Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews! As for the unlovely ones, I'm sorry that ya'll don't like the story, but it's not going to change the plot. Hermione is very OOC. She's been pointed out as being too much like Voldemort and Bellatrix. That doesn't appeal to everyone, I know. She's powerful, and she's only going to get more so as the story progresses, because this is fanficiton and I like writing a character who grows and dominates. I put the dark! warning in the summary, so expect a little cruelty and craziness. I appreciate anyone who gives my story a try, and I understand if it isn't your cup of tea, but that doesn't mean you have to be rude. I'm working hard to write something me and others enjoy; if you don't like it, that's fine, but focus on constructive criticism rather than just outright negativity.
Several of ya'll have asked for longer chapters, which is a project in the working. There are a few coming up that may g over 10,000 words, although this one isn't too impressive. Eventually, I will go back and tool around with my earlier chapters, back when I thought this story would work as a half-drabble type. I have no seen the light ya'll tried to show me, and it has revealed to me my many faults.
It's also been pointed out several times that I have mistakenly spelled floo as flu, more than once. Oops! I will fix that and re-upload when I have the time, I promise. Until then, I will re-read the review titled Achoo! and giggle uncontrollably because it was funny. Ya'll can just assume all the fireplaces in magical Britain have the flu until it's fixed. That's not too AU, right?
As always, enjoy these filler bits below this long, dramatic author's note! There is a lot more to come that I think ya'll will really love. I know I loved writing it!
"I won't release a Death Eater, Albus, no matter what you claim," Rufus Scrimgeour thundered as soon as the children were gone. "And I certainly won't stoop to help a Black!" The old auror had seen many people in his life, good and evil. The eyes always told the truth. The moment he had looked into Hermione Black's golden gaze, a rushing tide of anger had threatened to curl its fingers around her slim throat. He hadn't felt that anger since his last battle during the war. "That girl is not right in the head, and I doubt her influence helps."
"Oh, come now," Narcissa Malfoy purred.
"Rufus, old friend, Sirius is not a Death Eater-"
"Your word isn't enough for me," the head of the DMLE argued. "If you've known all this time he was innocent, why haven't you said anything, then? This all reeks of some new plot of yours."
"That's a good question, Mr. Scrimgeour," Narcissa said thoughtfully. "Tell us, Albus."
"It is recent knowledge," Dumbledore explained. "I would never have left an innocent man in Azkaban."
Rufus snorted. "Recent knowledge? Everyone involved in that night is dead and gone for ten years. I'm done entertaining you, Albus. Don't contact me again—go through the proper channels next time."
"What of the girl?" Dumbledore asked as Rufus turned to leave.
"I told you before," the ex-auror growled, "I won't release a Death Eater. Those slippery bastards are too good at getting away. Right, Mrs. Malfoy?"
Narcissa turned her nose up at the man, refusing to take the bait.
"You won't allow a girl to save her father?" Dumbledore continued.
"Don't try to manipulate me, Albus. I have no patience for it. Do the world a favor and manage your school rather than other people's lives." And with that, Rufus stormed out and slammed the door after him.
"That went as you expected, no?" Narcissa smiled.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Thank you for kindly escorting Miss Black today. I am afraid I must go down to eat with the students."
Narcissa graciously accepted the dismissal, but her coldly amused smile lingered.
The headmaster eyed his familiar, perched on the windowsill. "What to do now?" he wondered aloud. If Rufus did not cooperate, that made things much harder. However, Dumbledore remembered, he did have another pawn left to play. Perhaps it would be easier to sway Hermione to the light with a famously familiar face?
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Sirius Black sat within his cell and rotted. His sable hair, once lustrous and thick, hung thin and limp around his face. Grey eyes burned within a hollow face, but none of the jailers could determine what drove the prisoner to retain so much frightening intensity in the dismal atmosphere of Azkaban.
None of the jailers knew the truth about Peter Pettigrew like Sirius; none of the jailers could understand what it was like to lose a best friend to betrayal, and then become wrongfully imprisoned. No, Sirius suffered alone. At least until the Dementors came around. Then, the entire row of cells suffered, until everyone's moans faded into abject, despairing silence.
His day consisted of the bare minimum of stale bread, followed by Dementors, and then concluded with horror-induced, piss-soaked shaking. Everything was the same for ten years. He starved himself. He suffered. He realized how far he had fallen.
Everything changed the moment one guard threw the Daily Prophet into his cell.
Sirius Black used his thin, pale fingers to snatch the dull paper from the floor of his grimy cell. He very rarely had ways to entertain himself outside of his own imagination, which grew dimmer by the day. A Daily Prophet was a hallowed treasure within the Azkaban cells. Any new source of entertainment was as good as goblin gold, but a Prophet- better yet, a hot-off-the-press Prophet, if he had his date straight- was akin to all of Gringotts. He snapped it open with a flourish, some small amount of his flair for the dramatic remaining from his better days, and set his piercing grey eyes on the raging headline.
"Astarte Hermione Black, Unknown Daughter of Infamous Sirius Black, at Hogwarts!"
His hands lost feeling, fingers going numb. He dropped the news rag to the dirty floor. He shut his eyes. He clenched them as tightly as he could, rubbing his eyeballs with the sharp corners of his fists. When his eyes began to water, he opened them once more, but the Prophet's title did not change. Astarte. Hermione. Black. Black. Black. Black.
The name repeated in his mind like a mantra. He realized he was whispering it aloud to himself, like a prayer.
What many people did not know about Dementors was that continued exposure to their influence muddled any thought processing in the brain. When Dementors Kissed someone, they gently placed their skeletal fingers against their victim's face. With that bit of contact, they created a mental connection so that their oily, leeching darkness could sift through their victim's thoughts, seeking anything that would appeal. Sirius had felt himself become more and more scatterbrained through the years as the habitual Kiss disorganized his memories again and again. Sometimes, he found it hard to focus on anything at all. Even the faces of James and Lily, Harry and Remus, began to become less distinct.
Reading that headline changed everything. He had clarity that he hadn't felt since entering Azkaban, since the night everything went to shit, really. Recognizing the feeling, he named it: purpose. He devoured the article, whispering that name to himself over and over: "Astarte Hermione Black. Astarte Hermione Black. Astarte Hermione Black." He wished he had a face for the name. Was it the face he saw in the mirror?
The author of the column, the damnable Rita Skeeter, hadn't been able to get into Hogwarts to interview Astarte herself. Any professors she had managed to snag had reportedly refused to comment, but several shopkeepers along Diagon Alley had been willing to talk about the young witch they had met just once.
Ollivander had quite a bit to share on how he had just known in his bones she was destined for greatness. "Ah, yes, Hermione—Astarte it is now, I suppose- vine, 10 3'4ths inches, dragon heartstring. She went through quite a few wands before one was willing to choose her, just like her father, if I remember correctly. I had suspected something about her was different. I should have known she was a Black from the way she looked at me—very Slytherin, quite unlike her father."
Flourish and Blott's had shared their admiration for her obvious love of reading. Sirius knew she hadn't gotten that from him, certainly. Everyone interviewed agreed that she had been intelligent and engaging. Pride made his eyes glitter. He couldn't help but be amazed. He had a daughter!
Skeeter's flourishing phrases described in horrifying, vivid detail how Astarte's parentage had been brought to light. The girl, just a bloody twelve-year-old, had been tortured in the Slytherin common room by her fellow students, masked to conceal their identities. Sirius's vision clouded with rage and his hands clenched tightly on the paper. The torture had broken a complex enchantment that had kept her hidden from the world. According to Skeeter's "trustworthy sources," the enchantment had ensured Astarte looked different so she did not favor the Black looks as she naturally would have, and had kept Astarte's information out of any ledgers that could have revealed the truth.
Astarte had been tortured. His daughter had been beaten and bloodied while he had sat in his cell and rotted. Did he love his daughter, a girl he had never met and had just discovered? He couldn't think about that; his thoughts were moving too quickly for him to pin down an emotional response. What he knew for absolute sure was that he was going to murder whoever had hurt her and earn a true Azkaban sentence. The Black temper was infamous; the Black revenge even more so. Rage consumed him for a moment, turning his eyes to flint, before he regained scant control of himself and returned to his musings.
He had so many questions that whirled through his head, but he couldn't stop his spinning mind to consider any of them. All he could really make from the mess of his thoughts was that he needed to meet this girl, and to do that he needed to get out of Azkaban, which was famously impossible.
Merlin, there had to be a way! He had to meet her. She was his daughter, for bloody sake!
He had a daughter.
He had a daughter.
The guard, lingering outside the cell as Sirius stared blankly at the bold headline, laughed. "Congratulations are in order I 'spose, Mr. Black!"
"Yes," he whispered back. He leaned backwards onto the cold, hard wall of his cell. His shoulder blades stuck from his back, evidence of starvation. The skin was thin between his bones and the rough stone, but he didn't feel it. "Yes, I suppose you're right."
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"If I'm sucked into these dreams, do I still get my rest? Because if I wake up tired, I'm going to be bloody furious," Hermione snarled, glaring at her sister. As soon as she had fallen asleep, she had found herself back on the same coastal cliff Badb had brought her to the first time they had met.
Badb laughed. "How good to see you as well, Anann!" The goddess pricked Hermione's nightclothes, her claws tearing the thin fabric easily. "How strange," she commented. "I had forgotten mortals sleep in different clothing. It must be very limiting to need sleep as a mortal does."
"Yes, extremely limiting," Hermione agreed waspishly, "especially when inconsiderate sisters steal you away."
"Your accusations wound, dear sister," Badb laughed again. "Do not worry. Your sleep is undisturbed, for it is your soul that has journeyed to my demesne, not your body. The body of Hermione will be well rested upon the morn."
"Good," the young witch said. "I'm bloody tired."
"No doubt is cast upon that," Badb said, quirking a brow. Her golden eyes glittered in amusement. "It is good to hear your voice again, even if it is being insulting. Alas, you have always been offensive, Anann. This a welcome return to our old ways. Come, let us sit again by the cliff. I know the questions that burn your tongue."
Still grumpy despite being assured of her rest, Hermione followed Badb to the cliff's edge. The two settled in the wind-worn grass. Badb was attired exactly as she had been earlier, barefoot and harshly beautiful. Madame Primpernelle wouldn't have known what to do with the skeletal beauty of Badb.
"Ask of me what you desire to know," Badb said, waving a hand lazily in gesture for Hermione to begin.
"So I have the same soul as the Morrigan," Hermione began.
"Yes, I have said so," Badb confirmed.
"Do I also have the same magical power?"
"Not quite," the goddess said. "Your ability to channel magic is much more powerful than an average witch or wizard. But, there are certain things an immortal soul within an immortal body can do, that you cannot. All souls are immortal, but yours alone is unchanging. A normal mortal's soul acquires scars from each life than follows them into the cycle, allowing each soul's personality to fluctuate greatly from person to person, while maintaining base similarities. Your soul also carries with it your personality, exactly as it is. The girl before me now says the same things Anann or Morgan might have, long ago. But because your soul is inherently that of a goddess, you have a special affinity for the domains of the Morrigan."
"I know the myths, but what is the truth of the Morrigan?"
"The truth of you," Badb corrected. "You held dominion over battle and war, shapeshifting and magic. These dominions are intrinsic to your soul. Your magic as a witch should have an affinity to combative magics and shapeshifting. You have likely already noticed how much easier it is for you to learn new magics compared to your purely mortal peers."
Hermione couldn't argue Badb's speculation. She had attributed her talent to single-minded focus, but even when she wasn't really trying, her spells held more power than other students' work.
"Every witch or wizard has magical channels that allow them to funnel magic from the world into their individual magic containers," Badb explained. "Magical containers differ in size from person to person. The ones your people call squibs have magical containers that are broken from magical channels, leaving them unable to access their innate ability. Your magical container will be extremely large, but you must grow into it. Witches are not born able to use their magic to the fullest extent. Your magic matures along with you."
Hermione listened, rapt. She had read sparse notes on the theory of magical containers, but modern witches and wizards were not sure how they were able to channel magic, or why some people were so much more powerful than others. Badb had neatly confirmed one theory among thousands that had been created over centuries of study.
"The wand I gifted you will be capable of more powerful magic than any mortal-made stick," Badb continued. "However, beware of thieves. While only one of the le Fay house can wield it, and only one with the soul of my sister can wield it at its full power, there are many who would attempt to use it or dissect it for their own ends. Powerful wands are known to change hands often."
Hermione frowned, thinking of ways to dissuade thieves. One more project to add to her list. But she had more questions to ask before she awoke and got to work. "Is there a way to become a goddess again?"
Badb frowned, looking eerily similar to her sister. "Your body is forever bound to mortality. There are ways for the body to become immortal, but you would not be able to ascend to goddesshood as you once were. You would have only an immortal human body, unable to channel the might of a goddess. The flesh of gods is too different to handle our power. That is why you will never be as powerful as you were originally. The mortal flesh is too weak, even if the soul is the same."
Hermione wouldn't give the idea up just yet, despite her sister's surety. Research and experimentation wouldn't hurt. The draw of returning to her full might was too powerful to ignore.
"Do you have any other questions?" Badb asked.
"A few," Hermione replied. "You said I had dominion over shapeshifting. Do you mean I can become an animagus?"
Badb smiled, pleased. "Yes—however, you will need to go about it as other witches do among your kind. Your immortal flesh could change at will, but you must train your mortal body to do as you once did effortlessly. You will also be restrained to one shape, but I suspect it will be formidable," she said, smirking toothily.
"You know something I don't," Hermione said suspiciously.
"I know many things you don't," Badb corrected, sharp teeth hidden behind a curved grin. "Some things, I believe, will be more enjoyable to observe when you do not know the things I do. Yes," she decided, "I will very much enjoy when you discover your animal shape. Morgan was quite amusing to watch as she trained to attain her raven form."
"So will I be a raven also, then?"
"Not at all," the goddess laughed. "No, I suspect each incarnation of your soul is gifted with a different form Anann used to take. It could be several different creatures, but I believe I know exactly what you will be."
"And I assume you won't tell me for your own amusement," Hermione rolled her eyes. "I thought having a goddess for a sister would be different than normal mortal siblings. But now, I just think any kind of sibling, mortal or immortal, is an expert at annoying the other sibling."
"Well, of course," Badb agreed, "I have known you for thousands of years. No other can cause as much irritation to you as I."
Hermione went silent for a few moments. Finally, she asked, "What was Macha like?"
Badb's smiled dropped from her face, her expression changing from one of laughter to solemnity and ancient fury. "I wish you could remember her, Anann. She was the only one of us that had a kernel of good in her dark heart." Badb turned her face to the sea, watching the waves beat the shore. "You and I, we are the same. We care for each other, perhaps for a few others, chosen very carefully. But we are born in bloodshed and battle. We may never know the true warmth of a shared heart, for our power has no knowledge of empathy. You are War and I am Death, but for all our power combined, we could not save her life. And her life was beautiful, Anann," Badb said, carving sigils into the bare skin of her leg with one claw. Ichor seeped from the wounds as she inscribed something Hermione couldn't understand.
"The people of these isles feared the three of us, but she was the only one they both feared and adored. While she governed battles of the heart and soul, death of love and decay of honor… she also knew, better than anyone, which mortals had the most heart, the most soul. Those mortals drew her like a pale moth to flame. She treasured them, her dark worshippers. And they loved her with all the power of their fragile, mortal beings."
"Eventually," Badb continued, "she consumed her mortals. But they all lived long lives, and they died with love in their eyes and ecstasy in their souls."
"Consumed?" Hermione questioned.
Badb glanced at her from the corner of her eyes, almost grinning. "Yes, consumed. Our Macha had a taste for human flesh."
"Do we—do you eat people?" Hermione asked slowly.
Throwing her head back in laughter, Badb answered, "No, Anann, I do not. And neither did you. Macha had odd tastes."
Hermione didn't doubt Badb's insistence that Macha had been the one with the most goodness, but it made her wonder. If Macha had been the one of the three sisters with the best heart, and she was a cannibal, but how bad did that make Anann and Badb? There was no harm in asking, she figured.
At the young witch's wry question, Badb cackled. When the goddess laughed, her lips curved in the same smile as Hermione's, and their golden eyes were lit with the same dark humor. "It does imply we are rather bad, doesn't it?"
"I think rather bad may be an understatement," Hermione grinned.
"Oh, I wish you could meet her," Badb said, sobering quickly at the thought. "She was strange, but she was ours."
Hermione grabbed her sisters clawed hand, melancholy weighing her. She wished she could have met her third sister, too.
"Do you feel it?" Badb asked, tapping a bloody claw to her sternum. "The beast?"
The witch jerked in surprise. "You have it too?" she demanded.
"Yes," Badb confirmed, golden eyes distant. She dug her claw deeper into her skin. Ichor beaded. "That is her anger. We were never meant to be two. Her essence is inside us, trapped in our bodies. The beast you feel within is Macha."
"Can we get her out? Bring her back?" Hermione asked desperately, her own hand fisted in her nightshirt.
"No," Badb answered, voice empty. "For it is not truly her. It is the fury her destruction left in our world. It is the power Merlin could not steal, that which bound her to her dominion and these isles. When her soul was sundered from her immortal body, we felt the recoil of her outrage. It manifested within both of us as a beast. Be cautious of it, Anann. In your other shape, it will be at the fore. You must learn to contain it. You must master it, or else the anger of her ending will consume you."
Hermione looked down at herself, as if she could peer through fabric and flesh to see the monster. Gold eyes blinked at her from within.
"It is our punishment for failing to save her," Badb informed. "We who were always three became two, and the world despised us due to it."
"But we who were three are now two, and all we can do is treasure each other more," Hermione whispered.
Badb squeezed her sister's hand. "That is all we can do," she agreed.