I LOVED the reviews last chapter! Thanks so much to everyone who said something, whether constructive or complimentary. I appreciated every word ya'll had to share.
This is more of a filler chapter. After this, things will pick up pace. It was important to lay down the basics for how Hermione interacts with people, especially the Malfoys. Things will still be obnoxiously detailed, but chapters may span weeks rather than a few hours from now on.
As always, don't forget to review! Enjoy :)
Narcissa and Draco were more cautious around Hermione than they had been at the beginning of the day. She had made her side clear, and it wasn't the same side as them. A childish thrill quirked her lips into a grin every time either of the Malfoys averted their gaze from her. Narcissa was much less easy to scare than her son, holding her gaze before she purposely trailed her eyes elsewere, likely because it was difficult to be scared of a twelve-year-old girl.
Hermione couldn't wait until she was older. It rankled her how adults treated her as they did every young witch, like she needed to be coddled. One day, she would prove her competency. Until then, she intended to learn as much as she could, until her knowledge and power were known by all. Big ambitions for a young girl, but Hermione had never been an average witch.
The three wandered through cobbled streets, completing their various errands. Hermione reestablished the mail order book delivery Flourish and Blott's had owled her about. She allowed Narcissa to handle the fitting and ordering of finer clothes, instructing the seamstress to embroider the Black family crest onto each outer robe. Graciously, she even allowed Madame Primpernelle to poke and prod her face.
Narcissa dragged Hermione, quite unwillingly, into a pastel explosion, populated by dainty witches that followed the proprietress's every sing-song order. As soon as the curvy witch saw the Malfoys, she expertly hurried the two witches at the register out the door. After the women exited, she locked the door behind them and then turned to the Malfoys and Hermione with a happy smile. "My favorite customer!" she said. "What brings Mrs. Malfoy into my parlor today?"
"Always a pleasure, Okoye," the blonde witch greeted warmly. "But today is not for me, but for my cousin, Heir Black."
The witch immediately turned her attention to Hermione, inspecting her critically. Hermione returned the favor. Okoye Primpernelle was a beautiful, statuesque woman, her dark skin glowing softly beneath the warm amber lighting. Her black eyes were huge and liquid, lined in thick eyelashes, but her crowning beauty was her hair. Thick braids were piled atop her head, interwoven with pale blue and green scarves. Tiny golden butterflies opened and closed their iridescent wings in lazy sweeps from their myriad perches among the braids. While extravagant, Madame Primpernelle's hair only added to the strong beauty of the witch, without drowning out the delicacy of her features, a curious blend of Africa and Europe.
"Yes, I had heard—please, sit, dear girl," she instructed, leading Hermione to a glossy parlor chair. "I do love new material. It's so good of Mrs. Malfoy to bring you to me. Look! Such eyes! Such cheekbones!" the witch exclaimed, fluttering manicured hands about Hermione's face. "You will be such a beauty!"
"Yes," Narcissa agreed. "But is there anything you can do about the-?" she motioned to Hermione's hair.
The witch tutted to herself and minced her way to a set of shelves, stocked with colorful glass bottles. "Something to just calm the frizz, yes?" she called over her shoulder.
"Try to straighten it completely," Narcissa corrected.
"Absolutely not."
Wary of Hermione's temper, Narcissa questioned lightly, "You have a different desire?"
Hermione thought about her dream meeting with her sister, Badb. Badb's scarlet hair had been long and wildly curled. Any connection to her sisters was one she treasured. "Leave it. Do what you want to my face and skin, but my hair is to be left alone."
Narcissa pursed her lips, the first sign of annoyance Hermione had seen cross the woman's face. "Very well," she finally said, as if she had the final say in anything involving Hermione Black.
Madame Primpernelle spent half an hour cursing hair off her legs and underarms permanently, a handy charm that Hermione thought she could possibly engineer to work on other body parts. Skin, maybe? It would be grotesque, but useful if she needed to inspire terror. Skinless bodies sounded like the creatures from a cheap muggle horror flick, but she didn't doubt it would frighten a witch or wizard as well.
It took the witch, garbed in lilac robes that flattered her rounded figure, another half hour to painstakingly shape Hermione's eyebrows by cursing individual hairs. Draco impatiently lounged in a tasteful pastel chair, unhappily being picked over by another witch. Hermione smothered a laugh when they mussed his hair and he scowled.
Unwillingly, the young witch began to relax, lulled by the sharp tug of the charm and the soft music. The shop was lit by natural light cascading through pale amber panes of glass, lending the room a warm glow. Violins entwined with a silvered lyre shivered across the air. She barely even flinched when a young woman, who introduced herself as Lunette, smeared a thick paste over her face. The ambience loosened her limbs and allowed her mind to float free.
Despite her calm relaxation, Hermione didn't escape Madame Primpernelle unscathed; her abused pores stung from the effects of the curse, along with her pride. However, the kindly witch gifted her a pot of vanilla scented cream to smooth over her face and chest. It was supposed to prevent the typical zits that came with puberty, but Hermione half suspected it was just a small token to distract her from the sharp pinpricks tingling on her skin. It was likely also meant as an apology for potentially insulting her appearance.
Standing to her feet, she stretched her stiff arms over her head, rolling her joints. The shop's aura kept her breathing deep and even as she surveyed the store, causing her to absently wonder if there was a mood affecting charm working its magic. A shelf filled with glass bottles caught her eye, and she wandered over to get a closer look as Narcissa cooed distractedly over her son.
Sleakeazeys to smooth hair, Rumpled Rover to create a tousled look, Veela Velvet to soften rough skin, Pegasus Glimmer to add shine to anything, and many more. Blue, green, pink, purple, red, all the bottles labeled with images of smooth or curly hair, sparkling skin or kiss-swollen lips. What would a girl even do with such products? She was sure Pansy or Daphne knew, but her mind skittered away from the girls quickly.
Hermione considered a smaller bottle curiously. The glass was multifaceted, iridescent with a rainbow of pale shades. "Get the Goddess Grin," she read the tagline aloud.
"That product whitens teeth to a bright pearl," Madame Primpernelle explained from across the room. "It makes a great addition to a gift basket!"
Gift basket, Hermione thought. "Narcissa," she asked, enjoying the slightly aggrieved look on her elder cousin's face when her attention was torn from her precious, darling Draco. "Is it common to give the other girls in the house gift baskets?"
The blonde witch blinked thoughtfully. "It is not common, since it is traditionally restricted to holidays."
"I'm going to make a new tradition, then," Hermione said, plucking other products from the shelf that caught her eye. "Madame Primpernelle, I need to make 22 identical baskets. One for each girl in each year of Slytherin."
"But why?" Draco asked. He recoiled when Hermione swung her gold gaze to stare at him.
"To start anew," she replied, twisting a bright turquoise bottle in her hand.
She had zero honest intentions to offer her forgiveness to the girls who had left her to a Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy. Her fellow Slytherin girls had ignored her screams as she was tortured to the point of an accidental magic burst, which happened very rarely once a witch or wizard began formal training. In fact, Hermione knew from her readings before the attack that magical outbursts never occurred unless in extremely dire circumstances, potentially rupturing the witch's connections to magic. She had been wondering why such a powerful accidental burst had not destroyed her connection to magic, as her research had said it would. Discovering her origin neatly explained her ability to channel large amounts of magic without a focus, such as a wand.
The fiery explosion would have sundered an ordinary magic user's magical channels. Marcus could have destroyed her natural connection to magic, leaving her weak and little more than a squib while the channels slowly repaired themselves. The thought of being weakened, as she had in the common room, roused the beast in her chest. Wicked talons scored the cage of her ribs as the creature snarled viciously, thrashing its tail. She forced the beast to settle down, standing still before the shelf to focus all of her willpower on the monster trying to claw its way from her chest. The creature growled, bearing an array of deadly teeth, before settling onto its haunches, immune to the calming charm cast over the shop.
"How about this one for yourself?" Madame Primpernelle asked lowly, her warm voice reminding Hermione of her surroundings. The older witch gently took hold of the bottle clenched in her hand, carefully unbending each white-knuckled finger, until the bottle was freed. Then, she squeezed Hermione's hand comfortingly, before pressing a thin vial into the empty space.
Hermione looked down, mind still far away. The pale yellow glass entombed a lively sprig of rosemary. "It's a calming essence," Madame Primpernelle explained, curving the young witch's fingers over the vial. "Keep this. Free of charge."
The stopper popped out easily, even beneath numbed fingers. Hermione lifted the vial to her nose and gave it an experimental sniff. The essence immediately caused a languorous heat to spread through her limbs, soothing the beast by enticing it with sun-warmed naps. She shuddered at the respite offered from the enraged creature. "Thank you," she whispered, noting with relief that no one had noticed her moment of mental absence.
"I get the same way sometimes," Madam Primpernelle confided, her dark eyes understanding. "Sometimes, the memories of the war are too much. I don't know for sure what pains plague you, but you can always visit me here for some pampering and relaxation."
Unused to feeling untainted gratitude, Hermione only blinked and nodded her head agreeably. "The memories of war?" she asked, not understanding.
The older witch carefully ensured no one was listening and toed closer, lowering her voice. "The memory of horror or pain is what makes you freeze that way, dear one," she explained softly. "I recognize the signs. Your eyes clouded, like you were miles away from here, and your entire body tensed so tightly I was scared you would snap a muscle from the stress. My memories," she lowered her eyes before they filled, "cause the same reaction in me. It is not wrong at all to fear whatever hurt you may do so again. Some nights, I can still hear the cracks of apparition, and then the cut-off screams of whoever was taken."
Hermione realized Madame Primpernelle had assumed her brief lapse had been because of a bad memory. Muggles had a much better way of putting it: PTSD. Madame Primpernelle clearly suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder if memories of the war twelve years ago continued to bother her.
The beast, while calm and sated, snorted its amusement. Madame Primpernelle had no idea the true cause of the young witch's glazed eyes and taught figure was because she was struggling to contain an unknown monster within her body. The shopkeeper would be horrified to know the truth was so far from what she innocently believed.
"Those students should be in Azkaban for what they did to you," Madame Primpernelle continued. "My hands shook when I was reading the Prophet about you. I hope Dumbledore finds who did it and sends them off."
The sweet Madame Primpernelle believed Hermione had PTSD from her attack. She couldn't be more wrong.
Hermione had never been the type of person to wallow in self-pity. Her go-to emotion regarding trauma was never fear, but anger. Seething rage that caused her hair to spark and her body to ready itself for a battle, whether of words or fists.
No, her momentary lapse was not because Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy had mentally scarred her. It was because the beast within her roared for bloodshed, untamed might and endless power. Hermione echoed its mocking laughter inside the privacy of her head. She did not have time to waste worrying over hurt feelings; the monster wanted out.
"Yes," Hermione agreed absently. "Thank you for your support."
"Of course, my dear," Madam Primpernelle said, patting the young witch's closed fist. "Now, let's get this basket business done with! What else do you want to include?"
Hermione carefully picked out a few more items, remembering conversations the other girls had had about their beauty regimens. She ensured that the basket was perfect, filled to the brim with the most popular and effective beauty products.
"I didn't think you liked any of the Slytherin girls anymore," Draco ignorantly interrupted, "so why are you dumping galleons on them?"
"I wonder why that is," she replied. Her golden eyes dared the pureblooded scion to say a word, and he wisely clapped his mouth shut. "But it is never too late to make friends again."
The purpose of the gift baskets was to unsettle the other girls. She would act sweet and understanding until she had the perfect moment to reveal her true nature. Lulling her roommates into a false sense of security was an advantage she couldn't pass up. She had foolishly spent the first months of the school year befriending them, enjoying their company and unique quirks. They had learned parts of her she had never revealed to anyone. She had never had friends before.
The girls had taken her fragile friendship and declared her unworthy of their society with a smile on their faces. She was already exhausted by how she tended to avoid thinking about them. Their betrayal had been unexpected, but she could no longer allow herself to just not concern herself with her female housemates. They had made it obvious they did not consider her a part of their world; however, the truth had been freed. She was a princess of their rotten world. Hermione fully intended to be the last one smiling when their precious society broke beneath her hands.
Madame Primpernelle assured the young Black witch that each basket would be delivered to the Slytherin common room during dinner, so that the girls would all return to a surprise. The white gift baskets were tied with gauzy bows, filled with bottles of Goddess Grin to whiten teeth, Spider Silk Skin to add a shimmery sheen, Sleakeazeys, fine powders to dust over cheekbones, hair ribbons in shades of green and grey, and Dead Sea Scrub to soften skin. Sweet smelling perfumes disguised as flower petals were bedded in the whicker lining, runes for health and beauty painted on the sides.
"This is a lovely idea, Astarte," Narcissa said proudly. "The girls will be so pleased to see you reaching out to your rightful equals."
Hermione didn't even have a chance to declare herself above her housemates, equal in no way, because Draco managed to humiliate himself.
"What is this even for?" he asked, scrunching his face. He opened the tin of shimmer powder and sniffed. Then, he sneezed, tipping the tin toward him and spilling the shiny contents all over his grey robes.
Narcissa and Madame Primpernelle gasped in shock. Hermione sat down heavily, placed her face in her hands, and laughed until tears spilled down her face and her ribs ached.
Draco was too afraid of his cousin to snap at her for laughing at him. He could only glare impotently as his mother clucked her tongue.
"What a mess," Narcissa shook her head. "And you, Draco—your robes are simply covered!"
Draco's sneeze had caused the shimmery powder to blast backwards and coat him from neck to trousers. The glint of the lights caused the powder to gleam iridescently. He shone in shades of pale gold, pink, and lilac.
"That would be the Unicorn Horn Powder," Madame Primpernelle belatedly answered Draco's question. "It's meant to apply a slight shine to cheekbones or collarbones."
He looked down at himself and spread his arms in dismay. As the sleeves of his robes fanned outward, covered in the girlish shimmer, Hermione's abating laughter resumed forcefully.
"He looks-," she gasped, "like a butterfly!" then she melted into her seat, body shaking from her mirth. She felt desperate to stop laughing, but the mood charm had caused her to relax too much. Her normal stoic manner was overpowered by nearly hysterical giggles. Narcissa was eyeing her cousin in disbelief; she would have never guessed the young girl could relinquish her steely control long enough to truly laugh.
The shimmer had spread onto his billowing robe sleeves, giving the effect of iridescent wings. He swung his arms to try and dispel some of the clingy powder, but it caused Hermione to laugh even harder. It looked like he was flapping his wings!
Madame Primpernelle had the powder vanished with an expert flick of her wand. "Happens all the time," she comforted. "At least it was powder and not a long-lasting potion! I had a client spill Sinful Sable all over himself when his wife took her eye off him for just a minute. Why, his skin was mottled in black for weeks. He looked like a dairy cow," she giggled.
Hermione had met many insufferable people over the course of her seemingly endless excursion into magical Britain. Madame Primpernelle, however, was a ray of sunshine. Yes, the woman devoted her life to attending the vanities of snobbish pureblooded women, but she genuinely enjoyed her work. She knew the ins and outs of every product gracing her shelves, expertly applying them in the exact right amount. The curvy witch was bubbly and bright, spreading her gentle warmth wherever she flitted to within her finely appointed shop.
Despite the horrific abuse upon her pores, and the vague feeling of being manipulated by the calming charm, Hermione was glum to bid Madame Primpernelle and her pretty aides goodbye. "Come back and see me soon, Ms. Black!" Madame Primpernelle ordered cheerfully. "I want to see you grow into those eyebrows and cheekbones!"
The young witch couldn't muster her ire at being ordered around. "As soon as I can," she promised. "Thank you for today."
Madame Primpernelle smiled. Hermione believed the shopkeeper knew her thanks had been more for the laughter and relaxation, while falsely achieved, than the beautifying. However, the mocking part of her laughed at the woman's naiveté. She falsely believed Hermione was a victim. The Black scion would never be a victim; she wasn't capable of ceding enough of herself to be considered one.
The Malfoys and the Black witch left the coziness of Madame Primpernelle's to enter the grey cobbled street. Suddenly bereft, Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
All of her most pressing goals had been achieved, plus some. Everything left to do would either take time to arrange, such as meeting her new business associates, or concentrated effort, like the dozens of topics she needed to become an expert in as quickly as possible. Her eyelids dropped in exhaustion as a clock somewhere chimed dinner time.
"It is time for you two to return to school," Narcissa decided primly. "You're both about to fall over. I'll have a house elf let the Hogwart's elves know you both need to have dinner brought to your dormitories. I can't imagine either of you will manage to stay awake through dinner in the great hall."
Narcissa quickly marshalled the two students and ferried them into Dumbledore's office in the time it took Hermione to yawn. The headmaster was seated behind his desk, speaking to a severe looking man whose grey scruff led Hermione to think he resembled an aging lion.
"Just the girl I was looking for," Dumbledore said cheerily. "Hermione, I would like to introduce you to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Scrimgeour."
Madame Primpernelle's calming charm had thoroughly worn off, and any natural vestige of calm fled as soon as Hermione realized she had been ambushed.
Ignoring her headmaster, Hermione shook the gruff man's hand. "I am sure I have much to discuss with you, Mr. Scrimgeour," she said, struggling to remain polite as her irritation reached astronomic levels.
"So I have been told," the wizard agreed, glancing at the Malfoys behind her. "Narcissa," he greeted coldly.
"Scrimgeour," the blonde witch returned coldly.
"Yes," Dumbledore interjected, regaining control before the former auror and the Death Eater's wife froze the room with their caustic glares. "I invited Rufus to the school to speak to Hermione upon her return. With your leave, Mrs. Malfoy, we can get down to business."
"Any business of my charge is business of mine," Narcissa argued. "I will not leave."
"You're all welcome to stay," Hermione sniped. "I plan on eating and going to bed. Mr. Scrimgeour, I would be happy to speak with you at a later date, alone," she clarified, eyeing her cousins and headmaster. "Tonight is not available. I am sure my head of house, Professor Snape, would not mind escorting me to your office sometime in the next week or so. Or, you can meet me here. I will leave it up to you. Until then, I bid you all goodnight." As she motioned to leave, the wand in her sleeve heated perceptibly. Kicking herself for not remembering, she stopped, turned, and silently held her hand out, demanding her wand.
"Use it wisely," her older cousin cautioned. Hermione knew what her cousin truly meant: don't use the wand on Draco.
"Oh, I intend to," Hermione rebutted, manners well and truly forgotten.
Draco scurried after her as she stomped down the spiral staircase, resolutely ignoring the deadly silence she left behind. Judging by Narcissa's expression before she had left, Hermione had no doubt the silence was due to a spell hastily cast as soon as the door had shut on the students' heels. Narcissa had looked as if she was preparing for a shoot-out, and only she had a gun.
Hermione may have stayed to talk to Rufus Scrimgeour if it had been in private, but her day managing goblins, ministry workers, goblins again, purebloods, and all throughout, the Malfoys, had frayed her patience to bare threads. She was exhausted. She still needed to eat, she had to review her goals list and her research topics, bespell her bed, and fortify herself to finally face her former friends. Important conversations with the head of the DMLE would have to wait until she was well rested and well prepared for one of her biggest goals.
Freeing her father.
The idea had been in her mind since she had discovered his imprisonment, but she had forced herself to focus on things she needed to do immediately. Freeing her father needed intense research and political connection building among the DMLE. It was a long term goal, but that did not diminish its importance.
Just the thought of her father exhausted Hermione even further. She really needed to see her mom to figure out her complicated feelings on the topic. She also needed to ask her mom quite a few questions. Such as: why the bloody hell had she kept the truth from her daughter? Or, alternatively: why the bloody fuck had she kept the fucking truth from her fucking daughter?
Clearly, Hermione's exhaustion was muddling her thoughts.
She muttered to herself the entire way down to the Slytherin common room, cursing everyone who had had a hand in her creation or upbringing, from her mother and imprisoned father, to the janitor from one of her primary schools, to the man who had worked at the grocery store her entire life. She didn't notice if they passed any other students, but they were likely all eating in the great hall, anyway. Each step she took seemed to take longer and longer, until her legs were stretched wire thin into the distance. Finally, she stood before the entrance to the common room, the bare stretch of stone mockingly awaiting the password.
Her mind blanked. The day had been so long and arduous that her mentally faculties faltered.
"Argent," Draco spoke from behind her. The door materialized.
She had forgotten her cousin had followed her from the headmaster's office. He had remained quiet the entire time, steadily emulating her clipped pace while he listened to her whispered thoughts. She glared at him, vacillating between demanding to know what he had heard or that he keeps quiet and never speak of it.
"Don't worry," he said, stepping forward into the common room. "I won't tell anyone what you were saying. It was mostly just complaining about your family, anyway. Besides," he smiled shallowly, throat moving as he tried to swallow his nerves, "I understand needing to complain about family."
"You know I'm not going to kill you," she said suddenly, surprising herself as well as him.
Her statement stopped the boy in his tracks. "You don't?" he asked breathlessly.
"No," she said, resolute. And she was being truthful. She didn't intend to kill him. Oh, she had wanted to—she had had detailed fantasies of how she could do it. But she had decided he would be more useful alive. He would never be her close friend, but he was, unfortunately, family. Their shared blood would keep him alive, but it would not protect him from being shaped into her pawn.
"Why not?" he asked, grey eyes wide.
Hermione frowned. "You're going to question me on it? Do you want me to change my mind?"
"No!" he exclaimed, proffering his gratefulness at her mercy. He knew she would kill him if she wanted to. He had watched Marcus Flint burn from her dark magic; nothing had ever caused him to fear someone more. He was scared of his father, but Draco Malfoy was absolutely terrified of Hermione Black.
The young witch eyed her cousin. "We can keep things that way easily, if you do a few things for me."
"Anything," Draco said, "I'll do whatever you want." Draco could not be faulted for not valuing his life.
"Good," she smiled. "I'll give you some tasks tomorrow. Until then, don't answer any questions our housemates have about today. Only tell them that I am the officially declared heir to the Black and the le Fay houses. If you mention anything else, I'll pull your toenails out one by one."
Draco paled, his porcelain skin lightening to a nearly translucent white. "Of- of c-course," he stuttered.
"Excellent. Keep your mouth shut, do what I say, and we can likely be civil. Now go to bed. I plan on sleeping a full twelve hours."
Draco followed her order without hesitation, darting into the boys' dorms. Hermione entered her dorms more slowly, studiously avoiding looking at the wall of the common room, where she had been flung like a ragdoll. However, she did note with amusement the gift baskets set up on the chairs and tables, awaiting their owners. Thankfully, none of her housemates were about yet. If she had had to face down one of the girls or boys who had listened to her scream happily, there would be bloodshed.
Stacks of new books and possessions sat at the end of her bed. Narcissa had had her things sent to her room so they did not have to carry everything through the streets. Hermione couldn't be bothered to organize everything before she ate and slept. She changed into her nightclothes and withdrew her first wand, casting protective charms over her bed. Then, she hid all of her new belongings under the bed, hoping that her roommates would be smart enough not to mess with her. She climbed into her bed and ate the dinner the elves had left for her. She didn't taste any of it, too tired to expend any more energy even thinking.
She still wanted to revise her various lists, but it would have to wait. She barely had time to push her empty plate to the nightstand before she felt sleep claiming her.
As soon as her eyes shut, Badb came.