Forewarning. The following story contains depictions of traumatic abuse, severe, extreme depression, and violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Very few things confused Hermione. The intricacies of emotional relationships, her best friend, and sometimes, her own bloody mind. Thinking helped, of course, but why in Merlins name did she have to be thinking about school right now? She was neck deep in Malfoy manor. It made no sense. Oh of course there was definitely some explanations she could come up with, why she was so calm. Shock, trauma, maybe she'd just hit her head very hard when the snatchers actually got her. She wasn't sure. She did know that thinking of her last transfiguration class was by no means an understandable train of thought considering her dire predicament. However, think she did.
McGonagall had been her normal, very terse self. She'd been instructing the students on complex transfiguration, turning a simple object, a small wooden block, into a much larger, more complex one- A grandfather clock. It took some intense concentration and a good amount of understanding of the object in question. None of the students had been able to manage it, not even Hermione herself- She knew the basics of how a clock functioned, was even able to make it the right shape, but no matter what she did she had no bloody clue how to make the damn thing function. That's what her mind was stuck on right now. Clocks. Gears. Ticking. Over and over in her mind she explored the inner workings of that blasted grandfather clock, thinking how the gears would fit together, how the pendulum would swing and keep it in time. It wasn't so complicated, she thought. It shouldn't have been beyond her, she was the most advanced student in the class, she had extensive experience with mechanical parts, she was a muggle for crying out loud. She should know how things like that worked. Physics and science, sensible things. Pity she had no real education in any muggle study, just the pity of a class they called muggle studies. She was sure she could have learned something if she had gone to a muggle school. Thank Merlin it hadn't been on the final exams.
She didn't notice as she was dragged to a tiny, cramped room, her thoughts still on her classes, on small things, on how she missed a question on her last Defense against the Dark Arts exam, and how she had failed to properly brew the potion for Slughorn. She internally scoffed. She knew why Harry did so well, but it did grate to get shown up. She was supposed to be the bright, intelligent one, and it did hurt her pride a bit to have another person do better than her.
She broke out of her trance when she was brought into the common room of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix Lestrange standing in front of her, her wand in Hermione's face.
"Filthy mudblood thief. Not only did you steal magic from your betters, you stole from ME! ME! Bellatrix BLACK, brightest witch of her age, right hand of the Dark Lord! You stole from ME!" The manic, crazed eyes bore into Hermione's own, a mangled, crazed grimace on the black-haired womans face. "You broke into my vault, stole my possessions. You filthy, filthy mudblood thief. Tell me what else you stole. Tell me. TELL ME!" She didn't give Hermione a moment to speak, her words streaming out of her mouth in a stream of exponentially increasing shouts.
"I didn't, I swear, I didn't take anything, I swear!" Hermione scrambled backwards, tripping over herself, landing on the floor. She felt a sharp pain in the back of her head and her vision swam- She must have hit her head when she fell. She scrambled backwards, on all fours, her eyes, open wide and terrified, fixed on the black-haired womans face.
Bellatrix's voice was a screech, her movements frantic as she jammed her wand forward, her feet taking her to move forward aggressively as Hermione fled. "Liar! Lies, lies, the mudblood thief lies! Crucio!"
Hermione screamed. Every muscle, every nerve, every single part of Hermione was doused, drenched in pain. Everything, everywhere, she couldn't get away from it. She shook, trembled, every muscle stretched taut as the curse took hold. Every word ever uttered hatefully bombarded her mind, every thought of inadequacy, every word said to put her down. They all swam into her mind, drowning out any other thought, preventing her any respite. How much of a failure she was, how much of a terrible friend she was, how she must have gotten her friends killed with her mistakes.
The mental agony was the worst. Every thought that filled her mind was an even worse one, every time she thought she could deal with one tragedy, another came to replace it. And even after the burning in her nerves had subsided and she could feel her muscles stop clenching from the bombardment of the curse, she knew that the thoughts wouldn't go away. It took her a moment, lost in the pain of her mind, to hear her torturer again.
"Scum. That is what you are. Mudbloods only know how to steal and lie and cheat. I should remind you. I should show you what a disgusting little creature you are." There was a knife in Bellatrix's hand. Hermione didn't know when it got there, didn't know what Bellatrix would do with it, was terrified of it all the same.
With a wave of the dark witches wand, Hermione couldn't move. She could barely breathe, her chest felt constricted with each breath from the restraining charm that Bellatrix had used on her. She felt more than saw the dark witch move on top of her, her head turned to the side as she lay on the floor. She could see the Malfoy's fireplace. See an urn sitting on the top right, a small thing, that almost assuredly held Floo powder. She was only 10 metres away from it- But it may as well have been an ocean of distance, for how good it would do her.
"Let's remind the lying thief what kind of filth she is!" Bellatrix's words were punctuated by a sharp, searing pain in her right arm. Her head was turned to the left- She couldn't see what Bellatrix was doing, but whatever it was, the pain spread. It touched her heart, and she thought, for a moment, that her heart would stop. It certainly felt that way, a pain and an irregular, flipping sensation where her heart was in her chest. It continued, continued until the pain subsided and Bellatrix stood from atop her. Her arm still burned. Her chest still felt some pain that radiated from her arm. But it felt lessened.
With a wave of her wand, the dark witch dismissed the holding charm on Hermione. She curled into a small ball, her arm held to her chest, staring down at the word carved in blood on her arm. There was something black oozing out of the wound as well, and her eyes didn't leave the letters carved on her arm.
"Well, look who now has her name carved in her skin, mudblood. Let that be a lesson to you. Remember your place, filth. Put down your filthy wand, bend the knee to the Dark Lord, and maybe, maybe you will be granted a merciful death, after he extracts every disgusting memory from your head to find exactly what you stole from my vault. Mudbloods deserve death, but you. You deserve worse. Lying to ME! Stealing from ME! I almost wish I did not have to turn you over to the Dark Lord, though he may bless me with the honor of breaking you into tiny pieces." Bellatrix cackled when she finished speaking. "Yes, I would be honored to destroy you in my Lords name."
Bellatrix's wand snapped into Hermione's face, and the witch glared down at her. A wordless spell and a flash were all the warning she had before she completely lost consciousness.
"Bellatrix Lestrange. You are hereby under trial by the Ministry of Magic for various crimes against the state and the citizens of Britain. Mister Weasley, if you would list the crimes." Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the head of a silent, grim semicircle of wizards, all of whom stared at the dark witch in the center of them with equal repugnance.
Hermione rubbed her arm, her fingers unconsciously tracing the word on it until she noticed what she was doing and stopped. The Black had affected her, far more than she had thought. She thought, with the war over, that the bother that her arm had given her would also be over. Thought that it was a product of stress, frantic need to finish the last pieces of work that needed to be done to finally win this thing. Obviously not. Especially not now, as she felt her finger become sticky with the black substance that oozed out of the scars when her mind wandered to the thoughts of that night. It happened far too often, and she couldn't stop thinking about it now that the one who put the scar there stood in front of her, on trial, in front of the whole wizarding world.
"Murder. Torture. Sedition. Usage of the Cruciatus curse. Usage of the killing curse. Usage of the Imperius curse. Usage of dark magic. Usage of Ministry grounds to conduct dark magic. Misuse of Magical Artifacts. Destruction of Magical Artifacts. Theft. Destruction of Ministry property. Destruction of private property. Accomplice to murder. Accomplice to usage of the Ministry grounds to conduct dark magic. Accomplice to destruction of Ministry property. Accomplice to destruction of private property. Accessory to murder. Accessory to usage of the Ministry grounds to conduct dark magic. Accessory to the destruction of Ministry property. Accessory to the destruction of private property." When Arthur Weasley finished the long list of crimes, he rolled up the parchment he held and passed it to Kingsley, a grim look of determination on the ginger wizards' face.
"And how do you plead, Bellatrix Lestrange?" Kingsley's voice was hard. Everyone in the room knew the fate of the dark witch, after this. But it was important to do things properly. Every Death Eater was to be given a trial.
"Black", was the simple reply from Bellatrix.
"I asked you how you pled. Answer, Lestrange."
"I told you BLACK! I am Bellatrix BLACK, you insufferable blood traitor! Even were you to insist on your farcical interpretation of paperwork, I am Bellatrix BLACK, with my dearest husband passed away. Filthy blood traitors the lot of you, call me Black, as is my right." Bellatrix's eyes were manic, her fingers balled into fists, and Hermione had no doubt had she a wand in her hand that Kingsley would be dead where he stood.
"Bellatrix Black. How do you plead." Kingsley glared at the demented woman, his own hand on his wand.
"Plead? I plead nothing. I did what was right. Filthy mudblood thieves. They should be put on trial, they should stand here in front of a council of purebloods while they answer for their theft! They should-" Bellatrix choked on her sentence, Kingsley's wand raised and pointed at her in a wordless hex. She closed her mouth, her eyes staring furiously at him.
"The court will note that as guilty. The sentence shall be lifetime in Azkaban. You will not be getting out this time, Bellatrix. There is no-one to save you, no Voldemort to take you out. Rot in hell, Bellatrix. Rot and stew over what kind of person you are." Kingsley spat at her, his eyes hardened and cold.
"You want to do WHAT! Absolutely NOT! You may be the best witch in all of Britain but there is no world that I am letting you go to Azkaban and meet the person that tortured you." Shacklebolt was standing, and Hermione was grateful for the desk between them. Ever since the night, shouting, intimidation, exactly what Shacklebolt was doing now, terrified her. During the war it was fine. She could move past it, tap into her reserve of bravery that never seemed to run out to put up a front for the two boys that needed her so much. Now they'd gone their separate ways, now that they didn't have the fate of the Wizarding World on their shoulders- Her soul was meek indeed.
"I'm cursed, Shacklebolt. Nothing will undo this curse except that witch, and I need this curse undone. You know this. We all know this. I won't survive to see this world after the reparations if it isn't handled." Her words were true. The mediwitch at St Mungo's had taken one look at the black lines spreading from the words on her wrist and told her she was amazed that Hermione was alive. They seemed to follow her veins, a fact that wasn't lost on Hermione. Purebloods and their obsession with blood.
"That doesn't mean you should interact with the witch that put that curse on you. You are the brightest witch of the age, and I am sure that you, and your talented friends, can find a way to undo the curse. There is no need to involve that creature in anything, especially not when it comes to your health. I will not allow it, Hermione. I'm amazed you even came to me about this. I'm amazed your better sense didn't prevail. Merlin's sake, Hermione, what she did to you." Kingsley had sat back down, to Hermione's relief. His shoulder slumped, as if a great weight had fallen upon them, and his eyes bore down into his desk. "Even if you do go, you know that she would not do what you asked. You know her, you know what she's like around muggles. You better than anyone, I would say- You're the only one who's survived."
Hermione made a small, frustrated noise. She looked down at her lap. Her hands were working circles around her wand. The polish had worn away on the middle part of the wand. It had lost its shine years ago, back during the war, but even after she couldn't bring herself to care for the wonderful instrument. It had wasted away. Just like her. The parallels weren't missed by the witch. She absently lifted her head, staring at Kingsley. "If I had another way, I would have taken it by now. I don't want to meet her. I don't want anything to do with her. I don't want to ever see her again. But I need this gone. I need this curse out of my body, out of my soul. I've tried everything, Kingsley. Everything. Spells, charms, potions, even muggle doctoring. Nothing works. Nothing can get this out of me. The caster of a curse like this- You know they can undo it. You know that the caster can reverse the effects. There's nothing I can do. Nothing in my power. I am loathe to ever be in that woman's presence again, but it's not as if I'm given much choice." She tightened her grip on her wand.
She needed Kingsley to accept her request. She had read every text. Every scroll. Every parchment. Every scrap of information that might have something half relevant to her condition, and plenty besides that didn't. Nothing. She couldn't even say what kind of curse was on her wrist, only that it was a curse and that there was no magical way for her to remove it. She refused to resign herself to death at the hands of the woman who had put that scar on her skin. Bellatrix was the only hope she had of removing the curse. The irony, unfortunate as it was, was not lost on her, though it was the dark witches fault that she was in such a position in the first place.
"Did you not hear me when I said that she would not remove it? She hates muggles, and hates muggles with magic even more. She has no conscience, nothing resembling one and nothing even remotely called a heart. She would not fix it for you if it was a choice between death and removing that curse. You know that. Why are you even trying?" Kingsley had a firm, if kind look on his face. Hermione knew that he cared. Hermione knew that everyone who saw the vicious black stain on her arm wished that it was gone.
Hermione, for all she knew that she had many people who cared for her, many people who would do everything to make the vicious curse go away, also knew she only had one option. "There is nothing else I can do, Kingsley. If I don't do this, I don't get much more than two years. Less, maybe. They weren't sure. Two years was simply the maximum amount of time before the curse reaches-" She cut herself off. She did not want to think about her impending fate. And every time she did, her mind would travel back. Remember the way that magic had clutched around her heart when Bellatrix carved the slur into her arm. It terrified her.
"Hermione-" Kingsley started, but was interrupted just as soon as he started.
"No! Kingsley! I need this gone, and there is only one way, and you damn well better grant me this request. I sacrificed everything to save the Wizarding World. I sacrificed my parents, I sacrificed my friends, I sacrificed any chance I'd ever have of getting a normal bloody life, and you demand I sacrifice my life for the war, too? I sat under that womans knife, Kingsley. I endured the Cruciatus curse. I refuse, abjectly refuse to accept that you will not give me the ability to try to save my own life. I have sacrificed enough for the Wizarding World. I'm done sacrificing. Get this fixed. Get me to see the witch that cursed me." Hermione herself was standing now, glaring down at Kingsley, her teeth bared and her hair wild, her eyes wide in fury. She did not know how akin she looked to Bellatrix in that moment, in her fury.
"I- Okay, I'll make it happen. Hermione- I'll get you your meeting. I can promise no more than that. You and I both know how likely she is to actually remove the curse." Kingsley shuddered, looking at her with something almost akin to fear in his eyes. Hermione didn't know what to feel about that.