Wow, look! An update! So this chapter is a huge plot point. Some of ya'll may love it; some of ya'll may abandon my story, never to return. I want to create something unique, so if you are here to read something unique, then don't attack me for doing something different that you may not like. If you like it, I beg of you: give me a review. I'm dying for some feedback on this chapter specifically. Hermione's going to become increasingly OC after this point, so be prepared for that as well. She is not a nice girl.
Also, it's finally time- some people have been bothered by how the Malfoys are getting away with so much. That won't last. In fact, this chapter is the starting point, so pay attention.
I love reading the reviews where people say "i just found this and didn't expect anything good..." etc etc. It's pretty funny to read that. My goal is to write something I would want to read; if ya'll enjoy it so much, that's a huge plus. I love surprising people as well, so reviews like this really make me smile.
As always, thanks for reading! Don't forget to drop a comment on what ya'll think of this chapter. Enjoy!
Waves crashed against the cliff side, pounding inexorably against pale stone. The sea was grey, the sky black with storm. It should have been too dark to see, yet the woman standing no more than three feet away emitted a dark glow, easily visible. She illuminated the many swords that were stuck in the ground around her, point first, each one different. Some were ancient, rusted with old age, while others shone silver. They were all crusted with blood. Some of them dripped, as though they had just dealt fresh wounds moments before. The light gleamed on others strangely, and Hermione realized they were blades of bone.
"This is my garden," the woman said. Her voice held both the screams of the dying and the absolute silence of the dead. "Nothing grows here but death."
"Who are you?" Hermione asked. There was a fine tremor in her hand, which she belatedly realized was still clasped around Morgan le Fay's wand. The wand grounded her, reminding her that she was not powerless, despite the obvious danger.
The woman smiled. Her eyeteeth had been filed to points. Or perhaps she had been born that way? Hermione did not know which thought unnerved her more.
"I am Badb."
Hermione stilled, her breath freezing in her lungs. Gods and goddesses were not supposed to be real. They had been worshiped centuries upon centuries ago, but religion had fallen out of fashion with the advent of Christianity. Yet, once, Hermione had also believed magic to be a myth. Were goddesses really much further out of the realm of belief? She could not deny the cold breeze on her skin or the crushing presence of the woman before her. The so-called goddess exuded so much power that Hermione's hair crackled reflexively in an accidental display of nerves.
In the few stories Hermione had read on Badb, back when she had been on a mythology kick several years ago, the warrior goddess had looked like a crone. But the woman was tall, six feet or more, and wraith thin. A cloak of crow feathers swept her bare feet, clasped with ornate gold hooks beneath the hollow of her throat. Her black gown, the hem tattered and darkened with gore, revealed both of her skeletal legs through long slits that ended below the gold chain circling her middle. Gold coins dangled from the belt, embossed with images of wolves. Deep red hair fell in wild snarls to her hips, strung with tiny finger bones. Her headpiece was wrought in black metal, fashioned in the shape of talons that dug into her skin until gold blood beaded. Sensuous, full lips contrasted sharply with blade-like cheek bones and hollow temples. Those lips were curved in a cold smile that lit her irises. Her eyes were identical to Hermione's.
She extended a hand, the bones of her wrist in stark relief against porcelain skin, and tipped Hermione's chin up to examine her face. Frozen with consuming fear, the young witch did not dare to move. Badb was an apex predator lazily inspecting her newest meal. Hermione had never felt so aware of her own weaknesses and shortcomings.
Images rushed through her head. Bullies at her muggle school kicking her to the ground; ignorant teachers shaking their heads at her advanced intelligence, unable to nurture her intellect; Hogwarts students muttering about her status, disparaging her as a mudblood; McGonagall's disappointment at her sorting; Pansy waving as she disappeared into the dorms, leaving her to her fate; Marcus Flint's sneering face as he tortured her; her mother's disgust and fear when she discovered Hermione's bloodthirsty side.
She had to be like that! She had to be meaner than everyone else. Didn't her mother understand? She had to protect herself first. She hated the others for refusing to try to understand her. Their ignorance forced her to become the person she was, so ready to spill blood. She had needed to slice that girl's arm; the girl had been bigger and stronger, holding Hermione's face to the dirty floor as other girls stomped and kicked. The scissors had been barely out of reach, but they had skittered into her grasping fingers as if by magic.
The dull edge of the children's scissors had still cut to the bone when applied with enough force. The girl had screamed, recalling the teacher to the room filled with wild seven year olds. Hermione had been entranced by the cascading blood, seeping thickly from the girl's arm.
She tried to explain herself so many times. Her truths fell on deaf ears. "There is never an excuse to hurt another, Hermione," her mother had taught. But Hermione had not cared to learn lessons she knew to be false.
Emily Granger's blue eyes filled her vision. They watered with despair, as they had that fateful day. "You could have chosen compassion," her mother's voice said. "You should have chosen empathy."
Hermione's mouth twisted. "That is not who I am," she snarled at her mother. "I will not cower! I will not extend my forgiveness to those who choose to hurt me!"
Her mother's eyes began to leak tears. "My daughter is not so evil. She is not a killer."
"Not unless I need to be one," Hermione answered. She had no idea how to retort to being called evil. Was she evil? The thought did not bother her as she knew it should.
"Would you give up your magic to be good?" her mother whispered. "Would you give up being a witch to be pure and light?"
"Never!" Hermione screamed, horrified by the questions. She would never sacrifice her identity as a witch. She would choose to die before returning to her mundane life as a muggle. She had fought with blood and tears to prove her worth, to prove her devotion to being a witch. Her sacrifice had sealed a covenant within her soul, within the beast of her body. She would kill her mother by her own hand before giving up magic.
Suddenly, her mother's blue eyes dried and hardened. Between one blink and the next, they became gold. Laughter caused Hermione to open her eyes. She hadn't realized they had been closed.
Badb's talons, black and deadly sharp, pricked Hermione's jaw. "Delightful," she purred. "I expected nothing less."
"What was that?" Hermione asked, voice hoarse. Her heart thudded sluggishly, weak with the realization that she valued her magic over her own life, over her mother's life.
"I had to know if you were truly of my sister," Badb explained. "The eyes are only an indication of your nature. I needed to know if your soul was dark enough."
"Is it?" she questioned, although the answer was clear in Badb's unhidden glee. She could sense the truth, sliding through her veins like oil.
"It is abysmally black," the goddess laughed. "Now that I know for sure, it is time to educate you, dear sister."
"Sister?"
A loving expression was made horrifying by Badb's frail, lethal beauty. "Yes, we are sisters. Separate for eons, but reunited by fate."
"I'm not a goddess," Hermione croaked. Goddesses did not break beneath mortal men's kicks as she had.
"No," Badb agreed. "You are not. But you have the power of one. Come," she gestured to the cliff's edge. "Let us sit and watch the sea, and I will tell you our tale."
Hermione did not fear sitting so close to the dangerous edge. If Badb wanted her dead, she had much easier ways of doing it than shoving her over the side. Their lands dangled over empty air, Badb's bare feet soaked in blood. Hermione realized her feet were also bare to match, but they were pale and clean.
"There were once three of us," Badb began, her long hair coiled on the ground. "Macha was our third. Her hair was white as bone, lips black as old blood." The goddess's tone was sad and wistful. "She was glorious. Bloodthirsty and fierce. While we hold dominion over battle and death, she held sway over men. Oh, how she drew them to her like flies to honey! Only for the flies to become stuck, entombed to such sweet death."
"I believe you also hold some sway over men," Hermione said. She did not intend to flatter the goddess, her supposed sister. It was a simple truth; despite the caustic edge of her beauty, Badb would have no trouble attracting anyone who saw her.
The goddess laughed. "Yes, but her power was special. She sowed plight among wives and husbands, discord and envy. She reigned over battles of the heart." Badb's expression darkened, and fear once more trilled in Hermione's animal hindbrain. "Until she sought to bring the White Wizard to his knees."
"Merlin?" Hermione queried. She didn't know of any other who would count for such a title.
Badb hissed, "Yes! The man who knew her by her eyes and coveted her power. He gained her attention with great feats of magic, such as this isle had never seen before. Macha was always avaricious. A man such as he would have been an excellent meal for her voracious appetite. But he caught her as she was unguarded, never suspecting a lowly human to wield power against her. He sacrificed her and stole her power, and then began to hunt us as well, addicted to that which only a goddess can give."
Hermione was enraptured. Emotion such as Badb expressed could not be false; she felt it so deeply in her bones that Hermione began to become angry as well. Despair welled in her heart as she thought of white hair and gold eyes forever tarnished.
"He was unable to completely extinguish either of us, however, my sister. We learned from Macha's final mistakes," she growled. Her talons dug into the dry earth, and blood welled from the soil. Her narrow eyes were fixed on a point in the distance as she recounted the story, but Hermione's attention was rapt on her beautiful, angular face.
"How did you, we, I suppose, escape his hunt?" she asked, her own hands digging into the ground beside Badb's. Her nails were pink and round, fingers like pale roots anchoring her to the strange dreamscape.
"Different ways," Badb answered. "I shed my physical body to escape him. It is why I no longer roam the isles to relish in death. My power is all contained within Avalon, the otherworld realm. Many of my kind retreated here when the groves were burned and the temples desecrated, but only I am unable to exit when summoned. I can only visit you in dreams."
Hermione caught the fact that Badb had implied there were other gods and goddesses still around, but she needed to know the rest of the story before she asked about the others. "What about me?"
"You, the Morrigan," Badb smiled. "Once called Anann, Morrigu, Phantom Queen, the Dragon of Erie, the Battle Goddess. You look exactly the same as you once did, excepting these useless nails and your dress." She tapped Hermione's hand with a finger. "What name do you claim now, sister?"
"Astarte Hermione Black," she responded.
"A good name," Badb nodded. "Not so good as your original, but good."
"You can call me whatever you want," Hermione offered.
Badb smiled, and the teeth were less frightening. "Anann, then. It is good to have you returned to me."
Hermione smiled back. Badb was absolutely terrifying, but every second spent in her presence made Hermione feel oddly welcome. As if she belonged next to the impressive death goddess.
"You were always the clever one," Badb continued their tale. "Macha was the most beautiful, and I was the one who all feared the most." She grinned again. "Of course, it was for good reason. I was always the hungriest. You were cunning. Supplicants knew you would not kill them out of petty entertainment, so many were drawn to your shrines. Merlin hunted you last, wary of you."
The goddess turned to look at Hermione. "I chose to give up my body before I let him have me. He used sigils of power drawn in the blood he spilled from Macha. He would have taken me for sport before he pillaged my power from my body. We are the patronesses of women. I would not cede myself to a man, even if it meant damning myself to eternal existence in Avalon with no physical body."
"So you can never have a real body again?" Hermione asked.
"We three sisters were bound in power," Badb explained, "so strong that should one turn on the other, it would break the laws binding reality. When the White Wizard used Macha's blood against me, it enabled me to forever destroy our ties. That is what saved you, and you were clever enough to take it another step further."
She turned her eyes back to the sea, the gold cold and desolate. "My physical destruction released a blast of power that resonated through all realms and lands. It rendered the power of Macha's blood to bind us inert. You harnessed my unleashed energy to bind yourself to the mortal coil, sacrificing immortality forever so Merlin would never again be able to claim godhood from one of us."
"You gave yourself up for me," Hermione whispered.
Badb turned her head once more. Their identical eyes held. "You would have for me," she said simply. "We would have for Macha. I simply had the opportunity first, so I took it. Alas, we were prideful. Arrogant. We would never have thought a mere mortal wizard could reduce us to fleeing across the isles, yet he did."
"So I became human?"
"Your soul stole the body of a babe and grew into a formidable witch. You founded a bloodline that lasted centuries and then vanished. Yet here you are once more," she smiled.
Hermione's eyes flew wide in understanding. "Morgan le Fay was the Morrigan!"
"You are Morgan le Fay," Badb laughed. "Reincarnated."
The wand in her hand grew warm as if it agreed with Badb, causing Hermione to consider a question.
"How does my wand core have your hairs if you gave up your physical body?" Hermione asked.
"I can gift you something as simple as hair from this realm," she answered, plucking several strands and pressing them into Hermione's palm to prove it. "I myself may not leave this world, however. My soul is bound eternally to Avalon, just as yours is to the mortal realm. You may visit me in dreams such as this, but you may never travel into Avalon without giving up something your mortal self values dearly, as all heroes must do."
"Will I ever become Anann again?"
Badb shook her head sadly. "You permanently removed yourself from goddesshood. You will be forever tied to the mortal coil, cycling through reincarnation. However, your soul is bound to your bloodline and the isles, just as we were once bound to these lands. Your family will never leave, never immigrate, as though they are chained to the earth. I will always watch over your family, seeking you out whenever the eyes appear once more."
"Am I the first reincarnate since Morgan?"
"Yes," she said, "and I am so glad to have found you again, Anann. So glad I will be able to relearn my sister. Avalon has been lonely."
Hermione considered Badb and her fierce countenance. Despite the power and confidence she exuded, the young witch could feel a hint of the deep sadness and loneliness. She decided she would do everything in her power to reconnect with her sister, to assuage the loneliness plaguing Badb.
"Our time draws short," Badb said, standing. "We will continue this later. Be strong, sister. I will watch you from this realm."
Hermione stood as well, brushing dirt from herself. Without thinking, she grabbed Badb in a tight hug, following a tug within her soul. The goddess froze, and then softened, curling her skeletal arms around Hermione's shoulders. Despite how frail she looked, Badb was unyielding within the embrace.
"It is good to have you back, Anann," she whispered, sounding very human for a moment. Hermione nodded. She had not known she was missing anything more from her life until Badb had hugged her back, but now her soul had settled. There was still a frozen corner reserved for Macha, echoing the coldness in Badb's heart where the third sister had once resided.
"It is good to be back, Badb," the young witch murmured.
Badb released her slowly and then tucked a wild black curl behind Hermione's ear, smiling fondly. "So similar, and yet so different," she murmured to herself. "But the eyes do not lie."
"A portrait of Morgan le Fay said something like that to me," Hermione shared wryly. "I didn't realize at the time that I was talking to a portrait of myself."
The goddess laughed, sharp teeth bared. "It is time for you to return, Anann. Tell no one of this."
Hermione nodded, and then the Cliffside disappeared, taking the goddess with it.
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As suddenly as it had come, the vision was gone. Hermione knew without asking that the Malfoys had not experienced what she had. The chill remained on her skin, a lingering kiss from the cold sea breeze.
Had that truly been the spirit of Badb? Were the legends true? Was what Badb had said true?
Unwilling to share her strangely intimate experience with the Malfoys, Hermione decided to think on it later. She had many things to do before she could privately attempt to commune with Badb. Belatedly, she realized she had no even thought to argue and question what the goddess had told her. Everything from Badb's lips had been immediately accepted as truth. Hermione struggled to think of any of it as a lie; the honesty of the tale resonated in her bones. Her inner beast curled behind her sternum and rested, content that the truth has been recognized.
"You must be able to attune to two wands," Narcissa said, breaking Hermione's musings. The polite façade was gone; wariness was firmly in its place. "That is… exceedingly rare."
"Rare seems to be the theme for me," Hermione said wryly. The Malfoys had no idea just what she was. She clutched her new wand tightly, half afraid Narcissa would attempt to confiscate it as well as her other one.
"But how?" Draco frowned. "You're right handed. Wizards can only use magic with their dominant hand."
"I'm actually ambidextrous," Hermione corrected. "My left and right hands both work quite well."
"Well, we can discuss this later," Narcissa declared, trying to regain control. "We still have much to do."
Hermione tucked the wand into an inside pocket of her robes and obediently followed her cousin, unwilling to argue. It was not the time to forge her own way; she didn't want to make the older woman anymore wary than she already was. Narcissa would still prove useful for quite a time yet. Which made her wonder how much of an advantage her probable sister could provide. Having a goddess in her corner was an untold resource.
Of course, being a goddess was something else entirely.
They quickly sourced another piece of traditional jewelry for Hermione to show her status and heritage as the heir of the le Fay house. She stifled a laugh. Was it possible to be heir to a house she had also founded? At least the earrings held echoes of her origins. The tiny pearl drops were held by meticulously wrought silver talons, happily reminding her of Badb's clawed crown. She placed them in her ears as she quickly scoured the nearest shelves for reading material to take with her.
Seated next to her pile of assorted treasures and adorned in fine jewelry no pureblood could fault, Hermione studiously avoided the questing gaze of her elder cousin and watched the various sights at the cart rocketed back to the surface. They passed dozens of levels, each containing the vaults of purebloods, followed by halfbloods and prominent muggleborns. She saw names flash past as crests became less common. There was Potter, a noble looking vault; Rosier, inlaid with thorny rose bushes; Selwyn, garnished with a star of crossed swords; Greengrass, illustrated with shimmering images of a rearing unicorn; many flashed by. Gaunt, Gamp, Crouch, Abbott, Prewet, Marchbanks, on and on and on.
The history of wizarding Britain was deep and rich. To fit in, Hermione knew she needed to devote her free time to learning all of the ins and outs of pureblood society. That was another arena the Malfoys would be an invaluable resource for. However, she also had half a mind to ask Snape; he had been… oddly comforting, when he had advised her upon wakening. He also seemed stiff and prejudiced enough to be able to teach her.
And since she was a Slytherin, maybe he would also only deny her twice if she asked for his help.
She also had a duty to her sisters to learn as much as she could about herself. Macha had died and Badb had given herself so Annan could live. Hermione needed to set her mind to studying arcane magics, remnants of an age where goddesses had stalked men across battlefields. The tomes and scrolls gathered at her side were a good step forward to learning all she could about obscure magic. Her hair fizzed with electric excitement as she thought of the lost knowledge she alone had access to.
They reached the surface and were quickly trundled out of the bank by Grifvindurk. He had never looked so happy as when he had claimed his goblin treasures from the Black vault and then slammed the bank's great doors in their faces. At least, Hermione assumed his expression of crinkled eyes and guttural hisses was happiness.
When the heavy doors shut with a bang, Hermione realized hours and hours had passed. It was a little past popular lunch time, but close enough to catch the restaurants before they closed for the afternoon. They had several hours to complete whatever tasks her cousins desired, and maybe an hour or two for her own errands as well.
"Well," Narcissa declared primly as she tapped her wand in her opposite palm. Professor McGonagall did the same thing when she caught students doing anything suspicious. "The excitement for the morning appears to be over. Let's get us some lunch, then finish up in Diagon Alley and pop in Twilfitt and Tatting's, hmm?" She eyed Hermione critically for a moment. "And maybe Madam Primpernelle's as well."
Hermione frowned but chose wisely not to ask. She wasn't in the mood to be subtly ridiculed.
The Malfoys expertly led Hermione through the bustling streets, holding their heads high as people whispered and pointed. When people realized who Hermione was, the stares turned into surprised exclamations, and the noise level increased palpably.
They passed Flourish and Blott's, Madame Maulkin's, a broom shop, an animal store, and many more glass-fronted portals to the various habits and hobbies of magical Britain. Narcissa turned onto a narrow, cobblestoned road lined with increasingly fine store fronts. Hermione spied Madame Primpernelle's, a pale pink building with windows through which she glimpsed a neat row of witches getting pampered. She frowned in realization, curling a wayward tangle around her finger.
The trio arrive at some supposedly reputable place for witches and wizards to both see and be seen. The entire venue hushed expectantly when Narcissa Malfoy entered, followed by her son and what was unmistakably the daughter of Sirius Black.
Whispers broke out as people whispered to their lunch mates at the scandal. Hermione didn't need to be the brightest witch of her age to guess what the people said. Sirius Black, known rake and madman of upper society, had impregnated a muggle descended from the most infamous witch of all time. Astarte Hermione Black would be the talk of London, and maybe all parts of the wizarding world, for years.
The girl held her head high, proudly crowned with wild black curls, making some older people reminisce at the ancient Black arrogance, resurrected in the new generation. The boy had an unmistakable Malfoy swagger, and usually would have drawn coos from the witches and solid handshakes from the wizards as people came to politely greet his mother. However, he was not the star of the show.
The first vultures circled and settled as soon as the trio were seated. Narcissa clucked in disapproval, muttering, "Audacious. The server hasn't even brought the table water yet."
Hermione assumed approaching another table to engage on social warfare wasn't allowed until refreshments had been delivered. But the couple sitting down beside them did not seem to care. Judging by how her elder cousin's hands tensed, some other rule had been broken as soon as the couple ignored her to greet Hermione first.
Dark eyes glittered with interest as the woman extended her manicured fingers. "Heir Black," she addressed formally. "A pleasure. I am Posy Parkinson."
Hermione shook her hand delicately, restraining the urge to dig her nails into the woman's hands. She felt nothing warm for the family of Pansy Parkinson. "I am Hermione Black."
"Oh?" Mrs. Parkinson giggled, half covering her mouth as she eyed Narcissa in glee. "You chose your muggle name over your true name? How quaint."
"Old habits are hard to dissuade," Hermione explained pleasantly. "I didn't know my true name until very recently, you know."
"Oh, yes, my dear," the woman crooned, clapping her hands together pityingly. "I hope the ones who orchestrated such a misdeed are punished!"
Hermione froze. She sensed Draco flinch slightly, and a rustle of linen that signified Narcissa gripping her wand under the table. The wood of her new wand warming under her hand as well, Hermione thought very quickly. It appeared the names of her torturers was being kept secret, which explained why no one reacted in surprise to Draco's presence at her side.
How could she turn things to her advantage? Being beholden to the Malfoy's goodwill rankled, but she had been presented with an opportunity to change the tide. Thinking quickly, she barely stifled a fey smile.
It was not a very Slytherin, pureblood act to deny blackmail.
"Yes, but the two wore masks. Dreadful that the cowards don't admit to their crimes, but I hear speculation that the Flint's have begun denying social calls," Posy whispered conspiratorially. "Perhaps out of guilt, don't you think so, Atticus?"
The man beside her appeared so bland that Hermione had to squint to pick out his face clearly. Pansy greatly favored his wife, but her dark hair was from the husband. He began to pay attention with a start when his wife jabbed him with a lethal fingernail. "Yes, yes, of course you're right," he babbled.
His cantankerous wife seemed to accept his response, regally nodding her head. "I always keep an eye out for the old families," she said, staring into Hermione's eyes meaningfully.
Was she trying to woo her to her side? Hermione didn't know, but she disliked the sanctimonious attitude seeping from the witch.
"My daughter wrote me as soon as rumors spread," she tittered, "but we all know how gossip runs at Hogwarts! Remember our times there, Narcissa?"
"Of course," Narcissa Malfoy demurred. "But a girl raised correctly does not invite rumors and gossip."
Hermione barely withheld a snort at the subtle censure. She had seen girls her age arm themselves with gossip, weapons pointed at other students. That didn't even count the older girls, who were willing to reveal hard kept secrets at the blink of an eye if it helped them get ahead.
"You know Pansy, yes?" the woman asked, distracting Hermione from her thoughts.
She thought of her former friend, black hair and sharp, but mischievous blue eyes. Her feelings were in tumult over Pansy. She had left her to the wolves, but wouldn't Hermione have done the same? She didn't know. She had never had friends she needed to protect before. But the girl had been by her side when she had awoken. There was a stack of unopened letters she had written that Hermione had yet to read. Were they a sincere apology, or was Pansy a social climber, just like her mother appeared to be? There were too many things she didn't know. Was it worth letting Pansy say her piece? She would be a useful ally, since she knew all the ins and outs of the other families. But that would require Hermione sacrificing her own pride. Once again, it was something she could only focus on later. She had a lot of things shelved for later thought, since navigating treacherous pureblood machinations required all of her attention.
"Yes, I know her."
Mrs. Parkinson's eyes narrowed in pleasure. "Good! She would be a great friend to you, you know. She knows everything there is to know about this life, and I of course would love to help as well."
Hermione felt the venom in Narcissa's voice more than she heard it. "That is a lovely offer," her cousin interrupted smoothly. "Thankfully, Astarte has myself as her guardian, and Draco will step up to guide her at Hogwarts."
Posy Parkinson smiled, sickly sweet. "Of course, Narcissa. I would expect nothing less."
The arrival of water signaled the Parkinson's departure. "I was so glad to meet you, dear," Mrs. Parkinson said, her dim husband nodding along. "Feel free to owl me at any time."
"Of course," Hermione echoed, smiling politely. It would be a wet day in the Sahara when that happened.
As the couple left, Narcissa immediately attempted to do damage control, sensing the maelstrom brewing in the girl beside her. "Dumbledore and the staff believed it to be in everyone's best interests if the… identities of the boys were kept secret. Britain is a small place. Our population is tiny enough that nearly everyone knows each other, or at least knows the family. It is wise to keep such news under wraps."
A dark brow quirked. "I see," Hermione said. "That does nothing for me, however. I don't care who knows that it was Marcus Flint and your son who tortured me and would have killed me in our own common room. In fact, I would enjoy watching society cringe from either of the families involved."
Draco paled, and Narcissa eyed Hermione warily. "While that is true," she began, "I doubt that you plan to owl the Prophet for a revealing interview."
Hermione sipped her water. How would a Black handle such a situation? Or, how would Badb handle it?
Well, Badb would most likely have slaughtered most of wizarding Britain to satiate her bloodlust. Badb was a goddess of death, so thinking like her sister was out of the question. A Black, however, would probably be cunning. Morrigan had been the most cunning sister after all, Badb had claimed. Hermione wasn't identical to the ancient goddess of lore, but their souls and their magic were one and the same, so it stood to reason that their personalities would be similar.
"I don't intend to reveal the truth," Hermione offered. She tapped her fingers on the fine linen, considering Narcissa and Draco. Her nail tips felt very blunt and unthreatening after seeing Badb's claws, but she knew she could be lethal with her words, if she wielded her weapons carefully.
"Then what is your intention?" her older cousin inquired. Despite the tension lining the hands that were casually clasped before her, the witch's face was placid. Hermione admired her cousin's devotion to maintaining her cool façade. No one else in the restaurant but them knew the serious nature of their conversation.
If Hermione knew purebloods at all, she knew they would do nearly anything to uphold their pristine reputations. If she revealed Draco's part in what many were claiming as the worst student on student attack in decades, the Malfoy reputation would disintegrate as everyone saw Draco for the ignorant boy he truly was.
She thought of her to do list. It grew by every second, tasks added as she discovered more things she had to do. Why not use the Malfoys to complete a few tasks she didn't have to do on her own? There were several things she could use their help with, but one particular task needed to be completed as soon as possible. She would not be able to focus on other goals until the task was finished.
"You will help me," Hermione decided.
Narcissa blinked, the only indication of her confusion. "Which we have planned to do since the beginning."
"No," Hermione corrected. "You planned to help yourselves through me. I need impartial lessons on how to act, how to dress, how to talk. Personal research will bring me far enough, but I want a hands-on lesson to supplement what I read."
"That is easily arranged. You can come to the Manor-"
"You can come to the school," Hermione interrupted. She refused to be in a place where the Malfoys had a home advantage. The family had enough power over her. "Each Sunday. There are tons of empty classrooms we could use. I want Professor Snape present as well."
Narcissa sniffed in distaste. She tended to avoid Dumbledore's demesne if she could. "Very well."
"Also," Hermione continued, heart beating fast, "I want Marcus Flint dead."
Narcissa and Draco were unable to conceal their surprise and, in Draco's case, horror. The older witch seemed unbothered by the thought of murder.
While Hermione would have immensely enjoyed driving hot nails into each of Marcus Flint's joints, like a butterfly pinned to a board, she had considered her options and chosen to be cunning, rather than bloodthirsty.
All of Slytherin knew who had hurt her. The fact that the information had not leaked to the Prophet spelled trouble. The conniving families were biding their time to strike, and Hermione didn't know who their target was. But, she did know she wouldn't allow them to target her. So, she needed to take matters into her own hands. However, if she wanted to make the move to kill him herself, she would have to wait for Marcus to return to school before acting, and then all of her housemates would know she was the killer. That gave her house too much power over her. Who knew how the Slytherins would use blackmail such as murder against her? She did not want to find out.
By tasking the Malfoys with Marcus's demise, she removed doubt from her own name. Sure, people within her house would suspect it was her fault, but St. Mungo's kept track of official visitors. An alibi would also place her back at Hogwarts, far from the body. No Slytherin would be able to hold his death over her head as blackmail.
She was sure the Malfoys had agents capable of murder at their beck and call. They would be able to arrange for Marcus's untimely death, and none would be the wiser. And Hermione would be able to sleep through the night for once.
That left Draco Malfoy to take care of next. But she had other ideas for how to do that.
"You want me to have a boy killed? A young student?" Narcissa asked.
Hermione saw through Narcissa's plan. She thought to make Marcus sound relatable, so maybe Hermione would change her mind. She didn't consider that Marcus had had the poor fortune to awaken the beast within the young witch, the amoral creature that roared for his blood. "I don't care who he is. I don't care if he's Voldemort. I don't care if he's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. If he isn't dead within two weeks, I will tell the Prophet that he," she snarled caustically toward Draco, "was the little mastermind behind my torture. I will bring down your family through your idiotic son, and I will relish every second."
"Excuse me," Draco squeaked, fleeing to the bathroom as the last vestige of his courage quailed. His cloth napkin fluttered from his lap to the ground as he hastily scuttled away.
Narcissa watched her son flee in fear and her face hardened as she faced the young witch again. Hermione smiled in satisfaction.
She didn't care if Narcissa liked her or not. She was not trying to befriend the Malfoys, despite their relation. Narcissa could think whatever she liked; Hermione had no care for the family of the boy who had tried to make her feel as though she didn't deserve to be a witch. The older Malfoys had done nothing but try to influence her for their own gain. She felt no allegiance to her relatives; at best, she felt revulsion for their shared blood. Narcissa and Draco were testament to the weakening of pureblood society, crushed to a slow death by the weight of bureaucracy and stagnant traditions of such paltry sides as Light and Dark.
The scion of the Black and le Fay bloodlines would revolutionize magical Britain. There would be no place for people such as the Malfoys in her world.
"I see," Narcissa said.
Silence reigned. Hermione waited patiently.
"It can be done," the older witch acquiesced.
"It will be done."
"Promise me you will not hurt Draco," Narcissa insisted, suddenly intent. "He was cruel and senseless, but only because he has grown to be that way."
"Trust me," Hermione said tonelessly, golden eyes piercing. "I know exactly who is to blame for his personal failings."
Narcissa peered in the direction her son had run, ensuring he wasn't coming back yet. She leaned over the table as if to titter something amusing, but her whisper was urgent and serious. "If you give your word as a witch not to hurt him, I will make sure Marcus dies in agony."
"Done," Hermione immediately agreed. She had never intended to hurt Draco anyway. Physically, at least. But Marcus's agony was a priceless bargaining chip.
The blonde witch sighed in relief, the relaxing of her body minute enough to continue concealing her true emotions. "Is that all?"
"For now," Hermione replied. "The other Slytherins all know who was at fault, you know."
"I am aware," Narcissa admitted. "None have come forward publicly, or contacted us privately for extortion."
"If someone tries to go to the Prophet, I will deny whatever they say. I can make up details to disprove my housemates. No one was actually in the room with us when the attack occurred. No," Hermione muttered to herself, "everyone else was happily hiding in their warm, safe rooms while I screamed."
As soon as Draco returned, pale and silent, their waiter tactfully returned to take orders. While they waited for their food, other purebloods approached to introduce themselves to Hermione. She noted each of their names and faces, remembering their children. In some cases, she met the ones who had stolen from her family.
The Greengrass family, Valencia Greengrass and her husband, Callus, politely nodded and kissed her fingers respectively. Daphne clearly got her looks from her mother; both were willowy and blonde.
"Daphne writes that you are the brightest of your year," Callus informed. His robes were a deep, forest green. A burnished gold signet ring decorated his hand. "Perhaps she could use your direction."
"Yes," Hermione agreed pleasantly. It was unlucky that the curious families had all waited until after her private talk with her cousin. She was not in a friendly mood. "Daphne has things to teach me as well."
"Oh?" Valencia raised an eyebrow. "What does our daughter have to share that you do not already know?"
"I find I don't quite know how to manage a charity," Hermione displayed her palms sadly. "But I hear from Marcellus Murdoch—oh I'm sure you know him, he's the Head of the Department of Public Information Services, after all—told me that the Greengrass family had the foresight to watch over the Black charities and hospital shares while the Blacks were indisposed. It was very kind of you to do, Mr. Callus, Mrs. Valencia. I look forward to seeing how well you have managed my family's assets for me."
The couple exchanged quick glances. "Yes," Valencia said slowly. "After all, we couldn't let such assets fall into the hands of the Ministry. They just bungle everything, you know."
"Of course not," Hermione smiled. "I would be grateful if you would include all of your records on the charities and the shares, including notes on management and projected growth. After all, I want to be fully educated for when you return my family's assets to me."
"That is an excellent idea, Heir Black," Callus declared eagerly. "I will gather the documents myself."
"I'm glad to hear it," the young witch nodded.
The Greengrass couple quickly took their leave. Any family that Hermione recognized from Mr. Murdoch's list faced the same fate. Thoros Nott was not lunching that day, according to Narcissa, so he was able to avoid Hermione's sharp censure. Smart of him. The Bulstrodes looked queasy at Hermione's polite castigation, their waxy skin growing sallower with each carefully chosen word. The MacMillans, a frail woman and her fearsomely arrogant husband, took it the worst.
"I will not be chastised by a girl, no matter her name," Ernest MacMillan sputtered.
"Well," Hermione's eyes glittered menacingly as she threatened yet another pureblood. "Should you refuse to relinquish my property to me, I would be thrilled to demand the Ministry's immediate investigation of your finances. I'm sure nothing would be amiss, correct?"
His wife fluttered her hands ineffectually as Ernest puffed his chest, face growing red with rage.
"Do not make a scene, Ernest," Narcissa commented calmly. Despite their earlier clash, Narcissa had watched with growing amusement as Hermione impressively manhandled each pureblood family that approached. "I know it is your custom to attract attention, but everyone here is simply trying to enjoy their meal in peace."
Hermione doubted that. The surrounding tables were watching in hardly concealed glee as the drama unfolded. Posy Parkinson could barely contain herself, hungrily staring as choice gossip happened right before her eyes. Burgeoning social faux pas was prime time action for the pureblood hierarchy.
Narcissa's pointed remark caused Ernest to glance around him. He saw all the people casually eating or talking, knowing they had averted their eyes moments before his passed over them. The wind left his sails. He glared balefully at Hermione and huffed his displeasure before stomping away, his wife following anxiously.
"You will catch on to etiquette and dress quickly," Narcissa said. "However, I fear I have little to teach you about how to handle others verbally. You did well."
While she was proud of how she had cowed each witch and wizard who had dared cross her family, Hermione knew she still had more to learn. She would listen intently to everything her cousins had to share. She couldn't afford to refuse aid so early in the game, no matter its origin. Besides, she had squished the Malfoys neatly under her thumb for the moment. Perhaps the threat of blackmail wouldn't last, but it was a good start to reclaiming the pride Draco had stolen from her.
She smirked, and Draco dropped his eyes to his lap. She would enjoy his fear of her, until she decided whether to mold him into her servant or her whipping boy. She might not physically harm him, but she had glorious ideas for how to twist him to her purposes.
Hermione surveyed the restaurant, ignoring the waiter's questions as he placed roast duck before her. Purebloods, the noble class of magical society, cautiously averted their eyes as she looked to each of them in turn. She had proved that regardless of her young age and sudden introduction into their world, she deserved her spot at the top. After all, the Blacks had always been at the very top of the pureblood food chain.
But the Morrigan was the apex predator even the alpha wolves feared.
Her smile grew. If anyone noticed her canine teeth looked slightly more pointed than before, no one said a word.