kingsley is terrified of him—they all are. There are different levels of fear in everyone's eyes, like they know he's unhinged and dangerous.
Rose, on the other hand, is totally stoic. Calculated. Knows exactly what she's doing.
"Did you have an appointment with the Minister, Hermione?" Aberfield taunts with a tip of his eyebrow. "I'm afraid you're a little late."
Draco grabs her arm as she steps forward.
"Where is everyone?" Hermione asks. "The Ministry should be full at this time of day."
Aberfield cackles—gods, it's horrifying. "It's incredible what sorts of spells I contrive in my mind. Endless possibilities present here." He taps his wand against his head and then redirects it back to Kingsley. "Did you know that with careful studying of the security here at the Ministry, you can time a defensive charm just right that it blocks all magical entrances? Of course, you found your way in somehow—should've fucking guessed you would. Our Minister found his way in as well. But everyone who was here already wasn't as... lucky... as our friend. Our fearlessleader." His tone is so sardonic that it hurts.
"No, they weren't," Ms. Parkinson speaks up, crossing her arms over her chest and regarding Aberfield with glee. "My wand hasn't felt such power in years. Petrifying and sending them into thin air has never felt so good."
"You twisted bitch," Pansy mutters under her breath, and that causes her mother to turn sharply and glare at her daughter.
Hermione's never seen such displeasure in someone's eyes like the way Ms. Parkinson looks at her own daughter. Filled to the brim with disgust, Ms. Parkinson's eyes are like black holes.
"Merlin, you're look horrible," Ms. Parkinson seethes, shaking her head in utter disappointment. "Still using those dirty drugs, I see?"
"And you aren't?" Pansy shoots back. "You're the one who taught me, anyways."
"I think we know who reallygot us all started," Ms. Parkinson replies, her eyes trailing towards Draco. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip on Hermione's hand, holding back whatever insult Hermione is sure he's contriving in his cunning mind. "Your father has a lot of gall, Draco."
"And you're psychotic—what else is new?"
"Charming," she seethes through gritted teeth.
Kingsley finds the courage to speak again, and this time it's directed at Harry.
"Harry, I—"
"No!" Aberfield shouts again, and from his wand he casts a silencing spell on Kingsley, the same one he used months ago on the group during one of their outbursts in the meeting. Kingsley's lips latch and seal together, and his cheeks fluster. "I do the talking," he orders with a trembling voice, "I'm the one with the power now."
"You're insane," Blaise growls.
"No, no, I'm not insane!" Aberfield exclaims, throwing his hand down in frustration. "I'm a visionary!"
"Of what?" Adrian shouts, curling his lips in disgust.
Aberfield smirks. Laughs. "The Dark Lord was right about many, many things. He paved the way for greatness, and now I am picking up where he left off. I am emerging from the shadows and becoming everything that he could've been. I am just like him, really. My army was built from the ashes of his, and I will stop at nothing to eradicate this world of the people who stand in my way." He turns to Rose, that smirk still palpable. "Rose here feels the same."
"So much so that I took on a whole new identity the same way my Lord did," she says, redirecting her wand to the middle of the room and shooting red sparks from the tip, painting her given name—Rose Mulciber—in the air. With a second precise flick of her wand, the letters begin to rearrange themselves, and suddenly they spell out her false identity—Cleo M. Bruiser.
"Brilliant, isn't she?" Aberfield coos. "Her name held more disgust than my nothing name. The name given to me by my disgusting muggleborn parents, who threw me out when they decided that my irrational tendencies were too difficult to manage. Wasn't until that oaf showed up that I became aware of what I really was—a wizard. And a damn good one at that. One capable of all of this and more."
"You can't possibly think that you're as charismatic and charming as Voldemort once was," Theo snaps. "Not with those fucking lessons you made us sit through. I wanted to turn my wand to my head and off myself right then and there every single day. No leader is that fucking drawling."
"You know nothing!" Aberfield shouts, the fingers fastened around his wand shaking.
Theo turns to face his father, gritting his teeth. "And you? You're standing there like this guy has any fucking hold over you? You're pathetic."
His father winces. "Do not speak to me like that—"
"I don't fear you anymore," Theo responds. "Not if he's who you look up to."
"Presumptuous of you to think that we look up to him," Mr. Pucey chimes in. "Perhaps he's simply a steppingstone for our next revolution." He takes a step forward and then turns his attention to Adrian, coiling his lips into a sinister smile. "Hello, son—"
"Choke on glass and die," Adrian spits.
His father sardonically recoils, raising his hands and eyebrows in the process. "My, my, my, that's a new one."
"Would you rather I wish something more gruesome upon you?" Adrian taunts, taking one step forward before stopping himself from getting any closer.
"Oh, please do. I'm in need of more ghastly methods of killing the unworthy scum of this world."
"Why, I ought to—"
"Alright, shut up!" Aberfield barks, rotating his wand between everyone in the room—parents, kids, Kingsley. "No more talking! No more! You're all insufferable."
"Now you know how we felt during your lessons," Draco mutters under his breath.
Hermione glares at Aberfield—they glare at each other. His lips lift like they've been soaked in intentions more sinister than the Devil's own goals.
"Quincy, what are you doing?" she asks, shaking her head. "What is it that you want out of all of this?"
"Power."
"Over who—"
"Over them!"
Aberfield points to the parents, to the Slytherins—to everyone.
He exhales as Hermione takes in that answer, and then he says, "I don't understand it. I never did. How was it that all of you—you children—were able to receive the mark when I, one of the Dark Lord's most devoted soldiers, did not?"